Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “The bell, not the tower,” said Miss Prim.

  Soon afterwards, the car was stopping outside the grandiose front of the Strand Palace Hotel.

  “Here?” said Jordi.

  “By our lady,” muttered Steven.

  “It’s like staying at the Majestic,” said Jordi, remembering one of Barcelona’s best hotels.

  Smiling, Miss Prim pushed them out of the car. As they drove away, she called, “Looking forward to seeing you in the morning. Don’t be late.”

  They turned to the door, but were halted by a beggar: a young man, perhaps much the same age as Jordi, without any legs. He was wearing a tattered soldier’s uniform. “I wonder if that uniform came from the factory where I worked,” thought Jordi. The former soldier looked pathetically at Jordi and for a moment their eyes locked. A uniformed doorman opened the hotel door, and Jordi and Steven turned away from the beggar, and walked up the steps, acutely aware of their shabby clothes and battered suitcases. They stood in the lobby, unsure what to do next.

  “Can I help you, gentlemen?” asked a rather superior clerk behind the huge mahogany desk.

  “We have rooms booked,” explained Steven. “I’m Steven Hannay, and this is Jordi Vilaro, from Spain.”

  Their passports were checked, and room keys handed over. A bell-hop attempted to take their luggage, but they refused to hand over the cardboard suitcases. The bell-hop asked them to follow, and they were taken to adjoining rooms on the first floor, with a view of the busy Strand outside. Jordi went into his room and sat on the bed, unsure what to do next. Steven had not been in his room more than a few minutes, when he came knocking on Jordi’s door.

  “There’s a telephone in my room!” exclaimed Steven.

  “And one here, as well,” said Jordi.

  “We could phone the bar, Eulalia will probably be there, and the others. Won’t they be surprised!”

  Jordi nervously picked up the phone, and the hotel switchboard spoke to him.

  “I’d like to call a number in Barcelona,” said Jordi, and to his astonishment, within a few minutes the phone was ringing in the Begemot. The regular barman took the call as usual, then Eulalia was on the line, shouting as if she needed to be extra loud because of the long distance. Steven told her to be calm, and that she must not talk for long, as they had no idea what the cost of the call would be. Jordi and Steven could hear their friends in the bar calling greetings to them, and then the phone went dead.

  “I’m hungry,” said Jordi. “We need to get something to eat.”

  “We’ve got money, and there are restaurants in this street,” said Steven, looking out of the window. “Come on.”

  The grand clerk at the front desk recommended a restaurant across the road called ‘Simpson’s’, and they ventured out. The legless beggar was still there. Looking away from him, they were challenged to cross the wide street, with the traffic coming from the wrong direction, but they reached the other side safely, and approached Simpson’s.

  “Can we afford this place?” said Steven.

  “Probably not,” said Jordi, “but we’re never likely to have another chance.”

  A uniformed door man opened the door for them, and they entered the marble foyer.

  “Do you have a reservation?” asked another liveried footman.

  “No,” replied Steven, attempting to be as grand as the footman, “but we’ve just flown in from Barcelona. Can you fit us in for dinner?”

  “Barcelona!” exclaimed the footman. “I’m sure we can fit you in!”

  Once seated they were handed huge white menu cards, and chose the least expensive roast meat, the lamb. Whilst waiting for their dinner to arrive, they looked around. There was a buzz about the place as waiters in black jackets, with long white aprons marched around, propelling large carts with silver domes. Eating at a table towards the back of the room, facing the happy throng, was a tall man with a long white beard.

  “I’ve seen him before,” said Jordi.

  “Don’t be silly,” grinned Steven. “There will not be anyone here we know.”

  “No, I don’t mean know him, but I’ve seen his picture. He is … oh, I can’t remember, but he is someone.”

  When the magnificent trolley was brought to their table, Jordi leaned forward to the waiter. “Who is that distinguished gentleman with the long white beard?” he asked.

  The waiter leaned down and spoke quietly. “That’s the great Irishman, George Bernard Shaw,” said the waiter confidentially. “We serve him regularly here, but you must not approach him or speak to him. He does not like to be disturbed, and knows the staff here will protect him from his public.”

  Neither Jordi nor Steven had ever had such a meal. Halfway through the generous plate of delicious meat, Jordi put his knife and fork down.

  “This is wonderful,” he said, “but we must remember that so few comrades ever get to eat meals like this. Most live hungry, just like I did as a child, and most die hungry. Our cause goes on: coming to London and living this high life for a couple of days, reinforces my resolve for the revolution. This is what they rebelled against in the great Russian revolution, and we must continue in our fight for the workers.”

  “I feel just the same as you, but just for one evening, let us enjoy it while we can,” replied Steven.

  “I keep thinking of that soldier, begging outside the hotel. When we’ve paid for this, we’ll have some change; we must help him when we go back to the hotel.”

  “Could be you or me, sitting there,” said Steven.

  “That’s what I was thinking. Did that factory I worked in, make the uniform he was wearing when he went to war, a fit young man like me, cut down, and reduced to crawling the streets of London. We must help him. We are so lucky that we’re here in this amazing restaurant, with such food. Could we ever be further away from the Raval slum?”

  Jordi lay on the bed in the unfamiliar hotel bedroom, and was soon asleep. When he woke in the morning, he found he was on the floor, although he had no memory of leaving the bed. It was already light, so he shaved hurriedly, and dressed in the same stiff clothes as the day before. He had none other on this trip, as there were no other clothes in his cardboard suitcase.

  He knocked on Steven’s door, and the two went to breakfast. They were confused by the choice, and ate only what was familiar to them. As neither had a watch, they relied on the clock in the hotel foyer, and set out to walk to the Daily Chronicle office with plenty of time to spare.

  Jordi carried his battered suitcase with him as they walked along the Strand in the morning sunshine. They continued into Fleet Street, crossed Fetter Lane, as described in their instructions, and turning into Bouverie Street, found themselves outside the imposing offices of the Daily Chronicle. Pushing through the swing door, they were met by a young man in military uniform. The soldier offered his left hand, and Jordi shook it clumsily, aware that the man had no right arm.

  “You must be the men from Barcelona,” said the man, in carefully rehearsed Spanish. “Please wait for a moment.”

  Picking up a telephone, they heard him speaking to Miss Prim, and a few moments later, she stepped out of the lift to greet them.

  “It’s good that you are punctual,” she said. “Mr Donald assumes all Spaniards will be late.”

  “But I am not a Spaniard,” smiled Jordi. “I am a Catalan. We are never late!”

  The lift attendant, also in a military uniform, held the brass doors for them, and once inside, closed them with a loud clang. They noticed he was sitting on a high stool, and that he had one leg missing. His wooden crutches were propped in the corner of the lift.

  On the top floor of the building they emerged into a large sunlit office, and Robert Donald walked forward to meet them.

  “Welcome to London, gentlemen.”

  “Senor Donald,” said Jordi, aware that his English was far from perfect, “thank you so much for giving us this trip to meet you. We are very grateful.”

  “You should call m
e Robert,” said the editor, smiling. “I can hear what Miss Prim told me. You speak good English young man, but with an amusing Scottish accent.”

  “That’s my fault, sir,” said Steven. “I taught him all he knows.”

  “Senor Hannay, welcome. You have been an excellent teacher. And I know we are in your debt for translating Jordi’s work, and more recently checking his English when he sends copy to us. Come, let us sit.”

  Miss Prim led them to elegant upholstered chairs, where a low table was prepared with cups and saucers, and a tall coffee pot.

  “Is this your office, Robert? It’s enormous,” said Jordi.

  “I share it with Miss Prim. I couldn’t have all this space just to myself.”

  “May we ask a question?” said Steven. “We have seen many young men in military uniform. There’s a legless beggar outside our hotel, and we’ve been met by your doorman with one arm, and brought up in the lift by a disabled lift attendant. We were not expecting this.”

  “It’s the legacy of the Great War,” said Robert. “So many killed, but also so many men sent home with terrible injuries. This is a socialist newspaper, and I am determined to do all I can to give employment to at least a few of our crippled ex-soldiers. In most lifts in London, even in the department stores, you will find disabled soldiers. You can work a lift with only one arm, or only one leg.”

  “Spain did not take part in the war,” said Jordi. “We don’t have cripples in the streets like you do. Let us hope we never do.”

  “Speaking of war, let me explain why I have brought you here,” said Robert. “Although it was mainly to meet you, and congratulate you on the quality of your reports, it’s also to direct your thinking to other aspects of life in Barcelona.”

  Jordi sipped the coffee, and leaned forward, determined to understand all that his editor said.

  “You will be aware that things are changing in Germany. Our contacts tell us that this Adolf Hitler will soon be a force to reckon with. There may even be another war in Europe.”

  “Nothing has happened yet, has it?” said Jordi.

  “Not yet, but Hitler’s time will come. I have a correspondent in Berlin watching his every move, and the signs are not good. I need you to keep your ear to the ground. You are in a good position to give us early warning of fascist activities in Spain.”

  “Bravo Portillo,” murmured Jordi.

  “What?” said Robert.

  “Bravo Portillo,” said Jordi, louder. “You remember the sardana massacre on the cathedral square? Portillo, the fascist thug was responsible for that. I don’t trust him, and Rivera’s moved him to Madrid to run his secret police. His bully-boy henchmen still lurk in Barcelona. It’s been quiet for a while, but there are many hanging around street corners, waiting for a signal from Bravo. What’s more, you will remember my interview with Rivera’s son. He says openly that he is a fascist.”

  “Keep sending your reports about the architecture, and this coming international exhibition. Your reports are not only very interesting for our readers, but also provide an excellent smokescreen for your real challenge, to keep us informed about the political changes in your city, and your country. You have proved an excellent reporter in the past, and your anonymity means that you can continue to send graphic and details reports for our newspaper. You have managed some significant scoops in the past, and we hope you will continue to do so. Your trip to London is our way of saying thank you for your good work so far, and to encourage you to continue in your diligence.”

  Looking to Steven for reassurance, Jordi said, “Thank you sir. I think I have understood all you have said. Thank you for your confidence in me.” Opening his little suitcase, he produced a bottle of Rioja for the editor. “Here’s a bottle of good wine from our country, Catalonia. We hope you will enjoy it.” The editor was impressed by the bottle in its golden wire netting. Going back to his suitcase, Jordi then thrust an envelope into Robert’s hands. “And this is a new report from the building of the great international exhibition. As I knew I would be delivering it personally, I have taken the liberty of enclosing a drawing of the German pavilion.”

  “German?” said Robert abruptly. “That’s ironic given our conversation.”

  “I know,” agreed Jordi, “but you should look at it. It’s the most extraordinary pavilion in the whole exhibition. Its design is by an architect called Ludwig Mies van de Rohe, and he wants his building to be a zone of tranquillity. I have obtained permission from him, for you to reproduce his drawing in your newspaper.”

  “Perhaps Germany itself will become a zone of tranquillity,” said Miss Prim.

  “Perhaps,” said Robert, “but sadly, I think it is extremely unlikely.”

  Suddenly the building was filled with the roar of machinery, and Jordi and Steven were startled by the vibrations they could feel in the floor. Alarmed, they looked fearfully at Robert and Miss Prim.

  The editor grinned as he spoke, “Ah, they are running the lunch-time edition. The presses always surprise people who’ve never been here before. Would you like to see them?”

  Recovering his composure, Jordi stammered, “Yes please, sir, I mean, Robert. That would be very interesting.”

  Robert led them to the lift, and they went down a floor. Stepping out, the roaring seemed closer. The editor warned them that they would be unable to talk once they were overlooking the machine floor, and then opened a heavy door. The sound hit them like a boxer’s punch, and Robert motioned for them to step through onto a narrow iron walkway which overlooked the rolling presses. In the gloom of the machine room, the enormous presses seemed to have a life of their own. The speed of the huge lengths of paper flying through the machines was breath-taking, and the men with their oil cans, attending to the monster presses, looked like ants scurrying around. An unusual aroma of ink and oil filled the air, and the iron walkway vibrated alarmingly.

  After a few moments, Robert indicated that they should return, and once the heavy door was closed, they could talk again.

  “Extraordinary, aye, extraordinary,” said Steven.

  “I’ve never seen anything like that. I’ll never forget it,” said Jordi.

  “Come back to my office for a moment,” said Robert.

  Upstairs, Miss Prim had cleared away the coffee things, and had placed an unusually shaped metal box on the table, with the name “Remington Rand” marked on the lid.

  “This is for you,” smiled the editor. “I am sure you will find it useful.”

  Leaning down, Jordi opened the lid of the box, and gasped. It contained a typewriter.

  “This is the newest kind, because it’s portable. I’m giving one to each of my best reporters. It will make life in the typing pool much easier. I’m sure you will quickly learn how to use it.”

  Miss Prim closed the lid, and showed Jordi how to fasten it secure, as Robert Donald dismissed his visitors.

  “I’ve another meeting shortly, so bid you farewell, gentlemen. It has been a pleasure meeting you. Enjoy the rest of the day in London, and travel safely back to Barcelona tomorrow.”

  Shaking their hands, and with many more expressions of thanks from Jordi and Steven, the editor left, and Miss Prim showed them to the lift. Out on the street, they turned and grinned. “Walk away calmly,” said Steven, “Someone may be watching.”

  They crossed Fetter Lane, and then broke into whoops of laughter. “What an experience,” said Jordi.

  “Thanks to you,” said Steven. “I would never have come to London if your talent hadn’t brought us here.”

  After leaving the typewriter and his suitcase at the hotel, Jordi and Steven spent the rest of the day walking. They stood for a time in Trafalgar Square, and then walked the length of the Mall to peer through the railings at Buckingham Palace. They walked past the Houses of Parliament, and up Whitehall. They returned to the Strand and had dinner in the second floor restaurant of the enormous Lyons Corner House next to Charing Cross Station.

  The following morning, Jordi
woke up on the bed in his room. For the first time ever, he’d not slept on the floor. After breakfast, they packed their meagre belongings quickly into the increasingly dilapidated suitcases. Picking up the typewriter, they went to the lobby of the hotel to find out how to get to Croydon aerodrome. When they told the clerk the time of their flight, he told them that they must take a taxi, as there was no other way to be on time. The doorman hailed them a cab, but before getting into it, Jordi went over to the legless beggar, and handed him a ten-shilling note. The man was excessively grateful, but Jordi, in a chaos of emotions, turned away, jumped into the cab, and they were on their way home.

  As he climbed the stairs to his room, Jordi found it hard to believe that the same morning he had had breakfast in London. Wearily, he put the typewriter on his desk, threw the unworn raincoat onto a chair, and sank down onto the chaise. It had been an extraordinary adventure – a boy from the slums flying in the latest kind of aeroplane, all that way to London and back. He had seen far more of the world than anyone he knew in Barcelona, and the experience had been very exciting; but he was left with an odd feeling of emptiness and guilt. It seemed wrong to have spent so much money enjoying himself, whilst so many had nothing. He lay back on the faded velvet of the chaise and was soon sleeping deeply.

  The next evening, at the Begemot Bar, he was asked all about his trip. “It’s not right,” he said. “There are people in this world who live like kings. The hotel was expensive, and it was full. How can so many have the money to live like that? And the restaurant we went to! One meal there cost more than you or I would spend in a month for food; and again, it was full. So many people, with so much cash. And yet, right outside, a beggar with no legs, a victim of the Great War, with nothing, living in the dirt of the street. And the wealthy passengers on the aeroplane, reading and chattering as if it was the most normal thing to buy a ticket and fly halfway round the world.”