by Josep Pla
“Sit down!” blasted Bread and Grapes, interrupting my reverie.
We sat down on the corner of the Pení ridge. It was a singular spot that allowed us sight, to the north, of the entire coastline of Cape Creus and the Gulf of Lion and, to the south, the Gulf of Roses. The Cape Creus peninsula stood out wonderfully beneath us – the part I’m referring to, that is. Bread and Grapes seemed immune to the spectacle. His mind was full of more tangible matters.
“This spot,” he said, with a laugh, eyes lit up by passion and life, “is very pretty. It’s the exact place from which I hope you’ll begin to understand my trade. If I succeed, you’ll see why Fatty Verdera is so interested in all this. You, senyor, are attached to things of the sea and will understand me right away. Imagine any boat, a Majorcan fishing boat, for example, located ten or twelve miles to the east and outside the entrance to Cadaqués Bay. This vessel is waiting for the appointed time to unload its cargo of tobacco or whatever on the coast. As dusk falls, the boat is spotted by vigilant customs police. They pinpoint it perfectly in their binoculars. If this vessel had only one place where it could work, if the nature of the coast and the boat’s movements allowed only a single movement, its efforts could be fully observed and controlled. But the boat I’ve mentioned can keep close to land because it has complete freedom of action. It’s been spotted by police binoculars, but that doesn’t guarantee they know which way it’s going to head to do what it has to do. The nature of the coastline means that the fishing boat, where it is located, is an equal distance from the Cape Creus and the Cape Norfeu coasts. Whether there is a southerly or northerly wind, the boat’s position allows it to work in either place, even though by land Cape Creus and Cape Norfeu are separated by a huge distance and difficult, precipitous terrain. If there is a northerly wind, the vessel can sail back up Cape Creus with the yard tied hard to the rode, its sheet down, and slip into Portaló, for example; or it could lower the sheet and go into Jònculs. If it’s a southerly, the vessel will reach Jònculs with the yard tied to the rode and the sheet down, or it can head straight to Portaló or Taballera. As you know, the distance on foot along goat tracks between Jònculs and Portaló is so great it’s normally impossible to establish a watch in both distant points and all places in between. The vessel is completely free to create its own subterfuge: at twilight it can persuade the lookouts following its movements through binoculars that it is sailing along the Roses coast; when darkness closes in, it can head to its real destination along La Selva coast. The lookouts will decide from the signs they’ve picked up that they should gather in Montjoi, for example, though the boat will unload in Taballera. Catch my drift?”
“Absolutely.”
“I want you to understand how extraordinarily good this terrain is for our line of business. It’s unique. The ability to constantly create convincing subterfuges largely compensates for the rotten weather. Nobody can ever guess from land what a boat involved in these operations intends to do. In coastal locations where you can go only one way, boats must keep far out at sea so they can’t be seen from land; that’s highly inconvenient because, when you’re on a job, nights are short. Here you can keep close to land because the fact you’ve been seen is of no consequence. Additionally, the coast is full of places that are, each in its way, natural havens or small harbors where you can work really well.”
“Bread and Grapes, you are an ace strategist, to put it like that corporal in Llançà…”
“Don’t start using those peculiar words with me! I wanted to tell you what the quarrel was between Fatty Verdera and me, or rather, yours truly. Fatty knows the terrain perfectly, and as he knows it, he likes it. The man from Ibiza is no idiot. He can see the money to be made…”
“Fine! But if that’s the state of play, why is there only room for one?”
I asked that question completely deadpan, not emphasizing what was behind it. I anticipated that Bread and Grapes’s reaction would be hostile. But the need not to pour more oil on the fire, but rather, to pour on as much water as possible, led me to ask. Bread and Grapes jumped up furiously, and with everything he had to tell me, he gawped at me, not knowing where to begin. The veins in his neck stood out and he turned a deep, incandescent red.
“I’ll forgive you for asking that,” he finally spluttered, “you may know a lot about writing, but you understand nothing about any of this. Do you think this trade is like running a bakery or a butcher’s shop or a tobacco store? For Christ’s sake! I only have to think of any competition working in a spot like this and I start fuming and my hair stands on end. Working like that would mean immediate betrayal and prison within a couple of days…”
“Please, don’t get so worked up! What do you expect if I’m at a loss? Please forgive my total lack of savvy…What you need tell me about,” I went on, changing the subject, “is the nitty-gritty of your trade…”
Visibly calming down, Bread and Grapes replied, “I’ll tell you later. What if we start walking again? It’s late and we’ve a long way to go…”
“Of course.”
We took the path on the southern incline of Pení. We walked a long time without saying a word. The slope we were crossing comprised a series of precipitous ravines that flowed into the main artery of the stream down to Jònculs. The path followed almost a straight line, in a slow descent to the Pení col. I contemplated the wonderful spectacle in awe. Bread and Grapes walked on staring at the ground, still annoyed we were going so slowly. We reached the col and found Dead Woman’s Well, a miserable pond where animals from the surrounding farms came to drink. The landscape was treeless and barren.
Another vista opened up from the col, vaster than the previous one; to the north you could see the whole coast of Port de la Selva, Cape Cerbère and, on clear days, the French coast. From this viewpoint you got an exact idea of the geography of the Cadaqués peninsula. The baseline of this peninsula passes over the col, a line formed on its northern side by the stream going down to Port de la Selva and on its southern side by the one to Jònculs. In a way, it is the line that marks out tax evasion in this country. The domain of Bread and Grapes. His muscles of steel had been forged on the precipices of those mountain streams.
“To control this trade,” he told me, “you must have broken your bones in these hellish places. I know both streams with my eyes shut and have crossed them in every kind of weather, night and day. It’s quite a haul from Port de la Selva to Jònculs. At my pace a little over an hour and a half,” he boasted naïvely.
“People always exaggerate…” I suggested.
“I tell you that’s true! I’ve left the café in Port at eleven at night and been on Jònculs beach by half twelve. Just as I said, I lost my youth on the sharp edges of these rocks…And now, if you like,” he added, making a sudden leap, “I’ll tell you what you were asking about a moment ago. And we won’t talk about anything else for now. We must say our goodbyes. I should be in Jònculs…And while we’re at it, senyor, what are you intending to do?”
“What would you recommend?”
“Are you hungry? If you are, go to any of the farmhouses on the path back to the road and they’ll make you an omelet. They are good folk and close friends of mine. Say my name and every door will open to you.”
“Do you really know everyone?”
“These poor farmhouses on this side of Pení, like the ones past Bufadors and Puig Alt on the Cape Creus coast, are one of the keys to what I do. It’s very simple. Imagine for a moment we land in Jònculs. Well, if the situation suddenly becomes dangerous, for whatever reason, a wrong movement or a mistake, the goods are stored in purpose-built places along the coast. They’re probably not as good as the ones on the Torroella coast, but they’re not nothing. If the night is looking good, the gang loads the ‘bundles’ on their backs and starts walking upstream, along tried-and-tested tracks, as far as these farmhouses, where they hide the goods. The gang breaks up as soon as the job’
s done. Later, at a time that’s considered opportune, the goods are loaded into wine vats and these vats are carried by cart along the road to the requisite place. You must know what you’re doing. It’s not easy. You must be ready at the right moment. You must have contacts you can trust. People look as if they’re transporting full or empty vats, when nothing could be further from the truth. Leading a cart laden with goods in this way, from one of these farmhouses to the station in Llançà, requires a certain presence of mind…”
“I’ve no doubt about that…”
“And apply what I just said about the terrain where we are now to the other side of the country…and you have everything you wanted to know. Exactly…though, I’m sorry, you know nothing, in fact, because it’s much easier to talk about these things than it is to do them. Talking about them is like talking about the weather: it gets you nowhere…”
We said goodbye after agreeing to meet up in Cadaqués the next day. I saw him slip quickly down the bed of the stream to Jònculs and disappear into a dense olive grove. I ate an omelet in the En Causa farmhouse and slowly walked back to the town along the road. By five – it was getting dark already – I was in Plaça de les Herbes.
* * *
—
The following day I went on my usual walk to El Jonquet, but as I’d not noticed anything new in the cove, I didn’t think it necessary to look for Bread and Grapes. Nor did he do anything to show himself. I expect he decided it wasn’t urgent or necessary.
When I thought about our excursion to La Cruïlla, one thing became apparent: Bread and Grapes had shown a degree of trust in me. Obviously, I couldn’t say exactly how much. When I examined our exchanges at a cooler remove, I felt his explanations were more about indulging me than offering any sense of tangible friendship. He was obsessively focused on El Jonquet and had no doubt provided me all those picturesque details strategically, as he’d probably respond to anything I might ask him, even perhaps giving the odd specific detail, to humor me so I’d continue going there daily. What exactly was he after? I couldn’t imagine, however hard I tried. My natural attachment to the cove probably did have a role to play. I find it difficult to pinpoint what that role was exactly. I sometimes think this whole to-do was a pure invention of Bread and Grapes’s southern imagination. Now, for my part, and for merely speculative reasons, I find the fact I’ve become an accessory – clearly a very minor one – to a local smuggler quite amusing. In any case, I’ve always believed that Cadaqués – until not very long ago a home to witches – was always shrouded in mystery.
At this stage, I’d have thought it premature to judge Bread and Grapes and his stories. I thought that I should at least wait to see the repercussions of his visit to Jònculs. He’d assured me with that deadpan seriousness of his that his (you could almost say our) excursion had consequences for what was at stake in El Jonquet. I couldn’t imagine what they might be, but he’d talked about it all so assuredly he’d practically urged me to think of the excursion as decisive, evidenced by the seriousness of his own position. I could only await the fallout from his famous “strategy.”
I wouldn’t say he was unlikable. I will say that I’m from the Ampurdan and used to dealing with people from my country. If this had happened anywhere else, I’d have fled him as the devil flees the cross. If I was more or less intrigued, it was for the opposite reason: people on this peninsula reckoned they didn’t really belong to the Ampurdan. When people from Cadaqués or Port de la Selva have to go to Figueres, they always underline the fact they are going to the Ampurdan, as if it were a foreign land. It makes no sense. Perhaps they think they are different because of their extreme similarity. No. All this is trifling. What I liked about Bread and Grapes, what led me to form a favorable opinion of him, was his physical presence. He is a man who gives you the impression that he is very strong. It’s unusual to find or have dealings with men like that. All of us are quite puny. You know, the strong people I’ve met have usually seemed relatively sincere and serious. My curiosity regarding Bread and Grapes largely derived from a wish to find out if this view might be confirmed yet again.
The next time I saw him, he was waiting, as previously, leaning against the wall of the shed in the En Morell stockyard. It was a miserable dusk. The succession of overcast, dim days, with such stillness, viscous damp and absence of wind, was over. That weather, so unusual in those parts, had caused a great number of people to catch colds and had put people in bed with the flu. You heard coughing in the streets – something unusual in a place where people rarely have sore throats and usually rattle away ten to the dozen. A southwesterly had set in; movement had followed stillness. It gusted away, fierce and fast and shook the branches of the olive trees. Waves crashed over La Riba. The water was a murky blue. The November cold was damp and insidious. For hours a spectacular mass of dark black clouds had been rolling over the horizon in a northwesterly direction. Lit windows and streetlights gave off a depressing reddish glow.
“How did your trip go?” I asked Bread and Grapes, by way of a greeting.
“I reckon it was all right.”
“Well, what do you reckon?”
“If you really want to know, I can say it was perfectly all right. I reckon Fatty Verdera will get here tomorrow. At least that’s what I’m hoping.”
“How do you know?”
“It’s just a hunch, how shall I put it…?”
“You think you saw him?”
“Only from a distance…” said Bread and Grapes with a sly laugh that became cheeky and impish.
“You did what was necessary in Jònculs?”
“I saw the folks I needed to.”
“Did you bump into your enemies?”
“I don’t have enemies. I’ve enough with the chatterers…They were there.”
Bread and Grapes didn’t like the superficial tone of our conversation. He probably thought I didn’t take him seriously. All of a sudden he said: “You’re going to meet Fatty Verdera tomorrow. He’ll come to your tavern for lunch, if I’ve done my sums right.”
“What do you want me to say to him? I don’t think he’ll suspect me at all.”
“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned. The only thing I’m interested in finding out is if he’s alone or is with that bright spark from Port Llançà. If he’s by himself, everything will go swimmingly. If the other fellow comes, we’ll see!”
“So, in your eyes, Fatty Verdera isn’t the enemy…The other fellow, however…”
“Fatty is a wretched tyke at the mercy of the bottle. The other man isn’t. He goes after what he wants with his eyes open…We’ll see! And while we’re about it, how did you find El Jonquet?”
“As far as I could see, no changes. There was no sign of anyone paying a visit over the last few days. It’s totally calm now that a southwesterly is blowing. The boat is well anchored and has drifted toward the opposite side. It’s not moving or dipping. Dear Bread and Grapes, El Jonquet is a wonderful inlet, an excellent haven for boats of that kind.”
“And don’t I know it!” my friend replied.
The image of the house I’ll build one day in El Jonquet – if they decide to sell me the olive grove – passed through my mind.
“And while we’re on the subject,” Bread and Grapes added, “I remember you said it was anchored by a single rope…”
“Absolutely. It’s anchored to deal with a single worry: the mistral. The anchor is close to land; it has enough slack to shift with the wind and that will keep it near the beach, its main defense against the mistral.
“And is the anchor still so close to land as you say?”
“Don’t doubt that for a second. The boat’s hardly in the water. I think you could raise the anchor with the water at thigh level.”
“Meaning?”
“I’ve nothing else to report. And if you don’t believe me, you’re free to go and see for yourself.”
He uttered those final words in a tone that’s difficult to describe. He employed a mournful lilt which I thought hid a sense of satisfaction he could barely contain. The tone of his words emphasized his hypocrisy. In the course of our conversations, it’s likely Bread and Grapes had used many a hypocritical turn of phrase. I’d paid no heed; that’s nothing out of the ordinary. But a child would have spotted the thrust of his latest.
I didn’t ask him to explain himself. As we walked, I found it most unpleasant out in the open. The wind was sinister and sad. It wasn’t cold, but it felt as if it was; the humidity kept mind and body in an empty, uncurious state. It was the kind of twilight that makes you dream of a good fire, an amusing book or pleasant company and a bottle of whisky. So I felt it right to walk faster and reach town as soon as possible, although I was sure I wouldn’t find any of the things I just mentioned. In any case the breeze was so unpleasant, simply finding a refuge appealed.
When we were saying goodbye, Bread and Grapes asked: “You busy this evening?”
“No, why?”
“Come and have supper with me. I’m very happy today. I’ve got partridges and Maria’s a very good cook.”
“Thanks, but better leave it for another day. It’s an awful night. Cadaqués is horrible when there’s a southwesterly. I prefer a week of north winds to four hours of this.”
“So just come for coffee.”
“No, thanks! Any other night would be better.”
“That’s a pity. Today’s been a good day for me. I don’t know how to tell you…”
“Well, may God keep it that way. Besides, I imagine we’ll meet tomorrow.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I could have lots on tomorrow. We’ll see. And don’t worry about the weather! This wind could blow all night, but tomorrow will be another day.”