Golden Earrings Read Online Free PDF Page B

were no longer surprised by the sight of a bicycle pump embedded in the wall of the shop opposite, or the saddle that had melted into a lamppost and now resembled a wilting flower. A few years earlier, the city had suffered a series of fatal bombings in revenge for the execution of four anarchists. But those attacks had been directed against the wealthy and the authorities. These latest bombings seemed to have no political purpose. They occurred in the streets of the poorest neighbourhoods in the early hours of the morning, as if those responsible were trying not to hurt anybody.
    Something shiny in the gutter caught my eye. I recognised the brass dome as a bicycle bell, still in one piece and barely even scratched. Ramón noticed it too and bent to pick it up out of curiosity. A policeman spotted him and shouted, ‘Get lost, you little thief!’
    Ramón straightened, red with mortification at the accusation. Charmer? Yes. Salesman? Yes. Talented persuader? Yes. But thief? Never!
    Anastasio’s lips drew into a thin line and he clenched his fists, ready to defend his brother’s honour. But Papá grabbed his shoulder. ‘Come, or we will be late,’ he said. He spoke with measured calm, but the look he gave the policeman was as sharp as a knife.
    The plane trees that lined las Ramblas were in their full summer leafiness. Housewives and housemaids were bustling about the Boqueria Market. That cornucopia of fruit and vegetables, meat, seafood and sweets was Ramón’s favourite place in the world. Many of the vendors knew him by name and were happy to give him a little something — some olives in winter, some overripe fruits in summer — in exchange for the fanciful stories he told with such aplomb. I could never forget the day he returned with a piece of tortell : a round pastry stuffed with marzipan and topped with glazed fruit. We sharedit between us, and the sweet sensation on my tongue was so blissful I was sure I had died and gone to heaven. Inspired by Ramón’s acquisitions I’d followed him into the market the following day. But the sight of boiled goats’ heads hanging from hooks and other animals’ organs laid out on cabbage leaves horrified me. I was sure I could see the kids’ hearts beating still. I screamed when one of the butchers touched me with his icy finger and fled back out onto las Ramblas. The market became associated with the stench of death and I never wanted to return there.
    My idea of paradise was the place we were headed now: the flower market, on the opposite side of the street to the Boqueria. I loved to spend my day there amongst the rainbow of colours and alluring scents, the blooms bursting from buckets and cascading from pots: trailing geraniums, fragrant roses, waxy begonias, vivid marigolds. My favourites were the blood-red clusters of carnations, like dancing girls swishing their skirts. The beauty, charm and exotic fragrances of the flower market were the exact opposite of the world in which I usually existed.
    ‘ Buenos días! ’ called out Teresa when she saw us. She lifted a bucket of gardenias onto her stall table and the sweet, summery scent of the flowers wafted through the air.
    Big-boned Teresa was a widow who looked after me and Ramón when Papá and Anastasio were at the textiles factory, a responsibility for which she refused to accept payment. She had met my father at a meeting of the Radical Party, where she was a leader of one of the women’s groups: Damas Rojas. The other group was Damas Radicales, which was more conservative in its politics. Teresa owned her own stall at the market and wore tiny pearl earrings, both of which made her fabulously wealthy in my eyes. In reality, however, she was only a little better off than we were. Teresa was originally from Madrid, which was why she spoke in Spanish to us instead of the Catalan she used with her customers. She had come to Barcelona with her husband,who had intended to fulfil a lifelong dream of working on a ship.