The Street of the Three Beds by Roser Caminals-Heath

Fine sc-cum. If you got a fat purse. But I ain’t got no fat purse, ha, ha! Purse ain’t fat and bottle’s empty. Thieves, scum. Watchman! Wait, my darlin’, I’m a comin’. Soon as I can r-remember . . . Not a soul in the street, not a one. Barcelona’s got a hangover. That’s the problem. Barcelona’s got a hang-hang-hangover. Hang it. Hang the hangover. Sleep it off, I say. It sleeps . . . splits, the street sp . . . It jist sp . . . Barcelona’s gettin’ dizzy . . . on the me-merry-go-round, me-merry, very merry . . . Fat purse or no fat purse, Barcelona’s got a hangover. Wait a minute, I’ve seen them palm trees before. No foolin’ around with me, eh? That’s cheatin’! You’ve been here before, Agustí, yes siree, you-you’ve been here before. Patience, my darlin’, I’m comin’! Soon as I . . . find somebody to fill up my bottle. The bottle was full, full to the br-brim. Th-thieves, scum, all of you. Can’t even walk the streets anymore. What’s the matter with the street, anyway? It splits, it jist sp . . . Barcelona’s a fine town. Not a single bar open. Tell me, who’s gonna fill up my bottle, eh? Lazy b-bums, good for nothin’. Bums, jist don’t do no work. Dark, locked up. Barcelona’s sleepin’ it off . . . got a hangover. A hangover and an empty bottle. Thieves, bums. You heard it from me, me, Agustí, yes siree. Scum. Can’t even walk in the street. And where does the street go, eh? Who keeps movin’ it? Never in the s-same place. There we go again, palm trees, . . . not to worry, my darlin’, I’m comin’, sweet-sweety pie, comin’. Soon as I can remember which street. Street, street . . . twenty-seven, no, twenty-one. Speakin’ of the devil, what’s become of the street, eh? Who keeps movin’ it, eh? Scum, nothin’ but scum. Barcelona’s a fine town . . . fat purse or no fat purse. Wait a minute! Who’s comin’? A cat! Mew, don’t run away! Come here, I wanna ask you somethin’. D’you happen to know, sir, w-who’d fill up my bottle? No? What kind of business is this? Can’t even walk the streets anymo-more. Nobody knows nothin’. Lazy bums, jist a bunch of bums. Good for nothing, jist don’t wanna work. Barcelona’s a finetown . . . Not good enough to fill my bottle. Gin, was it? I was drinkin’ gin, warn’t I, not brandy. Let’s see how much’s left. Not a d-drop. Bone dry. Help! Barcelona’s a fine town. Comin’, my darlin’, don’t get all upset, comin’! I know you miss me bad. Soon as the street quits splittin’, sp . . .
    Barcelona’s a fine town if you got a fat purse. Fat town, fine purse. Right on the next corner. I’m s-sick, sick of this street split-splitting all the time. Why do they keep movin’ it? Who d’you take me for? Scum, thieves. There was a time you could walk, ‘round here. There was people and lights. Them streets didn’t sp-split. They stayed in place. Yes, sir, yes, siree. There were bars to fill your bottle. If only somebody’d fill up my bottle, . . . the name of the street would come to me. That’s the trouble. Lazy scum’s what they are. Never do no work. Thieves. Oh, I’m sorry for the missus. The missus’s worried. Comin’, Ra-ramona, comin’! Hey! What’s that, over there? A rat. Two rats. Eleven, twelve, thirteen rats . . . The street’s full of rats. Mew! Mew! Whe-where did the cat go? Good for nothin’, jist like the rest, never come when you need them. Off with you, big rat, off! It’s the gin you’re after, hey? You want my gin. Thieves, scum. Off with you!
    Barcelona’s . . . They’re leaving. They’re gone. So long, rats! Now I’ll find the street. It’s called . . . number . . . Comin’, sweet Ramona, comin’! If I see someone,