Barcelona Sunset Page 4

  “Perhaps Tomas’s grandmother can read,” suggested Jordi. “Let’s take this paper to her and see if she can.”

  They sat a while longer, then Vilaro took his son to a dockside bar where they ate tiny fried fishes and drank a pot of beer.

  It was twilight when they walked home, and on the way Vilaro told his son that things would change. One day, they would change. One day things would be better. All they had to do was work out how to do it.

  When Jordi asked Tomas about his grandmother, Tomas was unsure how well the old lady could actually read. She’d been in service to a wealthy family many years ago and had picked up the rudiments from the butler, but wasn’t very skilled with “the reading”. Tomas reported back that she didn’t think she could cope with reading the federation flyer, but she’d made a very helpful suggestion. She’d told Tomas, “Up on the Ramblas, further up from the market, is a music shop. Its many years since I was there, but I remember the young man who worked there. He was very clever, knowledgeable about many things, and he could read. What’s more, he was, how do you say it, sympathetic to working people, some even called him an anarchist. If this paper is what I think it is, he’ll read it to you, and what’s more, I guess, he’ll know more about it than you expect. I’m sure he will remember me.” And the old lady had chuckled at the memory.

  Delighted by this unexpected information, Senor Vilaro gave Tomas a couple of coins, “to buy your grandmother some extra chipirones next Sunday!”

  A few days later, as soon as they were released from the mill, Senor Vilaro together with both Jordi and Tomas, went to look for the music shop. They found it, as described, just up the road from the Boqueria market. They entered the dark, dusty shop and Senor Vilaro hesitated. This was very unfamiliar territory for him, but Tomas stepped forward and spoke boldly to the middle-aged man at the counter. “Are you Senor Bonaventura?”

  The man paused for a moment, and then replied in a quiet voice, “Perhaps I am. Who wants to know?”

  “My grandmother wants to be remembered to you,” said Tomas. “She’s Senora Tomas i Abello. I am her grandson, also called Tomas.”

  “Senora Tomas,” said the man, his eyes lighting up. “Senora Adabelle Tomas. It’s a long time since I heard that name. How is your grandmother? Still as beautiful as ever, I’ll wager.”

  “Still alive, but getting older now,” replied Tomas, smiling.

  “And you have grown into a very handsome young grandson for her,” said Bonaventura. “Please tell me who your companions are.”

  “This is Senor Vilaro, and his son Jordi. They are very good friends of mine. We all work together in the same factory in the Raval.”

  Leaning forward with his calloused worker’s hand outstretched, Vilaro shook Bonaventura’s smoother hand firmly. “It’s good to meet, Senor Bonaventure. We are seeking someone to read a paper to us, as none of us can read. Tomas’s grandmother thought you would be the right person to read it to us, and to talk about its contents.” Fishing in his pocket, Vilaro handed the folded page to Bonaventura. The older man glanced at it quickly, then rapidly re-folded it.

  “Come into the back room, gentlemen,” he said. “We need to talk in private.”

  Calling to his shop boy to mind the shop and not let anyone into the parlour, Bonaventura led them through to an even smaller and darker room. Just like the shop, the walls were filled with shelves of music manuscript. Dust motes hung in the air, reminding Jordi of the atmosphere at the factory. Judging by the layers of dust, many of the papers had not been touched for years, and an odd dry smell of old paper, almost like an ancient library, filled the room. Although it was early evening, still warm and sunny outside, little light filtered into the parlour. “Please be seated,” said Bonaventura, “although that means for the boys, you must be seated on the floor.”

  Moving a pile of papers from a dilapidated, once-stuffed armchair, he indicated to Vilaro to sit, and turning a dining chair from a tiny desk, he sat down himself.

  “What do you know about this paper?” he asked.

  “It’s about workers getting organised,” replied Vilaro. “We hope it tells us how to get together to improve conditions at our factory. Tomas, here, started when he was only six, and I’ve been able to keep my boy Jordi at home until he was nearly nine, but now he’s at the factory. They’re both trolley boys. There are many jobs which are much worse, jobs which so easily kill the young kids doing them. I’m a loom attendant: I don’t know how I’ve survived so long, but I’ve been there more than twenty years.”

  “It’s not fair,” blurted out Jordi. “A little kid died the other day, caught up in a loom; other kids die all the time breathing the dusty air. And the fat cat owners don’t care. It’s just not fair.”

  Bonaventura smiled. “The enthusiasm of youth,” he said. Jordi was downcast for a moment, thinking the older man was laughing at him, but Bonaventura said, “It’s boys like you that we need, men and boys with courage and passion. You’ve come to the right place.”

  There was a pause, as Bonaventura considered what he should say to the three of them.

  “Now,” he continued thoughtfully, “you say none of you can read? We must do something about that very quickly. Is your tenement far away?”

  “No,” said Jordi, puzzled by the turn in the conversation. “A short walk beyond the Boqueria Market, in the Raval slum. Tomas is further towards Montjuic.”

  “So not too far to come here? I’m thinking that you must learn to read. I’ll teach you myself. Can you come after work, two or three times a week?”

  The boys smiled, but Senor Vilaro frowned. “We’ve no way of paying for that,” he said.

  “Did I mention payment?” replied Bonaventura. “I will be rewarded by the enthusiasm of these lads, and in a way, repaying a debt. Their contribution to the cause, once they properly learn what it’s all about, and can read all the pamphlets and leaflets, and all they can do for all the workers, will be a greater reward. Now, let’s have a look at the leaflet you’ve brought today. I expect I’ve seen it before. I certainly know the message it contains.”

  At the factory the next day, both boys and Senor Vilaro had much to think about as they went through the monotonous drudgery of their long working day. Clearly there were many workers throughout Catalonia who were discontent with their circumstances, but often attempts to change the system had been thwarted. Not only would their livelihood, but their very lives, be at risk, if they tried to do anything to improve the worker’s lot, and workers everywhere clearly felt there was nothing they could do individually. Senor Bonaventura had signalled the beginning of the next organised workers’ union, the so-called “Federation” which was being talked about. At the same time, Bonaventura had opened their eyes to far more troubles than they had expected, with his talk of being anti-military, anti-colonial and even anti-clerical. To their surprise, they learned that the owners of the factories were supported in their extravagant lifestyles by both the army and the church.

  Bonaventura had told them stories of soldiers being sent to fire upon, and kill, dissenting workers; of wealthy priests refusing to help working people; and even of workers being forced into the military and then required to fire on other striking workers, all over Spain and even in the remote colonies. Workers were expendable: casually killing a few of them kept them in their place and had no effect upon the size of the workforce; and if necessary whole groups could be gunned down to prevent workers becoming uncooperative. Bonaventura had painted a grim picture.

  They realised that things would come to a head, but they could not tell how; indeed both mill owners and their workers lived from day to day without being able to tell when the dreadful circumstances would change. Perhaps the smouldering anger would boil over…

  Jordi and Tomas spent long hours with Senor Bonaventura, and gradually the mysteries of reading became clear for them. Jordi’s father decided he was too old to learn something so new and challenging, but was delighted that his son seemed to
be making good progress.

  Slowly summer turned to autumn, and the relief from the sweltering heat gave way to cold dark mornings, and working days ending long after the sun had set. The year turned and 1908 became 1909, an event little noticed in the slums of Barcelona. At last, the spring came, and with it some watery sunshine penetrated the canyons of tenements.

  One day, a commotion at the gate of the factory had workers leaning from the overhead walkways between the spinning and weaving sheds. To everyone’s amazement, a car was stopped in the narrow lane, across the gateway. It was huge, and guarded by armed men, who may have been soldiers.

  “It’s called a Hispano,” whispered Jordi to Tomas.

  “I know,” replied Tomas, “A Hispano-Suiza. There’s a few of them around; I met a bloke who works in the factory where they make them. It’s up near Placa D’Espanya, you know, near Sants. They cost a fortune.”

  “Never been there,” said Jordi. “Who would own such a car?”

  “Who would own such a car, and come here in it?” replied Tomas. “It must be the owner. Your father said the owners live in palaces up in the hills.”

  “There’s someone coming through the gate,” observed Jordi.

  They could see Senor Bertoli and Senor Ferrer standing just inside the gates, both looking distinctly uncomfortable. A man in some kind of uniform, perhaps the chauffeur, was holding the gate open for a richly dressed man to walk through. Taking off his top hat, he turned to Senor Bertoli, but very deliberately did not shake hands with him. The man looked up at the workers on the bridges, and gestured. It appeared he thought they should be at work, not watching, and Senor Ferrer hurriedly made signals for everyone to get back to work.

  By an extraordinary co-incidence, at that moment the steam whistle sounded for the short snack break. The workers cheered, and sat to eat their meagre bread and sausage. As they watched, they heard the owner shouting long and loud at Bertoli, and then, ramming his top hat firmly back on his head, he turned abruptly through the gate and returned to his car.

  The car roared away, sending up clouds of dust in the hot lane, with unlucky pedestrians leaping out of the way to avoid being mown down by the monster.

  After the break, work returned to its punishing normality, and the day passed without further distraction. At the end of the day, as Jordi and Tomas were passing Senor Bertoli’s office on their way home, Ferrer was standing in the doorway.

  “Ah, young Vilaro, I was watching for you. Please come into the office.”

  Puzzled by this, Jordi turned into the dimly-lit room, whilst Tomas continued on his way home. Jordi was taken aback to find his father standing in the room with Senor Bertoli. The atmosphere was thunderous.

  From his high stool, the dwarf regarded Jordi through his thick spectacles. “You may be aware that we had a visitor today,” he snarled. “I daresay you were one of those slackers watching from the bridges.” Jordi looked to his father, who said nothing, but frowned and shook his head.

  “I believe the owner of this factory, the Marques de Comillas, had come to congratulate us on achieving an excellent production target, but he wasn’t pleased when he saw so many of his workers taking a rest.”

  Senor Bertoli paused and looked round the gloomy room. “And then the steam whistle sounded, and you sat down to eat your snacks. With the owner watching, you sat down and swung your legs over the edge of the walkway bridges. I believe the word for the owner’s reaction is ‘incandescent’ with rage. And if you don’t know what that means, I’ll tell you.”

  There was another pause, as the dwarf breathed heavily. “Comillas has given me the sack, for allowing the workers in this factory to be such slackers.” His voice started to rise and he went on, “I, who have achieved that excellent production target. I, who have run this place like a clockwork machine. Incandescent? I’m incandescent now. And my last task, before I leave, is to take Senor Vilaro down with me. He who came, cap in hand, to beg: he who persuaded me that production would be better, if I let you all have a break for a snack. I will watch him limp out of this factory before me, and he will never work here again. He will never work in Barcelona again.”

  Senor Vilaro opened his mouth, “You cannot…” but he said no more as Ferrer had produced a gun and was pointing it at him.

  “Say another word, Vilaro,” said Senor Bertoli, “and he will kill you.”

  Jordi jumped forward in front of his father. “Kill me first!” he shouted.

  Bertoli laughed. “You have no idea how easy that would be, stupid boy. Take your father home.”

  “And don’t be late in the morning, or I may really kill you!” grinned Ferrer.

  Out in the lane, Jordi and his father were aware of several other workers hanging around to see what had happened. Tomas stepped forward. “Are you OK?” he said.

  “Never better,” muttered Senor Vilaro.

  “What?” said Tomas.

  “Twenty years I’ve slaved in this hell hole, and that’s the thanks I get.”

  “He’s been sacked,” said Jordi, and turning confidentially and quietly to Tomas, he whispered, “Go and tell Senor Bonaventura. He’ll know what to do.”

  Jordi and his father began the dreary trudge home in the summer heat, but hadn’t gone far before a group of workers besieged them. “Vilaro, we heard what happened. Come and have drink with us. You worked for us, got us a snack break, and got yourself sacked for it. We’ll buy you a drink.”

  Vilaro turned to his son. “Go home and tell your Mam what’s happened. I’ll get there soon.”

  Jordi ran through the darkening alleys and up the greasy stairs. He burst into the smoky room they called home, “Mam, Mam, where are you?” He stopped abruptly, stunned by a dreadful smell, worse by far than the usual stink they lived in. Little did he know, but it was the smell of death.

  His mother was sitting on the edge of the bed and looked up with tearful eyes. “Sush, Jordi, it’s your brother. He’s got it bad.”

  Jordi looked round the room, confused. “But Mam…”

  “He’s not been to work today. I think it’s what they call ‘cholera’. We’ve no money for medicine, and anyway, medicine won’t help.”

  Jordi stepped forward and looked at his brother. Being so much younger, he didn’t really know his brothers very well, and he was startled look into a face which was once so much like his own, but now gone grey, with deeply sunken eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” said his brother. “I didn’t mean to…” and his voice trailed away.

  “Where’s your father?” said Mam sharply.

  “That’s just it,” said Jordi. “He got the sack. The owner came today and was there when we stopped for snack; he’s sacked Senor Bertoli, and Senor Bertoli sacked Pa. Senor Ferrer had a gun and was going to shoot him.” Jordi burst into tears.

  “Where’s your father now?” said Mam. “Drinking his sorrows, I bet. Girls, go and find him.”

  “He’s in that bar just down the road from the factory gates,” said Jordi.

  “That narrows the field a little, I suppose,” said Dolors, sarcastically.

  “We’ll be back,” said Carla, and the girls clattered down the stairs.

  “What’s going to happen, Mam?” said Jordi.

  “We’ll survive,” said his mother grimly. “We always do, somehow.” Looking at her older son on the bed, she went on tight-lipped, “or some of us do.”

  With some trepidation, Jordi took his brother’s hand. It was cold and clammy, as if he was shrinking inside his skin.

  “Leave him be,” said his mother. “I don’t know how you catch it, but I don’t want him giving it to you.”

  Jordi’s other brother came into the room, breathless from the stair climb.

  “How is he?” he said.

  “Not good,” said his mother.

  The other brother slumped into a chair. “I feel dreadful as well. Perhaps I’ve got it too. We eat and drink at the same bars, we do everything together.” He looked across the
room at his mother. “But I wasn’t planning on dying together.”

  Jordi looked from one brother to the other. Suddenly he recognised the same grey pallor, the same sunken eyes, and he knew they were both ill, knew they would both die.

  His mother stood up, her mind resolved. “Jordi, listen to me. Your sisters will bring your father home, and then they must go and find friends to give them somewhere to sleep. You say that your friend Tomas lives with his grandmother?”

  Jordi nodded.

  “Do you know where they live?”

  Jordi nodded again.

  “You must go and stay there. Heaven help us if you’ve already caught this bloody bug, I don’t want you to be giving it to anyone else. But if there’s any justice in this world, you’ll be alright. Stay with Tomas, and go to work each day like a good boy. Save your pennies, and help Tomas’s grandmother if you can. I’ll get messages to you, so you know what’s happening. Your sisters will find you at work, and tell you what’s going on. Be a good boy for me.”

  Jordi was reluctant to leave and for a moment clung to his mother’s skirts.

  “Off you go,” she said, feigning strength. “Off you go.”

  Turning at the door, Jordi looked around the dim room. He nodded speechless, and walked slowly down the stairs, anxious whether he could find Tomas’s hovel before it was completely dark. At the bottom, he met his sisters.

  “They’ve both got it,” he said. “Mam’s told me to go and stay at Tomas’s. Did you find Pa?”

  “Not yet,” said a sister. “We’ll keep trying.”

  “See you at the factory tomorrow,” said the other. “Life goes on.”

  “Not for everyone, it doesn’t,” came a voice behind them.

  They spun round to find Pa standing there. “It’s OK, I got a message. I’ll go up to your mother and see how the boys are doing.”

  “Mam’s told me to go to Tomas’s,” said Jordi.

  “Good idea, boy.” Pa paused. “And as I’ve no work to go to, I’ll come and find you there soon.” He turned as he started up the stairs. “Be a good boy.”