by John Wilson
As far as I could see in either direction, the sidewalk was a seething mass of sweating people hauling huge suitcases that must have contained enough clothes for three months, jostling into vast snakelike lines for cabs that were arriving one or two at a time, or shouting at hotel buses that sailed past with full loads. The prospect of spending most of my morning here wasn’t thrilling, and my guidebook said that if I walked out of the airport to the main road, there were buses that ran regularly to downtown Barcelona. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders and set off.
As soon as I left the airport and the crowds, I felt better. The surrounding countryside was flat, treeless and crisscrossed by highways and dotted with industrial buildings, but the roads were quiet and the air pleasantly warm even though the sun was only just up. It felt good to be on my own and in charge, even if I was only catching a bus.
At the bus stop, I flipped open my cell phone. I had a new text.
Hey Mom and Steve too. I hope you are doing well. All is good here. Just getting ready to meet and start out. I figure 2 days up and 1 down. Back on the plane soon after and back home in less than 5. Don’t worry about me. Everything is perfect—see you soon…and little brother remember if you need help I’m only a text away.
Typical arrogant DJ, going to climb a mountain like it was the same as going to Safeway. And he’d probably do it too. Easy for him with guides and everything, and here I was alone in a foreign country with only the sketchiest idea of what I was to do.
I almost ignored the text, but then I sent back, Doing my task. If u need any help let ME know.
The first bus that came along said Plaça de Catalunya on the front. I knew that Catalunya was downtown and not too far from the Gothic Quarter where my address was, so this was perfect, except that the bus was crowded. It was a long bus, jointed in the middle, and every inch was packed with seated or standing men and women in jeans, T-shirts, jackets and caps. There wasn’t a suit or tie in sight. They were obviously not office workers.
I stepped back, prepared to wait for the next bus, but the vehicle wheezed to a stop and the doors opened. I waited for people to get off to make room for me and my backpack, but nothing happened. I peered in the double doors halfway along the bus’s length. A sea of tanned faces smiled down at me. I hesitated. There was no room. A chorus of unintelligible words broke out and hands waved me on. Uncertainly, I stood on the step. Immediately I was grabbed and hauled in among the tightly packed bodies. My backpack disappeared over everyone’s heads to the back of the bus and the doors closed behind me. The bus jerked forward. I felt like a sardine and wondered nervously if I’d ever see my pack again.
The guy beside me, his face inches from mine, smiled and said, “Benvingut. ?Com estàs?”
They were words I hadn’t learned. In fact, the way he said them, they didn’t even sound Spanish. “Hola,” I tried. “Buenos días. Mi nombre es Steve.”
The man shook his head. Everything about him was dark: his hair, his eyes, the shadow of a beard on his chin, even his black leather jacket. “No,” he said. “No Espanyol.” He dragged his right arm up from the crush and pointed to his forehead. “Catalan.” He managed to wave his hand over his head to include everyone on the bus. “Catalan,” he repeated.
I nodded. I had read that the people around Barcelona called themselves Catalan instead of Spanish, but I hadn’t realized that they spoke a completely different language.
“Aina,” the man shouted over his shoulder. A disturbance ran through the crowded bus and a young woman pushed her way forward. All I could see of her was her head with her hair tied in a tight bun at the back. The man said something long and incomprehensible to her. She looked at me and smiled, her white teeth standing out dramatically against her olive skin.
“You are English?” she asked.
“I’m Canadian,” I replied.
She nodded as if that explained everything. “Welcome to Catalunya,” she went on. “My name is Aina. You would say Anna in English. My friend, Agusti”—she nodded at the man who had tried to talk to me—“speaks only Catalan.” She lowered her voice, “Actually, he speaks Spanish, but he does not like to.” The man gave Aina a withering look.
“You speak English very well,” I said.
Aina smiled once more. “Thank you. I worked in London for two years as a barmaid. Now Agusti and I work at the factory making boxes for the gears in cars.”
“Transmissions,” I suggested.
“Yes,” Aina said. “What is your name?”
“Steve.” Aina looked puzzled. “Steven,” I expanded.
“Ah, Steven. In Catalan, it is Esteve, in Spanish, Esteban. You have come here on holiday for our sunshine and beaches?”
Before I could answer, the bus pulled into another stop. A number of workers got off and headed into a large factory complex. This reduced the crush, but the group around me stayed where it was as Aina said something in Catalan. I assumed she was telling them about our conversation, because everyone looked at me and smiled. As we started up again, Aina looked at me expectantly.
“I haven’t come for the beaches,” I said, thinking back to my companions on the plane. “I have come to find out what happened to my grandfather many years ago.”
“Your grandfather was in Barcelona?”
“Yes, in 1937 or ’38. I think he might have been a soldier in the war.”
Aina suddenly became very excited and rattled off a whole string of Catalan, the only piece of which I understood was “Brigadas Internacionales.” Suddenly everyone started talking at once and jostling to pat me on the back as if I was some kind of hero. I was happy and embarrassed at the same time.
When the activity calmed down, Aina explained, “The foreigners who came to fight for Spain and Catalunya in our war are heroes here.”
A male voice somewhere behind Aina burst into song and was joined by others.
Viva la Quince Brigada,
rumba la rumba la rumba la.
Viva la Quince Brigada,
rumba la rumba la rumba la
que se ha cubierto de gloria,
¡Ay Carmela! ¡Ay Carmela!
que se ha cubierto de gloria,
¡Ay Carmela! ¡Ay Carmela!
Aina leaned forward and shouted in my ear. “It is the song of the Fifteenth Brigade who are covered in glory. Your grandfather was in the Fifteenth Brigade?”
“I don’t know,” I shouted back. Most of the bus was singing now. “I suppose that’s one thing I’ll have to find out.”
Aina looked out the bus window. “We are almost at our work now.” She rummaged for a piece of paper in the bag hanging from her shoulder. She wrote for a moment and then handed it to me. “This is the name and address of Pablo Aranda, the grandfather of my cousin. He is an old man but still alive, and he lives in a village by the River Ebro, we call it the Ebre. As a boy in the war, he was rescued by some soldiers. Perhaps if you go to his village, he might tell you stories.”
Aina hesitated and looked at me with a frown. “He is a strange old man. He will not be what you expect, or wish. But he is part of history as well, and if you want to discover what happened, you must discover it all, not just what you would like to believe.”
I looked at the torn piece of paper. Pablo Aranda, Avinguda Catalunya, 21, 43784 Corbera d’Ebre. “Thank you,” I said. I was about to ask what Aina meant by the old man being strange, but I was cut off by her smile. The singing had died away, and the bus was slowing down.
“Stay on to the Plaça Catalunya,” Aina said. “It is the center of Barcelona. You can go anywhere from there. Good luck.”
As the workers poured off the bus, most smiled at me, shook my hand and wished me what I assumed was good luck. As the bus pulled away, Aina stood on the sidewalk and waved at me. I felt stupidly happy. If all Spaniards—Catalans, I corrected myself—were this friendly, I was going to enjoy my task. And I had another address. I seemed to be collecting them.
SIX
“Plaça Catalunya,” the bus driver
announced. There were only half a dozen of us left on the bus, me and five office workers in suits who had boarded a few blocks back. I hauled my backpack from the luggage racks at the back of the bus, said “Gracias” to the driver and got off. It was only as I stood on the sidewalk, watching the bus pull away, that I realized I hadn’t paid for the trip. The driver had said nothing, so I assumed Aina or someone else had taken care of my fare. Another example of Catalan generosity.
It felt as if I had already met guides, but there was only one who really mattered. I looked around the square to get my bearings. According to my map, the Ramblas, the street that led down to my address, was diagonally opposite. I set off.
Even this early in the morning, the Ramblas was awesome. It was really two streets with a wide pedestrian precinct with trees down the middle. Although it was only eight in the morning, a few outdoor cafés already had tables out, and scattered customers sat sipping coffee and reading newspapers. Casual strollers wandered past with no apparent objective other than to glance in shop windows. The shops were still closed and shuttered, and it made me think that I was maybe too early to go to the address Grandfather had given me. The last thing I wanted to do was wake up Marie Dolores Calderon Garcia, whoever she was.
I strolled down until I came to Carrer de la Portaferrissa. It was exactly as it had looked on Google—a narrow alley, about 4 meters wide and surrounded by ancient four- or five-story buildings. At this time in the morning, the street was in deep shadow and the few pedestrians just darker shapes in the distance. I knew that number 71 was at the far end, but the Ramblas seemed a much better place to kill time, so I turned back, selected a café and sat.
My guidebook recommended coffee and a pastry for breakfast. In fact, it said it was all I was likely to get outside an expensive hotel, so, using a few learned phrases, I stumbled through an order. The waiter seemed to think it was very funny, but eventually brought a tiny cup of brutally strong coffee and the sweetest pastry I had ever tasted.
I sipped the coffee but wolfed down the pastry since it was all I had eaten since getting on the plane the night before. I ordered another and a glass of water and took out my cell phone. I felt a bit bad about the way I’d blown off DJ’s text at the bus stop. His arrogance annoyed me and he was always so formal. I don’t think he liked texting, he preferred to talk or send an email. He claimed that texting was butchering the English language. Of course that just made me use as many chat abbreviations as I could, just to mess with him.
Dwntwn Barca, I texted, hvng a cb, u cld pave 403 w/ this stuff. evry1 really friendly, but they speak odd. gl w/ mountain. u’ll b on top by lunch tbl bro.
Then I texted Mom. It was the middle of the night in Toronto, but I had promised to let her know I had arrived safely. I sent it in plain English. Everything is great. People really friendly. On my way to the address to meet up with my guide. “I hope,” I murmured under my breath as I folded my phone.
People came and went, the traffic became heavier and eventually the shutters on some of the shops rolled up. I paid and set off down Carrer de la Portaferrissa. I was nervous as I passed through the shadows below the narrow wrought-iron balconies. I had come all this way chasing a mystery. The address had been my goal through all the preparations. Now I was only a few doors from it. What if no one was there? What if the mysterious package was just something meaningless, or not even my grandfather’s? Worst of all, what if they knew nothing about a letter or a package or me?
I would be fine, I told myself. I had a ticket home and money to live on, but I would have failed. The other six, even Rennie, the mystery grandson, probably all had specific tasks like DJ’s mountain climb. They would all complete their tasks, I was certain. I would be the lone failure. As I had researched the Spanish Civil War, I had begun to see Grandfather differently, not as the old man I knew, but as the kid with the weird haircut in the photograph. He had walked this very street when he was my age. Why? What was he doing coming here in the middle of a war? Would I find out? Would I—?
And then there I was, standing in front of the doorway in the photograph. It looked older, more worn. My eyes drifted to the wall beside it, as if I expected to see the faded hammer and sickle and the words Mac Pap. There was nothing.
Well, this was it, the moment that would determine the next two weeks. Whether I succeeded or failed. I stepped forward and raised my fist to knock. Before I had a chance, the door flew open and the girl from the photograph stood there, smiling exactly as she had all those years ago. The insane thought that she was a vampire, one of the ageless undead, flashed into my mind before I squashed it. That was stupid, even for me.
It wasn’t the same girl. Not only was that impossible, but now that I looked closely, this girl was different. There was a similarity around the mouth and she had dark hair and an olive complexion, but I was starting to understand that was pretty common in Spain. The nose was the clincher; it wasn’t at all like the one on the girl in the photograph. Hers had been small and straight. This girl’s nose was longer and narrower, more like mine, and it was slightly skewed, giving the impression that her head was continually tilted slightly to one side as if she was questioning everything.
All this flashed through my mind in the first second I stood staring, slack-jawed at her, but it was her eyes that made my knees go weak. They were the deepest brown I had ever seen, so deep that I almost felt I was falling into them.
“Are you going to hit me?” the girl asked in perfect English.
Horrified, I realized I was standing in front of this beautiful girl with my fist raised threateningly. I snapped my arm back to my side. “No. Of course not. I was about to knock. I’m sorry,” I babbled.
The girl’s smile broadened. “You are lucky, Steve. I was just on my way out. I expected you earlier.”
“Sorry,” I blurted out again before I realized what she had said. “How do you know my name?”
“Your grandfather told me.”
“My grandfather told you?” The more I said, the stupider I sounded. But how could my grandfather have told her? She wasn’t the girl in the photograph and, as far as I knew, my grandfather had never been to Spain after the war. “How?”
“In the letter he wrote to me.”
“The letter?” My brain seemed to have stopped working.
“Yes,” the girl said patiently. “My great-grandmother wrote your grandfather a letter and he wrote back. Then I heard from your grandfather’s lawyer that you would be arriving on an early flight this morning and would be coming here. That’s why I expected you before now. A taxi from the airport does not take this long.”
“There weren’t many taxis,” I said, “so I took a bus, and had a coffee.”
The girl nodded as if what I had said made any sense. “Well, now that you have had your coffee and are here, shall we go inside?”
“Yes,” I mumbled and followed her through the door.
It took my eyes a moment to adjust to the gloom inside, but I could soon make out a row of mailboxes along one wall on my right. The girl was already climbing stone stairs ahead of me.
On the first landing, the girl produced a key and opened a second heavy wooden door and waved me into a wide corridor. Doors opened off to the left and right, but we proceeded down the corridor’s full length into a wide room, brightly lit by floor-toceiling windows that overlooked the street. The high ceiling was carved dark wood, and the walls were almost completely covered with framed pictures, both old black-and-white photographs and paintings. What wall space was left was covered with overloaded bookshelves, and a variety of old-fashioned chairs were scattered around a low wooden table. The floor, too, was wood but was covered in the center by a worn red patterned rug.
“Welcome to my home,” the girl said. “Put your pack down; it looks heavy.”
“It’s okay,” I replied, although I was glad to set it on the floor.
“My name’s Laia,” the girl held out her hand. “Welcome to Barcelona.”
&nb
sp; I shook her hand. “Thank you. I’m Steve, but you know that.”
“I do, and I have some things for you, but sit down.” Laia indicated a high-backed chair. “I will fetch them and get us a cup of coffee. If you haven’t had too much already.”
“Coffee would be nice,” I replied, “but not too strong.”
“You do not like our café solo. Don’t worry, I make regular American coffee.”
Laia left the room, and I had a chance to gather my scattered thoughts. My concerns about no one at the address knowing anything about my task had proved groundless. The opposite seemed to be the case, and my mind was full of questions: What had my grandfather said in his letter? Who was this girl, Laia? And what connection did she have to what I was supposed to do?
All these questions raced around my brain, but I didn’t really mind not knowing. Laia’s eyes dominated my thoughts. I smiled. I doubted DJ was meeting beautiful girls on his mountain.
“You look happy,” Laia said. She was carrying a tray with a tall silver coffee flask, a smaller jug of milk, a sugar bowl and two cups.
“Just glad to be here,” I said.
Laia placed the tray on the table in front of me. “Please pour yourself a cup as you like it. I like mine black.” As I busied myself with the coffee, she went to an ornately carved sideboard, knelt and pulled out a small battered suitcase.
The suitcase was a faded checked pattern in black and brown. Where it was scuffed, it appeared to be made of cardboard, although the corners were reinforced with leather strips. It was considerably smaller than an airline carry-on bag and sported a number of old-fashioned stickers, including one for something called Trans-Canada Air Lines and another for Canadian National Steamships. It was closed by two locking silver clasps on the front.
Laia set the suitcase on the table beside the coffee cups and sat down beside me. We both stared at the suitcase for a long time. Was the answer to my mystery inside? What did the suitcase and its contents mean to Laia?
