Daughter of Catalonia

by Jane MacKenzie

  ‘Just because they say the design is too modern,’ Daniel snorted. ‘They’re dinosaurs, that’s what they are! You watch, this council will turn this village into a dead place in the name of preservation. Port Vendres already has a new quay, and now they are going to have the latest fishing trawlers which can catch ten times what we can. What chance do we have? You know what will happen? All the fishermen are talking about moving their boats along the coast to Port Vendres, and all the buyers will go there too, and Vermeilla will become a place for picture postcards, full of old people and tourists.’

  ‘But the new quay at Port Vendres is so ugly,’ exclaimed Colette.

  ‘Ugly but alive! What do you think Philippe?’

  And all the while, as the arguments went back and forth, Jean-Pierre sat at the head of the table and ate what was put in front of him, anchovies, grilled squid, little meatballs in a rich sauce with beans, all local delicacies prepared especially for their visitor, and said nothing. Occasionally, though, Madeleine caught him looking at them all, one by one, seeming to measure them and discount them in one slow sweep of his eyes. The family ignored this, but Madeleine found his stare disturbing, and looked across at him several times to find his gaze upon her. He seemed to be especially focused on her, but she thought this might be because she was a visitor.

  It was at the end of the meal, after a dessert of caramel flan, then coffee, that Jean-Pierre finally found his voice. In a small break in conversation he suddenly barked, not mumbling, but almost fiercely clear, ‘That Luis Garriga. Where is he now?’

  There was a silence, and then Colette replied, her voice sharp-edged.

  ‘Luis Garriga is dead, Jean-Pierre. You know that. He was shot by the Germans during the war, just before the liberation.’

  ‘I know, I know. But where is he now? Where did they put him?’ His voice was querulous, demanding, and his hands were gripped tightly around his little coffee cup, as if it was too small for him to grasp properly. Madeleine found herself gripping her own cup just as tightly. She couldn’t take her eyes off his contorted face.

  ‘Put him?’ The question seemed to surprise Colette as much as it did Madeleine. ‘Why, you know what happened to him, Jean-Pierre. The Maquis took his body down to Philippe, in Amélie-les-Bains, and he was buried there in the cemetery.’

  ‘Cemetery,’ Jean-Pierre was still agitated, frightened almost, and his eyes were fixed on Colette. ‘Not our cemetery, I hope. Not here? They didn’t bury him here?’

  Now it was Philippe who intervened. ‘No, Jean-Pierre, in the cemetery in Amélie-les-Bains. He’s buried in Amélie-les-Bains. I’m going to take Madeleine up to see his grave one day. But it’s not in Vermeilla. You know that. Luis died up in the Vallespir, and was buried up there. He didn’t come back to Vermeilla.’

  His voice was steady and reassuring, insistent, and seemed to get through to Jean-Pierre, sitting twisted in his chair. Twisted, that’s what he’s like, thought Madeleine. He’s like a tree that’s got all twisted out of his shape, and his mind is all out of shape too. Why should he want to know where my father was buried? Why does he sound scared?

  ‘Vallespir. That’s right, up in the Vallespir! But she came here. Is she his daughter? His daughter!’ Jean-Pierre laughed, a nasty, semi-triumphant laugh.

  Colette spoke up, her voice quietly commanding. ‘You can go through and sit on your balcony now, Jean-Pierre, and have one of your cigarettes. Daniel will take you through.’

  Jean-Pierre held her gaze for a moment, and then his head lowered, and he said no more. He allowed himself to be led away, head between his shoulders and his strange eyes hidden. At the door he grumbled something to his son, and Daniel made more room for him, and then they were gone.

  There was what seemed like a long silence in the room, then Colette signalled to Martin, and he got up wordlessly to clear the table. Once he was in the kitchen Philippe let out a sigh.

  ‘Well that was a strange outburst,’ he remarked, almost idly. ‘It’s been a long time since he spoke like that. Not nice for the boys, of course.’

  ‘And not very agreeable for you either, ma petite.’ Colette’s voice was troubled. ‘I’m sure you do not want to hear your Papa’s grave being talked about in that way. It must have been me mentioning Luis’s name which set him thinking, not having heard the name for so long. He gets very confused, you know, since his accident, and strange things worry him. And the occupation frightened him because he felt trapped, and when so many other people were evacuated we were stuck here running the bar for the Germans.’

  Madeleine eased her grip on her coffee cup, feeling rather stupid to have been so shaken, especially seeing how calm the man’s sons had remained, although Daniel, she had noticed, had also frozen for a moment. Colette and Philippe were still watching her, their eyes anxious. They exchanged a glance and Madeleine thought, these people didn’t need my visit. I’m an outsider here, stirring up memories and creating tensions. Had I not been here there wouldn’t have been any outburst from Jean-Pierre. Above all she mustn’t allow these people to worry about her. She spoke as brightly as she could.

  ‘It’s all right. Please don’t worry about it. It was one of the things I was going to ask, anyway, where my father is buried. I had heard about people being buried where they died, and wondered if that was maybe what had happened to my father.’

  ‘It did happen,’ agreed Philippe, matching her tone, ‘and quite often. But in Luis’s case his team knew where to find me, and I wasn’t far away. They brought him at night, and I was able to arrange his burial with the local priest. Not the best funeral, unfortunately, just me and a few people from Vermeilla who had ended up in Amélie-les-Bains as well.’ He saw Madeleine’s look of enquiry, and carried on, ‘We only got as far as your departure, didn’t we, when we were talking this morning? Well afterwards, the Germans gradually took over the whole coast, as we expected, and of course Luis left and eventually joined a small Resistance group up above Amélie-les-Bains, in the foothills of the Pyrenees – in the area known as the Vallespir. They were involved mostly in managing escape routes, being so close to Spain, but they did their fair share of sabotage, and they had a real mission to get information out about German movements and installations. Luis used to come down to Vermeilla in secret to gather information, since he wasn’t really being looked for, unlike some others. Then a couple of months later the Germans evacuated most of us out of the village, as Colette said, and I ended up in Amélie-les-Bains where there was still a school and I could be of some use. We even had a few of our Vermeilla children in the school. That put me closer to Luis, and I used to see him quite often. He would stay some nights, and steal all my food, what little I had. Requisitioning, he called it! I used to tell him to save himself for his visits here, because Colette could always find some rations for him.’

  ‘German rations,’ Colette grimaced. ‘It was good to be able to give him some of what the Germans should have had. It made me feel less like a collaborator.’ She looked across at Madeleine, her face suddenly inexpressibly sad and tired. ‘It was not a nice time, when the Germans were here, and there were only a very few of us kept here in the village to work, while everyone else was sent away. We felt so isolated, and that’s what got to Jean-Pierre. At first after his accident he used to come downstairs to the bar sometimes, but when the Germans came he retreated upstairs and rarely came down, and became more and more strange.’

  Daniel had come silently back into the room while she spoke, and she glanced across at him. ‘He became obsessively worried about Daniel at that time, as well, and didn’t want to let him out. Eventually we sent him up to Amélie-les-Bains to be with Philippe, since at least there he could go to school, and there were other children. There were no children left in Vermeilla, remember?’ Daniel nodded.

  ‘Luis’s visits helped Jean-Pierre, at least at first. He would bring us news of Daniel, and tell Jean-Pierre not to worry, because the war was almost over, and the Germans would soon be gone. A
nd of course, eventually they did go, but your father wasn’t here to see it.’

  Martin, too, was back in the room by now, slipping silently in from the kitchen, but no one spoke, and there seemed to be nothing to say. It was a peaceful silence, though, and Madeleine no longer felt such an outsider. Her father was a part of Philippe and Colette’s lives, and remembering him was surely natural even if it did stir up painful memories. Eventually Martin moved away from his position by the door, and came towards the table. He went behind his mother and leant his head against the back of hers, his hands on her arms. Colette leant back onto him and stretched tensed shoulders. Philippe watched them with almost proprietorial eyes, a half smile playing on his face.

  ‘We’ve been very serious,’ he said, ‘but all of these things were over a long time ago, and there’s a lovely afternoon outside.’

  ‘And a café to run,’ Colette said, and she stood and faced her son. ‘Do you have schoolwork to do? No? Then you can come down and help them clear up after lunch downstairs. Philippe, will you take another coffee downstairs? And you, ma petite, you must be tired. Shall Daniel accompany you to your hotel so that you can rest for a while, take a small siesta? Then we can meet again later on. You will eat with us again, no? And we will eat downstairs this evening, just ourselves.’ This was said with emphasis, and a nod towards the corridor leading to Jean-Pierre’s room.

  ‘Thank you,’ Madeleine mumbled, embarrassed. ‘But you’ve already been so kind. I should leave you in peace for this evening. Mme Curelée will be preparing food for this evening, I’m sure.’

  ‘Mme Curelée! What does she know about cooking? No, you will eat with us, and taste what the café can offer you, and meet some of our people. We are here anyway, never anywhere else! As well be with us as eat on your own in that dining room of Anne-Marie Curelée’s! It will at least be a lot livelier.’

  ‘Me too, then!’ chimed Martin. ‘I eat downstairs this evening. I want some of Jules’s pommes frites, and he was making a fricassee of pork this morning. I saw him!’

  Colette’s specially reserved smile softened her face. Philippe too was smiling, Madeleine noticed.

  ‘My son,’ purred Colette. ‘You are without doubt the most precocious of young men, but yes, you shall eat with us this evening.’

  CHAPTER TEN

  The next two days passed in a whirl for Madeleine. It was a struggle to remember that on Friday morning she had been in Paris. The colours and sounds and people of Vermeilla were so forceful, so vivid, that even Tante Louise seemed discreetly tame in comparison.

  With Daniel she walked, and sat on the sea wall, and learnt about fishing. They sat with groups of his friends, mainly young men with slicked-back hairstyles. Elvis and Ricky Nelson were all around her, Madeleine thought, with some amusement. But there were also some sharp-tongued girls of about her own age or younger, in long ponytails and wide skirts and long-sleeved blouses, all wearing the standard rope-soled espadrilles. They watched Madeleine warily, eying up her Parisian hairstyle and new fashion summer dresses, and then hunched themselves back into their groups, shoulders turned towards her. I’ve been an outsider all my life, she wanted to tell them, and I’m not here looking for you. Their little acts of exclusion amused her more than anything else. She preferred the company of the young men, whose badinage seemed uncomplicated and convivial, but even this was for the most part in Catalan, and beyond her grasp.

  Daniel was one of this group, of course, and serenely at home with them, but different somehow, and it took some time for Madeleine to work out where the difference lay. In part it was his simple courtesy to everyone. He joked with his friends, but rarely at their expense, and seemed a shade serious next to them. And he spoke differently. He spoke the same French as his brother, educated and thoughtful, although not with Madeleine’s Parisian accent. Daniel might be a fisherman, but he didn’t speak like them, or even entirely like his own parents, and it was clear that Philippe’s influence had been worked on him as well as on the scholarly Martin. Madeleine wondered whether fishing would be his long-term career. He was passionate about it in many ways, and it represented a way of life he believed in, but he seemed a very different, very private person when viewed alongside his robust group of friends.

  And yet it was clear that they respected Daniel, and liked him, and they never made fun of him. He was one of them, a friend, and to be accepted rather than questioned. She noticed that they listened to him, and looked for his input. This village and its people were his home as they might not later be home to Martin.

  At lunchtime on Sunday Daniel took her to visit his own personal vineyard, about twenty minutes’ walk from the village, past some bigger houses with gardens, and then along a narrow lane which climbed gently up the hillside. Here all was vineyards, clambering up the slopes, their gnarled vines clinging to the hillside in narrow terraces built up using drystone walls. Daniel’s was a small field tucked in among other smallholdings, all marked by their walled boundaries. From here you had a clear view down over the pink rooftops of the village below to the Mediterranean, blue to the horizon, clear as crystal in the Tramontane wind which freshened the air and cleaned the skies.

  Daniel spent many Sundays here when there was no fishing, he explained, pruning and tying the vines, checking for pests, planting and watering new seedlings. Madeleine suspected that he came here also for the peace. The tiny stone casot shed in his vineyard held a little wooden chair and a blanket which she thought must be used for quiet siestas in the shade of the single fig tree. When she asked him, he turned on that smile of extraordinary sweetness, and didn’t bother to answer. But he brought out the chair, and the blanket, and they sat and ate together next to the vines, bread with slices of saucisson, and little glasses of red wine from a cask stored in the shed, and cherries from the market.

  She had bought the cherries with Colette that morning in the marketplace of Vermeilla, suddenly crowded with Sunday stalls selling fruits and vegetables, cheeses, fish, flowers, rolls of cloth in floral designs, espadrilles and earthenware. Colette had bought fish, and a small round sheep’s milk cheese from the Pyrenees. At the stall where they bought the cherries, Colette introduced Madeleine to the stallholder, who had his own market garden beyond Perpignan. He was a tiny man in his late sixties or seventies, who hopped around with boundless energy and talked with everyone. He had been visiting Vermeilla to sell his produce for over forty years, and had known her father, but especially her mother.

  ‘She had the sweetest face ever,’ he told her. ‘A gentle woman, and kind. I always saved her the best fruits in season. She was just one of the good people who were no longer around after the war. The last time I saw her or your father was in 1940, before the Pétainistes closed the market and began requisitioning most of my produce. We couldn’t have got down here even if we’d had anything left to exchange so far from home. Colette tells me your mother died recently. I am sorry, Mademoiselle. Very sorry.’

  Lots of people remembered and were sorry. Most, of course, had more to worry about in their lives now than old stories of the war years, but they liked to reminisce, and were pleased to meet Luis and Elise’s daughter, whether in the bar, the street or the crowded market square. Everyone loved to talk, provided the conversation was kept off the difficult parts of the war. They’d rebuilt lives, here in Vermeilla, and old scars were not to be scratched. Philippe told her that most people in Vermeilla, as everywhere in Vichy France, had just tried to sit out the war and survive, but most of them had bitter memories of struggle and hunger, and some, of course, had things to hide. They were all, he told her, a mix of good and bad and heroic, just like every day today, but in the war it just mattered that bit more. There was an underlying silence which Madeleine could almost touch. You had to feel your way through each conversation.

  It was easier with Daniel and his friends, who had only known the war as young children. They seemed to know little and care less, and that made things much less complicated. Daniel in particul
ar seemed to take things just as they came, and reacted to everything with that ever serene smile. Walking with him again on the Sunday evening, on her way back to her hotel after eating the fish with Colette, Madeleine thought how easy he was to be with, but wondered at him too. Faced with a younger brother who was so academically gifted, and the cosseted darling of his mother, it didn’t seem to occur to Daniel to feel jealous, or dissatisfied in any way. If Martin challenged or baited him he would always have a reply, but no more than was necessary. At no point had she seen Daniel initiate any teasing, or show any aggression.

  With his friends too, as she had seen, he was equally unruffled and easy-going, if always a little reserved. She wondered how many people could claim to know Daniel really well. Philippe, perhaps? Did he have the key to what went on inside Daniel’s quiet head?

  With her, Daniel was like an elder brother, attentive and concerned without being overprotective. And he was one of the few who seemed unsurprised by her arrival in Vermeilla. Others in the village had made her very aware of the audacity of what she had done in coming alone to Vermeilla. This was a traditional society, and when they learnt that she had travelled alone from Paris and was staying on her own at the hotel, men’s eyebrows would twitch, and the women would exclaim in mock admiration.