Barcelona Sunset Page 2

  “Busy tonight?” asked a prostitute lounging against a bale of cotton.

  “Not us,” said Carla. “We’re not your kind.”

  “Suit yourselves,” said the prostitute, with a friendly smile. “I bet I sleep in a better bed than you tonight.”

  Back at the tenement, they retrieved the chamber pot from its hiding place. One sister held the bag of hot fried potato, the other clung to the tin pot of hot sauce, and Jordi carried the chamber. They plodded up the stairs, getting slower at each landing, and finally arrived in the grubby room they called home. Pa was now on the bed properly, with his shoes removed, and was snoring loudly. The fried potatoes and the spicy sauce were shared and then the family organised the room for sleeping, Mam on the edge of the bed beside Pa, the brothers and sisters on chairs, and Jordi on the floor.

  It was still dark when the factory hooter wakened them the next morning. Pa pushed Mam out of bed, then struggled up himself. Stumbling around the dark room, he kicked various members of the family awake, then shouted to Mam, “Where’s the chamber, Mam?”

  Jordi had been used to keeping well clear of the family in these early dark mornings, but this morning was different. He stood sleepily, and stretched. The floor was hard, but since he’d never slept anywhere else, he slept well most nights. This night had been different however: he’d woken several times dreaming of the dreaded walk to the mill. The time had now arrived for the nightmare to become reality. Tucking a small bread roll into his pocket, his Mam whispered, “Be a good boy. I’ll be here when you get back tonight.”

  “Let’s be having you,” said his father, and then Jordi found himself clattering down the stairs close behind his father, with the rest of the brothers and sisters in close pursuit.

  “Wait, Pa, wait,” he shouted as he dived into the stinking toilet at the bottom of the stairs, but Pa just marched ahead.

  Jordi knew well where he was going, so he ran, dodging between the legs of other mill workers, and, just before the mill doors, caught up with his father.

  Pa dragged him into the tiny office just inside the door. “Here he is,” was all he said. He poked Jordi into the room with his stick, and turned abruptly on his heel and vanished into the crowd of workers. Jordi stood and looked timidly around the dimly-lit room.

  “Vilaro’s boy?” came a gruff voice from behind a tall desk. “Come round here, let’s be seeing you.” Jordi walked timidly round the tall desk, to be confronted by a strange little fat man sitting high above him on a tall stool, peering at him through pebble glasses. “Aye, you look like him, like all the Vilaro’s. Come closer, boy.” Jordi took a small step forward. “No, boy, closer.” Jordi stepped forward more boldly, and the fat dwarf leaned down and grasped him by his chin with a calloused hand. “Very pretty,” he said in his hoarse voice. “You’ll do.” The dwarf looked at Jordi through his thick lenses, his eyes magnified wetly.

  Jordi stood trembling a little, staring at the strange man with his huge eyes. “Thank you, sir” he said quietly.

  The dwarf burst out into cackling laughter. “Thank you sir! Thank you sir!” he laughed mocking Jordi’s innocence, then suddenly was silent and serious. “Ferrer!” he shouted suddenly, “Ferrer! Where’s that dratted man? He’d better not be late again.”

  Jordi jumped as a thin bony hand clamped onto his shoulder. “I ain’t late, Senor Bertoli. You know I’m never late. Who’s this pretty boy you’ve got?”

  Jordi turned to see a tall thin man, as singularly a contrast from Senor Bertoli as could be possible. Where Bertoli had rolls of fat, Senor Ferrer had filthy clothes hanging loosely; where Bertoli needed a tall stool to reach the desk, Ferrer towered over all in the room, his long face with its permanent gloomy expression, lingering like a moon, far above Jordi’s frightened visage.

  “He’s a Vilaro,” said Senor Bertoli. “You can see he looks just like the rest of the family, just a bit cleaner.” Bertoli cackled again at his own joke.

  “Is he to be the new trolley boy?” asked Ferrer.

  “He certainly is.” replied Bertoli. “A nice replacement for that daft kid who fell under the knacker’s cart last week.”

  “Died nice and quick,” sneered Ferrer. “I’ll take young Vilaro here and give him to Senor Tomas. He’ll look after him. Come on, boy.”

  Ferrer walked his long-legged gait towards the door, and Jordi followed quickly, afraid that this tall man would stride away and he’d lose him.

  “Have a lovely day, young Vilaro,” said the dwarf. “Come and tell me how it was before you go home.”

  Ferrer led Jordi into a long narrow lane. Tall mill buildings on either side hummed loudly, and in the canyon-like yard it seemed the walls would collapse inwards with the vibrations of the machines. Narrow walkways spanned the canyon at higher levels. Although it was now dawn, little lighted filtered down to the ground. “Spinning on the left; weaving on the right. Couldn’t be simpler. You’re a trolley boy now. You start in the spinning shed, load your trolley, push it to the weaving shed. There’s one other trolley boy on the top floor called Tomas. He’ll show you what to do.” Turning to a door on his left, Ferrer said, “Come in here, boy.”

  Jordi stepped forward and walked directly into a wall of noise. For a moment it took his breath away, and he stood horrified at the deafening sound of the spinning shed. Ferrer, not noticing that Jordi had stopped, was already heading up a steep staircase, his long legs taking the stone steps two at a time. Pausing at the first landing, he turned and shouted at Jordi, but with the din of the machines, Jordi heard nothing of what he said. He realised he’d better run, so quickly caught up with Senor Ferrer.

  Panting behind the skinny man, Jordi reached the fourth, and top, floor of the mill. Pushing quickly through a swing door, the wall of noise hit even harder. He hesitated as the door swung together behind him. Ferrer turned and grabbed him by the wrist. Leaning close to his ear, Ferrer spoke slowly and loudly.

  “You’ll work on this floor. That’s Tomas, over there. Follow him, do what he does. And God have mercy upon you.”

  Abruptly, Ferrer was gone, disappearing down the stairs, the door swinging emptily behind him. Jordi remained rooted to the spot, petrified at the prospect before him. Tomas was moving along the line of spinning machines, lifting large spools of thread from the machines onto a heavy metal trolley. Another boy followed Tomas with another trolley, slipping new cones onto the machines and attaching the loose threads. Everything was done mechanically and efficiently, as if they’d done it for years – which in Tomas’s case, he had.

  Jordi crept forward, as Tomas looked up, noticing him for the first time. Unexpectedly in this hellish maelstrom of noise and machines, Tomas’s face broke into a wide grin, and his bright eyes lit up. He beckoned Jordi towards him, and shouted, “Come on, boy, I’ll see you right.” Jordi was unable to hear what the older boy said, but reassured by his smile and welcome, he walked forward to the trolley.

  “Tomas,” shouted Tomas, when Jordi was close enough to hear.

  “Jordi,” shouted Jordi.

  “Hold tight!” shouted Tomas, putting Jordi’s hands onto the end of the trolley.

  Through this exchange, to Jordi’s amazement, Tomas had never stopped lifting the spools from the mechanism, nor ceased his slow progress along the ends of the clattering machines. The other boy, similarly, had continued the slow progress behind Tomas loading the new cones for the spools.

  As they reached the end of the line of spinning machines, Tomas pushed the trolley through the swing door at the top of the stairs. For a moment Jordi thought the older boy was going to push the trolley down the stairs, but then saw another door, which he’d not noticed in the rush behind Senor Ferrer. Tomas used the trolley itself to push hard against this new heavier door, and suddenly Jordi found himself pushing the trolley out onto a walkway high above the lane below. After the gloom of the spinning shed, the walkway seemed bright: at this higher level the factory was actually penetrated by the sun.

&nbs
p; As the door slammed behind them, there was a sudden pause in the deafening noise and the two boys could talk.

  “I knew someone was coming this morning,” said Tomas. “I’ve been on my own for a week. The last boy to help was killed under a cart a week ago. Probably just fell asleep and rolled into the lane. Not the first time. Did you say you’re Jordi?”

  Jordi nodded, but before he could reply, they had crossed the high-level walkway, and were pushing through another door into another racket of machines. This was the weaving shed, with bigger machines, more noise, and even more workers. Once more, Jordi felt the noise as if it was a physical force he had to battle through.

  Tomas turned the trolley and parked it. Another boy, taller and bigger, immediately took the trolley of full spools. Tomas turned to an empty trolley, and beckoning Jordi, pushed it back out onto the aerial walkway.

  “Yes, I’m Jordi. I’m new.”

  “I know you’re new – it’s written all over your face. And somehow I know your face. Why do you look as if I know you?” replied Tomas.

  “My pa works here, and my brothers and sisters. They say we look alike. My Pa’s called Vilaro.”

  “Vilaro!” exclaimed Tomas, pausing on the walkway. “You’re one of his kids? Blimey, you’re a lucky bugger!”

  Jordi stared at Tomas, unable to understand what he meant, but the older boy had resumed pushing the trolley and once more they were in the din of the spinning shed, and unable to talk.

  Tomas took Jordi and the empty trolley to the far end of the buzzing machines and started collecting full spools. Jordi pushed the trolley, watching how Tomas deftly lifted the spools, and snapped the thread, leaving it hanging for the following boy to wrap around the new cone. At the end of the line, Tomas signalled for Jordi to push the trolley out onto the walkway and into the weaving shed. Suddenly Jordi was on his own, hefting the full weight of the loaded trolley across the bridge and into the weaving shed. He exchanged the loaded trolley for an empty one and returned to Tomas who was waiting at the door of the spinning shed.

  The day continued its monotonous grind. Jordi learned the job quickly, and worked well with Tomas. A sudden shrill hooter sounded, bringing the machines to a shuddering halt. An odd quietness reigned in the mill.

  “Come on,” said Tomas. “We’ve only got quarter of an hour.”

  Jordi followed the older boy out onto the bridge, and the two sat with their legs hanging over the mill lane far below. Tomas produced a bread roll and started munching. Jordi copied him and for a while they sat in companionable silence.

  “Vilaro, eh?” said Tomas after a while, as he finished the bread. “You’re one of his boys?”

  “The youngest,” replied Jordi. “All my brothers and sisters work here. I’m the last.” Jordi paused, and then went on, “What did you mean, I was lucky? I don’t think I am.”

  “Son of Senor Vilaro? Course you’re lucky,” said Tomas. “Got you this job, didn’t he? Didn’t have to start like most of us. I was a dust boy for two years, two bloody long years, before I got the trolley job. Lots of boys start as dust boys, and lots of them die. Crawling under the machines, breathing the thick dust, chokes some of them to death. Then some get caught up in the machines and get mangled. The ones who choke die quietly, just lay there in all the filth, and the dust floats down upon them, but the ones in the machines … you wait until it happens … makes your blood run cold.”

  “You did it for two years?”

  “Yes,” said Tomas. “Two years in hell. Don’t know how I survived.” He paused again, looking at the workers walking through the lane below. “Look like ants, don’t they?” Turning to Jordi, he said, “How old are you?”

  “Eight,” said Jordi. “Nearly nine.”

  “You are bloody lucky. I was eight when I started on the trolleys, but I was six when I came in as a dust boy. I was tiny then, good for crawling under the machines.”

  “Do they stop the machines when you crawl under them?” asked Jordi.

  Tomas laughed. “Christ, you’re green aren’t you? Course they don’t stop the machines. Just look when we go back in. There’s a couple of miserable little buggers under there all the time.”

  “You’re older than me, aren’t you?” asked Jordi.

  “Yes, much. I’m all of eleven years old.”

  “So you’ve been here…”

  “Five years.” Tomas completed the sentence.

  “You still didn’t say why I’m lucky to be a Vilaro,” said Jordi.

  “You dad’s a hero here,” said Tomas. “Got us this snack break for one thing. Got a tap put in so we could get a drink of water. Done a lot for us.”

  “He never talks about it at home,” said Jordi.

  “Quiet ones often do the most,” said Tomas. “Your Pa, he’s good for us all here. He, what do you call it, represents us. Makes life a little less of hell.”

  The steam hooter sounded, and Tomas jumped up quickly.

  “Come quick,” he said. “Get a mouthful from the tap as we go by. We have to be quick, the machines don’t wait, and if we’re not there, there’s all hell to pay.”

  Jordi hurried behind the taller boy, and gulped mouthfuls of strange-tasting water from the standpipe in the corner of the spinning shed. Several other boys jostled for a chance to drink, just as the machines roared into life again. Rushing to grab the half-full trolley they’d abandoned at the beginning of the break, Jordi ducked down to peer under the nearest machine. Sure enough, just as Tomas had said, a small boy was crawling through the thick air, breathing the dust as he swept the fluff from the floor under the spinning machine. Jordi was horrified at the sight, but the tiny creature simply stared at him with dead eyes, and crawled away, sweeping as he went.

  Tomas grabbed Jordi, and thrust him towards the trolley. “No time to feel sorry,” he said. “Just thank your lucky stars, that’s not you.”

  The afternoon continued. Jordi began to get used to the continuous deafening noise, and quickly learned how to do the monotonous task. Little skill was needed, as the boys were no more than slaves of the machines. It had been dark when Jordi had arrived at the factory all those hours ago, and darkness was falling when he pushed the last few trolleys over the bridge. He’d reached a stage when the monotony and boredom had been replaced by a deep aching tiredness, and a strange buzzing in his ears, and he stumbled sleepily, pushing each trolley across the walkway. The cooler fresher air on the bridge wakened him each time with a jolt, and he went on pushing. Once on the bridge, he paused, and with a clearer head, said to himself, “This is my first day, and it’s killing me. Tomas says I’m lucky? Oh Mammy, where’s your baby now?” And he went on pushing.

  It was quite dark before the steam hooter sounded the end of the day, and on hearing it, Jordi sank down to the floor, ready to sleep where he lay. Tomas dragged him up, and half pushed and half pulled him to the stairs. The older workers who controlled the machines, the filthy dust boys who had crawled under them, the older wiser mechanics with their oil cans and greasy rags, who kept them running, all crowded down the stairs, joined at each landing by other exhausted workers. Jordi clung to the thin iron handrail as Tomas pushed him down.

  They joined the throng in the lane and shuffled towards the gate. Suddenly a voice shouted at Jordi. “Hey, Vilaro’s boy! Had a nice day, boy?” It was Senor Bertoli, standing at his office door. Jordi was shocked to see that the fat dwarf, having climbed down from his high stool, was no taller than he was himself. Senor Ferrer stood behind the dwarf, the tall skinny man’s wide belt around his thin waist, on a level with Senor Bertoli’s bald head. “How was it up on the top floor, boy? Nice to start at the top! Did you have a nice time, boy?”

  Several other workers around them, laughed at this exchange, and Jordi, unable to think of a suitable reply, simply said, “Thank you, sir” which caused renewed laughter.

  “He’s not as important as he thinks he is,” said Tomas. “Take no notice. Come, let’s get out of here.”


  Finally they were through the gate into the teeming streets of the Raval, but Jordi thought he could walk no further. He slumped down into the gutter. Rough hands picked him up, and his father threw him over his shoulder.

  “Pa!” said Jordi.

  “Evening Senor Vilaro,” said Tomas.

  Without a word, Senor Vilaro marched away with his son. Jordi fell into a deep sleep.

  His father was a complicated and unusual man. Outwardly rough and prone to drunkenness, his inner self was compassionate and caring of others. Ever since the milk-cart had run over his foot as a teenager, leaving him with a permanent limp, he’d had these two contrasting sides to his temperament. Although he believed in being authoritarian at home, in order to maintain discipline in his family, it was not out of character that he had been waiting for his youngest son at the factory gate, aware that his first day at the mill would have exhausted him. Jordi remained asleep over his father’s shoulder, as Senor Vilaro trudged through the dark alleys of the Raval. The over-crowded tenement blocks, no better than high-rise slums, towered above them on all sides.

  Tens of thousands of workers, many of them migrants from other parts of Spain, lived in the permanent smog of the vertical shanty town. Rarely would Vilaro pass a building where there had not been a recent death, as typhoid and cholera were widespread throughout the barrio. He considered himself lucky that he had reached a mature age in a barrio where the average life expectancy was around thirty years, and although their room was far too small for the family, he knew he was equally lucky to have a home for his family, which they did not have to share with others.

  Stepping over the usual homeless beggars, they reached the bottom of the greasy stairs to their apartment. Jordi hardly stirred as his father hefted him up the steep stairs, his feet knocking against the grimy walls as they progressed.

  “Here he is Mam,” announced Pa Vilaro as he pushed into the smoky room, and dropped Jordi onto the bed. Jordi stirred, awoken by the smell of fried potatoes.

  “Your sisters bought some in on their way home from work,” said Mam. “There’s not a lot, but you must eat.”