The Phoenix of Montjuic

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “Nixon?” said Anna. “He’s been here?”

  “With Franco,” said Manel. “There was a big crowd down at the cathedral, and apparently it nearly turned very ugly. There were many opposed to Franco, and even the Civil Guards couldn’t stop the shouting. Franco was furious, and Nixon was quite alarmed.”

  “We had more important things to be concerned about,” said Anna. “Our children, our grandchildren, and our great grandchild, are more important than the president of the United States.”

  Maria returned to work as soon as she was strong enough. Senora Oliver had decided that the responsibilities of designing complete productions, both Rake’s Progress and Turandot, had been too stressful for the young woman, and gave her more mundane and tedious tasks for a long time. Maria didn’t mind. She would sit all day sewing fasteners onto costumes, and quietly build up her strength. When the time came for fittings for costumes, she kept well away from the gentlemen of the chorus, and avoided entirely the soloists. She knew that some of the stars were international travellers, rarely seeing their families, and needy of affection, but she knew she would never again be the one providing the comfort they needed.

  Salvador Ribera maintained a firm hand managing the store, and Manel was pleased with his work. Louis was sent regularly to spy in the big rival store which had opened on Placa Catalunya, and came back with many suggestions.

  “They’ve a big perfume department right inside the front door. You have to walk through it to get into the shop. And they have lifts, with grand doors, taking customers quickly to higher floors. We should install lifts, and then it would not be so difficult for the old ladies to walk up all the stairs to the tea room.”

  “We’re still a small family business,” said Salvador. “That great store on Placa Catalunya is one of a big chain, started in Madrid. We’ll never be as modern as them. We just have to hope they don’t take away too much of our business.”

  Jose was a year older than Louis, and his call-up papers came as a shock to his cousin. “If they’ve called you now, I’m not far behind you,” said Louis. “My father was in the army for three years, but that was because he played the trumpet. I don’t play anything, so I’ll just have to be a soldier.”

  “I’m going into the engineers,” said Jose, excitedly. “I’m already good at taking an engine apart and putting it back together, but that’s just for a scooter. I want to learn about cars and trucks, and bigger engines. I can’t wait to get started.”

  Jose’s enthusiasm alarmed Louis even more. He could think of nothing worse than being sent away to some remote barracks, with other young men who would all be bigger, stronger and more worldly-wise than him. When they asked him what he was good at, he’d have to say that he knew all about buying women’s dresses, and window dressing, and fine foods. That wouldn’t be a very good start in the army.

  In 1974, Louis turned eighteen, and was called up for National Service. Emma and Eduard went with him to Franca Station to see him onto the train.

  “This is just how it was for me,” said Eduard. “It seems a long time ago now, but it turned out satisfactory. You don’t know what new skills you will come home with.”

  “Perhaps I’ll be able to install a lift myself,” said Louis cynically. “I’ll write and tell you what happens.”

  Louis succeeded in holding back the tears, although as soon as the train was out of sight, Emma was tearful. “Come on, old girl,” said Eduard. “Let’s walk up the Ramblas, and I’ll buy you coffee in the Opera Cafe.”

  Eduard and Emma heard nothing from their son for a month. They had no idea where he was, or how he was doing. The first communication was a short letter from Louis, accompanied by a similarly short note from his commanding officer.

  “I am in the army prison,” said Louis in his letter. “They have put me into solitary. The CO is going to ask you to come and meet him. I can’t bring myself to tell you what has happened.”

  Eduard looked at Emma. “Whatever is going on?” he said.

  “What’s ‘solitary’?” said Emma.

  “Solitary confinement: in a cell on his own.”

  “All alone?”

  “Apparently,” said Eduard. “What does the commanding officer say?”

  Emma read the short note asking Eduard to travel to the barracks to discuss a very difficult matter. “None the wiser,” said Eduard. “I suppose I must go.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Emma.

  “No, you should stay with Monserrat. She’s the last Bonet teenager, and needs her mother. Besides, I have no idea what I’m going to find. What if he’s murdered someone?”

  “He’d never do that,” said Emma, “but I cannot imagine what’s happened.”

  Louis’s commanding officer gave only the town where the barracks was situated, and Eduard assumed there would only be one barracks in the town. He arranged time away from the orchestra and booked a ticket to go to El Ferrol. Looking at a map in Ambros’s library, he sighed. “It’s almost the furthest away you can be in Spain.”

  “The Atlantic coast,” said Ambros. “That’s Galicia. I’ve never been there, never went that far for my National Service, but the name seems oddly familiar. Why have we heard it before?”

  “It’s where El Caudillo was born,” said Clara. “Poor Louis: he’s in jail in such a remote place, and I’m sure they will all be slavish followers of the town’s most famous son.”

  It took two days for Eduard to get to El Ferrol, spending a night in a cheap hotel near the station in Madrid. Sitting in a tiny room overlooking the station, he had a good view of the grand hotel where he’d stayed the night before his wedding. He had telephoned Digger in advance, and arranged to meet him on the evening he was in Madrid. He showed the two letters to Digger.

  “I don’t like the look of this,” said Digger. “I’m sorry. Something’s gone very wrong with your boy. I hesitate to guess.”

  “I don’t want to guess,” said Eduard. “Tell me, what are you thinking?”

  “Louis has never had a girlfriend, has he? And he’s never been interested in football.”

  “I know what you’re hinting at. I suppose you’ll remind me he’s good at window-dressing.”

  Digger smiled at his friend. “You know what this is about, don’t you?”

  “I suppose I do,” said Eduard. “I’ve wondered for a while. I couldn’t say anything to Emma. I even wondered if I’d encouraged things by getting him to work in all the departments at the store.”

  “As far as I know, it doesn’t matter what you did: I don’t think you’ve encouraged anything.”

  “I had a gut feeling it would be better if Emma didn’t come,” said Eduard.

  “That’s a pity,” said Digger. “It would have been nice to see my sister: but you’re right, it will be easier to deal with this on your own. Have you thought: what if he’s in the jail for a completely different reason?”

  “I can’t think of another reason. I’ve got to tell him it’s OK with me, and I’ll make it OK with the family. After all, I work in opera, and there’s a few in every opera house.”

  “You haven’t said the word: you have to face it, and talk to him in real language.”

  “It might be that my son is a homosexual. There, I’ve said it.”

  “That will make the meeting with him a little easier,” said Digger.

  “My concern is the law. I don’t want Louis to have a criminal record. You know the penalties. Sometimes men like this are locked up for years.”

  The following morning, Eduard took a slow train to El Ferrol. He had talked long into the night with Digger, and was greatly relieved that his friend was not shocked or repelled by the possibility that Louis was a homosexual. The challenge would be to keep Louis out of a civilian prison.

  Arriving late, Eduard stayed in yet another cheap hotel and next morning the hotel owner directed him to the only barracks in the small town. The commanding officer kept him waiting for a while, and then called him into h
is office. Suddenly Eduard felt as if he was right back in his own army days, and he saluted the CO. The commanding officer smiled for a moment, but then his face clouded, and he told Eduard to sit.

  “Your son will be given a dishonourable discharge, and you have been summoned to take him home. We do not think it appropriate for such a man to be sent onto public transport alone. It’s a long way to Barcelona, and anything can happen. I think you will have guessed why he’s in prison.”

  “Has he admitted to being a homosexual?” said Eduard.

  “He’s admitted nothing,” said the CO, “but the circumstances are sufficient. I will send a message for him to be given his civilian clothes, and have him report to my office within the hour.”

  “Thank you sir,” replied Eduard. “Shall I wait outside?”

  “That will be a good idea,” said the CO, but as Eduard got up to leave, the officer spoke again. “Wait,” he said, “are you Eduard Bonet, Staff Sergeant Bonet, trumpeter?”

  Eduard turned back to the officer. “Yes, sir, that was a long time ago, sir.”

  “I was a colour sergeant: didn’t play in the band, but carried the flag. Let me give you some advice, as an old friend in the band. Staff Sergeant Bonet, your son is in great danger. Strangely, he is lucky he’s been found out in the army, where we have our own ways to deal with these things. Often a boy is lonely and confused when he arrives for National Service, and he seeks an older man for comfort. We’re used to that happening now and again, but your lad took things a little further. He gets away with being discharged, but it won’t be so easy in civilian life. You know the law. He could spend many years in jail. As his father, it’s up to you to keep him out of prison.”

  When Louis was ready to leave, he met his father without a word, and with his eyes on the floor. The commanding officer shook hands with Eduard, and they left the barracks. Silently and grimly, they walked to the station. Eduard found a little coffee shop with empty pavement tables, and they sat.

  “You’ll have to talk to me,” said Eduard. “We can’t go all the way home in silence.”

  Without looking up, Louis replied, “I don’t know what to say.”

  “You have to tell me why you were in the prison,” said Eduard. “I’m your father, and I love you. There is nothing you can say that will change that.”

  “Not here, not in public,” said Louis. “Let’s get on the train. If we can have a compartment to ourselves, I’ll try to tell you.”

  The train was busy, and they did not have any privacy at first, but after two local stations where farmers’ wives left to walk to remote farms, they were finally on their own.

  “I’m sorry,” said Louis.

  “I know,” said his father. There was a long silence, broken only by the chugging of the steam engine. After a while, Eduard tried again. “Now tell me what happened.”

  “The journey was terrible: rattling along in old carriages for two days. I’d finished the sandwiches mother gave me by the end of the first day, and we weren’t given anything else to eat. I just felt so lonely, even though there were three others in the same compartment. In the night, two of the boys fell asleep while the train rattled on. The boy opposite me, kept smiling, and in the night, came over and sat close to me. He put his arm round me, and whispered …”

  Louis stopped. “Go on,” said Eduard.

  “Whispered … that he thought I was very pretty … and kissed me. Suddenly I didn’t feel so miserable, and so with the other two asleep, I kissed him back. Nothing else happened, and we went to sleep for a while, leaning against one another.”

  “The next day,” continued Louis hesitantly, “we finally arrived at that dreadful place, El Ferrol. We got a long lecture about how proud they are of their most famous son.”

  “I know,” said Eduard, “the one we call the bastard.”

  Despite himself, Louis managed a little smile. “Yes, the bastard. They practically worship him there. That night, first night in the barracks, we were put into a small dormitory – only six of us, including my friend from the train. When the others were asleep, he came and got into bed with me. Again he kissed me, and I kissed him back. Nothing else, I promise you. In the morning, we were sent for. One of the other boys had seen us, and told the sergeant major. There was a great fuss, and a lot of being told about General Franco, and what he thinks of scum like me. I was told to get my kit bag, and put into a cell in the prison. The other boy was put into another cell. I was told to write to you, which I did, and I’ve been on my own ever since. I heard the other boy being taken out a few days ago. On his way past my cell, he called out, “Good luck!” but I don’t even know his name.” Louis finally looked his father in the eye, and his tears flowed. “I’m so sorry.”

  “So am I,” said Eduard, “but at least you’re out of harm’s way. What a way to avoid military service! I think quite a few other young men will try the same method if they get to hear about it.”

  “Don’t joke, father.”

  “We will survive. Your grandparents survived a war, I survived the army band, and you will carry on, and pull through this. You have me, and you’ll have your mother. By the way, there’s a piece of good news.”

  “What?” said Louis, looking up.

  “Franco’s ill. He’s an old man, and he’s ill. Juan Carlos has just taken over as head of state.”

  “You mean he’s our new dictator? Or is he our king?”

  “He’s still Prince Juan Carlos, but there’s talk he’ll become king when Franco dies.”

  “Is that the end of the Fascists?” said Louis.

  “I don’t know,” replied Eduard, “but we live in hope.”

  When the train pulled into Atocha Station, Eduard called Digger from a public telephone box.

  “I can’t invite you to the house in Guadalajara,” said Digger, “as my father is the last person to understand Louis. There would be a big scene. Neither you nor Louis wants that. Wait there, and I’ll come to you.”

  It was a great encouragement to Louis that Digger was kind, and said that he knew his sister would also be understanding. “It’s only old bigots like my father, you’ll have to deal with,” said Digger, “but take my advice: don’t do anything to land you back in jail. Believe me, a civilian jail is much worse than the army cells.”

  After the night in the hotel, Louis was slightly more ready to face his mother. At home, Emma was not shocked. She had silently reached the same conclusion as her husband, and was ready for Louis’s return. “No-one outside the family needs to know what’s happened,” she said. “We’ll tell people you were ill, and got sent home. I expect the truth will dawn in some people’s minds, but they won’t say anything. You might want to talk to Aunt Clara and Uncle Ambros; and you must think about what you say to others like Carlos, and Senor Ribera.”

  It was Carlos who had the most sanguine reaction to Louis. “At last! Some of us have been waiting for you to say that for years! It’s hardly a surprise. Now you’ve escaped the army, get on and live your life, and stop looking so guilty!”

  Grandfather Manel had the last word: “Just stay out of jail!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At the time Louis was returning home from the army prison, rumours about Franco’s health were flying around the country, and indeed, around the world. Prince Juan Carlos had been nominated by Franco to take over when he died, and had become closely involved in government when the dictator was ailing during his last few years. On November 20th the news broke: Franco was dead.

  For many this was a time for rejoicing. The country had been ruled by the Fascist regime for thirty-five years. During that time Franco’s extreme austerity had gradually given way to a more prosperous way of life, but there were many people, both in the cities and in the countryside, for whom poverty had become a depressing way of life.

  Anna and Manel were amongst the lucky ones who had created a thriving business, at first in spite of the regime, and later in tandem with the gradual easing of regul
ations. Many in Barcelona had vivid memories of the civil war and the hardships of the aftermath, and some remained in mourning for the huge numbers who had perished both during the war and in the executions afterwards.

  Carlos was one of many bearing life-long scars from the war, and some were in a considerably worse plight than him. Many of the war-cripples had never found employment, and had survived nearly forty years begging on the streets. The death of El Caudillo brought memories flooding back to Carlos and his mother: they remembered his brother, lost at the battle of the Ebro, and his father, taken suddenly for flying a Catalan flag, and summarily executed.

  Clara and Eduard were surprised when their parents revealed that they had several cousins and unknown other relatives in South America, members of the family who had fled before the war, and never returned. “We never managed to keep up,” said Anna. “They drifted out of our memory, and it’s only the death of the bastard that has brought them back to our minds.”

  “Can we find them?” asked Clara.

  “I don’t know how to start,” said Manel. “I don’t even know which country they went to, and we never heard of them again once they’d sailed away. Perhaps they didn’t survive the journey.”

  “Or they’re running a department store in Rio de Janerio!” smiled Eduard.

  No-one knew what would happen next. “Will there be a coronation?” asked Louis. “We could decorate the store with crowns and flags.”

  “I don’t think things will happen very quickly,” said Manel, but in that he was entirely wrong. Two days after Franco’s death, before even the funeral had taken place, Juan Carlos was crowned king in the parliament building in Madrid. The first anyone knew was a radio announcement, stating that the country now had a king.

  “Will nothing change?” said Louis. “Will King Juan Carlos be just like General Franco? Will he be a kind of dictator-king?”

  “That would be positively Mediaeval,” said Maria. “I have designed costumes for kings and queens who ruled like dictators, but they’re in operas, and all a long time ago.”

  A day later, the newspapers carried stories of the coronation. It had not taken place in a church or cathedral, but in the main house of the parliament. Golden crowns had been placed on the heads of both Juan Carlos and his wife Sophia. Their children, the Princesses Elena and Cristina, and Prince Felipe were there to watch their parents become king and queen, and the children featured in many newspaper photographs. Juan Carlos’s father, Alfonso, was still alive, but had been passed over by Franco for being too liberal. Prince Felipe was given the title “Prince of Asturias” clarifying the succession. Aged only six years old, the idea of becoming king seemed a very distant possibility to the little boy.