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

by Owen Hargreaves

  Jock announced the bad news several days later, on rising to check the surf. ‘The magazine’s gone!’ he yelled.

  Rob and I rallied from our rooms to join him in the hallway.

  ‘Jesus!’ said Rob, examining the residual scraps of magazine around the hole. ‘The bugger chewed right through it!’

  Next we tried an old sandshoe Rob had found in his bedroom cupboard. He rammed it into the hole. ‘That will do it!’

  Jock and I exchanged looks. We weren’t so sure.

  The following morning we examined the sandshoe. Eaten through.

  ‘Jeez, man! That thing must have big choppers,’ said Jock, eyes bulging with restrained horror.

  ‘We need something metal,’ declared Rob gravely. Setting his mind to the problem with renewed determination, he found a cylindrical metal container about the right size, refashioned the hole in the door and wedged the container in.

  ‘Surely, that will do it,’ Rob said boldly. But he hadn’t convinced anyone, not even himself.

  The metal container did work to a degree. It prevented the rat from getting out of the attic, but didn’t stop it from trying. In the middle of the night you could hear La Rata trying its hardest to break through the fortifications. I didn’t like that sound, not my kind of lullaby. I preferred the subtle scratching of the mice.

  Eventually, I told Ignacia about our little problem. She arrived the next day with a small bag of green pellets. She studied our defensive arrangements at the bottom of the door and shook her head, bemused, and then scattered the pellets in the attic stairway with her tremulous gnarled hand.

  ‘No se preocupe! Don’t worry!’ she said confidently on leaving. ‘Adiós, muchachos! Adiós, rata!’

  And she was right. The tiny scratching sounds disappeared for a while, later to return, but La Rata had gone.

  A large pot, its lid awry, bubbled merrily on the stove, a loaf of crusty bread sat on the bench nearby. The smell of alubias and onions filled the house. ‘Smells damn good,’ I said. ‘Vino, anyone?’ I revealed two bottles of Rioja from behind my back.

  ‘You bet!’ Rob dropped his magazine. ‘Vino goes well with Pipeline!’

  We settled around the table in sleeping bags like giant caterpillars. ‘To Mundaca!’ I said, raising my glass. ‘And the next big swell!’

  ‘To Mundaca!’

  We drained our glasses.

  Halfway through the second bottle, we’d shared our virgin surfing stories and Rob was getting maudlin about Rebecca.

  ‘Maite’s brother’s in prison,’ I blurted. ‘Seven years. Something to do with ETA.’

  ‘Wow, man, a terrorist!’ Jock grabbed at the bottle to pour us all more wine. ‘What did he do? Kill someone?’

  ‘She won’t tell me. Only that he didn’t do what they accused him of.’

  Rob swept breadcrumbs into a pile on the tablecloth. ‘You’d get more than seven years if you killed someone.’

  ‘Franco’s regime is ruthless,’ I said. ‘They execute people with bloody firing squads, so it can’t have been that.’ I sat back against the hard wood of the chair. ‘They went to Dublin together — she was studying art, but he was doing business of some kind.’

  ‘I’ve been to Dublin,’ said Jock. ‘A fun city! Hardly known as the art school capital, though. Don’t recall any galleries.’ He laughed. ‘Mind you, too busy drinking Guinness in the pubs.’

  ‘That’d be right,’ said Rob, picking at the breadcrumbs, his eyes on Jock. ‘No sense of culture.’

  ‘Guinness is a big part of Irish culture,’ Jock retorted. ‘Ask any Irishman!’

  Rob waved him away. ‘So, Owen, you don’t know what business?’

  I shook my head. ‘She was vague about it. Manolo thinks if he really was with ETA, he could have been linking up with the IRA.’

  Jock lurched backwards. ‘Holy moly! That’s heavy, man. I mean, you wouldn’t want to mess with them.’

  Rob scowled. ‘ETA’s no different, Jock.’

  ‘He’s right,’ I said. ‘Manolo says the IRA helps ETA get weapons.’

  Rob sat back too. ‘Far out.’

  I took a gulp of wine. ‘And there’s more.’

  ‘Jesus!’ Rob flicked at the pile of breadcrumbs and they scattered over the table.

  ‘Manolo found out that Maite’s grandfather was a famous soldier in the Spanish Civil War. An officer in charge of a Basque battalion.’

  ‘No wonder they’re with ETA!’ exclaimed Rob. ‘It all adds up.’

  ‘What about Maite, Owen?’ asked Jock. ‘Is she involved?’

  ‘She says not, but a few strange things have happened.’ I ran a finger around the rim of my glass. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘What strange things?’

  I told them about our trip to Eibar and the shoebox, and being stopped by the Guardia, and how she’d said I’d done the sketches.

  ‘She’s up to something,’ said Jock. ‘You better watch out, man!’

  ‘I should …’ I thought about the parcels I’d posted and whether to tell them. I sighed and sat back. ‘But she’s so lovely. Irresistible.’

  ‘Irresistible!’ Jock gripped the table. ‘This is serious stuff, amigo!’

  ‘Oath!’ said Rob, a hand busy at his stubble — a tic developing. ‘ETA? Don’t get involved.’

  I swallowed. ‘I already am involved.’

  ‘Maybe you should press her,’ said Rob. ‘Find out more.’

  ‘She asked me to trust her.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I do.’ I toyed with the glass and surveyed the breadcrumbs. ‘But there’s things I’d like to know — for my own peace of mind.’

  ‘You should keep your distance.’ Jock put on his glasses and stared at me. ‘What are you here for anyway, man? The surf, right?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rob. ‘Jock’s right, Owen. You should focus on the waves. Isn’t that why you stayed in Mundaca?’

  I sighed. ‘Of course, but …’

  ‘No buts, Owen,’ said Jock.

  I looked at Rob.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Alright. I’ll try to focus.’ I set my glass down and cracked my fingers. ‘I have been waiting for a good swell.’

  ‘It’s going to get big and that’ll be something,’ said Jock.

  ‘True,’ I said. ‘Imagine flying down those huge walls. Can’t wait!’

  ‘I can,’ said Rob. ‘Imagine the wipeouts. Don’t want to think about it … Bars tonight?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Jock. ‘Owen?’

  ‘Not me,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a rendezvous.’

  They looked at each other, then pounded me with cushions. The cries of ‘idiot’ rang in my ears.

  CHAPTER 10

  On the main street was a triangular nook, bordered on one side by the stone wall of the Banco de Vizcaya and on the other by a roughly rendered retaining wall. Dimly lit, I could wait there unseen. A car approached from Guernica, slowed and stopped. Maite!

  ‘Qué tal?’ she asked, smiling, when I got in. She leaned over and kissed me on the lips. I could smell her perfume, subtle jasmine.

  ‘I started to think you weren’t coming.’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t be silly!’ She kissed me again. ‘Shall we go to Lequetio?’

  ‘Why not? I’ve never been there.’

  ‘It’s beautiful! You’ll like it. And I can relax there. No prying eyes!’

  ‘Even better!’

  We headed out of Mundaca, across the bridge and up to the lookout. The river, dark and silent, rested in its nocturnal bed, and on the other side of the estuary the lights of Laida hung like lanterns, disappeared into the trees when the car curved down to Pedernales.

  ‘How was your day?’ I asked, one eye on Maite, one on the road.

  ‘Tiring. I went to my uncle’s farm and then the nursing home … I didn’t see you there.’

  ‘I haven’t been going since Jock and Rob arrived.’

  ‘Dr Arriaza has noticed. He’s disappointed. Some
of the patients too. They liked seeing you in that corner seat.’

  ‘Is that right …? I’ll go soon — promise.’

  Maite yawned.

  ‘Didn’t you sleep well last night?’

  ‘No.’ She turned briefly. ‘I was thinking about you.’

  ‘Really?’ I put my hand on her thigh. ‘Nice thoughts, I hope!’

  ‘Beautiful thoughts,’ she said softly, releasing one hand from the wheel to place it on mine.

  ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble with your family for looking sleepy,’ I said, laughing.

  ‘You won’t. My sister says I seem more alive than usual.’

  I swivelled momentarily to look at her. ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How many sisters have you got?’

  ‘Two.’ She hesitated. By the dim glow of the dashboard lights, I saw her bite her lip. ‘One’s away.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Away.’ She released her hand from mine. ‘On a trip.’

  Another brick wall. I reached for her hand. ‘I know that alive feeling too. Since I met you, I’ve felt alive like never before!’

  ‘I’m glad.’ She squeezed my hand tightly. ‘My sister was nosing around today.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’

  ‘That I’d met someone … alguien guapo y simpático, someone handsome, nice. I didn’t tell her you were Australian.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She shook her head. ‘If she knew I’d met an extranjero, she’d be upset. She’d tell my brothers.’

  I pushed out a breath. ‘Jesus, is it so important I’m not Basque?’

  ‘Of course,’ she said with an edge to her voice. ‘Around here it’s extremely important. Not many people are broad-minded when it comes to family. So I have to be discreet.’ She stole a glance. ‘You understand?’

  ‘Yeah,’ I said reluctantly. ‘But it seems ridiculous. What would the rest of your family do if they found out?’

  She was silent for a minute, weighing up the possibilities. ‘Better they don’t know.’ She grimaced. ‘Much better.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘My brothers and the other sister are passionate Basques. We all are, but they more than most … They’d do anything.’

  I turned to look at her. ‘Anything?’

  She was quiet for a moment, a silhouette in the thin moonlight. ‘Almost.’

  ‘What about your dad?’

  ‘He’s a pacifist.’ She hesitated. ‘He reacted badly to what happened to his own father during the Civil War. Never got over it.’

  ‘What happened to your granddad?’

  ‘He was a brave soldier. He commanded a battalion, saw terrible things. Many of his men died.’ Her sadness was etched by the pallid light. ‘He felt responsible and carried that guilt all his life. And he never got over the Basque defeat.’

  ‘Jeez, that must have been hell.’ I shifted in my seat. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘My dad watched him suffer, saw his torment.’ Her voice tightened. ‘It made him totally opposed to war.’ She was quiet a moment, concentrating on rounding a tight curve. ‘My father has encouraged us to look for an alternative to violence.’

  ‘An alternative?’

  ‘A more effective way to promote the Basque cause.’

  I said nothing. What did ‘more effective’ mean?

  ‘My brothers and sisters and I don’t always agree on how to go about that.’

  ‘How so?’

  She was silent for a moment. ‘Let’s say there are different ways to fight and some more radical than others.’

  I could feel my muscles tighten. ‘Do you believe in radical options?’

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘On what?’

  She searched for words. ‘On how desperate you are.’

  I swallowed. ‘Are you desperate?’

  ‘Everyone gets desperate sometimes.’ She seemed deliberately vague.

  ‘Like your brother?’ I asked.

  She flashed an angry look. ‘I told you he didn’t do anything! He’s innocent. Don’t you listen?’

  ‘I do. You said your brothers and sisters didn’t all agree on things. I thought, maybe, he’d gone out on a limb.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘That he’d taken a more radical course of action.’

  ‘Ah! I thought you understood! You don’t listen. He didn’t do anything radical. You don’t understand anything at all!’

  I bit my lip to save myself from saying something I’d regret. Her mouth was clamped like a purse with the strings drawn tight, and she gripped the wheel as if clinging to a lifeboat.

  ‘Jeez, I’m sorry,’ I said. I put my hand on her arm. ‘It seems I’ve gone out on a limb, overstepped the mark.’

  Her grip on the wheel loosened. ‘You have.’ She shrugged and her face relaxed. ‘There are things you may never understand.’

  I bristled slightly. ‘It can’t be that complicated.’

  She glanced at me. ‘It is and it isn’t.’

  ‘Hell. What does that mean?’

  ‘We have a sense of duty. To our family. To our fellow Basques.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘Can you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then why aren’t you with your family?’

  It was a question I hadn’t expected. ‘They … don’t need me at the moment.’

  ‘Don’t they?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘They cope without me.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘I told you, he’s travelling.’

  ‘Your family’s dispersed. That wouldn’t work here.’

  ‘Well, you went to Dublin. And your sister’s away. What’s the difference?’

  Her voice tightened. ‘The difference is those things happened for a purpose, for something we believe in! What’s your purpose? What do you believe in?’

  I didn’t know what to say. ‘I’m trying to work that out. That’s why I’m travelling … to discover my purpose.’

  She was quiet for a moment. ‘What do you believe in?’

  ‘Believe in?’ I chewed on my lip, thinking. ‘Freedom. Peace … I’m against war.’

  She stiffened. ‘You wouldn’t fight for anything? Your country? Your home? Your family?’

  ‘I mean,’ I said, squirming, ‘I wouldn’t be a soldier, invade another country. Like Vietnam, it makes no sense for Australians to fight there. We were dragged in by the Americans.’ I clutched at the seat. ‘My next-door neighbour was killed there, but what for?’ I reached for her. ‘Of course, I’d defend my family, my home — if I had to. But I’ve never had to really think about it.’ I took a breath. ‘It’s not an issue for us, for me. It’s not a reality.’

  Her face hardened. ‘It is for us, for me. It’s a daily reality.’

  ‘It’s different for you,’ I pleaded. ‘Your cause is obvious. You were born into it.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘I absolutely love it here, I really do.’ I squeezed her thigh. ‘And I feel for you. I’ve read nearly half George’s book and I can see how the Basques suffered, people in this area, and how you’re still suppressed.’ I hesitated. ‘I’d fight for it too.’

  She frowned. ‘Would you?’

  ‘Why not? In my own way. Like George did.’

  ‘I knew you’d understand.’ She dropped a hand from the wheel and clutched at mine. ‘So you’re on our side?’

  ‘I’m on your side.’

  ‘And you trust me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So, best we keep things to ourselves, okay? It’s much simpler that way. Otherwise there might be consequences.’

  ‘Alright. If that’s the way it has to be … I want to be able to see you, but I don’t want to get you into any trouble.’

  I didn’t know exactly what the consequences might be, but I was willing to take the risk. Jeez, I could only imagine what
her brothers might do. For her, restrictions and a curfew, no doubt. For me — hunted down, beaten up, or worse. I didn’t want to think about it.

  Lequetio appeared subdued. On the footpath, I put my arms around Maite and she snuggled against me. We kissed for some time, content to be alone in the shadows.

  ‘Vámanos,’ she said eventually, gently breaking free.

  Maite seemed completely relaxed while we walked hand-in-hand and began our vuelta. The beautiful old port was lined with restaurants and rustic bars. At each bar she chose the pinchos, delicious morsels of seafood, and we sipped our tintos.

  ‘How does it feel in the sea and riding waves?’ she asked.

  My hands lovingly traced the form of the swells and the fast-flowing path of the surfer, while I tried to portray the powerful emotions.

  She laughed. ‘Surfing, I’m not sure I understand it. It’s so dangerous! But I can see you love it. It’s your passion!’

  ‘The surf and the beach are a big part of Australian culture.’ For that moment, I wanted nothing more than to take Maite home.

  ‘The surfing is important to you.’ She crinkled her brow. ‘But you’re in the Basque country. You must learn about our culture.’

  ‘Will you teach me some more Basque?’

  She laughed playfully when I tried to roll my r’s. Basque has a lot of them.

  Between bars we walked beside the port. In the middle of the bay was a large island. Maite said at low tide you could almost walk there. We stood for a while, silently gazing across the water, content in each other’s company. I was overjoyed to be with a beautiful girl who was fast becoming the centre of my world.

  She took me to a famous old bar that specialised in jamón. Cured Spanish ham, sliced thinly, melts in your mouth. Dangling from the cobwebbed ceiling, not far above head height, were dozens of various size and age, swaying ever so slightly in eerie noiseless patterns. Maite ordered drinks. The pinchos, all jamón, were delicate, rich and lightly smoked.

  I reached to touch a nearby ham. ‘Cuánto cuesta?’ I asked the bartender, an older, jolly, rotund man.

  ‘Fifteen thousand pesetas,’ he said. ‘Or thereabouts.’

  ‘Ooh la la!’ I said. ‘There’s a lot of money hanging from this ceiling.’