Mundaca: A Tale of Intrigue, Romance and Surfing in Franco's Spain

by Owen Hargreaves

  Greg had never given an injection before.

  The pharmacy supplied the vaccine, needle and syringe but they couldn’t administer it. Against the rules. They offered us a cubicle with a hospital bed where they also stored cartons of supplies.

  Greg recalled that you should slap the skin before you put the needle in, that this somehow made it easier. I wasn’t so sure, but deferred to his age and experience. Seven years seems a lot older when you’re eighteen.

  I glanced over my shoulder. Greg, a distinct gleam in his eye, held the needle and syringe like a dart in his left hand, as if he were aiming for a bull’s eye.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked. The nervous chuckle began, infectious like always.

  I buried my face in the pillow, which smelled of cardboard and dust. He slapped me. I laughed and tensed. ‘Ouch!’ The needle bit but didn’t penetrate.

  ‘Relax, man! Your arse is like a brick.’ The chuckle intensified.

  I laughed again, but this was serious. ‘Hurry up!’

  He slapped again. I broke into laughter. ‘Ouch!’ Same result, the needle bounced.

  He laughed too. ‘Man! This ain’t so easy.’ He stepped back to reassess.

  ‘It might help if you stopped laughing! Get it over with. Push harder.’

  ‘Alrighty! You asked for it.’ The chuckle was building again.

  I buried my face. ‘Jesus! That hurts like hell.’

  ‘There you go!’ He laughed heartily.

  The pharmacist, curious, perplexed, raised an eyebrow when we left. He must have heard the laughter and probably the slaps.

  CHAPTER 5

  A week later we were back in Mundaca waiting for the tide to drop so Greg could surf. ‘I’m going to check for mail,’ I said.

  There was a sign on one of the little cubicles behind the post office counter, Correos Listos. The post office lady glared at me, pulled out a bundle of letters and thumbed slowly through them. Midway, she pursed her lips and extracted one with a pincer grip, as if it contained the plague. She glared at the letter when she handed it to me. It was from home. There was also one for Greg.

  At the river mouth, we retired to the ornate park benches under the plane trees, to read them.

  They were missing me, especially my little sister, Rosie. Mum wanted to know why they hadn’t had a letter since I left London and if I’d met up with John. She hadn’t heard from him, or me, for months.

  Obviously, she hadn’t received my postcard. The Frenchmen told me the Spanish post was slow. If I’d known I was going back to Biarritz, I’d have posted it from there.

  Larry had been chasing cars again with Brandy. I could see the dogs right now, lying under that bush in the neighbour’s front yard across the road, tongues out, plotting, waiting for the next car to run the gauntlet, ambush it, legs flying, tails aloft, barking. Mum said he’d nearly been killed by a stationwagon.

  I missed Larry.

  Mum had had a letter from the medical faculty. My place was confirmed. Just a couple of forms I had to complete. She’d arranged to do it on my behalf.

  A delicate breeze teased the waves approaching the sandbar. What was Maite doing at this moment? I watched a gull swoop low across the sea and I followed the expanse of dark blue out to that line where it met the endless light blue. I wasn’t too sure about the whole doctor thing. Mum thought the world of doctors. I suppose it was to be expected after what happened with Louise. With all that time in hospital, Mum got to know doctors pretty well. John and I had played outside mostly when we visited, supervised by Dad, but we saw enough to scare us. You can’t forget those sights or smells. Sometimes Mum would sleep overnight beside Louise’s bed, when things were really bad. She didn’t want her to be alone. My sister never complained.

  I looked up from the page to the river mouth through the wrought-iron fence. My eyes fixed on the vertical bars, the background a blur.

  Mum was worried about John. He was always on the move, and didn’t write much. Where was he? He’d escaped some-where. Morocco probably. Nothing I could do now. She was afraid I’d wander too. Afraid I’d be lost. Afraid I might not return to study medicine.

  Was John really running, anyway? He seemed to follow his instincts. If there was a deeper meaning to his travels, it wasn’t clear to me.

  And I wasn’t lost. True, I wasn’t sure of my path. But I was open to possibilities. Open in a good way, a positive way. Shouldn’t I let life happen, come what may, trust my instincts, have faith that they would lead me to the right decisions, the right path, my path?

  God, I missed them all! Especially little Rosie. I stowed the letter in my shirt pocket and hung my head, examining the cracks in the cement between my feet.

  ‘You okay, man?’ asked Greg.

  I sat back and inhaled the salty air. The beautiful panorama before me came into focus: the river flowing into the sea, the pines on the far headland stirring with the breeze, gulls winging towards the distant cliff, the ocean, its waves a pulse, a heartbeat.

  ‘Bugger this,’ I said. ‘Let’s go for a surf.’

  ‘You can’t surf yet.’

  ‘I can paddle.’

  The first wave washed away my lingering thoughts of home, and John. Thank God for surfing!

  The local artist, Javier, had set his easel up near the port, boats in the foreground. Middle-aged and balding, he wore a loosefitting beige shirt, baggy white trousers and espadrilles. Greg and I stood at a distance, watching him work. His brush was a flurry, moving from palette to canvas, his eyes darting from scene to palette to easel. Greg couldn’t contain himself and edged closer. The canvas was awash with colour, alive with movement. He set down his brush, wiped his face with a flamboyant handkerchief and reached for a bottle of water. Seizing the moment, Greg greeted him in Spanish and introduced himself as a fellow artist.

  ‘I found out where to get art supplies,’ he said, when the artist returned to his canvas. ‘Guernica.’

  ‘Guernica,’ I repeated, my thoughts racing at the thought of maybe finding Maite. She’d be pleased to know I was reading the book, even if I was dipping in at random.

  Greg bought his art supplies in a musty backstreet stationers while Guernica was winding down for the siesta. When we passed the main paseo heading out of town, I spied a girl disappearing into a narrow street. ‘Stop the car!’ I said. ‘I saw her.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  I scampered across the paseo and into the narrow street. Empty. I walked its length, but nothing. All was quiet, only the sound of my own footsteps.

  ‘No luck,’ I said, hopping back in the car.

  Greg laughed. ‘Amigo, in this life, you make your own luck.’

  A group of surfers had discovered our stretch of water at Baquio. I wasn’t supposed to surf with the stitches in, but I couldn’t resist. I wasn’t out there long.

  One of the new guys left the water too. He was tall and lean with shoulder-length blond hair and a crooked grin. He put on steel-rimmed glasses. ‘Short sighted,’ he said with an American accent. ‘It’s a bit hard out in the surf.’

  ‘I bet.’

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said. ‘Want to get something to eat?’

  ‘Sure. There’s a bar over there.’

  We introduced ourselves over a cold beer and watched the surf through the window. ‘Fun waves out there,’ said Jock. He swept his long hair behind his ears while he examined me with a curious expression. ‘Man, you look familiar,’ he said. ‘What’s your story?’

  ‘I came to Mundaca looking for my brother. He was there for a few months, Biarritz before that. He …’

  ‘Biarritz?’ He pointed at me. ‘Jean!’

  ‘John. My brother’s name is John.’

  Jock shook his head in wonder. ‘I was with Jean last September! What a character! He tells the best stories — adventures in the South Pacific, Mexico, Central America.’

  ‘Sounds like John, alright.’

  ‘He said he had a little brother that surfed.’

&n
bsp; ‘Did he? What were his plans? Did he say?’

  ‘Spain and Morocco and all the new surf spots they were going to find.’

  ‘And after that? Did he give you any clues?’

  ‘Nothing definite.’

  ‘Mum’s worried about him.’

  ‘All moms worry, man.’

  ‘Still, I’d like to catch up with him.’

  He tucked his hair behind an ear. ‘Jean headed off with my buddy from home. Cal’s got to go back to school in September. Who knows what Jean will do?’

  ‘Maybe he doesn’t even know.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’m supposed to go to uni next year. Medicine.’

  ‘Cool.’ Jock made a clicking sound with his mouth. ‘A doctor, really cool.’

  ‘You think so? I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Beats banging nails.’

  ‘I guess. Not sure it’s really me.’

  ‘My cousin’s doing Med. He says it’s like an apprenticeship. You study the theory, but mostly you learn on the job — by doing.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that.’

  ‘It’s a vocation, man, a practical profession.’

  A good set rolled in. We watched it wash through the surfers, all caught out of position, and chuckled.

  A vocation, I thought. Learn by doing.

  The barman approached. I turned to Jock. ‘Another beer?’

  ‘Why not? I’m thirsty.’

  ‘Dos más, señor.’

  The barman ambled away. I sat back and took in the vista. The surfers were coming in. One by one, they straggled up the sand.

  A week later, we returned to the nursing home to get my stitches out, Greg bearing a selection of his artwork. The nurse greeted us curtly, eyed the canvases dismissively, and escorted us with the same confected hostility as the week before. She cast Greg a malevolent glance that sent the grin scurrying from his face.

  ‘Wait here.’

  There was a ladder at the bottom of the bookcase, the type you find in libraries. I was about to hoist myself up to check out the doc’s copy of George’s book when the nurse blustered in.

  She frowned at me. ‘The doctor’s busy at the moment.’ She motioned me impatiently to the examination couch. ‘I’ll take out the sutures.’ Her eyes dropped to the paintings. ‘He wants to see those. End of the corridor and turn left.’

  Greg smiled sweetly and left.

  She pulled down my pants and set to work with tweezers and scissors. She counted as each stitch came out. ‘Uno.’ It didn’t hurt. ‘Due.’ That one did and so did the rest.

  ‘Siete.’ She applied a dressing. ‘You can go.’ She ushered me out and pointed down the corridor. ‘That way.’

  ‘Gracias Señora.’ What a battle-axe.

  She nodded back with a hint of a smile. A battle-axe with a soft centre.

  Large glass doors gave way to a sunny stone-paved patio that overlooked the little beach. The courtyard was fenced with stylish black wrought iron, a climbing rose woven through the intricate curving design; the patio strewn with flower pots of geraniums, red and white. A number of elderly patients, strategically parked in old-fashioned cane wheelchairs, were warming their bones.

  Greg, his back to me, was admiring the view from an unfenced wall where you could look down to the beach. The doctor was talking to an older patient who sat in a wheelchair on the patio in the shade of a palm. They were examining Greg’s paintings. The doctor acknowledged me and resumed his discussions.

  Greg lifted his eyes from the beach and the incoming sea. ‘All done?’

  ‘Stitches out. Still feels strange, but Battle-axe seems to think it’s okay.’

  Greg grimaced. ‘She’s a piece of work.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘The doc’s going to take a painting for payment. His friend is helping him choose.’

  The doctor smoked and carefully examined Greg’s promised offerings. His friend, a shock of white hair perched on a tanned forehead, scanned the paintings through narrowed eyes. He held several up with large disfigured hands, pursed his lips and commented to the doctor. I caught his eye. A steely look from steel-blue eyes. I was forced to look away.

  With a nod of assent from the older man, they reached a decision. The doctor stubbed his cigarette. ‘This one,’ he said to Greg, beaming. It was a coloured sketch of the Mundaca bridge. He studied it once more, tapping the edge with a finger. ‘I like it.’

  ‘It’s yours.’

  ‘I might be interested in other paintings of the region.’

  ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’

  ‘Yes do, please do.’ He paused. ‘And both of you feel free to visit any time. You can sit out here on the patio, admire the view, read, paint, talk to the patients.’

  He shook our hands. ‘Adiós, muchachos.’ Then added eagerly to me, ‘You won’t forget what I said about doctoring?’

  ‘No, sir, I won’t.’

  He pointed to my backside. ‘The scar will be a permanent reminder!’

  Greg and I laughed.

  ‘Adiós, Doctor!’

  The courtyard gate hinge was a slow groan behind us. When we reached the car, a jeep full of Guardia Civil came down the slope heading towards Guernica. It slowed to a crawl when it passed, the occupants in the back, heavily armed, giving us the once-over.

  ‘Extranjeros,’ one called out to the driver. ‘Vamos!’

  The jeep sped up, rounded the curve, crossed the bridge and disappeared.

  We waited for a decent swell with a growing restlessness. September seemed a long way off. We were beginning to itch. The holiday season drew to an end and almost overnight everyone decamped, returning to the city, their homes, their work and their schools, but against the tide, two British surfers arrived in a van.

  I was disturbed from my book by a lean man with thick blond hair, dark brown eyes and a wizened salt-and-pepper beard saying, ‘Are we disturbing you?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Must be gripping,’ said the taller one. He had fine dark hair to the shoulders and matching moustache and goatee. Both surfers were burnished to a chestnut brown.

  ‘I’m having trouble putting it down,’ I said, rising to my feet. ‘It’s about the Spanish Civil War.’

  ‘We passed through Guernica this afternoon,’ said the bearded one. He extended a hand, one of the hairiest I’d ever seen. ‘Jim.’

  ‘Owen,’ I said. We shook.

  ‘How’s the surf been?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, we’ve been waiting a week for Mundaca to break, but so far nada. There are plenty of waves here, though.’

  Dave’s hand was less hairy. ‘Suits us,’ he said. ‘We prefer the gentler stuff. Mundaca sounds pretty heavy.’

  Greg arrived bearing ingredients for the evening meal. ‘Greeting, amigos. Hungry?’

  ‘A bit peckish,’ said Jim.

  ‘Pull up some dirt,’ I said.

  Dave cast a discerning eye over the ground and took off towards the van. ‘Get those olives,’ Jim called after him.

  He returned with two decrepit camp seats and the olives. Greg brought out cheese, chilli peppers and crusty bread. ‘Watch the guindillas,’ he cautioned. ‘You only need a tiny bit.’

  ‘First time here?’ I asked.

  ‘We surfed Baquio last year,’ Dave said, reaching for a chilli. ‘On our way back from Portugal.’ He loaded a guindilla onto a piece of bread. ‘We had quite a time there, didn’t we, Jim?’ He bit down, and almost instantly started cursing, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘Aye, we did,’ said Jim, laughing. ‘He told you to go easy on the chillies!’

  ‘Dusk’s approaching.’ Greg grinned mischievously. ‘Tinto time!’

  Greg had bought a large flagon of vino tinto — sixteen litres of rough red for 240 pesetas. It was a steal! Feeling victorious, he’d hauled the flagon back to the car and lodged it proudly in the boot.

  We heaved the flagon out. I grabbed the empty regular-siz
e wine bottle and the funnel. Greg lifted the flagon, half-grunting, half-laughing, and poured. I steadied the smaller bottle and the funnel. A thick layer of dregs was beginning to surface and the operation required delicacy.

  I started chuckling and shaking. Greg, laughing too, knocked the funnel with the mouth of the flagon and wine spilled. ‘Shit, man!’ he said. ‘Hold it still!’

  ‘I’m trying!’ I said. ‘Hurry up!’

  We were laughing uncontrollably. Greg put the flagon down and I let go of the still upright smaller bottle, the funnel lolling in its neck. Greg wiped the back of his hand across his face. His toothy wine-stained grin made me laugh harder.

  We regrouped. ‘Ah! Victory!’ I exclaimed when the wine gurgled to the top.

  Greg replaced the giant cork. ‘That’s quite a flagon,’ said Jim, accepting his glass.

  The sun dipped below the horizon, the sky darkening from rose through crimson to purple. A rustling breeze wandered through the cornfield.

  ‘How sweet is life?’ said Dave, sipping the wine.

  ‘To the simple life,’ we replied, returning the salute.

  ‘I like that flagon,’ mused Dave. The moon was rising behind him, floating above the foothills into a purple-blue sky. A warm breeze from the interior herded a few wispy clouds towards the sea. The clouds lingered above the shoreline as if afraid to get their feet wet.

  ‘Yeah, man,’ said Greg. ‘There’s something about its size and shape and the sailors cord coiled around the lower half. Such a squat vessel.’

  ‘Artful,’ said Dave.

  ‘It amuses us plenty,’ I said.

  ‘The quality of the wine seems somehow less important.’ Greg examined the contents of his glass, delicately removed a few dregs and flicked them into the dirt.

  I raised my glass to it. ‘A trophy for a bargain well struck.’