Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  The toad had been there all day, for several days, and when a coin was dropped into his begging bowl, would loudly belch his thanks. One evening, Ferrer was coming to the shop after work, his battered horn under his arm, when he decided to approach the toad, and inspect it more closely. He kicked its begging bowl, and, doubling himself downwards, leaned to try and see its face. The toad did not burp as expected, but spoke in a low and gruff voice, the single word, “Guns”.

  Ferrer stepped back startled, then kicked the bowl again. Once more the coins rattled in the metal bowl, and once more the toad growled, “Guns”. Ferrer crouched down, his face nearly on a level with the toad’s.

  “Guns?” asked Ferrer.

  “Carrer Carabassa, number six, next door to the brothel. Say the toad sent you,” growled the toad.

  “Carabassa six,” repeated Ferrer, but the toad spoke no more.

  “I’m alarmed by this,” said Bonaventura when Ferrer reported his bizarre conversation with the toad. “How can we tell if it’s a trap? We can’t trust anyone in the city. Put your nose through that door in Carabassa, and there’s a good chance it will be blown off your face. Guns? We need many guns, and we haven’t the money to buy enough. But can we risk such a strange contact? I suggest we do nothing, except send Jordi down there tomorrow and see if he gets the same message.”

  The following evening, Jordi was sent to the toad, with the others watching from the office above. Jordi dropped a small coin into the bowl, and bent down low to look into the toad’s eyes. The toad stirred, and growled.

  “Ah, Senor Vilaro, what a fine young man you’ve grown into. Did Ferrer give you the message? Have you been sent to check me out?”

  “Who are you?” said Jordi.

  “Just a toad,” said the toad with a belch.

  “And?” asked Jordi.

  “That’s it. Take it or leave it. Cheap guns, plentiful supply, say the toad sent you. Carabassa six. Now run back into your cronies. I know they’re all watching.”

  Jordi backed away as a gentle-looking lady dropped a coin into the toad’s bowl, and it belched long and hard. The lady giggled with mock shock and went on her way. Jordi, meantime, had run upstairs to report.

  “Who is he?” said his father. “Obviously he knows us.”

  Suddenly Tomas jumped up. “It’s obvious! Who do we know, who is a dwarf, who knows us, and we’ve called a toad before? Last time we saw him, he was in a pile of shit!”

  “Bertoli!” gasped Jordi. “It can’t be. Can it be?”

  “Tomas,” said Bonaventura, “let’s go down together and knock his helmet off. He’ll not suspect what we’re up to until it’s too late. Surround him and catch him out.”

  “I’ll go,” said Mam. “With a bonnet pulled close, he’ll not recognise me so easily. While I distract him, you get behind him Pa, and pull the helmet off.”

  The others watched with a mixture of amusement and fear, as Senor Vilaro and his wife approached the toad. Dropping a coin, Mam spoke to the toad at the exact moment Pa pulled off the helmet. To their delight, they revealed a very fat and bespectacled dwarf: and it was Bertoli.

  In the music shop, they surrounded him. “What’s the game?” asked Bonaventura.

  “I’m down on my luck at the moment,” said the dwarf, “but I’m starting to make contacts all over the city. I see a lot, sitting down on the pavement. I’ve seen all your comings and goings. I don’t care who I work for, I just follow the money. I think you need me more than I need you.”

  “But can we trust you, you lowlife?” asked Jordi.

  “I can take my information elsewhere,” said the dwarf, starting to leave.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” said Vilaro. “You are right, we need guns. There are plenty in the city, but not in our hands. This is what we’ll do. Jordi and I will walk over to Carrer Carabassa. We’ll leave you here in the tender care of Tomas and Ferrer. If we’re not back within the hour, Ferrer will shoot you.”

  The dwarf laughed. “I always knew he was a coward. He’ll not shoot.”

  “But I will,” came a voice from the bottom of the stairs. Grandmother stood there, with a small gun in her hand. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to see if this thing works. It’s old, but it’s real, and it’s loaded.” Nodding at Vilaro and Jordi, she went on, “Off you go. Mam here will tell me the time, and just one hour from now, I’ll kill him if you’re not back. Oh, and Senor Ferrer, go and get your gun, and load it. We’ll make a man of you yet.”

  Bertoli sunk down on the floor to await his fate, whilst Vilaro and Jordi set off for Carabassa. Tomas found much amusement at the peculiar situation, and sitting behind the toad, put his foot on its shoulder.

  “Life is cheap in this city, isn’t it?” said Tomas. “Hey, Senor Ferrer, give us a tune on your fiscorn while we wait.”

  “I fear if I try to blow the horn, grandmother will shoot me,” replied Ferrer.

  “Go get your gun,” said Grandmother, “and don’t come back without loading it.”

  “It’s here,” said Ferrer, reaching inside the horn and pulling out his gun.

  “Oh, very good,” mocked Bertoli. “I’d never have guessed.”

  “Not a word from you,” said Tomas, kicking the dwarf. “Your life is in danger, and you know it. You sit there without a word.”

  Meanwhile Vilaro and Jordi were hurrying to Carrer Carabassa. “Do you know where the brothel is?” said Jordi.

  “Just near the carved face on the wall,” replied his father. “Just like all seaports. And don’t look at me sideways, I’ve never visited it. And I hope you’ve not either.”

  Jordi laughed, “Some things, father, you’ll never know.”

  They reached an undistinguished and unmarked door and knocked. Suddenly their good humour vanished as they waited nervously. With a pulling back of bolts, the door opened a crack.

  “The toad sent us,” said Vilaro, suddenly feeling rather foolish.

  “Wait a moment,” came a quiet voice, and the door closed, and they could hear a chain being released.

  Moments later it opened again.

  “Come in,” said the same quiet mellifluous voice, and the door opened further, just wide enough for them to slip inside. Vilaro and Jordi stood awkwardly on a small stone landing from which a few steps led down into a basement room, ill lit by a couple of small bulbs hanging from frayed wires. This had once been a stable, and it was still a very rough room. The two men staring up at them from the table were in the middle of a meal. One was older, with a lined and suntanned face, a slight smile on his lips; the other was younger and stared at them with a curled lip and a snarl. The man who had opened the door stood behind his fellows at the table as if he was a servant, leaving Vilaro and Jordi standing awkwardly. For a moment, no-one spoke, then the older man sat back and smiled.

  “Come in, come down.” They stepped down and remained silent and apprehensive. The older man spoke again. “You trust the toad?”

  “No,” replied Vilaro. “At this moment, he’s sitting with a gun at his head. If we’re not back within the hour, he will be shot.”

  “Such drama in a music shop,” sneered the younger man.

  “A clever cover for a terrorist gang,” smiled the older man.

  “It’s a real shop,” said Jordi. “Comrade Bonaventura has run it for many years.”

  The older man continued to smile. “We know about Bonaventura. He hardly scraped a living from the dusty music. It was always a front for his political endeavours, and there’s nothing wrong with that.” Turning to the third man, who continued to stand behind him, he continued, “Find chairs for our visitors. Senor Vilaro, please be seated. And introduce me to this young man.”

  “You know me?” gasped Vilaro.

  “Of course we do. We would not have put the toad outside the shop if we didn’t know who he was watching. But this young man, tell me, is he your son?”

  Vilaro nodded as Jordi spoke for himself. “Yes, I am his son. I am called Jordi.”<
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  The older man leaned across the table and shook hands with them both. “I’m Manel, my friend here is Guifre, and this,” indicating the man still standing, “is Cesc.”

  “The toad said something about guns,” said Vilaro.

  “We’ll come to that in a moment,” said Manel. “Cesc, find our friends a glass of wine. There’s no hurry, and I want to get to know you.”

  “There is a hurry,” said Jordi ruefully. “We told you: if we’re not back within the hour, grandmother will shoot the toad.”

  The men laughed loudly. Between laughs, Guife said, “It’s so tempting to keep you here for the evening, and let them go ahead and shoot him. It would be a fitting end for that slime-bag to die in his toad costume!”

  Cesc, also still laughing, said, “No we need him. He’s a good spy.”

  “But never trust him. Always assume he’s a double agent,” said Manel. “Always assume the bosses know exactly what’s going on, and they know everything via the vile Bertoli. If we know it, you must assume the FBE will know it.”

  “A glass of wine, and then to business,” said Cesc, pouring generous measures into rather grubby glasses.

  “We’ve money,” said Vilaro, “but not a lot. We have subscriptions from workers when they join the NCL, but most cannot afford to pay more than a dog, or even a half dog. We need guns, and we need them cheap. And we need ammunition.”

  “You’ve a lot to learn, Vilaro,” said Manel. “I don’t need money. I’m well paid from somewhere else. And the guns and ammunition come from the same source. We can supply everything you need, but first we must be sure about you. The guns cannot be handed into the wrong hands.”

  It was Vilaro’s turn to smile. He drained the glass of cheap Rioja, and leaned back in his chair. “We are the right men if you are looking for communists and anarchists. I started out very small, trying to make life a little better for workers in the mill. I got the sack for that, and just imagine, it was that vile toad that gave me the push. Bonaventura, in his dusty little music shop, and you’re right, it doesn’t make any money, taught me to read, and my son Jordi, here. We studied and worked hard. We are not the only Barcelona workers who are ready to take up arms. There are hundreds of us.”

  “Before we all get too friendly, there is one question,” said Guife. “Tell us about Senor Ferrer.”

  “We trust him,” said Vilaro simply. He’s been a kind of spy for us, but we’ve known him a long time, and he’s loyal. He’s become a friend, and has been helpful.”

  “Is he still at Comillas’s mill?” asked Cesc.

  “Yes, been there years,” said Jordi. “He works with my friend Tomas, who’s also been there a long time.”

  “Tomas?” said Manel. “Any relation of Senora Adabelle Tomas?”

  “Yes,” said Jordi. “He’s her grandson. When she lost her hut near the Raval, she moved in with us, and now she lives with us in the apartment over the music shop. Didn’t the toad tell you that?”

  “Adabelle,” said Manel, almost to himself. He looked up. “Does she trust Ferrer?”

  “Yes,” said Jordi.

  “Then I’ve no doubts.” said Manel, smiling broadly. “Anyone Adabelle trusts must be one of us.”

  “And perhaps you will be amused to know that it’s Grandmother Tomas, who you call Adabelle, who is sitting with her gun pointing at Bartoli at this very moment.” said Vilaro.

  “Then you must be back soon,” said Manel, “as I am sure she won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.”

  “When we’ve all finished being nostalgic,” said Guifre, “we must conclude the business of guns.”

  “That’s easy, now we know who we can trust.” said Cesc. “Well done, Comrade Vilaro, few people earn our trust as quickly as that. Get back and release our toady spy. A few boxes of musical instruments will be delivered to the music shop shortly. Please don’t open them when there are any customers in the shop!”

  “Oh, and don’t be surprised if there’s snow in the barrels,” said Guife.

  “Snow?” said Jordi.

  “Time to go, I think,” said his father, and turning to Manel, he nodded his head. “We look forward to the snow.”

  Shaking hands round the room, Vilaro and Jordi turned to leave as the other three resumed their interrupted meal. As they were stepping through the door, Manel called after them, “Grandmother Tomas, eh? I know many who will be pleased we’ve found her, and she’s safe.”

  The door closed and they heard the bolts being drawn. “What was all that about?” asked Jordi. “It seems we have found friends for the cause, and we’re getting the guns, but why ‘snow’? And what’s all that talk about Grandmother?”

  His father paused. “I understand the snow. It’s Russian snow. The Bolsheviks are paying our new friends, and providing the guns. I’m sure the snow will have melted, but it was a clever way of giving us information without actually telling us anything.”

  “And Grandmother?”

  “I’ve no idea, son. But there must be something very special and important about that old lady. We must ask her. She certainly has a past, and, who knows, it could be murky or, perhaps, very illustrious.”

  As they crossed the Ramblas, they heard a sudden gun shot. There was no doubt the sound came from the music shop.

  “Oh - by the virgin, she’s shot him!” gasped Jordi.

  They broke into a run, and banged on the shop door. A moment later, a laughing Bonaventura opened it for them.

  “Did you just kill Bertoli?” said Vilaro.

  “No,” laughed Bonaventura. “It was Ferrer. He finally plucked up the courage to load bullets into his gun and then he just fired it. Quite by accident, straight up through the ceiling. God knows where the bullet went. You should have seen the toad – passed clean out on the floor. And it’s a wonder Grandmother didn’t fire her gun, she jumped enough to have a heart attack when Ferrer’s gun went off.”

  “Release the toad,” said Vilaro. “Have we got a tale to tell you!”

  “Thank you so much, Senor Bertoli,” said Bonaventura, with exaggerated sarcasm, “you can go now. Grandmother, kick him this way.”

  The bedraggled toad pulled himself up to his insubstantial height, and with as much dignity as anyone dressed as a toad could manage, growled at them. “You think you are so clever, Vilaro. Just remember you’re being watched. One day I’ll have my revenge on the lot of you.”

  Jordi opened the door, and Bonaventura gave the toad one final kick as he waddled out into the darkness of the Ramblas.

  They all sat together in the office, including Grandmother, and Jordi and his father told them exactly the conversation they’d had in the gloomy basement in Carabassa. Bonaventura was interested, but not frightened, that so much was known about them, and they all welcomed the unexpected news about the guns and ammunition. At the end of the story, they all turned to Grandmother.

  “You’ve been hiding something, Grandmother,” began Jordi. “There’s something very important in your past, and you’ve never told it.”

  “Yes,” said Vilaro. “I remember you were a special guest on the stage at the Palau de la Musica, when we launched the NCL. You wouldn’t tell us then why you were there; but now you must tell us. It seems you’re well-known for something, but what is it?”

  Grandmother sighed. “It all happened a long time ago. Senor Bonaventura, here, knows most of this story, and I thank him for keeping the secret. I think most people have forgotten who I was. The story would not be worth telling except for the bombing of the opera house.”

  “I always thought you knew more than you ever told us,” said Jordi.

  Tomas, who had been silent for a while, suddenly said, “You are my grandmother, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yes,” said Grandmother. “That’s the only part of this story that you know. I’m sorry Tomas, perhaps I should have told you this long ago.” She paused, smiled and looked round the room.

  “Go on,” said Mam, anxiously.

 
; “I had a son, also called Tomas. He was your father, Tomas. He was murdered a few days before you were born. But the most important man in my story is your grandfather. His name was Santiago.”

  “Salvador!” exclaimed Jordi.

  “You mean … Santiago Salvador … the Liceu bomber … was my grandfather?” said Tomas, haltingly.

  “Your grandfather … and my lover,” replied Grandmother, with a smile hovering around her lips. “He was forty years old when he threw the opera bomb from the top gallery. I was there and saw it happen, and so was your father, who was a very handsome young man. I was a year or two older than Santiago, and we had been lovers for some years. I had followed his exploits as an anarchist, and learned all his ways to provoke and attack the bosses.

  “He knew he could not escape when he threw the bomb into the fat cats at the opera, and that he’d face execution. He instructed me, and your father, to escape and lie low. I’d never married him, so we thought there was no way to connect us.

  “The day of the bombing he was very calm, said goodbye to me, to your father and to your mother. He knew as a terrorist, he’d die somehow, and he’d not see us again. Your mother was distressed, and couldn’t face being in the opera house, but I supported him, and your father did too.

  “We climbed up to the hen roost, the top gallery, and nervously watched quite a lot of the opera. We sat some way away from him, behind him, and saw him stand up. He pulled the parcel of bombs from his coat and shouted as he threw them. With the noise of the singing and orchestra, I don’t think anyone knew what he shouted. The opera house was filled by the roaring noise of the explosion – it wasn’t until later that we found out only one bomb had gone off. He’d done what he wanted to do, and murdered twenty of the richest landowners of the city. He hoped to kill more, and would have done if the second bomb had exploded.

  “In the chaos that followed, choking smoke and dust, we made for the stairs and escaped. There was mayhem on the Ramblas, but we didn’t stop to watch. Two young men, up in the hen roost with us, had grabbed Santiago, and we assume they held him there, or dragged him down the stairs, until they found soldiers to arrest him.