The Dream of the City by Andrés Vidal Page A

laid her down, kissed her lips, caressed her body, inhaled the aroma of her hair … Jordi clenched his fists, looked at Laura, and said nothing. He couldn’t speak, he couldn’t utter any of those questions that were burning inside. But he could bait another hook.
    â€œYou should take the bull by the horns.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou can’t let a memory change you. You say you won’t allow anything to stand in your way, but you’re letting this Carlo do it, even from so far away. You’re here, alone, shut up. It’s already been some time since you came back and we all missed you a great deal. Bru thinks you lost your touch in Italy, and even if Amadeu Robí and I defend you hair, tooth, and nail, if you don’t show up for our little talks, they’ll think you’re lost.”
    â€œBru? What does Frederic Bru know about me? Like he knows how to draw anything but dissolving cats and squealing animals no one could care less about. That plagiarist …” The vitality and rage came back into Laura’s eyes.
    â€œThat’s my Laura! I thought she’d been left behind in Italy! Bravo! Go for the throat!”
    Laura smiled combatively. She actually did miss being immersed in the cultural life of the city, the debates, the shoptalk, the unrepentant Barcelona nights. She stood up on the stool and took down a large black binder from the shelves overlooking the desk. She untied a few knots, took out the charcoal drawings from her stay in Rome, and spread them out over the desk. Jordi admired the nude bodies in silence, those perfect faces, all the petrified lust in that abundance of sketches. He recognized a number of famous artworks among the sketches, pieces he had seen in photos. It was a colossal achievement. There was something different about those sketches: They all seemed to lie somewhere on the border of life and death, flesh and stone, except for one. Jordi pulled it out and looked at it attentively.
    â€œThis one …” he said slowly. “There’s something different about it. Something indefinable that shines from it. The gaze …”
    â€œYes, he’s alive. That’s the one live model I used.”
    Laura took the sheet of paper and walked over to the balcony. The sun’s luminosity filtered in through the lace curtain and made the charcoal shine. She looked at her own work pensively and slowly, as if trying to remember all the details, every little feature.
    â€œIt’s Carlo,” she said.
    Jordi felt the sudden impulse to tear the sheet from her hands and shred it into a thousand pieces.
    Laura fished around among the utensils there on the desk. She found something there that she hid in her hand and then she looked around the floor until her eyes reached the metal wastebasket. She motioned for Jordi to bring it over to her. It was then he saw she had a box of matches in her hand. She lit one and brought it close to the drawing. She saw how the drawing shrank, first turning yellow and then gray and black, until it flaked apart in volutes and small, weightless ashes. Little by little, the face in the drawing disappeared.
    When Laura began to sense the heat between her fingers, she let what was left of the drawing fall into the wastebasket. The sheet curled in on itself until it disintegrated. Carlo was now history.

CHAPTER 9
    Guillermo was running, relieved. He had finally been able to get free of the bow tie that had been constricting his neck since early that morning and now he was heading happily toward the area bordering La Sagrada Familia. His father had insisted he put on his Sunday clothes since they had to go to the church; the fifteenth of August was an important holiday. What he liked best about going to Mass was the snack they had afterward, when Dimas would join them before inviting them to lunch. Once he returned home, Guillermo asked permission to go out and play and his father said yes.