by Becky Blake
“You see?”
“Definitely messy.” I pointed at a smear of chocolate on the front of my shirt.
He set aside the bag, motioned for me to lift up my arms, then pulled the shirt up over my head. His eyes travelled down to my breasts then back to my face. I leaned over and kissed him. He tasted like the outside world, like life in Barcelona. I wanted that taste to fill me up until I felt rooted – like I was in the right place and belonged to someone again. I pulled him toward me and tugged at the tangle of his clothes, tossing them into a pile beside the bed. Then I pressed him down onto his back and climbed on top. The air coming in from the window was hot. I lifted my hair and tied it into a loose bun that immediately fell out again. Through the window, I could see Barcelona shimmering in the heat. Having sex with Xavi felt like grabbing on to everything I loved about the city.
By the time we were finished, the churros were cold and the chocolate had a thin skin on top. I broke through it with the tip of my finger, then drew a chocolate tag across Xavi’s bicep. “Could we paint tonight?” I asked.
“Sure.”
I pointed to the other tag on his arm, his tattoo. “Why do you have this?”
“Ah, it’s a bit silly. I got it a long time ago.”
“Is it a donkey?”
“Yes,” he said. “A Catalan donkey.”
I looked at it more closely.
“The Spaniards have their bull. We have our donkey. It’s kind of a joke.”
It seemed like an odd symbol to choose. Loud, unintelligent. “Why a donkey?”
He shrugged. “I guess it’s because a donkey is small, but strong. He carries a lot of weight. Sometimes he has to carry the weight for the whole country because everyone else is too lazy.”
The charged feeling of electricity I’d noticed with his friends was back, a momentary crackling.
“Did you know the people in Catalunya pay the most taxes?” Xavi asked.
I shook my head.
“It’s true. And what do we get in return? No new highways, no new trains. Instead, all our money goes to Madrid. And then they expect us to speak Castilian, to say ‘Gracias’ for giving us nothing.” He studied my face, searching for signs of outrage.
“That sounds like a bad deal.”
“Yes.” Xavi let out a long breath. He reached across my body and turned on an oscillating fan that began to move back and forth. “Sorry. I know you’re not from here – you probably don’t care too much about these things.”
The fan turned to face me, as if curious how I’d respond.
“I do care,” I said. “I just don’t know too much about what’s going on.”
Xavi propped his head on his hand. “Well, it’s basically like a bad marriage. It’s obvious that Catalunya and Spain are not a good match, but the Spanish state won’t let us go. Every day they tell us we won’t be able to manage without them, but of course we will. And once we’re free?” He rolled onto his back and stared up at the slope of the ceiling. “Imagine having the chance to build a whole new country from the ground up. That’s what we’re fighting for. The chance to make our own decisions – to be who we really are.”
“What would you do first?” I asked.
“That’s a good question.” Xavi thought for a moment. “To begin, we would of course take down all of the Spanish flags and signs. Then we would have to figure out a lot of things: how to defend ourselves, what currency to use, who would make the rules.”
I shifted closer to him and touched his tattoo again.
Xavi took my hand and held it for a moment, then turned it over. The ring tattoo on my palm looked childish and unconsidered compared with the detailed work on his arm. “Why do you have this?” he asked.
I looked at the red swollen skin around the circle. It wasn’t healing well. “It’s just an O.”
“An O?”
“Yeah, for open. Like keeping an open hand?” This was supposed to be a simple answer – pseudo-Buddhistic and final – but Xavi was waiting for me to continue. “I guess I just wanted to remind myself that you can’t hold onto things.”
Xavi studied his own hands, as if checking for holes. After a minute, he reached down and picked up some photos that had fallen onto the floor. He shuffled through them, then stopped at a black-and-white close-up of a young woman’s face. She was peering up at the camera from behind a curtain of long hair. She seemed like she was just about to say something, to make a joke maybe.
“That’s a nice picture,” I said. “Who is she?”
Xavi didn’t answer right away, and I assumed he was searching for her name.
“She’s my wife,” he said.
I dug my fingernails into my tattoo and felt a rush of pain. “She’s pretty.”
Xavi looked at me, flustered. “Yes.” He set the photographs on the bedside table. “Sorry. I should explain.”
“No, you don’t have to explain.” I grabbed my shirt from beside the bed and worked to turn it the right way out.
“Jane.” Xavi squeezed my shoulder. “She’s not my wife anymore. She died last year.”
I stopped with my arms in the sleeves of the shirt, halfway between one state and another. The tight ball of anger in my stomach began to release.
Xavi examined his hands again as if they didn’t belong to him. “You’re the first person I’ve been with … It just feels a bit strange.”
“I know. It feels strange for me too.”
Xavi glanced up, wanting to know what I meant. Then I felt like an asshole. Peter wasn’t dead. I could go to his apartment and ring the buzzer any time – be face to face with him in less than an hour. “I’m sorry,” I said. “About your wife.”
“I guess I should put the pictures away.” Xavi looked at the photos on the bedside table but didn’t move to touch them. We lay down beside each other, and he curled around my back, his fingers moving slowly up and down my arm like he was searching for something beneath my skin.
“I was supposed to get married a couple of weeks ago,” I said.
Xavi’s fingertips paused, idling at the inside of my elbow. “What happened?”
I was about to tell him that Peter had fallen out of love with me, but that answer suddenly felt too simple. “I don’t know. Maybe we weren’t a good match.”
Xavi laid his hand flat against my skin and I could feel a growing warmth between us, tiny pulses of heat that coloured me in from my edges to my centre.
He squeezed my arm. “You want to paint tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He sat up. “I’ll call the others.”
“Wait. Can’t we just go by ourselves?”
Xavi poked me with his toe. “No way! After all the negotiating I had to do? What’s the problem? Are you scared?”
“No.”
“Good.” He grabbed his cell phone from the floor beside the bed. “Because you’re going to have to be brave if you want to paint with MGIC.”
20
La Milícia del Graffiti per la Independència de Catalunya. As soon as Xavi told me the name of the crew, I realized I’d seen the MGIC tag in a number of places throughout the city, usually beside a striped independence flag somewhere high up. All week, I’d been wondering how graffiti along the rooflines was done, and maybe tonight I’d find out. The highest graffiti always seemed to be about love or politics, as if those were the only subjects worth the risk.
Xavi had arranged to meet his friends at one of the biggest squares in Gràcia: Plaça del Sol. I hoped we wouldn’t run into any of the squatters. Tomorrow I’d go see Pau at the tattoo shop and explain some of the reasons I’d decided to leave. Maybe he could smooth things over with the others.
While Xavi and I were waiting for the rest of his crew to arrive, he crossed the square to buy us a can of beer from one of the beer sellers on the corner. I s
at down on a wooden bench and ran my fingers across the hearts and names scratched on its surface. There were small groups of people all around, talking and laughing. I closed my eyes and listened to the sound. It was the lively hum of people who spent a lot of time outdoors and stayed up late. I felt a strange wave of homesickness for Barcelona, even though I was smack in the middle of the square, in the middle of the city. Maybe wishing a place was your home was a different kind of homesickness.
Xavi came back and wiped off the top of the beer with a corner of his T-shirt, then opened the can and handed it to me.
“I think I’m in love with Barcelona,” I said.
Xavi smirked. “People who aren’t from here always talk about Barcelona like it’s a person. It’s not a person. It’s just a city.”
“It’s a very good city,” I said.
Xavi’s two bearded friends were walking toward us, motorcycle helmets swinging from their hands. Xavi gave them kisses on the cheeks and slaps on the back. It was one of the things I loved about Barcelona: people being physical together, little sparks of affection visible between them.
“Jane, you haven’t been properly introduced.” Xavi pointed to the bigger guy, the one with the disks in his earlobes. “This is Os.” Then he turned to the rapid blinker. “And this is Conill.”
I stood up and gave them awkward cheek-kisses in greeting. “It’s nice to see you guys again.”
The two men agreed in broken English. Then Os mimed drinking from a can and they both walked off toward one of the beer sellers.
“Sorry for the fake names,” Xavi said.
“Oh. That’s okay.” I hadn’t even noticed.
“They just thought it would be safer if you only knew their code names.”
“Os and . . .”
“Conill. Bear and Rabbit. That’s what they mean in English.”
“Really?” They sounded like characters in a children’s book. “Are they like best friends who do everything together?”
“Sort of. They’re brothers.”
“So what’s your code name?”
He patted his bicep, the donkey tattoo. “Ruc.”
“Aha . . .”
“You should have one too, you know.” He squinted at me. “Maybe Blondie? Xurro?”
I kicked his foot. “How about Niki?” The name hovered for a second in the air between us.
“Niki? Why Niki?”
I took a sip of beer. It felt strange to hear him say my name. “I don’t know. Maybe not. Give me a minute. I’ll think of something else.”
The clean-cut guy was suddenly behind us. He grabbed Xavi by the shoulders. “Hola!”
Xavi turned to greet him. “Hola! Jane, this is the Doctor.”
The Doctor kissed the air on either side of my face. “How are you doing today?” he asked.
“Good.”
He looked at Xavi. “You too?”
“Very good.” Xavi glanced at me, and I blushed.
The Bear and the Rabbit returned, and we all headed toward the centre of the square to find a place to sit. Xavi and I lagged a little behind the others.
“Why is he called the Doctor?” I asked.
Xavi smiled. “Because he’s a doctor.”
“That’s not very creative.”
Xavi grabbed me around the waist, and I squirmed away from his tickling fingers. He pulled me back, his mouth close to my ear. “I’m happy you’re here.” His words buzzed through me with a different kind of tickle.
Ahead of us, Xavi’s friends were settling into a semicircle on the ground, placing their heavy bags and knapsacks in the middle. When we joined them, they each shifted back a bit to make more space, and I felt like I was disturbing the normal circumference of their group. I really wished Xavi and I could have just gone out alone.
It was a humid night, and the crew’s action plan seemed to be wilting in the heavy air. I tried to be patient as they talked about a movie I hadn’t seen, then a girl the Bear wanted to sleep with. They were all attempting to speak English for my benefit, so I tried to be encouraging, nodding and asking simple questions. The Doctor was almost as fluent in English as Xavi, but the Bear and the Rabbit were struggling. Eventually, they both fell silent, then slipped back into Catalan, looking over from time to time to see if I could understand. I couldn’t really. Just a word here or there that sounded close enough to Spanish for me to guess at.
I noticed the Doctor studying me. He was wearing a pair of designer glasses that made him look older than the others.
“You’re from Canada?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“From Québec?”
“No, from Ontario. Toronto.”
“I see. Have you been to Québec?”
“Once, on a school trip.”
“It must be very different there: the language, the culture.”
“Yeah, it’s pretty different.”
“And the people there, they also want to have their independence, no?”
I glanced at Xavi, wishing he would join our conversation, but he was talking to the brothers. He seemed like a slightly different man in his own language: someone goofier with more bravado. I looked back at the Doctor. “There are definitely separatists in Québec, although I don’t think there are as many as here.”
The Doctor took off his glasses and wiped them on a corner of his shirt. “We prefer to call ourselves independentists,” he said. “We don’t want to separate, but if that’s the only way for us to gain our independence, then that’s what we’ll do.”
I thought about this distinction. At first, the two terms seemed like sides of the same coin – but no, they were different coins.
“Someday soon,” the Doctor continued, “we are going to have a referendum, just like the one in Québec.” He replaced his glasses on his nose. “Everyone will have the chance to vote – to stand up and be counted. To finally be heard.”
His words made me picture a courtroom. Maybe because in a week’s time a clerk would call my name, and no one would stand up to answer. If the security guard from the department store was there, he’d get to tell a bunch of lies about me – describing the spoiled woman he thought I was.
A car alarm went off and the Bear and the Rabbit hid their beers under their legs.
“Mossos,” explained the Rabbit, his eyelashes fluttering in the direction of my beer.
I looked around. There had been three or four beer sellers and now they were gone. Instead, Mossos edged the square. Someone must have set off the alarm as a warning. I handed my beer to Xavi and he tucked it under the flap of his bag.
“So.” The Doctor rubbed his hands together. “The Spanish team is playing again on Friday.”
“Traïdors de merda,” said the Bear. This sounded like a curse. He belched, then said something else in Catalan and the others laughed. “I hope to lose,” he explained to me.
“He hopes they lose,” Xavi said. “They’re talking about the World Cup.”
“Right.” Recently, I’d seen a lot of drunk people wearing Spanish soccer jerseys and waving flags, especially in the tourist part of the city.
The Doctor reached for his bag. “They’re going to be showing the game on a big screen at Plaça Espanya. Thousands of people will go there to watch.”
The guys discreetly finished their beers, then stood up. My comprehension was on time-delay. “Where are we going?” I asked Xavi.
He handed me a motorcycle helmet. “We’re going to paint something big.”
At Plaça Espanya, an imposing bronze-and-marble monument several storeys high sat anchored in the middle of a gigantic roundabout. The traffic around the monument was fast and heavy, all the major thoroughfares of the city converging into a hectic centrifuge. We parked the motorcycles in an alley behind a large circular building with lots of broken windows. I look
ed through one of them at the rubble inside.
“What is this place?” I asked Xavi.
“It’s called Les Arenes. It used to be a bullfighting ring. But Catalans don’t approve of bullfighting, so we shut it down. I was hoping they might turn it into a concert space, or an art gallery, but unfortunately it’s going to be a shopping centre.”
The five of us walked around the building to the front. The tone of the group had begun to shift, a tense energy bouncing between the men. I felt it jump to me, but I wasn’t able to absorb it. I still didn’t fully understand what we were doing, or why.
Past the monument, across the busy multi-lane traffic, two tall thin towers stood on either side of a long carless avenue. “That’s where the screen will be.” The Doctor pointed across the road, then turned and looked up. Above us there was a large construction company billboard affixed to the top of the bullfighting ring. “We should be able to get up there.”
We crossed at the light so we could see the billboard from the other side of the road, from where the spectators would be gathering to watch the game.
“Yes, I think that will be perfect,” the Doctor said. “We can go up the construction fence and in through that top window. There should be a ladder on the back.”
My palms were damp with sweat and it was stinging my tattoo.
The others were silent, assessing.
“I think three should go up, and two should stand guard down here,” the Doctor said. He was looking at Xavi and me.
“Sure, we can keep watch,” Xavi said.
I felt both annoyed and relieved. Mostly annoyed. I’d been waiting around all night and now they weren’t even going to let me paint.
“Just tell Jane the signals,” the Doctor said.
“Okay.” Xavi nodded. “But she doesn’t have a cell phone.”
“Here. You can use mine.” The Doctor handed me his phone. He scrolled down to show me a number in his contacts listed under the name Rubèn. He glanced at the Bear.
“Call this number if we need to run. Xavi can help you choose a good place to stand.” He motioned to the brothers, and the three of them left Xavi and me alone.