by Josep Pla
We said our goodbyes when we reached El Poal.
* * *
—
Two days later I want to Senyor Dalí’s house in El Llaner. The north wind was still blasting. It’s a long walk. I didn’t meet a soul the whole way. Cadaqués seemed deserted. The only thing that was moving was the smoke from house chimneys, which the wind was blowing away.
Dalí the painter’s father – which was how he always referred to himself throughout our long conversations, rather strangely in my view – gave me a very warm welcome in his magnificent gravelly baritone voice and his vaguely monstrous features lit up. I imagined he’d start by telling me about the sinking of the Cala Galiota immediately, but that wasn’t the case. He spoke about himself, very specifically, in terms of the revolution and civil war we’d just experienced.
“You and I,” he began, “met for the first time in the house and bookshop of our friend the herbalist Canet on La Rambla – he’s a real saint. You know my brother Rafel, Doctor Dalí, who went to the gatherings in Barcelona’s Athenaeum. When the revolution started, my brother weighed well over two hundred sixy pounds. You saw him when the storm was over in Plaça de Catalunya, with Camps Margarit. That fellow who was a fine, pleasant man, who’d never hurt anyone, can’t have been seventy. I must confess I have always disliked ideas that act only to enfeeble people and transform them into wild animals: I find them repellent, they drive me crazy. The same happened to Camps Margarit, who was such a lively mind, a super-civilized humanist and generous to a fault. And even then they were lucky to escape with their lives. I spent the whole revolution in Figueres and still don’t know how I survived. The notary office went bust. The office was then run by the Committee, which was a collection of resentful, demented, ignorant characters, at once incredibly dangerous and hair-raisingly frivolous. I do think that in the Ampurdan, we federal republicans and those who didn’t think like us created a most pleasant level of coexistence, which had eliminated all forms of brutality. We had reached a modus vivendi that was courteous and viable. I don’t think you could have hoped for anything better in the history of humanity. We’d rage at each other, but there was mutual respect. All that was destroyed thanks to theories about human progress and happiness.”
Dalí the painter’s father paused and then continued: “You’ve also met my brother-in-law Domènec, the bookseller on La Rambla in Barcelona. The Domènec bookshop was a good one, wasn’t it?”
“Of course! It was the best in Barcelona even when I was a student. It stocked genuine books, the sort that sell few copies but that in the long run always keep selling. Books one wants to own and keep. All the others were stores that sold huge amounts of pulp fiction. Now, pulp fiction is important, just for a second. But what can we do? The world’s like that, and there is no other. I liked Verdaguer the bookseller because he combined extreme politeness with disenchanted skepticism. And despite this, he never crumbled, and that’s noteworthy, if I’m not mistaken.”
Dalí the painter’s father spoke up again and, after telling me he’d wanted to get in contact with me via the rector, he added that after spending half his life as a clergy basher, he now reckoned the town priest was the best friend he had.
“There are all kinds of priests. There are the hallowed sort who defend themselves with their claws when they think they need to. I do likewise when my own interests are threatened. Absolutely. The Church has this in its favor: it is a gigantic field of law in which every issue ends in agreement or a sentence. And that is my conception of the world: legality. Against violence, or the rule of might or depredation, legality. You know, the rector of Cadaqués is a wonderful, understanding man, a saint. He’s my best friend. He’s a real pleasure to talk to.”
He paused, took a sip of coffee and continued: “We’ve had a very rough time. In those three years I spent in Figueres, I saw such a lot of bestial, brutal and ruthless acts that I was broken. I’d never have thought human beings were capable of such savagery. I’d always been an enlightened person, a supporter of progress, a supporter of strictly ethical behavior, a federal republican in good faith and over and beyond the pettiness of traditional politics here. All my beliefs were confounded. A time came when I was so downcast, I was so disillusioned, my state of mind was so low, that I sought out a friend and told him: ‘If I’m not dead by then, please tell me when the doors of Figueres parish church are open for worship, and you’ll find me there in the front pew opposite the priest and the altar.’ The party is over. I feel that I’ve spent my entire life mouthing a few lunatic slogans, literally copied from France – copied, that is, mindlessly. In this country, I mean the Ampurdan, all these commonplaces are fake to the core. Just imagine the degree of fakery they represent on the peninsula, which has been so ravaged in human terms. Our mutual friend Joaquim Bech de Careda has popularized this view. It’s absolutely right.”
As I see this tirade has livened him up, I dare ask: “Now you’ve mentioned our friend Joaquim Bech, I’d like to tell you what he said about your attitude as a notary. According to him, you’ve been a very idiosyncratic notary. Notaries represent the wishes of their clients and that’s the point of all their paperwork. Now, it seems that the wishes of your clients have more often been your own…”
“Perhaps, sometimes…A notary has to advise. In truth, that’s a thorny…”
It was only after this long preamble that Senyor Dalí began to tell me about the sinking of the Cala Galiota.
“Did the Cala Galiota go down? Did she sink? From the very first I’ve always believed she was lost on the crossing from the port of Barcelona to Palma de Majorca, via Sa Dragonera. She was carrying no cargo. Apparently she’d been in dry dock in Barcelona and undergone a number of repairs that had restored her to a decent state. While they carried out these repairs, they replaced the usual engine-room man. She was a small schooner, a tonnage of one hundred twenty. She had a crew of seven: Antoni Ramon Marí, skipper; Antoni Perelló, engine-room man; Ferran Ribera Dalmau, boatswain; Josep Seva Javaloges, cook; Bartomeu Jofre, Vicenç Mayans, Vicenç Marí, seamen. Everything seems to indicate they encountered a fierce storm from the west on their crossing. After Cape Tossa, our coastline bends inward, which is why the wind we call a garbí on the north coast, or southwesterly in Barcelona, is called a westerly farther south. News reports suggest it was a gale-force storm, and the press also noted that several vessels that were due to go to Ibiza and Valencia never left the port of Palma. The truth is that nothing more was heard of the Cala Galiota after she left the port of Barcelona! Not a dicky bird had been heard of the schooner’s plight in the course of its crossing. The Cala Galiota disappeared. The first question asked by the owners – La Naviera Mallorquina – after they registered her disappearance was, ‘Did she go down?’ If not, where did she end up? Given the storm and the direction of the wind that had set in, it is unthinkable they’d have tried to get back to the coast of the peninsula. It’s much more feasible to imagine the vessel made its escape from the storm by trying to head south (North Africa) or eastward (Italy).
“The Cala Galiota left the port of Barcelona on 3 December 1946. Over the next few months, different investigations were set in motion to establish what had happened. The Ministry of State for Foreign Affairs asked various consulates in North Africa and Italy to report back any information they might cull. They didn’t send any because there was none. There was a moment when the sea cast up a number of objects in the port of Pollença: timber, ropes, etc. It was all collected up and taken to Palma, where the most savvy people from La Naviera Mallorquina scrutinized it. They found no connection whatsoever to the Cala Galiota. Navy Command posts along the coast were also asked for any information they had. As they had none, they could say nothing. Naturally the crew’s families were questioned: those of the Majorcan crew members by the company management and the others by their consignee in Barcelona. Their questioning brought nothing to light, so that after the first month when al
l possible investigations had been pursued, it was concluded that the schooner had simply gone down, without leaving the slightest trace, without the tiniest object being located that would allow the formulation of the flimsiest of hypotheses.
“So where did the Cala Galiota go down? What caused her to sink? Obviously, there was the storm from the west, fierce gales that it met head on. It’s also true the schooner had been in other equally violent storms and had survived. On the other hand, when she disappeared, she was on a route she knew well. She had often plied that route, and in all weathers. It was a very busy route. Was the vessel in a fit state to sail? She was carrying no cargo, did she have sufficient ballast? Everyone agreed the crew knew what it was doing: it was excellent, experienced and efficient. What then had happened? Where, when and how? The investigations revealed nothing; people were totally stumped.
“After that first month of intense inquiries that produced no results – inquiries mainly carried out by the company – its managing director, Senyor Ramis Mut, sent a request to the Balearic Islands Navy Command audit committee to produce their final report. The investigating judge was the corvette captain Senyor Joan Serra Bonet, assisted by Senyor Francesc Baralduch. These two gentlemen signed off the file.
“The owners of the Cala Galiota, La Naviera Mallorquina SA, acted with all due caution as regards her disappearance. The whole business shocked seafaring folk in Palma and Barcelona, where the schooner was very well-known. People’s opinions carry a lot of weight in these matters and things can’t be dealt with lightly. The lives of seven men were involved, and that made a considerable impact, aggravated by lack of news. A lack of news always intensifies sadness and pessimism.”
At this point, Dalí the painter’s father, as Senyor Salvador preferred to be called at the time, paused, took another sip of coffee and continued: “I am convinced that right from the start La Naviera Mallorquina SA thought that it was purely and simply a case of the ship sinking. I did too. The crew’s families were also unanimously of the same opinion. The schooner’s company wanted to clear up some fake news in the press, to the effect that the boat might have tried to escape the storm and was now somewhere or other, what the English call ‘whereabouts unknown.’ The schooner was apparently off the coast of Corsica – that, at least, as we shall see, is what they were saying. The boat’s owners wanted to clarify these claims and didn’t want to pour oil on the fire of what people were generally already feeling, and so when none of the investigations bore fruit, they asked the naval committee of inquiry in the Balearic Islands to have the last word. Which is what it did.
“Now, this investigation is proving a very drawn out affair. I hardly need add that their report will officially declare that the vessel went down with all her crew and appurtenances. It’s the only thing it can possibly say. In the meantime it’s ongoing. I’m pretty sure that when we have it in our hands, it will be a paltry document. All that bureaucratic red tape drives me crazy, puts me at my wits’ end. While the report is ongoing, the families of those drowned haven’t been paid a cent and are absolutely poverty-stricken. The case will be closed, because there is no reason why it shouldn’t be. But meanwhile, the families, who aren’t being paid the drowned men’s wages, are in sorry state.”
“Were they insured?” I ventured.
“I think they were and I don’t think that La Naviera Mallorquina SA is raising any objections on that front. You can’t imagine the colossal amount of information that’s needed to make an official declaration of a shipwreck. That’s the stage we’re at now. Nonetheless, I can tell you that all that paperwork makes my head spin. I can’t understand it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a cruel shambles. In the meantime those poor families are starving to death. What can be done? I’m told you know high ups in La Naviera Mallorquina.”
“Yes, senyor, I do. I’ve met them at some point. I don’t know if those gentlemen will remember me. I can assure you I’m just one of many who have shaken their hands…and that’s all. In today’s world, people have met a fabulous number of individuals…who are then consigned to oblivion. Everything is oblivion.”
“You could write to them explaining the state of play.”
“Senyor Dalí, I’ll do whatever you ask. You know that only too well.”
“Who are these people who own La Naviera Mallorquina?”
“La Naviera Mallorquina is a company that owns a number of schooners that take cargo from the peninsular coast to the Balearic Islands. The company also has interests in salt production centers it owns in Ibiza and Torrevella, or Torrevieja in Spanish. I could almost say for sure that they’re the biggest supplier of salt to Barcelona and the whole of Catalonia. The Cala Galiota transported salt to Barcelona for years. The company chair is Senyor Salas, a fine gentleman, key in the economy of Majorca, an open-minded, pleasant, cultured, extremely affable, stout fellow. I met him in the port of Andratx one day when I was there with Senyor Ventosa i Calvell, and Senyor Salas invited us to supper on his three-master, which he’d had converted into a large, luxurious yacht. At the time Senyor Ventosa was a minister, and consequently, Senyor Salas offered us a dinner that was unforgettable, above all because it was Majorcan, on his boat, the Cala Encantada. I’ve always liked this kind of thing, the little bonuses life brings. I will also add that I’ve always been the suspicious, wary kind, I’ve never believed in anything, I’m a hundred percent pessimistic, and I have always tried to be polite and undemanding, and that’s as far as I’ve taken it. I’ve never asked anybody for anything and nobody has ever given me anything. There are no bones of contention. So, Senyor Dalí, if you want me to write to Senyor Salas about these poor drowned sailors, I will do so immediately. If there is no reply or if the reply is purely formal, the usual rhetoric, I’ll be happy enough. How do you expect Senyor Salas to remember me, despite that magnificent supper he served up to Senyor Ventosa and myself on the Cala Encantada? I’ve never been an optimist. When it relates to men and women, I’ve never believed in anything. Now, you’ve always been a progressive, republican and priest gobbler, and look what a pay off you’ve got! Cannibalizing priests has brought you no profit at all. Poor Senyor Dalí!”
“Fine, agreed. You’re right. These are the facts. But you and I were quite different in temperament.”
“What do you mean by ‘different in temperament’? You’re a man shaped by the newspapers you’ve read and by the silly, nonsensical books you’ve studied. I’ve read few books, simple, straightforward ones, if at all possible, ones based on life, on the terrible realities of life. Temperaments are necessarily different.”
“Then there is also the era. My era was very different from yours.”
“Only yokels understand the difference between eras.”
“What do you mean by ‘yokels’?”
“I mean fools, right?…And now, if you don’t mind, let’s go back to La Naviera Mallorquina. Another person I knew from this firm is the present managing director, Senyor Ramis, with whom I had dealings in Madrid when he was a member of parliament after some election or other. Senyor Ramis was a short, wiry, alert man and was like lots of Majorcans. Sometimes they are very Spanish and talk as if they’re issuing orders; sometimes they are themselves, pleasant, conscientious and attentive. Senyor Ramis was in the latter camp. If you like, we can write to him. Now, if he doesn’t reply or replies only with a polite formula, it will be all the same to me. Oblivion takes all, right?”
“Yes, we should write to him,” replied Senyor Dalí. “Whatever it takes, we should attempt to sort out the situation the families of the drowned men find themselves in. I’ve made a commitment to the Ribera family. I will do all I can to that end. Now you could also give the sinking of the Cala Galiota an airing in the Barcelona press, couldn’t you?”
“Forgive me, Senyor Dalí, how can I write in the press about a shipwreck we know nothing about? What newspaper will want to print a story on a shipwreck about which you
, I and everyone else have nil information? Writing an article on a ship going down implies you know something, however minimal. You must agree?”
“Possibly. At any rate, an article in the press on the Cala Galiota would create a stir.”
“Agreed. But what’s also damn well true about even this press of ours is that you need something real and objective to report if you’re going to write an article. And we don’t have a scrap of information about this shipwreck, not a single bit…There might perhaps be another angle. That angle could be to report on what you’ve told me about the situation of the families. What do you reckon?”
“Yes, that might be the most feasible angle. I’m so distressed by the situation I’m thinking of going to Barcelona any moment now to see if we can solve their plight.”
“In the meantime, I can get your thoughts on the matter into print.”
“Agreed. Come back tomorrow and we’ll resolve this. I’ll be expecting you. And I can show you some paperwork.”
So that was how our long conversation on the Cala Galiota and her disappearance ended, after the old Figueres notary Senyor Salvador Dalí i Cusí had told me all his ideas on life.
* * *
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I returned to Senyor Dalí’s house in El Llaner two days later. He gave me a warm welcome. He had coffee served. The north wind was still blasting. Nature’s excesses have created humanity’s idea of limits. “Everything has a limit!” we often say. There are no limits in nature. If it rains, sometimes it rains too much and sometimes hardly at all. If the north wind blows, sometimes it blows too hard and sometimes hardly at all.
There was a dossier on the table in front of Senyor Dalí. It was the dossier on the sinking of the Cala Galiota. He opened it and gave me some press cuttings to read. I read them. They were organized chronologically and were mostly from the Palma de Majorca press. After the schooner disappeared they stated they were categorically sure she had sunk. They said that as if it were dogma concerning the Holy Spirit, without giving the slightest detail, not even the weather on the day of the shipwreck. From a newspaper perspective, the reports had been dashed off so quickly and light-headedly that the display of ignorance took your breath away. A few days later, and probably influenced by popular opinion – after all, seven men had embarked on the Cala Galiota – there was a change of criterion, and they reported that the sailing freighter had fled the storm from the west and was by the island of Corsica, without providing further detail. This affirmation, made without any basis in fact, was false but was presented as if it were gospel. A few days passed and the press cuttings returned to the original idea – namely, that the Cala Galiota had purely and simply gone down. I should note that none of these news stories mentioned any of the features of the motor sailer or of the presence on its decks of seven genuine, real-life men. I read those cuttings as carefully as I could and told Senyor Salvador Dalí: “I’ve been a journalist for many years and these reports show yet again that it’s quite impossible to know what’s going on in this world. This is something that happened practically the day before yesterday, yet you see the confusion that still reigns. You people in Cadaqués never know what’s happening in Roses or Port de la Selva, even though they’re only just up the road. We people in Llofriu never know what’s happening in Palafrugell, and those in Palafrugell, what’s happening in Llofriu. It’s sad to say, but when someone has seen something with his own eyes, when he passes on the news, he embellishes, unravels, fakes it, invents things. Just imagine what it’s like when personal interest is involved. I don’t know whether man is a rational animal – I’ve always had my doubts. Man is a lying animal. Lying is a normal reaction in the lives of men and women. Now, you project news like this on a vaster scale, on a national situation, and the reporting is entirely false. And if by chance it isn’t, then it’s even more difficult to accept, because humans can agree only to see lies as the norm. Now, project this human condition onto the past, onto history, and then legends assume astonishing proportions. Things that we know, that we have more or less heard about, assume a legendary status. The others that we don’t know about, which are probably the most important, pass us by and land in the densest, most impenetrable darkness.”