Those were days of deep soul-searching. And yet, at the same time, I have to admit, nothing mattered to me (it's a contradiction, but that's the way it was) and as the days went by I stopped reading and responding to the generous job offerings in La Vanguardia, and although the numbers had fled from me ever since the prize (as a result of the shock, I presume), I tried to figure out what to do, and one afternoon, as I was feeding the pigeons in Parque de la Ciudadela, I thought I'd found the solution. If the numbers wouldn't come to me, I'd go after them in their den and drag them out by hook or by crook.
I tried several methods, which for professional reasons I should probably spare you. You say no? All right, then, I won't spare you. I started with street numbers. For example, I would walk along Calle Oleguer and Calle Cadena and note down the numbers on the doors as I went. The ones to my right were 1s, the ones to my left were 2s, and the people who looked me straight in the face as I passed were the Xs. It didn't work. I tried playing dice by myself in a bar on Calle Princesa, a place that doesn't exist anymore called La Cruz del Sur, run in those days by an Argentinian friend. That didn't work either. Other times I would lie in bed, my mind blank, and in desperation I would order the numbers to come back, but I couldn't think, couldn't call up the 1, which in my madness I equated with cash and shelter. Ninety days after I'd won the pool, and after I'd spent more than fifty thousand pesetas on huge, futile multiple bets, I got it. I had to change neighborhoods. It was that simple. The numbers of the Old City were exhausted, at least for me, and it was time to move on. I started to roam the Ensanche, a strange neighborhood that until then I had only eyed from Plaza Catalonia, never daring to cross the boundary of Ronda Universidad, or at least not consciously, thereby exposing my senses to the neighborhood magic and walking unguarded, all eyes, defenseless; in short, the antenna man.
The first few days I just walked up the Paseo de Gracia and down Balmes, but on the days after that I ventured onto side streets, Diputación, Consejo de Ciento, Aragón, Valencia, Mallorca, Provenza, Rosellón, and Córcega. The secret of those streets is the way they can be dazzling and somehow familiar, homey, all at once. When I would get to Diagonal, that was always the end of my walk, which sometimes followed a straight line and other times an endless series of zigzags. As you might imagine, I didn't just look lost. I looked like a crazy person. Lucky for me Barcelona prided itself on its tolerance in those days, as of course it still does. Naturally, I'd bought myself new gear. I was crazy all right, but not crazy enough to think I could pass unnoticed in clothes that reeked of a boardinghouse in Distrito 5. When I went out walking, I sported a white shirt, a tie with the Harvard logo, a sky-blue V-neck sweater, and pleated black pants. The only old things were my moccasins, because when it comes to walking, I've always favored comfort over elegance.
For the first three days, nothing happened. The numbers were conspicuous in their absence, as they say. But something in me resisted giving up the area I had so randomly chosen. On the fourth day, as I walked up Balmes, I raised my eyes skyward and saw the following inscription on a church tower: Ora et labora. I couldn't tell you exactly what it was that drew me to that inscription, but I really did feel something. I had a premonition. I knew I was close to the source of what beckoned to me and tormented me, the thing I desired with such unhealthy intensity. As I walked along, on the other side of the tower I read: Tempus breve est. Several pictures next to the inscriptions caught my eye, making me think of mathematics and geometry. It was like seeing the face of an angel. From then on that church became the center of my wanderings, although I strictly forbade myself to go inside.
One morning, just as I'd been hoping, the numbers came back. The sequences didn't make any sense at first, but it didn't take me long to see the logic in them. The secret was to follow their lead. That week I played three soccer pools (with four doubles) and bought two lottery tickets. As you can imagine, I was unsure of my strategy. I won one pool with thirteen matches. The lottery was a bust. The next week I tried again, this time restricting myself to the pools. I matched fourteen and took home fifteen million. Life changes so fast! In a heartbeat, I had more money than I'd ever dreamed of. I bought a bar on Calle del Carmen and sent for my mother and sister. I didn't go in person because all of a sudden I got scared. What if my plane crashed? What if the soldiers in Chile killed me? The truth is, I didn't even have the strength to leave Pensión Amelia, and for a week I didn't go out. I just sat there, waited on hand and foot, chained to the phone, talking very little because I was afraid I'd do something stupid that would land me in a mental hospital. In the end I was spooked by the powers that I myself had called up. My mother's arrival helped me relax. There's nobody like your mother when you're feeling down! Also, my mother hit it off right away with the owner of the boardinghouse and before you knew it, everybody was eating empanadas de horno and pastel de choclo, which my mother made to spoil me. While she was at it, she spoiled all the castaways holed up there. They were good people, mostly, except for a few bad seeds, sullen types who worked hard and kept a jealous eye on me. But I was the soul of amiability! Then I started to do business. After the bar on Calle del Carmen there was a restaurant on Calle Mallorca, an elegant place where the local office workers came for breakfast and lunch. After a while we started turning a huge profit. With my family there I couldn't keep living in the boardinghouse, so I bought myself an apartment on Sepúlveda and Viladomat and had a big housewarming party. The women from the boardinghouse, who had cried when I left, cried again when I made a speech welcoming them to my new home. My mother couldn't believe it. So much good luck all at once! It was different with my sister. Now that there was money, she gave herself airs she'd never given herself before. Or if she had I never noticed. I put her to work as a cashier at the restaurant on Calle Mallorca, but after a few months I was in the position of having to choose between someone who'd become a hopeless snob and all the rest of my employees, and, even worse, a good slice of my clientele. So I got her out of there and set her up in a salon on Calle Luna, close enough to our place, across Ronda San Antonio. Of course, all of this time I kept searching for the numbers, but it was as if they'd vanished as soon as I came into my fortune. I had money, I had businesses, and above all I had lots of work, so I hardly felt the loss, at least in the first few months. Later, when things began to settle down, when the excitement wore off, and I went back to the streets of Distrito 5, where people went about the real business of life and death, I started to think about the numbers again and I came up with the wildest, most ridiculous hypotheses trying to explain the miracle that I'd called down on myself. But I was thinking about it too much, and that was bad too. Late some nights, I admit, I even scared myself, so whatever you imagine won't be far from the truth.