The Phoenix of Montjuic

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “It’s a possibility,” said Eduard. “I’ll try to find out how to get an audition.”

  “And there’s the band, the Municipal Band, you know, the band that plays in Ciutadella Park.”

  “I suppose I should consider that as well,” said Eduard. “I expect I’ll know more of the repertoire of the band than the orchestra, but the orchestra might be more interesting.”

  Eduard tried to get an audition with Eduard Toldra, who was the conductor of the Barcelona Municipal Orchestra. Senor Toldra had formed the orchestra in 1944, largely in answer to the city council wanting to return to some cultural normality after the collapse of music-making during the civil war. It being the summer, Senor Toldra was not available, the orchestra was on holiday, and Eduard failed to get an audition.

  Ramon Bonell, conductor of the Municipal Band, was, however, delighted to meet him. Eduard went to the park one hot afternoon in July, and listened to the band. He was surprised that despite playing in a civic bandstand in the searing summer heat, the standard was remarkably high. As the concert finished, and the large crowd seated on deck chairs was dispersing, Eduard approached the conductor.

  “Your band sounds good,” he said.

  Senor Bonell smiled. “People are often surprised. They think we’re a little amateur group from some far-flung village, but we’re not.”

  “Do you need another trumpet?” asked Eduard. “I recently left the army band.”

  “You played for Franco?”

  “Yes,” said Eduard.

  Bonell frowned and hesitated. “You know playing for Franco might not be the best way to get a position in the Barcelona band?”

  “If you mean, did I support the Fascists, let me say that I played in the band because I love playing, not that I wanted to play for Franco.”

  Bonell stepped very close to Eduard. “This is a dangerous conversation. We never know who is listening in the park. Come to my house this evening, and play for me. We’ll have a better conversation in private, and I’ll be keen to hear you play.”

  After the years of keeping his politics strictly to himself, Eduard found it hard at first to be open to Senor Bonell, but with the older man’s encouragement, he told the story of how he came to be a regular soldier, playing repeatedly for the Generalissimo himself. When he told the conductor about his private mantra of “Bastard, bastard, bastard,” Senor Bonell burst out laughing.

  “We think alike,” he told Eduard, “but we cannot be open about our opinions, not yet anyway. Perhaps one day? Now let’s hear you play.”

  “It’s rather loud,” said Eduard. “The neighbours may object.”

  “Play on, young man. Let me worry about the neighbours.”

  Eduard moved to the far corner of the room, and took a breath. What better for an audition than to play the brilliant trumpet voluntary he had practised for his sister’s wedding? Senor Bonell sat enraptured, and at the end leapt up and embraced Eduard.

  “My boy, that was quite exceptional. You have a gift, and I’d love to have you in my band.” The conductor’s wife came into the room, with much praise for Eduard’s playing, and a beer for each of the men. They talked long into the night, and Bonell explained all the arrangements for playing in the band.

  Eduard was pleased to be back in a band, and soon discovered that several others in the band were former army bandsmen. He was disappointed that the wages were very low, and the work only part-time, with one or two rehearsals a week, and similarly only one or two performances. The bandsmen wore a uniform, less glamorous than Eduard’s old dress uniform, but nevertheless he was pleased to be back in a uniform. Most of the summer concerts were given in the bandstand in Ciutadella Park, when they wore smart military caps: a few concerts were given in the Palace of Fine Arts, but they didn’t wear caps for concerts at the palau, despite the leaky roof and generally damp conditions.

  The summer passed. Eduard found a small flat in the Born, not far from Ciutadella Park. Anna sent Catarina to help set it up, and it was furnished sparsely but elegantly from the family department store. It was Clara’s turn to visit him when he moved in, but he couldn’t offer her English tea in china cups: she had to manage with heavier, but fashionable, beakers from the store.

  Eduard was pleased to hear all of Clara’s honeymoon stories: how they had been all the way to Taragona, stayed in a delightful hotel on the promenade and walked beside the sea; how they’d explored the cathedral with its famous cloisters; and how they had sat in the enormous Roman amphitheatre with its spectacular view of the sea. Eduard smiled and nodded, reluctant to spoil his sister’s enthusiasm by telling her that he’d played in both the cathedral and the amphitheatre, and that he and Digger had explored the museum with its mosaics. He did, however, tell Clara about the Municipal Band, and how it had once been conducted by a famous German composer called Richard Strauss, and how the band had travelled, rather like his old army band, and played in foreign countries.

  In the autumn, Ramon Bonell suggested that Eduard apply to the Liceu Opera Orchestra, which was about to begin rehearsals for the coming season.

  The opera orchestra had no permanent conductor, but a committee drawn from the orchestra auditioned applicants, and interviewed them. There was again the hesitation regarding Eduard’s membership of one of Franco’s senior bands: and again, after some hesitation, Eduard reassured the committee that he was no Fascist. After the interview, Eduard played the Jeremiah Clarke voluntary, to the usual acclaim, and then successfully found his way through a tricky piece of sight-reading, which turned out to be some of the trumpet part from Wagner’s opera Die Walkure. Shaking hands with Eduard, the leader of the orchestra, Miquel Calix, asked him if he knew the Liceu Opera house. Surprised that he’d never been in it, Miquel took him on a tour.

  They walked through the dark caverns under the stage, and through the small door into the orchestra pit. Eduard gasped. Even with few lights, and a general air of gloom and darkness, he could tell the magnificence of the auditorium. Shouting up into the wings of the stage, the leader asked someone to turn on the house lights. The horseshoe of seats, rising tier after tier, lit by hundreds of lights in dragon-like sconces, towered over Eduard in the orchestra pit. The gold of the columns and the richness of the red velvet was beyond anything Eduard had even seen before.

  “The biggest horse-shoe theatre in Europe,” said Miquel proudly.

  “To think I’ve lived all my life in Barcelona, and never seen this!” he exclaimed.

  Miquel smiled. “Many people never come to the opera. They don’t know what they’re missing. It’s sometimes hard work, and is definitely not so splendid backstage and down here in the pit, but for the audience it’s a tremendous experience. You wait until you see it full, from the wealthy in their best furs in the platea, to the ordinary people like you and me, crammed into the hen roost up there: it’s quite something. And even an old cynic like me, who’s played countless operas under conductors both brilliant and pathetic, I still get a thrill when the lights go down, and the curtain rises. Mind you, stuck back there with the trumpets, you’ll not see much of the action on the stage.”

  “It’s a bit strange to think of playing here, and I’ve never even seen an opera,” said Eduard.

  “You’ll know more of the music than you think, if you’ve done what I imagine you’ve done in the army. I’m sure you’ll have played Wagner’s marches, and several of the intermezzo pieces we play. You did a very good job with the sight-reading, so I think you’ll enjoy being here. And now and again, when you’re not needed to play, you can come and watch what goes on. Some of the operas are very exciting, and some quite mad. And of course, some of the more modern music is quite mad as well, but that’s easy, as no-one ever knows if you make a mistake!”

  The leader of the orchestra gave Eduard a rehearsal schedule, and then the list of performances. He was taken aback to discover that he’d be in the pit within a couple of weeks, playing for a performance of Magic Flute. “An easy start for yo
u,” said Miquel. “We start most seasons with a well-known opera, and get big audiences. You see, there will be seventeen performances of the Flute. That’s more than most operas. It gets a bit harder later in the season, especially if it’s something like Aida – a very long blow for you trumpeters. And you can be sure Herr Wagner will raise his ugly head.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” said Eduard.

  “Your name’s Bonet, isn’t it?” Eduard nodded. “Anything to do with the Bonet department store up on Balmes?”

  “My father owns it,” replied Eduard. “I worked there before the army, but I want to have a career as a musician.”

  “It will be handy for you,” said Miquel. “You get a clothing allowance. It’s not like the band, or the army, where you were given a uniform. You have to have two sets: dinner jacket and tail coat.”

  “I don’t think my father stocks them at the store. I’ll have to ask him.”

  “No, don’t ask, tell him. The middle classes of Barcelona are slowly getting back to the style they had before the war, so as well as musicians, there will be members of the audience looking to buy clothes for the opera. If your father can do competitive prices, I’ll be pleased to recommend him to the rest of the orchestra. Some of them are playing in dreadful old threadbare suits that they bought before the war.”

  Eduard loved the whirlwind of rehearsals and performances. His new colleagues in the orchestra were pleased to meet him, and gave him an easier welcome than his first difficult days in the army band. They knew that his sight-reading test had been the Wagner, with all its tricky key changes, and thus felt they had a reliable new member in the brass section.

  Tucked under the stage, Eduard enjoyed Mozart’s music, and Miquel had been correct – it wasn’t hard to play. He was frustrated that he could hear everything going on over his head, but could see nothing of the opera. He told his parents that they must go and see the wonderful auditorium, and also see the Magic Flute, so that they could report back to him what was happening overhead.

  Manel and Anna were unsure of stocking evening clothes for gentlemen, but were astonished when they advertised, and started selling dinner jackets, and all kinds of extras including stiff collared shirts, studs and bow ties. Eduard fumbled at first tying his tie, but with some good-natured nudging and jostling from other members of the orchestra, he finally managed it on his own.

  His parents realised that they could borrow from their own stock of evening clothes, and soon were resplendently ready for the first trip to the opera. Catarina fussed around them, and managed to tie Manel’s bow better than Anna could, and finally they took a taxi, a rarity for them, to the Ramblas. Just as they were stepping into the taxi, Clara appeared and handed her mother a fan. Outside the opera house, they joined the crowd on the pavement, and looked at one another.

  “Look where this small-time corner-shop grocer and his wife have got to,” said Manel.

  “We look just as good as anyone here,” said Anna. “I wonder if we shall see Eduard?”

  They looked around at the gathering audience. Below them, the platea filled with the well-dressed upper classes of the city, many of the men wearing dinner jackets just as Eduard had said they would, and many ladies with their diamonds. The Bonets tried to look as if it was the most normal thing in the world to be at the opera house, but they couldn’t stop themselves from peering in all directions, and exclaiming at the grandeur.

  The tiers of seats rose above them, the red and gold emphasising the magnificence of the house. They looked up to the lofty vastness above them. “That’s called the hen roost,” said Manel. “That’s where we’ll be sitting when we have to pay for our tickets ourselves!” They looked down to the opulence of the platea below them. “And that’s where we’re never likely to sit,” said Anna.

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Manel. “At the moment our business is doing well, far better than we dared hope for. Why, we even stock evening gowns for ladies and dinner suits for men. How grand are we?”

  Anna watched as the members of the orchestra took their places, and she soon spotted Eduard. He was looking directly up at them. Anna waved her fan, and Eduard made a very small gesture to acknowledge her.

  The lights dimmed, and the overture started. Anna was thrilled when Eduard played the bold brass opening chords of the opera, but as the action started, her attention was drawn to the stage. Neither she nor Manel had ever seen anything like it. At times funny, at times sad, and always engrossing, they were breathless in their concentration and enjoyment. Anna was astonished by the ‘Queen of the Night’ aria, and gripped Manel’s hand. In the interval, they followed the crowd to the Hall of Mirrors, where Manel bought them each a glass of cava. They clinked them together.

  “Here’s to Eduard,” said Manel. “Could anyone ever be prouder of him? He is so much happier now he’s in the orchestra. I was worried when he came home from the army and seemed so depressed. His talent and enthusiasm has got him here, and without it, we would not be here tonight.”

  “And to Clara,” said Anna. “She is just as clever. We must tell Ambros to bring her here.”

  A bell summoned them back to the auditorium.

  Eduard had told them not to wait for him at the end of the opera, as he would be busy changing and with other chores, so they left the house down the grand front stairs, through the fine foyer, and out onto the Ramblas. There was a chaos of taxis and other traffic as the smartly-dressed crowd poured out of the opera house and filled the boulevard.

  “It’s a lovely evening,” said Anna. “Let’s not take a taxi. Let’s walk home.”

  “Dressed like this?” said Manel.

  “Yes,” said Anna, “that’s what’s so splendid. We’re carrying the lovely feelings of the opera with us as we walk. We’ll go home and open that bottle of cava you promised, and Eduard can catch us for a drink before he goes back to his place.”

  It was quite dark as they walked slowly up the Ramblas. They were enjoying the evening air, and vaguely thought if they dawdled, Eduard would catch up with them. The day-time stalls were closing, the puppies and kittens put into cages, the candies shovelled into boxes, and the tired stall-holders commiserating together as they counted their meagre takings. Other late strollers passed them by, some greeting them as they went; they smiled and kept inside themselves the good feeling of a very special night.

  They were almost at Placa de Catalunya, when a voice startled them.

  “Hey, you, Bonet, it is you isn’t it?”

  Manel turned, alarmed. From the darkest shadows, a figure in black emerged.

  “I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time,” said the man in black, and before they could stop him, he had taken a huge swipe at Manel, knocking him to the ground. Anna screamed. Manel tried to get up, and the man kicked him.

  Suddenly there were running footsteps and another shout, and Eduard appeared, jumped upon the man, and pulled him away from his father. Passers-by helped restrain the man, whilst others helped Manel to his feet and comforted Anna. Eduard had the man in an iron grip, and turned him to face the gas-light which glimmered faintly through the trees.

  “Perella!” exclaimed Eduard. “I thought you were in prison.”

  “I was this morning,” growled Perella.

  “I’ve dragged you to the police once before, and I’ll do it again,” said Eduard. “The only difference is that I’ve had three years in the army, and I’m even bigger and stronger and tougher than you.” Turning to his father, he said, “Do you need to go to hospital?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Manel.

  A couple of Mossos, alerted by the noise, came running. As one of them grasped Perella, Eduard explained what had happened. One of the Mossos shone his torch into Perella’s face. “Ferran Perella,” said the policeman, “we meet again.” Turning to Eduard, he said, “We’ll need statements, but we can do that tomorrow. We’ll take this piece of dirt to the station tonight, and charge him in the morning. Get your parents h
ome and make sure they are alright. I think you father should go to the hospital.”

  In the taxi, Manel started shaking. Eduard held his hands and soothed him. Anna was upset. “Such a wonderful evening,” she said. “Why did this have to happen? It’s spoiled everything.”

  “No it hasn’t,” said Eduard. “That nasty man can’t take it all away. You had a lovely time at the opera and you looked terrific. Just try to remember how good it was.”

  “We’ll still have that bottle of cava when we get home,” said Anna. “It will make us feel better.”

  Catarina was waiting for them, wanting to hear all about the opera, and was alarmed to see the state of Manel as they staggered down the steps to their apartment. Anna briefly told her that Manel had been attacked, but that they would still celebrate the night with a drink. Catarina poured the cava, and Anna told her she could have one herself. Manel slumped into a chair, and tried to pick up the glass, but he was still shaking, and spilled half of the fizzy wine.

  The next morning Manel had a swollen cheek where Perella had hit him, and a large bruise on his thigh where the ruffian’s boot had kicked him, but he was angry now, no longer shocked. When the Mossos called for statements, they again said that Manel should go to the hospital, but he was resolute. It was the first time since opening the department store that Manel had not been there to unlock the doors. He was determined to go to work later in the day, and even more certain that he’d be unlocking the doors the next morning.

  The policemen were sympathetic. They said that once Perella had been a small-time confidence trickster, but his time in prison had made him meaner and more violent. They’d had a lot of trouble with him overnight, and he’d added assaulting a policeman to the already serious charge of assaulting a member of the public.

  “He’ll be before the magistrate tomorrow, and straight back to prison,” said the police.

  “I wish we’d known he was out of jail yesterday,” said Anna. “We might not have walked home if we’d known.”