Read Online Lost Luggage by Jordi Puntí - Free Book Online

recover our shared past. There was nothing mystical about this. It’s just that the objects that he’d kept, set out by Cristòfol on the table, triggered memories, and the distances that separated us were whittled away. Four boys reliving anecdotes, obsessions, words, disappointments, and emotions. After three hours it was as if we’d known each other all our lives. Each one of us seized upon coincidences in the happy certainty that any mention was enough for the other three to endorse them unanimously. The game got us laughing. Since there was no light in the apartment, when it got dark we went off to find a café so that we could get on with our forensic examination. One thing led to another. At three in the morning a sleepy waiter kicked us out of the hotel bar.
    After that first joint visit to the apartment in Carrer Nàpols, we agreed that the four of us would pay our father’s overdue rent. A first step. This is how the apartment became a sort of social hub, the headquarters for our inquiries. Rita, who still refuses to set foot in the place, mocks us, saying that soon we’re going to turn it into the Christophers Club, “a museum with a guard, dusty display cases, and red ropes blocking entry to the conjugal bedrooms.”
    This is slightly over the top. We’re not father worshippers, not us. You could even say that if we’ve ganged up to find him it’s got more to do with satisfying our curiosity than concern for him. Right now, if we set our minds to it, we could reel off a whole catalogue of shared grudges just as effortlessly as we’re weaving together our childhood memories. And, needless to say, all of us, each one of his own accord and without discussing it, have more than once been tempted to throw in the towel. It would be very easy right now to pretend that Gabriel no longer exists. We’ve had many years of training for that.
    â€œHe’s a real nowhere man, sitting in his nowhere land . . .” Chris intones as if capturing our thoughts.
    What is it that impels us to look for him, then? We might say it’s the urge to complete an impossible family portrait of our father. During that first visit when we all went together to the apartment, we were entranced by the clues that our meticulous examination of Gabriel’s belongings threw up; they proved impossible to ignore. One parcel contained ten brand-new packs of cards, all wrapped up in cellophane. Three carefully piled boxes held a jumble of improbable objects, painstakingly stowed away so as to make the best use of the space: a tortoiseshell comb, a ceramic figure representing Actaeon and his hounds, a teakwood paperweight, the shell of a tortoise, a radio-cassette player, a tape of María Dolores Pradera and another one of Xavier Cugat’s orchestra, a foldout postcard book with pictures of London, a toy camera, some Swiss nail clippers, a collection of casino chips from Monte Carlo for playing poker . . .
    The only link that could be established between all these knickknacks was, of course, our father’s peripatetic existence. For some years—and we’re jumping ahead now—Bundó, Gabriel, and Petroli retained some souvenir from every move they did. A box, a bag, a suitcase went astray by accident, and they shared it out like good brothers. They knew it was an offence but had made the excuse that it was social justice, portraying it as a well-deserved tip after so many hours of nonstop toil in conditions close to slavery. Anyway, who hasn’t lost a box during a move? It’s a fact of life.
    Gabriel had confessed these thefts to our mothers, with the nonchalance of a Robin Hood, and even made us beneficiaries. Thanks to one of Cristòfol’s finds, we were better able to follow the course of those years. In a shoebox, nestling among restaurant cards, city maps, and road atlases, was a black oilcloth notebook. It had a clandestine look about it