Barcelona Metropolis

The small wheels of Piero and Anton’s suitcases rattle against the pavement. The sound rips through the silence enveloping Carrer Gran de Sant Andreu, while the sun beats down on façades, neon signs hanging from them. Piero follows the map on his phone, searching for number 34. Anton comes to a stop.

“You said this neighbourhood had charm.” He looks at the buildings. “They’ve ruined it.” Piero stops too, having reached number 34.

“Giovanni told me the company that took over the Sant Andreu neighbourhood managed to preserve some of its character.” He looks at the wall next to the door. There’s a box with numbers. The mark of an old doorbell around it can still be seen. Piero presses 1427. He pushes the door open and glances at Anton, who’s staring up at a first-floor window. It’s a building with a smoothie bar on the ground floor. He could’ve sworn he saw the curtains move by themselves.

“Come on, Anton!”

Piero and Anton step inside, walking down a dark corridor. The door shuts behind them.

But the silence doesn’t return to Carrer Gran de Sant Andreu. In the distance, a swing at the old primary school creaks softly. A three-storey building with grand windows. Inside, an elderly man, about ninety, looks through the glass. He watches a nurse, sitting on one of the school swings, eyes closed, cigarette in hand.

It’s his break. Just before lunch. Most of the elderly residents are already seated in the dining room, wearing their bibs.

Anton unpacks the suitcases and puts the clothes away in the wardrobe. On the bed, a basket holds a bottle of cava and a welcome postcard. Suddenly, a noise breaks the silence – a metallic clink. Anton spots something shiny in the corner of the room. He steps closer and crouches down. It’s a golden needle, shaped like a bird. He slips it into his pocket.

Piero opens the dining room window. They’ve realised the air conditioning isn’t working.

Anton closes the wardrobe, where he’s already put away the clothes for the next five days, and leaves the room.

“What do you want to do?” he asks.

“I’m going to call the property management company about the air conditioning. We can’t stay in this heat.”

He checks his phone for the contact. An office worker answers. She’s fed up with all the complaints from tourists staying in the neighbourhood, which an investment fund bought about three years ago. The district had been auctioned off and the new owners wanted to make a solid offer for Sant Andreu or Sagrera. They hired a property management company, and months after the renovations, began renting out the flats that had been empty for a while on a short-term basis. For the others, they had to wait for the old rental contracts to expire. As these ended, the last residents left, the elderly moving into local care homes. From the very start, tourists arriving in Sant Andreu have been calling to complain. When it’s not the air conditioning, it’s water leaks; when it’s not the washing machine, it’s the burners. The reviews they leave are poor and bookings have been dropping.

The office worker says the maintenance workers will come by later in the afternoon. Piero hangs up, fuming. Anton suggests going for a walk, but Piero says they have their first sightseeing tour in the city centre later and that he’d rather rest beforehand. Anton can go out for a bit if he wants. Anton agrees, saying that’s exactly why they flew all those kilometres. He goes into the bedroom to grab his bag but stops short: the wardrobe doors are open, and all the clothes he had left on the shelves are now scattered across the floor. He peers inside the wardrobe and feels a breeze on his right cheek.

“What have you done?”

Anton pulls his head out of the wardrobe. Piero stands in the doorway, watching him. Suddenly, the window in the dining room shatters with a sharp, screeching noise. Piero looks at Anton, shaking his head.

There was no draught.

Anton walks down Carrer Gran de Sant Andreu, turning right onto a narrower street. Every now and then, he looks up, feeling as if someone is watching him. Suddenly, he hears a murmur. He tries to follow the sound, eventually coming to a building with a large courtyard in front. The gate is ajar. Anton pushes it open with force. He peers inside and sees what looks like a schoolyard. He’s taken aback, as he hasn’t seen any children on the street, nor anyone who isn’t a tourist.

“Hello.”

Anton turns around.

Under the shade of a mulberry tree, an elderly man sits in a wheelchair. His right hand trembles slightly as he holds a cup of coffee. Anton gives him a nod. The old man raises his chin, gesturing towards the gate.

“Are you lost?”

Anton shakes his head and approaches him. The old man whispers:

“Got a cigarette?”

“No.”

The old man stares at him. Anton looks at the building.

“Is this a school?”

The old man chuckles.

“It was, yes. Now it’s just us old ones living here. They turned it into a care home years ago. We came when they kicked us out of our flats. And now we’re just dying off. I don’t have much time left. And when we’re all gone, they’ll build a shopping centre.” He turns his eyes back to Anton, narrowing them. “For you lot.”

Anton leans against the mulberry tree.

“I don’t like shopping centres.”

“Neither do I.”

“Are you from here?”

The old man hesitates for a moment, then responds.

“Born and raised. Never left. Where are you staying?”

“On Carrer Gran de Sant Andreu.” He glances at the gate, then back at the old man. “It used to be an important street, didn’t it?”

The old man’s eyes light up. His lips quiver.

“Of course,” he says, gesturing slowly with his hand. “The Three Wise Men would pass by in their parade right under my window. My two grandchildren would come to watch. We’d shout at the people on the floats, asking them to throw the sweets hard so they’d reach our balcony.” He shuts his eyes and takes a sip of coffee. His hand shakes, spilling a drop onto his shirt. “Now they’re grown up and live far away.”

“Did you live on Carrer Gran?”

The old man pulls a plaque from his pocket. It bears two names: Lluís Jové and Mercè Ruiz. 3rd Floor, 2nd Door. “Number 34.”

A nurse steps out into the courtyard, looks at the old man and shakes his head wearily.

“Lluís, it’s nap time.” He moves closer, gently grabs the wheelchair, turns it around and pushes it back towards the building.

Anton walks out of the courtyard, retracing his steps until he reaches the door of the building. His cheeks are flushed. He looks at the number on the door: 34.

Anton has stayed in the flat on his own. He’d told Piero to go ahead with the tour, saying he was tired. Piero had left in a huff, telling him to at least keep an eye out for the maintenance workers so he could brief him later. Anton sits down on the sofa.

Suddenly, he hears a creak – a faint scratching sound on the wooden floor.

He feels his muscles tense up. He hears the sound of water running in the bathtub. Anton takes a deep breath, recalling the old man’s plaque:

“Mercè?”

The air in the room grows heavier, as if its very density has changed. A faint breeze stirs. Anton squeezes his eyes shut. The radio crackles to life and a cha-cha-cha begins to play. He stands up and leaves the flat.

Anton arrives at the care home. The gate is shut. He rings the intercom.

“Who’s there?”

“I’m here to visit Lluís.”

Lluís is sitting in the dining room, the radio tuned to the same station playing the cha-cha-cha. The song is nearing its end. Anton sits down beside him.

“We rented out your flat for five days, but I want to leave.” He slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the golden needle, shaped like a bird. He places it in Lluís’s palm and gently closes his fingers around it. “I found this in one of the rooms.”

Lluís looks at the needle.

“Mercè...”

“They want us gone. The whole neighbourhood does. But they need to make more noise about it. Lluís, when you’re gone, make sure they hear you. Make them throw us all out.”

Anton reaches the entrance to number 34. The maintenance workers should be here any moment. Before dialling the number, he glances left and right. No one’s around. Stepping into the middle of Carrer Gran, he shouts:

“I know you’re here! When they get here, make yourselves heard! All of you, together!”

Suddenly, a window creaks open, then another, followed by a door. Five, then ten more join in. The street quakes.

The breeze has turned into a deafening roar.