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Authors: Roser Caminals-Heath
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considerably in such a lonely, constricted spot. The odd couple walked a few more yards and disappeared into an apartment building. He waited half a minute and then took a few strides, which resounded on the cobblestones, toward the building, where he hoped to find out something. There was no doorkeeper in the narrow, dingy lobby. Crouching in the nook under the staircase, he heard muffled womenâs voices coming from a landing. He stuck his head out with extreme caution and caught a glimmer of light two floors above. A door slammed shut and the building became as quiet as a grave. He waited a few more minutes, in case somebody should come down. At last, inferring that the sphinx and her dim-witted escort lived there, he liberated his body from the fetal position it had been forced to assume, stepped outside, and stood in the middle of the alley to look at the façade. Should the woman have a sudden impulse to stick her nose out of the balcony, heâd be done for. Luckily, the doors on the minuscule balconies of the three floors were closed. He made a mental note of the street number and proceeded up the alley, wondering where it would lead.
It hadnât occurred to him that heâd be very late for lunch. Worse yet, it would be necessary to make up some excuse for playing hooky at the factory. As he searched for one in the recesses of his mind, the alley came to an end under an arch that supported a passageway with windows in it. To his surprise, it opened onto no other than Plaça Reial:the bright, porticoed square lined with fashionable restaurants and elegant buildings. At that time of day, it was full of people and pigeons soaking up the sun. Before he crossed under the arch, he read a sign with the absurd name of âStreet of the Three Beds.â
Chapter 4
Maurici never showed up at the factory before ten and seldom left after six. Because of his theoretical mastery of French and even more theoretical mastery of import laws, Roderic Aldabò had put him in charge of foreign clientele. The truth is that the factory was a matter of total indifference to him. He lacked his fatherâs entrepreneurial drive and was bored to distraction by maintenance routines and accounting details. Endless hours went into writing, revising, and signing documentsâexcept when he stopped to read the newspapersâor pacing between rows of looms to pretend he was supervising their operation. In reality, he was incapable of disciplining the workers, let alone of firing them. These unsavory tasks were left to the foreman: a man in his forties, surly, ill-tempered, and totally reliable, or, if bad came to worse, to his father, who knew how to be firm without raising his voice. He didnât have to dirty his hands with such mundane matters. For all his limitations, however, he was effective with the clients assigned to him, to the point that they refused to deal with anyone else. Not only did he minimize difficulties, he also listened to each of them as if each alone was entitled to his full attention. The key to his success wasnât so much his polished French, or even less his dubious law credentials, but that unselfconscious magnetism his entire person exuded.
In any case, after his absence that Monday he strove to give the impression of diligence. For a long time nowâsince the unfortunate fiasco with the indiscreet maidâhis father hadnât interfered with his private life. He never asked him where he went orwhere he came from; he didnât reprimand him if he spent nights out and sneaked back into the apartment at the wee hours of the morning bumping into the furniture. As far as work was concerned, that was another kettle of fish. His father would tolerate an excuse now and then, but not often. Besides, Maurici didnât want to call attention to himself by behaving erratically. Better be cautious. He had embarked on an enterprise from which no one would be able to rescue him.
That morning
It hadnât occurred to him that heâd be very late for lunch. Worse yet, it would be necessary to make up some excuse for playing hooky at the factory. As he searched for one in the recesses of his mind, the alley came to an end under an arch that supported a passageway with windows in it. To his surprise, it opened onto no other than Plaça Reial:the bright, porticoed square lined with fashionable restaurants and elegant buildings. At that time of day, it was full of people and pigeons soaking up the sun. Before he crossed under the arch, he read a sign with the absurd name of âStreet of the Three Beds.â
Chapter 4
Maurici never showed up at the factory before ten and seldom left after six. Because of his theoretical mastery of French and even more theoretical mastery of import laws, Roderic Aldabò had put him in charge of foreign clientele. The truth is that the factory was a matter of total indifference to him. He lacked his fatherâs entrepreneurial drive and was bored to distraction by maintenance routines and accounting details. Endless hours went into writing, revising, and signing documentsâexcept when he stopped to read the newspapersâor pacing between rows of looms to pretend he was supervising their operation. In reality, he was incapable of disciplining the workers, let alone of firing them. These unsavory tasks were left to the foreman: a man in his forties, surly, ill-tempered, and totally reliable, or, if bad came to worse, to his father, who knew how to be firm without raising his voice. He didnât have to dirty his hands with such mundane matters. For all his limitations, however, he was effective with the clients assigned to him, to the point that they refused to deal with anyone else. Not only did he minimize difficulties, he also listened to each of them as if each alone was entitled to his full attention. The key to his success wasnât so much his polished French, or even less his dubious law credentials, but that unselfconscious magnetism his entire person exuded.
In any case, after his absence that Monday he strove to give the impression of diligence. For a long time nowâsince the unfortunate fiasco with the indiscreet maidâhis father hadnât interfered with his private life. He never asked him where he went orwhere he came from; he didnât reprimand him if he spent nights out and sneaked back into the apartment at the wee hours of the morning bumping into the furniture. As far as work was concerned, that was another kettle of fish. His father would tolerate an excuse now and then, but not often. Besides, Maurici didnât want to call attention to himself by behaving erratically. Better be cautious. He had embarked on an enterprise from which no one would be able to rescue him.
That morning
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