The Dream of the City Read Online Free Page B

Daniel Montero, the foreman, came over and put a hand on his shoulder.
    â€œNavarro, leave what you’re doing and go help Pons and his crew install the screens and windows in the new 400s.”
    â€œSure, I’ll finish this and I’ll go,” Dimas answered without leaving his task.
    â€œNo, go now. There’s no rush with this machine.”
    â€œBut …”
    â€œBut what, Navarro? Should we sit here arguing about it the whole morning long? They’re orders from above, you know that …” Montero made a gesture as though zipping his mouth shut.
    Dimas stepped away from the tram and put his tools in a corner covered in soot, cleaned his hands with a rag that hung from his belt, and turned without complaining. There was no point in arguing with the foreman.
    Daniel Montero was a tall man with tan skin. His face was always impeccably shaved and he was extremely thin. His dark eyes flickered like an electric storm and few men could hold out against his stare in a challenge or an argument. Maybe that was why they’d made him foreman, even though everyone knew that he had made contact with the secret unions some time back and, according to some, had still not broken his ties to them. He wasn’t cruel or arbitrary, but he was tough. No worker dared to go against his wishes, least of all because he never assigned anyone a task that wasn’t necessary. Anyone who was asked would say he was fair, and for that reason, almost everyone respected his opinion.
    Dimas, however, was one of the exceptions. He saw a tinge of superiority in the foreman’s eyes, and he didn’t care for it. At times he observed a contempt for his coworkers that clashed with Montero’s clandestine employment as spokesman for their widespread discontents. With fancy words that always struck Dimas as hollow, the foreman tried to impose ideas that surpassed his authority and even his understanding. As far as the job went, his opinions seemed to be law both for the bosses, who obviously knew nothing of his support for the workers’ struggles, and for the laborers themselves, who admired him for being better than them and still continuing to defend their rights.
    Dimas stepped away and joined Pons and his crew. Pons had worked there the longest of any of the men. Dimas soon understood the reasons behind the foreman’s harrying him: Héctor Ribes i Pla, the manager of the company, was there, along with Pruna, the head of the workshop, and another unobtrusive-looking gentleman in a tie. They were showing around a fourth person, a man sporting a large mustache and holding his hat behind his back, as if he were paying a quick visit. No sooner were words spoken than the unobtrusive man translated the words of Ribes i Pla and Pruna. He was speaking French, low pitched, with guttural sounds that strafed the air. The man with the mustache must have been Belgian, maybe a director from the new company there to visit the different bays spread throughout the city.
    â€œHere they make you work, whether you want to or not,” Pons affirmed softly, so that only his coworkers heard him.
    â€œWe’re not zoo animals,” another one said.
    â€œEasy, boys; even if the Belgian doesn’t understand, the other three aren’t idiots,” Pons said, feeling a bit uncomfortable in his position. The man reminded Dimas of his father, and in fact they had been friends, though they hadn’t seen each other for some time.
    â€œIdiots no, but ass kissers, I’d have to say yes. …”
    â€œLook, it’s just for a moment, I don’t think Señor Mustache wants to spend the whole morning here,” Pons said to calm them down. “And if he does, who really cares? A little song and dance, a little formality, and that’s that.”
    â€œWe won’t even be able to stop to stretch our legs. My back is killing me after being bent over so long and I’m done with what