The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  Rafael found himself in a dilemma. He had carefully carried the burden of the Blanxart sword, now wrapped in the Macia senyera, throughout the winter. His pride in the hidden symbols of Catalunya was undiminished, and his whole persona was dominated by the weight and restrictions caused by the length of steel strapped to his leg. As the winter passed, Rafael got to meet and know more of the neighbours, and began a network of business contacts to support the growing chiringuito trade. All of these contacts and friends knew him both as a disabled man, supposedly injured in the siege of Barcelona, and by his name of ‘Macia’. Somehow the single word name had stuck since that day he had lied to the soldier to save himself; no-one questioned him for a Christian name, he was simply ‘Macia’.

  Nightly he slept with the sword strapped to his side; and daily he went about the business of the chiringuito with the limp which characterised him. It was as if the fit, young, active Rafael Blanxart had vanished, to be replaced by the crippled Macia. His disguise had probably saved his life, but now he was stuck in a situation he could not avoid. He had wandered up to the vast building site where so many of the refugees on the beach were now employed, but a guard had mocked him and shouted at him, “We need fit, healthy workers here, not cripples. Crawl back to your hole.”

  He considered leaving the sword under his makeshift bed in the hut, but it seemed to him to be a very insecure place to leave such a treasure; and the responsibility of ownership of the sword and its recently-acquired senyera, left him unable to take any risk other than continue to carry then both hidden beneath his clothes. He had gradually improved his appearance, and finally threw away the beggar’s rags he had worn to escape the city. He kept his head covered, however, so that he would not draw attention to the unruly mop of blond curls which were the singular trademark of the Blanxart firstborn.

  Grandfather and Rafael often walked to the edge of the dunes, to the same point from which they had watched the burning of La Ribera, where they could watch the building of the fort. It was indeed enormous, covering most of the area of the old Ribera slum. Huge earth works were being built up, reinforced with enormous stone walls, and the two men watched fascinated by the army of labourers toiling with wheelbarrows and carts, dragging the huge quantities of earth and stone into position. The hardest task of all was to dismantle much of the old city walls, and drag the huge blocks of stone to the new fort, for its outer walls. They became aware that the fortress would contain accommodation for a large army, and that Madrid was creating this vast warlike edifice, not to wage war, but to ensure that the Catalans had no chance of any kind of uprising against their Spanish conquerors. With the city walls dismantled, Barcelona could not defend itself, and the new fort ensured that Madrid would continue to dominate and rule.

  “Poor Catalonya,” said Grandfather Macia, “We stand little chance of fighting back against such a great machine as this.”

  “It is vast,” said Rafael, “and I do not like to see so many loyal Catalonians forced to work, building this horror.”

  “They have little option but to work here,” said grandfather. “With all the small businesses destroyed in La Ribera, they need the work; and some of the money they earn is being spent in our own chiringuito, so we cannot complain. We are as much complicit in reaping the benefits of this building site as any of those we are watching.”

  “All the more reason to keep safe the sword and the flag,” replied Rafael, tapping the heavy steel concealed under his clothes. “Even the greatest fort will one day fall, and the sword will be ready for that moment.”

  Work on the great fortress continued for six years, until a great star-shaped monster dominated the city. Long before it was finished, troops of soldiers were moved in, and the flag of Madrid flew from the highest turret. The beach dwellers named the huge fort “Ciutadella”, and discovered that King Philip himself visited a number of times to view progress in its construction. Whenever the king was near, however, the workers were roughly penned in the far distance, unable to see him; and with fully armed soldiers to keep order, the workers dared not shout abuse at the man who had obliterated their culture and desecrated their land.

  Towards the end of the construction period, the beach people watched with astonishment as just to the north of their shanty town, a long causeway was built out from the fortress, all the way to the edge of the sea, giving the fort its own water gate, creating a barrier between the slum on the beach and its main source of drinking water.

  During the construction years, life on the beach consolidated. Some of the inhabitants moved away to other parts of the city, or to family in other parts of Catalunya; but many survived in the huts and shacks on the beach. The Macia chiringuito continued to flourish, with the family busily involved in its day to day running.

  Grandmother, who had been given a new lease of life by becoming the cafe’s baker, was hardly strong enough to continue to cope with the demand for bread, and soon needed help. Carla had become friendly with another beach-dwelling family nearby, who had a son working on the fortress construction site and a pretty teenage daughter. The elderly parents were unable to work, and their daughter, Susana, spent much of her time collecting water and doing the chores around their tiny shack. Carla, sitting with the parents, watched as Susana brought some washing from a small line they had erected, and folded it carefully.

  “You have a treasure there,” observed Carla.

  “We do indeed. Without her we surely would have perished. But she cannot get work like our son has, and cannot bring any money into the family.”

  “We need help in the chiringuito,” said Carla, “and she is a good worker. Perhaps you could spare her for a few hours each morning when grandmother is baking bread. As grandmother gets older, she finds it hard, and Susana could quickly learn to mix and knead the dough. It would be a good skill for her to learn, and she can return at midday to run your errands.”

  When Carla reported this conversation to the family, the grandparents were very pleased, but Rafael was worried. “Mother,” he began, “there was always a tradition in the family to employ no-one but people loyal to Catalunya. We may have lost our lands, but we are still Catalonians, and I believe we must maintain the family tradition. What do we know of Susana and her family, except that they fled La Ribera like we all did? We must find first if they are loyal to the flag.”

  “I will speak privately to her parents,” replied Carla, “and if they are not loyal, we will not employ the daughter.”

  In fact Rafael’s worries were unfounded, as Susana’s family were as true to the senyera as the Macias and the Blanxarts, and thus Susana came to work in the kitchen. She learned quickly the art of bread-making, and soon was able to take the burden of the work from grandmother.

  At first Susana was rather frightened of the mysterious young man she had seen only from afar. Busying herself in clouds of flour, mixing and kneeding, strong hands and arms in the great bowl, she would glance at Rafael across the kitchen as he arrived with bags of flour, huge hams or bundles of logs. In the tiny space, they would brush against one another, and she would blush. He was the first man, other than her brother, that she had had close contact with, and she felt he was something of an enigma. He would greet her with a warm smile, and she would hesitantly smile back, but said little.

  Carla and her parents had to be careful not to call Rafael by his real name when Susana was around, and she had no idea he was not Macia, but the legendary Lion of Ribera of whom she had, of course, heard stories.

  With Susana working for them, and they themselves working long hours, the business flourished. Within a couple of years, they had almost completely rebuilt and extended the shack, and created a small but efficient working kitchen. Outside the hut, a group of rough tables and benches had been constructed by grandfather and Rafael. The fires under the roasting rack and in the bread oven were never allowed to go out, and the first chore of the day, long before dawn, was to stoke them with logs. Whilst it was still dark, Susana would
arrive and begin the dough for the day’s baking, and grandfather would be butchering some animal purchased the day before. Carla would start her day frying a huge pan of ham and oysters. Further along the beach, a small brewery had been set up, and Rafael’s day started by dragging a small cart over the shingle along the shoreline to collect the day’s barrel of beer.

  Carla’s mother tongue was, of course, Catalan; but she knew a fair amount of Castilian, and was able to serve the customers without using Catalan: with the current regime in place, it was feared that Catalan would die, and the language be lost, and certainly it was never heard in public. Carla, however, was determined to maintain it as the family’s private language at home. She was pleased to discover that Susana and her family similarly maintained the language in private.

  At daybreak, many of the construction workers would call in for a breakfast washed down with ale; the day would be spent in a variety of back-breaking chores – collecting water, purchasing bags of flour, stacking logs and stoking the fire, and generally coping with the hundred and one things needed to keep the chiringuito going. In 1714 the business had started small and tentative, but within a few years it had become well-established and well-known, and was even serving meals to soldiers who occasionally came riding through the shanty town. Rafael himself remained in the background whenever the soldiers were around.

  The work was harder in the summer, with the long warm evenings encouraging patrons to linger at the tables, calling for more beer, and it was often well after midnight before the family fell into their beds, only to get up again before dawn. Susana was needed to work full-time, but her wages, with those of her brother, ensured her parents had a far more comfortable life than previously.

  One late summer’s evening, with the sky a panorama of rosy pink and orange, Rafael stood on the dune at the back of the chiringuito, admiring this busy kitchen they had built. Susana came out into the glowing light of the setting sun, and glanced towards Rafael. He waved and beckoned, and instead of turning shyly away, she sauntered up to him.

  “Look at the sunset,” said Rafael quietly, in Catalan.

  “It’s beautiful,” replied Susana.

  “It’s a beautiful place,” said Rafael. “I hated it when we were forced to come here, but now I love it.”

  “So do I.”

  The couple stood and watched the slowly changing patterns of the sky, Susana standing close to Rafael. Gently he touched her hand, and then held it more firmly. Susana did not flinch or pull away.

  As the days passed the young couple found many opportunities to be together whether working in the kitchen or on errands for supplies, and gradually they become familiar, both of them losing that early shyness which had gripped them. Rafael found himself more and more attracted to Susana; and he particularly enjoyed courting her in his beloved Catalan language. Gradually he realised that his false identity would stand in the way of their relationship continuing. One evening, he decided to pour the whole dilemma out to his mother.

  “I’ve watched you for some time,” she said. “And I’ve also been pondering the problem. Susana thinks your name is Macia and that you were wounded in the siege; she has no idea of your real identity, or that you carry the sword, the senyera and the future of Catalunya hidden beneath your clothing. It seems to me that there is a clear choice: either you tell her the whole truth, or you turn your back on her.”

  “I cannot give her up,” replied Rafael, “but I need your support and blessing to take the risk of telling the truth. Before she came to work for us, you talked to her parents about their loyalty to Catalunya. But are they loyal enough? Can Susana bear the burden of the truth, that I am a wanted man?”

  Susana’s family were confused and surprised by the invitation to supper at the chiringuito. Such an invitation was unknown in the shanty town, and when they discovered that the chiringuito unexpectedly closed early that evening, they were even more mystified.

  Seated in the kitchen the visitors watched as Carla and Grandmother produced supper. There was small talk about the weather, recent visitors to the beach, and the progress on the massive Cuitadella fortress. Rafael, sitting awkwardly as he always did because of the sword under his clothes, held Susana’s hand under the table, and surreptitiously smiled at her. A couple of times she started to ask him what was happening, but each time he stopped the question.

  Finally most of the platters were cleared away, and everyone looked expectantly around. Carla broke the silence by turning to Rafael, and asking him to speak. There was a further silence as he stood, closed his eyes as if in prayer, and took a deep breath. As they watched, he pulled off the rough hat that he always wore, and his golden curls tumbled out. As he shook his head, the visitors gasped, and Susana muttered “Macia?”

  Speaking very quietly, Grandfather Macia quickly interjected, “Use very quiet voices everyone. We don’t want any of the neighbours to know what’s happening!” Nodding, and even more amazed, Susana’s family looked from grandfather back to Rafael. When he spoke, it was in Catalan:

  “My name is Rafael Blanxart, the son of Perez Blanxart, and grandson of Perot; heroes both of them from the siege of Barcelona. I am the youngest of the generations of Blanxart to be called the Lion of Ribera. When he was arrested, my father handed me the sword of Catalunya. I hid in the dunes here in Barceloneta, and was hiding here when the rest of you were forced to leave La Ribera. I have kept the sword hidden ever since. When Grandfather Macia escaped from the destruction of the Ribera slum, he brought his Catalonian flag, his senyera, with him, hidden in the meat from his shop. It replaced my father’s senyera which was burned in the terrible fire at my father’s shop. The Macia flag remains hidden with the sword.” He stopped, took a deep breath again, and turning to Susana’s father, continued.

  “Sir, now that you know the truth, I wish to ask for the hand of Susana in marriage. I trust to God and the Virgin that you will consent to this marriage. I have told you the truth about myself, and hopefully await your judgement.” Susana leapt to her feet, and putting out her hand to Rafael, she turned and faced her father. Rafael’s face was grim and serious, but Susana was radiant, able to anticipate the old man’s reaction.

  Susana’s father hesitated, and for a moment Rafael thought he had made a huge mistake despite Susana’s tight grip of his hand. With a thoughtful face, the old man looked around the room, and then slowly stood up. There was a tense silence. Leaning towards Rafael, he held out his hand, and as he shook Rafael’s hand his visage changed, and he smiled.

  “Congratulations, young man; it is an honour that I give my daughter into your safekeeping. I had always hoped that she would make a good marriage, but I never expected such good fortune. In recent years I have agonised over the future of our nation, little knowing that you, young man, held the key. I am delighted to consent to my daughter’s marriage to you, and give you my blessing. But wait, I wish to bring my own token of commitment to this meeting.” And with that he rushed out of the kitchen. It was the turn of Rafael and the others to be mystified and they looked at one another. Within a few moments the old man returned from his shack, clutching a small black bag. His wife smiled, suddenly understand his intentions.

  He opened the bag and pulled out a Catalan flag. “This is my senyera, and I bring it to the table as a token of my loyalty to Catalunya. My wife and I recognise the trust you placed in us in telling us your terrible, wonderful secret.” Moving around the room, he placed the flag around the shoulders of Rafael and Susana, and placed his arms around the couple. “With my blessings, young man, I will see you wed.” He paused, and grinned, “But first, I would love to see the sword! It would be an honour.”

  Rafael, grinning broadly, looked over his shoulder to the old man behind him. “You have the sword in your hand, father-in-law, just as Susana has embraced it many times before!”

  Susana and her father stood back as Rafael started to take off his clothing. Stipped to his undergarments, the sword, wrapped in the Macia senyera,
was revealed. Rafael, held the sword aloft, and with Susana’s senyera round his naked shoulders, the Macia senyera in his hand, and his golden curls shaken out to their full glory, he stood, the embodiment of Catalunya; the Lion of Ribera.

  “Long live Catalunya!” he pronounced.

  “Long live Catalunya,” they all responded.

  “And long live the Lion of la Ribera,” said Carla quietly.

  “No,” said grandfather. “La Ribera is gone. Long live the Lion of Catalunya!”

  “Long live the Lion of Catalonya!” they chorused with enthusiasm.

  Susana’s mother, who had remained smiling quietly to herself throughout the momentous proceedings started to sing. Her gentle voiced filled the kitchen, as she sung one of the ancient Catalonian folk songs about the mountains and the sea; they turned to her and sung quietly with her.

  Later that night, as Susana and her parents returned home, they were still full of wonder at the events of the evening; Rafael was equally enraptured, and the Macia family slept soundly.

  Antoni Blanxart was born in 1729. There had been many babies born in the shanty town on the beach, but none who would inherit such a legacy. The boy was known as Antoni Macia, and it would be many more years before the secret carried by his father would be revealed to him, or that one day he would become the Lion of Catalunya.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In its own way, La Ribera had been a rather handsome well-established slum. Life on the seashore, however, was far more ramshackle. The various shacks which the Ribera people had erected after the expulsion from their home, remained chaotic. Here and there, additions and reinforcements had been made to create more permanent-looking establishments, such as the Macia chiringuito; but most remained little more than rough shelters.