Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “I don’t know, Mam. I wish I did. I have a terrible feeling things will have to get worse before they get better.”

  Jordi used his knowledge of the Raval slum to creep back to his sister’s basement. When he got there, he found that Benet had been to fetch Dolors and Jaume, and they were waiting anxiously, worried especially for Mam’s safety.

  “You must lie low for a while,” said Jaume, after he had heard Jordi’s story. “You can stay here, or come to our place, but stay out of sight. You may have walked away from being a terrorist, but you’re still associated with it, and you’re still a target. Tomas is a target; Pa is well-known for his work with the NCL, so he’s even more of a target.”

  Thus Jordi began a strange half-life, creeping at night from one sister to the other, learning news of the city only from Benet and Jaume, and increasingly embarrassed by his reliance on his sisters for food and shelter. After a week of this half-life, he decided what to do. He would try and get his old job back at the mill. He would go and look for Ferrer.

  A dishevelled and scruffy worker could not walk openly through the Eixample, so one overcast and gloomy afternoon, during an unusual spring downpour, Jordi pulled a scarf over his head and slipped out of the apartment, up the stone steps and into the street. Keeping his head down, and using as many side alleys as he could, he dodged safely to the Raval slum. The rain had stopped b y the time he was waiting in the shadows opposite the old mill as the workers were streaming out from the day shift. The tall skinny silhouette of Ferrer was unmistakable as he emerged from the factory, and Jordi followed him.

  Ferrer walked quickly through the slum, and Jordi had to hurry to keep up with the man’s long legs. One after another they emerged onto the Ramblas, crossed it, and plunged into the alleys of the old town. Ferrer marched on, through the lanes, slightly steaming in the warmth after the shower, and crossed the busy Via Laietana, into the Born. Jordi hoped he was going home and not on some other errand, and as they came near to Santa Maria del Mar, he decided to run and catch up with Ferrer.

  “Senor Ferrer!” he cried, as he drew level.

  The tall man stopped and turned, laughing. “I’ve known you were following me ever since the factory,” he grinned. “I wondered how far we’d go before you spoke.”

  “Sorry Senor Ferrer, I thought I was being very careful.”

  “You were,” replied Ferrer good-naturedly, “and not many would have spotted you. But I’ve learned to be very cautious and very observant. You’re not the first to have followed me.”

  “Can I talk to you?” said Jordi.

  “Of course you can; we’re friends now aren’t we, after all that’s happened; but not here in the street. My little hovel is in Barceloneta, just ahead. Come with me. You look as though you need a drink.”

  Jordi walked with Ferrer past Santa Maria, across the dockside streets, and into an insignificant courtyard in Barceloneta. Ferrer ducked into a small door in the corner, and up a narrow dark staircase. Jordi rushed after him, suddenly remembering that day so many years ago when he’d run up the stone steps behind the tall man on his first day at the mill.

  At the top of the house, Ferrer stopped and unlocked a door. They went into a room very like Jordi’s old home in the Raval: one large room with a bed and a few sticks of rough furniture. Jordi was surprised to find that the windows overlooked a wide view of the busy port, and beyond it the sea, and he stared, for a moment distracted. Ferrer sat on the bed and stretched his long legs, and indicated to Jordi to sit on the only chair.

  “So,” began Ferrer, “tell me how everyone is.”

  “Have you not been at the music shop lately?” asked Jordi.

  “No.” Ferrer paused. “I left the morning after you did. You know I was never brave enough to use a gun.”

  “You frightened me when we first met,” said Jordi.

  “That was the plan,” said Ferrer, “but I’d never have shot you. I told you I didn’t even have bullets in that gun. It was a way of managing the kids at the mill. Bertoli was fooled into thinking I was a real bully boy. It was all a show.”

  “And you’ve walked away from the music shop?” said Jordi.

  “When that gun went off in my hand in the shop, I started to worry, and after Bonaventura’s murder, I was getting increasingly anxious. Tomas killing the woman in the street was the last straw. As you’ll remember, I was at the Palau de la Musica when the NCL was founded, and I still believe in the communist cause; but I won’t become a killer. I told your father why I was leaving, and for a moment he was so angry that I thought he would pull a gun on me. And as for Tomas, he’s become more than an anarchist, he’s a terrorist.”

  “They seem to be the same thing,” said Jordi. “Anarchist, terrorist, seems to mean the same.”

  “So,” said Ferrer, “what do you want to talk about, as if I couldn’t guess?”

  “It’s rather embarrassing,” said Jordi haltingly. “Can I have my old job back, with you, at the mill? You know I’ve left my Pa and Mam. I couldn’t cope with Pa’s increasingly scary attitudes; and I couldn’t sleep under the same roof as Tomas. I’m angry with Tomas, and I’m sad. He was my best friend, no-one could have a better friend, yet he just got more and more violent. It seems that when he found out he was Salvador’s grandson, it gave him permission to be as violent as he wanted. And when he shot that woman on the Ramblas….”

  “I know,” replied Ferrer. “It was the last straw.”

  “I’ve been sleeping on the floor at my sister’s. Do you remember Carla, the one who married Benet with the stutter? They’ve got a tiny basement in the Eixample, but she’s pregnant, and I’m just in the way….”

  “And I bet you don’t feel very safe in the Eixample?”

  “No. I imagine one of Portillo’s men waiting round every corner. There’s too much random shooting going on.” Jordi paused again, took breath, and went on. “So I’m homeless and penniless. I need a job. There was a time when I never thought I’d come begging, but can I come back?”

  “You can read, can’t you?” asked Ferrer.

  Jordi nodded.

  “There’s a real irony here. I need a book-keeper. The last one was shot in the street, and so, because of this dreadful violence, which we both hate so much, I can give you a job, and a better job than you had before.”

  “Stepping into a dead man’s shoes,” said Jordi.

  “That’s about it,” said Ferrer. “Just like you stepped into a dead boy’s shoes all those years ago. Sadly, it’s become commonplace in our city. You can’t afford to say no.”

  “I know,” sighed Jordi, “and I’m very grateful.”

  “Where will you sleep tonight?” said Ferrer.

  “I’ve no idea,” said Jordi.

  There was another pause, as Ferrer looked at the younger man.

  “You can stay here if you wish.”

  “I didn’t come looking for that,” said Jordi.

  “No, you didn’t,” said Ferrer, “but I’m offering. I get lonely here on my own, and I might not be the best company, but for a few nights, just while you get back to work, you can stay. You’ll have to sleep on the floor.”

  Jordi grinned. “I’ve slept on the floor my whole life. In fact I couldn’t sleep when I was given a bed, so that’s no hardship.”

  “So you’ll stay?”

  Jordi stood awkwardly, and stretched out his hand. “Thanks, Senor Ferrer.”

  Ferrer grinned and shook his hand with a firm grip. “Now, let’s get something to eat.”

  Jordi opened his mouth to say he’d no money, but Ferrer anticipated him, and said with a smile, “I’ll pay, and you can pay me back from your first wages.”

  With Ferrer in the lead, the two men clattered back down the steep stairs and out onto the narrow Barceloneta lane. Soon they were seated in a steam-filled chiringuita, and generous portions of paella were before them. Jordi looked around, trying to remember why this chiringuita seemed familiar; then he remembered. “I came
here years ago, with Tomas,” he said amongst the noise of all the other loud conversations.

  “He was a good kid,” said Ferrer, “and he grew up into a fine young man. I never expected him to go so far off the rails. Who could have guessed he’d become a killer?”

  “There was no sign of that when we were kids together,” said Jordi. “But I know one thing. He killed so easily, and without conscience, that he’ll do it again, and again. Sadly, I don’t trust him anymore.”

  “We live in a city of anarchists,” said Ferrer. “It’s like living on a ticking bomb.”

  Senor Ferrer took Jordi to the mill the next morning. They passed through the familiar gate, and turned into the dark office, formerly the haunt of the repulsive Bertoli. Jordi was introduced to the mill manager, a pale and frightened-looking man in a suit shiny from grease, called Senor Albert. The replacement for Bertoli could not have been more different, skinny and almost petite, with a thin reedy voice, singularly lacking in character. Ferrer stepped up to his high stool, surveying the in-coming workers whilst Albert took Jordi into an even smaller room in which was crammed a small desk and several elderly filing cabinets. The room was hot, and despite the sunshine of the day, dim and gloomy. The thin walls were lined with timber stained a melancholy brown, the floor was a covered in dark linoleum, and the single light bulb, necessary even on the brightest of days, cast a yellowish light onto the pile of untidy papers on the desk.

  “It’s quite simple,” said Albert. “Ferrer, who I understand you know, and recommends you, keeps count of all the workers in and out, and your job is to count all the goods in and out. You must keep records of every bale of cotton, every box of raw silk, every drum of dye, and everything that comes into the factory; and every finished spool of cotton or bale of cloth that leaves. You see that little hatch on the wall by the desk, your desk,” he went on. “Each delivery has a chit, and the warehouse men pass the chits to you through the hatch. You must record exactly what comes in; and every out-going item, spool or bale, will have a copy of its label, also passed to you, so you can keep a copy of what goes out. You have ledgers to write it all down, in ink of course, and the chits go into dated files. You must start your day by mixing your ink from the packet in the cupboard. At the end of the day, you file the files by date, and leave the office tidy. Once a month you have to make totals so we can see how productive we are. The Marques is very keen indeed to see the monthly totals, so you had better be accurate and up-to-date with your record keeping.” Senor Albert turned to go, hesitated, then turned back to Jordi. “Oh, um… welcome to the mill,” he added, as very much a second thought. He turned and closed the door behind him. Jordi sat at the desk and looked at the pile of notes – clearly several days had passed since his predecessor had been shot, and he’d have his work cut out to clear the backlog.

  Happily, Jordi was fairly methodical, and had started to get the papers in order, when the first chits started to be thrust through the hatch. Halfway through the morning, Senor Albert put his head round the door, and was pleased that Jordi appeared to be more efficient in the job that the previous young man.

  Within a few days, Jordi had got the job well-organised, and was able to keep pace with the arrival of the numerous scraps of paper pushed through the hatch. The job was strangely lonely, alone in a small room, despite being part of the mass of humanity struggling to stay alive in the noise and dust of the mill. He rarely saw Ferrer, who was constantly busy controlling the comings and goings of the workforce, and Albert, having satisfied himself that Jordi was efficient and reliable, left him alone.

  After several weeks into the job, he was surprised to find he had time on his hands. Each chit was instantly recorded, and between chits he simply waited for the next one to arrive. How odd, he thought to himself, I must be the only person in the mill sitting with nothing to do. Looking around the room, and checking one or two of the older, dustier filing cabinets, he found an empty notebook, the kind a child has at school. Picking up his pen, he dipped it in the inkwell and started to write. Stopping frequently to receive in-coming or out-going chits, he continued with the story in the notebook. Although he changed the name, he found himself writing the story of Tomas, and in writing it, tried to make sense of how his old friend had become so obsessed by the anarchist cause, and had demonstrated his commitment by the atrocity on the Ramblas. Although he gave the story a title, “What makes a man into a terrorist?” he could not find an answer.

  After the first week, Ferrer had handed him a wage packet, and although small, it was more than he’d earned in other jobs in the mill. The two men got into the habit of eating at the local chiringuita on the beach, and Jordi handed a small contribution from his pay each week to Ferrer as a kind of rent. One evening, when the two of them had gone to the chiringuita for supper, Jordi had hidden the notebook under his shirt to bring it out of the mill, and pulled it out, and sheepishly showed it to Ferrer. The older man frowned as he read the title and first few lines. Clearly he could not read very well, and mouthed the words as he deciphered them. Closing the book, he said to Jordi, “Read this to me, back in our room. I find it hard to read your handwriting.”

  Later Ferrer lay stretched out on his bed, with his feet as usual hanging over the end, and Jordi sat on the floor, close below the dim light bulb, reading. As Jordi finished, there was a silence and then Ferrer sat up abruptly.

  “That’s good,” he said. “What are you going to do with it?”

  “I don’t know,” replied Jordi. “I just felt like writing it. I didn’t think about what it was for.”

  “It’s not a story, it’s the truth. It sounds like a newspaper report.” There was a pause, then Ferrer leapt up suddenly. “That’s it!” he exclaimed.

  “That’s what?” said Jordi, still sitting on the floor, staring up at the tall man looming over him.

  “You must send this to a newspaper!”

  “What?” said Jordi as he lay back on the floor, and looked up, bemused.

  “We need the world to know what’s happening in our country,” said Ferrer.

  “I don’t know how to …” started Jordi. “It’s not that good.”

  “It is,” said Ferrer. “We’ve said we hate what’s going on in our city; we hate the bosses, the fat cats and their rich wives; we hate the way the workers are treated. But we don’t believe the solution lies in the gun, with the anarchists. We want a peaceful way of forcing change. Reports like this, published in the world’s newspapers, could do more than any gun.”

  “Stop, stop,” said Jordi. “You’re getting too fanciful. This is the first story I’ve ever written. Give me a chance to try some more, and if you still think my stuff’s any good, then we’ll try to do something with it.”

  Over the next few weeks, in the quiet moments in his little office, Jordi started writing; and discovered an unexpected enthusiasm for putting his thoughts onto paper. Some of his short pieces were simply descriptive, and he found he could make political points easily by writing about the contrast between the poorest workers living in dirt-floor hovels, and the much richer population in their luxury mansions. He described the humble meals served in the Barceloneta chiringuitas, and compared them with the sumptuous dinners served in the mansion apartments of the Eixample. He wrote about the extravagant motor cars manufactured for the wealthiest of all in the city, and how most workers walked everywhere. Most of all, he simply described aspects of his own life, both present and past. With some trepidation, he wrote clear and explicit accounts of how young children died in the machines at the mills, or from breathing the polluted air. He wrote of the noise and squalor of work in the factories, how the workers were underpaid, and their stinking lives in the slums.

  Each essay he read to Ferrer, and each time his tall friend was enthusiastic for the messages contained in the reports, and the need to send them for publication.

  One day, some weeks after Jordi had started writing, Ferrer rushed into his office in a show of unusual excitement.
He told Jordi that he had an acquaintance who worked as a barman in the Majestic Hotel.

  “You must know it, that great hotel on Passieg de Gracia?”

  “I know it, as it’s near my sister’s basement rooms,” replied Jordi. “But why have you come to tell me this? It’s the middle of the day, and Albert might walk in at any moment.”

  “I have something for you!” exclaimed Ferrer, brandishing a rolled newspaper.

  “A newspaper?” asked Jordi.

  “A British newspaper,” said Ferrer. “Look, it’s called the ‘Daily Chronicle’, and this one’s quite recent.” Peering at the paper, he went on, “I think it says 4th June, 1923 – that’s last week.”

  “Let me see,” said Jordi. “Yes, it’s in English, and it’s recent, but I still don’t understand why you are so excited.”

  “This is our chance! I mean, this is your chance. We can send your writings to this British newspaper and ask them to publish them. Now put it out of sight, and bring it home at the end of the day.”

  Jordi stuffed the British newspaper into one of the filing cabinets, and went back to working on the delivery chits which had arrived that morning. He doubted that any British editor would be interested in his jottings, and especially as he was writing in Catalan, but secretly he wondered if his work was good enough to be published. Perhaps he would become a reporter for the British paper, and tell the world about the dire straits of his fellow workers.

  That evening, Jordi pulled the battered copy of the London newspaper from his shirt, and spread it out on the floor. With no knowledge of English, he could only look at the pictures, but he found an article written by someone called Robert Donald. He decided to copy out the best of his current batch of essays in clear careful handwriting, and send them to Senor Donald, in the vague hope that his work could be translated and read in London. He found an address in Fleet Street for the Daily Chronicle, and after several days of careful copywriting, assembled a packet of work to post. He approached the grand Barcelona post office with some trepidation, as he expected the postage to be huge, but was relieved that he could afford to send the package. Sentimentally, he touched it to his lips before sending it on its way.