Lost Cause by John Wilson Read Free Book Online

Another example of Catalan generosity.
    It felt as if I had already met guides, but there was only one who really mattered. I looked around the square to get my bearings. According to my map, the Ramblas, the street that led down to my address, was diagonally opposite. I set off.
    Even this early in the morning, the Ramblas was awesome. It was really two streets with a wide pedestrian precinct with trees down the middle. Although it was only eight in the morning, a few outdoor cafés already had tables out, and scattered customers sat sipping coffee and reading newspapers. Casual strollers wandered past with no apparent objective other than to glance in shop windows. The shops were still closed and shuttered, and it made me think that I was maybe too early to go to the address Grandfather had given me. The last thing I wanted to do was wake up Marie Dolores Calderon Garcia, whoever she was.
    I strolled down until I came to Carrer de la Portaferrissa. It was exactly as it had looked on Google—a narrow alley, about 4 meters wide and surrounded by ancient four- or five-story buildings. At this time in the morning, the street was in deep shadow and the few pedestrians just darker shapes in the distance. I knew that number 71 was at the far end, but the Ramblas seemed a much better place to kill time, so I turned back, selected a café and sat.
    My guidebook recommended coffee and a pastry for breakfast. In fact, it said it was all I was likely to get outside an expensive hotel, so, using a few learned phrases, I stumbled through an order. The waiter seemed to think it was very funny, but eventually brought a tiny cup of brutally strong coffee and the sweetest pastry I had ever tasted.
    I sipped the coffee but wolfed down the pastry since it was all I had eaten since getting on the plane the night before. I ordered another and a glass of water and took out my cell phone. I felt a bit bad about the way I’d blown off DJ’s text at the bus stop. His arrogance annoyed me and he was always so formal. I don’t think he liked texting, he preferred to talk or send an email. He claimed that texting was butchering the English language. Of course that just made me use as many chat abbreviations as I could, just to mess with him.
    Dwntwn Barca , I texted, hvng a cb, u cld pave 403 w/ this stuff. evry1 really friendly, but they speak odd. gl w/ mountain. u’ll b on top by lunch tbl bro.
    Then I texted Mom. It was the middle of the night in Toronto, but I had promised to let her know I had arrived safely. I sent it in plain English. Everything is great. People really friendly. On my way to the address to meet up with my guide. “I hope,” I murmured under my breath as I folded my phone.
    People came and went, the traffic became heavier and eventually the shutters on some of the shops rolled up. I paid and set off down Carrer de la Portaferrissa. I was nervous as I passed through the shadows below the narrow wrought-iron balconies. I had come all this way chasing a mystery. The address had been my goal through all the preparations. Now I was only a few doors from it. What if no one was there? What if the mysterious package was just something meaningless, or not even my grandfather’s? Worst of all, what if they knew nothing about a letter or a package or me?
    I would be fine, I told myself. I had a ticket home and money to live on, but I would have failed. The other six, even Rennie, the mystery grandson, probably all had specific tasks like DJ’s mountain climb. They would all complete their tasks, I was certain. I would be the lone failure. As I had researched the Spanish Civil War, I had begun to see Grandfather differently, not as the old man I knew, but as the kid with the weird haircut in the photograph. He had walked this very street when he was my age. Why? What was he doing coming here in the middle of a war? Would I find out? Would I—?
    And then there I was, standing in front of the doorway