The bar Arturo chose was almost empty. An old man sat at a table reading the newspaper El Correo and sipping on a little glass of red wine, wearing a black beret and peering over his thick-rimmed glasses into the news of the day. Two middleaged men stood at the long bar, smoking and talking intensely. The bartender hovered close by, wiping the bar and listening. They studied us when we entered, the long strap muscles in their necks standing out like palings in a fence. Arturo, short, stocky and wearing the same black beret as the old man, was one of them, but I was a foreigner, an extranjero. I squirmed and looked away. One grunted dismissively, and they resumed their conversation in muted tones.
The bartender sidled over. ‘Qué quiere usted?’
‘Bière?’ Arturo enquired, turning to me.
Wishing to be polite, I nodded. ‘Oui.’
The bartender whipped the caps off two bottles of San Miguel and poured them simultaneously into two tall glasses. The froth surged up, threatening to overflow, and subsided teasingly. I’d never seen drinks poured this way, and this would be the first beer I ever drank.
‘Salud! Santé!’ Arturo touched glasses with a reassuring smile.
‘Santé,’ I replied nervously and lifted the sweating glass to my lips. The bitter, fizzy taste was strangely refreshing, the sensation of delicate cold tentacles spreading through me, a revelation. So, that’s why they drink it!
Arturo took a long draught, half-draining his glass. ‘Pincho de tortilla?’ he asked, arching his thick black eyebrows. Small plates of pinchos, hors d’oeuvres impaled on wooden toothpicks, sat atop the bar. Arturo picked up a wedge of tortilla and handed it to me on a serviette. It was still warm. He took one for himself. Hungry, I attacked it in earnest, pausing only to sip the beer. ‘Hmm-mm,’ I purred between mouthfuls.
Arturo grinned, wiped his lips. ‘Très bien, non?’
‘You bet … I mean, très délicieux!’
He motioned to the pinchos, urging me on. ‘Mange, mange.’ Another tortilla followed, firm but juicy.
It felt unnatural to drop my rubbish like Arturo did, but it was the custom and the sawdust floor was strewn with cigarette butts, toothpicks and crumpled serviettes.
Arturo chatted with the young bartender in a strange musical language. The two men along the bar joined in, frequently interrupting each other, their hands moving as fast as their tongues. Mundaca and Lequetio were the only words I recognised until they said Australiano and studied me in turn.
‘What language is that?’ I asked Arturo in French, but the conversation had halted abruptly, my question stranded, hanging mid-air.
Two men had swaggered into the bar. Swarthy and moustachioed, each with a rifle slung over his shoulder. By their heavy olive-green uniforms, black boots, belts and curious black hats, I guessed they were soldiers. The patrons’ faces turned hard-set and sullen. The transformation was instant and unnerving. I tried to shrink.
The soldiers sat at a table, hanging their rifles over the backs of their chairs. The rifles swayed backward and forward, the dark wooden butt of one grazing noisily against the chair leg, its long metal barrel pointing in a slow circling motion towards the ceiling.
‘Camarero!’ the heavier-set of the pair called out impatiently.
The bartender regarded them with a necessary politeness.
‘Dos vinos de marca … y tráenos usted pinchos de atún y tortilla,’ the soldier ordered gruffly.
The bartender began, unhurriedly, to prepare their drinks and food.
The soldier strummed the tabletop with his fingertips and eyed each patron and each, unflinchingly, turned his face. His eye caught mine, the cruel, dark look of the hunter, the lurking wolf that moves in packs. I shuddered and looked away. His contemptuous gaze moved on and I was drawn back to him in morbid fascination. Beyond the surly exterior something else lurked: the fear of the hunted.
Arturo seemed impatient to leave. He paid the bill in a business-like fashion, the bartender equally stern.
‘Adiós,’ Arturo called out firmly.
‘Adiós,’ the locals replied, their focus shifting momentarily from the soldiers to us. Only the old man lost in his paper didn’t look up or speak.
‘Guardia Civil … Cabrones!’ Arturo almost spat when we reached the car. I didn’t have the nerve or command of French to ask him what it was all about, but there was no doubting the hostility of the patrons inside the bar. Civil guards … ‘the bastards’. From the same town? They couldn’t be. Jeez, they wouldn’t feel such hatred for their own kind. Would they? It seemed to come from both sides.
Arturo hoisted my pack into the back seat again. ‘I’ll take you to Mundaca.’
‘Are you sure?’ I asked. ‘It’s out of your way.’ Lequetio was on the coast, to the east of Guernica. Mundaca was on the road to Bermeo, almost due north.
‘Bien sûr,’ he replied, scowling slightly, almost offended. ‘I’ll take you to find your brother.’ He waved away my thanks with his big broad hand, saying, ‘No problem, I’m not in a hurry and it’s a beautiful day for a drive.’
Arturo must have forgotten about the Guardia Civil because he soon began to whistle a tune. The road grew more winding. On one of the tight narrow turns, a passing truck brought us to a complete halt while it inched past. Arturo laughed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, patting me on my tense, wincing shoulder, ‘We’re used to this!’
I was drawn by the widening river on our right as we continued, but the curves were making me sick and I had to focus on the road. At the summit of a hill, Arturo stopped so we could admire the view. I was glad to get out of the car and get a little fresh air, and my nausea was swept aside.
It was spectacularly beautiful. A river mouth about a kilometre wide heralded the deep blue waters of the Bay of Biscay. On either side, the Pyrenees tumbled dramatically into the ocean. Two or three kilometres out beyond the river mouth sat a solitary island. To my right, behind the first pine-treed head-land, a pale ochre cliff dropped violently into the sea. To the left, the hills rose steeply, turning rapidly into rolling mountains. In a nook, in the corner of the river mouth, protected by a sandbar, was a village, its church tower prominent. The full force of the sun at its zenith spread a powerful light over the whole scene. I was mesmerised.
‘Wow!’
Arturo cocked an eyebrow.
‘I mean … très belle!’
‘Mundaca,’ Arturo said circumspectly, hands on hips. He, too, seemed bewitched by the panorama. ‘Qué maravilloso!’ he said softly and slowly, as if recognising an old friend from afar.
So this was Mundaca. It was, as Arturo had said, ‘marvellous’. I felt a thrill, a surge of energy pass through me.
We stood for a while, looking. A tiny wave broke down the length of a sandbar near the river mouth. Surf! Of course. Why else would John come here?
‘On y va,’ said Arturo, dragging me from my thoughts. ‘We find your brother.’
‘Yes, let’s go.’
The road wound down from the hilltop into a narrow valley. We crossed a bridge and a pocket-size beach appeared between two rocky promontories. A group of children were playing in the shallows, watched by their chattering mothers.
The road climbed again into the village. Halfway up, a sign announced: Mundaca. My heart quickened. This is it, I’ve arrived! Near the top was a tiny old post office, with Correos above the door. That’s where John would collect his mail.
We turned sharply into the main street. The road narrowed, bordered on both sides by tired but sturdy two-storey buildings, the ground floors housing shops, several banks and a number of bars. The street was almost deserted. Shopkeepers were locking their doors and closing their shutters, a few locals disappearing into the tenements.
‘La siesta comienza,’ Arturo declared. ‘It doesn’t matter. The bars stay open,’ he said in French.
Good. If the bars were open, we should be able to find the one I needed. With a bit of luck, I’d soon be with John.
We turned down an even nar
rower street and into the shade of more tall dwellings. Bars, a bread shop marked Panadería, a glimpse of the plaza fronting the town hall, and the street opened up onto a large plaza or paseo. It was deathly quiet with no-one in the streets.
Behind the paseo, with its back to the sea, stood the imposing church and high bell tower that I’d seen from the lookout. Not particularly old, nor strikingly beautiful, it dominated its surroundings by virtue of its size. The paseo acted like a forecourt and was shaded by rows of tall plane trees, grand and lush like oaks, the paler, mottled trunks made them lighter on their feet.
Arturo turned into the car park behind the strange-looking, top-heavy, two-storey casino. We walked to the edge of the tiny port bounded by rocks on the far side. A cannon rusted on the low rear wall, and the port wall grew higher where it swung towards us. Between the port and the tenements was a broad cobbled path. A slipway intersected the path, behind it a wall, and above, several old buildings partly obscured by plane trees. All the walls were whitewashed, reflecting the bright early afternoon sun.
‘Un-real,’ I said slowly and softly. ‘Just like a painting.’
‘Bonito, no?’ Arturo whispered. He raised a foot and leant on the low wall.
I followed suit, shading my eyes. Sweat trickled down my brow and I wiped it away.
A fleet of six wooden fishing boats sat calmly in the greenblue water. Tethered to iron rings set into the cobbled stone seawall, they were each painted in one vibrant colour: navy blue, blood red or emerald green. On the inner side of the larger seawall guarding the entrance, fishing nets were draped and a few fisherwomen were busy repairing holes. One saw us and murmured to the others. When they paused to look, Arturo tipped his hat and nodded. They smiled, nodded in reply, and chattering anew, returned to their nets.
‘Mira,’ said Arturo, pointing. A swallow darted across the port, a low-dipping flight, its wings just clearing the water.
The village grew up and out of the port, old buildings of three or four storeys with newer ones rising behind them. Across the port a path led up to a smaller plaza. To our right, a naked headland overlooked the port entrance and sandbar. Between the headland and the church, shaded by rows of plane trees and bordered by elegant wrought-iron bench seats, was a much smaller rectangular paseo that overlooked the river mouth.
Arturo stirred me from a hazy half-dream. ‘On y va. We get your bag and find your brother.’
We headed to the sturdy old buildings above the slipway and reached a wide terrace shaded by smaller plane trees, whose lower trunks were painted white, highlighting their lush foliage. Raised above the port, the terrace had a perfect view.
‘Muy lindo, no?’ said Arturo.
I didn’t understand the words, but knew what he meant. It was beautiful in every sense of the word, like an exotic illusion. I was besotted. Trust John to find the best places.
A couple of local fishermen emerged from a pair of ancient doors behind us. They wore black berets, navy shirts with the sleeves rolled up over stained white singlets, navy blue trousers and tattered espadrilles. They scrutinised us briefly, nodded and disappeared down a flight of stone steps at the port end of the terrace, close together, talking quietly.
We turned towards the dark doors, above which was the name of the bar, Los Chopos, carved in wood. Coming in from the bright sunlight, it felt like we had entered a cave and my eyes took time to adjust.
A barman was conversing with a lone customer who leant on the bar, exploring his teeth with a toothpick. The dark wood and stone-wall interior was very dim and echoed the silent mood of the siesta hour.
‘Carmen’s place?’ Arturo asked.
‘No,’ said the barman. He gestured with his head. ‘Next door. Bar El Puerto.’ Arturo nodded and the men watched in silence while we left.
Bar El Puerto was a corner building with thick stone walls and commanded an impressive view of the port. The stone stairway led up from the path surrounding the tiny harbour and straight to its narrow wooden doors, and I guessed it must have been the original bar of the village. We entered through the salt-bleached doors into a surprisingly light-filled bar. The windows were open to the port to catch the available breeze.
‘Buenas tardes,’ Arturo began, wiping his brow with a handkerchief.
The barkeeper, a short thick-set woman of late middle-age with dark auburn hair, lifted her gaze. Her dulled brown eyes emerging from the shadows of dark rings, she exhaled audibly, continuing to dry a line of tinto glasses with a red-checked tea towel. ‘Buenas tardes.’
She was in no hurry. Did this tired soul know my brother? I hoped so.
She dried the last glass and set aside her tea towel. ‘Qué quiere ustedes?’ she asked wearily.
Arturo ordered two beers. ‘Se llama Carmen?’ he asked while she poured them. She nodded.
I smiled, and her eyes came to life. ‘Y qué?’ she asked.
‘Buscamos el hermano de éste chico. We’re looking for this boy’s brother, John,’ said Arturo.
‘John?’ she repeated, thoughtfully. ‘No, no recuerdo a ningún “John”.’ With a glint in her eye and the beginnings of a smile, she pronounced it in the French way, ‘Quizás Jean.’ And, her smile broadening, ‘Sí, un Jean.’
My brother had made an impact, you could tell. John had that way about him.
‘An Australian was here in the village with two Americans,’ Arturo translated for me. She hadn’t seen them for three or four weeks. ‘Muchachos simpáticos,’ she said. ‘And Jean, the Australian, he resembles you. Your brother, for sure.’
They were here, but had gone! My chest emptied of air with a low groan.
Arturo grimaced, patted me on the back. ‘Mala suerte, chico!’
Bad luck or blind stupidity? I knew deep down the odds were against me, but I couldn’t help build on that faint hope.
Arturo checked his watch and spoke with the woman. ‘I must go to Lequetio,’ he said, looking defeated. He drained his glass. ‘Sorry we didn’t find your brother. This lady, Señora Carmen, she will find you accommodation for tonight. Ça va?’ He looked inquiringly across to Carmen.
She studied me for a moment, twitched slightly, and sighed maternally. A warm inner glow seemed to have chased the dullness from her eyes.
‘The rest is up to you my friend … Bonne chance et au revoir!’ Arturo shook my hand heartily and wished me good luck.
I watched him go. My shoulders dropped, the breath pushing out of me. I looked down at the floor and the crushed cigarette butts scattered about. All his efforts had come to naught and here I was … alone in a strange, if beautiful, little village in rural Spain. Jesus! What to do?
CHAPTER 3
Greg woke me at the border where the French, bored and uninterested, waved us through dismissively.
The Spanish side was another story and altogether different from my first crossing. A haughty immigration official, mood as dark as a storm, questioned us while he thumbed, meticulously, through each passport. His expression suggested we’d committed a crime that we ought to confess. I squirmed, even though I was innocent. Greg remained calm and we weathered the storm. At last, he stamped our passports and tossed them back at us, but the motor had barely turned over when two heavily armed Guardia Civil directed Greg to pull over.
‘Out,’ said one, motioning with his machine gun. ‘Open the boot,’ he said in heavily accented English.
Greg lifted the boot lid.
The Guardia peered in. It was crammed with our gear. ‘Everything out.’
‘Everything?’
‘Everything,’ said the Guardia, ‘back seat too.’
Greg groaned. ‘Come on, amigo, unpack.’
We emptied the car.
‘Stand over there,’ said the Guardia, pointing ten metres away. We watched them poke and nose their way around the vehicle.
‘Searching for drugs?’ I whispered to Greg.
‘I guess,’ he replied, with a look of resignation.
They didn’t find anyt
hing suspicious and gave up, leaving a surly guard to watch us re-load our scattered possessions. We got back in the car and the Guardia motioned us on with his gun.
I felt somehow violated but Greg wasn’t bothered. ‘You should see the Federales in Mexico! Man, they’re way scarier and totally corrupt. A bribe is normal, but occasionally foreigners get arrested for possessing drugs planted by the Federales when they’re searching the vehicle. Once you’re in jail you, or your family, have to pay hefty bribes to get you out.’
‘Well, I guess the Guardia aren’t so corrupt,’ I said. ‘But they look nasty. I suppose they have to contend with Basque resistance fighters. I told you about that Guardia being assassinated in Guernica.’
‘When you were with that guy Arturo?’
‘No. I didn’t learn about it until later, at the fiesta, with the French guys.’
‘Oh, the French guys. You haven’t told me much about them.’
‘I met them that first day, after Arturo left me with Carmen in Bar El Puerto.’
We were alone with no common language, and neither of us spoke while Carmen continued her minor chores. I watched the bubbles rise from the bottom of the glass. It soon ran out of fizz.
When I finished the beer, Carmen took off her apron and plucked a large key from a hook on the wall. ‘Ven, muchacho. Come, my boy,’ she said.
The village was beginning to stir from its slumber. She locked the weathered door of the bar and led me down the stone steps to the cobbled path that skirted the port. She didn’t rush, and I could feel the heat of the late afternoon sun reflected off the paint-chipped walls and the cobbles.
In the heart of the village we came to a modern apartment building. There was no elevator and we took the stairs to the third floor. Carmen pressed a buzzer and a black-garbed woman opened the nearest door. She was plain-looking, with a welcoming smile, and smelt of fish, garlic and perfume. She held out a large, rough hand. I shook it firmly, but couldn’t match her powerful grip.
‘Australiano,’ Carmen said, introducing me. ‘Owen.’
Mundaca: A Tale of Intrigue, Romance and Surfing in Franco's Spain Page 3