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

by Owen Hargreaves

  In the afternoon, we pushed through slanted rain up the slippery cobbles to the bars to say farewell to the various bartenders and the regular patrons I’d come to know.

  ‘Hombre! Te vas? You’re going?’ they asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said glumly. ‘I must.’

  ‘Don’t look so sad!’ they said. ‘You love Mundaca! You’ll be back.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said. But that day felt a long way off.

  New Year was now sniffing at the door. The village was rousing from a pre-emptive siesta, readying for the long unchaperoned night ahead. We rolled into Bar El Puerto on a swell of red wine, flushed with emotion and the salty slap of the wind.

  Carmen grunted knowingly when we entered the empty bar, and put down her tea towel. ‘So! The brothers are leaving!’

  ‘Afraid so,’ I said.

  ‘Dragging him by the heels!’ said John.

  She smiled mischievously, her eyes narrowing. ‘Someone has to.’

  ‘You sound just like Manolo,’ I said.

  She shrugged. ‘Apples from the same tree.’

  ‘Haven’t seen him for a while,’ I said. ‘Where is he?’

  ‘At the post office again, haranguing the señora. Says she’s withholding the books he orders from overseas.’

  That got me thinking.

  ‘Censorship?’ whispered John.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, there are books … and there are books.’

  ‘Is he here tonight?’ I asked.

  ‘Bilbao,’ she said, ‘visiting family. It’s Rosa and I all night long.’

  It seemed strange to not say goodbye to Manolo, like unfinished business, and left me with a premonition.

  ‘I’ll see you again. I’m sure,’ she said brusquely. She eyed John. ‘Watch out for him, won’t you?’

  He grinned. ‘I’ll do my best!’

  ‘Gracias por todo, señora!’ I said. ‘You’ve been so kind, like my own mother.’

  Carmen beamed for a moment, then fumbled for her tea towel. When she looked again, her composure was restored, her face firmly set. Only her eyes betrayed her. ‘Cuídaos, muchachos! Agur!’

  ‘Agur, Señora! Agur!’ we replied and left, through those same weathered doors that Arturo had brought me through on that first sunny day in June.

  And from there, we launched headlong into a deep, dark, tinto-ed night. Bar after bar, round after round, the village became a swirl of glasses, berets, creased fishermen’s faces, lipsticked beauties, stolen glances, sonorous voices, slippery cobbles, sawdusted floors, cigar smoke, lilting Basque, impassioned music, and lurking, in the shadows of the church, the black-booted, black-helmeted Guardia Civil.

  Maite was due at midnight for a long-awaited, uninterrupted night together. She found me outside Los Chopos on the terrace, seated under the leafless plane trees in a sorry state, undone by wave after wave of tintos. I’d taken refuge in the sobering, salty wind above the port, where the fishing boats bobbed and jumped to the tune of the wind and the music that drifted down from the bars, as if they too were full of drink.

  A sober, fur-coated, now crestfallen Maite nursed me, swaying, back to Casa Ignacia, where, beyond repair, I was put to bed, and all the while, between sickly groans, apologising. She stayed for a long time, applying cold compresses to my forehead, soothing me — dutiful, but disappointed. I didn’t hear her leave, lost as I was in an untidy, wine-soaked stupor.

  Something woke me. Was it the pounding in my head, the ocean or both? I nursed myself out of bed, dressed clumsily and reeled outside to check the surf.

  New Year’s morning was a miracle of winter light. The unhappy clouds of the previous day had been pushed aside like curtains to reveal a bright, powerless sun that rose sheepishly above the valley mists to wash across the village.

  All was silent, the bars locked, barred and curtained. A docile breeze sidled through the streets and down to the little port, where the fishing boats were silent too, asleep on their sandy beds.

  A crisp six-foot swell strode into the river mouth, rose up against the Pyrenean breeze and unfurled along the shallow sandbar with a cracking sound, like that of a slowly splitting mast.

  I hauled a cursing John out of bed. ‘It better be good, Owen. I feel horrible!’

  ‘Get your wettie on, mate. You won’t regret it!’

  We lumbered down to the port and gingerly paddled out between its cobbled walls.

  The first solid set caught us unawares. Still dumbed by tinto, we’d drifted too far inside, and the set’s first wave washed over and through us, sending us spinning and tumbling downstream. In an instant we were awake, whisked from the clutches of the hangover, slapped back to life, shipwrecked into action.

  We regrouped. A deep, dull headache was now all that remained of the New Year’s revelry.

  No more mistakes. We were alone in the beautiful, milkygreen waves of the Mundaca river mouth. We sat with the sea rising and falling when the swells passed beneath; the crisp clear waters of the river; the long curving valley; the distant beach of Laida leading to the pined headland; the sheer, pale cliffs of Laga falling into the ocean; and, far in the background, the snowy peaks of the rugged Vizcayan Pyrenees. The village with its proud church, streets and houses and shops and bars and, tucked into the corner, peeping out between protective walls, the tiny port, with its humble fleet of brightly tinted fishing boats.

  This was to be our last surf, and a beautiful one it was. Wave after wave of silky speed, ride after ride of weightless euphoria. John was all smiles, and so was I.

  ‘No regrets, John?’ I asked, while we sat catching our breath at the take-off.

  ‘No regrets, Owen.’

  Deep into the morning, brimful of confidence, I dropped late into a steepening wave, fell, plunged deep, and resurfaced to find my beloved board broken in two. It was an omen. I floated in on one piece, dragging the other with me.

  The mourning had begun.

  John had stretched his two-week sojourn to six, to breaking point, repeatedly reassuring his girlfriend he would soon be back. He stowed his meagre possessions in the car and lashed his surfboard to the roof.

  We said our goodbyes, hugged.

  ‘Say hi to Dad and Rosie,’ he said. ‘Tell Mum I’ll write soon.’ He slid into the MG and fired up the engine. Down came the window, a half-grinning face emerging, eyes moist, a familiar glint. ‘Don’t miss that boat, will you, Owen!’

  Maite was driving me to Santander in the afternoon, to the ferry bound for Southampton. On the steps of Casa Ignacia, I waited, recalling the pledge of letters and a reunion, but it could not dispel a deep aching sadness that had overtaken me in the final week.

  The whine of an engine pierced the quiet of the narrow street leading into Plaza Santa Catalina. My ears pricked. The pitch was not quite right. A SEAT car of a different colour sped into the plaza and halted in front of me. The door flew open. A woman got out. It was Ines.

  ‘Quick!’ she called. ‘Get in. We have to go!’

  ‘Where’s Maite?’ I yelled.

  ‘She’s been arrested!’

  ‘Arrested?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I flung my backpack into the rear seat, jumped into the car, slammed the door.

  Ines looked a mess. No make-up, hair unkempt, face drained, eyes frightened. ‘What time does the boat leave?’ she asked.

  ‘Four o’clock.’

  ‘Just as she said.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  She stole a glance as we accelerated into the main street. ‘I don’t know … she said to keep calm … that I have to keep calm … you have to keep calm.’

  ‘When did you see her?’

  ‘Last night. She was on edge, sure something was about to happen. She asked me to drive you to the ferry.’

  ‘When was she arrested?’

  ‘Early morning. Her mother called me.’

  ‘Oh, God! This is madness. It can’t be true!’

  ‘It is.’ She took a big breath,
exhaled slowly, forcibly relaxing herself. ‘Got to keep calm.’

  ‘What about the others?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘As Maite said: I don’t know any others, you don’t know any others. Better that way … and better not to talk. You understand?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Besides, I’m exhausted, and I need to concentrate.’

  She glanced in the rearview mirror, relaxed her grip on the wheel and turned on the tape deck.

  We slipped through the Pyrenees to the sound of that strange, haunting Greek voice and I drifted in and out of sleep, taunted by flashes, an incoherent mix of images from the last six months, and an imagining of what should have been — our final goodbye drifting into the salty mist of the gangway.

  But it wasn’t to be. In Santander, as I turned to walk the slippery planks, it was Ines who gripped my arm, stopping me, bending down to wrestle a large parcel from her bag. ‘Open it when you get on board. There’s a letter inside. Read it carefully. Maite said you’ve trusted her. Now she must trust you.’ She gripped me tightly again and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘She said to say, “Te quiero.”‘

  I put the parcel under my arm and headed onto the ship.

  The coast’s outline was lost in the gloom. I went to my empty cabin and cut the strings around the parcel with my pocketknife. There was a folder, tightly bound, and with it, the letter. I sat on the bed.

  Querido Owen,

  By now you are on your way to England, gone from our beloved, troubled region. I’ll miss you so much.

  I have a great favour to ask.

  The folder is for a publisher in London, the address enclosed. This is our secret project, a manuscript, El Arbol de Gernika, a Spanish translation of George’s book, illustrated by myself with photographs by my brother and the translation by my grandfather’s friend, Patxi, assisted by Doctor Arriaza. The layout is by our friend, Mr O’Brien, in Ireland.

  Owen, I’m so sorry I couldn’t explain this to you before. My brother, Inigo, was taking photographs for the book when arrested by the Guardia Civil. They thought he was plotting a bombing for ETA. He’s not with ETA, none of us are, except my cousin. Marta had gone underground several years back but was arrested a few months ago. You may have seen her photograph in the paper.

  Owen, it’s all about the book.

  You see, my grandfather, Patxi, and Dr Arriaza all fought together in the war. They met George Steer and became great friends of his, grew to admire and love him. They had tremendous respect for what he did for the Basques, his passionate commitment to our cause and, of course, the brilliant book he subsequently wrote about our struggle. It was always their intention to honour him, to ensure the book was widely read, not only in English, but in Spanish too. One day we’ll do a translation in Basque.

  Of course, this project is illegal. Franco would never allow publication of the book in Spain. Inigo met with a publisher in Dublin when we were there together. They declined to publish it, but put him in contact with a London publisher who eventually agreed. Patxi and Doctor Arriaza worked hard on the final version, only recently completing it. I’ve been busy doing the illustrations based on drawings I did of the main battlefields. There are a few from our trips together. Several of Inigo’s photographs are included, together with originals. Our friends at Eibar gave me a box-full taken during the war.

  I wish I could have told you all this before. I wanted to. But Patxi, the mastermind, wouldn’t allow it. He thought it too dangerous. The less you knew, he said, the better. He knew we were being watched. We thought no-one would suspect you.

  I hope you will not think less of me for holding back. I know that you, too, are a great believer in George and will understand the importance of this work. Please deliver it when you get to London. You will be doing a great service.

  I love you my darling.

  Yours always,

  Maite

  ‘I love you too,’ I whispered as the letter fell from my hands, knowing that part of me had been left behind.

  EPILOGUE

  A letter from Ines arrived several months later. Maite was in prison and couldn’t communicate directly. Not yet. It was still too risky. She was physically healthy but her spirits were low. Visits were extremely limited.

  They’d all been arrested — Patxi, Dr Arriaza and Maite. Patxi had died in prison soon after arrest. There were rumours of torture, but Dr Arriaza, present at his death, insisted it was a heart attack.

  Dr Arriaza had been interrogated and finally released. He had somehow managed to explain the charred remains of a discredited book, The Tree of Gernika. He was ordered back to the nursing home under strict conditions.

  Maite, for reasons unclear, had been detained indefinitely. The case against her was weak, there being scant material evidence — a miniature camera, a series of sketches. A sheaf of documents — a purported manifesto for Basque independence containing plans for coordinated bombings — couldn’t be found. But links with her brother and sister couldn’t be overlooked.

  A second letter arrived six months later, this time from Maite herself. She’d been released under a general amnesty for political prisoners. She was coping, readjusting to normal life. Her brother and sister, released soon after, were struggling, particularly her brother. Family and friends had gathered around, and there was endless support from the townsfolk.

  Dr Arriaza was soldiering on, but deeply saddened by the loss of his close friend. The project, she said, was bearing fruit.

  She thanked me again for what I’d done and looked forward to better days, happier times.

  ‘Ondo ibili!’ she said, on closing. ‘Te quiero.’

  In the years that followed Maite’s release, life in Mundaca continued — as sure as one season followed another. The tide of fascism turned, a wave of democracy swept through the village and the shadow of Franco gradually receded.

  With the monarchy restored, despair turned to hope when a new Spanish government began granting limited autonomy to the regions. A Basque government would be established, eventually calming the turbulent waters that had pervaded their homeland.

  And in the river mouth, the tide rose and fell. And the sea was mostly quiet with barely a breeze to ripple the surface. There were storms and the depths would turn dark and uninviting, and on rare, perfect days, there were endless, long, beautiful waves. And, if you were lucky — in the right place at the right time — you might have the ride of your life.

  PLEASE REVIEW

  Thank you for reading Mundaca. If you have a moment, please consider writing a short review of this novel on Amazon, Goodreads, Apple or wherever you engage with other readers online. Your feedback would be greatly appreciated because reviews assist authors more than you might think, as well as helping your friends, family and others to choose their next book.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Mundaca is Owen Hargreaves’ debut novel. The story is based on his experiences travelling and living in the Basque Country of Generalisimo Franco’s Spain in 1975. Owen later returned to Australia to study medicine. He has worked in public health, principally with refugees, in Sudan, Thailand, Pakistan and Zanzibar. In Pakistan he worked for three years as the UNHCR Health Coordinator for the Afghan Refugee Program in Baluchistan. After ten years abroad he returned to Melbourne in 1994 to become a GP. Father of four, and still a keen surfer, these days Owen enjoys riding the waves of creative expression as much as the swells of the world’s beautiful oceans and seas.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Eternal thanks go to my writing mentor, the highly talented author and editor Clare Strahan. I met Clare through a formal manuscript assessment of an early draft of Mundaca via Writers Victoria. Clare went on to mentor me through a series of drafts to a completed work, while simultaneously working on her own literary creations. Clare’s professional and patient guidance led me steadily in a writerly direction. She taught me about the three-act model, story structure and balance, show and
tell, pacing, and offered many ideas for improving and tightening the story. As her student I probably taught her only one thing – how to make a leg rope.

  My heartfelt thanks to all my family and the various friends who have supported me through the long and sometimes arduous process of writing a novel as a part-time author.

  To those who’ve read one or more drafts of the story and given invaluable feedback, tips and ideas, I thank you wholeheartedly.

  My eternal gratitude to Euan Mitchell, who rescued me at the end, when mainstream publishing was unachievable. I tracked him down some two-and-a-half years after completing the novel. He gave my dusty manuscript a polish, coordinated the publication project, and provided great support and timely expert advice. It’s all in his book Your Book Publishing Options, but there’s nothing like the human touch to bring that knowledge and wisdom alive.

  My thanks to Robyn Wallace-Mitchell for her proofreading, and to Luke Harris from Working Type for the cover design and layout.

  My warm thanks also to Tim Baker, Wayne Lynch and Kevin Naughton (in alphabetical order) for reading the novel and providing encouraging reviews.

  To Lady Luck, for leading me to a book in the local library entitled Telegram from Guernica: The Extraordinary Life of George Steer by Nicholas Rankin. Serendipity is a wonderful thing! And George Steer was, indeed, extraordinary.

  To all those people wandering the streets, mumbling to themselves, who I thought were lost souls, my apologies. I came to realise that some of you, at least, were writers working on dialogue, and happily joined your club.

  To the various characters in the book (many based on real people) – we’ve spent a lot of time together, got to know each other well … it’s been an enormous pleasure.