A Shortcut to Paradise by Teresa Solana Page A

behind a bank counter and knew how those places functioned. I did manage to block my card, but then had to return to the Ambos Mundos more skint than before and with my self-image shattered.
    Borja, who was waiting impatiently for me, couldn’t believe it when, shame-faced and feeling pathetic, I confessed my wallet had been stolen. We were stymied,
because we were suddenly completely stuck in the Plaça Reial on a Friday lunchtime, without a cent in our pockets and a bill for three beers. Quite naturally, the waiters at the Ambos Mundos were beginning to seethe. They wouldn’t swallow the story of the stolen wallet, or perhaps they did, but couldn’t care less. I suppose it wasn’t the first time somebody had tried this excuse to avoid paying the bill and they weren’t impressed. A swarm of tourists were trying to take our table and hinting we should get up and go. Borja and I decided to sit this one out and stay calm.
    I could always call Montse and ask her for help, but I knew my wife was very busy that day at her Alternative Centre. One of her partners was ill and she’d had to take responsibility for the yoga classes. If I forced her to stand up a dozen pre- and post-menopausal women with hot flushes and sugar- and nicotine-abstinence syndrome, my wife would be angry and quite rightly so. It’s OK if pickpockets snaffle the wallets of flabby tourists idly strolling down the Ramblas, but I’m from Barcelona and I know you have to watch it on the Ramblas. Dodging the artful dodgers is one of the attractions of the territory, I suppose, and I’d acted the fool and been caught out. On the other hand, I imagine Borja was embarrassed about ringing Merche to ask for small change, and Lola’s mobile was switched off or she’d left it at home. And we couldn’t have recourse to Lluís Arquer, although we knew he lived nearby. We had no desire to confirm his suspicions that Borja and I were a couple of well-dressed dolts. The waiters at the Ambos Mundos didn’t seem inclined to let us slip off, and, besides, there was the minor detail that we’d have to walk back to my house, which meant a good hour sweating under a blistering sun. I didn’t want to be the one to renege on our agreement about keeping calm, but things were starting to look bleak. Finally, as usual, my brother had one of his brainwaves.
    â€œListen, Eduard,” he sounded me out, “you could go to the Ramblas and act like a statue for a while. I bet you’d get the money in under an hour. I reckon twelve euros would do to pay for the beers and our metro tickets.”
    â€œWhat? Are you mad?” I roared. “Do you think I’m going to act like a statue in front of everyone! Forget it!” I wasn’t going to let him bamboozle me into that one.
    â€œAll right! All right! So I’ll have to come to the rescue, as usual,” he said angrily. And he picked up the brown plastic saucer where they’d left the bill and headed for the Ramblas.
    Human statues had been the fashion on the Ramblas for years. They stood still and when someone threw them a coin, they changed position or performed. Some were trite and some were sophisticated, from characters smeared with coppery make-up to look like GIs from the Second World War to a girl spectacularly bedecked in flowers and foliage trying to be an allegory of spring. Some were amusing and some were scary, like the guy doing a bloody, decapitated head routine served up on a silver platter on a white tablecoth. I can’t think why tourists like being photographed next to that. There were so many statues that it had to be a good way to earn one’s living, even if the competition was tough. For that very reason I wasn’t at all clear that the sudden appearance from nowhere of an amateur dressed up like a yuppie would be welcomed by the mime professionals who suffered under thick face-packs from the early morning. I hoped my