“I told Louis I don’t understand. Perhaps for some it’s not just a phase,” he said, “but I still hope things will change for Louis. He is the only one carrying forward the Bonet name, and I hope he will find a good woman to marry and carry on the family business.”
Emma looked at her husband. “If Louis doesn’t marry, the Bonet name will die, even though it’s now well-known in the city.”
“This singer, Peter Pears,” said Eduard, “was with Britten for years and years. When the composer died, even the Queen of England sent a message of condolence to Pears. I’ll get a ticket for Louis to see this ‘Billy Budd’ and see what he makes of it.”
As the years passed, Eduard’s love of music had grown, and he was especially pleased when a new work, particularly by a Spanish composer was performed at the Liceu. He was slightly surprised to discover himself to be one of the more senior in the orchestra, and he enjoyed not only the work in the pit, but also the occasional symphony concert the orchestra gave on the stage of the opera house.
Louis’s sister, Monserrat, finally realised her ambition to open a small restaurant in the Eixample, helped by contacts from the department store. To the delight of the family, she decided to call her business ‘Bonets’, and many of her customers arrived at her door expecting the same slightly old-fashioned service they expected at the department store. Monserrat made sure they were not disappointed.
Few of the family were very interested in football, except Jose, who regularly went to matches with Carlos. When the international football association, called FIFA, awarded the world cup matches to Barcelona in 1982, it was a cause of great celebration in the city. Carlos and Jose were excited beyond belief, much to the amazement of the rest of the family. Jose talked to his cousin about decorating the store for the world cup.
“What?” said Louis, “just for some football matches?”
Jose groaned. “Don’t you see? It’s the biggest football tournament in the world! And it’s not just really exciting, but it’s very symbolic of how our city has triumphed after all the dreadful Franco years. Barcelona was the city he hated, the city he deprived and scorned. Now the world cup is coming, not to Madrid, but to us, Barcelona.”
“Many years ago,” said Eduard, “I was keen to go to the football with Carlos, but I stopped going when we knew the matches were rigged, so that Madrid always beat Barcelona. I lost all interest in the game, but Carlos went now and again. I suppose bringing the world cup is another celebration of the end of the Franco years.”
Jose and Carlos made sure their car showroom was filled with football decorations – a huge paper replica of the world cup stood in the centre, and flags from many nations lined the walls. Eduard had to admit that it was impressive, and when he saw the attention the showroom gained, he encouraged Louis to quickly fill the department store windows with posters and flags.
Although Jose had always had a succession of girlfriends, Carlos had not attracted girls. He blamed his disability, and said the crutches stopped anyone from being interested in him. He was surprised and delighted that the extravagant world cup display in the showroom brought lots of visitors, not only keen to look at the shining replica cup, but to meet Jose, and him. As an older single man, he found himself attracted to one or two of the older ladies who came ostensibly to admire the cars and motorbikes, but in fact to talk to him.
Jose would look across the showroom and grin as Carlos sat back upon the bonnet of a sports car whilst a couple of matrons fussed over him. “You are doing well there,” said Jose. “Some of these old ladies want to mother you, and if you find a wealthy widow, you won’t go far wrong. It will be a real thrill for them if you take them out for a spin in the sports car.”
“You’re laughing at me,” said Carlos.
“No,” said Jose. “You’re my business partner and my best friend. I’d love to see you hook up with one of these old birds.”
“I don’t even know what you’re talking about sometimes,” said Carlos. “Hook up? Old birds? What would your mother say if she heard you just now?”
Louis was surprised that his father was so keen that he should go to a performance of Billy Budd, and very excited to be given a good seat in the platea. He borrowed a dinner suit from the men’s department, and with his sister’s help, tied a bow tie. Although he dressed formally at work, such evening finery was new to him, and he rather liked the image he saw in the mirror.
He took his place in the audience, as awestruck as the rest of his family had been on their first trips to the opera. Soon after he arrived, another smartly dressed young man with a white silk opera scarf tied around his neck, sat beside him, and greeted him. Louis smiled and returned to reading the programme, giving discreet glances at the man sitting beside him. He felt sure he had seen him before. A customer at the store? Louis could not place the familiar face.
The lights dimmed and the curtain rose upon a dark stage, with an old man sitting in a spotlight. The violins started to weave an ominous and eerie tune, as the old man started to tell the story. Louis was dumbfounded: this was nothing like his expectation of opera. The old man explained that the story was taking place in 1797, and abruptly the lights rose to reveal the deck of a British sailing warship, the stage filled with men and boys, with the orchestra and chorus fully engaged in creating the tensions and horrors of life on the ship. With their repeated “Oh Heave” chorus, the sailors portrayed the hardship of their lives.
Louis was astonished when the interval came. He had been so completely engrossed that he’d been unaware of the time passing. Most of the audience rushed to the bar, but Louis sat in a daze, reflecting upon the experience. Had his father known how he would react, being confronted by a stage full of virile and semi-naked men?
“Amazing, isn’t it?” said the man next to him.
Louis turned, and came out of his trance. “Yes,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” He paused and looked directly at the man. “I’m sorry, I can’t remember, but have we met before?”
The young man smiled, and pulled his scarf away from his neck, revealing his clerical dog-collar. “Aren’t you Louis Bonet?” he said.
“Yes,” stammered Louis, “and you?”
“We met at your father’s funeral,” said the man. “I’m Father David. I came to the parish after Father Matias died, and I came to your tea room after the funeral. Despite losing your father, it turned out to be a day of celebration.” Louis nodded as Father David continued, “Father Matias wasn’t very popular was he?”
“No,” said Louis. “But what are you doing here?”
Father David smiled. “A Catholic priest can like opera; in fact there are several men of the cloth in this audience.”
The audience started to file back to their seats for the second act, and Louis once more was sucked into the drama of the opera. He was aware that tears were unexpectedly flowing down his cheeks as the terrible climax approached. As Billy Budd walked to his execution, he felt Father David’s hand gripping his knee. He was comforted, and did not try to push the hand away. At the end, both he and Father David applauded wildly, and as Louis wiped away the tears, he saw that Father David had been crying as well.
He stumbled out in to the night, and had hardly any memory of walking home. He awoke next morning to find the dress suit and the rest of his clothes on the floor. For the first time ever, he would be late for work, but he lay in bed reflecting upon the extraordinary performance. He rubbed his knee, and the recollection of Father David’s hand became mixed with the memories of the opera.
A few days later, the telephone rang in Louis’s office. It was Father David.
“I hoped I could speak to you by telephoning the shop,” he said. “I’m sorry about the other night. I don’t usually go around grabbing men’s knees. It was just the emotion of the moment.”
“Think nothing of it, I’d forgotten all about it,” lied Louis. “It’s strange, isn’t it, that our parents and grandparents lived through a time
when executions, and unfair random killings, took place every day in our city. I have a friend whose father was just taken away and shot. All the older people in the city have friends and relations who were murdered. For us, confronted by a make-believe scene on the stage, we became upset.”
“That’s the power of Britten’s music,” said Father David. “Listen: I know this may be a little forward of me, but I have no-one to go to the opera with. I wonder if you’d like to meet up and go to another opera soon?”
“I’d like that, Father,” said Louis. “You don’t mind having a friend who doesn’t attend your church?”
“No,” said David. “My name’s not Matias, and sometimes it’s good to get away from the piety of the church. Oh, and please drop the ‘father’, please just call me David.”
“I have a phone at home, David,” said Louis. “Let me give you my number.”
It was nearly a month before David telephoned. “Have you ever seen Montserrat Caballe on the stage?” he said.
“I’m an opera virgin,” said Louis. “Just because my father plays there, doesn’t mean I’ve taken much interest in the opera. Billy Budd was my first.”
“You jumped in at the deep end,” laughed David. “How about going to something very different? Caballe is singing Turandot next week. If you’ve never seen it, you’re in for a treat.”
“Turandot?” said Louis. “I believe that’s the opera my cousin designed all the costumes for! I’ve always felt a bit guilty that I never went to see it. The rest of the family were at the first night, years ago, when I was too young, and they were all very excited about it.”
Since his disastrous time in the army, Louis had steered clear of any friendships except with the staff at the store; and he was not close to any of them. His sister had been his only confidante. At first he was hesitant to become friends with the priest, but it quickly became clear that they were both equally lonely, and equally glad of friendship. Anna remained the only member of the family to attend the church regularly, and was unsure about going to confession with a young priest who was becoming a close friend of her own grandson. She spoke to Sister Maria Monserrat about her worries, but the nun reassured her of Father David’s integrity. She considered him to be very reliable, and in the short time he had been in the parish he had built an enviable reputation.
Louis provided David with an outlet away from the pressures of the priesthood; and David provided Louis with an uncomplicated friendship, unlike any he had had previously. They discovered a mutual love of the opera, and started to attend symphony concerts at the Palau de la Musica. The rest of the family watched the two young men with some trepidation.
Eduard spoke to Emma about his fears. “If they are attracted to one another, there is a terrible risk; Louis will be dragged into a scandal with the priest. It’s no longer illegal, but it’s very different for a priest.”
“We have to trust them,” said Emma. “Father David is a very nice young man, and very committed to his calling. I don’t think anything bad will happen.”
“I hope you’re right,” said Eduard. “I don’t want to see our son get hurt.”
It was sensible Monserrat who took Louis to one side, and said what the rest of the family were thinking. “My dear brother: are you playing with fire? We’d all like you to fall in love with someone, but heaven help us if you love the priest.”
“I know,” replied Louis, “and I am very aware that the situation has dangers. David and I have talked about it, although we both found it hard to find the right words. We know that we can be close, and good friends, but David is very clear where the line is drawn, and always will be drawn, and I respect him for that. And if the family are all whispering behind our backs, please tell them to stop worrying. I’ll be alright.”
Louis had never taken a holiday since becoming the young manager of the department store, and he was very hesitant when David suggested a trip to Rome. “It’s a wonderful city, and I can take you to the Vatican. However sceptical you are, you cannot fail to be impressed by Saint Peter’s.”
“Where will we stay?”
“There are guest houses run by monks, almost like staying in a monastery. I know of one very close to Vatican City. I have stayed there before. It’s all single rooms, and because most of the guests are priests, all single men.”
“And how will the department store manage without me?” said Louis.
“I’m sure it will survive for a few days. Anyway, you’ve told me about your very clever Aunt Clara: can she sit at your desk whilst we’re gone?”
“She will be delighted to,” said Louis. “You know, she was there, and part of, the very beginning of the store when my grandfather opened it. He used to say that creating the store was partly her idea when she was a little girl. I suppose she’s the ideal person to keep an eye on things.”
“So it’s settled,” said David. “Aunt Clara takes your place, and you come with me to Rome.”
Clara had never lost an interest in all that happened at the store, and she was more than ready and willing to occupy Louis’s office for as long as he wished to be away. She urged him not to worry, and to put the store out of his mind. “Go,” she said, “and enjoy your holiday.”
She sat at his desk. She looked at the telephone and wondered if it would ring. She sharpened his pencils, and opened and shut the desk drawers. Everything was running so smoothly, she wondered what Louis did all day. She walked to the window and looked down on the people hurrying up and down Balmes. It was a beautiful autumn day, and the morning sun was creeping into the street. She sat and checked Louis’s calendar: it was Friday 17th October 1986. She took out a sheet of paper, and started to draw. Her old designing skills had never left her, and she found herself drawing an elaborate wedding gown. She sighed. It seemed Louis would never find a bride to wear such a gown.
Suddenly the telephone rang. Clara jumped with surprise, and then picked it up.
“Bonet’s department store,” she announced. “Clara Sanchez speaking.”
“This is your husband, Ambros Sanchez, calling from the library on the first floor,” said Ambros, roaring with laughter. “How’s life at the top?”
“Lovely,” said Clara, “but I’m not doing anything.”
“It’s quiet down here as well,” said Ambros. “Where is everybody?”
Clara was still drawing, when the telephone rang again.
“Bonet’s department store,” she said.
“Clara, is that you?” came her brother’s voice. “It’s me, Eduard. I hoped you’d answer. Something’s happening, I’m not sure what, but I’m on my way to work and a great crowd has gathered in Placa Catalunya. I’ll calling from a telephone box in El Cortes Ingles. Does Louis have a wireless in his office? Put it on and see what’s going on.”
Clara was able to find a local station, and listened for a while to a discussion about the growing tourist industry. Suddenly an excited voice interrupted the discussion.
“We have our microphone in Placa Catalunya, where a great crowd is gathering,” said the announcer.
After a little predictable crackling, a different voice could be heard. “I am speaking to you from the Swiss town of Lausanne,” said the voice, “where the decision for the city to host the 1992 Olympics has just been announced. Beating Amsterdam, Belgrade, Birmingham, Brisbane and Paris, the 1992 Olympics will be held in…” There was a pause. Clara could hear the crowd roar in anticipation. “Barcelona!”
Immediately the telephone rang. “Did you hear that?” said Eduard. “Barcelona!”
There was a knocking on the office door, and Ambros burst in: “Barcelona!”
Later that day, Eduard described the dancing on Placa Catalunya, and the rejoicing as he’d walked down the Ramblas. Never had an autumn day felt so festive. It was as if the shadow of the Franco years had finally been torn away, vanished. The whole world would be coming to Barcelona.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The day after the announcement, ever
yone was rather sober as they started to become aware of the enormity of staging the Olympics. The grandiose plans prepared by the city had won the admiration of the International Olympic Committee, which was keen to support the emergence of the city after the years of the dictatorship, and saw the potential for a summer of sports under the Mediterranean sun. Businesses the length and breadth of the city started planning, and the city created a large organising committee of both politicians and businessmen to mastermind the arrangements. There was extensive coverage of the plans in the local newspapers, which caused another burst of excitement.
“They’re going to rebuild half of the city,” exclaimed Clara, “new roads, new hotels, new flats and houses, new everything!”
“And amazing sports arenas,” said Ambros, sharing the newspaper with her. “How will we pay for it all?”
“They will be borrowing a lot of money,” said Clara, “but it will be worth it. Everyone in the world will know about our city.”
At the opera house, there was also talk of nothing but the Olympics. Eduard, as one of the senior members of the orchestra, was invited to join a steering committee.
“We should commission a new opera, to be performed at the time of the Olympics,” was the first suggestion. It was greeted with enthusiasm, and the subject was suggested that an opera could be conceived about the city’s most famous architect, Antoni Gaudi. “Although writing an opera about a notoriously reclusive man will be a considerable challenge,” said one of the committee. The prominent Catalan composer Joan Guinjoan was given the commission.
There was, however, a considerably more exciting source of gossip at the Liceu. Rumour had it that their star diva, Montserrat Caballe, had suggested that she would collaborate with the notorious British rock singer Freddie Mercury, on a new anthem for the Barcelona Olympics. There were many who dismissed the rumours as extremely fanciful and unlikely, but the day came when the orchestra were handed the instrumental parts for the new song, ‘Barcelona’.
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