Barcelona Sunset

  CONTENTS

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Copyright

  For Kate, Ben and Kate

  PREFACE

  Everyone is aware that Spain suffered a civil war during the 1930’s. Few outside Spain, however, know how brutal and devastating that war was. For many years before the war broke out, there was chaos and violence throughout the country, and none worse than in Barcelona. There could be no greater contrast from the popular tourist destination we know today.

  The Vilaro family and all that happens to it are pure fiction, but their exploits are set against the reality of life during those difficult years which lead up to the civil war, and coping with the challenges of living in the city during the war.

  This is a novel, and for dramatic effect I have simplified the enormously complicated history of the city. There are lots of detailed history books about the civil war and the events which preceded it, many of which I used for my research, but by inventing Jordi Vilaro and his family, I hope I have brought a human dimension to the conflicts and terrors.

  Jeremy D Rowe

  May 2017

  CHAPTER ONE

  The crowds had been gathering since dawn in the narrow streets surrounding the new and exotic Palau de la Musica. Many amongst them had been working for the last four years on the building site; others were just curious to watch the arrival of the great and good of turn-of-the-century middle class Barcelona. The lanes were narrow for such a throng, because the extraordinary Moderisme building had been squeezed onto the site of a small, dilapidated and vandalised convent surrounded by slums and tenements.

  One little boy, jumping up and down next to his father, was particularly excited. His father, however, was less than happy, resenting using his precious Sunday to watch a spectacle he despised. “You’ve no idea, have you,” he said to his son. “Just because it’s some sort of symbol of the rise of Catalonia, doesn’t mean the fight is over. There will be many battles to come. It’s going to get worse before it gets better, much worse, mark my words.”

  “But it is wonderful, isn’t it?” the boy replied, trying to grasp his father’s hand.

  “You’re getting a big lad now,” he said. “Too old to hold my hand. The time’s come for you to stop wandering the streets and start to earn your keep at the mill.”

  The boy knew he was right. As the family baby, his mother had delayed the inevitable: his older brothers and sisters had all been sent to the factory when they were seven years old: he was nearly nine, and still at home. For a child so young, he was caught in a dilemma: his rather alarming father needed him to start to earn his keep, whilst his mother, smothering her youngest with love, kept him tied to her apron strings. He’d escaped his mother by wandering far and wide from the Raval slum. He’d been to the docks, down to Barceloneta; he’d wandered through l’Eixample, keeping well hidden from the wealthy merchants who would spit on an urchin in rags; he’d even been as far as the strange building called Sagrada Familia, although as a child there wasn’t much to see that made sense to him. He’d admired the shining new market hall at St Antoni, not far from his home, but not ventured inside.

  But the building young Jordi had been most fascinated by, as he wandered the city, was the Palau de la Musica. It had been built quickly, using the latest construction methods, and as a young boy, he had watched it growing. It was a giant metal skeleton when he first saw it and he remembered watching the amazing glass curtain walls being hung in the tall iron frames. He was there, holding his breath with everyone else, when the huge glass dome was hoisted high into the air and fixed in the lofty ceiling.

  He’d persuaded his father to come with him that day of the opening of the Palau. Although Senor Vilaro had been reluctant, his wife had said, “Go with the lad. It’s his last day of freedom. You’re taking him to the mill tomorrow. Spend some time with him.”

  His father had marched ahead of him, leaning heavily on his walking stick, to the Palau, with Jordi running to keep up. Once they got there, he’d pushed to the front of the crowd, with his reluctant and resentful father following. “We’re not stopping long, boy,” he warned. “This is a waste of a good day.”

  “Hey, Vilaro, what’re you doing here?”

  Jordi’s father spun round, then grinned with relief. “Hey, Moles! My lad dragged me here. Didn’t expect to see you.”

  Senor Moles, dressed in similar rough Sunday best like Senor Vilaro, was in a far better mood than Jordi’s father. “It’s a bit of a day for Catalonia, isn’t it? I’m waiting to see our flag unfurled on the top of this gingerbread house.”

  “Hi Senor Moles,” cried Jordi. “It’s exciting isn’t it?”

  “As soon as we can, let’s get out of here. I’ll buy you a beer on the way,” said Senor Vilaro.

  “You’re on,” replied his friend. “Once they’re all in, and we’ve seen the flag, we’ll get away.”

  “Once they’re all in, we could put a bomb in behind them.”

  “Mind your talk, in front of the boy,” replied Senor Moles. “You might think it, but you shouldn’t say it. Not with anyone around who might be listening, not even the boy.”

  “We live in a city of bombs,” said Vilaro.

  “Sush!” said Moles. “You’ll get into much trouble when you talk like this.”

  A cheering and clapping interrupted them, and Jordi turned to see the first of the guests arriving. In 1908, the middle classes of Barcelona were getting settled in their grand mansion apartments in the Eixample; but it was an even greater proof of their arrival in society to have a golden ticket for the inauguration of the Palau de la Musica. Rumours of a black market were mostly unsubstantiated, but there was considerable jealousy amongst the neighbours when they found that one in their building had secured a ticket. The procession which entered the Palau that Sunday afternoon was of unrivalled elegance – gentlemen in frock coats and ladies with their best feathers, all well-upholstered against the chill of the February morning. The self-aware grandees paraded through the working-class crowd like peacocks walking through flocks of bedraggled hens. It was hardly surprising that the working population of the city resented such displays of finery – and Jordi’s father made no secret of how much he despised the trappings of capitalist society.

  “Look, Moles,” he growled, “we pay for these feathers and furbelows with the sweat of our labours.”

  “I know, Vilaro, but it’s nice to see them all, isn’t. It’s still a great achievement.”

  “What is? Killing ourselves so these mill owners and their friends can dress up like this?”

  “No, the great Palau. It is a great achievement,” insisted Senor Moles.

  “We’ll see. Who’s it for, anyway? Not us, the workers,” said Vilaro. “Not yet, anyway,” he added ominously.

  The conversation of discontent was interrupted by a great cheer, as a huge flag was raised on the highest turret. A breeze caught the flag quickly and the four blood red stripes of the Catalan senyera were revealed.

  “That’s what I came for,” said Senor Moles. “I love to see the flag flying. OK, now I’ve seen it, let’s go and get that beer.”

  Jordi’s father turned to him. “I suppose you want to stay longer, boy. Well don’t be late. You’re nearly nine years old, and this is the end of playing around. It’s to the mill for you tomorrow.
”

  Jordi scowled at his father, then turned to watch the guests arriving. His father and his father’s friend vanished quickly in search of beer and what was left of their wasted Sunday.

  Barcelona society processed grandly from their carriages on half-finished Via Laietana, through the narrow lane, to the doors of the Palau. There was a sudden flutter of applause as Senor Lluis Domenech i Montaner, the architect of the Palau arrived. Many in the crowd recognised him from his earlier days as a politician, and there was a generous cheer as he passed by, waving to the crowd as he progressed into his glorious building.

  Slowly the guests filed into the foyer, up the stairs and into their places. Jordi could only guess at the grandeur of the interior, and he longed to creep in. With no further attractions to watch in the street, the crowd gradually melted away, leaving only a few urchins hanging around. All was quiet for a while, and Jordi imagined that there must be some speeches being made in the concert hall. Then abruptly, the organ started to play, and the hangers-on in the street could hear it clearly. Jordi thought it sounded a bit like being in church, as the great choir broke into song. The boy looked around. Some of the older kids, and a few adults, were standing to attention. Some were even joining in the hymn-like song. Jordi listened carefully and the realisation came to him that this was the great Catalan anthem, the Song of the Reapers. He sighed. If only his father had been there at this time, he would have joined in with the singing, as he knew the anthem well. Perhaps if he’d stayed and sung the song he loved, he would not have been so cross with Jordi.

  It gets dark early in February, and the sun was setting when Jordi left the last stragglers of the crowd at the Palau and started for home. The familiar streets were quiet, and with the terrible threat of the factory in the morning, he wondered how long it would be, before he wandered them again.

  Jordi Vilaro, born in El Raval in 1899, had two brothers and a couple of sisters, all older than him. When his father took him off to the factory, he would be the last of the siblings to go. All the others were at the mill, mostly having started a lot younger than he was. Jordi was the last at home with his Mam. She would have liked him to stay at home longer, but there had been no more babies after Jordi, so he was her perpetual baby. Senor Vilaro didn’t think much of that, and threatened him often with his belt. His mother would cry, “Don’t hit the baby!” and he’d hide behind her skirts. His father would growl, and say, “The day will come when he’ll have to……..” and he wouldn’t finish the sentence and Jordi would be left wondering.

  It seemed the day had come. With visions of the fine ladies with their velvet and feathers, and the singing ringing in his ears, he slouched slowly through the darkening alleys. He came out from the dark lanes to cross the wide, tree-lined Ramblas, passing the austere Catalan church of Mare Betlem. He crept reluctantly into the darkness and smog of the Raval slum. He realised that this, perhaps, was his last evening of freedom. He lingered outside one of the bars where his father might be drinking, but couldn’t see him. A mangy dog cocked its leg against the doorpost, narrowly missing him, and he gave it kick. It turned hungrily, without enough energy to bark, and slunk away.

  El Raval, at the turn of the century, had become a notorious high-rise slum. Jordi was unaware of the stink of the permanent smog as he had lived in it all his life. It was equally normal to be stepping over beggars, and avoiding the painted harlots as he wandered through the narrow alleys of his barrio. He stopped to piss in the hellish toilet at the bottom of the stairs to the family’s room, then started reluctantly and slowly to clamber up the steep and filthy steps. Jordi was skilled at avoiding touching the sides of the narrow staircase, with its blackened and slimy walls, and sticky steps, as he trudged up.

  Sunday was the worst day to be at home, with all of his brothers and sisters crammed into the small room, although he was aware they were lucky not to have another family crowded in with them. Reaching the fifth floor, Jordi pushed against the half-open door, crept into the dim room, and looked around. Through the fog of cigarette smoke, he could hardly see his mother seated on the one bed, but she spotted him slinking around the door.

  “Where’s your father?” she said loudly. The brothers and sisters turned pale, tired faces to look at the boy, who seemed very small in this mass of teenage siblings.

  “Isn’t he here?” said Jordi.

  “Not seen him all day,” said his mother, and the brothers guffawed.

  “Drinking with that arse-hole Moles,” laughed one brother.

  “Didn’t see him coming home,” said Jordi, “but I know he was with Senor Moles.”

  “Senor?” laughed the other brother. “He’s not that posh. He’s a bit simple, is that Moles.”

  “Yes,” said one of the sisters, Carla, “Softy Moley: he doesn’t know when he’s being kidded. He’s like a child.”

  “Come here,” said his mother to Jordi. “Give us a cuddle.”

  “Make the most of it,” said the other sister, Dolors. “Pa’s taking you to the mill tomorrow. Next time you get a cuddle, it’ll be on your death bed.”

  The room settled into the smoky stillness of a Sunday evening, the brothers muttering quietly, and smoking constantly. The sisters were half asleep, and Jordi felt sleepy lying against his mother. The familiar noises of the barrio filtered constantly into the darkened room.

  Suddenly through the soporific stillness came the sound of coarse singing, the uneven footsteps, and wheezing and coughing of his father, coming up the stairs.

  “That’s your father,” said Mam, stating the obvious. “Drunk? I don’t know where he gets the money from to get drunk.”

  Senor Vilaro seemed to have done little to earn the endearment “Pa”, although that was what the brothers and sisters called him. To their mother, he was always “your father”, as if she had no relationship with him.

  “Swing the sickle, swing the sickle,” came the raucous voice of their father, panting and belching between fragments of the song. “Now is the moment – burp – swing the sickle.” He staggered into the room, and his skinny frame stood swaying in the centre. “Reap the golden corn – burp – cut free of the chains. Good old Moles, did some deal last night, and had some cash. Spent it very generous, very generous. Move over Mam, you can see I need to sit. And piss.”

  Jumping up quickly, and pushing Jordi out of the way, Mam made space for her drunken husband, and quickly grabbed the chamber pot from under the bed. Pa, clumsily unbuttoned his fly and pissed loud and long into the chamber pot. “Swing the fucking sickle!” he sang loudly as he shook the final drops, and then he fell back onto the bed, his walking stick crashing loudly, his trousers undone and his feet still on the floor. Almost immediately he started to snore.

  There was a moment of silence in the room. The family were resigned to their father’s behaviour, which was normal and regular, and resumed their Sunday snoozing. “One of you’s got to take the piss pot down stairs,” said Mam.

  “Give us a dog,” said Carla, meaning a ten centimes coin, “and we’ll take it, and stay out to get some fresh air. We might walk down the Ramblas. Hey, Jordi, want to come? Get away from this stinking hole?

  “Go on,” said his mother. “You don’t get an offer like that very often. Bring back some fried potatoes if you see them. Here’s a fat dog, I want the change back; and don’t be late. Everyone, even my baby, has to go to work in the morning.”

  Once down the stairs, the chamber pot emptied and hidden to be taken up when they returned, one of the girls grabbed Jordi by the hand, and with the other sister hurrying to keep up, led the way as quickly as she could through the foetid alleyways, towards the Ramblas.

  Out into the middle of the road, Jordi took up his position between Carla and Dolors. They linked arms, and marched down the paved boulevard. “D’you know that song Pa was singing?” Carla asked Jordi.

  “Most of it,” replied Jordi. “I heard it this afternoon, sung properly and very grandly, at the Palau.”

&nbs
p; “You didn’t get in there, did you?” said Dolors.

  “No, of course I didn’t get in; but I heard it from outside. There’s a great organ, and a great big choir, and they sang it so loud, you could hear it in the lane outside. It was brilliant, you should have come with me.”

  “It was pretty amazing that Pa went with you. He really hates those fat middle class bosses. He was only being a bit soft, because he knows what’s going to happen to you tomorrow.” Carla laughed gently. “You don’t see him soft like that very often: and tomorrow, he’ll have a hang-over as well, so be real careful what you say and do.”

  “We’ll all have to be careful,” said Dolors. “Just don’t get in his way, and keep close beside him. He’ll want his mates to see he’s got a good boy, and he’ll want to show you off. And just agree with everything he says.”

  “Senor Moles came to see the posh people at the Palau this afternoon,” said Jordi. “He said he wanted to see the flag, the Catalan flag, fly from the top tower.” Jordi paused. “Is Senor Moles really soft in the head?”

  “Yes, he is a bit,” said one of the sisters.

  “He don’t really understand what they’re talking about,” said the other. “He listens, and he joined the union like they told him, then he goes to watch the bosses, like you did, this afternoon.”

  “I heard Pa say he’d like to throw a bomb into the Palau,” said Jordi.

  “Christ Almighty, by Our Lady, don’t say such things!” exclaimed Dolors. “Pa will get into lots of trouble if anyone hears him say that sort of thing. And so will you if you repeat it.”

  “Moles told him to be quiet,” said Jordi.

  “For once, Senor Moles got something right,” laughed Carla. “Now we must turn back and get the potatoes for Mam.”

  They’d reached the docks, which in the February darkness had a kind of quiet glow, the kind of stillness known only on a Sunday in that part of the city. Tomorrow all would be activity and noise, but for this one day in the week, the place was quiet.