by Jordi Puntí
Appointment made.
Throughout this entire process, nobody had given as much as five minutes to ask what Anna thought. Neither had she, in fact. The diligence with which everyone rallied around to solve the problem had left her with no alternative. If she’d been four years older she might have protested but, at seventeen, and coming from an upper-crust family, what could you expect? Swaddled in cotton wool, Anna was heading for London without too many worries. Her uneasiness arose from something else, an understanding, perhaps that the scar—physical and mental—of an abortion would give her new status in her circle of friends and, like someone sitting for an end-of-year exam, she was afraid of not being up to it.
What with all this agitation, the incredibly tedious journey by truck (fifteen hours) and the ferry crossing were now assuming epic proportions that would help her to shore up the future. Furthermore, she would eventually learn to take refuge in the adventure, at the heart of which, of course, was the company of Bundó and Gabriel (Petroli had remained in Barcelona so she could travel in the truck). “Saved by the working class!” she thought. Those men wore pullovers ripped by hard work, smoked pungent, dark-tobacco Ducados, drank beer from the bottle! It could be said that she appreciated them and felt an anthropological attraction toward both of them. The feeling was mutual. In a food break they’d seen how tired and pale she was, and Bundó opened the trailer, made a space for one of the mattresses they were carrying and let her have an hour’s sleep. These kind gestures, such a small matter for the two drivers, lent a human touch to the lonely journey of Anna Miralpeix.
“Do you do this very often, Manuel, I mean transporting pregnant girls?” she asked, tossing her cigarette butt into the sea. There was no way she was going to learn their names. Gabriel didn’t want to correct her. It was the first time she’d initiated a conversation, and, unlike the other girls, she wasn’t asking how long before they arrived.
“You’re the third,” he replied. “You’re also the youngest. Don’t imagine that we’re crazy about this. In theory we’re breaking Spanish law, we’re delinquents, but our boss is one of those people who do favors and your parents . . .”
“I don’t give a fuck about my parents,” she cut him off. “I’m doing it for me and that’s that. I don’t want to have a kid, ever. Children give me the creeps.”
Her words were emphatic but devoid of any anger. They weren’t far from a plea.
“Don’t say that,” Gabriel told her. “You’re very young and who knows where life will take you. I myself . . .”
“Do you have kids?”
“Not that I know of,” Gabriel lied.
“Do you want to have kids?”
“Yes, yes, sure, of course.” He didn’t have to give it much thought. “One day. If I stop carting furniture all over the place and find a woman who’ll put up with me.”
“How old are you now?”
“Just turned twenty-six. Why the interrogation?”
Anna thought he looked older. A new, more violent flurry of wind raced across the deck, catching them unawares. The ferry started rolling in the surging sea. The few people still remaining outside hastened inside. Gabriel found it a good excuse to put an end to the conversation and invited Anna to go down to the cafeteria. She waited a few seconds by herself (as fine rain began sprinkling her face) and then followed him. When they’d reached the foot of the narrow stairway, they saw Bundó running up to them along the passageway. He was very agitated.
“Hi, gorgeous, how are you feeling? You’re okay, aren’t you?” he asked Anna. Without waiting for an answer, he turned to Gabriel. “Guess who’s in the bows . . . or is it the stern? I always get it mixed up . . . Never mind. Guess who’s at the other end of the ferry.” A suspenseful pause. “The French fellow, the one with the horse. With that groom of his.”
From that moment on, it was as if Bundó’s words, so seemingly straightforward, had cast some sort of spell on the ferry and its occupants. Gabriel’s face changed. Anna noted that his expression grew even sharper, making him look like the fox in storybooks. The muscles and veins in his neck tensed. His lips went dry and he ran his tongue over them to moisten them. The transformation lasted just a few seconds and ended in a strange gesture: Gabriel quickly patted his chest and arms as if looking for his wallet and immediately pulled down his shirtsleeves to check that the cuffs were well buttoned. Then he was his usual calm self again. Bundó rubbed his hands together to fend off the cold.
“Do they want to play?” Gabriel asked.
“They sure do,” his friend replied. “They haven’t forgotten last time.”
“Play what?” Anna interrupted.
“Cards. We play cards. Poker,” Bundó explained.
Gabriel disappeared down one of the long upholstered passageways, heading for the cafeteria at the other end. While they followed him, staggering with the rocking of the boat, Bundó explained who the Frenchman was in a burst of nervous chatter.
The Frenchman, a Parisian aged about fifty, was aptly named Monsieur Champion. Churlish and arrogant, a bastard through and through, he was loaded and under the impression that the whole of humanity worked for him. He was a horse breeder with a stud farm in Brittany. The pearl of his stables was a thoroughbred that he took to race on different tracks in the south of England. A glance was sufficient to confirm that this was a glorious horse. He was called Sans Merci. Monsieur Champion always traveled with Ibrahim, a reserved, monosyllabic Algerian youth. According to Bundó, it was a weird, dodgy kind of relationship, if you get what I mean. Sometimes the Frenchman treated Ibrahim as if he were his slave and threatened to strike him. Other times he gazed at him enraptured. The lad seemed very amiable and never complained. His job was to look after the horse, groom him, feed him, and ensure that, once he was in the horsebox for the crossing, he stayed calm and docile. The two men crossed the Channel a few days before each race and took the horse to the racecourse in question, where an English jockey trained him and got him into shape for the Saturday event. He was a winner, great for the betting business. The four men had met for the first time on La Ibérica’s previous ferry trip to London. That was the day when Bundó and Gabriel had been playing cards at a corner table in the cafeteria, seeking relief from the throng. The Frenchman had approached them and challenged them to a game against himself and Ibrahim. For money, French francs. That trip, Gabriel and Bundó had played for more than an hour with Monsieur Champion and the groom. Since it was a short crossing, they didn’t have time to clean them out (clean him out, the arrogant dickhead who doled out money to the lad so he could play), but the winnings had been considerable. Now Monsieur Champion wanted revenge. It was his right, he said.
If Petroli had been traveling on the ferry that October day, Gabriel wouldn’t have fallen so easily into temptation. The older man was well aware of his weaknesses, remembered some of his earlier gambling episodes, and knew how to rein him in when necessary. Bundó, in contrast, went along with Gabriel because their cardsharp partnership amused and pleased him. Soon it would be his and Carolina-Muriel’s first anniversary, and he was dying to give her a classy present. Thus, every move they did, he ferreted around in the boxes in a way that bordered on pathological, and any chance to make a bit of money, by cheating or otherwise, was welcome.
Guided by this gleaner’s spirit, Bundó made his entrance into the cafeteria, beaming from ear to ear, with Anna Miralpeix at his side. Gabriel, already seated at the table with Monsieur Champion and the groom, was shuffling the cards.
“Hullo. And this lovely young lady, where has she sprung from?” Monsieur Champion greeted them. It was clear he’d learned some Spanish hobnobbing with people from the Basque coast of France. “Aha, I see, she’s your . . . how shall I put it, your lucky charm.”
“I’m nobody’s lucky charm,” Anna replied in the man’s language. She’d been a student at the Lycée Français, and her accent impressed Monsieur Champion. He looked her up and down disdainfully and decided that he didn�
�t like the brat.
“Alors tais-toi, ma petite,” he shot back, instantly enraged. “You have no place here. If you want to stay, keep quiet. Sit down and learn a thing or two.”
Anna grew quiet but stayed where she was, holding her ground. She wasn’t going to be bossed around by anyone. She’d keep standing there, right by his side, just to piss him off.
“Shall we start? We’ve agreed that I deal first,” Gabriel said, as if nothing had happened. He then quietly informed Bundó of a further condition. “We’re going to play with pesetas. The Captain mustn’t know that the stakes are higher. He’d shut down the show. Remember, every peseta’s worth a franc. It’s like playing with chips. We’ll work it out in francs at the end of the game. Minimum bet’s one peseta; maximum a hundred.”
“Jesus!”
“They’re good and worried today, Ibrahim. You can see they don’t trust the luck that comes with pregnant girls.”
Gabriel shot him a reproving look, and the Frenchman winked in response. Still standing at his side and biting her tongue, Anna remained unruffled. Gabriel dealt out the cards. The ferry lurched again, and Anna nearly fell but saved herself just in time by grabbing Monsieur Champion’s shoulder. The Frenchman gloated and the groom watched her out of the corner of his eye. Bundó picked up the first cards. After looking at his hand, he took a swig of beer and addressed Anna.
“If I was you, I’d go and sit down at some table and have a bite of breakfast. It’s self-service, so you’ve got to get it yourself and pay at the till. If you want my advice, go for a nice hot coffee and one of those teacakes. The sandwiches are disgusting.”
The girl took his advice and sat down by a thick-paned window, staring out, fascinated by the battle between clouds and sea. From time to time, with rhythmic surges, a large wave loomed, a shimmering enamel-gray slick like a whale’s belly glinting in the sun, engulfing the view and then collapsing back into the water. Then the whole boat shuddered with an undulating thrust, and Anna felt the spasms of seasickness again. The coffee and teacake remained untouched on the table. She lit another cigarette.
In the distance she could see the four men concentrating hard on their game. They dealt, placed their bets, and the cards slid across the white Formica tabletop. In 1966, a franc was a lot of money for a Spanish truck driver. Gabriel and Bundó had begun by checking out the lay of the land and betting low. Monsieur Champion had immediately adopted the distant, overstuffed look of an aristocrat in Monte Carlo, holding his head high and looking down his nose as he placed his bets. He was smoking a cigar but didn’t seem to be enjoying it, as if his real aim was to foul the air. Ibrahim limited himself to following his master’s instructions. He was only winning back his bets, but whenever they lost the hand Monsieur Champion went for him.
“Nom de Dieu! Que tu es simple, mon Ibrahim! Quel gaspillage!”
A spray of water hit the window, and Anna’s view went cobwebby as if the glass had cracked on impact. A few seconds later, a screech on the public address system shattered the players’ concentration. First in English and then in French, the Captain announced that the ferry had been caught in an unforeseen storm and they’d have to make a detour south. There’d be an hour’s delay in the crossing, perhaps even more. He apologized for any inconvenience this adverse weather might cause—totally contrary to the wishes of the company—and suggested that passengers entertain themselves with the facilities offered on board the Viking III. In response to the formal, droning voice, a fast-whirling eddy sucked in the ferry then spat it out. The jolting was terrifying. The lights flickered and there was a collective shriek from the passengers. A din of smashing crockery. Anna’s coffee spilt over the table and she stanched the tide with paper napkins. The four players simultaneously performed the same reflex action of holding their cards in one hand and pinning down the coins with the other. Even so, three or four of Bundó’s went rolling across the floor. An Englishman, the same one who’d been talking to himself on deck, somehow climbed up on the handrail of the stairs and started reciting Shakespeare.
“Down with the topmast! Yare! Lower, lower!” he shouted, gesturing as if commanding the multitude with the words of the boatswain at the start of The Tempest.
“Will we be arriving very late?” Bundó asked, gripping the coins in his hand. “What time are they expecting our young lady?”
“She won’t be admitted till tonight. They’re doing the job tomorrow morning. There’s plenty of time.”
The ferry made another giddy movement, not as violent as the last one but more startling as if it were skidding across the water. The actor responded by raising his voice.
“A plague upon this howling!”
Monsieur Champion dealt out the cards, still looking smug. He’d just won a hand, a small fortune, with a bit of bluffing that the truck drivers hadn’t spotted. Ibrahim, in contrast, had been twitchy and squirming in his chair for some time. Finally, he dared to stand up.
“I’m just going down for a moment to check on Sans Merci. I’m worried that . . .”
“You’re not moving from here, Ibrahim,” the Frenchman ordered. “Sit down. Sans Merci’s used to this kind of turbulence—more than you and I are. It’s in his blood. One of his ancestors pulled the royal coaches in the revolution. And anyway, we’re on a lucky streak and we’ve got to make the most it. These Spaniards owe us.”
Bundó opened the betting with a timid peseta. A humiliated Ibrahim mechanically picked up his cards. His mind, however, was down in the hold, picturing the horse, frantic, trying to stay upright in his narrow box, sweating like he did on the racecourse, waiting for the signal in the starting box. Except, this time, there was no course ahead where he could let off steam.
“Lay her a-hold, a-hold! Set her two courses; off to sea again; lay her off.”
The English actor was quieter now, though he persisted with his recital. The cafeteria had gradually filled with an unrelenting but oddly harmonious din, like a village social club. The roaring of the sea outside might have been background jazz. If it weren’t for all the movement, no one would have known they were in the middle of a storm. In one corner, thick cigar smoke gave the table of the four card players an aquarium-like glow. A new sound rose to join the hubbub: On the far side, two boys were sitting on the floor, one playing the guitar and the other singing unfamiliar songs, by Bob Dylan, Donovan, and Eric Burdon. Anna had never heard them before. She could tell that the boys were French from their accents. After a while she went over to them, greeted them with a nod, and sat on the floor with them. They looked at her without interrupting their music. She offered them a cigarette and both accepted.
“Anna,” she introduced herself.
“Ludovic.”
“Raymond.” He accompanied this with a guitar riff.
Ludovic gave him a shove for showing off. Both had long tousled hair. Unshaven. They’d applied black eyeliner and were wearing a sort of uniform of shabby corduroy trousers, woolen pullovers, silver-threaded scarves, and military jackets. They must have been about twenty, no more, and they were brothers. From Paris. Their grandmother had knitted the pullovers. With a good distance between her and the truck drivers, left to her own devices and speaking French, Anna now felt more secure. She asked where they were going (London). They wanted to know if she was traveling alone (yes), and then they invited her to travel with them (we’ll see). They’d been given an address in Brixton where they could stay for a few days. They’d be visiting music shops, putting up ads saying they were looking for a drummer and bassist. They were going to form a band. Didn’t have a name yet. They were going to hit the big time.
“Do you know anything by Brassens?” Anna asked when she finished her cigarette. She felt like singing with them.
“Shit no!” Raymond rejoined. “We don’t play French stuff. We’re fed up with all that poetry. We don’t want to save anyone. Each to his own, okay? Life’s got a lot of colors. It’s not just black-and-white. And we don’t like cats.”
“Brassens, Brel, Ferré! They’re a pain in the arse!”
“Gainsbourg! Serge Gainsbourg! All right, he’s okay. And Boris Vian. But we want to make our name in English. So we sing in English.”
Raymond couldn’t resist strumming the first few bars of Donovan’s “Sunshine Superman,” and Ludovic shut his eyes. Psychedelia was so powerful, even when reduced to a simple acoustic guitar. Anna felt wounded, as if these two long-haired boys were attacking her summers of singing “La mauvaise réputation” on the beach.
“Oh yeah? And how do you think you’re going to make your name?” she challenged them.
