Barcelona Sunset Read online

  In the Spring of 1918 it seemed as if the European war would drag on and on until every able man in Germany and Britain was dead. Jordi had no idea how many uniforms his department had sent north, but he knew it was hundreds of thousands. Every time he nailed a box lid down and stencilled a country name on it, he shuddered to think of how much of the contents would be clothing men for their deaths, boxes of shrouds, to be left in the mud of Flanders.

  It was just after Easter that Senor Vilaro arrived at the music shop to find Bonaventura in a state of considerable anxiety. “Oh my dear comrade, whatever is the matter?” asked Vilaro.

  “Don’t call me ‘comrade’,” said Bonaventura. “I can’t be called comrade any more, as I’ve joined the ranks of the land-owners. I’ve betrayed all my worker brothers!”

  “You are talking in riddles,” said Vilaro. “What has happened?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ve never told you how this music shop business works, have I? I never expected things to come out like this.”

  “Let us go into our familiar back room, and you can tell me the whole story.”

  Leading the way to the little dusty room, and leaving the boy to mind the shop, Vilaro took his friend and sat him in the old worn stuffed chair. He waited for Bonaventura to regain some composure, then urged him to explain.

  “Many years ago, when I was child, I lived with my mother and father in a small room in the Barri Gotic. I can vaguely remember that we were happy. My father was a street musician, played the violin. He used to stand on the Ramblas, playing in all weathers outside this very shop. One day my mother became ill and died. I think they said it was diphtheria, I’m not sure, but she died. I was still quite small.

  “After that, my father took me to sit on the pavement when he was playing. I had a tin cup and people dropped coins into it. After my mother died, I remember that his playing became even sweeter, and tragic, as if he was playing to her in heaven. We made good money some days, with a skinny little boy with big eyes, holding a tin cup, and my father’s sentimental music.

  “One day, the owner of the shop, Senor Rosa, came out to talk to my father. He told him he needed a boy to help in the shop. He’d watched me sitting there, day after day, and decided he’d try me to be a shop boy. I’d still be close to my father, but would learn a trade, as it were, of working in a shop.

  “This was a wonderful offer for my father, and he readily agreed. I think I was about seven years old at the time. I learned to sweep the shop, and tidy the sheet music, and I suppose I was an ideal shop boy. Senor Rosa and his wife took a liking to me, and as they had no children of their own, I didn’t know why, they started to treat me as their own boy. Senor Rosa taught me to read, and explained many of the mysteries of music.

  “Each day I would come with my father, and whilst he played in the street, I would work in the shop. At the end of the day Senora Rosa would give me and my father some supper before we went home. After a while, as I got a little older, Senor Rosa asked for me to sleep at the shop, so that I could sweep up and open earlier in the morning. My father again agreed, and I started sleeping in that little alcove under the stairs. You know, you’ve walked past it every time you’ve come to the shop.”

  “I know,” smiled Vilaro. “Go on.”

  “I’m not boring you, am I?” asked Bonaventura.

  “Of course not, my dear friend. Go on.”

  “Each day I’d open the shop, and when my father arrived to play in the street, I’d take him a small cup of coffee. We had a very happy time for a while. And then one day, he didn’t come. I worried all morning, and in the siesta, when the shop closed for a while, Senora Rosa came with me to the humble room where my father lived. We found him in bed, and close to death. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I’ve not long left in this world. Senora Rosa, thank you for all you have done for me and my boy. Take my boy. I know you will care for him. And take my violin, and keep it safe. It has been my constant friend and companion.” That was the last thing my father said, and I never saw him again after that.”

  Bonaventura stopped and stood, reaching for an old violin case on a high shelf. The dust from it added to the already dense air in the room. Wiping the case with his sleeve, Bonaventura opened it and took out a rather battered violin. He stroked it delicately.

  “This is it.”

  Vilaro touched the violin, and then looked his friend in the eye. “Can you play it?”

  “No,” said Bonaventura. “It has never been played since my father played it in the street.”

  Senor Vilaro smiled, “Go on with your story.”

  Bonaventura put the violin away carefully, then turned to Vilaro. “The years passed and I took over more and more of the running of the shop. Senor Rosa and his wife lived on the first floor above the shop, and I had an attic room to myself on the floor above that.

  “Senor Rosa died before the war. He was about sixty-five years old. I’d been doing most of the work, and with him gone, I took over the whole business. Senora Rosa lived on after her husband died, and was happy to leave everything to me. At first, I did her shopping in the Boqueria, and once a day carried a small bucket of coal up for her. She lived very quietly, in the little flat upstairs: you’d hardly know she was there. She rarely went out, and when I took on a boy for the shop, he did her shopping for her, and carried up the coal.

  “She died last week. The boy had left her shopping and the coal bucket on the landing as usual, and at the end of the day went up to see if she needed anything. The groceries and coal were still there and when he knocked, she didn’t open her door. I went to see what was wrong, and she was sitting in her Sunday best clothes in her best chair, a slight smile on her face, and quite dead. The boy was very shocked, but I felt a kind of serenity. The old lady had lived for seventy years, and was ready to go. Few of us can hope for such a peaceful death.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Vilaro. “No wonder you’re upset.” He looked at his friend, and said, “Tell me the rest of the story.”

  “It’s simple. Senor Rosa’s will left the whole business to me. I hadn’t thought about it whilst the senora was alive, but now she’s gone, the reality has hit me. I own this shop, this whole building, everything. I, who have been the champion of the workers, suddenly I am a land-owner. Oh Vilaro, I’m a traitor to the cause.”

  Vilaro smiled. His friend was right, in a way, but good fortune had smiled upon him, and he needed to accept his luck. Come the revolution, things would be different, but for now, Bonaventura should be calm. “You’re upset at the death of Senora Rosa,” he said, “and you never told me about Senor Rosa when he died. You’ve kept that grief hidden. When I lost my boys, I reacted with anger; but in a way, you’ve lost your parents, and you’re trying to hide your feelings.”

  Looking around the tawdry room, he continued, “All this is your’s, eh? It’s only a very small castle, and I am sure you worked hard for Senor Rosa for many years. We’ve often spoken of how workers should get their rewards. This is your’s.”

  Vilaro continued to speak gently to Bonaventura, until at last his friend was calmer. Then, with a wry laugh, he said, “So … show me this great estate you’ve inherited.”

  Bonaventura led him past the little curtained alcove under the stairs, and up the steep winding staircase itself. On the first landing was a closed door. Bonaventura turned to Vilaro: “This was Senor Rosa’s apartment. I’ve not changed a thing, nor been in here since they carried Senora Rosa away.”

  Heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, making the rooms dark and airless. Opening from the tiny landing were three small rooms, two above the shop itself, and one over the backroom where they had held so many meetings. Bonaventura led Vilaro into the first of the three rooms, and with a sudden snap, switched on a dim electric light bulb, hanging in a fringed shade. It was a parlour, filled with heavy dark furniture, with every surface covered with a fringed chenille cloth. It was as if they were stepping back into the 1870’s, which indeed
they were, as this was the time when Senora Rosa had created the small apartment for herself and her husband. It was a formal room, presumably little used, with a green velvet stuffed chair, an ornate chaise longue, a thin Turkish rug, and even a piano with brass candlesticks. A small black fireplace contained faded paper flowers, and a black slate clock ticked loudly on the mantelpiece. Vilaro nearly tripped over a black bear’s head, part of a thick black rug in the centre of the floor. “Senor Rosa used to meet with me in this room,” said Bonaventura. “I never went into the other rooms. This is where I found Senora Rosa, sitting in that velvet chair.”

  Avoiding the velvet chair, and squeezing between the piano stool and the ornate octagonal table in the centre of the room, Vilaro pulled back the curtain, and found himself looking down onto the Ramblas itself. He imagined Bonaventura’s father standing below, playing plaintive melodies on his violin. Turning back into the gloomy room, he looked at his friend.

  “What am I to do?” Bonaventura said sadly, as if he had never faced a decision like this before, and was too anxious to know how to continue.

  “Show me the rest,” said Vilaro.

  “I’ve not been into the other rooms since Senor Rosa died in his bed. That was some years ago,” explained Bonaventura. “I told you how the boy would leave shopping and the coal bucket on the landing. Neither of us went into the rooms.”

  Picking up the coal bucket and opening the door, Bonaventura clicked another switch, and the room was faintly lit by a naked bulb. The men were in a living room with another stuffed chair, a table and chairs for meals, an old sink with a tap, and a large kitchen range, now grown cold. A tall cabinet contained an assortment of china and a black kettle sat on the range. They placed the full coal bucket on the floor in front of it. Again, Vilaro squeezed between the furniture, pulled back the curtain, and saw a similar view of the Ramblas. They looked around the room, and Bonaventura shook his head.

  Without speaking the pair went into the third room, the same size as the shop’s backroom below it. The bed was neatly made, and shoe-horned into the little room was a chest of drawers and a large dark-wood wardrobe. A washbowl and ewer stood on the chest. Vilaro spoke quietly, “It was as if she was preparing to die. She put everything tidy, even made the bed, put on her best clothes, and then went to sit in the parlour to die. Somehow it all seems peaceful. She knew she was going to see her husband, she got herself ready for meeting him, and then she died. Yes, it all seems very peaceful.”

  The two men stood in silence, unaware of the bustle and noise from the Ramblas, and at length Vilaro said, “Let’s go back downstairs.”

  The boy was sent out for beer, and the friends sat in the rapidly darkening backroom, momentarily lost in thought. At last Vilaro spoke.

  “Do you want my opinion?”

  Bonaventura nodded.

  “You must accept Senor Rosa’s generosity. You say you live in the attic? Move down into the flat. I dare say it’s more comfortable than your quarters.”

  Bonaventura looked into the eyes of his friend. He paused and sighed, then said, “No. I have been thinking whilst we were looking at poor Senora Rosa’s apartment. There is a better use for it. I can remain where I am at the top – I’m comfortable there. But you and your family can have the apartment. You’ve lived long enough in that shack on Monjuic. It can’t be long before they come to demolish it. You’ve lived with a dirt floor for long enough.”

  “Never!” exclaimed Vilaro. “I can’t pay the rent for such an apartment, and anyway, it wouldn’t seem right.”

  “Think about it,” smiled Bonaventura. “You told me only a few days ago that your wife has had enough of the squalor. Can you really go home and tell her you’ve rejected a fine apartment on the Ramblas? Three fine rooms, all fully furnished?”

  “But the rent?” asked Vilaro.

  “Nothing,” replied Bonaventura, warming to his idea. “If I take rent from you, I really am joining the ranks of the capitalists. But if you come here, and we call the apartment, the ‘offices of the NCL’, I will start to feel better about being a property owner. Tomorrow you will bring Senora Vilaro, and we will show her the apartment. If she doesn’t like it, I’ll eat my hat!”

  When Mam came out from the baker’s shop the next afternoon, she was surprised to find her husband waiting for her. “I’m taking you to see something,” he announced mysteriously, “but if you don’t like it, it’s OK, you just say so.”

  Puzzled, Senora Vilaro was led by her husband through the Raval, past their old slum, and out onto the Ramblas. They turned west, passing the market, and soon were standing in front of Bonaventura’s shop.

  “You see the name of the shop ‘Rosa Music’?” said Vilaro. “Senor Rosa died before the war, and sadly his wife joined him a few days ago. It seems she died very peacefully.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Mam. “So has Senor Bonaventura lost his employment?”

  “On the contrary, Senor Rosa left the whole business to him in his will. Our good friend is now the owner of this business and with it, the whole building.”

  Taking his wife through the shop, and nodding to the boy, he led the way up the stairs. Bonaventura was waiting for them in the Rosa parlour.

  “What do you think?” said Bonaventura.

  “What do I think?” Mam was puzzled. “I’m sorry to hear of Senora Rosa’s death. I’m glad to hear of your good fortune. But there’s a conspiracy going on here, isn’t there? What do I think?”

  The men grinned. “If you like it, it’s your’s,” said Bonaventura.

  Mam was speechless for a moment, then burst out laughing. “I’m sorry to laugh in a house which has so recently seen death,” she said, “But I thought you said if I like it …”

  “It’s our’s. Yes,” smiled her husband, “Senor Bonaventura is offering this apartment to us. Also, this will be the offices of the confederation. Let me show you the other two rooms.”

  With some considerable difficulty, they moved the piano out, via the window, and offered it for sale in the shop. They sold Senora Rosa’s velvet chair in the flea market, but kept the chaise longue. They brought in a desk as a start for a proper office, and agreed that Jordi and Tomas would sleep in the former parlour at night. Jordi tried to sleep on the chaise, but after eighteen years on the floor, he couldn’t sleep “On that funny soft thing!” Tomas, however, liked it.

  Mam and Pa insisted that Grandmother should have the small bedroom for herself, once they had cleared out the Rosa clothes. They sold almost everything at the old clothes market outside Sant Antoni, and after much arguing against it, Grandmother accepted her new room. Mam and Pa made themselves comfortable in the living room, and Mam quickly got the old kitchen range working, with an enormous and seemingly permanent pot of soup bubbling on the hob.

  When the news came that the ‘Great War To End All Wars’ was finally over, it was greeted at first with enthusiasm by ordinary workers, but with alarm by the industrialists of the city. Where would their future riches come from? Suddenly there was massive over-production, and the vast uniform factory closed down most of its production. Jordi and Alvar, who had worked in the despatch department since it started, were kept on, but most of the others, and a huge number of machinists, were made redundant.

  The laying-off of so many workers gave the NCL a great deal of work to do, and Rosa’s old parlour was no longer a token office, but a busy and important part of the NCL organisation. At times, Bonaventura and Vilaro were joined there by Salvador Segui, who insisted on being called ‘Comrade Salvador’. It was well known that his skills of organisation, and his clarity of vision, would carry the confederation forward and as general secretary of the NCL, he would regularly visit the office above the music shop.

  Bonaventura and Vilaro had both met Segui on many occasions, including at the launch of the NCL on the stage of the Palau de la Musica. Comrade Salvador was a lively and entertaining man of the people. His trade was that of painter and decorator, but he was better kno
wn for his skills of oratory. Mam would come home at the end of her day’s work at the bakery, and find herself in much demand to supply cakes and coffee to the smoke-filled office. She discovered that Salvador had a strange habit of eating the sugar cubes before drinking his coffee, rather than stirring them in. This had earned him the affectionate nickname ‘Noi del Sucre’.

  Jordi and Tomas, now strapping young men, and passionately devoted to the cause, would arrive from work, and throw themselves into the noisy and emotional discussions about the Russian Revolution, trade unions, and the latent anarchism which so many of them embraced. Tomas would argue in favour of violence, whilst Jordi would take the pacifist point of view.

  Later in the evening, Mam would make the men a simple supper of tomatoes and onions, with big bowls of country soup, also mainly tomatoes and onions, washed down with local red wine. She would stand, one hand on her waist, the other holding a bottle of wine, and join in the arguments. She was pleased that being a woman did not preclude her from the discussion, or the decisions being made, although she was still cook and bottle-washer!

  With the Great War and the Russian revolution behind them, there was an atmosphere of upheaval across Europe, and no-where as strong as in Catalonia. One winter’s evening, February 1919, long after dark, the boy came up from the shop, and nervously knocked on the office door.

  “There’s a man wants see you,” he said. “Says his name is Ferrer.”

  Vilaro turned anxiously. “Is he a very tall, thin man?” he asked.

  “Certainly, sir, I mean comrade, very tall and very skinny.”

  “I’ll go down,” said Vilaro. “I wonder what he wants?”

  The others in the room went quiet, and could hear murmurings from the shop below. Then Vilaro put his head around the door. “I think we must hear what he has to say. It’s a risk, but we must trust him. I’ve known for many years that he is sympathetic to the workers, even if he has worked for the bosses.”