Savage Coast

by Muriel Rukeyser

  “Buenos días, compañero,” said Peter in a little rush, and slowed to equip himself with the words. “Is the boat sailing for Mallorca?” He turned to the others. “We’ll get to Palma, yet,” he prophesied cheerfully.

  The man grinned back, dangling his rope.

  “Nada, compañero,” he said. “No hoy.”

  Peter’s voice went weak. “You’re right,” he said to Olive. “The boats won’t move today.” He took his foot down, and stepped back, and then, remembering something, he went on hopefully: “¿Mañana?” he asked the man.

  “No mañana.” The man spoke as though he had been repeating the answer all day. “Huelga General,” he said, lifting his fist. The rope was released farther by his hand’s motion. It struck the water, breaking it in circles.

  “Viva,” said Peter. “Where are the French boats?” The man pointed and explained.

  They thanked him; and went on. They were almost there. The port buildings, Inspection, Health Inspection, Police, were between the docks. “No Palma, no streetcar, no glamour,” said Olive.

  “I wonder what happened to the Drews,” Peter said sharply. “They’ll never get to Mallorca, they won’t be able to cable for more vacation—”

  “They’re probably walking in from Moncada,” said Olive. “The Drews and the other couple, the men on the outside, helping the ladies over the barricades, carrying their country with them.”

  They reached the second dock at an intersection like a public square, jammed with lines of people hurrying on the docks, crossing, returning. The cars with their triple horns were covered with baggage. A big car painted CONSULADO FRANCÉS, its hood covered with bunting, was cutting a road with its horn. Children crowded out of its way. The three Gypsies dancing on the dock, in red and flame-pink crossed the track of the car, lifted their clenched fists in greeting, and went back to their dance.

  “Gypsies!” said Helen, with a little gay laugh. “The Gypsy Soviet!”

  “That’s something to work on,” said Peter gravely. The sun caught all the Gypsy’s jewels as she danced in a rain of pesetas. The French were digging in their pockets for their last Spanish money, dropping it, throwing it; it whirled, ringing on the dock.

  The French were lined three-deep at all the rails of the first white boat. Athletes ran over the upper decks, sat on spars like rows of strange animals, identical and high, their feet dangling, shouting and waving to the crowds on the dock, staring into the sun at them. The Djeube was the first of the two, and it was full already. The only passengers still going aboard were the officials and the men carrying extra baggage, going in loaded with suitcases and returning to the heap of trunks and suitcases on the dock. The main stream, however, was passing the first boat, continuing to the second, which was already half-full.

  They stopped at the gangplank of the Djeube. The noise had changed; there was little conversation now. It had been replaced by quiet against a background of dock movements, the shouts and ticking of pulleys, the strain of the gangplank as each man at the top of the line stopped to show his passport. But there was no sound of talking, none of the thorough tone of the enlivened waterfront.

  Helen became quiet as they turned onto the dock; and Olive and Peter looked at her suspiciously, as they looked with suspicion at the French, moving wordlessly up the gangplank. Suddenly she started; a man with a gray beard was waving directly at her from the main deck.

  Peter followed her eyes. “That’s the French delegate!” he said, excited. “He’s waving!”

  She had seem him clearly. “No,” she said. “It’s the beard, it’s a twin beard.”

  Olive, tentatively: “You could have been on that boat, Helen.”

  “Could you have!” exclaimed the Welshman.

  “But the Games!” Helen protested.

  “I take it back,” said Peter in a little boy’s voice.

  Helen felt a beat of sickness at the scene: the tangle of errands on the pier, the refugees sitting on their baggage waiting their turn, the men behind the slat of the public urinal, who turned as each car shouted One-Two-Three behind them, the false, suspicious excitement of the foreigners who were to stay. All along the pier, among their baggage, the familiar faces struck her sight with a quick bullet-slap: the French boy who had run laughing like a ballet dancer down the steps of the stadium; the tired, weak smile of Mme. Porcelan, standing delicate beside the tall husband she had at last been able to find; the sturdy, irritable German family with their two children. One of the little boys moved obliquely behind the other, his fingers outstretched, preparing to pinch the soft flesh behind his brother’s armpit. The Swiss team stood, looking provincial among the French, who were so entirely at ease boarding their own boats— the close mechanical crisp in the yodeler’s hair was very fashionable, very out of place in the confusion.

  Olive wanted to say goodbye to the Swiss.

  As they moved down the pier, they could see, behind the two white boats, the great flat destroyer.

  The Welshman threw his arm up to shade his eyes.

  “It’s the Union Jack!” he was shouting in amazement. “They must have called a destroyer up from Gib. By God, will they be shoving us on a boat after the French?”

  “That’s bad,” Peter said in a low voice, “all the foreign boats are coming in.”

  One of the Swiss heard that, and turned. “There are a German boat and two Italians outside the harbor now,” he said. “The sailors don’t like the look of things—it’s what they said all along,” he added after a moment. “Everything’s all right, all through Catalonia, the government’s strong; the only thing now is to hope the rest of Europe won’t step in.”

  The yodeler turned, too. “—The rest of Europe!” he repeated contemptuously. “Do you think Mussolini will let the government win? If there are Italian boats out there, or German either, I’ll wager they’ve got guns on board, and money too, for any of the rebels they can reach.”

  “Or they’re hoping for stray bullets—anything they can make an incident out of,” said Peter.

  “But there’s a British boat!” the Welshman was saying. “Why should there be a British boat?” He pulled Helen’s elbow. “Let’s get to the end of the pier, where we can see it better!”

  “Why shouldn’t there be!” answered the yodeler, with his trick of repeating phrases. “Do you think England’s going to sit back, with Italy and Germany in on this?”

  The Welshman came back a step to face him. “You aren’t lining England up with the Fascists, are you?” The words were a threat. “Because you’re making a frightful error if you are,” he went on. “England’s got rotten faults, but she’s liberal—God, the country cares about freedom and democracy. It couldn’t stand for—” he made a stiff hurling gesture at the open sea.

  Behind his spread fingers lay the destroyer. Officers barked on the low deck, their uniforms pasted white against the fierce sky. Some drill or inspection had lined up a row of white sailors, who broke ranks as they watched, scattering over the boat.

  The Swiss were being called to the gangplank. As the last one said goodbye to Helen, he put his hand into an inner pocket, smiling. He pulled out the postcard she had written at the Moncada station.

  “This was never delivered,” he said. “Did you find the man? I couldn’t reach him—he’s been out on the streets, fighting.”

  “He’s been fighting every time I’ve asked, too,” she answered. The dark Swiss smiled, as at a delicious and complicated joke.

  “Good trip!” she called after him.

  He put up his clenched fist.

  The Welshman was halfway to the end of the dock, thrusting his knees out, staring still as if he could not bring himself to believe the destroyer.

  There were a few other Englishmen at the end of the pier, leaning against the bulkheads and arguing. Four boys swam naked off the end. The strip of water between the dock and the boys was rotten with oil; the corrupt beautiful colors lay as though they would never float away.

 
; One of the Englishmen, a stranger, rushed up to where the Welshman stood, and started to speak rapidly, pointing at the boat, pronouncing his words with a strong Cockney accent so that the Welshman craned his neck sidelong and down, amused.

  “See that? She sailed in there three hours ago, without a by-your-leave, and the navvies have been kept polishing brass ever since, all the time, except for the drill just now, and do you know what the blasted lieutenant had the cheek to say, over and over again? He’s drilling the men in full view of this victorious city, on that flat lizard of a gunboat, and he has the cheek to keep on yapping out at them: ‘Left; Left; Left;’”

  Peter roared. “What’s the destroyer here for?”

  “She may very well have come for the express purpose of polishing the brass,” went on the little Englishman. “But if the balance of power . . .”

  He was cut short by an immense blast, as the Djeube’s siren cut loose, the great painful sound speeding in circles that shook around them. The French were leaving.

  “I didn’t think they’d really go,” said Helen. She was trembling. “Let’s go back. I want to see them.”

  The four boys had turned, heading for the pier. They swam close, striking the oil, distorting all the color, reaching the shadow of the bulwark, treading water to watch. The Welshman was lost in discussion with the English.

  “Come on then,” said Peter in a low sad voice.

  He and Olive and Helen started down the pier.

  Behind them, the dock had changed. All the confusion had been resolved, the refugees cleared, passengers and baggage heaped on the boats, the crowd thinned out, leaving nobody but the rows of spectators on the dock. They all turned toward the boat, with all the faces up at one angle.

  From the high bow, the French sailors waved their caps, the long ribbons swinging against their lifted arms. The decks were crowded, the boat was filled to triple its capacity, and the relieved faces crammed at the rails on the shore side, like an overcrowded travel poster advertising a luxury cruise.

  The three Americans stood in the light, looking up with blank indeterminate faces. Olive held up her arm to wave, but pulled it down and waited helplessly. She spoke without any object, “It is true that they are safe now.” Peter glanced at her, and did not answer. There was no answer, no proof available; only some earthquake occurrence could prove to these crowds what they were. The dock was waiting for that. The French, leaving before the Games had been celebrated, remained undefined, their Popular Front, the mountains between the two countries, became equivocal, unknown values, stranger signatures.

  The dock looked up, their faces set at one tilt.

  The boat pulled slowly out, forcing itself under weight. The churned water boiled up, livid over the white side. Engines strained in the starting-effort. It was like the attempt of a heavy bird to take off from the ground, with awkward runs and a pitiful flapping.

  At Helen’s side a little girl cried, while her family comforted her, and on deck her aunt waved and blew kisses. The water widened slightly between the dock and the boat. Families shouted warnings and messages. But, as the strip of water settled to wider and wider blue, over the boat the handwaving stopped. The single messages were sung out into a deep quiet. Helen looked through the crowd on the dock, looking around at the faces near her to discover a reason for the change, at the tremor that moved gently over the dock, the beginning of some act, the will in the air; and, as she turned from the silent tilted faces, the motion spread from their few clenched fists and became general. With a tremendous crisis, those thousand arms went up, as if the boat itself were taking flight. The rows of raised fists ran solid and white before the rows of faces, like cries issued from the mouth, and the sound of that cry came at last, in a victory, from the French boat:

  POPULAR FRONT

  And, in one motion, to meet the words, the crowds left on the dock pressed forward, the loiterers advancing from the walls, those in the middle following with the same steps to the water’s edge, their clenched fists all up; and along the boat, along the quieting water, hurried the sound of music, choking the watchers with its meaning, caught with new impact after the days of war, as the boat ran out to sea. The words came through, the dock taking them up, until both sides were singing the “Internationale” together, the harbor was shaken by the music, and a second longer cry came from the French, repeated and narrowing on the wide water:

  SOVIETS EVERYWHERE

  THE THREE TURNED away. They could not have seen the second boat go out. Very quickly, they walked down the waterfront. The sun was low in the sky, knots of soldiers were gathering before the government buildings, getting their orders for the night, a few armed cars passed, blowing their horns, and the dead quiet followed. Gunfire was beginning again, in the old city; they heard the sound.

  They would have to go back to the Olympic and take the baggage to their hotel. Dispiritedly, the crisis passed and their condition upon them for the moment, they walked up past the shattered carnival. The gay swings had fallen, the carousel was torn and twisted as if a transmontane wind had whirled the booths about. Beside the carousel was an empty lot, full of old bricks. They would be useful; at the street corner, armed men were building another barricade.

  There was a shout from across the street, and Helen turned swiftly. It was Hans. He crossed the street, and took her arm.

  “We’ve been seeing the French sail,” she said, in explanation.

  “Did they really go?” he asked.

  “Two thousand of them,” Peter answered.

  “It’s just as well,” said Hans. “The Frenchman died this afternoon.”

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Helen.

  “He was really shot, then!” Peter said to Olive. She looked at him, smiling, with an inclination of her head.

  “It’s correct that they go,” Hans went on. “The United Front is more important, and there will be ‘incidents’ enough, without the French athletes having to be involved.”

  He would go with them if they were going to the Olympic, he said.

  “Don’t be unhappy when you see the hotel,” he warned them. “It’s changed since last night. There will be no Games.”

  They stared at him.

  “Officially?” asked Peter.

  “I think it was decided when the Frenchman died,” said Hans. “Although the committee probably had voted this morning.”

  When the news came, it was only confirmation, after all. Helen looked at him, fearfully. His wide tan jaw, the stretched mouth gave an Oriental cast to his lower face. She thought she knew what was coming next. Peter was asking what the other teams would do.

  “They’ve given us the Palacio—next to the Olympic—to live in, and asked the consul to make arrangements.”

  “And you—what will you do?” asked Helen painfully.

  “I will stay in Spain.”

  She was filled, it was the same exultation and certainty that had possessed her in the dark compartment when she had asked him what he would do in the Games, and he had answered to tempt her bad hip, “I am a runner.” He had his place, he chose with his full will!

  “But what will you do here?” Peter was pressing in schoolboy excitement. Olive turned to him also for a direct answer, but he did not give them one, rather steering the conversation to the day’s news. He knew that Madrid was strongly held by the government and was sending out troops. He and Peter dropped into German. Peter was telling him what Spanner had said about the city, laughing over the picture of Spanner, coatless, playing worker, dodging into doorways, conscious that he was not wearing jewelry.

  They were walking up the Rambla. At every other street corner, barricades were being repaired or going up. The trucks full of machine guns went past, and armed cars with boys lying along the fender, holding their rifles ready. The street was warm in the sunset, and populous; many had turned the café tables right side up again and were sitting around them, although the café’s iron curtains were all down and nothing was being served.


  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Forgetting the song and singing the refrain: Everything that happens, happens in the street.

  (song lyrics)

  Plaza de España. Sunset, the long lights struck the avenues into heroic distortion, rounding out bravely the great circle, with its inner and outer lanes of traffic, the massive statues, the corner booths where already the evening edition of the few newspapers still in print were selling out, the beautiful faces of the group of boys at the bullring corner. The face of Hans acquired the philosophic planes Helen had noticed in the Moncada evening; day left him active, reduced his forehead and cheeks to live-wood vigor, but evening, night, touched his mouth and eyes, making the thought apparent.

  Plaza de España, the bullring corner, with its new sign up,

  MOBILIZATION CENTER

  They saw that first, as they came down the Rambla: the two boys standing with their arms locked, head down, talking quietly a moment before they went into the entrance. The guards stationed there stopped them with questions, then motioned them in with their carbines.

  Hans was reading a note in the late paper. “Saragossa’s threatened,” he said to Helen. “That’s close. That’s likely to be a new front . . .”

  Peter cried out. “No banner!”

  They all followed his stare. “Wrong building,” Hans pointed at the Hotel Olympic. “The banner’s still up.”

  The banner, OLIMPIADA POPULAR, still hung, but the entrance had changed. It was deserted. One guard at the door, and the guide talking to a single soldier inside, where last night streams of athletes had given the building a meaning of warmth and safety.

  “You’re the last,” the guide told them. “They’ve all gone to the Palacio to wait for their boats, and I guess the Djeube took two-thirds of the foreign athletes, and the French colony, too.” He kicked at the pile of posters on the floor. “We’ll change the date,” he said, “we’ll have the Games in October, when the war is won.”

  “See you then!” Olive was trying to be brisk. “We’ll all go to the October Games together.”