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

by Owen Hargreaves

  ‘We are? Where to?’

  ‘It’s a secret. You’ll have to trust me.’

  ‘Is there any reason not to?’

  She laughed. ‘Ah! You have a cheeky side.’

  ‘Just like you.’

  ‘I’m a Basque, a serious one … and an artist too, sensitive. Too many sides?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  She pulled on my sleeve and led me across the patio, through the gate, to her car. The back seat was full of art equipment.

  I smiled. ‘You aren’t as shy as I first thought.’

  She laughed. ‘You aren’t either.’

  We drove into the hills beyond Guernica along a road I didn’t know. Across the valley, a lone stand of eucalypts caught my eye. Strong and pliable, they leaned and settled, shifting with the restless autumn breeze. They reminded me of home and, in a way, of what I’d have liked to be — at home in a foreign land.

  I pointed. ‘Eucalypts.’

  She glanced at me. ‘You miss home?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘They must miss you.’ She dodged a pothole. The scent of wild sage and hay drifted through the windows.

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘My family missed me when I was away in Dublin.’

  ‘Why Dublin?’

  ‘To study art. I told you. I went with my brother.’ The last sentence tumbled out before she could catch it. She bit her lip.

  ‘Did he study too?’

  Her mouth tightened and she clutched the wheel. ‘No. Inigo was there on … business.’

  ‘What sort of business?’

  She squirmed in her seat. ‘Commercial,’ she said, gaze fixed on the road.

  Out the window, wisps of smoke drifted from the chimney of a nearby farmhouse and up through the pale sky. A roving hawk wheeled and dived at something in its adjacent meadow. A chained Alsatian ran barking at the hawk and came to an abrupt, choking halt.

  I didn’t say anything but wondered, Why Ireland?

  The road dipped and curved and we reached a fork. A chapel with an ancient Basque cross and weathered bell sat snugly between the two roads. She headed right, deeper into the hills. Her grip on the wheel was loose, her voice relaxed again. ‘I’m taking you somewhere important to the Basques.’

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘Where are you up to in the book?’

  ‘Back near the beginning. Background stuff. I decided to read it cover to cover instead of dipping in here and there. George reckons the Basque character is honest, moderate, moral and law-abiding and says you’re all sports-loving Catholics.’

  She nodded. ‘Do you agree?’

  ‘Mostly.’ I hesitated. ‘I mean, you couldn’t describe ETA as law-abiding, could you?’

  She glared at me. ‘Someone has to fight Franco.’

  ‘At any cost?’

  ‘What would you do? Roll over and be trampled on?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’ve never had to face that.’

  ‘Exactly!’ Her hands clenched on the wheel. ‘Believe me, you’re forced to make radical choices.’

  ‘Is that what happened to your brother?’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘I told you Inigo didn’t do anything bad.’ Her voice was tight. ‘It was all a mistake.’

  I tried a different tack. ‘Isn’t there a peaceful way?’

  ‘Which is that?’

  I didn’t really have an answer. ‘Maybe things will change when Franco dies.’

  ‘Why? Franco’s people are entrenched. Fascist rule will continue.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Do you think Franco would let his regime fall apart?’ Her mouth tightened. ‘Don’t worry, he’s got rat cunning. He’s planned ahead.’

  We drove for a minute without speaking. She took a big breath, the heat in her face subsiding. The road narrowed through the forest.

  ‘George says Columbus’s great sea captain, Juan de la Cosa, was Vizcayan. Elcano too — he navigated Magellan’s ships around the world.’ I shook my head. ‘Incredible!’

  ‘People don’t appreciate that. They only talk about Columbus and Magellan.’

  ‘Bilbao was rich, though.’

  ‘And that’s why the Spanish wanted to control us, to take our money and resources.’

  ‘They needed them, didn’t they?’

  ‘The Basques worked hard to build their wealth. Why should those lazy Spanish take it from us?’

  Outside, the day was warming, the breeze firming, the deciduous trees wrestling against it, clinging to their leaves. Maite pulled the car off the road on to a grassy knoll with a view across a plain to a town in the distance.

  She reached for my hand. ‘Let’s get out here.’

  We stood, the hills at our backs and stretched our limbs. ‘Eibar.’ She pointed to the town. ‘Where a big battle was fought. We’ll paint this scene.’

  ‘Alright.’

  ‘Sketches first, of course.’

  She got out sketch pads and pencils from the back seat and we sat on a blanket. I followed the method Greg had shown me. She sat close, legs touching, leaning into me periodically to examine my drawing, gauge my progress. Her perfume mingled with the scent of mountain herbs and juniper.

  I spied her sketch. Gentle lines that grew bolder as the form took shape, the whole becoming one, centre and periphery all in balance. Like surfing, all the elements of the artist’s repertoire flowing seamlessly, rendering the complex simple. So deceptive.

  Catching me looking, she smiled, then grew serious, gently bending to me. We kissed, a delicate brush of lips, soft and swaying like the mountain grass. We kissed again, and she touched my cheek. Tender fingers, barely touching, trailed down to my neck. Sketch pads slipped and pencils slid as we rolled into the grass.

  She shook me awake. ‘I’m hungry.’ Her eyes danced with mischief. She grabbed my curls and gently pulled me to my feet. We hugged for a while before she straightened her skirt and I slipped on my shirt.

  ‘Vámanos.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘There’s a tavern not far from here. Friends of the family.’

  We collected the sketches, folded the blanket and put them in the back seat. She drove steadily onward towards the town.

  ‘We didn’t even begin the paintings.’

  She laughed. ‘You distracted me.’ She squeezed my thigh.

  At the bottom of the hills we came to a hamlet with a tavern. ‘The food here is good,’ she said.

  The owners greeted her warmly but regarded me with suspicion. I shifted slightly as their eyes sharpened. There was subtle murmuring in Basque, but Maite seemed to reassure them. They sat us at a table near the window where we could see the outline of the town in the far distance, a church tower rising from it. Maite ate like it was her first-ever meal. The owner’s wife, a thick-set woman with weathered features and hands like spades, brought soup with crusty bread. Vino blanco accompanied the fish. ‘Buen provecho,’ she said. Good appetite was an understatement.

  I enjoyed watching Maite as much as the food itself and the food was delicious. ‘You are hungry,’ I said.

  ‘Your fault,’ she said, while soaking up the fish juices with a torn piece of bread.

  I laughed. ‘My fault …? You kissed me first.’

  She wagged a finger and smiled mischievously. ‘Still your fault.’ Next she attacked the flan.

  Before we left, the owner’s son gave me the once-over. ‘It’s okay,’ Maite said. He handed her a shoebox sealed with tape, which she stowed under the blanket in the back seat.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked.

  ‘A few things that need sending abroad,’ she replied nonchalantly.

  I left it at that.

  We returned to the same grassy knoll. Maite set up an easel and painted with oil. I sat on the grass and completed my sketch with watercolour.

  ‘Not bad,’ she said, when I had finished.

  Hers was alive with beautiful detail, mine dull and flat in comparison. I gru
nted. ‘Not my calling, it seems.’

  She put her arms around me. ‘Don’t be so negative, you’ve barely begun.’

  ‘I see a mess!’

  She laughed. ‘The sketch is fair. The colour needs finessing. I’ll show you how next time.’

  Next time.

  No amount of muddy watercolour, mystery shoeboxes or lingering questions about Ireland could compare with the euphoria of kissing Maite. I hummed a tune all the way back to Mundaca.

  ‘When will I see you next?’

  ‘At the weekend.’ She drew me to her and kissed me. Swimming in lucid green pools.

  I went to get out. ‘Can you do me a favour?’ she said. ‘If I give you the address, can you post this shoebox?’

  The following day was glorious. The sun washed over the early autumn and with it came a gentle swell. I surfed alone with no human distractions, free to appreciate the ocean. The tide was turning when I paddled across the shallows of the sandbank. The sea, bottle green in the early afternoon light, scalloped by a freshening cross-shore breeze. The waves were fast and tricky and I battled hard to find a good ride. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I whispered to myself. The cool water, the breath of the wind and the reassuring rhythm of the undulating sea — on days like these, even a few rides were satisfying.

  Between sets, when the sea was quiet, Izaro with its ruined chapel was visible. It was said that a monk lived there a long time ago and swam into Mundaca under cover of darkness to meet his lover, swimming the three kilometres back before dawn. ‘If it’s true,’ I whispered to no-one, ‘he must have been bloody brave to swim these waters and cross these rocky shores. And desperate too! Could I do the same for Maite, if need be? How far would I swim? What lengths would I go to help her? Risk arrest, imprisonment, even death?’

  I thought about posting the shoebox. Love can make you do crazy things you’d never imagined. I hoped I was never truly tested. Was the shoebox a test?

  The sea had initially restored me, but now I found myself clutching at the board.

  I returned to land and made my way to Ignacia’s house. The village women watched bewildered when I passed by in my wetsuit, board underarm, dripping.

  The surf had made me hungry and I ate ravenously to the strains of the Greek pop singer. ‘My friend, the wind,’ he sang in high-pitched exotic English.

  Interesting words. On those beautiful offshore days, the wind certainly is a friend. But on the onshore days, the wind feels more like an enemy. No doubt, far away in the Arctic north where the large ocean swells are born, the wind is whipping up the seas — so there too, I suppose, the wind is a surfer’s friend. And I do like those warm winds from the south that carry the searing heat of the Iberian plains, with perhaps a touch of the sirocco of North Africa.

  But the thought of the task ahead, the favour for Maite, intruded and sent a shiver down my back, like a sudden chilly breeze that came from nowhere.

  The tiny post office was only open in the mornings. The postmistress, prim and curt, her dark hair pulled back tight in its habitual bun above severe eyebrows, stood behind her desk sorting mail. Behind her, General Franco glared down at me from the wall.

  I placed the shoebox, now wrapped in brown paper, on the counter.

  The postmistress frowned, turned the parcel to see the address and read it aloud, ‘Mr PJ O’Brien, PO Box 357, GPO Dublin, Ireland.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘What’s in it?’

  I hesitated. ‘Gifts for a relative.’

  She examined me for a long moment, grunted, weighed the parcel, stamped it and put it aside with some others. ‘Dos cientos ochenta pesetas.’

  I gave her 300 and she slid the change across the counter. When I looked up from my wallet, she and Franco were both glaring at me. A chill ran through me. Was she one of his spies?

  I went to hunt out Manolo who was behind the bar, alone, reading a book. ‘Ah! Muchacho! We meet again.’ He took off his glasses and set the book aside.

  ‘I talked with Maite.’ I couldn’t help smiling. ‘We went for a drive in the country — painting.’

  He looked at me and frowned. ‘Painting?’

  ‘Yes, I told you, she’s an artist.’

  ‘Ah, yes! You did.’ He began to steam the milk for my coffee.

  ‘She studied in Dublin for a while. Went there with her brother. She’s teaching me to paint.’ My attention wandered to the wine bottles standing behind the bar, their elaborate labels. Manolo, head down, poured the frothy milk into the coffee. ‘Maite’s taken over where Greg left off.’

  ‘Dublin?’ He stared. ‘Is her brother an artist too?’

  ‘No. He was on business of some sort.’

  Manolo set the steaming cup in front of me. ‘Business?’

  I hesitated for a moment but decided to spill the beans. ‘He’s in prison,’ I said. ‘For helping ETA.’

  ‘Prison!’ I watched him chewing it over. Something clicked, his eyes widened. ‘The IRA.’

  My mouth went dry.

  ‘Yes.’ He tapped his chin. ‘If he really was with ETA, he went to Ireland to meet the IRA. They share common goals, both fighting oppressive regimes.’ He lowered his voice. ‘The IRA helps them get weapons.’

  I sat forward on my seat. ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m not saying that’s what he was doing there, but what other business would a Basque have in Ireland?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m confused.’ The shoebox flashed across my mind. I tried to collect my thoughts. ‘There are other strange things too, Manolo.’

  He leaned forward.

  ‘Well, there was that photo of an ETA group being arrested in San Sebastian.’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded pensively. ‘I remember it.’

  ‘The girl in it, she seemed out of place, frightened. But her face, so much like Maite … I think it might be her sister.’

  ‘Did you ask?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t.’ I stirred sugar into my coffee. ‘I’d already questioned her about her brother and she didn’t like that.’

  Manolo straightened and put his hands on his hips. ‘Brother in prison, sister arrested. Both with ETA.’ He shook his head gravely. ‘It doesn’t look good, amigo.’

  I told him about Eibar and the shoebox, but not that I’d posted it. ‘I’m worried.’

  He jabbed the air with a finger. ‘You ought to be. Eibar has a weapons factory. Small arms. Pistols, revolvers, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Really?’

  He pursed his lips and shrugged. ‘Guns in a shoebox. A thought worth considering. Think about it.’

  I searched for words. ‘Doubt it was guns … she carried it lightly.’

  ‘Money then, or documents, maps. Who knows?’ He shook his finger at me. ‘That girl looks like trouble. You should stay clear of her.’

  I met his eyes. ‘It’s not that simple.’

  The following morning, I was in my reading corner at the nursing home, with George, when she appeared again. ‘I always know where to find you!’ She laughed.

  I smiled. ‘Something attracts you. Is it me or the book?’

  She adopted a coy expression, eyed the book, then me. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course it’s you.’

  ‘You seem very fond of George’s book,’ I teased.

  ‘So do you!’ she said cagily.

  ‘He’s my new hero,’ I declared.

  She looked hard at me, serious now. ‘That’s good.’ Then she smiled. ‘We’ll be on the same page.’

  I grinned. ‘Same page. Very funny. Is that Basque humour?’

  She blushed and glanced away. ‘Don’t make fun of me.’

  ‘Couldn’t resist.’ I searched out her eyes. ‘Hard to resist,’ I said slowly.

  She smiled warmly. ‘How did you get on with the shoebox? Post it?’

  ‘I did.’ Franco’s glaring face flashed across my mind.

  ‘You look worried.’

  ‘The postmistress was very curious.’

  ‘Was she? She didn’t open it, did she?’

&n
bsp; ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t worry about her.’ She was silent for a moment. ‘Coming for a drive?’

  ‘Love to.’ I surveyed the river. ‘No surf in Mundaca.’

  ‘Bring your surfboard. We’ll go to Baquio.’

  ‘Really?’ I felt a surge of energy. ‘We’ll have to stop by the house.’

  With surfboard atop and all my questions flown out the open windows, we detoured to the lighthouse at Cabo Machichaco. Maite sketched, first in pencil, then ink. The detail was uncanny, the end result almost a photograph.

  My sketch showed the signs of distraction and restlessness. I set it aside. ‘What is this place?’ I asked.

  ‘There was a big sea battle right off the coast here.’ She pointed with her pen. ‘You’ll read about it.’ She turned, frowning slightly. ‘Where are you up to?’

  ‘Bilbao’s knuckling down, preparing. The Basques are fighting to hold at Eibar.’

  Her face lit up. ‘I told you Eibar was important.’

  ‘You were right.’ I paused, thinking of the shoebox. ‘Eibar turns out to be quite significant.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I fumbled for words. ‘Well, it’s … near where you and I got to know each other better.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh! I see!’ Her face flushed and she reached for my hand. ‘Eibar was very significant.’ She gazed into my eyes. ‘A beautiful day, one I’ll never forget.’ She kissed me and squeezed my hand. ‘Come on. Let’s keep going.’

  We packed up and drove on to San Juan de Gaztelugatxe where we climbed, hand in hand, the steep rough-hewn steps to the chapel above. We circled the tiny hermitage, admiring the dramatic view and found a spot where we could sit and look back towards Cape Machichaco.

  ‘The sea battle took place out there.’ The sun caught her earring, a flash of gold in her hair, the perspiration on her face and neck a soft autumnal sheen. She lay back against me, her head on my shoulder, her hair spilling across my chest. ‘It was March, 1937.’

  ‘March, 1937,’ I repeated, running my hand through her hair.