The Dream of the City by Andrés Vidal Page A

minutes, and get out as fast as possible. Afterward, they would send a representative to talk with the manager and try to make him understand the urgency of coming to an agreement. The point of the action was to demonstrate that the presence of the employees in their work spaces was absolutely indispensable; no one but them—and even then, it would take effort—could make sure the machines would work again.
    Frozen from the cold, enveloped in clouds of vapor that floated from their nervous mouths, the workers bunched together in front of the entrance. Dimas clenched his fists; he knew what was coming next. For a moment he felt the urge to warn his companions, to tell them it was all a trap set up by the manager with Montero’s cooperation. But something inside of him held him back: He didn’t want to go on being just one more worker, regardless of the cost. And he couldn’t look back now.
    They pushed the door open easily and entered through the main walkway, which led to the different bays, like a river branching into its tributaries. Suddenly a group of men armed with clubs and iron chains emerged from between the empty buildings, approaching the strikers threateningly and cutting off their escape route.
    â€œThey were waiting for us!” Arnau roared.
    It was Rubio who ran to open the tool closet. His eyes were red with rage.
    â€œThey’re not there!” He turned on his heels, saw chains flying above him, and gave off a desperate, guttural cry. “It’s an ambush!”
    He was one of the first to sense the metallic taste of blood in his mouth. The chains and the clubs fell with inhuman precision over the confused workers. Some shrieked impotently; many fell to the floor, where they were punched and kicked. A couple faced off against their aggressors, shouting: “There are more of us than of them! There are more of us!” They tried to rouse their comrades and failed to mention the fatal difference, that these men were armed.
    Dimas saw Ramiro slip and fall on his face to the floor. As if he’d landed on a spring, he rolled over immediately, but without standing up. Frightened, he still had the guts to clench his teeth and raise his fists. Dimas leaped over to him: One of the thugs was running over, ready to pound him with a long iron bar.
    â€œGet up!” Dimas grabbed the collar of his shirt and made him stand.
    â€œLet me go, I’ll eat him alive!” Ramiro screamed, his chest swollen, as he got to his feet.
    â€œYour children need you alive. Run!”
    When he said the word children , it was as if he’d soaked Ramiro in boiling oil. The fury that almost dragged him into the fray now made him spit on the ground and take off running, with Dimas at his side. The thug still had time to graze Ramiro’s back with the bar. When he saw he couldn’t catch him, he threw the bar like a javelin and it struck Dimas in the back of the thigh. He looked back quickly and saw the man shaking his fist in the air.
    As soon as they’d escaped the depot, the giant Ramiro asked him where they were going. Dimas pointed to the vegetable plots, then stopped a second and looked back into the bays, where a handful of workers still remained. He saw Rubio on the ground, with two of his colleagues dragging him away. Trembling, Dimas could hardly stand, and he felt he would collapse at any moment. Another worker close to them ran over to help. They were the last ones to make it to the vegetable plots. Rubio’s nose was broken and a link from the chain had left its mark on his right cheek. At that moment, Dimas felt the blood draining down his leg: The iron bar had cut him through his pants.
    They sat there a few minutes on a square of ground covered in weeds and a few leafless trees. Nothing could be heard but their weary breathing, moans of pain, and the occasional insult. They looked one another over, making bandages from their own clothing for those who were