“I can’t,” wailed Jordi. “Just let me sleep.”
“I said you must eat,” replied his mother. “It’s not a choice. We have to build you up. You’re back to the mill tomorrow, so eat, then sleep.”
Cuddled against his mother, Jordi was surprised to discover he had an appetite, and he devoured the greasy potatoes with their thin spicy sauce.
“Here you go,” said his father gruffly. “A pot of ale. But know this – I’ll not carry you to work in the morning, nor be there to bring you home. From tomorrow, you’re on your own.” Jordi’s brothers were soon crowding into the room, laughing at Jordi sipping the ale and slipping down sleepily. As happened every evening at the end of a long and exhausting day’s labour, it was not long before the candle was extinguished and the family slept.
CHAPTER TWO
At first Jordi thought he would never survive the first week, but somehow he did. Then he felt he’d die within a month, but he didn’t. That first Sunday he slept most of the day, and was frustrated that he’d wasted his only daytime escape from the factory. Several weeks passed before he became acclimatised to the drudgery. His workmate Tomas proved a loyal companion, and urged him to go with him down to the docks on a Sunday, and eventually Jordi had enough energy to arrange to meet Tomas, and together they went down the Ramblas.
At first, Jordi found it odd, after the weeks of nothing but deafening noise and pushing trolley after trolley of yarn, but once out into the fresher air of the Ramblas, he began to remember life before the mill. Each week he’d handed his few centimos wages to his father, and this day he’d been given a couple of fat dogs to spend for himself. It was a sunny spring morning, and the Ramblas was busy. Tomas joked with his friend as they dodged the crowds and avoided the pickpockets.
“Come on Senor Vilaro, my wealthy young friend. Two whole dogs burning a hole in your pocket. Let’s see how grandly we can live!”
“Ain’t you got any money Tomas?” asked Jordi.
“Only one fat dog, my weekly allowance, and I’ve got to take some chipirones back to my grandma. I get a handful for her every week. She looks forward to her treat, I can’t let her down.”
“Where do we get chipirones on a Sunday?” asked Jordi.
“At the chiringuita by the school,” replied Tomas. “Haven’t you ever been there?”
“Yes, I know where it is, but I never had any money before, so I never went in.”
The two boys hurried down the Ramblas and past the tall column of Columbus. They skirted through the docks, which were Sunday-quiet and onwards to the Barceloneta beach. Most of the bars and cafes were closed, but just one chiringuita was open, and as they approached they could hear the noise of the crowd inside, and see the clouds of steam rising from the ramshackle hut. Once inside, Jordi entered a world of food he had never dreamed of. Huge vats of paella were steaming over smouldering coals, and big flat loaves were being unloaded from a roaring oven. The place was full of ordinary working people, some in their Sunday best if they had it, but mostly in their grubby working clothes, laughing and joking as if tomorrow would never come. The air was heavy and thick with cigarette smoke and cooking smells.
Tomas led the way to a laughing cook who presided over a big frying pan, the thick fat bubbling with baby squid. “There’s the chipirones,” said Tomas. “Let’s get some with your money.”
Wide-eyed, Jordi handed him one of the ten centimos coins, and was relieved to get change thrust into his hand, as well as a big paper screw of blistering fish. “Come outside,” said Tomas, “We’ll find somewhere to sit.”
Settled on a boulder near the school, the boys nibbled the hot squid. How amazing that such a cheap ordinary snack could seem like a banquet to the two lads! At first they gobbled and burned their mouths, but then slowed down to savour the battered snacks. Between the tumble-down shacks on the beach, they glimpsed boats of all shapes and sizes, moving gently on the slight swell of the sea. It was a moment of simple pleasure for the two boys.
“Wait there, and give me some of that change,” said Tomas, and he disappeared into the chiringuita again. He was soon back with two tankards of a strange red liquid, and some more small coins for Jordi. Handing a mug to him, he said “Cheers, mate!”
“Cheers,” replied Jordi, sipping the hot liquid. “What is this stuff? It won’t make us drunk will it?”
“No, there’s no alcohol in it, it’s not like beer. I don’t know what’s in it, but it’s good, isn’t it?”
Jordi sipped some more, then looked seriously at his friend. “You know,” he said, “I don’t know how I didn’t die in those first few days in the mill. I wouldn’t have survived on my own.”
“Saved your life, didn’t I?” said Tomas, grinning. They sipped the hot liquid until it was all gone. Tomas took the tankards back into the chiringuita, then turned to Jordi.
“Let’s walk down to the fishermen’s wharf, see if we can pick up some fish, then we’ll come back here for some more chipirones to take home.”
Jordi never forgot the first day of freedom from the drudgery of the mill, and would remember for a long time the day of kindness by good, generous Tomas. Returning empty handed, but happy, from the fish wharf, they bought more baby squid, and wrapped them tightly in paper to take them home, Tomas to his grandmother, and Jordi to surprise his mother and sisters.
Clambering up the steep stairs to their room, Jordi found his father, as well as his mother and sisters, at home.
“Look,” he announced, “My turn to bring home something to eat.”
“Smells like…” said one sister.
“Can’t be…” said the other.
“Chipirones!” said his mother.
“To share,” announced Jordi, proudly. “Paid for with my own money.” The family crowded round and devoured the whole paper packet quickly. Jordi basked in the unfamiliar feeling of providing some pleasure for his family. “And what’s more,” he went on, “here’s a small dog back.”
“You keep it,” said his mother. “You’ve earned it.”
“Well done, boy,” said his father. “Now come and sit with me on the bed. We’ve got to have a serious talk. Girls, take your Mam out for a while, just go for a walk, or even better, take her to one of those bars you two hang out in.”
Blushing as if their father had revealed an embarrassing truth, the sisters gathered hats and coats and ushered Mam out. She didn’t resist as she would have normally done, so it was clear she knew why Pa wanted to be alone with Jordi.
When it was quiet, Pa turned to his son. “So … what’s it like working at the mill?”
Jordi was surprised by the start of the conversation. “Terrible, of course. But you know that, Pa. It’s horrible, much worse than I thought it would be. I thought I would die. Why are you asking me this? You know how bad it is, you’ve been there for years.”
“Yes, years: many, many long years. I hate it. I’ve always hated it. Your brothers are going to get out as soon as they can, they’ve even talked about going to sea; and your sisters will leave when they get married, if they ever do. I’ve been there now for nearly twenty years. And every day, every single day, I’ve hated it more.”
“Tomas said you are a hero in the factory.”
“Not really,” said his father. “I went to Senor Bertoli and asked some small favours. That tall supervisor Ferrer supported me. First I got the water put in on each floor. It’s only a lead stand-pipe, but there was nothing before. Then I got the short break to eat your snack. I don’t really know how I persuaded Senor Bertoli, but I told him we’d all work harder if we got a drink, and time to eat a snack. Ferrer must have put in a good word.”
“Everyone knows it was you. That’s what makes you a hero, Pa.”
“Forget that for a moment. I need to talk to you seriously. Do you know who owns the mill?”
“Why, Senor Bertoli,” said Jordi.
Vilaro laughed. “No son, of course not. He’s just a lackey, who has to keep everything goi
ng. How he got to that position, heaven knows. He’s got that tall drink of water Ferrer as his henchman, to go round and make sure everything’s working. No, neither of them own a thing, they get wages like us. Probably a bit more than me, but still not much. The workers in the factory don’t take much money home at the end of the week, do they?”
“I get just a few dogs, not even a whole peseta” said Jordi.
“And yet the place is booming. We couldn’t make more if we tried. We’re turning out miles of printed cotton. One floor, below you, even makes fine silk cloth, valuable stuff. Carts leave every day for the factories that make clothes, factories all over Barcelona and beyond. Cart after cart, filled with our sweat and labour, each load worth a fortune. And where does all the money go?”
“I don’t know,” replied Jordi, not seeing where the conversation was leading.
“To the mill owners. Thousands of pesetas a week. Thousands and thousands, week after week.”
“That’s not fair,” blurted out Jordi.
“No it’s not,” said his father. “And that’s the point.”
“So who are the people getting all the money?”
“The mill owners, the fat cats who never come down to the factory to see for themselves, who employ scum like Senor Bertoli to do their dirty work. The mill owners who can sit at home and count their duros, who can send their wives to expensive shops to buy themselves furs and grand furniture, who can give their children whole pesetas as pocket money, and send them to schools to learn to play the piano and chatter in foreign languages, who can walk leisurely down to their banks and take coffee with the bank manager, and who can parade in front of all the common folk when they go to the opening of their grand Palau de la Musica.”
Jordi gasped, and stuttered. “I didn’t know … so that’s why you didn’t want to go.”
“You’ve been around this city. You’ve seen some of the grand apartments in the Eixample … “
“It that where they live?”
“No, that’s just the shop keepers and bank clerks who work for them, and keep them happy and well-fed.” Pa stood and began to pace the room. “One day, I’ll take you up to Sant Gervasi. There you’d see the grand houses they live in, palaces built with our blood, and tears, and lives. Each time a kid dies in the mill, do we see the owner coming to help the family, go to the funeral, pay for the funeral, shed a tear? Of course not. They’re too busy hanging grand curtains, organising grand parties, practising being grand. It makes me sick.”
“So is the Palau such a bad thing, Pa? So bad you want to blow it up?”
Senor Vilaro smiled at his son. “You remembered what I said? No, I don’t want to blow the building up, but I’d like to blow up all the fat owners. Places like the Palau should be for ordinary working people like you and me, to go and enjoy whatever they do there.”
“There was a bomb at the opera once, wasn’t there?”
“Yes there was. I can remember it. I wasn’t much older than you. It was all the fat cats, just like you saw them going into the Palau, all dressed in their jewels and finery, and the bomb was thrown from the gallery, right up the top, where middle-class people could sit. They said he was a madman who threw it, but I’m not so sure. He was just like me, tired of how unfair it all is.”
“So what do we do, Pa?”
“I don’t know yet. But the time is coming. More and more of us are getting angry. It’s time to get organised.”
“If everybody in the factory thinks the same, and everybody just stopped work, the fat cats wouldn’t get their money, and they’d have to be, like, more fair,” said Jordi.
“That’s my boy!” replied Pa. “If only it was as simple as that. But quiet now, I can hear your mother on the stairs, and this is man’s talk. I won’t frighten her with such conversations.”
“One question, quickly,” said Jordi. “Are you what they call an anarchist?”
“Perhaps I am, perhaps not, time will tell. Be quiet now, here’s your mother.”
Jordi’s understanding of his father had changed quickly, and considerably, during their conversation, and he looked forward to going on with their talks when the chance arose. For the moment, however, he was content to make small talk with his mother as she shared another paper twist of potatoes.
The relentless mind-numbing work continued, as days blurred into weeks. After the cold darkness of the winter, Jordi welcomed the longer sunny days of spring, but soon discovered that the heat of the summer was as unbearable as the chill of winter. Stripped to minimal clothing, the boys sweated the day away, as the machines, unaffected by season, temperature or weather, continued to roll.
One morning, just as he pushed through the door into the weaving shed, Jordi was greeted by a penetrating scream, loud enough to cut through the roar of the machines. Two older boys near him ducked down to look under the nearest loom, and instinctively Jordi looked under the machine at the same time. A small boy, almost naked, was caught by his hair, and was being dragged by one of the huge leather drive-bands towards the massive steam-driven drive wheels. No-one stopped the machine. No-one did anything to help, and as Jordi watched, the little boy was crushed by the turning cogs and wheels.
Abandoning his trolley, Jordi rushed outside onto the high walkway, gulping the fresh air, and collapsing to the floor. At that moment, Tomas pushed through the door from the spinning shed, and saw his friend. Jordi lay on the boards of the bridge, crying and retching. “Hey,” said Tomas, “what’s happened?”
Jordi couldn’t reply, but pointed towards the weaving shed doors.
“Oh, I can guess,” said Tomas. “You saw something. Was it a kid … killed?”
Jordi nodded.
“First time is always the worst. Go and sit by the stand pipe. I’ll cover for you for a bit.” Jordi nodded again and staggered into the spinning shed, and fell down by the tap. Tomas pushed his trolley into the weaving shed, and avoiding looking towards the fatal accident, quickly collected two empty trolleys. As he went to push them through the swing door to the bridge, Senor Ferrer arrived at the top of the weaving mill stairs, taking them three at a time with his long legs, to see what had happened. Back in the spinning shed, Tomas pushed an empty trolley towards Jordi. “Quick, get up, Ferrer’s come up. He might come over here. Don’t let him see you sitting down. Just lean on the trolley.”
Jordi moaned, but struggled to his feet and took a mouthful of water.
“And don’t chuck up on the trolley,” chuckled Tomas. “We’ll all be in trouble if you do.”
It was a lovely summer’s evening when the hooter sounded for the end of the day. The irony of working in such a hell-hole on days of beautiful weather was not lost on the workers. Jordi managed to catch up with his father as they walked home.
“Pa,” said Jordi. “I need to talk to you. You know … without Mam. I just need to talk.”
“You know what happened in the weaving shed, son?”
“I saw it,” said Jordi. “It made me feel sick. I didn’t eat my snack. I wish I hadn’t looked.”
“We all see things we wish we didn’t see,” replied Pa. “We get tough, and eventually it doesn’t affect us. Just part of what happens in life.”
“It’s so unfair,” said Jordi.
Catching his two daughters who were walking ahead of them, Pa asked them to give a message to Mam. “Tell her not to worry, but Jordi and I will be a bit late tonight.”
“Something to do with that kid getting killed in the loom?” said one of the girls.
“It’s worse than you think. Jordi saw it happen. I’ll take him for bit of a walk.”
The daughters smiled, pleased to be seeing their father’s compassionate side.
“We’ll tell Mam,” they said.
Cutting through the back lanes of the Raval, Senor Vilaro took his son down to the docks. Despite the noise and smell, the air at the dockside was always fresher than the smog of the Raval, and the two, father and son, companionable together, sat on a hu
ge bollard near an ocean-going tramp steamer.
“Talk to me,” said Pa.
“I don’t know what to say,” replied Jordi. “It’s just not fair.”
“Eat your snack. You’ve had nothing all day.”
Reluctantly Jordi pulled the stale bread from his pocket, but as soon as he started to nibble it, he discovered he was very hungry.
Vilaro spoke quietly and earnestly. “Ten hours a day, six days a week, and they make kids do it. There’s talk of unions and such, but nothing comes of it. Every time we try to do something, the big bosses find a way to beat us down. There’s a thing for workers called The Federation. I don’t know if it will do any good, but lot of the older men are talking about joining. I could throw a bomb, if I knew where to get one, but what good would it do? That man who threw the Liceu bomb, he killed twenty of the fat cats, but life for the gentry goes on the same. They called him a murderer, and he was executed, garrotted I expect. If we protest, they send in soldiers to shoot us, and they’re not called murderers. Workers? It doesn’t matter if a few of us die, there’s plenty more where we came from. As for a little kid, killed by a machine, it’s no odds.”
Father and son sat for a moment, looking at the murky water between them and the steamer.
“Pa,” said Jordi after a while, “we should find out about this federation. It won’t work if no-one joins, but if lots and lots of us do, especially people like you Pa, who really care about the workers, we need to join and … do something. How do we find out more?”
Senor Vilaro fished in his pocket and brought out a crumpled sheet of paper. Smoothing it on his thigh, he spoke, “I think this is all about it, Jordi, but I can’t read it. That’s part of the trouble: none of us can even read.”
“I think Tomas knows some reading. He said his grandmother picked out his letters, and he can write his name.”
Pa smiled. “We need a lot more than writing our names,” he said. “We need proper reading, all the words, and knowing what they say, what they add up to.”
Barcelona Sunset Page 3
