Proof I was Here

by Becky Blake

  I smoked the rest of the joint, then started on the next door frame, sketching, then painting Fanta and the little boy from the photograph she carried. As I worked, I thought about going back to El Raval some day to see if I could find her – ask her what she and Manu had been doing on the night I was attacked. Now that some time had passed, I no longer thought that Fanta had set me up. It was more likely she’d seen an opportunity – a chance to break out of her debt – and had taken a risk. She probably hadn’t planned for the consequences to land on me. Or even if she had, I couldn’t really blame her. There was only so much bad luck a person could take before she was forced to shift a portion of it onto someone else.

  Whatever Fanta had done, I was pretty sure she’d done it for her son. I added a few more touches to his face, brightening his expression a little to make him look happier. He might never entirely forgive his mother for not being around, but hopefully one day he’d realize that she’d been trying to get back to him – trying to make as much money as possible to give him a better life.

  The headlamp’s battery died, but I didn’t need it anymore. Outside, it was starting to get light as I began to make a sketch in the third frame: Yaya holding a piece of chalk in the air, as if he was explaining something to a group of students. By the time I finished painting him, my head was hurting, and my arm was sore. I lay down on the floor, exhausted, facing the wall. These were some of the doors I’d looked through in Barcelona. The people I’d met were spilling out of the frames.

  When I woke up, Annika and Pau were standing over me.

  “Ah, here she is,” Pau said. “The artist at work.”

  I sat up and coughed. My throat felt raw, and my hands and arms were freckled with multicoloured dots.

  Annika pointed at the wall. “Is that the guy you used to stay with?”

  “Manu. Yeah.”

  “The mural looks good.” She sounded impressed.

  “Thanks.”

  She glanced over at the other side of the room where the wall was full of tags: a frenzied collection of Janes crowded around the dark red square that was covering Niki up. All week I’d been expecting her to lecture me about making such a mess.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll paint over that.”

  “I think you should leave it,” Pau said. “We can all add our names.” He rummaged through my cans of paint. When he found one that wasn’t empty, he walked over to the tagged wall and painted bright green letters that spelled out PAU WAS HERE.

  For some reason, the statement made me sad. We all stood looking at it in silence for a moment. Then I snatched the paint can from Pau, walked over to the wall and crossed out the word WAS. Above it I wrote the word IS.

  I offered the can to Annika. “Your turn.”

  She looked uncertain.

  “You can choose a different colour if you want.” I pointed to the other cans on the floor.

  “I don’t know what to write.”

  “Just paint your name. Or maybe draw something?”

  “Let me think about it.”

  “Sure. Hey, did you guys already eat breakfast?”

  “About three hours ago,” Annika said. “But there’s food for you on the table.”

  This felt like a peace offering. Maybe food was Annika’s way of connecting with people. I imagined painting her in the next door frame. She could be holding a basket full of foraged food. I would even add some flowers if she wanted.

  She pointed at the middle panel of the mural. “Who’s that?”

  “Fanta. I met her in El Raval when I was living with Manu.”

  “What kind of name is Fanta?” Annika asked.

  “I don’t know. A nickname, I guess.” Or maybe it was an alias like mine. I’d never thought to ask Fanta for her real name. It was another reason to go back to El Raval and find her.

  19

  On Monday morning, everyone at the squat was sleeping when two Mossos arrived to deliver an eviction notice. They banged on the door until we all went downstairs. Through a window, Sylvain told them that they didn’t have the right to remove us, that squatting wasn’t illegal – only unlawful, a civil dispute. Before leaving, the Mossos pasted their notice to the front of the building and said they’d be back in twenty-four hours. If we hadn’t left by then, they would forcibly remove us.

  Sylvain turned to where we were all standing and listening. “We have twenty-four hours to mobilize.”

  I was the last one to follow him up the stairs. I remembered the panic I’d felt at the police station in Toronto, the total lack of control. Being arrested in another country, in another language: things could be even worse. I wondered if the Mossos would be able to see that I had a charge against me in Canada.

  Upstairs, we pulled chairs around the dining-room table, and Annika began to boil some water for tea. I was feeling more and more uncomfortable – like I’d racked up a debt to the squatters I couldn’t pay.

  “I doubt they’ll even come back,” Pau said. “At least not this week. There’s a holiday for Sant Joan. They’re probably just trying to scare us.”

  “That’s true,” Annika agreed. “In Berlin, it was at least three months before we ever saw them again. But still, we should be ready.”

  “I think we should make a safe room,” Sylvain said. “The bathroom would be a good choice. There’s no window, and the lock on the door is very strong. I can add some extra bolts. Then two people can lock themselves inside and the Mossos won’t be able to close up the building.”

  All the squatters seemed to be in favour of this plan.

  “If the Mossos return,” Sylvain continued, “I will go outside to talk to them. That way I can also speak to the community. I think we have some support from our neighbours. Pau, maybe you can come with me. Talk to the people in Catalan.”

  “Sure.” Pau gave me a guilty look, as if accepting a job that would separate us was breaking a rule.

  “And if some of us have to get arrested,” Sylvain continued, “it’s important to show that we are resisting peacefully. Annika and Enzo, I think you have the most experience. You know what to say, and what not to say.”

  The two of them nodded.

  That left me and John to be locked in the bathroom. We looked at each other.

  “Don’t worry,” Sylvain said. “We’ll put lots of supplies in there for you. And at least it’s not the Death Plank.” He smiled at me.

  “I think we should also set up some traps,” John said. “Cut a couple holes in the floor over by the door. Cover them up with a carpet or a sheet. Let the Mossos fall through.”

  Annika shook her head. “It’s always worse when the police get injured. We don’t want anyone here being charged with a serious offence.”

  “Or getting hurt,” Pau added. “The Mossos love to get violent if they have an excuse.”

  Sylvain turned to me. “Are you legal here?”

  “Yes, for another month and a half.”

  “If you get arrested, you’ll need to have ID. Do you have some?”

  I considered using my lack of ID as an excuse to leave. Another option was to just go – disappear like the girl who’d come before me. “I can probably get some,” I said.

  “Good. I think you should work on that today, just in case.”

  “Okay. Should I go try to get it now? It might take some time.”

  Annika set a cup of tea in front of me. “Drink this first.”

  “Thanks.” I wrapped my hands around the hot mug and left them there until my tattoo hurt too much, and I had to let go.

  After breakfast, I went into the sleeping apartment and stuffed my sketchbook and a change of clothes into my courier bag, then pulled on the white sneakers Manu had given me. They were pretty scuffed up now.

  The squatters were arguing in the other apartment, still figuring out the exact detai
ls of their plan. I paused outside their door for a moment before heading down the stairs. I’d already told them I was going out. There was no reason to say goodbye again.

  On the ground floor I stood in front of my mural, wondering what would become of it – who would see it before it was someday painted over, and what would they think. I grabbed my last cans of spray paint and loaded them into my bag. My trench coat was hanging on the wall and I went to retrieve the money I’d been storing in its pocket. When I checked the other pockets to be sure they were empty, I discovered the red paint chip. It was scuffed up a bit like my sneakers, but the colour was still vibrant, pulsing almost, as if wanting to be freed from its little square. I glanced over at the opposite wall, at the explosion of red tags covering its surface. My red wall had turned out very differently than I’d imagined.

  I tucked the paint chip back in the pocket of my coat, then opened the front door and looked both ways up and down the street. There were no Mossos around, and not many people. I set my bag just outside, then closed the door again and called up the stairs for one of the squatters to come and lock me out. I guessed it would be Pau, and I was right.

  “Are you going now?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  He gave me a long look. “Are you worried about what’s going to happen with the police?”

  “A little. Do you think they could send me back to Canada?”

  “No, I don’t think that’s possible.”

  That was easy for him to say. All the squatters had European passports; they could choose any country in Europe to live in for as long as they liked, and they wouldn’t ever be kicked out.

  “Anyway,” Pau said, “the police might not even come back.”

  “But what if they do? Where are you guys going to go?”

  “If we get evicted, we’ll just find somewhere else. And, of course, you’re coming too. You’re one of us now, carinyo.”

  He gave me a hug. “I mean it,” he said. “Don’t worry about Annika. She is always tough at first, but I can tell she likes you. We all do.”

  I pulled away and gave him a steady smile. “Okay, I should get going.”

  “I’ll see you when you get back.”

  “See you soon.” I opened the door and stepped outside.

  Behind me, Pau slid the deadbolt into place.

  I walked around Gràcia for a long time, trying to figure out what to do. Pau’s words had gotten to me a bit, and I wondered if I was being too hasty. Maybe I should go to Peter’s and try to get my ID. He was probably at work, but on the off chance I succeeded, then I could go back to the squat and take a stand alongside the others. The squatters’ passion to protect their home was contagious. It almost made me want to stay and fight.

  I sat for a while in one of the squares. When Annika had given me a tour of Gràcia she’d mentioned a bomb shelter that tourists could visit in an underground parking lot, and I realized I was sitting across from the elevator. I took it down one floor and walked across the humid, stuffy garage to a toll booth. The parking attendant was grumpy that I’d disturbed his lunch, but he handed me a key and told me to go down to the bottom floor. Four floors down, I used the key to open a gate with metal bars. Behind it stretched a dark, damp cavern with a low ceiling and curved walls. I felt inside the gate for the light switch the attendant had mentioned and flicked it on. The illuminated space had a long bench running along one side. I sat on it and imagined all the families who must have been packed together down here, waiting for the danger outside to end.

  Living at the squat had always felt a bit like staying with Brigid and her parents – like I was a welcome guest, but would never be part of the family. I didn’t want to be locked in a bathroom with John, sharing his oxygen as the Mossos kicked our home to pieces on the other side of the door. I also didn’t want to end up in a jail cell. I pictured the metal gate swinging closed and locking me in. A shelter and a prison – the two spaces were surprisingly similar. The only real difference was who was able to open the door. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I turned off the light, then hurried back to the attendant to drop off the key.

  Outside, I took several large breaths, letting the fresh air fill my lungs until I started to feel better. I wasn’t going back to the squat – that was decided. The squatters would think I was a coward, and maybe I was. But in a few days, I could go to the tattoo shop and explain what had happened. I knew at least Pau would understand.

  Xavi and I were meeting up later to go paint with his crew, but this afternoon, I was suddenly free of any plans. I thought about going to the locutorio to continue my job search, but maybe for just one afternoon I would try not to worry about the future. With money in my pocket, I could have a normal day – the sort of day a person with a tourist visa was supposed to have.

  I went to the movie theatre on Carrer Verdi and bought a ticket for a matinee that was just beginning. I’d assumed the “version original” movie would be in English, but it turned out to be in French with Spanish subtitles. The two languages combined and made my brain feel blurry like I was looking at an optical illusion and seeing several possibilities at once. I let the visuals wash over me, guessing at a storyline. The basics were familiar – two attractive people falling in love – but the film was clearly European; it had more sex scenes than North American movies, and the story didn’t seem to have a happy ending.

  After the film let out, it was still too early to go to Xavi’s, so I spent a half hour walking uphill to Park Güell – a major attraction I hadn’t yet had a chance to visit. At the front gate, long buses were idling, and it seemed like hundreds of people were waiting to have their picture taken beside a mosaic lizard statue. I wove through the crowd, then entered the park and began to wander, following the winding paths and trying to spot the wild parrots that were screeching from their nests in the palm trees high above. The park was massive, and it turned out to be the best place I’d ever gotten lost. Each detour brought me to a new tower, garden or pavilion. Each wrong turn led me to a wider panoramic view of the city.

  When Manu’s watch said 7:00 p.m., I started the walk back to Xavi’s, grateful that it was at least downhill. Outside his building, I rang the buzzer for the attic apartment, but he wasn’t home. I was too exhausted to go anywhere else, so I waited out front for him, sitting on the curb.

  Finally, just after 8:30 p.m., he came around the corner and I stood up. My legs were numb.

  “Hey,” he said. “Sorry. I thought we were going to meet a little later.”

  “I know. I’m a bit early. Do you want me to come back?”

  “No, definitely not.” Xavi put his arms around me. His neck was warm against my nose.

  After a moment he let go. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  I tried to give him a brief synopsis of my day, but instead a whole flood of things came out. I told him about living at the squat, and about the eviction notice from the police, and how I felt terrible about not wanting to go back, but that it really didn’t seem like a place where I belonged.

  Xavi listened, his keys cradled in his hand. “Do you want to come upstairs? You’ve seen my apartment. It isn’t much, but …”

  Four walls, electricity, keys; he had no idea.

  He opened his front door and we started up the stairs. After a few minutes of steady climbing, he looked back and smiled. “Almost there.”

  Inside his apartment, he took my bag, and we sat down on his futon. He moved a strand of hair behind my ear.

  “Maybe we should go out with the crew another night,” he said.

  “Yeah, maybe.” I really wanted to paint something, but it was also tempting to stay alone with Xavi.

  He gave me a long kiss, and his hand slipped under the bottom edge of my shirt, his fingers brushing against my skin. After a moment, he pulled away. “Do you want some tea or wine? Or something to eat?”

  I shook
my head, pressing myself back into his hand.

  “Okay, just give me a minute,” he said. “I should call one of the guys.”

  Xavi’s pillow was very soft. I lay back on his futon and closed my eyes, listening as he talked on the phone. Without subtitles, he could be saying anything. I let myself slip into the plot of the European film I was imagining: an attractive photographer making secret plans while his lover lay waiting. Their story might not have a happy ending, but there would definitely be some sex.

  When I opened my eyes again it was light outside, and it felt like a lot of time had passed. Xavi was coming in the door.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  I pushed myself to sitting and checked Manu’s watch. It was almost noon. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry I fell asleep.”

  “That’s okay.” Xavi smiled. “You must have been really tired.” He set his helmet on the counter and kicked off his shoes. There was a greasy-looking paper bag in his hand. “Are you hungry?”

  “Yes.” I felt light-headed.

  Xavi came over and sat on the edge of the futon. He pulled a small pot of chocolate from the bag, then a long twisted pastry. “Xurros.” He dipped the pastry in the chocolate and handed it to me. It was warm. A shower of fine sugar sprinkled down my arm.

  I didn’t want to be ungrateful, but I couldn’t do it. “Sorry,” I said, handing it back. “I don’t actually like sweet things.”

  Xavi looked amazed. “How is that possible?”

  I shrugged.

  “Please. Just try one bite. This is my very favourite thing. I promise you’ll like it.”

  “No, I won’t.”

  He broke off a small piece and moved it toward my mouth. “Please.”

  I sighed. “One bite.”

  He watched me chew and swallow. “It’s good, right?”

  It was slightly better than I’d imagined, but only because he’d fed it to me. “It’s not terrible.”