Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  Life continued in the city: most of the people managed to survive, although for the majority it was a constant daily struggle. Coping with lack of food and proper housing was a battle fought against a continuous background of gratuitous violence and grisly murders. Jordi worried that death and maiming were becoming so much a part of the life of the city, that he, and everyone else, was becoming immune to the horror of the bombs and bullets, and the constant procession of funerals. It was only when a close friend or relation was attacked, that the reality hit home.

  Jordi continued to write short memoires of experiences in the battles and skirmishes of Barcelona, but as the weeks past he assumed there was no interest in the work he had sent to London, and he forgot about any possibility of publication.

  One evening, in the summer of 1923, as he was leaving the mill, he was surprised to find his mother waiting for him.

  “Mam, what are you doing here?” he asked.”How are you? I’ve missed you so much. Has something dreadful happened?”

  “I’ve missed you too, Jordi,” said Mam. “The shop is quiet, and a sinister atmosphere hangs in the air. I’m alright physically, still working at the baker’s, but the tension is getting me down. I can’t speak to your father without he’s angry with me; and I don’t talk to Tomas any more. I’m so sick of it all. Tomas vanishes now and again, and comes home with a smile on his face. I don’t dare ask him where he’s been or what he’s done, but I fear the worst. He’s so committed to the anarchist cause, it frightens me. But this isn’t why I’m here. Grandmother is ill, and I think she’s dying. She’s taken to her bed, and not left her room for many weeks. She says she’s nearly eighty years old, and she’s had enough of life.”

  “Eighty!” exclaimed Jordi. “I know she’s old, but I didn’t imagine as old as that. There are few in this city who have lived so long. What can be done for her?”

  “Very little can be done, and indeed she doesn’t want anything to be done. She’s ready to slip away, but she’s waiting. She’s waiting for you. She’s known you almost all your life, and she thinks of you as another grandchild. She wants to see you one last time. Come and see her, Jordi.”

  “Will my father be there? Will Tomas? I’ll admit I’m nervous of visiting,” said Jordi.

  “Despite all their fervour and anger, they respect Grandmother, and they’ll let you visit. They’ll not harm you, for they know they’ll have me to deal with if they do. Come with me now,” said Mam.

  By this time they had reached the Ramblas, and Jordi turned with his mother to walk the short distance uphill to the music shop. Entering, they found Tomas sitting in the front shop, cleaning a gun. Jordi nodded to his old friend and Tomas nodded in return. Neither spoke.

  His father was coming down the stairs. “She’s waiting for you,” he grunted, and turned away into the back room. Jordi stepped up the narrow staircase and hesitated at Grandmother’s door. Mam squeezed by him, opened the door and went in.

  “Jordi’s here to see you, Grandmother,” said Mam in a startlingly loud voice.

  “Jordi,” said Grandmother, with a voice no louder than a whisper. The old lady lifted her hand a little, and Jordi held it. He was shocked at how Grandmother had shrivelled away, and seemed to be little more than a skeleton, and how her hand was tiny and bony and fragile.

  “I came as quickly as I could,” said Jordi, finding it hard to know what to say.

  The old lady took a deep, slow breath.

  Tomas crept silently into the room. “Tomas is here,” said Mam loudly.

  “Tomas,” whispered Grandmother, even more quietly. Tomas walked round the bed and held the old lady’s other hand.

  Grandmother took another deep breath, then slowly breathed out, a guttural groaning long breath as her life expired. She did not take another breath. Jordi and Tomas looked at one another. “She’s gone,” said Mam quietly. The room was silent and still for a moment. Jordi turned and saw that his father was standing in the doorway.

  Mam spoke quietly. “She was waiting for you. With her two boys holding her hands, she knew it was time to go.”

  Nodding to Pa, but saying nothing, Jordi stood up and left the room. Out on the Ramblas, he breathed the fresh air, and found he was shaking slightly. When he had hurried into the shop, he had not noticed the toad, crouched in his usual spot on the pavement. Coming out, he jumped slightly as the toad spoke “So… who’s died?”

  “None of your business, Bertoli,” said Jordi.

  “Oh, but it is, young Vilaro.” Jordi felt that the toad was actually smiling. “Don’t worry, I’ll know soon enough.”

  Jordi was tempted to kick the toad, and shook his head. The balmy summer evening was turning into a warm night, and after glancing quickly up at the windows of the music shop, he turned and marched resolutely towards the sea.

  As he walked into Ferrer’s apartment, his friend knew immediately that something had happened.

  “Who died?” said Ferrer as he looked at his friend.

  “Grandmother,” said Jordi. “Apparently she was nearly eighty years old. She died very peacefully, in her bed.”

  “Would that we all could look forward to so many years, and to die in our beds,” replied Ferrer. “There are many in this city will not be so lucky.”

  “Tomas and Pa were both there,” said Jordi. “They were both very cold towards me. They are so fixed with their anarchist beliefs. I will never be close to them again.”

  “At least Tomas didn’t shoot you in the back,” said Ferrer.

  “He would have liked to, but he didn’t dare do that with Mam watching.”

  “I nearly forgot,” continued Ferrer, “there’s a letter for you. From London.”

  “A letter!” exclaimed Jordi. “I’ve never had a letter before. And from London?”

  Ferrer handed Jordi the envelope with its British stamp and London postmark. The envelope carried the slogan “Daily Chronicle, Greater Britain Day by Day”. Jordi and Ferrer looked blankly at the slogan: neither had any idea what it said. When Jordi opened the envelope he found a surprisingly long typed letter, entirely in English.

  “What shall we do with this?” said Jordi.

  “I told you I know the young barman at the Majestic. He’s the one got me the newspaper in the first place. I think he knows some English. We’ll go to him after work tomorrow.”

  “We can’t just walk into the front door of the Majestic Hotel,” said Jordi. “The doorman would never let us in, and if anyone saw us from the street, Portillo’s men, or any trigger-happy anarchists, they’d take pot shots at us. You know what it’s like in the Eixample.”

  “No,” smiled Ferrer, “we’ll go round the back, see if this man I know can come and help us there.”

  The barman tried to be helpful, and said he knew some English, but that it was not very good. He did, however, have a most surprising solution for them. “My father will read the letter to you. He was born in Scotland, and came to live in Barcelona many years ago. You should meet him. My mother is Catalan, and they live in the Born. He drinks in the same bar most nights. You can go and find him there. It’s called the Begemot Bar, in an alley off Carrer Trafalgar. Tell him I sent you. By the way, my name is Carlos Hannay, my father is Steven Hannay – it’s a Scottish name.”

  The following evening Jordi and Ferrer found their way to the bar Carlos had told them about. It was on the corner of one of the more run-down parts of the Born, although quite near the old Arc de Triomf which had been built for the great exhibition. There were a few men drinking in the smoke-filled bar, and they all turned to look as the strangers walked in.

  Jordi hesitated for a moment, then smiled nervously, hoping everyone would be friendly. “I’m looking for Steven Hannay,” he said. “His son Carlos sent me.”

  In the ensuring silence, one of the drinkers pulled out a pistol, and cocked it.

  The barman spoke first. “We don’t get many strangers round here. So, if Comrade Hannay is here, who wants know?”


  “I’m, er, Comrade Vilaro, but everyone calls me Jordi.”

  “Comrade Jordi,” replied the barman, “who’s the tall strip of a man lurking by the door?”

  “That’s my good friend, Comrade Ferrer.” Jordi hesitated. The silence continued, and Jordi felt increasingly uncomfortable. He looked cautiously around the gloomy bar, trying to assess the tricky situation. “We are both good communists … mill workers … and we don’t carry guns.” Jordi swallowed hard, and held up both hands, hoping he’d said the right thing.

  There was another tense pause, then abruptly a red-headed man sitting at one end of the short bar laughed, and the room relaxed. “I’m Comrade Hannay. My boy Carlos sent a message, telling me to expect you, but we can never be too careful in these days of strife. Barman, a beer for my friend.”

  Jordi shook hands with Comrade Hannay, and started to explain what he wanted, but the Scotsman told him to wait. “The walls have ears, even here,” said Hannay. “We’ll go somewhere more private. Hey, Comrade Ferrer, join us in a drink, then we’ll go.”

  Ferrer walked cautiously across the dimly lit bar and shook hands with Hannay.

  Later in his tiny apartment, very like Ferrer’s, very like hundreds and thousands of tiny apartments in Barcelona, Comrade Hannay introduced his wife Eulalia, and told Jordi and Ferrer that they should call him Steven. He explained that he had left Scotland when he was only fourteen years old, and had spent several years wandering through France and Italy, before coming to Spain. “I didn’t know what I was looking for,” said Steven, “but I found it here, and I found Eulalia.”

  “He had a terrible accent when I first knew him,” said Eulalia, “but now you’d think he was born and bred Catalan.”

  When Jordi produced the letter from London, Steven was hesitant. “It’s a long time since I spoke or read any English,” he said. “It’s why Carlos doesn’t have much English. When he was a lad, we only spoke Catalan at home. I suppose I could have kept my English better if I’d used it more, and taught more to Carlos, but there didn’t seem to be a reason. I’ve never been back to Scotland. I don’t know if there are any other Hannays anywhere. Give me a little while to work through this letter.”

  Jordi and Ferrer watched nervously as Steven read and re-read the letter. Eulalia gave them coffee while they waited. At last Steven looked up.

  “It’s an extraordinary letter,” he said. “You’ve guessed it’s from the editor of this London newspaper, the Daily Chronicle. His name is Robert Donald. He apologies for the long delay in replying, but says it was very hard to find someone to translate your work. Did you send it in Catalan?”

  “Yes,” said Jordi. “It’s the only language I know.”

  “Well, anyway, he says once he’d got the translations, he was very pleased with what you’d written. He says his newspaper has been looking for someone to write about life in Catalonia from an insider’s point of view, and he explains that his newspaper is very interested in the left-wing view of life in Spain, and in particular in Barcelona.”

  Steven continued to read from the letter. “He wants to pay you for sending the reports you sent, and asks if you can continue to send reports like the ones you have already sent him.”

  “Pay me?” said Jordi.

  “He says he will pay you two English pounds for every report he prints. And he wants you to send him a short biography about yourself.” Steven looked up. “This is fantastic.”

  “You can tell the world about the plight of workers in Barcelona!” said Ferrer. “Ever since you read that first story to me, I hoped something like this would happen. Well done my friend.”

  “Wait a moment, this is hard to understand. Are you sure that’s what the letter says? Is he happy for me to send reports in Catalan? How can they pay me?”

  “He says he’s found someone to do the translations in London, but it would be good for you to learn English and one day send reports to him in English. And he’ll arrange for the money to be transferred into your bank account.”

  “My bank account!” spluttered Jordi. “I haven’t got a bank account. I don’t even know anyone with a bank account. You haven’t got one, have you, Ferrer?”

  “Of course not,” said Ferrer. “But the mill has a bank account, and I have to deal with the bank when I’m sorting out the wages. It’s called the ‘Savings Bank of Barcelona’.”

  “I can’t open a bank account,” said Jordi. “If Tomas or my father find out I have a bank account, they really will kill me.”

  “None of us have bank accounts,” said Steven, “and I know banks are the symbols of the capitalist crowd we despise. But if this means what I think it means, you should go ahead.”

  “Yes,” said Ferrer. “You have discovered a talent for writing, and you have a London newspaper wanting to print your work. I just told you, this is a chance to tell the world all about the plight of the workers of Catalonia.”

  “I must think about this,” said Jordi. “It’s all very exciting, but it’s happening too quickly. Give me a chance to think. Comrade Steven, please read the letter again – I want to be quite sure what this man is saying.”

  After more discussion, which revolved around Ferrer’s enthusiasm and Jordi’s apprehension, they drank more of Eulalia’s coffee, and then prepared to leave.

  “Come back to the Begemot on Friday,” said Steven. “We have an informal meeting of comrades, and there will be several who will be pleased to meet you. Perhaps you will consider joining our small group.”

  “I’d like that,” said Jordi. “We both would. We’ve been a bit isolated since we walked out of the music shop.”

  “Music shop?” asked Steven.

  “On the Ramblas. My Pa is based there, and we couldn’t stomach his violent terrorist methods. It’s a long story. Perhaps I’ll tell it all one day.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  During that long hot summer of 1923, Jordi and Ferrer became friendly with Steven Hannay and his wife, and were regular faces at the Friday meetings of the communists, in the Begemot Bar. Knowing the influence Jordi’s writing could have if it was published, the regular group in the bar persuaded Jordi to open a bank account, and Ferrer assisted him with the process at the Savings Bank of Barcelona. Steven’s English began to return with greater fluency, so that he could efficiently translate letters from London.

  As the heat of the summer began to cool, Steven suggested to Jordi that he could start to teach him English. They began with some painstaking translations of Jordi’s reports for the Daily Chronicle, and started to send the reports to London in English.

  It was late afternoon at the beginning of September, when, to everyone’s amazement, there was a shrill and prolonged ringing of the little-used telephone at Begemot. Everyone turned to the barman in anticipation at such an unusual occurrence, and the barman, who was always nervous of answering it, picked it up. He frowned, muttered, and then looked around the curious faces in the silent bar. “Comrade Hannay,” he said, “I think this man is speaking in English. Can you come to the telephone?”

  Steven walked round the bar and held the telephone to his ear. After a pause, he answered in English, and the hushed audience listened. Suddenly, he put his hand over the mouthpiece, and asked the barman for paper and pencil. They watched with growing fascination as he wrote on the scrap of paper; then they heard him agree to pass a message to Jordi. A few moments more, and he put the telephone back in its cradle. Turning to his comrades who were still listening intently, Steven said, “That was the Daily Chronicle, in London. I’m not used to using a telephone, and I’ve never talked to anyone in London. I think I need a drink.”

  With wry smile, the barman poured him a brandy, which he swallowed quickly, then spoke again. “Jordi, there’s a rumour gone around that a military coup is about to happen here, in Spain. Your editor wants a first-hand account of what’s going on. You’re to go at once to Placa de Sant Jaume. Apparently the Generalitat will issue a statement. You are to try to get an interv
iew with Captain General de Rivera, or at least write a report about what’s going on. And you are to telephone it in English to London before nightfall.”

  “Merda!” exclaimed Jordi. “What shall I do?”

  “Get on with it,” said Ferrer.

  “Yes,” said Steven. “You have no time to lose.”

  “I need one of those,” said Jordi, pointing to Steven’s empty brandy glass.

  The barman quickly poured a measure for Jordi, who gulped it, and looked round the room.

  “Here you go,” said Ferrer, “your notebook and pencil. Run! We’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

  Thus it was that the London Daily Chronicle was the first British paper to publish the story of Primo de Rivera’s military coup, declared that evening from the balcony of the Generalitat in Barcelona. Although Jordi did not get an interview with the new prime minister, he got a copy of the statement. De Rivera used Barcelona for his first announcement of the sacking of the government, the imposition of military rule, and to publicise his slogan of “Country, Religion and Monarchy”.

  Rushing back to Begemot, Jordi had scribbled his unusually long report, and Steven had translated it sentence by sentence as he had written it. By mid-evening, the report was ready, and Steven called the operator to make the telephone call. All his comrades in the bar stopped talking to listen. “Fleet 7000,” he requested. “Yes, it’s a London number. It’s urgent.” After some hesitation, he found himself talking to a secretary, at the London newspaper. Slowly he read Jordi’s report, in English. At the end of the report, Steven turned to Jordi. “This lady, she’s Senor Donald’s secretary, wants to talk to you.”