The Dream of the City by Andrés Vidal Read Free Book Online Page A

foreman had become the most belligerent of all the workers. He thought there was something strange in his attitude.
    Once they were back on the street, Dimas circled around to pull away from the rest of his coworkers and then retraced his steps. Close to the site of the meeting, he took refuge in a doorway. He didn’t know how long he would have to wait there, so he pulled up the collar of his worn-out corduroy jacket, pressed down his cap, and tried to stay in the shadows, away from the streetlight. The cold crept into his clothes and soon froze his sweat. He prayed that what he waited for would not take too long; otherwise he would soon start shivering violently.
    And not long after, his hopes were fulfilled: the thin silhouette of the foreman appeared in one of the windows. After looking from side to side, he jumped nimbly to the street, put his hands in his pockets, squeezed his arms tight against his body, and began to walk rapidly away. Dimas hid as best he could and held his breath. The foreman was about to walk past him.
    Montero took no notice of the man’s presence there in the shadows, and Dimas began following him at a prudent distance. He wasn’t sure what the point of all this was, but he felt a sense of duty inside, a distant rumble like those that announce the arrival of a storm.
    He didn’t know where Montero lived; they had never walked together on their way out of the bays. When they reached the Plaza Cataluña, Montero walked up Paseo de Gracia and headed toward Calle de Caspe. It was impossible, with his salary, that he could live in this part of the Ensanche. All at once the foreman stopped in front of the corner of Caspe and de Bailén. He looked at his pocket watch and gazed at the horizon. Dimas smiled: a bourgeois lover? Or maybe a maidservant employed in one of the wealthy houses? He felt a little stupid for following him and was about to go over and greet him when he suddenly understood everything: a luxurious black vehicle stopped on the corner, opened the door, and Montero got inside. It was the car belonging to the boss, Señor Ribes i Pla.
    Enraged, Dimas began walking at a furious clip, hoping that in doing so, he could calm down and gather his thoughts. The first thing he considered was exposing everything, trying to find Rubio or some other comrade and telling everything he had just seen. Then he stopped himself, realizing that perhaps they wouldn’t believe him: It would be his word against the foreman’s, and Dimas had never been known for his commitment to the workers’ struggle. They all knew he stuck to going back and forth between work and home, and he even feared they might think he was accusing Montero in order to try and take over his job.
    He felt powerless. He took the road home full of the desire to do something, and even to find a way to take advantage of the situation. He wasn’t going to change the workers’ destiny, but maybe he could change his own.
    The next day, Héctor Ribes i Pla got into his car, ready to discharge his obligations, as he did every day, in the bays in Horta, the most important of many prosperous businesses he was involved in. He took his place in the backseat of the automobile and lifted his chin slightly. He rested his right hand on the polished silver handle of his cane and held down his bowler with the other while he watched his chauffeur put the vehicle in gear. His elegant black wool coat looked impeccable.
    He was waiting for the workers to reconsider and agree to return to their jobs once and for all. He knew he couldn’t give any ground. If he did, it would only be the beginning of a spiral that would end up swallowing all his profits. If he asked for help from his friends, the industrialists and politicians, it was even possible that they would lend a hand so that the claims didn’t extend to other firms. The world of transit required costly investments in technology, and Ribes i Pla didn’t