The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “Oh grandfather,” replied Francesc, “you must help me. Thinking of the future scares me.”

  “No, you will not need help,” said his grandfather. “You will have the support of us all, but your own knowledge and learning is all the help you will require. Besides, I am a very old man, and not long for this world. I die smiling, knowing that all I strived for was worth it. I’m leaving Catalunya in safe hands.”

  With that, the old man closed his eyes and seemed to sleep. Francesc, leaning against his thin legs, slept also, and Antoni moved quietly to the other side of the room where he lay on a rug and slumbered. Only Alissia remained awake, watching the three lions: the former, the present, and the future Lion of Catalunya. In the silence of the night, she listened to the three breathing: Francesc’s youthful easy breath, Antoni’s heavier deep breathing, and Rafael’s troubled and rattling chest. And as she watched, she saw Rafael’s breathing ease, and with one long sigh finally stop. Gently she shook her husband awake. “He’s gone,” she whispered, “the old lion has left us.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  If anyone had asked Rafael, when he was a young man, if he thought he would die peacefully at home, surrounded by family, as an old man, he would have laughed. Through the turmoil of his early days, the trauma of the loss of his father, and the flight to safety on the beach, so much had happened in his youth that he hardly expected to survive twenty years. He had lived with a false name under the nose of the Castilian authorities, and had survived long enough that the Mossos had forgotten they were hunting him.

  Francesc and his father sat and watched the old man until dawn, and then Antoni went down to the beach to collect the rest of the family and tell them the sad news.

  Rafael was the first of the family to be taken to rest in the old graveyard at Monjuic since the siege. Traces of the old family burials had vanished, but Francesc was adamant from the stories he had listened to, that it was right and appropriate to take the old man’s remains there. He also insisted that after the prayers at Sant Miquel, they should also go to Santa Maria del Mar, reviving another old family tradition.

  Francesc named his first-born son Xaudaro, an old and traditional Catalan name. Soon after his grand-son was born, Antoni passed the title of Lion of Catalunya to Francesc. This was the first time the title was held by a man of education rather than physical strength, and it would set a pattern which would recur more times over the years. Francesc’s writing did not stop with the family history; he attempted a simple grammar of Catalan, struggling to make sense of the confusing patterns of language in the few books he cherished so much. He started to write his political thoughts, and talked with his father Antoni, and elderly Master Verboom the designer of the barrio of Barceloneta, who, coming from the Low Countries, had much sympathy with Catalunya, and was eager to explain his radical socialist ideals. Francesc ensured his son Xaudaro understood not only his inheritance as a Blanxart, but also the significance of the way Verboom had designed Barceloneta, giving everyone the dignity of a well-proportioned house, with no dwelling larger or smaller than any other. Xaudaro, whilst still young, looked at his father and declared, “We live in a model town, don’t we father? It would be much better if all of Barcelona was like this! We should tear down those palaces in Montcada and build more homes for ordinary people!”

  Francesc smiled. “The enthusiasm of the young,” he said to himself. He looked fondly at his bright son: the boy’s golden curls mirroring his father’s. Xaudaro grew up as multi-lingual as his father – he had, after all, the best teacher in Catalunya to teach him – and he followed happily in his father’s footsteps as a teacher.

  The family business, reading and translating in the front, with a little Catalan teaching out of sight at the back, in Carrer de Sant Miquel, was thriving in safe hands with him. It seemed to be a happy pattern that the first born, who would one day become the lion, should develop the Catalan side of their business enterprises, whilst the rest of the family would work in the growing chiringuita enterprises. As Antoni grew older, and lost his great strength, he loved to watch his grandson’s progress as an intellectual and linguist, just as Rafael had loved to watch Francesc. The day came for Xaudaro to be shown the hiding place, and its precious contents. Unlike the time years before, when Antoni could lift the flagstone on his own, this time it was a struggle for the three of them, Francesc and Xaudaro assisting Antoni, to lift the great slab of limestone.

  The years passed. Antoni and Alissia joined Rafael and Susana in the Montjuic graveyard, and Francesc in his turn became an old man. As each generation passed, the values of Catalonya and socialism began to merge, and each first-born Blanxart boy fulfilled his obligation of finding a true Catalonian girl to marry, and then of teaching his family the songs and ballads, the poems and stories and the great longing for the revival of their homeland. Xaudaro grew up not only a fierce advocate for Catalunya, but also a passionate socialist, a combination of the innovative wisdoms which defined all true Catalans.

  At the turn of the century, Xaudaro and his wife had their first child and he was named Alejandro, another traditional Catalan name: and as ‘Alejandro Blanxart’ his inheritance, and culture were stamped upon him from the day of his birth. And, of course, he had the extraordinary blond hair, which made every Blanxart first-born stand out from the crowd. At the time his son was born, Xaudaro was made the Lion of Catalunya by his aging father.

  Little did the neighbours in Barceloneta know that every few years, an extraordinary ritual was taking place in the house in Sant Miquel. The stone would be raised, the sword, book and senyera taken out and displayed to the next Lion of Catalunya. The 1700’s merged into the 1800’s and little changed outwardly in the barrio.

  Political storms raged throughout Europe: alliances were forged and broken; waves of immigration took Catalan families to the Americas, fleeing oppression from unknown foreign conquerors. Napoleon came and left, bringing another reign of terror to Barcelona, but the city remained intact. It became the cradle of the Spanish industrial revolution, and thus continued its role as the economic jewel in the Castilian crown. Despite all efforts to attract wealth to Madrid, the real wealth and business of nineteenth century Spain was in Barcelona. Whilst other regions fell into poverty, the people of Barcelona were always busy and enjoyed periods of full employment.

  With money in their pockets, even the working classes could afford to visit the Blanxart chiriguita on the beach, and with increasing trade, the family opened new and larger beach kitchens, until the shore line was dotted with busy steaming chiringuitas, their stoves heating vast pans of paella, ovens producing fragrant flat loaves, and brew houses pungent with hops as great flagons of beer were brewed.

  The everyday business of maintaining the busy chiringuitas meant that all the Blanxarts were working hard. It was a long day, starting at dawn, stoking the fires for the ovens and stoves, until late into the evening, cleaning the pots and pans by candlelight. The income from the chiriguitas ensured that the family were comfortable, and immune to the political tides of boom and recession which made life so unpredictable for working people elsewhere in the city, or indeed throughout Spain.

  Hardly had the new century dawned, when the country was struck with more conflict and upheaval. The Carlist Wars, so confusing to the ordinary working man, sent waves of soldiers of varying nationalities across the land, often finding rest and refreshment on the beach and in the humble chiriguitas of Barceloneta. Riots in the growing industrial suburbs similarly caused groups of homeless workers to appear temporarily on the beach, and the socialist ideals of the Blanxarts ensured that all were cared for and fed before returning to their suburban slums, and new opportunities for employment.

  The traditional of education, created so strongly by Francesc, was fiercely maintained within the family. Over the years, with each generation, the future head of the family would learn the stories of Catalunya and the legends of the Lion; for each of them the time would come to reveal the sword and the s
enyera, and to read Fransesc’s book; and sometime after that they would inherit the title and obligations of becoming Lion of Catalunya. As the century progressed, and the implications of the industrial revolution became clearer and clearer, the Blanxart men added more socialist idealism to the inherited understanding of Catalan culture, and the two became intertwined.

  Barcelonans lived in a constant state of chaos: working class riots led to a bombardment of the city from Montjuic; and later class struggles saw the indiscriminate burning of monasteries. Alejandro founded a socialist magazine, written largely by himself and his father Xandaro, printed on a little hand press in the upstairs room at Sant Miquel, and distributed very discretely in the factories and mills which now dominated the city landscape. Alejandro’s secret knowledge of the forbidden Catalan language and culture underpinned his work on the magazine, but he was careful not to reveal too much about the sword, the senyera or the book.

  As Alejandro grew older, he was raised into an atmosphere heavily charged politically: he was saturated by both socialist ideals and Catalan culture from the time he was born, and dreamed of becoming the Lion of Catalonia who would do more than keep the sword hidden: he dreamed of revealing it to his people. He dreamed of flying the senyera; and he dreamed of printing his grandfather’s book. He chose his wife with the traditional care of the Blanxart family, and in 1835, Emilia Perez came into the family. She brought as much anti-royalist passion, and hatred of Castile as Alejandro had, and they became a formidable couple.

  After so many stable years, fate then dealt an unexpected blow. After several miscarriages, Emilia produced the first-born son Alejandro was so desperate to have. The boy was named Jordi, born in 1840, and had the wonderful head of golden curls, strong limbs and open smiling face of all the other Blanxarts. And he was blind.

  Emilia was distraught; Alejandro despondent. How could this fine inheritance, all this important culture, this knowledge and experience fall upon the shoulders of a blind boy? Emilia had another son a year later, but Juan was born with the straight black hair of his mother’s family, and could hardly take the place of his blond brother.

  In the evenings, with Jordi and Juan asleep, Emilia and Alejandro would weep together. “All my longings and ambition dashed on the rocks,” Alejandro would say. “We will love and cherish our little boy, but how can he be the Lion of Catalunya? The time will come when father hands the sword to me; all I have ever wanted is the honour of being the Lion of Catalunya, but now I dread the day. Will I be the last Lion? Will the title, and all it stands for die with me?”

  As had happened in many previous generations of the family, it was a grandfather who came to the rescue. Xaudaro, now an old man just past his seventieth birthday, sat with the blind Jordi, and started to sing to him all the old Catalan folk songs. Jordi would smile, and sing along. Xaudaro then bought the boy a small guitar, and from the first moment it was put into the little boy’s hands, it was clear he had talents and gifts beyond the fears and hopes of his parents. Struggling to reach around the body of the toy instrument, Jordi would work at the guitar in the way other children learned to read, or run with a ball, or all the many other skills a blind boy would never have, with long dedicated hours, daily conquering the complexities of the instrument.

  “Listen to your son,” Xaudaro would say. “In his darkness he absorbs the Catalan culture. No Lion’s son has had such a wonderful voice, and learned the folk songs of Catalunya so easily. Have faith, my Alejandro, that your passion will flood the boy just as our music floods him now. The Lions of Catalunya have all been different. We know of the legendary strength of my grandfather, the sculptor Antoni, whose image stands at the church of Sant Miquel; he was followed by the wisdom of his son, the bookish Francesc, my father, who gave us our written history in the secret book we keep with the sword; you and I have been hard workers, building up our business empire, strengthening our position in financial terms; perhaps the time has come for another kind of Lion, one who will return to the culture and lead it into the light he cannot see. This little bond boy will learn through his fingers and his ears what others learn with their eyes, and he will celebrate our heritage in a unique way. Be strong for my grandson, Alejandro. Juan will be his eyes, and he will make his way in the world.”

  Emilia embraced her father-in-law, and whispered quietly to him, “May God grant that you are right.” Alejandro nodded silently. It was hard to be so optimistic.

  Jordi soon outgrew the child-sized guitar, and recognising his talent, his father took advice, and bought him a high quality full-sized instrument. Again Jordi struggled to reach around the fat body if the instrument which was as big as he was, but from the moment he strummed the new guitar, something magical happened in his fingers. A sound like none heard before in the barrio, emerged from the guitar, sweeter, stronger and more lyrical than any of the rough street music which was all the neighbours had heard in the past. Soon his life fell into an unplanned routine. His mornings would be filled with learning all the languages which surrounded him, the Castilian and Catalan, and the beginnings of French and English; and often he would sigh with the exhaustion of so much memorisation, and turn to his guitar. In the afternoons, one or other of his grandparents would sit with him and tell the stories of Catalunya, and he never tired of hearing them again and again, and when the grandparent fell asleep over the words, he would strum softly again, picking out familiar tunes, and inventing new ones.

  In the late afternoon, with the sun setting, Juan would appear, as if by a given signal, although there never was one, and carry his brother’s stool out to the corner of the street. He would return and lead Jordi to the stool, and the young guitarist would sit and sing and play. Neighbours would open their windows to hear the sweet sounds, and strangers would stop in astonishment, listening to the beautiful music coming from the little boy. As he grew older, his clear soprano would soar above the chords, bringing new life and excitement to the songs of sailors, and of the mountains, and of the troubadours. People would offer money, but Juan was under strict instructions from his father not to accept it. “Take my brother’s music into your heart,” he would say, “And when the time comes, sing with him.” Many people were puzzled by this cryptic comment, but a few, recognising the Catalonian melodies and words, understood and smiled knowingly.

  The brothers made a striking pair: Jordi with his mass of blond curls, and Juan with his jet-black locks tied back from his face. Jordi would be smiling as he sang like an angel, and Juan would smile quietly, sitting proudly at his feet. Somehow the boys created a feeling of peace and tranquillity, even though the folk songs Jordi sang were often telling the trials and tribulations of the Catalan people. As the sun set, and a cool breeze blew down the lane, the time would come for the brothers to go home, into the warmth and safety of the cosy house.

  Jordi had been born into a tumultuous time for Barcelona. The railway had arrived from France, carving a tortuous route through the Pyrenees, and terminating in the great station of Franca. The old boundary of the city had defined Barceloneta, which was entirely outside and south of the wall. The railway replaced the old wall with iron tracks, and became the northern limit of the barrio. The great Franca Station, with its curving arched roof, was visible even from the beach, glimpsed in the distance at the far end of Carrer Sant Miquel.

  Whilst all this railway work seemed enormous to the people of Barceloneta, it was as nothing compared to the gigantic endeavours taking place elsewhere around the city. Vast tracks of farmland were laid out in a fantastical grid pattern, creating L’Eixample, thousands of superior dwellings for the rapidly expanding middle classes. Hundreds of slum hovels were swept away to create a wide road from L’Eixample to Franca Station: passing close between the old cathedral and Santa Catarina’s market, the Via Laietana was named for the ancient tribes who first settled on the little hill at the centre of the city, older even than the Roman occupation.

  The muddy stream west of the old town had been paved some y
ears earlier and had turned into an extraordinary boulevard, which quickly gained the collective title of Las Ramblas, although in fact each section of the street had its own descriptive name. The rich businessmen of the city had built themselves an opulent opera house, and those who had made the greatest donations gave themselves large boxes which they decorated lavishly. They ensured that working people of the city could also attend the opera, building a huge gallery, which they nicknamed the henroost, high above the boxes and stalls.

  All this expansion of Barcelona took place though a period of continuing political unrest: indeed such unrest was the norm for the city, and the mushrooming developments were on the whole unaffected by the complexities of the politics. It was as if the businessmen of Barcelona would thrive whatever happened: and they did. The humble house in Barceloneta was visited by many people, especially the leaders of the Catalan workers, including one Josep Barcelo, who was eager to learn as much as he could about his Catalan heritage. The family liked Josep, and shared many stories with him; in turn he talked about his political ideals, and for the first time they heard the word communism. The Catalonians felt braver than before, and for the first time in many years, the language and culture began to emerge from the shadows. A great deal of the responsibility for this emerging Catalan life lay on the shoulders of a little blind boy singing his heart out in Barceloneta.

  The barrio of Barceloneta remained a stable and static point in the rapidly changing universe of the city, and whilst everywhere seemed to be expanding, the restrictions of the railways line to the north, and the sea on the other sides of the triangular district, meant that there was nowhere to expand, except upwards, and, as was traditional in the area, this was what happened. The canyon of Carrer Sant Miquel saw the sun only for brief moments in the middle of the day, and whilst the grandees of the city took their promenade on the fashionable Ramblas, the people of Barceloneta strolled the sandy shoreline in the evening, inspecting the fishermen’s boats and lines between the chiringuitas, and admiring the larger vessels crowding the harbour to the west.