Clara tried hard to describe the sculpture, which locals had nick-named “Torre Calatrava”, to Anna, who remained mystified. Ambros suggested to his wife that the best thing would be for Clara to go and sketch the tower, and bring a drawing to Anna. Once she had done this, Anna was more satisfied, but still incredulous that such a tall sculpture had been built on the side of the Montjuic Hill.
It was Louis, walking with David one Saturday in the winter, who made the most extraordinary discovery of all. They had set out towards Montjuic Castle, looking for somewhere quiet to talk about the supposed Gay Plague, and try to understand better what was happening. The death of Freddie Mercury had come as a shock to them both. Near the famous Miro house, they came upon a large building site.
“Another Olympic development, I suppose,” said Louis.
“But what a strange one,” said David, “on the side of this very steep hill. Surely there’s no sport which can be staged in such a location.”
“It’s the diving pool,” said a worker. “Just imagine: the diving boards will be up here, near the road, and the pool will be down there to dive into. We have to squeeze the spectators into stands on either side, and down the steep slope.”
“Look at the view!” said Louis.
“Yes, of course,” said David, the full concept becoming clear to him. “As they dive, the television cameras will capture them flying through the air with the whole of Barcelona beyond them in the background.”
“Brilliant!” exclaimed Louis.
“If we manage to finish it on time,” said the worker grimly. “It’s proving a very tricky site to work on.”
Thus was born what would become the most iconic view of the Barcelona Olympics, an image that would go round the world.
Anna became quite overwhelmed at the crescendo of information coming from her children and grandchildren. Concerned that the old lady did not leave her apartment very often, the family enjoyed visiting and keeping her informed about the upheavals in the city.
“There’s lots of work at Camp Nou for the football.”
“A huge canal is being built at Casteldefels for canoeing.”
“Out in the countryside, near Granollers, we’re told they’re building a great cycling track.”
“The hand ball tournament will be held at Granollers, and boxing and basketball will be in Badalona.”
“Stop, stop,” said Anna, “you’re confusing me.”
“But there’s lots more, Grandmother,” said Jose. “You remember the old station called ‘Estacio Nord’? They’re going to have table tennis there!”
“Table tennis?” said Anna. “Is that an Olympic sport?”
“And down at Reus, they’re building a special rink for roller hockey. That’s not an Olympic sport, but they’re trying it out; it’s called a demonstration sport.”
Louis arrived with a very large box, and presented Anna with a television. “I know you will not want to go to the sports,” he said, “as there will be tremendous crowds, but you will be able to watch everything on the television.”
“Your father is playing in the orchestra. I wonder if I will see him on the television?” said Anna.
“Perhaps you will,” replied Louis, “and you may even see Maria and Marta. They’re both singing in the choir.”
At the opera house, there were urgent discussions about the new opera which was to be staged during the Olympics. As a senior member of the orchestra, Eduard was part of the committee which had commissioned the opera, and Maria was on stand-by to design costumes.
Composer Joan Guinjoan was summoned to a meeting of the committee, to give them a progress report. The committee were not pleased with what they heard. It appeared the composer was having great difficulties with the whole concept. Although it seemed obvious that Gaudi would make a wonderful subject for an opera, especially at this time of celebration of the city, Guinjoan had little to show for his efforts. The libretto was unfinished, and what had been achieved was unsatisfactory; there was very little of it set to music; and no orchestrations.
The director of the opera house was extremely concerned, and he stared at Guinjoan. “You are not going to deliver, are you?” he said sternly. “It’s nine months to the proposed performances. It’s is probably too late to consider staging a lavish production with large chorus and a ballet. We should be casting, and starting rehearsals; scenery and costume designs are needed now, and you haven’t brought us enough to make a start.”
Eduard felt sorry for Guinjoan, as the composer sat crestfallen and distressed before the committee. “I’ll keep working on it,” he said, “but I regret very much that I will not make the deadline.”
“The deadline has passed. You’ve not made it,” responded the director. “We must decide at this meeting if we can continue with the project. Sadly I feel we have no choice but to scrap the plan for a new opera for the Olympics. I am very disappointed. We are all very disappointed. Perhaps we will stage ‘Gaudi’ in the future: that remains to be seen.”
Rehearsals had started, however, for the opera house’s contribution to the opening ceremony. Maria was part of a team designing and sewing costumes for the singers and the augmented chorus in which both she and her sister would sing. Eduard was taken aback to discover that the whole orchestra would play a prominent part, dressed in costumes which Maria described as, “Very different from what you’re used to wearing.”
As the weeks and months ticked by, the entire city was caught up in the frenzy of preparations and the challenge of having everything ready on time. An enormous fish sculpture was unveiled at the casino, the sports venues were revealed one by one, and vast numbers of dancers began complex rehearsals for the opening ceremony.
Many of the local Spanish athletes were lucky to finalise their training in the venues where they would be competing, and when the diving pool was inaugurated on the steep hillside of Montjuic, the whole city shared the glow of anticipation for a momentous Olympic Games.
As the opening drew near, the challenge was to sort out tickets for the family. All except Anna, they wanted to attend the opening ceremony. Eduard in the orchestra, and Maria and Marta in the choir, each had an allocation. To their surprise, a well-wisher in Father David’s congregation gave him a pair of tickets, so he would be able to take Louis. With Catarina at home with Anna, there were enough tickets for all of the family to attend the opening, and there was one left over for Carlos.
“I should think so, too,” said Jose. “Carlos is a member of our family, and he must be there with us.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
On Saturday 25th July 1992, sixty-seven thousand people were seated in the Lluis Companys Arena. The excitement was running high, following weeks of rumour and speculation about the extravaganza which was about to happen. Eduard took his seat on the high wide stage built for the musicians, and the members of the orchestra grinned at one another in their extraordinary white tailcoats. From a higher platform, his nieces waved to him, and Eduard waved back. It had been a long hot afternoon when the crowds had taken their places, and the cooler air of the early evening was very welcome.
As the sun began to set, the recorded voices of Freddie Mercury and Monserrat Caballe were broadcast in full volume across the Olympic site. One by one the spotlights blazed at each venue, and rows of Olympic pillars glowed in the gathering darkness. As the arena audience waited for the spectacle to begin, the people at home and around the world watched a marvellous film of modern Barcelona: the city had never looked so good. Anna turned to Catarina, “Is this the same place that suffered through the long years of the civil war, and terrors of El Caudillo? We have come so far!”
The amplified voices of Freddie and Monserrat captured the moment as they sang, “Bells are ringing out, calling us together!” and the song called all the people of the world to Barcelona.
On a large screen, the arena audience watched the Magic Fountains come to life, and the hundreds without tickets, crowding the wide avenue from Placa D
’Espanya cheered as the mist from the hundreds of fountain jets drifted across them.
A large band of Catalan shawm players, in traditional Catalan costumes, with their distinctive red caps, gave an ear-splitting rendering of the Catalan national anthem. As the cheers for the Catalan flag bearers died down, the stage was set for the arrival of the royal family.
The conductor raised his baton and the orchestra prepared to play the Spanish National Anthem. Eduard stood, having been given the solo trumpet part and turned towards the microphone. Just as King Juan Carlos and Queen Sophia entered the royal box, and the vast crowd rose, Eduard blew the rousing trumpet introduction, and above him Maria, Marta, and the huge assembled choir sang the anthem.
Hardly had the last chord died away, than the recorded music for the dancers filled the air, and the arena filled rapidly with hundreds of excited dancers, each carrying a massive carapace of yellow flames. The opening ceremony had begun. Emma, sitting between Louis and David, grasped their hands as she tried to see Eduard far away across the arena. “I know it was him playing the trumpet in the National Anthem,” she told Louis, “but he’s so far away, I can’t see him.
David smiled. “You can see all those players in their white uniforms,” he said, “Eduard is one of those!”
“Uncle Digger is here, as well,” said Louis, “but we’ll never find him in all this crowd.”
“Don’t be so sure,” came a voice behind him, and a hand on his shoulder. “I’m right behind you!”
“Digger!” exclaimed his sister. “How did you manage that?”
“With help from Eddie, and some influence at the bank,” replied Digger. “What a jolly spectacle.”
On the other side of the arena, Clara turned to Ambros. “We will never forget this evening,” she said. “Father would have loved it. After all these years…..” and she turned to Carlos and Jose. “Astonishing!”
Carlos put his strong arms around Clara on one side, and Jose on the other. “We’ve come a long way.”
“I hope Grandmother is watching,” said Jose, “Uncle Louis got her a television for today, and I’m sure she will be thinking the same thoughts.”
Overheard a white airship drifted on the breeze sending aerial pictures to the millions watching on television.
The crowd clapped and cheered as the extravaganza unfolded. The mass of flames – or were they reeds in the river, waving in the wind? – vanished and were replaced by an even bigger army of dancers wearing huge cloaks to represent the sea. The sparkling blue cloaks combined to create a complete arena-full of tumbling waves and ever-moving sea. Into the sea came a large shining ship, propelled by oars. As the stainless ship came to a halt in the centre of the arena, its sides opened, masts and sails were raised, and a company of sailors revealed a large warship. The excited crowd gasped and cheered as monstrous sea creatures attacked the ship.
“Barcelona overcomes the monsters of the deep,” boomed the commentator, “and asserts its mastery of the sea.”
“I think it looks like the people of Barcelona overcoming the monsters of Fascism,” said Clara.
The mechanical monsters careered around the ‘sea’, creating fearsome noises and spouting smoke, their terrible swords and spikes, all propelled by hapless people trapped inside the metallic behemoths, whirled and jabbed: barbarian weapons like huge chariots attacking the ship. The recorded sound track was deafening, and Eduard was pleased to be watching and not attempting to play such a cacophony of sound. One by one, the sea monsters were defeated, and the galleon of Barcelona was triumphant, to the noisy delight of the crowd.
The galleon sailed on, and the sea retreated, leaving a tranquil and momentarily quiet arena. A new kind of music burst out, once more recorded, with a jolly repetitive theme: this was the cue for the entry of the athletes.
Country by country, the athletes marched into the arena, their infectious delight at coming to the games setting the audience into wave after wave of cheers and applause. The near-naked strong men of Mongolia were given a loud cheer, and the recent political changes in the world were given particular acknowledgement. There was a large contingent from newly-unified Germany, and another from South Africa, welcomed back into the Olympic family after the overthrow of apartheid. The Soviet Union, having fallen apart at the end of communism, was represented by a combined Soviet team, and the largest group was from the United States of America, who burst into the stadium in a riot of patriot uniforms with cowboy hats. Last to arrive was the Spanish team, lead by the youngest competitor in the games, eleven-year-old Carlos Front, who would cox the Spanish eights in the rowing competition.
At last all the athletes were assembled: nine thousand from one hundred and seventy-two countries. By this time it was quite dark, and a wonderful glow embraced the arena. The opera house orchestra accompanied singer Agnes Baltsa as the Olympic flag was brought into the arena.
“I remember the flag arriving from Seoul, four years ago,” said Digger. “I was near by when that British pop singer sang with Monserrat Caballe.”
“You know he died?” said Emma.
“Dreadful business,” said Digger. “made even me feel a bit tearful when we heard the recording.”
The Olympic flag was raised to renew cheers, and an enormous version of it unfurled across the heads of the athletes. Then there was a pause and the lights dimmed, as the Olympic torch was carried into the arena. Juan Antonio, a Spanish basketball player, ran a full lap of honour, and then up a short ramp to where the disabled archer, Antonio Rebello stood waiting.
Rebello’s arrow was set alight from Antonio’s torch, and slowly the archer took aim. The entire stadium held its breath. The conductor held the orchestra in readiness with his baton. Silence descended.
Rebello pulled back his bow string, swallowed hard, and released the flaming arrow. It soared high over the crowd, and to the cauldron at the top of the grandstand. The cauldron burst into flames, the orchestra struck up, with Eduard blowing his trumpet as hard as he had ever blown it, and the crowd gave a cheer which resounded around the world.
Just as King Juan Carlos stepped up to the microphone, Rebello turned to Antonio. “We did it!” he said, and the two men embraced at the moment the king declared the games open.
Clara turned to Ambros. “That flame, high on the top of the stadium, on the top of Montjuic – that represents our wonderful city, and how it has risen from the horrors of the war, and the years of Fascism.”
Ambros nodded. “The phoenix of Monjuic.”
The spotlights turned now to the orchestra which launched into an operatic medley. It seemed appropriate somehow that the opening ceremony celebrated Barcelona’s tradition of opera. The city’s favourite singer, Monserrat Caballe sailed onto the stage, her voluminous gown fluttering in the breeze. Behind her, a company of opera singers strode onto the wide stage in front of the orchestra.
Maria nudged her sister. “You see that dress the diva is wearing? I designed that, and we made it in the opera house costume department. I based it on the Queen of the Night, from the first opera I ever saw.”
“It’s wonderful,” said Marta.
“And contains miles and miles of fine silk!” laughed Maria.
Rarely had such a circle of operatic talent been assembled before. Joining Monserrat Caballe, were Jose Carreras, Placido Domingo, Juan Pons, and Anges Baltsa, singing together in a rousing medley of famous Italian arias, and even those in the crowd who were less interested in opera, were forced acknowledge the world-class group of Spanish singers they were witnessing.
Suddenly the orchestra went quiet and the singers stepped back from the edge of the stage. Far above the choir, a spotlight picked out a young boy, high up, near the flaming cauldron, and with the minimum of accompaniment, he sang the haunting theme of Beethoven’s Choral Symphony, ‘Ode to Joy’. The phalanx of opera singers took up the theme, and were quickly followed by the entire choir. Starting from the lone voice of the young boy, there came a massive crescendo. As t
he work reached its climax, fireworks exploded all around the stadium, and all around the city.
Anna turned to Catarina. “Turn it off,” she said. “I’m quite exhausted. What it must have been like for the family, to be there, to witness it all, I cannot imagine. This old lady needs to go to bed.”
Catarina smiled. “You may find it difficult to sleep. I think the fireworks will go on for a long time, and then crowds will come through the streets, drunk on success, singing our great new anthem, ‘Barcelona’.”
It was in the small hours of the morning before Maria and Marta fell into their beds. Emma and Clara had wearily gone home, but the men of the family continued to party until dawn.
Maria was in a deep sleep, when her mother knocked thunderously on her bedroom door. “Maria, Maria, wake up!”
Maria turned over sleepily. “It’s Sunday morning, I’m staying in bed.”
“No,” shouted Clara, “Wake up, quickly, it’s very important!”
Maria struggled to her feet, and opened her bedroom door. To her astonishment she found not only her mother, but her Uncle Eduard and his friend Digger. Ambros stood behind them, and even Jose and Carlos were in the hallway beyond.
“Whatever’s happening?” said Maria. “I was asleep. Are you all drunk?”
“Have you seen the morning paper?” asked Eduard.
“Of course not,” said Maria. I’ve been asleep.”
“Sit on your bed,” said Clara quietly. “You men stand back, give me a moment.” She closed the bedroom door, and sat next to her daughter. “Uncle Eduard bought the morning paper when it appeared this morning. He bought it for the pictures and reports of the opening ceremony.” She paused.
“Go on,” said Maria. “What’s so important to wake me up?”
“Look,” said Clara. “Down at the bottom of the page, a small report. One of the paper’s reporters wandered amongst the athletes yesterday evening in the arena, and wrote this little report, which the paper slipped in at the very bottom of the front page.” She handed the paper to Maria, and pointed to a short story, just a few column inches.
The Phoenix of Montjuic Page 31
