Autumn in Catalonia
JANE MACKENZIE
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
EPILOGUE
About the Author
By Jane MacKenzie
Copyright
To my good friends and readers Maureen and Jenne, with endless thanks for all your help and support
CHAPTER ONE
Barcelona, 1962
It was the first day of November, and Barcelona was decking itself with chestnut stalls, and cake stalls, and dressing up its children for All Saints Day. A long weekend beckoned, warm still as the autumn sunshine held good in unclouded skies, and the streets were already quite full as Carla emerged from her student hostel and made her way to Luc’s apartment.
She stopped to buy sweet chestnuts, too hot to touch and smelling of sugared autumn. Everywhere smelt of sugar. She passed by another stall selling panellets, the little, round cakes, covered in pine nuts, which were the traditional dessert today, but she didn’t buy this time. She and Luc were invited to lunch at Uncle Josep and Aunt Neus’s house, and Aunt Neus made the best panellets in Barcelona. She couldn’t arrive at their home carrying street-bought cakes. The chestnuts were for Luc, just to keep him going until lunchtime.
It took longer than usual to make her way through the crowds on the Rambla to where she turned off towards Luc’s little backstreet. It would be even busier this evening, when still more of Barcelona’s citizens would come out to stroll and enjoy the festivities. Even a group of Civil Guards on a street corner looked more amiable than usual.
But once she was off the Rambla, in the narrow little residential streets behind, the hubbub ceased, and she was able to stretch into her usual rapid walk. She opened the street door to Luc’s block, and set off up the five flights of stairs to his tiny room way up at the top of the building. Luc would be waiting for her – he was always early, always methodical, Mr Steady with his few shirts always neatly ironed, and his shoes always polished. Only his features weren’t so well ordered – his knobbly face only beautiful if you loved him, and his hands large and too clumsy for the tiny space he lived in.
She reached the top of the stairs in a rush, a bubble of excitement pushing her up the last few steps. Today she was going to introduce Luc to Uncle Josep and Aunt Neus, her first presentation of the man in her life to anyone in her family. And next week they were going to spend the weekend with Luc’s parents. Things were getting serious!
She knocked on his door and it opened immediately, inwards unfortunately, since as it did so it always hit the side of the bed, and never failed to pin Luc’s left leg, because he didn’t step aside in time. The attic room contained just this bed, a tiny desk and chair, and a small chest of drawers, and in one corner, on the floor, was a portable gas stove. On the landing below this room was a shared bathroom. As ‘apartments’ go, it was practically non-existent, but it was private and quiet and had become their haven. Carla’s girls’ hostel was a no-go area for Luc, male visits being banned, so any private time they had was spent here.
And beyond the tiny room was the balcony, which made the room really special for Carla. It was the smallest balcony imaginable, really more like a ledge outside his window, but from it you could see over the Barcelona rooftops and the warehouses beyond to the sea, which was just a misty blur behind the jumble of cranes. It was this old harbour area that Carla always felt was the lifeblood of Catalonia. Economist and accountant Luc might talk about the new factories and tourism, about foreign investment and the new Spain, but Carla loved the old docks, with their piles of tyres and wooden crates. They would sit on the floor of the balcony, facing out to sea, letting the sun soak into their faces, and drink cheap coffee brewed on the stove, or sometimes real coffee and sandwiches bought from the café in the street below.
And they would talk – endlessly they would talk. About the past, about the battles of the present, and about the future their Spain needed, that they had to help deliver for her. But also about music, and poetry, which Carla had always studied very formally, but which Luc approached with almost hedonistic pleasure, quoting love lines from Lorca to her in a humorous voice which ill-concealed his adoration for his favourite poet. He would declaim lines from Lope de Vega too, and was endlessly singing – verses of Catalan folk, or pop music, or even opera, in a fine baritone which Carla appreciated more, perhaps, than his neighbours did. It wasn’t silliness – it was just freedom, and gradually Carla was learning. Could you learn spontaneity, or did you ingest it by osmosis? It didn’t really matter, but she had never been so happy.
And now she was taking Luc to meet Josep. He’d taken extra care over his appearance this morning, she noticed with amusement. He’d brought out his newest shirt, one rarely worn for university or for the campaign trail, and was wearing a tie. Well good! She’d made an effort herself, bringing out a dress and jacket set that she hadn’t worn since the summer, of a deep Mediterranean blue and flowing wide from a narrow waist, giving her some curves and swishing around her long legs. It was an outfit her mother had chosen, not the most elaborate or the most expensive in her wardrobe, but not normal student wear either, and she’d surprised herself this morning when she’d wanted to wear it for Luc. She didn’t normally dress too fine to go to Josep’s house. Josep and her mother might be brother and sister, but they lived in different worlds, and it always felt senseless to flaunt silly trappings of another life when visiting Josep.
But she’d succumbed today, and she felt all the pleasure of success when she saw the little appreciative gleam in Luc’s eyes.
‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, as he drew her to him for a kiss.
‘Idiota!’ she protested, but she was absurdly pleased. ‘I brought you a mid-morning snack. I thought you might not have had more than three or four rolls for breakfast!’
‘Yay! It’s the Castanyada!’ Luc grinned, for All Saints Day was all about eating chestnuts. There would be chestnuts at Uncle Josep’s, too, freshly roasted after lunch, but this little paper cone of sugar was just what Luc loved, and he ate through the packet within minutes as they left his little room, and made their way out towards the newer part of town where Josep and Neus lived. It would barely dent his appetite, she knew.
Uncle Josep lived in a 1950s block of family-sized, utility apartments built around a central, open courtyard, which the residents had turned into a communal space for themselves and their children. It was rare in Franco’s Spain for neighbours to create such a community. People still watched each other, and were scared to speak openly, and so many had flooded into the cities from different villages, looking for work, that your neighbour could be from anywhere, and woe betide you if you trusted him too easily.
But in Josep’s building most of the apartments were occupied by men who worked for the same engineering company, workers who took the same bus together each morning and had even dared to create a small workers’ union. They were flexing their muscles very cautiously, but they stood together, and insi
de this building everyone spoke Catalan, and joined together for festivities, and their communal courtyard took the place of the old village squares which had been the meeting places in another life.
As Luc and Carla entered the courtyard, it became quickly clear that this was a day when the little community all planned to eat together. Children were running around everywhere, in their best clothes, looping between three long communal tables, which were made up of all the household tables put together, with an assortment of white and flowered tablecloths covering the whole. On a long, low wall that bordered the yard a small group of men were already sitting with glasses in their hands, while their womenfolk finished laying the tables. Charcoal grills had been set up, on which the chestnuts would be roasted.
Luc loosed Carla’s hand as they walked into this scene, and she realised that he was nervous. She had butterflies herself, but she waved at one or two of the neighbours as she led the way in, and seeing that neither Josep nor Neus was present here, she moved with her usual quick-footed pace towards their apartment in the ground-floor corner, and as she reached the open front door she turned to wait for Luc, ushering him in with a reassuring smile.
Inside, the apartment was functional and square, with modern furniture bought cheaply, Carla knew, when Josep and Neus had moved in with their young family just five years ago. But there was flowered paper on every wall, and photos everywhere, mainly of the children, but also some of grandparents and older generations.
They entered on a surprisingly peaceful scene, contrasting with the activity outside. Neus was just coming out of the kitchen with a huge tray of panellet cakes, which she laid on a large sideboard ready to be carried out to the tables. Josep was sitting with the three boys, tying their ties before letting them go outside. Glasses had been laid out on the floral runner on the coffee table, alongside a bottle of chilled red wine and a dish of olives.
It was Neus who saw them first, and she came hastily forward to greet them, kissing Carla and then taking Luc’s hand in both of hers.
‘My dears, you’re here! Come in, come in!’ Her huge, welcoming grin beamed warmth at them. ‘Don’t mind all that going on outside – we’ll be going out to eat with them shortly, but it’s early yet, and we want a little time with you first. They’ll be at the aperitiù for a long time before they think about eating! You must be Luc! How happy we are to meet you. Come sit down here. Pau, make way for the young Senyor!’ This to her youngest son, whom she shooed to a corner of the sofa to give Luc pride of place in the centre.
Josep had risen at their entrance, and stood waiting in his quiet way for Neus to finish talking. As she drew Luc towards the sofa he stepped forward and reached out his own hand.
Carla watched them both, each of them tall, roughly even in height, although Luc was like a bear in comparison to Uncle Josep’s slender build. Josep was the fairer, his blond curls defiantly un-Catalan in colour, and for a moment you could almost have thought he was the younger. He had a young face for his thirty-seven years – just like Mama, thought Carla. Brother and sister were a good-looking pair.
‘Luc,’ Josep was saying, ‘Welcome to our home. Carla has told us something about you, and we have been looking forward to meeting you.’
‘Me too, Senyor.’ Luc’s deep tones came out as measured as usual, and then, as he saw Josep’s smile, he smiled in return.
Josep looked over at Carla and winked. ‘I’ve just been wanting to meet the guy who had the balls to take you on, little niece!’ he said, and as Neus protested, gesturing at the children, he grinned and pulled Luc down to sit next to him.
They were destined to be good friends, Luc and Josep. Over an initial glass of wine they were already laying into the regime. And several hours of non-stop talking later, accompanied by several glasses of moscatell and far too much food, the world had become rosy, the harshest elements of the regime were being eroded, and Spain was en route for a brighter future. After lunch with the neighbours they sat a little apart in the shade, watching the children playing, while some of the men carried on feasting noisily, and their women, in this macho culture, withdrew indoors. Luc and Josep were deep in debate, glass in hand, and the rest of the world had receded from them.
Neus, pragmatic and tolerant, left them late in the afternoon to visit her parents’ graves, traditional on this day of remembrance of the dead. Carla settled down with her glass of moscatell in her hand to watch her men from the sidelines. She wasn’t in the least abashed by their company, but by nature she was more reserved, and by upbringing more wary. Silence had often been Carla’s greatest defence, and it made a sheltering blanket from which to watch the world.
But Neus’s departure brought a more sober mood to Uncle Josep. He watched his wife leave, following her with his eyes until she was through the outside door, and then turned to Carla.
‘You know Carla, I don’t believe in all that tradition about the day of the dead, but one of these days I must ask my mother where my father is buried. He’s here in Barcelona, but I don’t know where. I’d like to pay my respects, somehow.’
‘Your father is buried in Barcelona?’ It was news to Carla – her grandfather was buried here?
‘Why, yes. And don’t ask me why, but after all these years here I am finding myself thinking about him more and more.’ His voice was thoughtful but not melancholy. ‘I think it’s been creeping up on me since you came back into our lives here, and since Mama left the village and there’s no one up in the old house anymore. I’ve been thinking more about the past.’ He shook his head as if to shake away ideas. ‘I’m getting old, I think.’
Luc was curious. ‘I thought that your family all came from Sant Galdric, up in the hills. That’s what Carla told me.’
‘Well yes, she’s right, except that my early years were spent here in Barcelona, and then my mother went back up to the village after father died. I was about nine years old, maybe ten, and I grew up in Sant Galdric after that, became a real village boy. But I was born in this city.’
‘Your father was from Barcelona?’
‘No.’ Josep ran his hand through his blond hair with a rueful grin. ‘Where do you think I get this colouring from? My father was from the south, although even he couldn’t explain how he came to be so fair! He was a journalist, working here in Barcelona.’
‘And he met your mother?’ The question was valid. Village girls didn’t just come to Barcelona on their own forty years ago.
‘He worked with my mother’s brother. My Uncle Luis was a journalist too, a bigger one than my father, by all accounts. He was the great success of my mother’s family. Anyway, Luis and my father were great friends, and so introductions were made, and my father ended up marrying Luis’s sister!’ He disappeared for a few minutes into his own reverie, and then added, with a sigh, ‘They were great days, here in Barcelona, with just father and mother, and me and my sister Joana – that’s Carla’s mother, you know – and Uncle Luis hanging out with us all the time. Different times.’
It was the first Carla had ever heard of her mother’s family living in Barcelona. She knew nothing! It was astonishing. She wanted to ask questions, but her mind was too much of a jumble, so she let Luc carry on putting them for her.
‘Was this during the Republic?’ he asked, and Josep nodded.
‘So your father, Carla’s grandfather, was a Republican journalist?’
‘Yes, he and Uncle Luis ran a newspaper here until 1934, when it got closed down after the November uprising and everyone was arrested. Uncle Luis got away, but my father was thrown into gaol for a while. It damaged his health in there, and he died not long after they let him out.’
‘Poor Grandma,’ said Carla, finding her voice at last.
‘Yes, it was tough for my mother. She’d lost her husband and her brother, and had no means to live, so she took us back up to the village, to where the rest of the family still were, and the rest, as you might say, is history.’
Carla looked long at Uncle Josep. It explaine
d a lot about him, and about Mama, to know that their life hadn’t always been lived in Sant Galdric, with its sheep and goats and dusty houses. Josep was a good product of a village school, but he had a broader view of life and the world than most villagers, and was a voracious reader when he had the time. And Mama? Carla felt the usual frustration when she thought of Mama, tailored and manicured, and increasingly brittle and hard-edged, swanning around Girona in her Mercedes with chauffeur Toni at the wheel. Mama was beyond the reach even of Carla, and she certainly didn’t fit into any picture of Sant Galdric. It was hard to imagine her as a village child, playing in the dirt with all the rest.
Carla caught Luc watching her, his face a query, and raised her hands at him to show her own bewilderment. ‘This is all news to me! I can’t believe I never even heard of it before! All I knew was that Mama got herself out of Sant Galdric by marrying one of Franco’s men after the Civil War. I kind of understood that from Papa’s sarcastic comments about her humble origins over the years. And I just assumed she must have worked hard to turn herself into that elegant government wife she’s become.’ She turned to Uncle Josep. ‘How old was Mama when you left Barcelona?’
‘When our father died? I guess she must have been about twelve or thirteen – something like that. She was very much my big sister! She was very bright, you know, always brilliant at school, and she loved to sit with the journalists and listen to them talk. She absolutely hated it when we had to go back to the village – she never really accepted life there, unlike me, being younger.’
‘So when Papa offered to take her away …’
‘Yes, I guess she just grasped at the offer, and of course life was pretty grim just after the war ended. Lots of people had lost faith in the Republican cause.’ Josep’s faced clouded. ‘But still, I never thought she would betray the whole family – everything we stood for – just to get away. It came as a shock to everyone. She kind of simply disappeared one day, packed her bags and she was off, and the next thing we knew she was married to Sergi Olivera. No one could believe it.’
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