Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “We’re on the same side,” said Tomas, “but you have to be stronger and braver, and embrace the terror we must inflict to change Barcelona once and for all.”

  “I am strong and brave. I have to be strong to resist the pressure you, and my father, are putting upon me to become a murderer. I have to be brave to face you each day, knowing how easily you say you could kill people,” said Jordi.

  Grandmother had been listening to this conversation with growing apprehension. “Many people have been driven apart by their political differences,” she said. “I’d be sorry if this happens to you two.”

  “My mind is made up,” said Tomas. “I used to quietly accept what the bosses call ‘my station in life’. That’s just using God to justify their selfish cruelty. I won’t accept it any longer. Somehow, it wasn’t a surprise to learn that Salvador was my grandfather. I believe I’m following in his footsteps, and the footsteps of my father, even though I never met either of them.”

  “I can’t say that,” said Jordi, “as I don’t think I am following my father. He is as committed to terrorism as you are, and I just can’t follow.”

  “Look out of the window,” said Tomas. “You see that rich bitch walking her poodle? She’s wearing a wrist-watch that cost more than you used to earn in a year, probably in ten years. She’s wearing clothes that cost beyond your imagination. She thinks she’s going home to a warm, comfortable house, where badly paid staff are waiting to cook for her, and wait on her. That dog probably gets more to eat, and better food, than we do. She walks down the Ramblas like that, because she knows we won’t do anything. Well her time has come. Watch me.”

  Picking up his gun, Tomas ran down the stairs, rushed past the begging toad, and out onto the Ramblas. Jordi watched as the elegant woman wandered up the centre of the boulevard, with Tomas following. The woman was not in a hurry and stopped as the dog cocked its leg against a tree. With his prey standing quite still, and completely unaware, Tomas took aim. Suddenly there was a loud explosion, and the woman crashed forward, blood pouring from a gunshot in the back of her head. The dog started howling, alarmed by the noise of the gun shot. A number of passers-by ran towards them. As a crowd gathered, Tomas slipped away.

  The toad Bertoli remained unperturbed. He turned to looked at the crowd surrounding the body; he turned back, and looked up at the window of the music shop. Silently he blinked, and stored useful information away in the roily recesses of his mind.

  Jordi turned away from the window, horrified by the scene. Grandmother was standing behind him, and had watched to whole macabre spectacle. He looked at her with tears in his eyes. She said nothing, but with a grim and serious expression on his face, she nodded slowly.

  Jordi understood why Tomas was so fanatical, but he couldn’t stomach his actions. With his emotions in turmoil, and distressed by Tomas’s gratuitous violence, he began to realise that his close friendship had ended. He looked across the room, this snug office which had been his home for some time. Perhaps it was now time to leave. He wanted to remain true to the workers’ struggle, but he could not bring himself to support the anarchists’ random violence.

  There was no sign of Tomas for the rest of the day, as he obviously did not want to lead police to the music shop and its band of revolutionaries. Since Bonaventura’s murder, Vilaro had been morose, and had spent much time wandering the streets, meeting other political agitators, and feeling generally depressed. Jordi did not feel his father was likely to understand or support him, and he waited impatiently for his mother to come home, desperate to talk to her about his dilemma.

  Mam arrived mid-afternoon, with her usual light dusting of flour from the baker’s shop. Jordi rushed down the stairs and met her in the shop. Before he had a chance to say anything, she asked in alarm, “Whatever has happened? There’s a crowd on the Ramblas. Another murder?”

  Jordi nodded silently, and then haltingly said, “Where can we go to talk, Mam? I need to get away from here.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  That night, Jordi slept on the floor at Benet’s apartment. He’d never been there before, and the whole area of the Eixample was alien to him, but he followed his mother’s advice and went to find his sister and her husband.

  “Benet doesn’t understand the workers’ struggle,” he said to his mother. “He thinks it’s all a bit of a game.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” said Mam. “Benet, and his friend Jaume, see the reality of life, working as they do for middle class bosses, and catering for wealthy clients. They see more of the life of the rich, and even if their lives are easier than ours’, they are still working men. Give them a chance. I think Benet will understand more than you realise.”

  Clutching a scrap of paper with the address, Jordi waited until it was twilight before he climbed down the steep steps to the basement where Carla and Benet lived. Carla was at home, and the brother and sister took a moment to recognise one another. Carla recovered from the surprise first.

  “Jordi!” she exclaimed. “My little brother, all grown up! Come in and let me see you in the light.”

  Jordi stepped into the tiny apartment and looked at his sister. For a moment he was speechless, then blurted out, “You’re so fat!”

  Carla laughed. “I’m pregnant,” she said, “and not far from delivering the baby. You’ll be an uncle soon.”

  “Oh Carla,” said Jordi. “I’m in such a mess. Mam told me you and Benet would help me. I just don’t know what to do.”

  “Come in; sit down; Benet will be home soon, and you can tell us what’s happening,” said Carla.

  As if it had been planned, at that moment they heard Benet’s footsteps on the stairs. Benet came into the apartment in a considerable state of agitation.

  “Jordi, it’s l-l-lovely to see you, but you come at a time of some d-d-distress. One of the mothers who comes into the sweet shop regularly was g-g-gunned down on the R-R-Ramblas whilst she was walking. It was a random killing, just because she was r-r-rich. She was only walking her d-d-dog, but unusually wandered down the R-R-Ramblas, where she doesn’t usually go. She was s-s-shot just outside the music shop,” Benet paused and stared at Jordi, “where you live J-J-Jordi.” Benet paused again, and Carla looked from her husband to her brother.

  “You know about this, don’t you?” said Carla.

  Jordi nodded, and suddenly found he felt rather faint. “I saw it, and …” He paused, uncertain how much to tell his sister and Benet. “I saw who did it.”

  “You mean, you know who did it, don’t you?” said Carla.

  Jordi nodded.

  “She had three kids, all still s-s-small. OK, so they were r-r-rich, and often it was a nanny who brought them to the shop to choose s-s-sweets, but sometimes she came with them. She was n-n-nice. Now the kids have no m-m-mother.”

  Suddenly Carla looked very fierce, and standing over her tearful brother, she demanded, “It wasn’t you, Jordi, was it? Killed her, I mean.”

  Jordi shook his head sadly, “No. I couldn’t do such a thing. You know how much I hate the rich bosses, and their wealthy lives, but I can’t just kill people at random. I couldn’t do that …” His voice faded, and Carla sat next to him and put her arm around him.

  “What’s happening to our c-c-city?” asked Benet. “It’s all b-b-bullets and b-b-bombs.”

  “Everyone is so desperate,” said Jordi. “The bosses employ bully boys to shoot the workers; the workers fight back. It’s a kind of spiral, just getting worse and worse. There must be a better way, but I don’t know what it is.”

  “Living here in the Eixample, we hear of these random killings,” said Carla. “There’s been factory bosses, and policemen, and even priests murdered.”

  “And lots of workers,” said Jordi. “And poor Bonaventura. I really miss him.”

  “Until now we haven’t actually known someone who’s been murdered,” continued Carla, “but it was only a matter of time. Perhaps these wealthy swine deserve to die, but not leaving little children behi
nd without a mother. It makes me worry about my baby. What kind of a city will he be born into?”

  “Or s-s-she?” said Benet, seriously.

  Carla looked from her devoted husband to her brother. “Now tell us: what can we do for you?”

  Jordi looked around the little room. “Can I stay here tonight?” he asked. “I’ve no-where else to go.”

  “Of course you can. You’ll be on the floor, but that’s nothing new for you, is it?” said Carla. Turning to her husband, she went on, “There’s some rabbit stew on the hob, but it’s not much, so Benet, can you go out and get some fried potatoes? It will be quite like old times with fried potatoes.”

  Over their impromptu meal, Jordi told them some of what had been happening. He told them about Bonaventura’s murder, and how Pa had been shot in his hand, and had become morose, and taken to wandering the streets. He said he was sure Pa never left the shop without a loaded gun in his pocket. He told them about the gradually build-up of guns and bullets at the music shop – “it’s more like an arsenal now, than a music shop,” – and he told them that he’d left because he couldn’t stand the killings, and wanted never to be associated with them. He did not betray his old friend Tomas, but Benet and Carla began to draw their own, correct, conclusion about the murder that day.

  Jordi slept on the floor at his sister’s that night. The following day Benet told him that Portillo’s bullies were patrolling the streets and would shoot without warning if they saw any workers hanging around the Eixample or any other of the more wealthy barrios, so he stayed in the apartment, minding the fire in the range, whilst Benet was at work and Carla delivered some sewing she had recently completed. When she returned, Jordi was calmer than before, but still confused.

  “I still don’t know what to do,” he said. “I can’t stay here, especially with the baby coming, and I can’t go home. I’ve got no job, and I’ve got no money. It’s so nice to just sit and stare at the coals, but that’s no good. I’m worried about Mam, living there with all those guns, and what will become of Pa? He’s been getting so fanatical lately, worse than ever before.”

  “He wasn’t the murderer, was he?” said Carla.

  “No, it was …” Jordi hesitated.

  “Don’t say his name!” said Carla. “I think I’ve guessed, but don’t say his name.”

  “Pa won’t condemn him,” continued Jordi, “and even Grandmother seems to think it was alright. Pa says he’s an anarchist, and I know why he’s so angry, but I didn’t know it would lead to such killings.”

  “With armed anarchists, like Pa, wandering the streets, ready to shoot the wealthy at random, and Portillo’s bullies ready to kill workers, it’s like living in a war zone,” said Carla.

  “It is a war,” said Jordi, “but we’re caught in the middle. I support the communists, but hate the anarchists’ killings. Even more, I hate the rich upper classes and their exploitation of the workers.”

  “You’ve been reading too many books!” laughed Carla. “Just listen to what you’re saying!”

  When Benet came home from the sweet shop, he was carrying the evening paper. “Look at the h-h-headline,” he said abruptly as he walked in the door. Jordi turned, expecting news of another atrocity, but the headline was quite unexpected.

  “National Confederation of Labour Banned,” was the headline. A short piece on the front page explained that the workers’ party was blamed for the assassination of President Eduardo Dato, and thus was now a banned organisation. The assassins, who had all been caught, were all carrying NCL cards. Anyone found carrying a membership card could be arrested. Known offices of the NCL were being raided and assets seized.

  “Arrested?” said Benet. “Knowing P-P-Portillo, they’ll be s-s-shot, not arrested. And I s-s-suppose that includes you, J-J-Jordi?”

  Jordi reluctantly pulled his pocket inside out from his trousers. “There’s not much in here, no money and now no membership card.” He pulled out his NCL card. “That’s what the factory owners have done to us. Empty pockets.”

  “Burn the card,” urged Carla, “and Benet, burn your’s.”

  “I’ll do it,” said Jordi, “but you can be sure Pa won’t. Tomas won’t; even Grandmother won’t. Burning the card means I’m betraying them.”

  “You can join our union, G-G-General Union of Workers. Many members are c-c-communists, probably most.”

  “Burn the card,” repeated Carla, and Jordi opened the little door in the range and threw his card inside. Benet threw his in with it.

  “What about the music shop?” said Jordi. “It says offices will be raided. What about Mam and Grandmother? I must go and see if they are safe.”

  “Wait until dark,” said Benet. “We’ll have some supper, then you slip out quietly. You must get to the Ramblas without being seen. And come back – we’ll be worried about you every minute you’re gone.”

  Skulking in the darkest shadows, Jordi avoided the bright lights of Passeig de Gracia, and slipped silently around the Placa de Catalunya. Soon he was on the more familiar ground of the Ramblas, but he remained as hidden as much as he could, as he approached the music shop. He was surprised to see Bertoli, in his toad costume, squatting on the pavement in the dark. The toad was a regular feature during daylight, but always vanished at nightfall. As Jordi approached the door of the shop, the toad coughed loudly. Jordi turned and looked at him.

  “Come near, young Vilaro,” he growled. “I was wondering where you were.”

  “What are you doing here at this time of night?” said Jordi, stooping down to the toad.

  “I’ve been asked to keep a special eye on this place,” said Bertoli, in his gruff voice. “Portillo himself was here earlier, had his bully boys search the shop. Didn’t find a thing. By the Virgin, was he angry! He expected a viper’s nest, and all he could find was a music shop.”

  “So they’re all safe?”

  “For the time being,” said the toad. “But I’ve been paid handsomely to keep watch. I’d need a really nice bung if I am to see nothing, you know what I mean?”

  Jordi stood up and shook his head. Bertoli was truly a slimy toad.

  Knocking quietly on the door, Jordi listened for sound from the shop. A sudden whispered voice, close to his face, made him jump. It was Mam with her mouth at the keyhole. “Is that you, Jordi,” said Mam quietly. “Wait there. I’ll come out.”

  A few minutes later, the door opened and Mam emerged with a black scarf covering most of her head and face. Walking close to Jordi, she simply said, “Follow me.”

  His mother led Jordi into the dark lanes of the Raval, and turned abruptly into a small bar, empty except for a bored barman dozing behind the counter. “Senora Vilaro,” said the barman. “It’s rather late for you.” His voice trailed away, as Mam pulled the scarf back from her face to reveal a nasty bruise on her cheek, with one eye partly closed from the swelling. Jordi gasped.

  “Go for a short walk,” she told the barman. “I’m sure you need to take a piss.”

  “What’s happened?” said Jordi.

  “It’s not as bad as it looks,” said Mam, “but you really shouldn’t be here. We saw the early papers this afternoon and read about the banning of the NCL. We guessed that we’d be searched. We told Ferrer to go home, and your father climbed down into the cellar. Tomas and I pushed the piano back over the trap door. Hardly had we hidden Pa, than Portillo’s bullies were bursting through the door. I’d left it unlocked so they wouldn’t break it down.

  “Of course they found Tomas in the shop, looking as if he was a shop keeper, and pushed roughly past him into the back storeroom. They didn’t suspect that there’s a trapdoor under the piano, and were frustrated that they couldn’t find anything.

  “Next they stamped upstairs, and rushed into Grandmother’s bedroom. Grandmother was in bed, and sat up abruptly. You should have heard the tongue-lashing she gave them: how dare they break into an old lady’s bedroom; they should be ashamed; and so on. It would have made us laugh if we
had not been so frightened. The bully boys retreated quickly, and rushed back down the stairs. On the way past, one of them saw I was half-smiling at Grandmother’s performance, and hit me in the face, I suppose it was from frustration, and they left. Soon afterwards, the toad reappeared on the pavement, and has been watching ever since.”

  “Are you sure you are alright Mam?” asked Jordi.

  “Yes, I told you, it’s not as bad as it looks. But I’ve not told you the best part. All the membership papers for the NCL, and other papers, were in Grandmother’s bed, right under their noses, and they didn’t know.”

  “Is there any cash in the shop?” asked Jordi.

  “Yes, a great deal,” replied his mother. “We have a large share of the subscription money from the NCL. It was in bed with Grandmother. Do you want some?”

  “No, I’ll not take it. Carla’s looking after me for the time being at least. No, it’s to bribe the toad – we must bribe Bertoli,” said Jordi.

  “I saw he’d returned to the pavement this evening,” said Mam. “He’s not usually there after dark.”

  “He’s been sent to watch the shop. Portillo’s bullies have paid him to keep an eye on you. You need to pay him to make sure he sees nothing.”

  Jordi’s mother was rapidly feeling out of her depth in this situation. “I’ve no idea how much to pay him,” she said.

  “Nor have I, but things are desperate. Bribing him will save Pa’s life, and probably your’s and Tomas’s, and even Grandmother’s. Will Ferrer keep clear of the shop for a while?”

  “I expect so. He’s becoming very frightened about the situation. Now you must go. Tell Carla we’re safe for the time being,” said Mam, as the barman came back into the bar.

  “How long can you leave Pa trapped in the cellar?” said Jordi.

  His mother smiled. “We’ll fish him out tonight. Poor man. He’s still in a lot of pain from his shattered hand, and he’s very frustrated by everything that’s happening. I’m going to find a way of hiding him at the top of the house. We’ve hardly entered Bonaventura’s room since he was taken from us, but somehow we must find a way of hiding your father, and perhaps Tomas up there. They’ll have to learn patience. Oh Jordi, I just hate all this, when will it end?”