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

by Owen Hargreaves

  Bodegon occupied the ground floor of the casino building and resembled a small fortress. It was entered by large wooden doors from the side street that ran gently uphill from the terrace that fronted the two bars, El Puerto and Los Chopos. Large windows overlooking the harbour softened the effect of the solid stone walls.

  We were greeted by the familiar smell of red wine, tortilla, chorizo, garlic mushrooms, perfume, smoke and human sweat. With a string of ‘permisos’, we pushed our way to the bar and I shouted the order. The bartender ripped the caps off three bottles, poured them into glasses and, without looking, threw the bottles behind him into a bin. Nothing broke. He took my pesetas and rifled back the change. I passed Jock and Rob their beers and ran my eye over the bar.

  Maite! For an instant, everything seemed to stop — her beauty and movement transfixed for the smallest fraction of time, like a perfect photograph.

  I reached her, breathless, my heart racing.

  ‘I was wondering where you were,’ she said. A gentle blush suffused her cheeks.

  ‘We’ve been doing the rounds, looking for you.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘A friend arrived in town, with a mate.’ I beckoned them over.

  Maite proffered a delicate hand. ‘Mucho gusto,’ she said, smiling shyly.

  ‘Nice to meet the artist,’ said Jock.

  ‘We’ve heard you’re talented,’ said Rob.

  Maite nodded politely, the blush deepened.

  Ines appeared carrying two mostos and complaining about the crowds. ‘Dios mío! Tanta gente!’

  ‘Oh! Hola, Owen!’ she exclaimed. ‘Qué tal?’

  ‘Bien, bien!’ I motioned with my hand. ‘Ines, meet my friends.’

  ‘Quiénes son? Australians?’ She smiled, holding out her hand.

  ‘American,’ Jock said, kissing her hand. ‘And Rob here’s Australian, from Sydney.’

  ‘Mucho gusto, muchachos. Welcome to the Basque country! First time? When did you arrive? How long you staying?’ She went at them in heavily accented English with irrepressible energy.

  Maite led me away to a quieter corner and came close so we could talk.

  ‘Owen, how are you?’

  ‘A bit tired. But so much better for seeing you.’

  She pulled me close. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  I could smell the perfume on her neck. I pressed against her. ‘God, I’ve missed you too.’

  She laughed and pushed me away slightly. ‘You’ve been busy surfing, I bet.’

  ‘No, not true!’ I pulled her closer again. ‘Well, a bit of surfing. But mostly reading and thinking of you.’

  She nuzzled into my chest. ‘I can guess what you were reading. But what were you thinking?’

  ‘Pleasant thoughts,’ I said teasingly.

  ‘That’s all?’

  I pulled her tighter against me. ‘Passionate thoughts, too.’

  ‘Sounds more interesting.’

  My hug loosened. ‘And thoughts about your mysterious side.’

  She laughed. ‘That’s called feminine mystique.’

  I laughed too. ‘Oh, is that what it is? Nothing else?’

  ‘Mystique, mystery. It’s good, isn’t it?’ She pulled away slightly, smiled coyly. ‘Keeps you interested.’

  ‘That’s true. Up to a point.’

  ‘Would you rather be with someone you know everything about?’

  I mused for a moment. ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to have faith, trust.’

  ‘Can I trust you?’

  ‘What does your heart say?’

  I drew her close again. ‘Maite, you know what it says.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  We stole a quick, fierce but tender kiss. She hugged me with a quiet intensity. ‘You must trust me.’

  ‘Alright,’ I said. I took a breath, pushed it out slowly, the tension in my body releasing with it. ‘I’m in your hands.’

  She squeezed me tight. ‘You won’t regret it.’

  Christ! I hoped she was right.

  Maite turned to see the others. ‘Look,’ she said, when their conversation erupted into laughter.

  ‘She’s on a roll,’ I said.

  ‘That’s an understatement.’ Maite grabbed my hand. ‘Vámanos!’

  We rounded up the others and stepped into the fresh cool air of the cloudless night. Jock and Rob linked on each arm, Ines led us to the quiet bar in the back streets. Maite and I lagged behind. In the dark of the narrow cobblestone street, I drew her to me, the swell of her breast against my chest, her hip moving against mine when we walked. That strange electric feeling coursed through me. She must have felt it too, because she nestled tighter. At the corner of a cul-de-sac, in the shadow of an overhanging balcony, I stopped and kissed her. She returned my kiss, but the sound of advancing footsteps startled her, and we drew apart. The others had stopped outside the bar. ‘Venga, venga!’ implored Ines, herself a little merry.

  There was barely space for five to stand on the sawdust floor, and the faded lime-green walls had large patches where the paint had flaked. The owner served us and slumped again. No-one came or went.

  Maite and I stood close but not touching. The jaundiced light from the cobwebbed bulb left no dark corners for refuge, but Maite’s proximity was enough. She’d put my doubts to rest without giving anything away. And the secret of our liaison heightened our awareness of each other. Even the smallest gestures took on meaning.

  The barman finally stirred and shuttered the only window. We finished our drinks and moved outside. In the alleyway, Ines kissed Jock and Rob on the cheek, promising a rendezvous in the near future. I pulled Maite to me. ‘Guapa, lovely señorita, when will I see you?’

  ‘Tomorrow evening,’ she said warmly. ‘I’ll pick you up in the main street, next to the bank, about eight o’clock. We’ll go to Lequetio. Okay?’

  We kissed and Ines called, laughing, ‘Maite! Vámonos!’

  ‘Agur, Agur!’ called Maite when Ines led her around the corner, leaving us in the silent back streets of the village.

  ‘Ines is cool,’ said Jock when we turned for home. ‘But feisty.’

  ‘You got her flustered!’ said Rob. ‘She couldn’t understand your accent. She’s beautiful! Such fire in her eyes! It’s a good thing she finds me attractive. Did you see the way she looked at me?’

  ‘You’re joking!’ exclaimed Jock. ‘She might like your weird laugh, Rob, but she can’t resist my charm! Did you see how we talked, her body language? No, my friend, she is mine for the taking!’

  ‘I don’t think so, Jock. Ines has got the hots for me! Maybe I don’t have that American swagger, but she gave me a look that said … “Yes!”‘

  ‘Forget it, Rob. You’re spoken for!’

  ‘Maybe, Jock,’ Rob said teasingly. ‘Maybe.’

  Jock kicked at a stone on the cobbles. ‘Anyway, she’s quite a lady.’ We crossed the deserted plaza. ‘You and Maite seemed pretty intense,’ he prodded gently.

  ‘Yeah,’ I said, exhaling slowly. ‘Pretty intense.’

  The boys laughed. ‘Anyway, it’s damn obvious,’ Jock slapped me on the back, ‘Amigo, you got hit by Cupid’s little arrow … straight in the heart!’

  I sighed. If only that was all there was to it.

  The sun was well up when we surfaced the next morning. A clean swell was running down the sandbar, the wind offshore and meek. We suited up, ambled to the port and paddled out through the harbour walls. It was a gentle, lazy day, and so good to have mates to surf with. The cool autumn sea soon washed away our hangovers.

  We surfed quietly across the morning: long fast rides and the hypnotic paddle back out across the silky, blue-green water. The Pyrenees sat brooding against the naked blue sky and Laga’s cliffs shone gold with autumn. I didn’t want to think too far ahead. Tonight I’d be with Maite, drift in those luminous eyes, breathe her perfume, and feel the warmth of her love.

  It was a perfect day. We returned to land, spent. Not the all-consumi
ng fatigue of frenetic activity, but the pleasant ache of steady, measured paddling — one that brings peace and satisfaction, but leaves the mind alert.

  ‘Who’s hungry?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m starving,’ said Rob. ‘A feed, a hot drink and a siesta is what I need.’

  Back at the house, lunch behind us, Jock was doing the honours. ‘Cup of tea, amigo?’ he called from the kitchen.

  Rob was languishing in a lounge chair, his tousled sandy hair a mess, gaze dulled. The fox had lost his trot.

  I nudged him as I took up a chair. ‘Tired, mate?’

  ‘Too many beers last night,’ he replied. ‘But it was worth it … Gotta love the vuelta.’ He gave a low groan while he stretched. ‘Ines is a character, isn’t she?’

  ‘Man, I love these señoritas,’ said Jock bringing in the tea, eyes bright and blue like the pattern on the cups. He lifted his gaze fleetingly when he poured. ‘Imagine hooking up with one of them!’

  Suddenly, I saw myself hooked, literally, dangling on the end of Maite’s line.

  Jock handed out the cups. ‘When are they coming back?’

  ‘I’m not sure about Ines,’ I replied, ‘but I’m meeting Maite tonight.’

  Jock raised an eyebrow mischievously, cup to his mouth. ‘You lucky devil!’

  ‘She’s lovely,’ Rob chipped in. ‘And you can see she really likes you.’

  I set down my cup, the tea almost spilling. ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s bloody obvious!’ said Rob. ‘Even if she seems a bit nervous.’

  ‘Well,’ I picked up my cup again, ‘girls here have to be careful, especially around foreigners. Reputation is everything.’ I took a sip. ‘This is foul, Jock! Where did you learn to make tea?’

  ‘Give me a break, amigo, I’m an Americano. A coffee man! … Go on.’

  ‘Imagine the gossip if word gets out, or if her family finds out?’

  ‘I guess,’ said Rob, sitting fully upright and stretching. ‘They certainly seemed more relaxed when there were no other locals about.’

  ‘Exactly.’ I lounged back in the late afternoon light that angled through the balcony doors. ‘So, which of you two is going to steal Ines’s heart?’

  Rob’s brown eyes gleamed with a mix of anxiety and delight. ‘I’ll have to watch the beer, otherwise I’m done for. Rebecca can read me like a book, even through my letters.’ He peered into his cup. ‘I’m a hopeless liar — she’d pick up on it straight away if I played up.’

  Jock sensed victory. ‘So you can leave Ines to me?’

  Rob shrugged. ‘I’m not sure she really liked you, Jock.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Jock, the grin disappearing.

  ‘Well, let’s face it … you’re an American with no money and limited prospects.’ The corners of his mouth began to quiver. ‘And a real tight-arse with no sense of humour!’ he added with a burst of laughter.

  ‘So funny!’ said Jock. ‘Lucky you have a girlfriend back home, Rob, because no girl here would go for you, amigo, you look like a derelict! You don’t even bother to shave. You might be at uni, but you’re not that smart.’

  ‘Alright, Jock, settle down. I’m only joking, mate,’ said Rob playfully. ‘Go for it, my friend. I want to see your sophisticated Yankee charm!’

  ‘Alright,’ said Jock, retreating. ‘You watch.’

  ‘That’s settled,’ I said. ‘No pressure, though!’

  Jock sank back in his chair, looking more defeated than victorious.

  ‘Yeah, Jock.’ Rob flopped back and drained his cup. ‘No pressure.’

  I settled back in my lounge chair with the verandah doors open and continued with my Spanish study. After an hour, I put the book aside and picked up one of Jock’s surfing magazines — page after page of beautiful waves. ‘Look at these shots of Pipeline, mate! Gerry Lopez dropping into some huge ones!’

  Rob peeked over my shoulder. ‘Almost as good as Mundaca,’ he said, laughing. ‘Hey, don’t torture yourself reading the mags, Owen.’

  ‘I’m amping myself for the next swell,’ I said. ‘I wish it would hurry up and come!’

  ‘Owen, you’re amped enough!’

  I threw the magazine down and picked up The Tree of Gernika. I thumbed through the book to find my place. Suddenly, there was a familiar noise, a drum roll and a loud voice in the street below. Jock and Rob raced to the balcony and I ambled over.

  The thin elderly man with the kettle drum stood at a nearby corner giving a speech. When he’d finished, he walked to the next corner, stopped, performed another short drum roll and repeated the speech.

  ‘What’s he selling?’ asked Jock.

  ‘Nothing! That was my first impression too.’

  ‘What’s his trip, then?’

  ‘He’s telling the news, but it’s impossible to understand. It’s like he’s talking in code.’

  ‘A town crier!’ Jock said. Our eyes followed the old man as he turned the corner.

  ‘Yeah, like in movies!’

  We stood listening and chuckling until the drum roll and speech was lost in the alleyways. We heard the crier every afternoon when we weren’t out surfing. We loved it, and just the sound of the approaching drum made us chuckle. ‘Here he comes!’

  CHAPTER 9

  With the warmer weather, the windows open and a refreshing breeze, the shortcomings of Ignacia’s house could be ignored. But it was getting cold and the windows had to be closed. After our morning cup of tea, the boys circled in.

  ‘Owen,’ said Jock, ‘I don’t want to seem picky.’ He groped for the right words. ‘But this place needs … sprucing up.’

  ‘I’ve been putting it off.’

  Rob fell back against his seat and laughed. ‘That’s an understatement!’

  ‘Jeez, fellas, give me a break. I haven’t spent much time here,’ I said, squirming in my chair. ‘Occasionally sitting and eating out on that balcony and sleeping, really. What have you got in mind?’

  Jock rubbed his hands vigorously. ‘A complete overhaul.’

  Our first task was to clean. We washed and scrubbed and mopped. We cleaned the walls as high as we could reach. The kitchen ceiling bore the smoky grime of decades of wood fires. We weren’t going near it.

  We worked hard, but it was impossible to get rid of all the dust. It clung resolutely to the ceilings and the upper reaches of the old walls.

  If we could have heated the house to any appreciable degree, we might have got on top of the damp, but there was no heating — a detail I’d overlooked on that first, beautiful autumn day tour with Ignacia.

  In the warmer weather it wasn’t so noticeable, but when autumn advanced, there was no escaping the damp, drifting in unseen from the now dull grey-green waters of the port. Salty, tinged with boat engine oil, it arrived on the back of the autumn winds and came to rest on every surface. It spread its tentacles through the house, on clothes and bedding, clinging firm, immoveable, like an octopus clamped to a rock.

  The lukewarm shower had become intolerable. The gasfired water heater was good for about sixty seconds and first shower was a privilege. But when winter approached, it was no-one’s privilege. We resorted to heating large pots of water on the stove and ‘showering’ in the kitchen sink.

  On the days of long, cold surfing, being caught second or third in line for a ‘shower’ — standing in the draughty stairwell, numb and blue with only a cold damp towel — was protracted torture.

  Winter took hold and the house became unbearably cold. Layers of clothing and a blanket made it cumbersome to sit and awkward to eat. We huddled in the kitchen with the gas stove on, or got back into bed. Mittens or gloves helped with the chill but not the dexterity. Even reading became difficult.

  We took refuge in the bars, but there was a trade-off between spending money there and buying gas for the stove. The balance of finances became trickier as the winter deepened.

  The dust we more or less came to terms with. The damp was a losing battle that we gave up fighting. The cold was
expected and we coped. But the rodents became a battle of wits and courage.

  Early one morning, Jock had an encounter.

  I’d seen big rats before, near the markets in Bermeo. Massive creatures with long pink tails, they emerged from the drains to forage on scraps but scuttled nervously away at the sound of footsteps. The thought of facing off with one of those vermin, its back up and teeth bared, was unnerving.

  Jock had got up to use the toilet, switched on the hall light and come face-to-whiskers with ‘La Rata’. It had escaped through its hole under the attic door and could be heard ascending the stairs. Jock, stopped cold in his tracks, managed to control his bladder. He retreated to his room, put on shoes, and warily tried again.

  We heard about it the following morning.

  ‘Big as a fucken cat,’ he snarled, eyes wide.

  ‘Something’s got to be done,’ said Rob.

  ‘We’ll have to catch it.’

  ‘Not me,’ I said, raising my hands in protest and retreating a step. ‘Can’t we just block the hole in the bottom of the door?’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Rob thoughtfully.

  We went to inspect the door in the hallway.

  ‘Who’s going in?’ I asked, absolutely certain it wasn’t me.

  No-one volunteered readily. Jock, cursing, was coerced. He switched on the light and carefully opened the door. A very dusty staircase led into the attic, a roof space where ancient beams sagged under the weight of faded red clay tiles. Cobwebs hung in giant plumes and light invaded in thick fingers where the tiles were broken or missing. Jock proceeded hesitantly to the top of the stairs and peered into the patchilylit space. All was quiet.

  ‘I’m not going any further,’ he said firmly. ‘The timber’s all rotten. It’s too dangerous.’ He beat a retreat and rejoined us at the bottom of the stairs. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it’s full of giant cobwebs.’

  We closed the door and locked it. I’m not sure why. That wasn’t going to keep the rat out, but somehow it made us feel a little more secure.

  We decided to block the hole. Rob found an old magazine and wedged it in tight. ‘That should do it,’ he said, convinced that no rat could pass.

  For a few days all was quiet, save for the scratching of our smaller friends.