The Street of the Three Beds Read Online Free PDF

grandfather insisted. “My father took me and then I took your husband. It’s a lesson that lasts a lifetime, believe me. If he’s ever tempted to do wrong, you can be sure he’ll remember it. They say they’re gonna ban public executions, so we better go while they’re still around.”
    Roderic took the side of the father and the morbid family tradition. As for Maurici, who in spite of his good judgment had no idea what an execution was, he yelled enthusiastically, “I want to go!” The die was cast.
    It was at the crack of dawn on a January day. The flames of the street lights on the sidewalks still flickered. Holding his grandfather’s hand, he walked half asleep until the frostiness of the morning woke him up. They stood against a façade to let by a herd of milking goats, followed by a horse cart that collected garbage. Maurici envied the garbage man because he played a long horn. They reached the end of the street and turned onto the deserted boulevard. Most buildings were still dark. Silence was disturbed only by sounds from bakeries, where the first loaves of bread rose in the ovens, and from dairies, for it was time to milk the cows. People were already gathering at the empty lot next to the women’s prison. They picked a spot from which even he, from his low height, would be able to catch every single detail. His curious eyes covered the entire space, noticing that there were other children present. At the front line and scattered around the corners he also saw those men armed with notebooks and pencils who were called journalists. The crowd stood in front of a wooden structure; from one of its beams, hung a rope with a noose at the end. Behind it loomed a large object covered with something that looked like a fleece.
    â€œWhat’s that, Grandpa?”
    â€œThe gallows.”
    The word was new to him. “What’s the gallows?”
    â€œThe place of the execution,” his grandfather answered, his eyes riveted on the prison door.
    â€œWhat do they do at the execution?”
    â€œThey punish the guilty.”
    â€œThis man who’s going to be punished, what has he done?”
    â€œHe’s killed three people.”
    â€œThree?” Maurici repeated, as if the number itself could dispel all his doubts.
    â€œSee that thing behind the rope? That’s the wheel, covered with a lamb fleece so that the humidity won’t rust it. After they execute the prisoner, they’ll give the fleece to the executioner.”
    â€œWho’s the executioner?”
    â€œThe man who executes the prisoner.”
    Everything came down to that business of execution, but precisely what it was still eluded him. So far, Grandpa’s explanations had not helped him visualize it.
    Down the boulevard came an overcrowded streetcar drawn by a team of mules and marked with a sign that read: “To the gallows for twenty-five cents.” People of all ages—old, young, small children, even a mother with a baby in her arms—were getting off. Some of them carried baskets as if they were going for a picnic to the springs of Montjuïc mountain. Maurici let out a yawn, thinking perhaps of the food in the baskets, and remembered how often his grandmother said, “Tall and slim as you are, and yet you can eat at the drop of a hat.” Despite the cap, gloves, and scarf that protected him, plus the hot coffee with cream he’d had at home, he could feel the cold creep in.
    The lot was filling up. Some balconies of the boulevard were crammed with neighbors wearing coats over their nightgowns; one man had his dog sitting beside him. A few sunbeams pierced through the darkness and shone in a sky that held a blue promise. The bells rang in a nearby church.
    â€œWhat time is it?” Maurici asked. “How long till the execution?”
    At least he’d learned to pronounce the word correctly.
    â€œThey should’ve come out already.”