Greg chuckled. He picked up a stone and lobbed it casually into the corn field.
‘Greg haggled hard.’
‘Yep,’ said Greg. ‘I did. In fact, it’s more than a trophy. It’s a symbol of our new-found Spanish lifestyle.’ He raised his glass to the flagon in salute.
We lapsed into silence and watched the sky. ‘Tell us the Portugal story,’ I said.
‘Our first morning in Lisbon,’ said Jim, setting his wine down on the ground beside him. ‘There we were, wandering about thinking what a lovely city, when — bam! — army tanks roll through. Guns going off, bullets ricocheting, people running!’
‘A shopkeeper ran out and pulled us into his store.’ Dave motioned with his hands, the red wine rocked in his glass. A few drops escaped and trickled down the outside. ‘Our first day in Lisbon and we walk straight into a military coup!’ He shifted the glass to the other hand and licked his fingers.
Jim stroked his beard. ‘We’d arrived just in time for an uprising by a leftist faction of the military. The Carnation Revolution. What a name!’
‘We took off at dusk and drove out fast,’ added Dave, his face flushing. ‘We got through the military roadblocks, but it was scary!’
‘Sounds heavy, man!’ said Greg, as he topped up our glasses.
‘You must have been glad to find somewhere peaceful,’ I said. ‘A beach like this.’
Jim sighed. ‘Too right.’
Dave studied the flagon where it sat bathed in moonlight. ‘It’s got personality,’ he said. ‘It’s sort of womanly too.’ He outlined the shape in the air in front of him with two rough hands.
‘Yes,’ said Jim. ‘It is a bit.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘Actually, it reminds me of that girl Margie you used to go out with.’ He looked mischievously towards Dave. ‘Remember Margie, all hips and no chest!’
‘Leave off!’ said Dave. He flushed. ‘She might have been a bit broad in the beam, but she was no pirate’s dream!’
‘Dave, she was flat,’ retorted Jim. He ran a hand parallel with the horizon, now drowning in the black, sea-whispering night beyond the shoreline.
‘Well,’ Dave replied, quick to counter, ‘if I turned that flagon upside down, it would look like your old girlfriend Paula. She was all chest and no hips!’
‘Oh, I don’t mind a big chest,’ said Jim slowly. You could see him digesting the thought. ‘Lads, it’s been a while since we had any female company.’ He raised his glass to his sunburnt lips and took a long draught. ‘I tell you, I wouldn’t mind meeting a nice señorita.’
A wave broke close to shore and washed up the sand, its frothy fingers reaching towards us. Greg stood up. ‘Well, you guys can dream on! I’m putting this little baby to bed.’ He lugged the flagon back to its resting place in the boot and sat back down.
‘We saw a few gorgeous girls in Guernica today,’ Jim mused, a far-off look in his eye.
I lurched forward. ‘In Guernica?’ Was Maite one of those gorgeous girls?
Greg grunted, stretched. ‘Speaking of Guernica, Owen, how’s your book going?’
‘Oh, the book.’ I sighed, settled in my seat, and looked skyward, imagining the aircraft. ‘There was an arms factory on the outskirts of Guernica, but they didn’t even bomb that. They firebombed the centre of the town and strafed all the people fleeing into the fields. Killed women and children and old people! Can you believe it?’
‘After Portugal, I believe it.’ Dave drew his knees up to his chest and clasped his hands around them, as if protecting himself. ‘They wouldn’t have known what hit them.’
‘And it was the bloody Nazis that did it, not even Franco’s air force.’ I gazed up to the stars. ‘It was George that discovered that. He alerted the world through his newspaper articles, telling how he found German shells and unexploded incendiary bombs.’ I took a long breath and let the air drain out, imagining him wandering around the charred, smoking town. ‘He interviewed eyewitnesses who verified the types of planes — all German. The Nazis were helping out Franco, and practising their Blitzkrieg strategy.’
A wave cracked on the shore, followed by another. Jim jumped out of his skin, and we all laughed.
‘We all know now what the Nazis were capable of,’ said Dave. He stretched out his arms and grimaced. ‘Those bastards were warming up.’
‘Yeah, but it was so blatant!’ I accidentally kicked over the empty glass at my feet. ‘It broke all the rules.’
‘And got Picasso painting.’ Greg emptied his glass, licked the last drops from his lips and set the glass down.
‘And Franco lives on.’ Dave sighed.
‘Yes, and all his henchmen.’ Greg shook his head. ‘How about those Guardia?’
‘Strange-looking characters.’ Jim threw the dregs of his glass to the dirt. ‘I wouldn’t want to cross them.’
‘One was killed in Guernica in May by ETA.’ I sat forward again. ‘So a few of the Basques are still fighting Franco. And from what I’ve seen, I’d say the Basques hate him and his regime.’
‘You wouldn’t really know it driving around.’ Greg surveyed the camping ground, the beach and the hinterland. He swept an arm across the panorama. ‘It seems peaceful enough.’
The breeze caught the flap of the tent.
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ said Jim. ‘It’s a dictatorship and the Basques are under the thumb. No doubt about that … But they’re not the only ones, it’s the same for the Catalans,’ he continued. ‘It’s been this way for a long time, but Franco’s on his last legs. It will all change.’
‘You think so?’ I asked.
‘Absolutely.’ He scratched at his beard. ‘I read in the paper it’ll go back to being a kingdom.’
‘A kingdom, really?’ I sat back and my shirt stuck to the salty damp of my back. ‘That’s not what ETA wants. This French Basque guy I met said the Basques want independence.’
‘ETA’s a radical communist group,’ said Jim dismissively. ‘They’re not only fighting Franco. They want an independent Basque Marxist state that includes the French Basques.’
‘Really, I didn’t know they were Marxist.’ I reached back to free my shirt. ‘I thought they wanted to get rid of Franco.’
I thought of Maite. I wondered if she supported ETA. Was she a Marxist?
‘That’s why it’s complicated.’ Jim wagged his finger again. ‘You can imagine all the Basques are anti-Franco, and perhaps a lot want to be independent, but how many would want to live in a Marxist state? Not too many, I wouldn’t think.’
‘Spanish politics is complicated, mate. There were so many parties and factions fighting during the Civil War — socialists, communists, Trotskyists and anarchists. And there were the regional groups — Basques, Catalans and others. And foreigners got involved. It’s hard to get your head around. And that was only the Republican side.’
‘You’ve learnt a lot from that book, Owen,’ said Greg.
‘Maybe,’ said Dave, who’d gone quiet. ‘But you came here to surf, didn’t you?’
‘I did, but …’
‘I wouldn’t get too concerned about the politics.’ Dave yawned. ‘That’s for the locals to worry about. Go surfing. Give the book a rest.’
‘Perhaps. But I want to understand how the place ticks.’
Dave turned away and busied himself with the wine bottle.
‘Besides, there isn’t any really decent surf.’ I looked towards the sleeping sea. ‘We’re ready for a few serious waves, though. Aren’t we, Greg?’
Greg rubbed his eyes and revived himself. ‘We sure are, amigo. These beach breaks are fun enough, but bring on Mundaca. I can’t wait for those autumn swells!’
‘Me neither.’ I gazed at the dark ocean, imagining the waves steaming down the sandbar.
‘Listen, if you lads get tired of no waves, you can come and visit us in Manchester,’ said Jim. ‘We’ll take you surfing in Wales.’
We thanked him, but I wasn’t keen to head back to the UK. I liked it here. I wanted to stay
.
The next morning Jim wandered over with an English newspaper he’d come across while cleaning out the van. There was a short article he thought might be of interest, on page three.
I read it aloud while Greg brushed his teeth. ‘A policeman was killed by ETA in San Sebastian on March 30, another in Algorta on April 22. A serious clash between police and ETA militants erupted on April 24 with one ETA militant killed. On April 25, the Franco Government declared a state of emer-gency in the Basque Provinces of Guipúzcoa and Vizcaya. But that has done nothing to halt the violence. On May 6 another policeman was killed in Guernica and a further clash occurred on May 14 with three ETA militants and one policeman killed.’
‘No wonder the Guardia Civil look so edgy,’ said Greg, his lips flecked with paste. ‘It’s like a guerrilla war.’
‘The last paragraph says the government lifted the state of emergency in July.’
‘Even so, all these killings put a different slant on things, don’t they?’
‘Well, I knew there were killings, but Guernica … so close to Mundaca. That brings it home. We’ll have to keep our eyes open. They’re not interested in foreigners, are they?’
‘Man, I can’t imagine they would be, especially not surfers. No-one but surfers are interested in surfers.’ Greg laughed. ‘Except the girls.’
With the end of the tourist season and the visitors leaving, accommodation would be available in Mundaca, so we packed up our tent and camping gear, the flagon on the back seat. I surveyed the empty campsite: the hard beaten ground where the tent had been, a few flattened tufts of parched grass, a pair of worn-out espadrilles, the dying cornfield, the deserted beach, a windswept swell. Life seemed to be a series of brief chapters. I wasn’t sure how they should hang together. I was hoping my instincts would take care of that.
A wave broke and we followed its path. A smile formed briefly at the corners of Greg’s mouth, dissolving when the wave petered out. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. He fired up the little Citroen and we laboured up the hill out of Baquio to San Juan de Gaztelugatxe. Flocks of birds seemed to be the only visitors to this lonely island. The familiar scent of pine resin filled the car when we traversed the forest at Cabo Machichaco before descending down through the farmlands to Bermeo and on to Mundaca.
CHAPTER 6
The village was calm again, the bustle over and order restored, the villagers wearied by the summer onslaught.
At Adolfo’s place, Maria welcomed me back with a warm glint in her eye. There was something comforting about returning to familiar people and surroundings. It was like coming home.
Greg chatted with her in Spanish.
‘You speak with a Latin American accent,’ she said softly.
‘Señora, I’ve travelled to Mexico, Costa Rica and other places, surfing,’ he replied. ‘And there are a lot of Mexicans in California.’
Maria showed us to the same room I’d shared with the Frenchmen. I wondered what they were doing. Heading back to Paris, I supposed.
After a month in a tent, Maria’s place seemed a haven of singular luxury. It felt so good to shed that second skin.
Maria poked at our mountain of washing with both disgust and relish. She shook her head, grunted, and began to wash. ‘Peor que pescado,’ she murmured, loud enough for us to hear. Huh! Worse than fish? I doubted that.
At the river mouth waves were beginning to break on the sandbank. Two swallows dipped over the crest of one and winged into the port where a few older fishermen were pottering. On a whim, we headed over the railway line, and up the steep hill that formed the backdrop to the village, laboured up a narrow track to the edge of a meadow, and lay back, resting on elbows in the sun-warmed grass to take in the panorama — a tapestry of variegated green mountains, deep-sea blues, pale cliff face and sandy gold, all delicately veiled by a light ocean mist. We breathed it in. It felt good to be back in Mundaca.
Cicadas broke the silence. Further up the hill, two sturdy middle-aged farm women cut the waist-high grass with long scythes. When the breeze stilled, I could hear the blades whizzing. They stopped every so often to mop their brows with bright handkerchiefs and lean on the long wooden handles. They spoke little until they spied us, and I could almost hear them say: ‘Look at those lucky souls, lazing away while we break our backs.’ They saluted us from a distance with their scythes, and we responded with a sleepy wave. Re-establishing their rhythm, the grass fell about them in an age-old pattern. A dog barked, far off, but enough to rouse us and we retraced our path down to the village.
Jim and Dave’s van sat in the main street, deserted, and so we set out to look for them.
The main room of the casino was an inner sanctum of sorts, where the town’s veterans gathered to chat, play cards, drink coffee and wine, or enjoy an aperitif. It had an air of stately elegance, attracting the well-to-do and a few fawning aspirants. Perhaps even one or two of Franco’s men — spies or infor-mants, anti-communists or sympathisers — sat amongst them.
The mayor and businessmen and professionals on the town council sat at the long table, enjoying a leisurely lunch followed by a cigar, holding court like in any old drawing room of the established gentry.
At the other tables, they were playing cards, the women finely dressed and carefully groomed, their faces painted to varying degrees — subtly highlighting their fading beauty, or more garishly disguising what used to be. They chatted at pace while the games unfolded and the scores were tallied. The men sat at their own tables, strategically distant from the womenfolk. They smoked and joked, but played their hands with due gravity.
The very elderly sat out on the balcony fast asleep. From beneath their berets came a variety of irregular snores, purrs and wheezes. Occasionally the breathing stopped altogether, only to recommence with a sudden smacking of lips and the rushed in-draw of breath.
Reaching the bar meant running the gauntlet of scrutiny by the town’s finer citizens.
We braved it and found Jim and Dave there enjoying a beer. A number of the village men were glued to the TV. ‘In the nick of time, lads!’ Jim raised his glass. ‘Barcelona versus Real Sociedad, any minute.’
The weather girl appeared with her map. She moved her pointer to a low-pressure system that sat in the North Sea, the number 994 in its centre. ‘Not a major low,’ said Greg. ‘We need less than 980 and closer to Iceland, for a decent swell.’
‘Mate, you’ve done your homework,’ I said with a nod of approval.
‘Got to keep your finger on the pulse, man. You should know that.’ He was right.
I carefully studied the configuration before it was overtaken by the football.
‘Oh no, not soccer!’ said Greg, scowling. ‘I’m out of here.’
All the major games were televised. The locals supported the Athletic Club of Bilbao, but no team could match Barcelona with its Dutch imports and its game of total football. After ten minutes, the bar erupted in a crescendo of ‘ooohs’ and ‘ahhhs’ when a magical goal was scored. Even the parochial Basques could only shake their heads in disbelief at the sublime artistry of Johan Cruyff. ‘Es increíble!’
There was a news flash before I left. Two ETA militants had been sentenced to death for murdering a policeman. ‘Jeez,’ I whispered to myself. ‘It’ll never end.’
The back road near the fish factory wound into the hills, into the hinterland behind Bermeo that grew into Mount Sollube. The Citroen strained and whined up the tight curves. Engine heat and oil fumes filled the cabin making me sicker than usual. We wound down the windows.
Greg grimaced. ‘She’s threatening to quit.’
‘Go easy on the pedal, mate.’
On the plateau, the Citroen caught its breath and purred again. The fumes dissipated, swept away by a gentle mountain breeze. We passed a hamlet, and another. No-one to be seen. Siesta time.
Halfway along a dirt road that led to an old farmhouse, a grassy slope covered in wildflowers sat below the edge of a dense wood. A perfect vantage point to look back a
t the coast. ‘There’s a spot,’ said Greg.
We lugged our gear to the top of the slope. The scent of pine and wild thyme and sunflowers enveloped us. In the foreground, the grass, long and lazy, bent with the breeze, forming a moving sea of yellowy green. The dotted wildflowers tilted and rode like flotsam. The old stone farmhouse with its ramshackle terracotta roof sat in the middle ground, in the distance, the Bay of Biscay.
We set to work. ‘Structure first,’ Greg said. ‘Proportions. Everything in scale.’
How thinly blue the sky appeared against the dark green pines. The hills too, where they rolled sleepily to meet that same blue, and in the distance ran the edge of the earth, the line where the sky’s light blue met the deep dark of the ocean.
A car edged from behind the farmhouse and wound towards us. A girl got out and started up the slope towards us, wading through the long grass. ‘It’s her,’ I whispered, my mouth almost too dry to speak.
Halfway up she picked a wildflower, a red one, and put it in the pocket of her white shirt. The wind caught her hair, revealing her large gold earring. She reached with a hand to set her hair straight. ‘Ah! So it is you. The Australian. I thought so. We saw you with binoculars from the house.’ She laughed. ‘We don’t get many visitors here. Especially cars with foreign plates. We were curious.’
‘Are we intruding?’ asked Greg.
‘Yes. It’s my uncle’s property. But you are forgiven. When I saw you both sketching, I convinced my uncle you were artists, harmless. But I’m afraid you will have to leave.’ She reached out her slender arm and grazed mine with a fingertip. ‘So you came back?’
My heart skipped a beat. I smiled. ‘Yes … yes, I did.’
‘And you like art, after all?’
‘Greg’s teaching me.’ I motioned a hand towards him, unable to really believe Maite was standing there, in front of me. ‘This is Greg.’
She extended a delicate hand for Greg to shake. ‘Maite.’
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