Carmen, arms folded, was holding fort behind the bar. She half-smiled, half-grunted when we entered, as if her wayward children were late coming home, but she was still pleased to see them. She leant against the bar and tried to put on a grave face. ‘Muchachos! Cerveza o café?’
‘No more coffee thanks, Carmen,’ I said. ‘We’re thirsty. Cerveza.’
‘Cerveza.’ She raised her eyebrows in resignation, and reached below the bar.
‘How’s the grand-daughter?’ I asked.
‘Been coughing for a month. Cough, cough, cough, vomit.’
‘Can’t the doctor fix her?’
‘Whooping cough. Says it will last three months. She’s losing weight.’
‘I hope she’s okay.’
‘We all do. I’m going to see her as soon as Manolo gets here.’ She scowled. ‘Late as usual.’ She levered off the bottle caps, poured each glass half-full and slid them towards us ruefully. ‘Tres cervezas.’
‘Your shout, Rob,’ said Jock sheepishly. ‘I left my wallet back at the house.’
‘Typical bloody Scottish!’ exclaimed Rob.
‘Scottish Americano,’ Jock retorted. ‘Or, to be exact, an Americano with a hint of Scottish.’
‘A hint?’ Rob laughed. ‘More like a whiff!’
Carmen shook her head. ‘Salud pilluelos. Ragamuffins.’
I raised my glass. ‘Salud, Carmen! Salud muchachos!’
The boys raised theirs. ‘Salud!’
Jock took a sip and spied the newspaper lying on the bar, a photo of a Spanish correspondent taken hostage in Lebanon on the front cover.
‘Crazy bugger!’
‘Gutsy bastards, those war journos,’ said Rob wistfully. ‘It’d be an interesting job, though.’
‘Depends,’ said Jock. Off came the glasses, out came the handkerchief. ‘You need huge cajones for that.’
Rob laughed. ‘No problem there.’
Jock grunted, cleaning his specs. ‘I can’t see Rebecca sitting at home while you dodge bullets around the globe.’
Rob chuckled nervously. ‘I’m not really the war-zone type.’ He motioned towards the sea. ‘The only bullet I want to dodge is a ten-foot wave.’
‘I’m with you there!’ said Jock, specs and crooked grin back in place.
‘Boys, there’ll be plenty of bullets flying down the river mouth when the big swells come,’ I said.
‘Don’t keep reminding us, man.’
‘Don’t you want to fly down the line, Jock? Feel all that energy and speed?’
‘I do, I do. But I don’t want to get killed in the process.’
‘You won’t get killed!’ I said loudly.
Carmen frowned and reached for a broom.
‘How do you know, man?’
‘You know how to surf, how to survive,’ I said in a softer voice. ‘Have a little faith.’
‘Faith?’
‘Yeah, faith. Your survival instinct will kick in. You’ll be okay.’
‘A bit hard to have faith with a broken neck.’
‘We’ll all be out there,’ I said. ‘We’ll keep an eye on each other.’
‘In the end, you’re on your own,’ said Jock. He grimaced. ‘You know that.’
‘Jock’s right,’ said Rob. ‘Even if you’re brave, or mad, like your mate George, you still have to survive on your own wits.’
‘Of course. But survival’s inbuilt, isn’t it?’
Anxious eyes regarded me.
‘Fellas, a few more days of smaller waves and you’ll be ready to taste the bigger ones.’
Jock finished his beer. ‘Owen, I think that book is playing with your mind.’
Rob fidgeted with his empty glass and set it on the bar. ‘I know what I’m ready to taste. Another beer. ‘Otro bar?’ He laid down the pesetas.
‘Sí, otro bar, amigo.’ Jock stretched his shoulders like he was going for a surf. ‘Enough talk of bullets and war.’
Carmen stopped her sweeping, bemused. ‘Your Spanish is improving, muchachos. Agur! And if you want to learn about survival skills, go and watch Mohammad Ali — over at the casino.’
The great man himself was not at the Mundaca casino, but his fight with Joe Frazier was going to be telecast live in the upstairs bar.
Like most surfers, we were underdressed and out of place in this dignified establishment. This evening, however, a smattering of locals had gathered to watch the brash Ali face off against the ageing Joe Frazier in a re-match dubbed ‘The Thriller in Manila’, and so we didn’t stand out too badly.
We swayed and grimaced while we watched. From the groans, the locals were feeling every punch. In the final rounds, a few were on their feet, ready to swing. As his opponent wilted, Ali delivered a series of devastating blows. A staggering Frazier barely made it to his corner before his trainer threw in the towel. At least the opponents were well-matched and the rules abided by. My mind flashed to the Basques fighting the fascists, on the ropes, getting pummelled.
The celebrations began with a rush to the bar.
As night descended on the village, we adjourned for the post-mortem to a quieter watering hole in the main street, the one opposite the triangular nook.
‘About time we saw the girls — Ines,’ said Jock, after we’d dispatched with the boxing gloves and I got up to leave.
‘Jock’s got to ply his charm, remember, Owen?’ said Rob.
‘Yes. How could I forget?’ I had neglected Jock’s romantic yearnings, but that was the last thing on my mind right now. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’
I hadn’t forgotten my appointment. Before that, I wanted to see Manolo.
I headed along the lanes that twisted and turned through the heart of the village, my mind a sea of unrest, thought waves crashing into each other from every direction. My shoes scraped the cobbles, the echoes ricocheting along the narrow passageways between the tenements. The sulphurous glow of street lamps, like distant lighthouses in a sea mist, drew me forward — a spotlight of raw yellow revealing me briefly when I passed beneath. The light at my back a sallow wash that turned my form to shadow — a shadow that stretched and led me back into darkness. And there, half-blind, alone with the smell of mould and brine, I felt my way along the sweaty walls of old buildings, over cobbles slippery like fish, to the main street.
Manolo leant on the bar, powerful arms, like posts, holding him erect, his head cemented on a thick, strong neck that grew out of a formidable torso, a torso once steeled by muscle but now cushioned by age. A blurry portrait through the steamedup window.
He was holding court, arguing with three local fishermen, boinas clamped tight against the wind. From outside I’d seen their hands flying, but when I entered, the conversation stopped.
‘Hepa,’ they said, almost in unison.
I nodded and grunted in customary fashion.
‘Muchacho! Qué tal? Where have you been hiding?’ He reached out a paw. ‘A drink, muchacho? Cerveza?’
‘Please.’ I took a stool at the far end of the bar, out of earshot.
Manolo brought the beer. ‘You look worried, muchacho. What’s up?’
‘Too much.’ I ran my hands through my hair. ‘Too much happening.’
‘Muchacho, I can’t talk for long.’ He glanced down the bar to the fishermen. ‘Customers. There’ll soon be more, but I wanted to let you know what I found out.’
‘Yes?’
He leant forward, almost whispering, ‘A soldier who fought alongside Maite’s grandfather during the war and disappeared for a long time afterward is in the nursing home. He’s old, unwell. The doctor was with them too in the war, a medic. Seems they were all extremely close, life-long friends since that time. They’re loyal Basques,’ he said. ‘But ETA? I couldn’t say.’
The door was flung open and a group of men blew in with the wind. ‘Manolo, hombre, cinco tintos!’
‘Vengo, Señores!’ Manolo collected himself. ‘I’ve got to go, muchacho. Come back when it’s quieter. We’ll talk, okay?’
&
nbsp; Maite arrived at our meeting place soon after I did. She didn’t want to go to the bars, so we drove up to the lookout and parked. I told her about the letter from home and about Louise. She listened quietly, not asking too many questions, looking out across the river into the darkness.
‘Death so young is too tragic,’ she said. ‘Illness or war, the result is the same.’ She gripped my hand. ‘I fear to die young.’
‘Me too.’ I pulled her close. ‘This is a bit gloomy,’ I said. ‘Do you want to come to my place?’
I led her up the stairs into Casa Ignacia. All was quiet, save for the usual sighs of the roof and the creaking groans of the floorboards.
‘Is it haunted?’ she asked.
‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘The walls whisper at night and tell me stories of the previous inhabitants, the long dead.’
‘Mentiras! Lies!’ She clutched me tight, as if she believed every word.
A mouse scurried across the floor into its hole when I turned on the kitchen light.
I laughed. ‘One of our little pets.’
She scowled. ‘I’m not sure I want to be here.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll protect you. Come this way.’ I led her down the corridor, pausing at the bathroom where I flicked on the light. The tap in the sink was dripping and a fold of mouldy wallpaper rustled with an eddy of breeze. ‘The spa room. No sauna, unfortunately.’
She screwed up her face. ‘It’s ancient.’
‘Antique,’ I said. ‘Priceless.’
‘I feel like I’m walking uphill.’
‘You are,’ I said. ‘But come, it’s downhill from here to the balcony.’
‘That’s good,’ she said. ‘Up hill, down dale. You’ll stay fit living here.’
‘You’ll see.’ I opened the balcony doors. ‘The view is perfect.’
‘Is it safe?’
I reached for her hand, coaxing her into the dark. ‘It’s old, but strong.’
She stepped out gingerly — like I had done on that first tour with Ignacia — clinging to my arm. I pulled her close. She nestled in, advancing cautiously with me to the rail. The half moon slid shyly behind a dark cloud. The port lights — pale, thin, yellow — cast an eerie, damp light over the tiny harbour.
‘How romantic,’ she said, gazing out. ‘Like a painting of Venice in winter. Cold but humid.’
‘Look, you can see the waves in the river mouth.’
‘A surfer’s dream home.’
I laughed. ‘Almost.’
‘Did you take it for the view?’
I grinned. ‘In a way. The price was attractive too.’
‘Hmm. I can imagine.’
‘But I’ve grown to love the place.’
She laughed. ‘That, I can’t imagine! And besides, love is a strong word.’
‘The place grows on you! You have to remember I came here at the end of summer, when it was still warm. With the doors and windows wide open, the sound of the sea and the wind, it was beautiful sitting here on the balcony, reading, looking out, breathing it all in.’
She turned to me. ‘You are a romantic at heart, aren’t you?’
‘I suppose. Anything wrong with that?’
‘I don’t think so.’ She smiled. ‘But many people don’t see things that way.’
‘A different perspective?’
‘A different sensibility.’
‘Sensibility, that’s a good word.’ I looked up at the night sky. ‘A different sensibility. That explains it perfectly … another world someone can’t experience or appreciate.’
‘Like art. Everyone has their own artistic sensibility. And when you find someone with the same sensibility, it’s like meeting a kindred spirit on a bridge crossing a wild river.’
‘That’s poetic.’
‘Well, I think it’s quite rare. Don’t you?’
‘I’m not sure. Shared passions attract, I suppose. They lead you down the same path. Maybe it’s destiny.’
‘Destiny.’ She shrugged. ‘Destiny suggests we don’t really have a say in things, that we can’t make anything happen, that it all simply unfolds.’
‘True. But maybe it’s a guiding force.’
‘So, how do you proceed in life?’
‘Easy. Follow your instincts.’
She laughed. ‘That could cause trouble! Imagine everyone following their instincts. There’d be chaos!’
‘I don’t mean following your base, animal instincts. I mean, if you’re not sure which way to turn, trust your instincts.’
‘Well, there’s truth in that.’ She sought out my eyes. ‘So, what are your instincts about me?’
‘Hmm.’ I kept a straight face. ‘Let me think.’
She pushed me away. ‘If you have to think, it’s not instinct!’ I laughed, pulled her close again. ‘My instinct is to kiss you.’ ‘Then, don’t be afraid.’
‘I’m not afraid.’ I brushed her lips with mine. ‘Shall we go to my room?’
She grabbed my hand and pulled me in that direction. ‘I should trust my instinct too, right?’
I laughed. ‘You bet!’
Maite pushed George’s book off my bed to the floor. ‘I’ve lived with that history every day of my life,’ she said.
Around midnight, Maite dressed at speed and set off down the corridor, spiriting herself forward by the paltry lamplight from Plaza Santa Catalina. After a few steps, there was a halfmuffled scream.
She’d accidentally kicked a rat the size of a cat with her boot. The rat, equally surprised, hissed, took off down the corridor and bolted through a new hole at the bottom of the attic door. Not again! Was it the son of La Rata?
I met Maite again the following night at the usual spot. True to her word, she brought Ines, but Bego was now living in Bilbao and couldn’t come.
Jock was all smiles. We made a vuelta, and he and Ines seemed to naturally hit it off. Over the ensuing days, the ribbing from Rob and I fell away and Ines became a regular weekend member of our little group.
Maite brought a guitar along to the house, determined to teach me a Basque protest song. I battled with the chords and unique style of strumming. She left it so I could practise, but
Jock, his fingers twitching as I wrestled the instrument, circled in. ‘How about a turn, Owen?’
‘Can you play?’ I asked.
‘Are you kidding, my man?’
Thereafter, the old guitar rarely left Jock’s arms. He entertained us day in, day out, playing all the popular songs, the original version and hilarious variations. We laughed ourselves stupid. The guitar transformed the house. Suddenly, we had music — music à la Jock, but music no less.
During the week, Maite and I joined Jock and Rob in the bars for a while, before heading back to the house. This was to become our routine. The only thing that varied was whether we joined the others at all, and, if so, what time we left them.
Often Maite would fall asleep in my arms, wake with a start after midnight, dress, then scurry off into the darkness. I’d listen, half-asleep, to the faltering purr of her little SEAT car break the stillness in Plaza Santa Catalina and trail off into the night. And after, I’d fall into a deep, contented sleep, overjoyed by my inexplicable good fortune.
Maite came for me a few days later, at the house. I’d stopped reading at the nursing home. The terrace was too cold and the wind cut through me. Dr Arriaza had offered a room inside with a wonderful view, but Battle-axe clearly didn’t approve.
‘Is the rat gone?’ Maite asked.
‘Ignacia’s pellets did the trick. Not a squeak, or a hiss.’
‘Just as well … I’ve brought a picnic lunch,’ she said. ‘Bring a jacket.’
I took my jacket from the back of a kitchen chair and we started down the stairs. ‘Where’s Truende exactly?’
‘Between Bermeo and Bilbao.’
‘I suppose the road is winding?’
‘And steep.’
We reached her little car and got in.
‘Did you read any more
of the book?’
‘Is it so important?’
‘If you understand the book, our history, you might help our cause.’
I wasn’t sure what she meant. How could I help?
She reached for my hand. ‘You would help me again if I asked, wouldn’t you?’
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’d help.’ Jesus, what the hell was I saying? While we drove through the hills, I wondered what she might ask next. What had I put myself in for? What would Jock and Rob say if they found out? Mum and Dad would be horrified. And I could imagine what John would say: ‘You bloody idiot, Owen!’ He’d be right, of course.
‘The fascist, Mola, thought he could break through to Bilbao.’
‘Mola?’
Her eyes flicked from the road to me and back again. ‘Are you listening?’
‘Yeah … sure.’
‘He attacked the Basque defence along a broad front, but the front was too broad, German air support stretched too thin. The attack failed and Bermeo became encircled. The Italians were cut off.’ She negotiated the bends to the foot of Mount Truende. ‘A Basque battalion counter-attacked from Mount Truende, near the pass.’
‘Up there?’ I asked, pointing to the summit.
‘Yes. They drove the Italian column back, captured arms, supplies and several Italian soldiers. Hundreds were killed.’
‘A good win for the Basques,’ I said.
‘Yes, and not only here. Another Basque battalion forced the Italians back from Mount Sollube to Pedernales. And on the southern side of Sollube, the Basques repelled rebel advances from Rigoitia and at Urrimendi.’
‘The boys and I walked through the hills from Mundaca to Bermeo the other day and ate paella at a bar called Sollube, close to the paseo beside the port.’
‘Sollube is close to the Basque heart.’ She rounded a tight curve and I clutched at the arm rest, fighting nausea. ‘That night, in the dark, Basque fighters snuck down to the coastal road and dynamited the bridge at Mundaca.’
Mundaca: A Tale of Intrigue, Romance and Surfing in Franco's Spain Page 18