“Do you think it’s good–Barcelona?”
This inquiry pierced the silence, which Ruiz had braved for quite some time.
“I suppose…” Paul said.
“You make of it what you can. What the hell should I know about what is good? What do I know? Nothing!”
“You don’t know what “good” is?” Ruiz thinks.
Paul gets like this when he has not eaten. He gets like this when he can’t sleep.
Paul: “I can’t sleep. Let’s go out for a stroll, eh? I want a beer. I haven’t had a beer in a good while.”
Yes, Paul gets like this when he has not eaten and when he has had no beer in his belly. He gets agitated. But it wasn’t true. Just four hours ago he had been sitting at the Plaza de Regomir, on Carrer da Ciutat, devouring a plate of eggplant with lamb sauce, gulping down two bottles of beer. He gets cranky when he doesn’t eat, but also when he forgets he has.
Ruiz had been in Barcelona a week. And for that week he had been staying at Paul’s place–a small room on the corner of Carrer de Jaume I. It was a request of Max, a mutual friend, to have Paul let Ruiz stay with him for a spell–Ruiz was new to the city, had no money, knew of no one, with much to learn.
It was no surprise they couldn’t sleep through the night. It had been that way the night before and the night before that. It was the heat, the flies, the dirty linens. It was the cramped room where both men fashioned a corner for themselves and lived like invalids. The room so small that another body inside it caused an increase in temperature.
Paul was a writer. Ruiz a painter. In a flash, the two are headed down the creaky, crooked stairs of the Hotel Jaume and enter into the cooler, misty streets of the Barri Gotic.
Ruiz was a painter with no supplies. He came from Malaga, his birthplace. Tonight, the streets were quiet. Paul pulls out a cigarette for himself, and one for Ruiz. He had learned to do this instinctively, as Ruiz never had a damn thing. If Paul were to boil water for coffee, Ruiz would surely be wanting one, too. If Paul pulled out a mint, a toothpick–Ruiz would complain of his own breath, start digging his teeth with his fingers. Paul put on heirs when he acted unpleasant. He was always huffing and puffing. He was always griping about this or that. About being broke or tired, or he was too hot or the air was frigid. This is merely the consequence of a writer who gets little done. He is a writer, yes. But he rarely writes. One gets to thinking he just likes the lousy lifestyle.
And his bickering–merely a personality type. He was never really angry. And as much as he tried to hide it, was rather happy to take Ruiz in for a week or two. After all he was a writer. And writers like to feel wise. Ruiz made Paul feel wise. Ruiz was full of optimism, curiosity, youth. Ruiz was an open heart–he aimed to please everyone.
Together they strolled Carrer de Jaume, which was quiet that evening. So quiet, one could finally hear their own thoughts. Paul liked it when it was quiet. Ruiz wanted the nightlife. Ruiz was always pestering Paul.
“Where is there to go for some pleasure? Something nice?”
Ruiz was always going on about plaer, plaer.
“Listen, Ruiz. You say you want some wine? I tell you where they fill the glasses full. You want it free? I know where the waiters turn their backs, and you can duck out quickly. You can do this once, of course. You want to see the Bar Michelle? They give you bread and they have cheap Fricandó.”
“As long as there is some pleasure, Paul. What a man craves is pleasure!”
The two now walk in silence, their footsteps clacking in the streets, the moths flickering around the misty ocher lamps, the roaches scurrying from the bins. Several minutes pass.
They have skipped several bars: The Bar Miguel, The Mint, Casa Spec’s.
They have walked Carrer de Ferran, strolled through the Plaza de Sant Miguel. They have witnessed a robbery, a dead dog, a urine-soaked bum.
Paul in a sudden huff:
“Look, Ruiz. I don’t know what you think of this pleasure business. I don’t know what it means to you or what you think it is. You say you’re a painter–fine, I believe you. Get on with it then. But if your gonna be around me I don’t want any of this pleasure talk. Look around you. No pleasure here! And you are young. And I– well, I am older than you and so I’ll do you the favor of sticking it to you straight. If you want to live a life full of pleasure, you best find another line of work.”
In silence, they enter the narrow corridor of Carrer de Avignon. It was not the street Paul intended. Distracted, he meant to avoid the corridor. He was well known there. In fact, it had almost done in him.
Paul stops, retrieves his last two cigarettes and a box of matches. As the two men pull to get an ember, Paul senses Ruiz looking over his shoulder with curious eyes:
In a small shop, a nameless den, there are five women summoning johns. One, inexplicably, is wearing a mask. Their bodies are glistening, diaphoretic. Their bodies feminine, yet strong. A bowl of fruit sits among the cluster of curvatures–breasts, thighs, arms, beguiling eyes. The enticing reds of the lamps saturate the women and the façade of the storefront with a peachy, salmon hue.
“Oh, my Ruiz—best to not even look…” Paul declares, presumably from experience.
“…Those ladies there? They will eat a boy like you alive”
JSV
2024
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Where is the rest of the “book”? I wanted the next episode. More please.
10 words
The Ripper gambles with female form, burning red lights bright