The Street of the Three Beds by Roser Caminals-Heath

absinthe to go with the flow. At the next table, men in working clothes played dominoes while the waitresses and a few idle women inspected the new customers. Sebastià’s eyes and hands wandered toward the female traffic, until twenty minutes later the others yanked him out of the café that reeked with smoke and proletarian sweat. It wouldn’t be the first time that, after having had one too many, he started a row in a public place. Feeling somewhat euphoric, they resumed their walk.
    As they went past the Barcelonès theater, Albert shouted, “Let’s go in to see some wrestling!”
    â€œNot a chance!” Jaume objected, his tongue thick with alcohol. “I haven’t come this far to see a couple of fellows in underpants rolling on top of each other.”
    And, propelled by uninhibited laughter and barely noticeable drunkenness, they took a few more faltering steps toward the Olímpia. Maurici vaguely remembered that his Aldabò grandparents had gone there at one time or another, when it had been an outdoor dance hall. The sign over the entrance promised a thrill “never seen before.” A crowd of the curious—from unshaven men with homemade cigarettes between their lips to ladies in silk—swarmed in front of the ticket window.
    â€œThis will be good,” Albert forecast enthusiastically. “They say Czech theater is a sight to see.”
    â€œIf it’s a tearjerker, count me out,” Sebastià grumbled. “I don’t go for heavy stuff.”
    â€œNothing like that,” Albert persisted. “This is experimental. It won’t be like anything you’ve ever seen.”
    â€œYou’ve got to be up-to-date,” Jaume cut in, hoping to dazzle those who were unfamiliar with the new sensation. “Maurici, you’re not paying attention. Do you vote for or against?”
    â€œFor, of course. Novelty’s always welcome.”
    Maurici, who had never heard of Czech theater, offered to get the tickets. The other three stepped into the tavern next door. A few minutes later, he joined them with the intention of killing time till eight o’clock. More absinthe, more anisette, more cognac. More catcalls to the girls and gibes at their escorts, more off-color jokes, more guffaws and rowdiness. Maurici lit a Cuban cigar to smother the stink of cheap cigarettes. Jaume, eyes ablaze, zigzagged toward the miniature train on display in the middle of the tavern and made a clumsy effort to climb on it.
    â€œAlbert, aren’t you s’posed to take the early train tomorrow? Might as well take it now. Come on, man, all aboard! Toot, toooot!”
    Only a few people turned their heads; the rest, deafened by the general din, didn’t even take notice. Sebastià asked Maurici, “Listen, how long will this act or whatever it is we’re going to see last?”
    â€œWhy d’you ask? Are you in a hurry?”
    â€œHow’d you like to top off the day at La Criolla or El Chalet?”
    â€œLa Criolla’s full of transvestites. Besides, look at Jaume. Do you think in his condition he can satisfy any of the sirens at the Chalet? We’re all smashed. D’you want to make a fool of yourself?”
    â€œNonsense! What’s wrong with you?”
    He didn’t want to admit to queasiness in his stomach that would disarm him in combat with any female, whatever her mythical attributes. Finally, they pulled Jaume off the train and made their way into the theater. The audience was as diverse as before, but strictly designated rows of seats drew social lines.
    The stage was bare. The lights went out and silence fell on the theater. The first notes of Brahms’s “Lullaby” rang in the air. Maurici mentally pressed the keys: “mi, mi, so . . .” Suddenly a powerful light encircled a girl in fine lingerie lying on her side in a metal bed. She had gleaming white skin, brown hair, and the rhythmic breathing