Mundaca: A Tale of Intrigue, Romance and Surfing in Franco's Spain

by Owen Hargreaves

  ‘A sea battle fought at night in coastal fog. A Basque dispatch trawler, the Galdames, and its four armed escort boats, intercepted by the Spanish naval blockade. The Galdames was carrying about 200 people, including an important Catalan politician and, unknown to most, secret correspondence and a cipher, and the new nickel currency for Bilbao.’

  My hand reached her neck.

  ‘That feels nice,’ she murmured. ‘Where was I?’

  ‘In a fog.’

  She laughed. ‘Dry sense of humour you’ve got, Owen … But can you imagine, fighting at sea, at night, in the fog? Fifty-one died, a cabin boy too. So sad.’

  ‘Poor kid.’

  She sat up. ‘We lost an important convoy and a little boy died.’ She pointed out to sea. ‘Out there.’

  I sat up too. ‘Hard to imagine. It looks so peaceful.’

  ‘Let’s sketch it.’ She pulled pads from her knapsack. ‘You sketch it as you see it, I’ll sketch with that night in mind.’

  ‘That won’t be easy.’

  ‘Has to be done.’ She flushed slightly and bit her lip.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  She hesitated. ‘Why not use one’s imagination?’

  ‘Yes, why not?’ I said.

  At Baquio we strolled arm in arm to the westerly end of the bay where I spied a little crescent sandbank, suitably shallow. A set came through, unfurling perfectly in spitfire succession for about thirty metres, the waves waist-high and hollow.

  ‘Look at that!’ I exclaimed. ‘Unreal!’

  She squeezed my arm. ‘Aren’t you going to surf?’

  The sea was a slick, inky blue. The swells oozed in, almost unsighted, and hit the piled-up sand. The waves formed, not by an upward reach of the swell’s crest, but rather by the sudden downward plunge of the base. I picked up a few slinking swells. Two strokes and a rapid jump to my feet when the board angled down. Weight over the inside rail, I strained to keep the nose of the board free of the water. Then the rail caught and the board swung into the hollowing wall. With gathering speed, I raced along the fast arching wall, the wave’s lip breaking close behind or against me. It was all speed and acceleration — brief but intoxicating. I couldn’t get enough.

  I rode the short, fast waves for an hour. At the end of each, in the spray, where the wave collapsed, the afternoon light created a fleeting rainbow. Paddling back out, cresting a wave, another appeared.

  Back on the shore, I told Maite about them. ‘So many rainbows out there! Amazing!’

  ‘I couldn’t see any.’ She laughed. ‘Maybe you’re going crazy!’ She hugged me.

  I kissed her on the forehead. ‘Maybe.’

  While I dried off, an army truck pulled up near our car and a dozen or so Guardia Civil filed out.

  ‘Look!’ said Maite, pointing.

  I lowered the towel. ‘What’s happening? What are they doing?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Wait and see.’

  The commanding officer marched the men, rifles over shoulders, to the east end of the beach. They halted and made two lines facing the sandy cliff. One Guardia set targets. The rest drew their rifles. The front line went down on one knee, the rear remained standing. On the officer’s command, they aimed and fired.

  ‘Shooting practice,’ I said dismissively.

  ‘More like a firing squad!’ she whispered fiercely.

  We watched from a distance, neither of us wanting to go back to the car until they’d gone. After nearly an hour, the squadron shouldered arms, regrouped, marched back up the beach, climbed into the rear of the truck and drove off.

  By the time we left, the sky had closed in, suffocating the late afternoon light. It grew dark as we traversed the pine forest to reach the summit at Cabo Machichaco. When we broke from the forest, we ran straight into the bright lights of a truck, Guardia Civil flashing us with their torchlights, a metal-spiked device snaked across the road.

  Maite became resolute, sullen. ‘Don’t say anything. Let me do the talking.’ She wound down her window to the Guardia. Another appeared at my window. Both had their weapons ready, fingers on the trigger.

  ‘Where are you going?’ he asked her in Spanish.

  ‘Mundaca.’

  He shone the torch into the car, into my face. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Out! Both of you out of the car.’

  We did as he said, the Guardia motioning us to the side of the road. ‘Papeles! Pasaportes! Papers!’

  Maite produced her ID, but I couldn’t. I had nothing with me.

  ‘His passport’s in Mundaca,’ she said emphatically. The commanding Guardia grunted. He carefully examined her identification card. ‘Your family name … from Guernica …’ He tapped the card on the palm of his other hand. ‘Search the car,’ he ordered his subordinates.

  A sweat broke out on my neck at the thought of what they might find. I stole a glance at Maite. She stood unmoving, arms folded, gazing into the forest, seemingly impervious.

  They searched the boot, interior and underneath.

  ‘There’s nothing much, Capitán, only a wetsuit and towel, a blanket and these drawings.’

  ‘Show me.’

  The subordinate handed Maite’s sketch pad to the Captain, who thumbed through the drawings.

  ‘Who did these?’

  Maite broke from her trance. ‘He did,’ she said.

  The Captain studied her, then me. ‘Did you?’

  Maite didn’t flinch.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘Extranjeros. Turistas!’ He grunted and tossed the pad into the back seat. A car approached from Bermeo out of the mist to be stopped by a Guardia at gunpoint. ‘Stay out of trouble, extranjero.’ The Captain dismissed us, almost throwing Maite’s card at her. ‘And beware the company you keep.’ The subordinate retracted the metal-spiked device, enough for us to pass, and waved us on with his flashlight.

  I felt like I’d escaped a shark. ‘Why did you do that?’

  ‘Sorry, but many Guardia know my family name. They’d suspect me, accuse me of something. Any excuse to harass me. I knew they wouldn’t suspect you, a foreigner.’

  ‘But they’re only sketches. We haven’t done anything wrong. There’s nothing to suspect, is there?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘Like Inigo, we’ve done nothing wrong.’ She reached to find my hand and squeezed it. ‘Please, no more questions.’

  Her brother was in prison, he must have done something. We hadn’t done anything, but I felt like I’d committed a crime. We drove to Mundaca in silence. Maite seemed lost in thought. She kept hold of my hand, only letting go to negotiate the tight corners.

  ‘You are an angel, my saviour,’ she said when we reached Plaza Santa Catalina. She hugged me. ‘You don’t know what you’ve done for me.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve done anything.’

  She kissed me. ‘Believe me, you have.’

  ‘Today was one surfing trip I’ll never forget.’ I kissed her.

  ‘At least you found waves.’ She laughed. ‘And rainbows.’

  ‘Better than interrogation and the firing squad.’

  She stopped laughing. ‘Don’t joke about those things.’

  ‘I’m sorry … it’s my Australian humour.’

  She snorted softly. ‘Worse than my Basque humour.’

  I unloaded my surfboard and gear. ‘When will I see you again?’

  ‘Not for a week, I’m afraid.’

  I leant down close to her face, framed by the car window. ‘A week? So long?’

  She reached a hand to my face. ‘Be patient with me. There are things you don’t understand.’ She pulled me closer. I was lost now, captive to her eyes, her scent. She kissed me. A pleading kiss.

  ‘Can you do me another favour?’ she asked.

  ‘What is it?’

  She took an envelope from her jacket. ‘Post this for me.’

  I took the envelope, turned it over. The same address in Dublin was on the front.

&nb
sp; ‘I’ll come on the Friday night.’

  My fate seemed sealed.

  ‘Ah, muchacho! That week flashed past!’ Manolo’s eyes were the colour of lapis and danced with mischief. ‘I have news for you. But, first, sit down. Cerveza o café?’

  ‘Beer, please.’ I pulled up a stool at the far end of the bar. ‘What news?’

  He cracked open a bottle and poured. ‘Be patient, muchacho.’ He set the glass down and rubbed his hands together. ‘First, your book.’

  I felt the cold swirl of bubbles on my tongue. ‘Ever heard of Wilhelm Wakonigg?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ve read about him, of course. Businessman, lived for many years in Vizcaya, daughter married to the new chief of the Basque police.’ He shook his head, face grim. ‘A bad end for him.’ He raised a finger. ‘But just!’

  ‘Guilty of espionage, passing information to the Germans and Franco. Executed by firing squad.’

  ‘A loyal German to the end.’ Manolo sighed. ‘So much for assimilation.’

  ‘What is it with firing squads around here?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  I filled him in on our beach adventure and Maite lying about the sketches.

  Manolo didn’t understand it, either. ‘That’s strange,’ he said.

  For a moment I felt a long way from home. ‘Do you know by the time George got back to England, his pregnant wife had taken ill and died?’

  ‘Poor soul!’

  ‘He returned to Bilbao with a death wish, I reckon. He took incredible risks.’

  Manolo ran a hand through his hair. ‘A broken heart can drive a man to the edge.’

  ‘It got so much worse when German gunners and the reconnaissance wireless arrived.’

  ‘Nazis! They tipped the balance. And the Italians. It was all downhill after March ’37.’

  ‘Franco thought Vizcaya was easy pickings. Even easier with German help.’

  ‘The Germans knew it too. They stationed submarines near San Sebastian to protect their interests. Once the Basques were defeated, they expected payment from Franco — iron ore, for the German war machine.’

  ‘Tragic times.’ He tapped a finger repeatedly on the bar top. ‘It’s guerrilla warfare these days. ETA has become ruthless too.’

  I drained my beer.

  ‘Muchacho, it’s what I suspected.’ Manolo raised a finger. ‘Her grandfather was an officer in the war. BNP battalion leader, a famous soldier.’

  I sat forward, hands restless on the bar. ‘That might explain why her brother and sister would be with ETA. Why she might be too.’

  ‘The grandfather was in the Mundaca nursing home. He died a few years ago.’

  ‘I know the nursing home.’

  ‘Plenty of veterans there, muchacho,’ Manolo mused. ‘They would have known him.’

  ‘I bet! The doctor too. Can you find out more, Manolo?’

  ‘I’ll try, muchacho … in the meantime you take care.’ The corner of his mouth twitched. ‘You may be in danger.’

  The shoebox, the envelope, the postmistress’s suspicious eyes on each and Franco’s glaring portrait flashed across my mind. ‘Perhaps.’ I stretched my neck. ‘Like George, she’s fighting the good fight, isn’t she?’

  Manolo grunted. ‘It’s a good fight. But not like that. Not those methods.’

  ‘Like she asked me, what are the alternatives?’

  Manolo shook his head. ‘Enough, muchacho.’

  ‘She’s right, isn’t she, Manolo?’

  He waved me away sharply. ‘Basta!’

  CHAPTER 8

  The casino bar began to fill with a mixture of locals and weekenders. A group of men began passionately debating football and the merits of the club Athletic Bilbao, but when they switched to Basque, I was lost.

  I was ready to move on, habitually scanning for Maite, when a foreigner appeared, his shoulder-length blond hair and steelrimmed glasses familiar. His mate, a short, finely-built man with sandy hair and red-tinged stubble, I didn’t recognise.

  ‘Owen!’ Jock cried, shaking my hand. ‘Are you still around? I can’t believe it!’

  ‘Sure am!’ I replied, rising from my bar stool. ‘How are you, Jock?’

  ‘Fine, amigo! Just fine!’ he said, with a slightly crooked grin. ‘Meet my Aussie buddy, Rob, from Sydney.’

  I caught the mischievous glint in Rob’s eye while I shook his freckled hand. He had the look of an Irish fox on the trot, tongue out.

  Jock took off his glasses to clean them. ‘By the way, Owen, any word from Jean?’

  ‘No. He’s still in Morocco, I think.’

  Jock reset his glasses on the end of his nose and pushed them back gently with his middle finger. ‘Cal headed back to the States a while ago. I don’t know where Jean was heading.’

  ‘I don’t know either. I didn’t have the money to chase after him.’ I shrugged and re-focused. ‘Are you guys staying long?’

  ‘Well,’ said Jock, ‘I’ve got at least another month. I brought Rob down here to try the famous Mundaca waves.’

  ‘You can stay with me,’ I said. ‘There’s plenty of room.’

  ‘Great! It’s such a squeeze in that van.’ Jock rubbed his long-fingered hands together. ‘I’m glad you’re still here, Owen. You know, man, I had a strange feeling we might run into you!’

  The van was parked alongside Adolfo’s upturned navy blue fishing boat, the Betisalada, which was lying half-painted on the cobbles beside the port wall. I led the way to Plaza Santa Catalina and gave them a brief tour of the house. ‘You’re right,’ said Jock, running an eye over the walls and ceiling. ‘She is an antique.’

  ‘You’re not complaining, are you?’ asked Rob teasingly.

  Jock snorted. ‘Anything’s better than sleeping next to you, amigo.’

  ‘She’s a relic, all right,’ I said. ‘But could you get a better position? And cheap as chips.’

  ‘Love the undulations in the floorboards, mate,’ said Rob, arms gracefully outstretched, knees bent, pretending to keep his balance. ‘You don’t even have to leave the house to go surfing!’

  I snorted. ‘Wait till you see the river mouth break,’ I said. ‘You’ll be glad for the practice in here.’

  Jock laughed, a low chugging rumble.

  ‘Coming back to the bars?’

  ‘Are you kidding, my man? Of course.’

  ‘You’ve been hanging out with Australians for too long, Jock,’ I said. ‘You’re starting to sound like one.’

  ‘Yeah, I’m turning into a bloody Aussie!’ he said, exaggerating the twang.

  ‘Come on, you guys. Hurry up. Vámanos,’ I said. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting a girl.’

  ‘A local girl?’ asked Jock, a smile forming.

  I couldn’t help grinning. ‘Well, local, but from Guernica.’

  Jock wagged a finger at me. ‘I thought there was something to that twinkle in your baby-blues! You sly dog! You found a señorita!’ Jock’s eyebrows were two high arches above his glasses. ‘You have settled into the place.’

  ‘I love it here, mate.’

  ‘I can see why,’ he said, grinning. ‘Has she got any friends?’

  ‘She has. She might bring one tonight.’

  ‘Do they speak English?’

  ‘A little,’ I said.

  ‘So, how do you talk to them?’ asked Rob.

  ‘In Spanish. It’s amazing how fast you learn when you’re alone and forced to speak. I’m even starting to dream in Spanish.’

  ‘Man,’ said Jock, shaking his head, ‘my Spanish is woeful!’

  Rob rubbed his chin. ‘I can’t speak a word.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘The girls enjoy trying English.’

  ‘Well, I might comb my hair.’ Jock darted into the bathroom.

  ‘It won’t make any difference,’ Rob called out. ‘You’ll still be ugly!’

  ‘Not as ugly as you, amigo! I’ll be a fine-looking americano! The girls are going to love me!’ He reappeared with a s
hinytoothed grin, his hair carefully spruced. ‘On y va?’ he asked. ‘Maybe they speak French!’

  We set off on a vuelta, me ever-watchful for Maite and her friends. Carmen wasn’t at her usual post. I hoped she wasn’t sick. Rosa, her dark-eyed, strong-boned daughter reassured me otherwise. ‘She’s fine, muchacho.’ She smoothed her jetblack ponytail with a large hand. ‘She’s at home, babysitting. It’s my baby, Arantza, who’s been sick. The doctor came again yesterday.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that … I know how it can be.’

  Rosa studied me for a moment. ‘My mother’s mentioned you. Says you’re going to be a doctor, too, one day.’

  I grunted. ‘Then she knows better than I do.’

  Rosa laughed. ‘Perhaps she does.’

  I smiled, nodding slowly, digesting the words. ‘Glad you have a caring one.’

  Rosa took the tops off three bottles of San Miguel. ‘These are on the house.’

  ‘So, Maite gave you a book written in English?’ Jock said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘In English?’

  ‘Yes, mate!’

  ‘A bit odd.’

  I paused, scratched my head. ‘There are a few odd things about her.’

  Jock frowned. ‘How do you mean?’

  Conflicting images flooded my mind. I took a big breath and blew out the air. ‘Tell me about your adventures,’ I said.

  Around ten, we found ourselves back at Bar El Puerto. It was crowded, the bar abuzz with revellers and Spanish music, and too hard to talk. We watched the crowd — the swirl of colour, the scent of perfume and tobacco, the loud voices and wild gesticulations, the laughter, and behind it all the sensual driving rhythms of the Latin beat.

  At each bar, while we swapped tales and joked, I kept an eye on the door — ready for her to appear, willing her to do so. And as the night unfolded, my spirits began to ebb.

  Jock soon twigged. ‘Where are the girls?’

  ‘Let’s try Bodegon,’ I said. ‘Maybe they’re late.’

  We manoeuvred outside into the cool, salty night air. The swell was slack and on the mid-tide, barely breaking. The fishing boats in the little harbour rocked quietly on their moorings, lulled to sleep by the sea’s soothing rhythms.