“El Caudillo’s arriving soon,” announced the sergeant major, “and you will stand to attention for the singing of ‘Face to the Sun’. Those who can, should salute whilst playing their instruments, and that includes you, Staff Sergeant Bonet: I’m sure you can play your famous trumpet with one hand.”
Eduard gulped. He did not realise that his failure to salute whilst playing had been noticed. Digger glanced at him. What had caused this odd remark from the sergeant major?
From outside the stadium, the bandsmen could hear the roar of the crowd. It was as if a match was in progress, although the wide expanse of grass was empty. They realised that the sound was the clamour of the people of Barcelona greeting the dictator: it was hard to tell if the blast of sound was aggressive or welcoming.
Marching through the dark tunnel, the band emerged into the brilliance of the sunlit field, and quickly formed up ready to play. Their sergeant major brought them to attention, and then signalled to Eduard. The vast crowd leapt to its feet, right arms outstretched towards the Generalissimo, and sang the familiar song with gusto. Eduard stretched his arm as he played, wondering if his family was somewhere in the great throng, and if they were watching him salute the dictator. “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” he intoned as he played.
The band’s exciting and complex marching routine was enjoyed by the enthusiastic crowd. This was followed by a long sequence of all the best military music they knew, and huge was the applause which echoed in their ears as they eventually marched away. Outside the stadium, the bus was waiting for the band. Eduard turned to his senior officer. “Permission to take leave, sir?” he asked.
“Permission granted Staff Sergeant. Report to barracks at nine hundred. You are dismissed.”
Eduard saluted the officer, and turned, suddenly aware that he was alone for the first time since joining the army. It was a strange feeling. Just as the bus pulled away, there was a shout and he turned to see Clara and Ambros running towards him.
“You look wonderful in your uniform,” said Clara. “So much smarter than those dull clothes you wore last time we saw you!”
“That was army fatigues,” said Eduard. “They’re not meant to look smart.”
“It’s good to see you,” said Ambros, shaking his hand. “Your mother and father will be here soon.”
They turned and watched as the crowd tumbled out of the grandstands. “There they are!” exclaimed Clara, waving. “Over here, over here!”
“Congratulations, son,” said Manel, putting his arms around Eduard. “My, you’ve got some muscles now, my boy!”
“You look splendid,” said Clara, “and we have you all to ourselves for a whole evening. Let’s go home.”
The trams were very crowded, and Eduard in his dress uniform was a considerable sensation. Soon they were in the familiar apartment on Rossello, where Carlos and his mother joined them. Salvador Ribera, the new grocery manager, had hoarded many treats, and the old sewing table groaned under the weight of food. Everyone talked at once, as only a Catalan family can, and Eduard was quite amazed at the excitement his visit had created.
At last, satisfied and full, the family sat back, and a changed atmosphere descended upon the room. It went quiet, and Eduard looked at his father.
“Now, Eduard,” said his father with unexpected severity, “tell us about the saluting. We all saw, even whilst playing the trumpet, you saluted directly towards the Fascist. Have you turned into a Nationalist since you joined the army?”
There was a pause as Eduard looked around the room at his family: the earlier excitement had turned to anxiety. “No,” said Eduard, “far from it. I love the band, and playing in it, and I have found some great friends; but I’m loyal to the Republicans, and always will be.” He smiled as he continued. “You know, I can play my trumpet, salute Franco, and think ‘bastard, bastard, bastard’, all at the same time.”
“Thank you for that,” said Manel. “I was sure we could trust you, but watching you this afternoon, you were so much part of the Nationalist machinery, and for a moment I was worried.”
“Let me tell you something,” said Eduard. “I’ve seen Franco many times, and been close to him often. He’s a weedy little man, and the closer you get, the smaller he seems to be.”
Senora Pinto burst into laughter. “I’ll remember that,” she said. “The closer you get, the smaller he seems to be!”
The rest of the room joined in with the laughter, and the serious moment passed.
“Let’s go for a walk,” suggested Clara, “before bed. It’s a lovely evening.”
With Ambros on one side, and her handsome brother in his dress uniform on the other, the three turned all heads as they crossed Balmes, and sauntered down the Rambla de Catalunya. There were a few sparse pavement cafes, with glum waiters hanging around, but few customers. “It’s very quiet,” said Eduard. “Where is everyone?”
“Very few people can afford to sit at a cafe; the city is so grey. It’s not changed since you went away; in fact it might be worse than ever with so many more workers being laid off,” said Ambros.
“But that’s not what we’ve come to talk about,” said Clara impatiently. “We can sit and order coffee, just as long as we remember how lucky we are to do it. And we want to talk to you.”
They sat, and the surprised waiter shook himself awake and took their order. “Now,” said Clara, “we’ve got a date.”
“What for?” said Eduard.
“For the wedding, silly. We will be married on the twenty-third of April, just after my eighteenth birthday. Mother insists we will be married by Father Matias at her church, and father will take us to supper at the Windsor Palace afterwards.”
“Goodness,” said Eduard. “The Windsor Palace? The store must be doing well.”
“We’re very lucky,” said Ambros.
“And here’s the best part, Eduard,” continued his sister, grasping his arm. “We want you to come and play your trumpet at the church. When we are married, we will walk out together with your trumpet ringing in our ears. It will be wonderful.”
“What shall I play?” said Eduard.
“Anything but ‘Face to the sun’: we know it’s your party piece with the army, but it’s the one tune we don’t want to hear on our wedding day.”
“I’ll think about it,” said Eduard. “I have some ideas already.”
Reporting for duty the next morning, Eduard bumped straight into Digger. “You missed a great dinner last night,” said Digger. “We were taken to that palace near the station, the Palau Reial. Full dress, and everything.”
“I had a very special meal as well,” said Eduard, “with my family. However grand your dinner, it would not have been as good as a family supper.”
Back in Madrid, Eduard asked for permission to search through the music library, and eventually found what he was looking for. He showed the piece to Digger. “It’s called ‘The Prince of Denmark’ by a British composer called Jeremiah Clarke, who lived hundreds of years ago. It’s a trumpet tune, and just excellent for my sister’s wedding. It will be a surprise as no-one will have heard it before, and it will sound wonderful in the echoing interior of the church. The trouble is, I must find somewhere to practise it. The Sergeant Major won’t be too keen on one of his bandsmen playing a new tune over and over again.”
“Bring it to my father’s house, next time we have a day’s leave,” said Digger. “You can stand in the garden and drive the neighbours insane.”
Senor Lopez had never heard Eduard play his trumpet, and was puzzled by the request to play it the garden, but as soon as he heard the first few notes of the Trumpet Voluntary, he recognised Eduard’s talent. Eduard spread the music out on a bench in the garden, and started to play. The initial tune was easy, but then he plunged into the first of the complex variations. Even with his talent, this was difficult stuff, and he made a few false starts. Suddenly it came clear, and he flew through the complex piece, reaching the final high note. He took the trumpet away f
rom his lips, took a breath, and smiled. It was perfect for a wedding.
Suddenly he became aware of a rustling in a tree nearby. He turned and glimpsed Digger’s sister Emma watching him.
“Emma,” he called, “you don’t need to hide. Come and talk to me.”
Shyly she came out from the bushes. “That was amazing,” she said. “I’ve never heard anyone play like that before: and what an astonishing piece of music. Do you play that in the army band?”
“No,” replied Eduard. “It’s for my sister’s wedding. She’s to be married in April next year, and she’s asked me to play. The marriage is in a big church in Barcelona, so it will sound quite good, with the echo in the church.”
“Quite good?” Emma smiled. “It will be amazing. Your sister is very lucky to have such music at her wedding.”
“Come and sit with me for a while. You’re always in the background when I visit.”
Emma was still shy with her brother’s friend, but perched on the edge of the garden bench. “Do you like playing in the band with Diego?” she asked.
“It’s wonderful for me because I love to play. Ever since the first day I picked up this old trumpet, it’s been a passion.”
“Tell me how you started,” said Emma.
Eduard told her the story of finding the trumpet, and how he could make sweet music from the first moment he blew into it. He told her how Franco had heard him play in the cathedral at Zaragoza, and how he had been catapulted into the regimental band.
“I don’t like Franco,” said Emma.
“You shouldn’t say that,” said Eduard. “That’s dangerous, and your father would be very cross with you.”
“I know,” said Emma, “but El Caudillo’s a creepy little man, and I don’t think he tells the truth.”
“Let me tell you a secret,” said Eduard. “I don’t like him either, but I have to pretend I do, so that I can be in the band.”
“I think I understand that,” said Emma.
“You must never breathe a word of this to your brother. He’s my best friend, but if he finds out what I really think of Franco, I don’t know what would happen. It would be very serious, very serious indeed.”
“Your secret’s safe with me,” said Emma, “because you know my secret as well.”
The gong sounded for lunch, and Eduard put his hand out to Emma. “We must go in,” he said, “but it has been good sharing secrets. I shall look forward to talking again some time.”
Eduard would not have believed the excitement in the Bonet household with a wedding to be planned. Clara designed her own wedding dress and hunted for suitable fabric. In the store, she had plenty of floral fabrics, but nothing fine enough for a wedding dress. She was speechless when Senora Pinto arrived with a large package, and invited her to open it. Out tumbled a huge quantity of cream silk.
“However did you come to have all this?” said Clara in amazement. “It’s lovely.”
Senora Pinto smiled. “It’s a parachute,” she said. “I collected it in the street in the middle of the war. I have no idea why I’ve kept it, but I’d love you to have it. Perhaps it’s too old or fragile for you to use. Perhaps you can dye it.”
“It’s lovely,” repeated Clara. “I’ll have to investigate dying it, as I’m hoping for a traditional black wedding dress.”
“Some modern brides are choosing white these days,” said Anna.
“I know,” said Clara, “I’ve seen that in Hollywood films, but I’d like to stay traditional.”
“I’m glad,” said her mother, “as I have kept my black mantilla from my wedding. You must have it. It has a very long train. I was very proud of it.”
“You’ve never shown me,” said Clara. “It will be a very special part of the wedding to wear your mantilla. I want to be very traditional with orange blossoms, and the cream flowers will look wonderful against the black dress and mantilla. I’ll take this parachute to the shop tomorrow and find a big space to spread it out and see what we’ve got. It’s lovely,” she said once again, and she hugged Senora Pinto.
Ambros asked Carlos to carry the wedding ring for him; and despite their protestations, they got dragged into the interminable discussions about what to wear on the great day. They were happy to leave everything to Clara, who was greatly enjoying the elaborate preparations. She cut a corner off of the parachute, and cautiously dyed it black. To her relief, the dye worked, although she felt she was creating an extremely dark blue rather than the jet black she was aiming for.
One day Anna received a large envelope from Eduard, and opened it to find some sheet music, and a letter from her son. “I’m hoping to play my trumpet for the wedding of the year,” he wrote, “and I’m sending you the organ parts to accompany me. Can you find the organist at your church and see if he’s good enough to play these two pieces? They are both quite difficult, but will be spectacular if we can manage them.”
Anna had been delaying a meeting with Father Matias, but Eduard’s letter prompted her to seek him out. The priest was his usual dour self.
“I know that you come regularly to mass,” he said, “but you are asking me to marry your daughter, who I have never met, to a man who has never been here? You have not even managed to bring your own husband, who I know only as a local businessman. I think your family must start to come to mass, and then I can consider the marriage.”
At home, Anna told the family that they must swallow their dislike of the priest, and join her at mass as often as they could in the coming winter months. She had to convince the priest to be cordial to the whole family if he was to conduct the marriage in the following April.
Clara could see the way ahead clearly. “I’ll come,” she said. “It’s worth it to have a lovely wedding. The church itself is a wonderful building, even if we don’t like the priest.”
Manel realised he had no choice. He agreed to attend, but warned them, “Just don’t imagine I’ll like it.”
A little while later, there was an unexpected tap on their door. Anna opened it to find a nervous young man clutching the sheet music from Eduard.
“I’m Joan Monzo,” he explained. “I’m the organist at La Mare de Deu dels Angels. Father Matias gave me the music for your daughter’s wedding.”
“Please come in,” said Anna. “That’s very good news, for if he’s given you the music, he must be thinking he’ll go ahead with the wedding for us.”
“He told me the bride doesn’t attend the church.”
“But I’ve started to come,” said Clara. “It’s very nice to meet you.”
“The thing is, this music is very hard. I’ve played the Wagner before, but never seen this Jeremiah Clarke piece.”
“Can you play them?” asked Clara.
“Only rather slowly at the moment, and the Clarke piece is probably meant to be very fast. I’ve come to ask if I can have a chance to practise them with the trumpeter.”
“He’s my brother,” said Clara, “and he’s in Madrid, in the army band. He’s very good.”
“I was afraid of that,” said Joan. “I expect he plays both pieces very well indeed. How can we arrange a time to play together?”
“I’ll try to arrange for him to come home for a day. When I know when he can come, I’ll get a message to you, so that you can arrange a time when you can meet him at the church.”
Joan Monzo gave them his address, and Anna promised to make the arrangements. Joan turned to Clara and for the first time his anxious face broke into a smile. “If we can play these pieces properly, it will be wonderful,” he said. “I’ll find lots of time to practise before I meet your brother.”
Ambros asked Manel to go with him to a quiet bar in the neighbourhood, in order to have a difficult conversation.
“You’re my boss at work,” he began, “and my future father-in-law. As the son of a humble building worker, I’m worried that there are many traditions in a wedding, and I cannot fulfil all that I’d like to do for Clara.”
“Tell me what’
s on your mind,” said Manel. “I’ve thought of you like a son for some time, and I am delighted you’re marrying Clara. I cannot think of anything to stand in the way.”
Ambros swallowed and took a deep breath. “First, as you know, my mother died many years ago. Traditionally she should escort me into the church. Would it be strange if I asked Senora Bonet to do it? It’s very odd for the mother of the bride to escort her future son-in-law, but she’s become like a mother to me.”
“I am sure she will be honoured. You must ask her yourself, but do so with my blessing. I know you have no-one but your father to come to the wedding. I suppose it’s part of the awful aftermath of the war that our families are so thin on the ground.”
“There’s more,” said Ambros, “and this is even harder to ask.”
Manel smiled. “Be brave and speak. I cannot imagine you have anything to say which will upset me.”
“You pay me a good wage at the shop,” said Ambros, “and I have been saving for a home for Clara and I. But there is a tradition of bringing thirteen gold coins to the wedding. My father cannot give such a sum to me, and it would take much of my savings. Would it be so bad if we didn’t include this tradition?”
Manel smiled again. “I’d already thought of that. I will give you the gold as a wedding present. After all, in the ceremony you will present the coins to Clara as a token, and she will add them to the savings you have for your new home, thus ensuring we uphold the tradition, and you have a boost for your savings.”
Ambros’s eyes filled with tears. “You are a very good man,” he said.
“Drink up, and have another,” said Manel.
Clara wrote a letter to her brother asking if his friend Digger could come to the wedding, and perhaps bring his sister. “After all,” she wrote, “because of the war, we have no relations, and not many friends. Mother says we have cousins in Venezuela, but she’s no way of contacting them, and they wouldn’t come all this way. From what you’ve said of her, Digger’s sister could be my flower girl.”
The Phoenix of Montjuic Page 19
