The Street of the Three Beds by Roser Caminals-Heath Page B

the alcohol of the afternoon. His whole body ached as if he’d just been carrying a heavy weight.
    â€œHow awful to make a scene in front of so many people!” he, who always boasted of how well he held his liquor, lamented.
    Albert scolded him: “I’ve told you before, absinthe’s poison.”
    Maurici inhaled deeply with his eyes closed. “It wasn’t the absinthe.”
    â€œWhat else, then?”
    He helplessly waved away the question. Sebastià and Jaume watched him with concern. They’d never seen him in such a humiliating situation before, and their own drunkenness prevented them from responding to it. When he finally regained his composure and his cheeks regained their color, Albert threw his arm around his shoulder.
    â€œYou’ll be fine now, let’s go. Let’s take a cab and go home.”
    Maurici didn’t know it yet, but after that day he’d never be the same.
    * * *
    Next morning he woke up late, drifting like the survivor of an overnight shipwreck, thick-tongued and fuzzy-headed. He took a long bath to see if soap and water would also cleanse his brain, dressed, and asked the maid to bring him only coffee. He eluded his mother’s questions—“What’s the matter? You don’t feel well?”—and on shaky legs rushed down the stairs and out to the street. He had no intention of going to the factory.
    The avenue teemed with morning activity: women out shopping, wet nurses pushing perambulators, carts filled with merchandise for the central market. Everything except a free carriage, so, after waiting in vain for five minutes, he set off walking in long strides that grew steadier as he approached the old city.
    The boardinghouse had a white sign hanging from a balcony that said “Lola” written in red letters. It was in a narrow busy street, next to a public laundry that occupied the cloister of a former convent. In a corner of the lobby a watchmaker, pinned between the wall and a counter no more than five feet long, dissected a timepiece. The stairway was dark, the steps high. On the first floor, Maurici knocked on a door. A few seconds later he knocked again and heard a tired voice: “Comi-i-i-ing!”
    The door squeaked open to reveal a middle-aged woman in a large, tattered apron, a skirt frayed at the edges, and wool slippers. A few strands of gray hair peeked under the shawl that covered her head.
    â€œWhat can I do for you?” she said with an accent from the south.
    â€œI’m looking for Miss Morera. Rita Morera.”
    â€œWho wants to know?”
    â€œI’m a friend, . . . an old friend.”
    The woman ran her eyes all over him, from head to toe.
    â€œThey always have friends, . . . they’re all friends.”
    His expression hardened.
    â€œI hope you’re not referring to Rita . . . Frankly . . .”
    â€œNo, I’m not referring to Rita. I’m referring to all of them. They all have friends and they all disappear at the end of the month, and their friends, well, they’re never around when they need them.”
    Unaccustomed to meeting resistance to his wishes, he grew impatient with the brazen woman who, after all, must be just a maid.
    â€œListen, I’m asking for Rita Morera. Kindly let me know if she’s in or not and stay out of other people’s business.”
    â€œNot so fast, sonny boy. You may be a very fine gentleman, yes siree, but I’ve been around longer. Step inside; I’ve got to mind the stove.”
    He realized the woman he’d taken for the maid was actually the owner and so it would be unwise to aggravate her. A poorly lit, narrow hallway led to the kitchen. Since it had no windows or any other outlet, the acrid smell of burning coal and boiled cabbage stopped Maurici in his tracks. He stood at a safe distance from whathe mentally classified as slop, next to a portable zinc tub in which a naked child was soaking.
    The woman,