by Josep Pla
But where was this temple located? A segment of the Peutinger Table seems to suggest (very vaguely and speculatively) that this temple was on the island that’s now joined to land by a three-hundred-yard breakwater that closes the bay of Port-Vendres to the north. However, there is no trace of any ancient building on this island and likewise nothing has ever been found on Cape Béar. Like any other citizen, I also have a right to conjecture and I believe the temple to the Venus of the Pyrenees would be found on Cape Creus (Crosses), because its name can be explained as the hallowing of a pagan site. If there’d been a temple to Venus in Port-Vendres, the town would be called – and you can be sure of this – Sant Pere Nolasc or Mare de Déu dels Dolors, as a result of the natural palimpsest of cultures across the centuries. Whenever I am in Port-Vendres, I try to find a trace of that famous temple, and I’ve never found a thing. Once I asked a man who cultivated a local vineyard about it. He stared at me at length and then said: “This must be down to Monsieur Forgas. If he doesn’t know, there’s no need to be taken in by such rubbish…”
Over time, the implications of the town’s name, combined with the apparent lack of any truly mouthwatering trace, spawn a certain amount of disenchantment. I felt this more than ever on this particular occasion, because after the disappearance of the Venus I’d glimpsed for a second by the Banyuls fountain, after the metamorphosis of the dying athlete into a local bricklayer and the vanished bouillabaisse of the Hôtel du Commerce, I’d have preferred something positive and more substantial.
I thus spent a couple of morose days in Port-Vendres. I saw little of Baldiri, because he needed (especially when away from home) someone or other to fawn over him, even if he was always footing the bill. Saldet did not deboard the Mestral, saying he really disliked France as a country. The excessive generalization displayed by such a judgment revealed that, had he ever studied and read the necessary literature, he could have become an extremely distinguished philosopher.
An hour before we left, Baldiri appeared with a big gramophone horn under his arm. He said he’d purchased it from a loitering North African and was intending to recoup a little profit on it because they always pay well for such horns in Roses, especially if they are big ones, because a big horn always goes down well in one’s sitting room. There’s no denying that gramophones with a horn have become very fashionable and that everyone who can tries to exhibit such a strangely shaped object.
We brought the horn on board and set off.
* * *
—
It’s no distance at all from Port-Vendres to Collioure. You pass Cape Gros and Mauresca Cove and then the wonderful sight of the French Catalan town immediately comes into view. In the course of the journey the coast mellows, its face is set against the gulf, which is in turn swept by the north wind. Altogether, it forms an astonishing panorama.
Collioure is the egg’s yolk of the coast of French Catalonia. Cerbère and Port-Vendres are modern French creations, where Banyuls and Collioure are two ancient Catalan towns. Collioure is spectacular, especially when viewed from the sea.
The bay of Collioure is open to the north and northeast, but the town is built on the horn of the bay, sheltered from the mistral. Coming from the gulf, you first encounter Port d’Amunt behind the isle of Sant Vicenç, which has been joined to land in modern times by a wall that fends off crashing waves and is extended by a breakwater that ends in a large crucifix. There is a chapel dedicated to the saint on the isle. Then comes Port d’Avall within the bay and its curved beach. These two ports are separated on land by the huge building known as the Templars’ Castle, whose high walls fall precipitously into the sea. At the foot of this impressive bulk flows the channel of the Dui riera, which creates a delightful beach opposite the most ancient part of the town. This is the best-sheltered area of the bay and the center of activity for sardine fishing. The town has a small fleet of sixty or seventy sardine boats.
The strange, squat fortress built by Charles V looms over the town: Sant Elm. Later, the Watchtower Fort was built on the hills south of the town. This whole place is a crisscross of fortifications wrought by the opposing interests that ravaged local communities. Today those stones are dead, indifferent witnesses to past sorrows. The only danger now is that you might mislabel a fortification and be identified as an outsider.
Seen from the road that connects Collioure to Port-Vendres, or seen from the sea, the town is a magnificent sight. Collioure is small, but has a grandiose aspect. The Templars’ Castle is dramatic. The town buildings, the colors of the ancient tawny, toasted stones, the antique, gloomy, rather dilapidated tone lends everything an impressive noble aura. Nothing, perhaps with the exception of Sant Pere de Rodas, can compare to Collioure along the coast of the gulf of La Selva.
Collioure is deeply rooted in history. Nowhere along this coast have so many traces of antiquity been discovered, including Iberian and Ampurian coins. Collioure was the Roussillon’s port during the Middle Ages and its importance is evident in Perpignan’s Loge de Mer. The bay was ideal in the era of small vessels. Ships began to move to Port-Vendres when they grew in size – though this didn’t happen until much later on. There was considerable trade in Collioure throughout the fifteenth century, probably because its port gave closest access from the sea to Perpignan and the plain of Roussillon.
“What a great place!” exclaimed Baldiri, throwing a rope on land after casting the anchor into the sea, as he inhaled the strong smell of salted anchovies coming from the beach. Baldiri is like that: on board, he’s always scowling, but when he sees houses he suddenly cheers up.
“Don’t you tempt fate!” responded Saldet, frowning. “It’s in such great places that they always want to inspect your papers.”
“So what? We’ll show them the gramophone horn…I don’t think we’ve anything else on board…”
I told them that the best thing would be to keep a low profile.
Baldiri was the first to jump on land. He said he was off to buy a fish.
“I expect we’ll see him one of these days…” said Saldet.
Baldiri was tall and thin, fair and blue eyed. His hair was wiry and wispy and he moved nimbly along; his Adam’s apple protruded. He leaned to one side as he walked, giving his silhouette an off-kilter appearance. We watched him walk along the street that followed the riera and go into the first tavern. Saldet contemplated his every step with a mixture of curiosity and indignation.
No doubt to show me that they were two very different temperaments, Saldet grabbed the pitchers and went to get water from the fountain by the beach. He must have imagined I was looking at him, because he adopted the stance of a victim the whole time. The contrasts between the two brothers-in-law were amusing but also worrying. The needles they kept sticking into each other drew blood. The riskiest part of our business was still unfinished.
The afternoon was on the wane, and as the light dimmed, I was delighted by the whites, blues, ox-blood reds and tawny golds of the stones of Collioure against the dark backdrop of the surrounding countryside. It was a riot of color from an unlikely mix of urban cubes, ancient stone walls, washing hung out to dry and salt-and-pepper trees. All that added to the smell of the sea, the taste of salted fish in the air, the hustle and bustle and messy array of small boats that made for a lively scene. Everything seemed naïve and pungent, a tad wild, in your face, covered in salt and the smell of shellfish: a melodramatic, excessive presence. Collioure is an ensemble fauve – to put it in French – and it is hardly surprising that painters of that tendency are infatuated with the town.
When he returned from the fountain, Saldet whispered cautiously in my ear so nobody would hear: “I’d like a couple of words…”
“Go on, my dear Saldet, use four if need be…What is it you want to tell me?”
“I wanted to say that Baldiri is a dead loss…”
“You think he’s a dead loss before we reach the Salses Ponds? W
hat will he be like when we get there?”
“You always put on a bold front.”
“How’d you expect me to act?”
“I just mean he’s too fond of women and the bottle…”
“And don’t you like women?”
“…and can be rude.”
“Yes, he’s on the rude side, but what can we do about that? The other things you mention are nothing new…”
“You say they’re nothing new?”
“That’s right. Tell me who’s not fond of women and the bottle? That’s been the case for thousands and thousands of years.”
“I don’t know…”
“You don’t know? Perhaps you’re not really aware of the situation we are in. Baldiri is the skipper. He’s responsible for everything. You and I are simply two items. I am, shall we say, a voluntary item. You’ve got some reason to be here, I imagine. What’s he promised you?”
“A thousand pessetes…”
“I’d think it worth your while keeping your head down for a thousand pessetes. Don’t you agree? It’s only a matter of a few days. Be patient. We’ll see soon enough…”
“If you say so…” he muttered in a falsely obsequious tone.
“No, Saldet. You mustn’t keep your head down because I say so. We don’t have a choice in the matter. We are committed to this galley. We must see it through. Keep our heads down. That’s the least we can do…”
Saldet looked at me askance and mumbled a few words. Then he shut up.
“Would you like a smoke, Saldet…?” I asked, offering him a cigarette.
“That’s very kind of you…” he answered, forcing a sad smile.
A few minutes later I jumped on land.
The wind had died down. The air felt damp. The black pebbles on the beach glistened. Early dusk created an opaque, gloomy atmosphere. A smell of salted fish wafted by. I felt the need to try the renowned anchovies of Collioure.
I walked along the seashore. In ancient times, the grandiose building of the Templars separated Port d’Amunt from Port d’Avall. The sea pounded its very foundations. Now they have built a walkway that allows you to cross from one side to the other close to those old stones. They’ve put in an iron rail along the side, which helps you to walk when a fierce north wind is blowing. That’s how I reached the road and the beach at the back of the bay – which I followed as far as the evangelical chapel. A broad street starts out in front of this building and goes behind the Templars to the Dui riera and the shady lane that runs alongside it. This street is the center of Collioure and home to bustling cafés and shops.
I went into the Templars restaurant and ordered anchovies and an aperitif at the bar. I was served by the owner, Monsieur René Pous. Later Pous and his delightful wife became among my best friends in the Roussillon. That friendship originated in those anchovies.
“These are good anchovies, but the fish isn’t local…” I told him with a deadpan expression.
He responded spiritedly. He denied what I’d said. Then, in a less abrupt tone, he asked if I was a fan of anchovies.
“I live in a place that often has very good anchovies.”
“And where might that be?”
“Cadaqués.”
“Ah! I’ve heard that too. And how did you know the fish wasn’t caught locally?”
“It has a slightly bitter taste. All fish from North Africa is bitter like that. Not to mention their lobsters…”
He said that Collioure anchovies, like wine from Banyuls, was so marketable they had to have recourse to fish from other parts, though they prepared the fish in the local manner. If the wine of Banyuls was only from grapes picked locally, there wouldn’t be enough to meet the needs of early morning mass.
Obviously the quality of anchovies depends on the way they are cured, but the time taken to cure them is as, if not more, important. An anchovy that hasn’t spent at least a year in the jar doesn’t quite make the grade. It is a raw, bitter, soft anchovy that doesn’t have the creamy tartness of one that’s been properly cured. Once out of the water, an anchovy must be put in brine; it must be salted, preferably without ice, because ice ruins everything: ice separates the skin from the fish’s flesh. The fish must marinate in salt for just a day or two. Then it must be cleaned, its head and guts removed, though without cutting it open and while preserving the red thread that runs from its head to its guts. Apparently this artery is crucial in the marinating process. After that, the anchovies must be stored in jars, one above another, separated by layers of salt and good pepper. The pepper must be of the best quality. Then a broth of water and salt must be prepared to fill the jar of anchovies. You know if the broth is thick enough if you throw in a spud and the potato doesn’t sink. When the broth is ready, the jars must be filled and hermetically sealed. Then they must be left alone for at least a year. If they’re opened earlier, it does the customer no favors. This period of time is much more important than the labels that are usually stuck on the outside of the glass jars, which serve only to con people. This process, followed by the maceration period we have described, produces anchovy fillets as good as any from Norway.
That exposition of mine won me the friendship of Monsieur Pous. It’s been a very pleasant friendship, because the restaurant’s cuisine is good and can cope with the presence of demanding palates in convivial mode.
We then wandered around Collioure for a few hours. The town, sheltered within the fortified walls, comprises narrow sailor streets, old streets, with large old houses, washing hung out to dry, and you’ll sometimes spot at a window the face of an attractive blonde or the anxious, sad, pale face of a dark-haired girl.
* * *
—
Baldiri appeared on Thursday night with a bottle of firewater under his arm – calvados, I think. He looked tired but calm. He said he was sleepy. Before stretching out on the boards, he announced we would set out tomorrow, Friday, early in the morning.
I stayed on deck for a while gazing at the bright, autumnal moon – the old moon – shining on the stone of Collioure. The massive castle, imbued with an unreal, turbid luminous yellow, could have acted as a backdrop to a high drama. The water in the bay was phosphorescent. The sky was low and murky. Everything was soft and limp. The moon shone on the Mestral, which was drenched by the drizzle and glowed lugubriously. The weather was depressing and made you dream of the shelter of a roof and a welcoming fireplace. Dampness and the southern wind in the Mediterranean have helped man emerge from prehistoric times much more than any factor listed in history books.
At seven the next morning, when I poked my head out of my den in the prow, I saw Baldiri staring at the sky. Saldet was lighting up the stove, which gave off an acrid, low smoke. Baldiri seemed worried: he’d put on a thick, wine-colored jersey. There was a brisk southeasterly and the sky was overcast.
We ate toast covered in olive oil and drank coffee bolstered with liquor. I liked French eau de vie – and especially a dry calvados – as much as Italian grappa. Baldiri stared at the sea and sky and seemed far away. He must have sensed my quizzical gaze, because all of a sudden he declared: “I don’t like this weather one bit. It will rain in the ponds. It’s been like this far too long, but then what has to be, will be…”
“You’re afraid a north wind will blow up after the rain…”
“Of course I am! We’ve been unlucky. I expected the north wind in Port-Vendres. I was expecting to watch it blow from the café. On other occasions, with the humidity we’ve had, everything would be just right; it would have rained and the wind would have blown…But the weather is dragging, it’s all still to come, while we must be in Leucate at the time agreed. Otherwise, we’ll have had a wasted trip…”
“What Baldiri says is spot on…!” Saldet grinned.
“Yes, it is, but what I don’t understand is why the north wind has to blow at an appointed hour…” I said, to c
ounter any onset of depression. “It might come late and give us time…”
“Fear and anticipation make me say that, you know.”
“We’ll see when we get there. It makes no sense suffering on account of what might happen tomorrow. We’ve enough to worry about here and now.”
Baldiri reckoned we were showing too much sail and ordered a tightening of the middle reef. He gave the Mestral the once over and decided everything was in order. He thought the poles we had taken on board on the advice from the man from Prona Cove might have been on the short side. But they were the only ones we’d found. Then we set out. It was a quarter to eight.
Baldiri manned the tiller, and once we’d swiftly departed Port d’Amunt, he steered the vessel out to sea. When the black bulk of Cape Béar appeared to our stern, the cloud-covered peak of the Sant Pere de Roda mountain came into view in a murky haze at the back of the gulf of La Selva. The coast gradually lost height, and once we’d passed the small Racó beach – which in terms of history and geography is the last flourish of the Catalan Costa Brava – the beach of the Gulf of Lion appeared with Argelès in the distance, beneath the proud heights of the Albères mountains cloaked in the greenish-gray of cork oaks. At the start of the great plain of the Roussillon, the contrast between the slender Albères and the infinite horizontal expanse of sand is a magnificent sight.
When we were level with that great beach, the belfry in Elne became visible over the green plain and the wind picked up. We had little in the way of sail, but with a tail wind, we still had too much. So Baldiri ordered the yard to be furled, which was done soon enough. The Mestral now sailed more smoothly and elegantly. The wind was monotonous and constant. We sailed level with the beach, less than a mile out from the gray sand. A brushstroke of dark green stood out on the barren sand and died at the foot of a misty, sublime Canigó. The Mestral sailed sprightly on. To the north, the horizon was cloudy and the Corbères range, a faint outline.