Bartholomew waited on the street corner while the lizard went inside Casa Batlló to get Antoni Gaudi. He looked up at the oddly shaped building that looked like a cross between a honeycomb and a skeleton. He could see why Spaniards had nicknamed it the House of Bones because it sure looked like one.
The night smelled of car exhaust and dust. Old jalopies filled with men in bowler hats rambled down the dirt avenue. Young women in shiny flapper dresses paraded down walks, nodding as they passed. Purple jacaranda flowers drooped from hanging branches while autumn leaves swirled on cobblestones.
Gaudi arrived after a few minutes. He had on the same long coat cinched with a belt that he’d worn when Bartholomew had met him weeks before. His brown beard was neatly combed, and Bartholomew notice
