Barcelona Sunset

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  To cap everything, he’d been asked by the editor of a local magazine, La Rambla, to contribute a piece about flying to London. He’d enjoyed meeting Josep Sunol, and judged him to be a clever and influential writer. He looked forward to getting to know the man, and was determined to write an exciting and clever column for the new publication. Perhaps, if he avoided political controversy, he need not be anonymous. He would take the viewpoint that one day all men would be able to fly – in the future it won’t be just for the elite – and hopefully his communist friends would see that as justification for his adventure.

  He looked forward to returning to the exhibits: he would take Ferrer to the amazing engineering displays; he would take his Mam to the elegant pavilions representing so many other countries; he’d love to take his sisters and their families to see the Magic Fountain; and he knew that Steven and Eulalia would be fascinated by the thousands of works of art displayed in the Palau Nacional.

  He looked out of the window at the crowds still surging around the Placa d’Espanya. Suddenly he spotted a familiar figure, crouched in the centre of the roundabout, near the tall statue representing Spain. There was the fat toad, squatting on the ground, begging. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt as if the toad was looking up at his window. With his father and Tomas in La Model prison, Bertoli had no reason to watch the music shop; had his masters moved him here, to spy on him? Jordi shuddered at the thought, momentarily touched the black cat, and watched as another man approached the toad. It was none other than Bravo Portillo himself. Bertoli stood up to his full diminutive height, and Portillo turned and seemed to look up to Jordi’s window. As Jordi watched, Portillo walked away, with Bertoli waddling behind him. The sight of the two sinister men worried him, even if there was a threat only in his imagination.

  Mam loved being taken to the exhibition by her son, and was very impressed when his press pass allowed them to overtake the queues into the various pavilions and palaces. She was particularly excited by the display of brightly coloured velvets in the Palace of Costumes, and much amused to find the original pattern, in all its glory, of the faded fabric on Jordi’s chaise.

  He made a special day for his sisters and their families. Yolande, Carla’s little girl, was now six years old, and trotted happily holding the hand of her father. Carla and Benet had had two more babies, but they’d arranged for them to be looked after at home while they came to the exhibition.

  The sisters and their husbands particularly liked the Spanish Village. Jordi thought it the least interesting of the exhibits, with its old-fashioned atmosphere, but Benet explained why he liked it. “It’s a k-k-kind of ideal v-v-village,” he said. “Pretty, and tidy and s-s-safe, with everything you want. I’d l-l-love to live here.” The German pavilion, which Jordi liked very much, was lampooned by his sisters. “Who’d want to live in a goldfish bowl?” laughed Carla.

  Eulalia and Steven were also enthusiastic visitors to the exhibition; and Eulalia proved to have considerable knowledge of the many Spanish artists whose work was on view. She was especially excited to see two of Picasso’s early paintings, and stood for a long time in front of ‘The First Communion’. “He was only fifteen years old when he painted that,” she told them. “If only he’d gone on to paint more of this kind of beautiful thing, not those strange abstract daubs he’s been doing since he went to live in Paris.”

  “How do you know all about him?” asked Steven.

  “You know I have a woman’s magazine once a month? You tell me I’m wasting time and money on it, but it’s full of interesting articles: and that’s how I know about lots of things.”

  “The power of journalism,” said Jordi smugly. “You’ll have to buy the new ‘La Rambla’ magazine when it’s published. I know the editor, and he’ll print stuff in it by me.”

  Ferrer was less excited by the great exhibition than the others, but he grudgingly allowed Jordi to take him to the Palace of Communication and Transport, and was genuinely impressed by the enormous steam locomotive which had been so laboriously dragged up from the Maquinista factory.

  Just as they were leaving the transport section of the palace, they heard a huge explosion. Everyone on the crowded avenue stopped.

  “I knew the time would come,” said Jordi. “It’s been quiet for far too long.”

  “I thought all the anarchists were locked up in La Model prison,” said Ferrer.

  “The ones they know about are,” replied Jordi, “but there’s sure to be lots more lurking in the shadows. The police can’t know about everyone, can they?”

  “We’re lucky there have been no attacks on the exhibition,” said Ferrer, “if there are anarchists still wandering around the town. Where do you think it was?”

  “In the docks, I think,” said Jordi. “Let’s go and see. Will you come with me?”

  “I’ll come. It’s on the way home, anyway,” said Ferrer. “Let’s see if we can catch a tram.”

  Whilst most of the crowd resumed wandering around the exhibition, Jordi and Ferrer rattled down Paral-lel on a tram. As soon as the tram rounded the Columbus Column, they could see what had happened. A warehouse was on fire, the flames licking up out of high windows. The tram came to a halt.

  “No further than this,” shouted the conductor. “It’s not safe to go on.”

  As Jordi and Ferrer climbed down from the tram, a number of stevedores came running towards them. “Stand back,” they shouted. “The walls will come down, and the fire could spread.”

  “Was it an accident?” said Jordi, as the breathless men turned to watch the flames.

  “Of course not,” said one of the men. “Bloody anarchists again. We saw them throw it. We saw them light the fuse of the bomb, and then throw it into the open door of the Comillas warehouse. Just like one of those cartoon films at the cinema. They killed all the men inside. By the time we realised what was happening, they’d vanished.”

  “Comillas!” said Ferrer. “That’s the warehouse where they store the silk from the mill where I work, where you used to work Jordi. Why blow up a load of silks and stuff?”

  “Because of the Marques,” said Jordi. “He’s the number one target of the anarchists, and the communists don’t like him much either. It’s surprising that he’s still alive. Perhaps they hoped he’d be visiting today. I must say, I’m not sorry to see a little of his wealth eroded, but I am sorry for the men who died. They would have been ordinary workers, just like you or me at the mill.”

  “It’s what happens with terrorists: the innocent die whilst the guilty escape. Not fair, is it?” said Ferrer.

  The day after the Comillas warehouse bomb, Jordi was woken very early one morning by several small explosions. He leapt off the chaise and rushed to the window. Clouds of smoke were rising around the Magic Fountain. The four columns at the fountain, representing the four blood stripes on the Catalan flag, had been destroyed, just as Rivera had required. Jordi turned to his typewriter and tried to make sense of the dictator’s hatred of Catalonia.

  The Comillas bomb, and the destruction of the fountain columns, seemed to signal the end of the apparent calm on the streets of the city. The fighting between anarchists and communists and the bosses continued, and the separatist anger, fuelled by Rivera, was growing. The police increased the already heavy security around the international exhibition. It remained open all through the autumn, and finally closed just after Kings’ Day in January, 1930, without any terrorist incident.

  It was less peaceful in the city, however, as isolated shootings and bombings became commonplace once more. Jordi’s reports to London contained both the cultural and architectural successes of the city, mixed with accounts of terrorism and atrocities. When the international exhibition closed, Pa and Tomas, and all their anarchist colleagues, were released from La Model prison, and almost immediately the spy-toad Bertoli resumed begging on the Ramblas, in his old position outside the music shop.

  With his mother as intermediary, Jordi arranged to meet his fathe
r in a back-street bar in the Barri Gotic. Another man was sitting nearby with his back to them, staring into the fire, but Pa seemed unconcerned about him. With one hand in his pocket grasping the black cat, Jordi came straight to the point.

  “Was the Comillas bomb an anarchist bomb?” he asked him.

  “I don’t know,” said his father. “I was locked up at the time, remember? The police came and asked me about it while I was still in prison. They didn’t believe me when I said that I knew nothing, but I didn’t, and however much they hit me, I still knew nothing. It just shows they’ve not got as good a spy network as they think. I am sure there are many others they didn’t lock up, who are still working in the city.”

  “I saw Bravo Portillo at the opening of the exhibition. He’s back in the city.”

  “I know,” said Pa. “He’s a very nasty piece of work. I hear he’s working for the fascists. It doesn’t matter who you are, everyone in the city should be frightened of him and his bully-boys. We’ll get them all, one day.”

  “The toad’s in his pay,” said Jordi.

  “I assumed that,” said Pa. “We never give the toad the satisfaction of overhearing anything; but he always knows where we are. I wouldn’t be surprised if we found him in the street outside.”

  The other man turned. “Yes, he is, and I’m looking forward to squashing him,” he said. It was Tomas, and he was holding a gun.

  Jordi jumped up. “Tomas!” he said.

  “Hello, Jordi,” said Tomas, smiling as he released the safety catch on the gun, and pointed it at Jordi. “Our little traitor to the cause: our little capitalist, flying in aeroplanes, and taking the filthy money of the bosses. Is there any reason why I shouldn’t shoot you now?”

  “It’s not like that,” stammered Jordi, squeezing tightly on the black cat.

  Even with the flickering of the flames behind him, Jordi could see that Tomas was serious. “I think it is,” said Tomas.

  At that moment Mam appeared from the shadows, grabbing Tomas from behind. Her voice rang out.

  “Run, Jordi, go!”

  As Jordi staggered to his feet, Tomas fired wildly, the bullets lodging in the ceiling of the bar. Blundering through the door, Jordi stumbled over the toad.

  “Missed you, did he?” said Bartoli, with a high-pitched squeal. “You won’t be so lucky next time.”

  Jordi didn’t stop running until he reached Placa Catalonia, although here was no sign of pursuit. Getting his breath back, he walked slowly back to his room.

  It was a while before Jordi could leave his room without looking over his shoulder. He had been thoroughly frightened by Tomas, and although he changed the names, and didn’t admit it was about himself, he wrote a powerful piece for the newspaper. He tried, unsuccessfully, to analyse how a friendship could turn so bitter: he hunted for clues in Tomas’s early life which indicated that he would become a terrorist; he remembered the friendly young man who been so helpful to him when he’d started at the mill; he remembered little incidents of kindness, and the warmth of their relationship, and how Tomas and his grandmother had become part of the family. Now Tomas was a terrorist, driven to violence. Could Jordi have seen anything in him, to stop this decline into evil?

  In London, Robert Donald read Jordi’s report with great interest. Although Jordi had tried to write it in the third person, Robert could tell it was based on graphic personal experience. He printed it in full, and the compelling depiction of terrorism caused a sensation in political circles in the British capital.

  Meanwhile, Jordi returned to reporting some of the peaceful aspects of the growth of Barcelona. He rode the new funicular from Paral-lel to Montjuic, described the breath-taking views of the expanding city, and reflected ruefully on the former shanty towns of slums, now replaced by grandiose pleasure gardens, where he himself used to live.

  He met Josep Sunol, who took him to Barcelona football club. He had never had an interest in football, but Josep became instrumental in his understanding of the politics of the Barcelona club. Touring the stadium at Les Cortes, which had been opened some ten years before, Josep told him many stories about the club. He learned about events in the past which would have made great stories for his British readers: of the time a match was started by the ball being dropped from a light aeroplane; or the time the whole crowd jeered at Dictator Rivera.

  Although he was aware of the political allegiance of the club and its supporters, it was not until he had meetings with Josep, that he recognised how important the club was in the fight for Catalonian independence. He resolved to bring the club’s politics into his reports from Barcelona.

  In turn, Josep was pleased with the non-political features Jordi was supplying for his fledgling magazine, although it was hard for Jordi to write from the heart without bringing a political dimension to his thoughts.

  In April 1930, the International Olympic Committee met in Barcelona. Armed with his Daily News credentials, Jordi attended the press conference at the Ajuntament to report proceedings for the British paper. A large press contingent from many countries was crowded into the public space, and he was pleased to spot Josep in the scrum. The main contenders for the 1936 games were Berlin and Barcelona, and with the political turmoil in Berlin, it appeared to be a foregone conclusion that Barcelona would win.

  The committee had been deliberating behind closed doors for several days, and the reporters had been summoned to the Ajuntament to receive the result. Squeezing through the large German contingent, Josep whispered to Jordi that there would be great celebrations when Barcelona was announced. The city mayor, Aiguade Miro, who had recently replaced Mayor Darius, stood proudly to one side, with several of his councillors in their robes. To the other side stood the mayor of Berlin, Herr Arthur Scholz, tightly buttoned into an uncomfortable military uniform, but wearing an air of confidence and superiority. With him there was a small group of Berliners, all in military uniform.

  Berlin had presented elaborate and grandiose plans for the games. Barcelona, on the other hand, had more modest plans, but aimed to create a games based on the site of the recent international exhibition, which included the new stadium, standing proudly on Montjuic. The Mayor of Barcelona, stepped forward, and smiled knowingly at the President of the Olympic committee, as he introduced him to the assembled crowd.

  Stepping up to the microphone, the President of the Olympic committee looked distinctly uncomfortable. Slowly, he thanked Barcelona for hosting the committee, and seemed reluctant to announce the result of the secret ballot. Finally he could delay the announcement no longer. There had been no votes for several other cities who had hoped to host the games, and only sixteen votes for Barcelona. The winner of the contest, by a huge margin, was Berlin, which achieved forty-three votes.

  There was pandemonium in the hall. The stiff-looking Berliners were cheering and congratulating one another. The German press contingent was doing a great deal of back-slapping and “hurra!”, whilst the mayor of Barcelona turned in distress to his councillors.

  “How did that go so wrong?” said Jordi.

  The Olympic committee’s press agent was handing out press releases, and Jordi and Josep jostled to get one each. It was clear that Herr Hitler had thrown everything into the Olympic bid: offering magnificent facilities, a splendid rural village for the athletes to live in, fast autobahns for traffic to speed from place to place, and even a prestigious airport for athletes to fly into. The committee had chosen the grand offer from Germany, over the more modest proposals from the Barcelona committee.

  As the crowd dispersed, most shaking their heads in disbelief, Jordi waited patiently to speak to Mayor Miro.

  “Jordi Vilaro, London Daily Chronicle: I’m so sorry for today’s result. Will you protest? It seems very unfair to let the games go to Germany.”

  “It not just unfair, Senor Vilaro,” replied the mayor. “It’s a political disaster. We need time to think. We will invite the press to a meeting in my office as soon as we have had some discussion. F
or the moment I have no response except shock at this decision, but we’ll not take this lying down. I’ll talk with the city councillors, and we’ll make a statement soon.”

  About a month later, Jordi, Josep and several other local reporters were ushered into the mayor’s office.

  “Gentlemen, good morning,” said the mayor, in a considerably more buoyant mood. “The city of Barcelona is pleased to announce that we will promote an international sporting meeting immediately before the German Olympiad. It is to be known as the Olympiad Popular. There is much work to do, and we will invite you to further press meetings as our plans develop. Meanwhile, I leave it to you, gentlemen of the press, to ensure the world knows about our protest against the forthcoming Nazi Games.”

  Midway through 1930, Jordi received a letter from Robert Donald telling him that he was retiring from the job of editing the Daily Chronicle, and that the paper would be changing its name to ‘News Chronicle’. The new editor was to be Walter Layton. A few days later, Mr Layton sent a letter in which he reassured Jordi that the News Chronicle would continue with its left-wing political stance, and that he would be delighted to have as good a relationship with Jordi as Robert Donald had done. He was delighted by Jordi’s recent reports, especially his writing about the Olympic committee and its decision. Mr Layton asked to be kept up to date with developments of the alternative games, which would rival the Berlin Olympiad. He also suggested that Jordi get a telephone installed in his office, as it was not always appropriate to be phoning his reports from a local bar.

  Jordi smiled to himself. Imagining the grand office in London which Mr Layton had moved into, he was amused by the new editor’s assumption that he also had an office, whilst it was simply the one room he lived in. When he enquired about getting a telephone, he discovered that he could afford one, so he forwarded an application. He noted the irony: as he was paid from London for his writing, he had not had to cope with the rampant inflation and falling peseta which was suddenly affecting most people because of the international depression. The little tingle of excitement was tinged with communist apprehension: was having a personal telephone another symptom of becoming a capitalist?