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

think he was acting wrongly or with too much severity; he was simply defending the company, which also meant defending more than a handful of jobs. But there were times when being at the head of everything and having to bear all the responsibility meant that his decisions were often not well understood. Luckily the conductors, who were eager to distinguish themselves from the rest of the personnel, hadn’t gone along with the strike. For the moment the city government was not pressuring them, but it wouldn’t take long for the first breakdowns to come, and then, the service would be irreparably affected.
    As soon as the vehicle approached the fence that opened onto the bays, Ribes i Pla saw a group of workers surrounding the entrance and knew that everything was still the same. Worse for them , he thought while he turned a deaf ear to the insults they hurled his way. What did surprise him, though, was what he found afterward, when he arrived at his office: One of his security men approached him and spoke in a low voice, as if confessing a secret.
    â€œSeñor, one of the workers is waiting for you. He says he would like to speak with you.”
    â€œThe representative of the strikers?” he asked. “Then he should talk to the head of the workshop; I’m not in the mood for trifles.”
    â€œHe says he has to speak with you about the strike, says that he can help you,” the man then clarified. “He’s unarmed, señor,” he added, wishing to show that he’d done his job and that the mysterious employee wasn’t hiding any ill intentions.
    â€œFine,” he said, sighing. “Bring him to my office in five minutes.”
    Héctor Ribes i Pla sat down in his leather armchair after hanging his hat on a walnut coat tree beside his desk. He arranged various papers and left out an example of his elegant handwriting.
    Shortly afterward, a knock came at his door and a young worker entered his office, tall, strangely elegant despite his humble clothing, strong-looking, though thin and wiry. He held a corduroy cap between his sinewy hands. He liked the look of the young man: serious, formal, with a decisive stare, ambitious. Ribes didn’t know it yet, but his name was Dimas Navarro.
    â€œHave you come to announce you’re going to return to your workstations?” he snapped, without motioning for his visitor to sit, wanting to give the impression that he had no time to lose.
    The worker shyly said no. Ribes i Pla was surprised. Before he could formulate a response, the worker went ahead: “What I can do for you, if you wish, is come up with a good handful of workers ready to occupy the vacant posts during the strike.”
    Ribes squeezed his eyes half closed.
    â€œWhat kind of joke is this?”
    â€œI’ve got contacts in Peking Beach,” Dimas said, referring to the neighborhood where the Chinese immigrants from Cuba had settled after the War of Independence. “Workers there are always looking for jobs. Those people are so needy they don’t care if they get labeled as scabs; they’ll take any job under any conditions. They’re not skilled mechanics, but they can take care of the small jobs without any problems. That way, the streetcars will keep running and the workers will see they’re not irreplaceable.”
    â€œWhat’s in it for you?”
    â€œMoney. And a promotion.”
    â€œRight. And how do I know I can trust you?”
    â€œTonight I’ll come with them and you will see what I’m saying is true. Have money ready, because you’ll have to pay them ahead of time. And me, too.”
    Héctor Ribes i Pla looked straight at him; he was waiting for the young man to crack, but Dimas didn’t even blink.
    â€œCome around midnight,” he conceded. “And be sure you’re not just playing around. You can’t even imagine how terrible it could be to have me for an enemy.”
    Dimas smiled