Tales from Barcino: – Javier’s story.

I never saw Javier pray; many times he would hold his head in a posture of pious concentration, or mutter ‘Amen’ in response to verse after verse of ritual litany. But he seemed only to support, only to respect others to whom these strange invocations were the life blood of their conviction.

Javier and I sat, stone still and scared, in our own little Placa, Placa Regomir; poor, uncared for and overlooked. We knew the game was up. We were silent because there was nothing to say. Soon the Guardia would siren their officious way into our peaceful square. I was frightened. We had done that which no other had dared; no other had even thought of. But we were lost now and knew there would be a reckoning.

 

Javier used to say, ‘Freedom is God’s gift. Not man’s God but nature’s – a God everyone can understand.’ My Father used to say, ‘Stay away from that tink Javier, he is nothing but trouble, him and his family.’

We lived above the shop my mother worked in; father worked on the new buildings out on the edge of the city. ‘Rubbish houses for rubbish,’ he would say. ‘Why do we build these apartments, we should be building a wall, a fucking big wall and keep them the other side.’ Mother would clatter the dinner plates to cover his curses.

 

‘Freedom,’ whispered Javier, as we sat with our legs drawn up to our chins. ‘Freedom flies like a brave bird.’

 

My grandfather had come here from Scotland, he worked the sea front until he got his break in a local textile factory. They needed someone they could use in the office (grandfather was good with numbers) and he soon established himself as a trusted employee. He was hard working and energetic – his passion for football affected everyone he met – they said his strong face and huge moustache could open doors. His reputation as the last man standing after a long day at the bar lent him a legendary status among the other men. When most of his amigos were uttering imprecations to ladies of the night, or reeling about in the streets of the Barrio Xino, he was clear headed and telling anyone who would listen about some new ideas he had been working on. He liked the Catalan working class character; it was independent by inclination and action. He bowed to no man but respected those around him.

 

‘I hear cars, and whistles,’ I said pulling at Javier’s arm. ‘Maybe we should get a train, or maybe a boat – we could go to Mallorca.’

‘We have no money Gram,’ he said. ‘And anyway, why should we run? From what? Too what? Are you afraid?’ he asked, looking at me directly. It was the first time since we had arrived in the little square that he had actually looked me in the face. I was surprised, I expected to see fear, confusion, doubt – all the emotions that I felt – but no, all I saw was a cold calm certain gaze; a look that said much, a fearless, mountain big, ocean wide look of resignation.

‘Pero mi hermana,’ I wailed, ‘tu hermano …,’ the catch in my throat pathetic.

 

I had run as planned, if a little too enthusiastically, as he had opened the little cage doors. I had fled after causing the distraction – stealing cash, notes and coin, from the street vendor in full view of his overseer, kicking over the rack of postcards near the cages. I ran through the crowds, across the Rambla de Sant Josep, up Carrer Cardenal Casanas, into the Placa del Pi. It had been busy but we had planned that.

 

‘Gram, go home, there is nothing you can do.’ Javier lent back against the metal shutters at our back. ‘We set them free. How cool was that? Did you see them go?’ I stared at him as he looked straight ahead. He was much bigger than me but just two years older, his hair was black and tended to curl (sort of like a girls, but I would never have said that to him). He was quiet like a monk, like someone who knew things, philosophical, academic – just things. And yet he rarely spoke of anything remotely scientific, it was just a feeling he gave off. He never gave himself away, always the right word, the definitive word, spoken in our small circle of friends.

‘No, I think you mean modernista not Art Deco,’ he would proclaim as Sebastian told us about the buildings we walked past every day on our way to the Ramblas to watch the tourists, or, ‘But what do you believe?’ he would say – causing great debate among us as we weren’t used to taking responsibility for such big thoughts. I never questioned what my priest said until Javier asked me to repeat it slowly and tell him what it meant. Sometimes we went out without Javier, just to play and not be tormented by his painfully direct questions.

 

There was a concert at the Basilica Santa Maria del Pi and I had slipped into the church, hiding under one of the sheets covering the organ rebuilding. The first half of the concert had lasted an hour – Sor, Terragna, Albinez. As the applause cresendoed for the Maestro I walked out and down Carrer Ferran, over the Placa Sant Jaume (passing the Generalitat with a glow of rebellion) and down Carrer Ciutat to await my compadres. It had seemed like an age before Javier had joined me, alone.

‘They took your sister away, and my brother,’ he said. ‘Sebastian and Christiano ran through la Boqueria and I’m sure they got away. I walked here through the crowds and stopped at the bookshop, the Atheneum, I bought you this,’ he handed me a white paper wrapper sealed at its top with a single strip of sello-tape. ‘It’s about a Scottish man called William Wallace.’ Javier was fascinated by Scottish culture and their struggles with the English. ‘They get him  in the end,’ he said. ‘But he died a hero, a man amongst men – free.’

I looked up at the building in front of me, there were two cats, agitated, mouths half open, chuntering, staring at the rooftops. Along the edge of every building in the street and, I believed, in every street from here to the Monjuic, were small singing birds. My distracting theft had allowed Javier to open the first  cages, freeing dozens of  birds. Javier’s brothers had moved in on the next vendor up the Rambles as they rushed to aid the first vendor, and then my sister and the others had moved in as the effect rippled up the caged ravine. Vendor after vendor, shouting in chaos as their stock soared skywards; never looking back, only up at their cash crop or forward to the latest victim of our crime of passion. The wave of freedom rippled up the Ramblas and before the authorities could react most of the heros had melted into the side streets.

 

Javier started to sing to himself…

 

‘Oh, bandera catalana

          Nostre cor t’es ben fidel.

          Volaras com au galana

          Per damunt del nostre anbel.’

 

[O flag of Catalunya

Our hearts keep faith with you.

You will fly like a brave bird

Above our desires.]

 

© Graham S Tennyson 2009

Notes.

 

[1] Barcino was the Roman name for the original settlement of Barcelona.

 

[2] Pero – but

Hermana/o – Sister/brother

 

[3] The lyrics Javier sings are from El Cant de la Senyera (The Song of the Flag) – a musical setting of the words of the Barcelona poet Joan Maragall – banned by Franco.