27
15 March
92
Of
course it is all right with Bob. I told you so, my journal.
I just got
home from a double date. Yes, my journal: Bob and I, Betty and Paul. Once I
told Greg and Marcia about him there was no longer any point in holding him
back from Betty, who knew about him anyway, and confirmed that she had told
Daniel.
We went out to
lunch and a movie. The film we decided to see was a new French comedy called Delicatessen,
and because of the title Bob proposed that we eat in a delicatessen, so of
course we went to Schwartzs in the Plateau. I had not been there in quite a
while, and I noticed that the sign now reads Charcuterie Hébraïque, a
consequence of Bill 178.
As we were
waiting for a table Bob remarked, speaking as a statistician, that as a group
we were exactly one-half Jewish, Paul being all Jewish, me not at all, and Bob
and Betty one-half. Then Paul said that this was just like Mendels laws, and
recited a limerick that ended one black, one white and two khaki. Betty burst
into uncontrollable laughter.
We had a great
time together. But after eating and laughing heartily, we were not quite
prepared for the bizarre, surrealistic humour noir of the film, whose
poster featured a pig very inappropriate after Schwartzs and whose central
theme was cannibalism, with some sex thrown in. Though it was set in a small
town in France, it was as a kind of surreal, post-apocalyptic universe, and
felt more like a comic strip than a real story. Bob and Paul enjoyed it; Betty
and I, not so much. Betty suggested afterwards that It might have been better
as an animated than as a live-action film. Quite perceptive of her, wasnt it,
my journal? Bob said so. And Paul even agreed with her, but said that he liked
it anyway.
Paul is very
attentive to Betty. He responds to every remark that she makes, always
respectfully even when he disagrees with her. I like him very much. And to me
he is now Bettys boyfriend more than he is Greg and Marcias son.
Speaking of G & M: I spoke to Greg a
couple of weeks after the dinner at Bobs, and he said that he and M liked him.
He said nothing specific, and I didnt ask. Greg understands people quite well,
and probably sensed Bobs anxiety.
Today, perhaps
because he was not the youngest person among the four, Bob seemed perfectly at
ease.
What else?
Daniel is in Spain. I just heard his message on my answering machine. He called
while we were out. He didnt say much, except that he was tired and would call
again.
Why is he
there? Well, I told you, my journal, that Fela called to tell me about the
cousin Mauricio (that is his name in Spanish, as D told me). And he did in fact
call D. Within a short time they arranged that D would go to Spain (a place
called Sitges, near Barcelona) during spring break in order to meet Mauricio,
and that is where he is.
I am looking
forward to his next call.
Whirlwind
He woke up with a start. Not that any noise had awakened
him, as far as he new, but the glaring noontime sun shone directly into his
room, and the clothes that he had now worn for fifteen or sixteen hours felt
clammy.
And
also his dream just before waking up: Vicky was in it. He didnt remember any
details, except for driving around in bumper cars. He didnt think there had
been anything erotic about it, but dreaming about a girl he had just met was a
new experience. Should he tell Mauricio? Was Mauricio a Freudian analyst? I
dreamt about bumper cars with your girlfriend! And how do you say bumper
cars in Spanish?
As
he got up, he remembered that he had been thinking about Mauricio just before
falling asleep. He wondered how he would ever get to know Mauricio if Vicky was
so intensely present.
He
brushed his teeth and filled the cup with tap water in order to rinse his mouth.
He had forgotten Vickys warning about the saltiness, but as he tasted it a
pleasant memory came to him. It was from when he was eleven or twelve, a time
when Mireille and Betty went to Rimouski during Holy Week probably for the
funeral of some Bouchard relative while he stayed with the Bermans. It was
Passover, and they took him to a seder at someone elses house. Fela was there
too. The meal began with hard-boiled eggs in salt water, which he enjoyed.
But
after one gargle he poured the water out of the cup and refilled with water
from the bottle of still mineral water the label read SIN GAS that
was on his nightstand. He then showered, dried himself and put on clean
clothes. It was now a little after one oclock. In Montreal it was seven, too early
to call his mother on a Saturday morning. He took the stairs down to the lobby.
Mauricio
and Vicky were waiting for him, sitting cozily side by side on the lobby sofa.
¡Hola! Mauricio exclaimed. ¡Vamos a comer! He was wearing the
same outfit as earlier. Vicky now matched him by wearing jeans as well, their
hems rolled up over pumps with heels not as high as earlier but still at least
an inch and a half. Her hair was now shiny and hanging loose about her head.
They
led him to a beachfront restaurant, passing along a narrow street, just above
the seafront, on whose seaward side stood two splendid palaces. Vicky told him
that they were museums, one called Cau Ferrat and the other Maricel, and
suggested that he choose one or the other for a visit that afternoon, after
lunch.
Lunch
was copious, a huge salad and mixed seafood with fries, washed down with
Penedés wine. They sat at an outdoor table, a springlike breeze blowing on them
from the sea. Vicky described the museums to him, and he chose Cau Ferrat
because of the El Grecos to be seen there.
He
found the building itself and the collection of works by various modernista
artists including Santiago Rusiñol, the designer and original owner of the
palace quite enjoyable. One museum is enough for today, Vicky said, but
tomorrow therell be more.
Afterwards they walked
along the waterfront, continuing the trilingual banter of the morning, and
returned through the town center, where yet another mansion-cum-museum Casa
Llopis was pointed out to him. When we come here tomorrow, Vicky said, Im
going to vote. Were having elections for the Parliament of Catalonia, and its
my first chance to vote out Jordi Pujol.
Whos he?
Hes our glorious
leader. Hes called the president of the Generalitat of Catalonia, but
hes like a Canadian premier.
Daniel thought that he
would delve into the details of Vickys politics at another time. Is this the
first time youre voting? he asked.
No, I voted in the
general elections in eighty-nine. Socialist, of course, she added with a
laugh. So he didnt have to delve. And this Jordi Pujol, then, must be some
sort of rightist. I was too young to vote in the European Parliament elections
that year, she said further. If she turned eighteen in 1989, Daniel calculated,
then she must be very close to his age.
He became uncomfortably
aware that, probably because Vicky had persisted in speaking English, Mauricio,
whom he remembered as quite voluble from the phone call, had been quiet, except
for a few noncommittal comments during lunch.
At seven-thirty he found
himself hungry again. They went to a nearby bar for tapas and beer, but soon
John Renshaw and a number of other neighbors and friends joined them. The
television was turned on, and the match between FC Barcelona and Atlético
Madrid came on.
Barça, the obvious
favorite of the local fans, played pathetically; its superstars, like
Stoichkov, Koeman, Laudrup and Bakero (who, it seemed, had earlier in the year
scored the goal that kept his team in the European Cup competition), seemed
helpless. By halftime Atlético was ahead 2-0.
But something happened
in the second half. The Atlético players, especially Schuster who had been
brilliant in the first half, seemed tired, though they still played well. But
the Madrid public began to jeer the enemy, as personified by Stoichkov (who got
red-carded) and the goalie Zubizarreta, and the jeering made Barça play harder.
Nadal scored a goal, Zubizarreta made a fabulous save, and Bakero, the hero,
scored to tie the score. ¡Te quiero, Bakero!, Vicky shouted at the
television screen. She was not the only woman in the bar, but the only one who
seemed to follow the game passionately. Wow, Daniel said to himself, a lovely
girl whos a soccer fan!
By the final whistle
Daniel was spent. Another game was to follow between Real Madrid and Logroñés
but he knew that he would barely be able to keep his eyes open. He said Buenas
noches to everyone and went back to the hotel, taking the stairs to his
room.
In the course of his
short walk it struck him that the animated conversation in the bar had moved
fluidly between Catalan (which was the language of the television play-by-play)
and Spanish. Often the same person would switch between one and the other, for
no apparent reason. This would never happen in Quebec, he thought.
The
thought of Quebec reminded him to call his mother. He dialed her number from
his room, using his calling card, but got Mireilles answering machine with its
bilingual outgoing message. He left her a brief message in French, telling her
that he was fine but very tired.
By
Sunday morning his jet lag seemed to be gone. At breakfast he found out that
Logroñés had defeated Real Madrid, and Barcelona and Madrid were now tied for
the First Division lead.
The
days activity included not only visits to the other two museums but also a
mass at the baroque church on the hill, whose old organ had recently been
rebuilt and sounded splendid. It was the first Lenten Sunday, and there was a
procession of the Way of the Cross. This particular mass was said in Catalan,
but Daniel noticed a sign announcing that masses alternated between català
and castellano. Not like Quebec, he thought once again, where Catholic
churches are either English or French, unless they are Croatian or Ukrainian or
Lithuanian
After
another copious lunch Mauricio took them for a drive along the coast and turned
inland for a visit to the ruins of the Romanesque Castle of Olèrdola. The only
other visitors were a middle-aged French couple, green Michelin guide in hand.
On
the way back Vicky announced that the next morning she and Daniel would be
going to Barcelona, where, between classes, she would continue to be his tour
guide. Early Wednesday morning they would return to Sitges, and then Mauricio
would drive them to Valencia for the Fallas.
On the train from Sitges to Barcelona Daniel noticed the
same kind of bilingual conversations as in the bar on Saturday night. The
people of Catalonia, he realized, were not divided into catalanophones and
hispanophones. Some time would ask Vicky about the language situation, he
thought. But at the moment she was busy outlining the days activities for him,
though without the enthusiasm she had shown the previous day. She didnt seem
to be in a good mood.
The
train arrived at Barcelona-Sants, and he began to get up. Not yet, Vicky
said. Scores of people got off, and scores more got on. Three minutes later
they were at Passeig de Gràcia, a much quieter station. Here, Vicky said.
The
room that she had found for him was in a guesthouse occupying one story of the
building where she lived, sharing an apartment with two other students. It was
nominally the first floor (primera planta), except that it was really
the fourth, since there were stories labeled entresuelo and principal
between it and the planta baja or ground floor. The place was
equidistant between the Passeig de Gràcia station and the University, about a
seven-minute walk in each direction. No breakfast was served, but on the ground
floor there was a café that, as a blackboard in front announced, served both desayunos
and almuerzos until noon. It appeared that an almuerzo in
Barcelona was something like a brunch, the same as he had found in Mexico, and
not lunch, as the Hispanics of New York use the word. While a desayuno
consisted of a piece of pastry and coffee or chocolate, an almuerzo
would be a sandwich washed down with a glass of wine or beer.
After
accompanying him to the reception desk and saying something in Catalan to the
clerk a red-haired young woman in her twenties Vicky told Daniel that he
was on his own till noon, as she had a class to go to. Ill come back to give
you phase one of a whirlwind tour of Barcelona. Ciao! she said, exchanging
kisses on both cheeks.
Español,
français o English? the young woman asked as she looked up from her
book. Her face suddenly changed from serious to smiling.
Español,
Daniel said.
Tu
pasaporte, por favor.
After
getting set up in his room which was better than he had expected, with a
private bathroom, television, telephone and freshly painted walls he went
down to the café for an almuerzo. He had pan con tomate y jamón
serrano, a prosciutto sandwich on a roll that had tomato rubbed into it
before being spread with olive oil, with una caña, a glass of draft
beer. At first he sat down at a sidewalk table, but the noise of at least three
construction projects Barcelona was in a turmoil of renovation and
construction in preparation for the Summer Olympics drove him to look for one
inside, and he managed to find one that was two tables away from the nearest
smoker.
At a
nearby table someone had left a copy of El País, and Daniel picked it up
and began to read it. At least a dozen articles dealt with the Catalonian
elections, and in the course of reading them he learned more about Spanish
politics, past and present, than he would have in a semester-long course at
Columbia. Even some of the questions about language policy in Catalonia that he
had meant to ask Vicky were answered. He learned, for example, that Spanish-speaking
newcomers to Catalonia were called New Catalans and were encouraged to learn
Catalan.
It
turned out that Jordi Pujols party, with the strange name Convergència i
Unió (it was actually an alliance of two parties, both moderately
conservative but strongly Catalan Nationalist) had won in a landslide, for the
fourth consecutive time. Perhaps that result explained Vickys desultory mood.
He
was still reading the paper at his table he had just finished with the
earthquake in Turkey and was getting to the siege of Dubrovnik when Vicky
came back from class. She seemed in a much better mood. She flashed a big smile
when she noticed him and joined him at the table. After she had a quick cup of
coffee she asked for un tallat, which seemed to be the same as what in
Spanish was called cortado they were ready to go.
Daniel Wilner had never been in a physical whirlwind, but
if he were to imagine the experience it would not be at all like the orderly,
carefully planned tour of Barcelona on which Vicky Renshaw (alias Victoria
Renshaw [pronounced Rencho] Vidal) guided him.
The
first phase, on Monday, was an intricate itinerary, negotiated on foot, by bus
and by cable car (both rail and suspended), around the architectural landmarks
of Barcelona first the works of the modernista architects (Gaudí and
others) in the Eixample district, and then after a late lunch and another
break for class by Vicky various structures on and around Montjuïc, from the
old hilltop fortress to the brand-new sports arena.
In
the evening, after a dinner of tapas, she left him in his room in order to go
out with a friend.
The
next day they concentrated on the Old City the Ramblas with their sea of
colorful humanity, the Gothic Quarter with its churches and museums, and,
finally, the marvelous century-old but recently remodeled concert hall
called Palau de la Música Catalana, where they heard a concert by a chamber
choir singing Renaissance madrigals and more recent pieces by Catalan
composers.
As
they walked back across the Plaça de Catalunya it suddenly began to rain. They
had not prepared for it, and when they got to their building they were
drenched.
She
bade him good night, with the customary double kiss on the cheek, as he got out
of the elevator on the primera planta.
He had
barely spent five minutes in his room, drying himself, when his telephone rang.
It was Vicky.
I
just talked with Mauricio, she said. Hes got a sort of emergency with a
patient, and he wont be able to go to Valencia with us.
Daniel
couldnt think of what to say. But Vicky went on after a pause. We can go by
train, she said. Its only three and a half hours on the Talgo. If we leave
at nine we can be there at half twelve, in time for the last mascletà and
the floral offering. Ill tell you the rest of the program on the train. Then
Friday morning Ill take the train back to Barcelona Ive got to go to
lectures that day and you can change in Tarragona and go on to Sitges to
spend the afternoon with Mauricio. The two of you will finally get to know each
other, she said with a laugh. On second thought, Ill change in Tarragona
with you, because youll have to make another change. Ill tell you where. I
can still make my eleven oclock class.
You
really are quite the tour guide, he said.
Thank
you, she said matter-of-factly. Try to check out by eight. We can have
breakfast together and then go to the station.
The ride on the Talgo was the most comfortable train journey Daniel
had ever been on. The Adirondack, by comparison, made him think of bumper cars
(again!). The trains route followed the Sitges line, but it roared past Sitges
and did not stop until Tarragona. A good part of the route was right along the
long line of beaches, which Vicky said was called the Costa Daurada. Then came
a mountain range that stretched along the seaward side of the tracks; this was
the Sierra de Irta. Then more coastline, and the stops became more frequent.
They were in the Kingdom of Valencia.
Between
sips of bottled water, Vicky outlined their program for the next two days. They
would drop their bags at Albertos flat, have lunch and go to the Town Hall
Square Plaça de lAjuntament for the mascletà, a huge
shooting-off of firecrackers. Then they would go to the Basilica of la Mare
de Déu dels Desemparats, Our Lady of the Forsaken, next to the Cathedral
(which they would also visit) to see the floral offering ofrena floral
in which an image of the Virgin would be made with huge bouquets of flowers.
In the evening, she went on, well get a paella to take away and take it to
the flat, to watch some more football on the telly. Barcelonas playing Dynamo
Kiev in the European Cup. Then it would back outside for la Nit del Foc,
the biggest fireworks display, which would start at 1:30.
Couldnt
we watch the game in a bar, the way we did in Sitges? Daniel asked. That was
fun.
It
wouldnt be in Valencia, Vicky said with a chuckle. Valencians dont much
fancy Barcelona. It goes back to the Middle Ages. Ill tell you about it some
time.
I
see. What about the fallas themselves? he asked, meaning the huge ornate
cardboard figures that he had learned about from the dictionary.
Well
see them tomorrow. Well walk around the town to look at them, and then from
midnight on well see them burnt.
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