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

by Owen Hargreaves

  ‘Exactly. It will never happen. Autonomy is the best we can hope for.’

  ‘ETA won’t accept that, will they?’

  ‘No. Like many repressed minority populations, we’re desperate. But such violent methods are wrong.’ He flung down his tea towel. ‘The terrorist tactics apply pressure but they won’t bring independence.’

  ‘Is there any other way?’

  He picked up his tea towel again. ‘Of course. All Basques are proud of their history and culture, passionately so. We were never going to take this lying down. Many Basques have resisted, in a pacifist way. We have to be patient.’

  ‘Until Franco dies?’

  ‘That’s not far away. And, with luck, democracy will be restored.’ Manolo’s shoulders sank. ‘It’s been a long road. Thirty-six years under the thumb. I was only young when Franco won the war.’

  ‘The book I’m reading gives an insight. A personal account by the journalist, George Steer.’

  ‘A foreigner’s account.’ He motioned with his hand as if to brush it way. ‘I’ve never heard of this George Steer.’

  ‘He was the war correspondent who told the world about the Nazi bombing of Guernica.’

  ‘Guernica! My father evacuated us from Lequetio and we passed through Guernica on the day after the bombing. I was ten years old. Guernica was rubble, all black and smoking, people wandering around … dead bodies on the side of the road. Horrible! My father told me not to look, but I saw it out of the window of the truck.’

  Two local fishermen came in for a drink. Manolo collected himself. ‘Come again, muchacho. We can talk more. I’ll be here every Thursday, sometimes Fridays. You can tell me about your book.’

  I finished my beer. Manolo, his face set, nodded goodbye, the message clear enough: Remember, not a word to anyone.

  Night had settled on the village without me noticing. Noisy groups had begun their vuelta. I wanted to find Maite but strolled out to the headland to look at the sea and order my thoughts. The sea was flat and grey like my mood. Maite’s cousin had seemed menacing enough to be a terrorist, but not the girl in the photo.

  Manolo was intense, passionate, a link between my world and theirs. Could I trust him? I needed a friend. And there was George Steer. He would have been a true friend — loyal, committed, passionate, fearless — a great man to have by your side. A real brother-in-arms.

  I thought of John, my own brother, my blood brother. And where was he?

  The next morning Carmen was busy serving. When my turn came she stopped to inspect me, all motherly, nodding her head as if to say you’ve come a long way since that first day. ‘Any news of Jean, muchacho?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Your friends?’

  ‘All gone.’

  ‘Ah! Estás solito.’ She looked bemused. ‘Don’t worry, you won’t be alone for long. Things will happen. It’s good to be on your own for a bit, especially now your Spanish has improved.’

  ‘Greg taught me a lot and I’ve been studying hard and practising.’

  ‘There you are. A chance to become a real man.’

  A real man. What was that?

  She looked at me sweetly and sighed. ‘Muchacho, can I help in any way?’

  ‘Actually, Señora, you can. I want my own place. Something cheap.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  A group of fishermen breezed in. It was as if each wore an invisible cloak of fish scales — you could smell them before you saw them. They nodded, hearty but grim. Soldiers of the sea. I nodded back.

  Carmen poured them a line of tintos. ‘Muchacho, come by tomorrow. I may have news.’

  I took a long walk into the hills to stretch my legs. It was evening when I returned, the streets alive with groups — each with their own agenda, their own energy and rhythm. I wandered through them to a bar called Bodegon, under the casino, ordered a beer and some pinchos and watched out for Maite.

  The crowd were dressed in their finest. It was the women’s make-up that grabbed me — modest and discreet for the young ladies; in the older women, it took on a life of its own.

  I then headed to Los Chopos, where things were livening up. The music caught my ear. The Greek singer was unique and the songs, mostly in English, were strangely alluring, several quite haunting.

  A surge of heat radiated through me. Maite was standing at the bar on the other side of the room with Ines, ordering drinks. When she saw me, she smiled shyly and a warm flush filled her cheeks. Her eyes seemed to penetrate me, to my very being. She leant forward and whispered to Ines, who gazed at me across the bar.

  ‘Con permiso,’ I said firmly, but politely, as I pressed past one group after another to where they stood waiting. ‘Qué tal?’ I asked, shaking her hand.

  ‘Bien. Do you remember my friend Ines?’

  ‘Of course.’ I shook Ines’s hand. Her dark hair matched her eyes, with full red lips and pale white skin. She was big-boned, strong and handsome.

  ‘Estás solo?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. The others have all left.’

  ‘Oh! Qué pena!’

  ‘Yes, a pity. I’m on my own,’ I said, but I guessed she was disappointed for other reasons.

  ‘Salud!’ I said, raising the glass, my attention on Maite.

  Maite smiled, her eyes two peridots flickering in the half-light. The photo of the girl in the newspaper had to be her sister! But, what did it matter what her sister did?

  ‘Salud!’

  Ines raised her eyebrows. ‘What are you going to do here alone?’

  ‘Surf,’ I said.

  ‘Surf. That’s all?’

  ‘Well, and study Spanish.’ Turning to Maite. ‘I’ve been reading that book.’

  She smiled again, but said nothing.

  ‘And I was hoping to learn to paint.’

  ‘I can help you with that,’ said Maite.

  ‘You don’t have to work?’ Ines asked, frowning.

  ‘Not yet. I saved money for travelling before I came. Next year, I’ll return to study medicine.’

  ‘You’re going to be a doctor?’ Her mouth hung open for a moment.

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Apparently?’ The corner of her mouth twitched. ‘You’re not sure?’

  ‘No.’

  She peered at me. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t know if it’s right for me … if I’m right for it.’

  ‘But it’s such an opportunity, an honour.’

  ‘So people keep saying. But how do you know if something’s right for you?’

  ‘Give it a try, of course. Find out.’ She made it sound so simple.

  ‘You’re a student, aren’t you?’ I asked.

  ‘Social work.’

  ‘How did you choose?’

  ‘My mother’s a social worker.’

  ‘Family tradition, hey? On that basis I should become an engineer.’

  Ines pouted. ‘It seemed natural for me.’

  ‘That’s what I want!’ I said. ‘For it to feel natural.’

  ‘Oh, I see!’ She flashed a grin at Maite. ‘A natural feeling.’

  Maite flushed.

  ‘Yes.’ I laughed. ‘Nothing wrong with natural feelings, is there?’

  ‘Not at all!’ Ines laughed too. ‘They’re fine. But I’m not sure they’re what you should base a career on.’

  ‘Probably not, but isn’t instinct important?’

  ‘I suppose, to a degree.’

  ‘What about you?’ I asked Maite. ‘What made you choose art? A natural feeling, instinct, or is your father an artist?’

  ‘Art?’ She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘My father’s not an artist. I didn’t have to think too much. I had a certain talent, teachers encouraged me, it grew into a passion. A natural progression, I’d say. Now I’m committed.’

  Those words again. Passion, commitment. ‘You’re lucky,’ I said.

  ‘It’s not luck.’ Her cheeks began to colour. ‘You make a choice. We all have to make
choices. Don’t you feel passionate about anything? Like, helping people?’

  ‘I’ve had a few inklings about doctoring, but hardly passionate.’

  ‘Don’t you have a cause?’

  ‘Surfing.’

  ‘That’s not a cause! Don’t you believe in anything?’

  ‘Of course I do.’ I could have said the obvious things — anti-war, peace in Vietnam, an end to apartheid in South Africa, land rights, social justice for all … but it somehow didn’t ring true here. There was only one issue that mattered in the Basque country. ‘The book, George’s, it’s a real insight.’

  ‘I told you it was important.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it is. But more important than art?’

  ‘Our whole culture is under threat.’

  ‘But you continue to paint.’

  She drew her lips in, minced for a moment. ‘We all contribute in our own way.’ She said it as if she was letting me in on a secret.

  ‘Have you been painting much lately?’ I asked.

  ‘No … I’ve had family matters to attend to.’

  ‘Anything important?’

  ‘Serious issues,’ she said, crossing her arms brusquely, a signal there would be no further details.

  ‘So, no time for teaching me painting?’

  She laughed, relaxing, and returned my smile. I felt a warm tingle spread through me. The pale freckles on her cheeks and nose fascinated me and I couldn’t help but stare. She blushed but swept the hair back from her face and the gold earrings appeared. ‘I’m sure I can find time,’ she said. ‘But you must promise to read the whole book. We can talk about it when we paint.’

  ‘I promise.’

  Ines was getting restless. ‘Shall we go to another bar?’

  A group of young locals muttered when we negotiated past, their knifing eyes in my back. The girls lowered their gaze and I put away my smile.

  In the warm late-September night, the stars lit up a sky of unbroken Prussian blue, a crescent moon in the south. A gentle breeze stirred the leaves of the plane trees. In the port, fishing boats rocked, water gently lapping at their timbers, and salt and fish and seaweed spiced the air. All this and Maite by my side.

  We strolled the short distance to Bar El Puerto, our steps a quiet patter on the terrace paving.

  ‘Hola, muchacho!’ Manolo called out, a broad grin matching the keen light in his eyes. ‘How are you, my surfing friend?’ The patrons turned to look at me, at the girls, and back to me. The third degree.

  ‘Hola, Manolo.’

  His boyish enthusiasm tickled me. The girls, however, appeared uncomfortable. ‘I’m here with friends.’

  ‘So I see. Can I get you all a drink?’

  I ordered two mostos and a beer, and the girls headed off to a quiet corner of the bar.

  ‘The fairer one,’ he said, glancing at Maite and Ines, out of earshot, ‘she’s familiar.’

  ‘Maite?’

  ‘What’s her surname?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s from Guernica.’

  ‘It’ll come to me.’ A new group of patrons called for drinks. ‘Vengo! I’m coming!’ Manolo called out. ‘It’s Saturday night … look after your lady friends!’ He winked and tipped his head towards Maite and Ines.

  ‘He’s a character!’ said Ines, eyebrows raised. ‘How do you know him?’

  ‘He is quite a character,’ I admitted. ‘I met him here in the bar. He lived in America a long time, so he speaks excellent English. I’m not sure what to make of him … but he seems harmless enough. I think his heart’s in the right place.’

  Ines glanced towards the bar. ‘An extrovert.’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ My focus shifted to Maite. ‘But let’s forget about him.’

  ‘Yes, let’s!’ Maite laughed.

  I raised my glass. ‘Salud!’

  ‘Ondo ibili!’ said Maite, and clinked it with hers.

  ‘On-do-i –?’

  ‘Ondo ibili! … Basque.’

  I only knew Agur, the Basque greeting, meaning goodbye, used on passing in the street. ‘On-do-i-bi-li,’ I repeated.

  Maite made a clicking sound of approval with her teeth. ‘It literally means “go well”.’

  ‘I don’t know any Basque,’ I said. ‘I’m busy learning Spanish.’

  Maite suddenly turned serious. ‘You must learn Basque too! This is the Basque country, not Spain.’ She turned, quickly scanning the room. ‘But this is not the time,’ she said quietly. ‘Speaking Basque is forbidden. You can’t splash it about where the Guardia, or spies, might be listening!’

  ‘Go easy,’ said Ines. ‘He’s a foreigner, he doesn’t understand. And there are no Guardia here.’

  Maite shrugged. ‘Spies perhaps.’

  Ines reassured her. ‘No-one can hear us over here.’

  Maite whispered to me eagerly. ‘You want to learn about the Basques, learn our language, don’t you?’

  ‘I do,’ I said. ‘But be patient with me!’

  They laughed when I tried to get my tongue around a few words. The language bore no resemblance to the Latin languages I was more familiar with: French, Spanish and Italian.

  A group of men descended on the bar. Manolo stood, arms wide, as if ready to embrace them all in one great swoop. ‘Hombres! It’s been a long time.’ He poured a long line of tintos.

  Maite gasped, raised her hand to her face and turned to Ines. ‘Look who’s here!’

  ‘We have to leave,’ said Ines, collecting herself. She beckoned me to follow them and we sidled out. The large group, busy talking to Manolo, didn’t seem to notice us.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, in the quiet of the street.

  ‘A friend of my elder brother is with those men. If he sees me with you, a foreigner, he would tell him and that would make things difficult for me. You understand?’ Maite pleaded.

  ‘What does it matter?’

  ‘It matters!’ Maite insisted. ‘Please understand.’

  ‘Let’s go somewhere more discreet,’ said Ines firmly, taking Maite’s arm.

  We arrived at a hole-in-the-wall place where Greg had bought the flagon. A fishermen’s bar that few people bothered with.

  ‘I’m a harmless Aussie, you know,’ I said to Maite. ‘Neutral, no axe to grind.’

  She passed me a beer. ‘Neutral?’

  ‘Well, not exactly neutral. I love it here. Isn’t it obvious?’

  ‘It’s impossible to be neutral in these times.’

  ‘The more I read and learn and understand the Basques, the more I support their cause. A bit like George.’

  Her face softened, the steel dissolving. She was even lovelier with her guard down. I felt like I could see her real self. Somehow vulnerable.

  ‘Can I trust you?’ she asked. She took a breath, the tension fell away like sails collapsing when the wind dies off. ‘I went to visit my brother yesterday, in prison.’

  ‘Prison!’ I was surprised by my own voice. ‘Prison?’ I repeated in a whisper.

  She lowered her voice to match my whisper. ‘They say he is a terrorist, but he’s not! He’s innocent.’ She bit her lip. ‘He didn’t do anything bad.’

  I understood her caution. It wasn’t wise to talk openly, not even here in the heart of the Basque country. She had said there were spies. You never knew who might inform.

  ‘What did he do?’ I was still stunned at the real possibility of her being connected to terrorists.

  ‘They said he was involved in ETA — but it’s not true! Anyway,’ she examined me, her voice softer, calmer, ‘you’re a foreigner, you can’t fully understand. You have to know what Franco has done to us. Not only what happened in the Civil War, but since. My brother, in his own way, was helping the Basque cause. Somebody has to.’ Her shoulders slumped. ‘In the end, it doesn’t matter. He was sentenced to seven years.’

  ‘Seven years!’ The words flew out of me and the bartender stirred in our direction, before his lids closed again. I was reeling. Had he killed someone? No,
he’d get more than seven years for that, perhaps even execution. A bombing, perhaps?

  Maite was watching my face. ‘I know what you’re thinking. I can’t tell you what happened, but it was nothing really bad.’

  ‘How long has he been in prison?’

  ‘Six months. My mother’s devastated, my father too. The whole family is suffering. And they don’t allow many visits.’

  ‘How’s he coping?’

  ‘He’s not strong like the others are.’ Her voice caught. ‘They get badly treated.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘Most have been tortured.’

  I didn’t know anyone who’d been to prison, let alone tortured. I didn’t know what to say. ‘It sounds terrible,’ I managed.

  She took a mouthful of wine before wiping her eyes with the back of her hand and collecting herself, ‘Do you have brothers and sisters?’

  ‘I came to Mundaca looking for my brother, John, remember?’ I passed her a photo from my wallet, which she held to the light. ‘And that’s my little sister, Rosie.’

  ‘How cute! Y qué rubia!’

  ‘Yes, they love the blondes in Italy. Every place we went, the women pinched her cheeks and ran their hands through her hair.’

  ‘I don’t blame them! Qué muñeca! What a doll!’ She returned the photo and stared at me, her lips parting. Her hand was soft and warm when it found mine and she leaned into me gently.

  ‘I’m tired,’ said Ines. ‘Can we go?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Maite. ‘Vámanos.’

  ‘Where’s your car?’ I asked.

  ‘Near the church.’

  ‘I’ll walk you there.’

  At the car, Maite offered her cheek. ‘Agur,’ she said softly. I drew her to me. Her hands on my arms were gentle, reassuring.

  ‘Agur,’ I said. My mouth was dry, the beat of my heart in my ears. ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘Next week.’ She kissed me on the cheek and got into the car. She wound down the window. ‘We’ll go painting in the countryside. Okay?’ She smiled mischievously.

  ‘Okay.’ A surge of energy rose up in me. ‘Next week!’

  ‘Ondo ibili!’ she said, laughing, while they inched away.

  ‘Ondo ibili!’ I called out, and waved goodbye.