The Street of the Three Beds by Roser Caminals-Heath Page A

I’ll ask. This neighborhood ain’t what it used to be. Not even close. Ain’t what it used to be. Barcelona’s got a hangover. Fat purse or no fat purse. These cobblestones ain’t flat. Th-they go up and down. Hard to walk. Why don’t the city fix it? Bums, just a bunch of lazy bums. Can’t walk the streets anymore. This street sp-splits. Enough of it, I say. Keeps running into the square. More palm trees. Enough! I’m sick of them. Ramona, any time now! Almost there. Hang-hangover . . . Hey, how come nobody fills my bottle? Gin, I said. I said filler up with gin. Don’t remember where I live. So what? Ain’t nobody’sbusiness where I live. Don’t you worry, sweet Ra . . . mona, I’m right here. If I don’t get service, I’ll go to another bar. Yes, sir! To another neighborhood. Take it or leave it. Barcelona’s a fine town. Full purse. What ‘bout the bottle? Empty, bottle’s empty. Soon as I find the street, up I go. Sleep it off with the m-m-missus. Comin’, Ramona, comin’!
    Wait, wait . . . This’s different. This street m-makes a bend. It don’t sp . . . Jist bends. Let’s go ‘round the bend, ha, ha! Steady! Round the bend. That’s it, I’m on my way now. I’ll find you, Ramona, here I come! Not a drop. Not a drop left. Thieves, lazy bums. Shame on you. Hey! Filler up, I said. Let the city fix it. The ci . . . Barcelona’s a fine town. Fat purse or no fat purse. How come it ain’t fat? Lazy bums, th-thieves. The street makes a bend. March forward! Street goes up, down . . . Be still! Steady. My bottle. Fill up my bottle. Not a dr-drop. At the end of the street, I’ll go right. No, left. R-right. Right, left . . .
    Wait a minute. Stop! What’s that over there? A bundle at the end of the street. I got to a d-dead end. Ha, ha! Hey, bundle, out of my way. Out of my way, bundle. Let me through. Let me through, I said. Fill up my bottle. Out of my way, I said. You deaf, bundle? Let me through, Ramona’s waiting. Comin,’ Ramona. Golly gee, ‘tis a big bundle. Everything’s dark ‘xcept this here bundle. White bundle . . . in the middle of the street. Out of my way! White . . . all-all of it. Let’s see . . . all white. Wrong, ha, ha, wrong! Red. Big, long bundle. Mr. Bundle. Oh! Ha, ha! Sorry, Mi-Mistress bundle. It’s Mistress Bundle, ha, ha! Or is it miss, eh? White, red, red, red, r-r-red . . . Bundle . . . Oh, my God! Holy Mary! Help! Someone! Over here, help! Watchman! Watchman! Watchman!
    * * *
    Maurici whistled absentmindedly as he walked into the Equestrian. No idea where he’d picked up the silly tune that hadn’t left his lips since he’d got up that morning, not exactly with the birds. As he breezed through the bar he greeted Evarist, who was washing glasses in the sink, and a few regulars. Then his long, flexible legs climbed the carpeted stairs at a clipped pace, two steps at a time in the last flight. At the barbershop, Albert was waiting for him. Since they were both very young they’d religiously adhered to the habit of having their haircuts together. They never missed the weekly appointment, always on the same day and at the same time, except on those rare occasions when one of them was sick. Albert needed extra time to have his beard trimmed; his cousin, on the other hand, followed the dictates of the latest fashion in keeping his face clean-shaven.
    Physically they both bore the stamp of the Palaus, which was simply stronger in Maurici’s case. They shared their classical features—patrician nose, almond-shaped eyes, sensuous mouth—but Albert’s were less sharply drawn and his black hair was of a shade lighter. Although he wasn’t short or heavy, he didn’t reach his cousin’s height or share his lankiness.
    While he worked on Albert, Eladi, the barber, commented profusely on the performance of the latest tenor