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

by Owen Hargreaves

  The car took off into the night. I followed its taillights until they disappeared around the curve near the boat builder’s yard. She was gone and I was alone again but a thrilling flush washed through me. I raised my face to the sky and laughed out loud. ‘Thank you, whoever you are up there!’ What an intriguing, beautiful girl! I couldn’t believe my luck. I floated back to the apartment on a tide of joy.

  But later, when I lay in my bed and re-traced the events of the night, I couldn’t help wondering why she wouldn’t tell me what her brother had done. And what was that intense streak whenever we touched on anything vaguely political? She became almost hostile. There was a lingering uncertainty and the more I thought about it, the less sure I felt. But when I remembered her gentle side, that beguiling smile and the soft light in her eyes, I was filled with a warmth and energy that I’d never felt before. I hoped she felt the same way I did.

  Hours later, drifting off, I imagined huge seas, the calm of the ocean depths and a mermaid beckoning me to an underwater world.

  The next morning, with the high tide, the river mouth was calm, save for the faint rhythmic undulations of a tiny swell. I watched a fishing boat, still a distance out to sea, steadily motoring back to port and breathed in the vista — the restive sea, the sleeping river, the imposing mountains, the nestled village and the tucked-in little port. I hadn’t lied to Maite, I really did love this place. It was hard to imagine leaving.

  Carmen stood in her usual spot, drying glasses. She gave me the once-over, as if making sure I’d dressed properly, brushed my teeth. ‘Café?’ she asked, seemingly satisfied all was in order.

  ‘Please.’ I looked through the window to the sandbar. ‘Mmmm,’ a purr of satisfaction escaped me.

  Carmen followed my gaze. ‘Oye, muchacho, Mundaca is certainly beautiful, and we are proud. But one has to work and every day starts to look the same. It becomes monotonous.’

  ‘But look at the view,’ I said, with a sweep of my arm. ‘It’s magnificent!’

  ‘Sí. It’s beautiful. But I grew up here.’ She dismissed the view with a wave of her hand. ‘I’m used to it.’ She set her tea towel aside and stood silent, her posture sagging. ‘One day you’ll understand.’ The corners of her mouth quivered. ‘My options were limited, muchacho, like for most women here. Marriage, work, children, work, grandchildren, work. Cooking, cleaning, tending to sick kids … it soon wears you down. Only yesterday we had the doctor come to the piso to see my grand-daughter — my poor Rosa’s Arantza.’

  ‘The doc from the nursing home?’

  ‘Yes, of course. There’s only one in the village. Dr Arriaza. We’re fortunate he’s so devoted. The last one wouldn’t visit, wouldn’t leave his office.’

  I nodded politely. The nursing home. Greg and I hadn’t been back to visit, but I was sure the doctor’s offer was still good.

  ‘Anyway, listen, muchacho, men have it different. Look at my brother. Manolo took off, travelled the world, worked in foreign places, had adventures, two careers … some difficulties too, a divorce, it’s true … but opportunities no less. Opportunities to test himself, grow. Life soon passes you by … you’ll see.’

  Carmen seemed hostage to an endless routine from which there was only one escape. Does age and death creep up so fast? It didn’t feel that way. She must be mistaken.

  ‘And what are you going to do with your life?’ she asked, composing herself.

  ‘I’m going to study medicine,’ I parroted. ‘Medicine!’ she exclaimed. ‘So you are smart?’

  ‘Smart enough, I suppose. But not the smartest. Not even close.’

  ‘When do you start, muchacho?’

  ‘March, next year.’ Saying it aloud somehow made it concrete.

  Carmen pushed out a breath and examined the swollen joints of her fingers. ‘Youth, time on your hands and a laudable career ahead — you’re a lucky boy.’ I felt so moved by her. Like the door of her tavern, she was worn and weather-beaten. Would I look like that one day? I bit my lip and turned away.

  For a while we were silent, each lost in our thoughts.

  She sighed, packed away her longing, and picked up a glass to dry. ‘I have found a place for you, muchacho. An old house, but spacious and cheap.’

  ‘Sounds perfect!’

  Carmen chuckled and shook her head. ‘Far from perfect, believe me.’ She set down the glass and picked up another. ‘You can meet the owner, Ignacia, tomorrow. Santa Catalina Plaza at ten.’ Her gaze narrowed slightly. ‘Don’t be late.’

  ‘I won’t.’ There were words I wanted to say, but they caught in my throat.

  Carmen hung up her tea towel and began pouring a line of tintos for the incoming men.

  CHAPTER 7

  Ignacia turned an ornate old key in the large rusting lock of the paired portico doors with a sallow crinkle-skin hand and pushed. The top hinge was loose and the door wedged on the uneven cement floor. She regarded me through a confusion of wrinkles, her eyes like two lights hidden in the crevices of a gnarled old tree.

  ‘Por favor,’ she said, with a sweeping gesture of her black-cardiganed arm and trembling hand.

  ‘Por supuesto,’ I said, and gave the old wooden door a solid nudge with hip and shoulder. It gave way with a jerk and struck the portico wall with a ricocheting bang.

  ‘Basta, basta!’ She moved past me into the portico where she gradually leant down and secured the open door’s foot bolt into a hole in the floor. Then, reeling herself upright, she reached up and unbolted the other door and motioned to me to secure it like the other.

  She flicked a switch and the portico light revealed a flight of dusty wooden steps. ‘Sucio, sucio,’ she said, gradually mounting the stairs.

  Dusty was an understatement.

  At the top of the stairs, she reached into the deep pocket of her crow-black dress and withdrew another large, impressive key. This door opened with ease. The bulb’s pale glow revealed the peeling paint of the upper walls of a dim hallway but barely penetrated to the floor. Musty. Dark and musty.

  ‘Venga, venga,’ she said, motioning for me to come along. She brushed aside loose strands of silver hair that had escaped from her tight bun. ‘La cocina.’

  The kitchen was ancient and looked like it hadn’t been used in years. Alongside the blackened wood stove was a gas stove, which apparently worked. She said I would need to buy butano and re-fill the gas bottle. She threw back the kitchen curtains with all the force she could muster and opened the full-length windows and shutters to reveal a little balcony. The strong morning light stole in as if invading a longsealed tomb.

  Ignacia beckoned me to the balcony, which sagged noticeably. I advanced warily and grasped the heavily rusted wrought-iron rail. Ignacia eyed me curiously. ‘Fuerte, fuerte!’ she said, reassuring me of its strength and gripping the rail like she was ready to jump up and down.

  The balcony overlooked a large walled garden with a chicken coop and rows of well-tended vegetables, plants and flowers, like a miniature farm and orchard, a large fig tree in the far corner. Set into the mortar of the high, roughly rendered stone walls were shards of broken glass of amber, emerald green, and untinted glass, weathered opaque. Along its outside length ran the path from Plaza Santa Catalina to the west side of the port. Beyond the secret garden and its wall was the port and to the left, the harbour entrance between the seawalls, with the river mouth behind. What a view! You could see the surf from here!

  Ignacia’s sea of wrinkles was momentarily at a standstill. ‘Bonito, no?’

  ‘Sí, magnífico!’ I acknowledged, my gaze fixed on the narrow view of the sandbar.

  ‘Vamos! Vamos!’ she said, urging me from the balcony to resume the tour of the house.

  The light may have been better, with the strong light penetrating from the kitchen, but the mustiness intensified when we reached the corner of the L-shaped hallway. Ignacia flicked on the bathroom light. Old and damp, but with curtains and window opened, it was partially resurrected by the bright morning sun an
d transformed to marginally habitable.

  There were four bedrooms — one with a window overlooking the Plaza Santa Catalina. All were brought tenuously to life with a combination of air and light.

  The hall opened into a large lounge and dining room with windows on both sides and four old lounge chairs. The goodsized dining table had eight chairs. Double doors — the top halves were glass and covered by miniature curtains — opened onto another balcony. This balcony was larger and sturdier, with a wide view through the port walls to the sandbar and the waves.

  The house leaned a little, creaking, deprived of oxygen and light, but I could see the potential. The location was near perfect.

  Ignacia, not too old to mistake my enthusiasm, led me back to the front door. ‘Quinientas pesetas a la semana. Vale?’ The rent was ridiculously low and I could have it straight away.

  ‘Vale!’ I accepted without hesitation.

  Two days after I’d settled in at Ignacia’s, I walked around to the nursing home with my book and a sketchpad. I stopped at the gate to the quiet courtyard garden, as I often had on my walks around the village, and peered through the scrolls of the black wrought-iron fence and its climbing roses, to discreetly watch the veterans of the community, chair-bound in their cloistered solitude.

  Inside the gate, I crossed the patio and sat on a bench seat in a protected corner that overlooked the river and gave a clear view of the patio and the patients, shaded by a plane tree. The patients appeared lost in slumber, lost in their weary dreams, perhaps? Lost in memories, in hopes and imaginings, in aspirations fulfilled and those left wanting; in a reckoning of a past now fading and clouding over. I wanted to capture that gentle confusion of reality and illusion in my drawings.

  A number must have fought in the war, and all of them had lived through it. What memories must haunt them now? Violence and death, fear, hunger, hope, betrayal, grief, despondency, outrage, hatred, revenge.

  I set to work, drawing as Greg had taught me.

  The doctor saw me on the bench seat and approached. ‘Ah! Finally, you’ve come to visit.’ He shook my hand. ‘How’s the backside?’

  I patted it. ‘Seems good as new.’

  ‘Glad to hear. Where’s your friend, the artist?’

  ‘Gone home. Back to the States.’

  ‘A great shame.’ He glanced at my sketches. ‘So, now you’re the artist?’

  ‘Not really. I’m dabbling. Greg taught me a little.’

  He swivelled his head to better see the pad. ‘Not bad … I thought you were going to study medicine?’

  ‘University doesn’t begin until March. I’ve got plenty of time yet. I want to stick around, ride the big swells.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  I shrugged. ‘I’m trying new things … whatever life brings.’

  ‘Such luxury of time.’ He sighed. ‘What it is to be young!’ He noticed the book and frowned. ‘Where did you get that?’ ‘A friend,’ I said.

  He grunted softly and studied me. ‘Interesting?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  His face was strangely impassive. ‘I’m glad.’ He reached for his pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He scanned the terrace while he took one out. ‘A quick smoke before I get back to work … I’ll duck around the corner in case Begoña is watching.’ He took a few steps, then turned. ‘Muchacho, come as often as you like.’ He paused. ‘You never know what life may bring.’

  The following days brought the end of summer. Early mornings and late evenings turned cool, contrasting with the persistent heat of the day. The skies remained a deep pale blue, but a change was coming. The plane tree leaves began to yellow and the breeze lost its summer playfulness, growing daily stronger and more earnest. Heavy clouds gathered over the mountains, a portent of the autumn rains. The sea, too, was changing. The swell rose and the water, a steel-blue, heaved to a deeper, darker rhythm — a hint of the winter storms to come.

  The days fell into a pattern: wander down to check the surf and stop by the panadería, return to Casa Ignacia for breakfast and an hour of Spanish, before heading to the nursing home terrace to sit on my favourite bench and journey with George Steer through the desperate struggles of the Basque resistance.

  After lunch, Mundaca was a kaleidoscope siesta, a dream of warfare and romance, of waves and beauty. And I found myself thinking of the doctor and his patients as often as my brother and sister — and Maite.

  In the late afternoon, I’d often return to that same spot, to draw or read, watch the veterans, or simply gaze at the sea.

  Battle-axe was usually there, sitting watchfully on the perimeter, ready to tuck in a blanket, or whisk the patients inside when lunch was beckoning, or the sky grew threatening. Otherwise, the veterans were free to roam in their tired memories and drift slowly towards their final destination.

  The doctor appeared frequently, moving from one veteran to another, taking blood pressures, listening to hearts and chests, chatting quietly while he went, holding a hand, squeezing an arm, patting a back, endless reassuring. He loved his patients, and they loved him.

  My heart moved. Was that my calling too?

  No waves appeared. In the evenings I searched the bars, but Maite wasn’t to be found. Not even on the weekend. So back I went, day after day, following my feet to that same seat, drawn to the nursing home.

  A week after my first visit, I was about to enter the gate when I saw, through the scrolls and the climbing roses, a young woman, her back towards me, locked in conversation with the doctor and the old man with the steel gaze I’d seen that day with Greg. Maite? I watched, but she soon departed through the main building, carrying a parcel they’d given her. She left and I never saw her face. Was it her, or was I just wishing it were?

  Every Thursday I read the newspaper in Bar El Puerto and talked with Manolo in Spanish. There’d been two more ETA killings of Guardia Civil, one in San Sebastian and another not far from Mundaca.

  Manolo seemed restless. He slung his tea towel over his shoulder and leant on the bar. The blue of his eyes stood out against the dark tan of his face and tiny beads of sweat sparkled in the creases of his forehead. ‘How’s the book going? Tell me what you’ve learnt.’ His face grew mischievous. He reached for a bottle of beer, poured it and passed the glass. ‘It may not be the truth.’

  ‘Not the truth? George was there, he saw it with his own eyes.’

  ‘One set of eyes isn’t the truth,’ Manolo said with a teasing edge to his voice.

  I felt the heat rise to my face. ‘George always tried to be objective. Franco had him kicked out of rebel-held territory, you know, before he reported from the Basque country.’ I picked up my beer. ‘His heart was on your side. He could barely fault the Basques,’ I put down my beer again, ‘only their stubbornness, which sometimes made them uncooperative. And their lack of cunning in waging war.’

  Manolo raised his hands in mock surrender. ‘It’s true, we are not naturally cunning.’ His gaze narrowed. ‘Although, there are always one or two rogues.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I can think of a couple.’ He leant towards me. ‘What else does your George say?’

  ‘I’m up to the defence by the Frente Popular of Guipúzcoa against the Navarrese assault led by General Mola.’

  Manolo’s face hardened. ‘The Navarrese were traitors! Not real Basques.’

  ‘That’s what George said, that Navarra was Basque in name but little else, and had no real ambitions to be independent.’

  Manolo folded his arms.

  ‘When the Basques were granted semi-independence,’ I said, ‘the Navarrese military sided with Franco and attacked Guipúzcoa. The Frente Popular tried hard but they were a coalition of militias — communist, anarchist and Basque Nationalist.’

  He shook his head sadly. ‘Not a proper army.’ He polished a glass and studied me. ‘You’re impressed by George, aren’t you?’

  ‘He’s passionate about his work.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s watching from afar. He’s not in
amongst it, dodging bullets.’

  I bristled. ‘He is at times. You can’t doubt his bravery.’

  Manolo grunted, unconvinced.

  ‘George thinks the Basques were courageous, but amateurish. Poorly commanded and poisoned by factional differences,’ I said.

  ‘Unfortunately, it was like that, muchacho.’ Manolo frowned. ‘Too many factions.’

  ‘It’s hard to believe that before Irun finally fell and the reprisals began, the anarchists torched the whole town.’

  Manolo’s face reddened. ‘Anarchist bastards! Always ready to torch and run.’

  ‘Then San Sebastian surrendered without a fight and the Frente Popular retreated.’

  ‘Defeat and retreat!’ His shoulders sagged. ‘Enough of our sad story for today, muchacho. Pepe will be here soon.’ He moved down the bar, polishing while he went. ‘Muchacho, that girl you were with that night.’

  ‘Maite?’

  ‘I think she’s the grand-daughter of one of our great Basque fighters, a senior officer with the Nationalists.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ he said in English when Pepe bustled in. ‘But if so,’ he raised an admonishing finger, ‘she’s not for you, my friend.’

  ‘Am I disturbing you?’

  I jumped out of George’s book and put a hand to my heart. Maite had crept up on me reading on the nursing-home terrace beneath the plane tree in the golden late-morning light. A vision, she appeared like an autumn leaf that had drifted from above, and come to settle on the seat beside me. ‘God! You gave me a fright!’

  She laughed and took my hand. ‘Sorry! I couldn’t help it. I was visiting a friend and saw you. You seemed so peaceful reading, but I’m going to drag you away.’

  ‘You can disturb me anytime you like. George doesn’t mind.’

  ‘You’re on first-name terms! You are making progress.’ She laughed again. ‘Well, you’ll have to put George away for today.’ She took the book from my hands, picked up a wine-red leaf to mark my place and handed it back closed. ‘We’re going painting.’