Сантьяго Ронкальоло: Barcelona Noir

The Cathedral’s esplanade confirmed this impression. Gargoyles that looked like they had just scaled down from the walls strolled by tourists and uncostumed pedestrians. In order not to get lost in the narrow alleys of the Barri Gòtic, Carmen and her friends followed Daniel’s tunic single file to a bar. Once inside, maybe because of how anxious she felt walking down the streets dressed like that, Carmen relaxed a little, as if she’d arrived at a familiar, even cozy place.

The bar was decorated like a catacomb and the air was so thick with smoke that the guests looked like specters in the fog. Carmen asked for a double shot of whiskey. She didn’t usually drink, but she also didn’t know how to face a situation like this, and though Lucía was playing around with her handcuffs and everything seemed fun, she needed something to help her along.

“The bad part about Carnival,” Milena said, “is that you could hook up with an ugly guy without even realizing it.”

“No,” responded Jamie, “the best part is that you can hook up even if you’re ugly. This is a much appreciated day for thousands of people...”

Everyone had to practically scream to be heard. And half the conversation didn’t even reach Carmen’s ears, though she smiled so as not to seem out of it. She wanted to go to the bathroom but there was a mass of humans in the way. She tried but didn’t get very far.

“Sweetie, you’re getting looks,” Daniel whispered in her ear.

At the bar, a wolfman had just ordered a drink. His body was covered with hair and his furry tail wagged from side to side.

“He wasn’t looking at me,” Carmen replied.

“Sweetie, believe me. I know when a man looks at somebody. Even if it’s not at me.”

Somebody ordered another round and another drink ended up in Carmen’s hand. The friends toasted and laughed, although Carmen didn’t really understand what was going on. The wolfman was now closer to them and was suddenly speaking with Daniel. And soon with the others as well.

“You have a very good costume,” Carmen said, just to say something. “You look like a real wolf.”

“I am a real wolf,” he responded.

And she laughed.

“Your costume is very good too. It’s... inciting.”

“I hate it.”

Before she realized it, she’d embarked on a conversation with the wolfman. When she couldn’t hear what he said, she simply admired the costume’s perfection. She couldn’t find the zippers or the seams, and the mask fit his face perfectly.

After a while, Milena asked: “Shall we go somewhere else?”

Almost automatically, they all began to push toward the exit. When they reached the door, Carmen noticed a bear wearing a scarf drinking in the back of the bar. It seemed to her that his eyes were like two buttons.

When they got out into the fresh air, Carmen realized she was slightly tipsy and the wolfman — by that point he’d identified himself as Fran — offered her a hairy arm, which felt like real fur to the touch. They lingered in a mob of skulls.

When they turned a corner full of bows and crosspieces, Carmen bumped into a Che Guevara, who laughed uproariously. There was a metal camera in the plaza in front of them that watched her with its single lens. It took Carmen a few seconds to grasp that it was a monument dedicated to someone or something.

“Where are we?” she asked her companion.

“It’s this way.”

They crossed a plaza bordered by columns, with a fountain in the middle, and palm trees. Carmen recognized Plaza Real, but it looked different. Maybe it was the people perched on the windows, who seemed to watch her in silence. When they got to Las Ramblas, Carmen realized she’d lost track of her friends.

“I swear they were right here,” Fran said.

Then, and only then, did Carmen understand the true nature of her birthday surprise, a surprise that had Daniel’s typical imprimatur and, maybe because of the warmth of the liquor, didn’t bother her so much: it was a hairy gift, with big fangs, named Fran.

“Do you want to go to another bar?”

Carmen noticed how tall Fran was. She looked at him from below, with his profile silhouetted by the full moon. She smiled. A woman dressed as a cow with a giant pink udder walked by her, too drunk not to stumble into her.

Dear, you have to learn to relax.

They crossed Las Ramblas and went into El Raval. They passed by a kind of ancient jail with bars on the windows. Carmen thought she heard a scream coming from inside but when she turned, she saw only a man disguised as a cat with a very thick costume. Fran didn’t bat an eye. He’d bought a beer from a Chinese street peddler and he offered her a drink. Carmen accepted. As they went on, the multitudes dispersed and some streets were completely empty. Further on, Carmen realized that people weren’t dressed up as Moroccans. These were real Moroccans, and a few of them whistled at her when she walked by. The air smelled of kebabs and beer. On a corner, some graffiti demanded: KILL THEM ALL .

Fran came to a halt at a storefront with a locked gate.

“Damn,” he said, “I didn’t think it’d be closed today of all days.”

“I’m cold,” Carmen complained, feeling the air crawl in under her multicolored hose.

Without a word, Fran led her to a tiny street that emptied out to an intricate network of passageways. They entered the labyrinth and arrived at a building so narrow it couldn’t accommodate an elevator. While they climbed the cramped stairwell, Fran mumbled something about his place and led her to believe he had liquor there. Carmen continued on, more because she was cold than because she wanted to. She felt heavy and clumsy, and she just wanted a couch to fall into.

And a girl wolf for Max because he’d like to have little wolves, thank you.

Fran’s place proved surprisingly big considering the narrow stairs. It had a single hallway which extended to a central patio, while the rooms were off to the sides. The living room was just an extension of the hallway, which seemed endless. Carmen curled up in an armchair and accepted the brandy her host offered. When she brought the glass to her lips, she felt the warm and thick beverage, like a Turkish coffee.

“Fran, do you know you remind me of someone?”

“Really?”

“Can I call you Max?”

“You can call me whatever you want.”

A thud, like a knock, came from somewhere in the hall, but Fran didn’t seem to be aware of it. Carmen’s feet were cold and she drank a little more. With each swallow, Fran would refill her glass with that liquid which seemed to her less and less like brandy. The room was spinning and she thought she heard voices other than her own, but she had a hard time figuring out if they were coming from inside or outside her head. Fran kept his costume on. The hair looked so natural. It was like sitting next to a giant dog.

“Max, why don’t you take off your mask? I still haven’t seen your face.”

“You want me to take it off?”

Carmen nodded.

“You might not like what you see,” he said, and she thought she saw a smile on his snout.

“Take it off.”

He put his hands on his neck and struggled a little, as if he was having trouble finding the zipper. Carmen was seeing double and her eyes wanted to close but the anticipation kept them open. Finally, the wolf’s face gave way. First, it went lax on his features, then absolutely amorphous. Fran grabbed it by the sides and pushed up. When the mask finally fell away, Carmen saw the face underneath. It was her mother’s face. And now it was her voice, with thundering clarity, which seemed to come from every corner of the room.

“You’re too big for such things, dear. It’s time you found other pastimes.”