Daughter of Catalonia (22 page)

‘It isn’t even realistic,’ Madeleine responded.

‘No. But is that the point? Picasso once said that when Matisse died, Chagall would be the only painter left who understood what colour was. Does it disturb you?’

‘I don’t know. It made me stop. I thought it could have been my father.’

‘Shot in his village? I suppose he was, in a way, but that’s not for now, Madeleine. Come with me, and I’ll show you Picasso’s ceramics.’

There was a whole series of painted ceramic ware by Picasso, all depicting bullfights. Was this what Jordi had followed, in choosing to paint bulls so often on his pottery? But Picasso’s bulls were analytical compared with Jordi’s hot, animalistic images.

‘You paint bulls too,’ she murmured.

‘They’re part of life here,’ was his simple reply. ‘And they have balls.’

His crudity shocked her for a moment, then she checked herself. What Jordi expressed was always visual, she thought, and always powerful. What would he say about her new-found brother, she wondered, and suddenly wanted to tell him.

People were leaving the museum, heading for lunch, and Jordi and Madeleine made their way with them, out into the sunshine, where the fresh breeze had reached even inside the narrow streets of Céret. They ate at a little table on a pavement in a central square, gracious with old stone buildings, grouped around an ancient fountain with nine jets of water. Jordi told her how the lion’s head on the fountain had been set facing Spain, but that when France had annexed this part of Catalonia they had turned the head round to face north.

‘It got turned back again later on the sly,’ he told her. ‘This is a town with strong Catalan emotions!’ As they ate she told him what had happened since he left her in Vermeilla. His brow contracted more and more as she told
him, and instead of being reassured she felt increasingly anxious as she watched his reaction.

‘So let me get this straight,’ he said at last. ‘No one has yet told this boy that his father is not his father, and that he has acquired two siblings overnight, and no one has told the father either, that the story is blown. And you haven’t even seen the mother since, so you don’t know how she is reacting mentally.’

‘My Uncle Bernard has seen her. He didn’t get much of an impression, though – I think he wrote her off as simply stupid.’

‘Stupid or not stupid, she must be going through all kinds of hell right now wondering what to do, and how to manage what still has to come, and in particular how to manage the boy’s anger when the time comes.’

‘He adores his mother,’ Madeleine said inconsequentially.

‘But will he adore her when he finds out how he was conceived? And what about the father? From what I can see, there’s going to be a lot more trouble before this is all over. You’ve opened up Pandora’s box, Madeleine, and we don’t know what may come out.’

The concern which edged his voice struck harsh on Madeleine’s jangled nerves. ‘Philippe told me I was a catalyst, but he believed it was overall a good thing.’

‘He certainly thinks positive, your Philippe! My own experience is just a bit different, that’s all. I don’t mean to alarm you, Madeleine, just take care, that’s all. I’d like to say I cared what happens to all the rest of them, but most of them can go rot in hell for all I care, especially that traitor Perrens. But as for you, Madalena, they’ve done
enough to my little growing tree, and if they touch one single hair on your head …’

His voice was fierce, and he broke off, shaking his head. Madeleine was moved, but laughed as well.

‘Trees don’t have hairs, señor, and I truly think you’re overstating the danger. I think we’re in for a lot more unpleasantness, for sure, but I don’t think anyone will get hurt. Monsieur Perrens isn’t capable, and Martin is just a boy.

‘No,’ she continued, with a sigh, ‘I think the violence was all played out up there in the camp, in 1944. Has it occurred to you, Jordi, that if my father hadn’t slept with another man’s wife, and spoken so loosely about the camp, then the Germans would never have found it, and your father would have survived the war unharmed. And then your life could have been so different too.’

‘Oh, I can see that, all right, but you know, everyone in the war made human mistakes. My father was attacked for taking me up to the camp that time, remember? But others did the same, or almost the same, especially in 1944, when ordinary people could smell their freedom and were right behind the resistance. The Maquis began using ordinary people to help them in lots of ways. There was always risk, and always criticism, but all your father did was to talk about the clearing in general terms. He wasn’t to know Perrens could identify it.’

‘He didn’t have to sleep with his wife, though.’

‘No, he didn’t have to sleep with his wife, but my point is that it was a human error, not anything malicious. And he paid for it with his own life. Perrens, on the other hand,
was an informer, a wilful traitor. If he’d wanted to get back at your father there were many ways to do so, but he chose the most underhand, despicable way possible.’

He looked across at Madeleine with his usual directness. ‘Will you come walk with me, Madeleine? Can I show you my town, and maybe take you to stand on the Devil’s Bridge?’

Madeleine felt a bubble of pleasure burst inside her. He was offering her the chance to forget the past and the future for a while, and to share with him this moment in the present. She held her breath for a second then found the courage to speak as directly as he.

‘I would love to walk with you, Jordi,’ she said, an uncontainable smile warming her cheeks. ‘I seem to be discovering for once in my life how strong it makes you feel to have a friend, so take me to see this devil of yours.’

It was a very special afternoon. Jordi led her through the streets of Céret, taking her hand at one point to lead her through a small gap, and then forgetting to let go again. They roamed past statues by Manolo, one image of Catalan womanhood, and another outside the bullfighting arena which depicted a slim, elegant toreador and supposedly paid homage to all the bullfighters of the world. Madeleine had a problem with this, and was glad to leave the arena behind them, but Jordi laughed at her, and told her she wouldn’t be a true Catalan until she had witnessed her first bullfight.

‘I’ll just have to stay French, then,’ she retorted, laughing as Jordi bowed ceremoniously to the toreador as if about to take to the ring. And then they moved on, further out of the town, towards the Devil’s Bridge and the open countryside. They passed fields of cherry trees, some
already picked clean, others laden with fruit, and Jordi told her about the forthcoming Cherry Festival, for which Céret was famous.

‘You’ll see the Sardane danced again,’ he said, ‘which hasn’t been danced since Franco came to power. It’s still banned in Spain, you know, because the authorities think it is used to send secret signals between rebels.’

It was hard to worry about the troubles of the Catalans this afternoon, when Jordi spoke of her joining him for the festival in just a couple of weeks’ time, and took for granted that she would be with him. And he too, this afternoon, had forgotten the burdens which so often seemed to saddle his life, and was alive with energy.

The Devil’s Bridge was a fantastic medieval arch spanning the River Tech, joining the town to the fields beyond. There was a local legend about a pact with the devil, and a missing stone the devil had removed from the bridge, but the really magical thing about this bridge, Madeleine thought, was the view. To the south was Céret itself, and beyond it was Spain, and the path through the mountains that Madeleine had followed herself as a tiny refugee. To the east was the coast, too distant to see, with the plains of Roussillon in between, and to the west was the Vallespir, the wooded valley which climbed into the Pyrenees, the length of the Tech river. Céret, Jordi told her, was the capital of the Vallespir, and above it were the middle and high Vallespir, lush hunting ground and home to the Maquis in wartime.

They stood together on the high arched bridge, contemplating the river, which stretched away on both
sides, shallow after a long spell without rain, bumping serenely over the rocks which jumbled the river bed, and untouched by the wind which whistled around the top of the pointed arch. It was a warm wind, not the cold mountain wind, the Tramontane, but it freshened the air nevertheless after days of unseasonal hot days. Perhaps imagining a chill in the air, Jordi stood behind Madeleine and placed his hands on her bare shoulders.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing her towards the east, in the direction of the sea. ‘Look how dark the sky is over there – the rain has already reached the coast. It’ll be raining in Vermeilla right now. It’ll be here, too, before tonight.’

Madeleine looked up at the sky above them, still the same azure blue, just peppered with clouds. It was hard to imagine rain, after this week of unbroken sunshine in the deep latitudes of the south.

Turning her head she caught Jordi looking at her, and blushed. ‘Then it’s lucky I came inland to see you, isn’t it,’ she stammered, and stopped as his head came down and he kissed her.

For a moment Madeleine didn’t move.
I’ve met this man
three times
, she thought, then,
What would Grandmother say
? And then she turned to face him fully, and hooked her arms around his neck as she brought his lips to hers again.

She couldn’t remember much later of what they said that afternoon, or where they went. They roamed through the cherry trees, and Jordi plucked fruit to feed to her, his fingers staining red and ruining her clothes as he held her again and again. He seemed to shed a weight that day, and was like a boy, teasing her, climbing onto high branches
to look for better fruit, laughing at her as they forded the river, jumping from islet to islet, drenching their clothes in water. Her sandals would be beyond repair, Madeleine thought, but her bare legs dried in minutes in the sunshine.

All her past life, all their joint past struggles, were forgotten that afternoon. Madeleine felt as though she had grown wings, and every challenge Jordi laid down for her she leapt to meet, her hand in his, and her windblown face turning constantly towards his.

By the time they regained the stone-lined streets of Céret the sky had covered over, and it was growing dark. A spot of rain hit Madeleine as they turned into Jordi’s little alleyway, and he looked up with some concern.

‘We’re in for a downpour, and I have to take you back on the motorbike. You’ll be soaked.’

‘So will you,
mon ami
, and you have to do the journey twice!’

‘It would be madness to do the journey right now. We’d be driving straight into the storm. My suggestion would be that you stay here for a while, and we can have dinner before you go back, and wait for a break in the rain. What do you think? Do we drown you now or try not to drown you later?’

‘Later!’ Madeleine voted without hesitation, returning his long, slow smile. ‘But I’ll have to call the hotel, so that Uncle Bernard doesn’t worry.’

They went to a nearby café, and while Jordi negotiated for use of the phone the owner brought Madeleine a glass of sweet wine similar to the Banyuls of the coast. She waited for Jordi, and they drank together, clinking glasses.

‘
Salut i pau
,’ he toasted her in Catalan. Health and peace.

‘We especially need the peace!’ she joked, and went off to make her call.

At the Hotel Bon Repos the phone was answered almost immediately, and Mme Curelée’s voice came through very indistinct across the crackly line. You could almost hear the rain on the phone lines, thought Madeleine. She asked for Bernard, and had to shout to make herself heard.

‘He isn’t here, Mademoiselle,’ came the reply. ‘Philippe Lemont came looking for him a couple of hours ago, saying the young boy Perrens had gone missing, and they both went off together.’

‘Missing? Martin? Where has he gone?’

‘Nobody knew, it seemed, but why they are worrying when a young lad takes some time for mischief is a mystery to me.’

Madeleine felt a sharp stab of worry. ‘What is the weather like there, Mme Curelée? Is it still raining?’

‘Raining! We have such a storm as I haven’t seen for years. The quayside is ankle-deep in water, Mademoiselle, and you need to take care coming to the hotel. We have sandbags in front of the door to stop the water coming in.’

Madeleine could hear the harassed tone in Mme Curelée’s voice even through the distorted phone line. She said goodbye and hung up, and returned to the table, where Jordi had already caught the worry on her face.

‘Martin has disappeared,’ she told him. ‘Something has happened. You were right, Jordi.’

‘What information could you get?’ He didn’t waste time with exclamations or surprise.

‘Nothing more. Mme Curelée obviously thinks there is nothing to worry about, and that he must be off on some boy’s adventure, but she doesn’t know the background, and she’s more worried about the rain and the floods.’

‘You want to get back.’ It was a statement, not a question.

Fifteen minutes later they were on the road, Jordi’s only waterproof jacket in thick leather wrapped firmly around Madeleine, despite her protestations. It took well over an hour to make the journey, often through rain which made the road almost impassable and cut visibility down to a yard or two in front of them. Madeleine hung on to Jordi, and tried not to think of what might have happened in Vermeilla. Rain poured down her face and plastered her hair to her head under her scarf, her skirts created a puddle of water which froze the thighs, and her bare calves almost lost feeling in the stormy winds.

Eventually they rode into the outskirts of Vermeilla, and the street lights made their progress easier. Jordi shouted to ask where they were going, and Madeleine directed him to the Café de Catalogne. Jordi nodded and said nothing, and suddenly Madeleine was reminded of Jordi’s vow never to come to Vermeilla. And here she was directing him to the home of the very people who had ruined his father’s life.

But only at the café could they learn what had happened, and as they drew up outside Jordi didn’t hesitate to follow Madeleine towards the café door. As she looked into his face, though, she saw none of the carefree Jordi of this afternoon.
He had the burdened look which she had earlier seen disappear, but perhaps, she hoped, not quite the hard-edged look of earlier in the week. As she scanned his face he gave her a quick smile, and squeezed her hand.

‘We’d better find out what’s been happening,’ he said briefly, and she led the way inside.

The warmth of the café hit them as they stepped through the door. It was deserted, except for the barman, and, at a table far to the rear, Bernard and Philippe, deep in discussion with a local policeman. As Madeleine and Jordi approached, the policeman picked up what looked like a map from the table and headed past them towards the door, pulling his rain cape over his head as he did so.

He gave them a curious look as he passed them, and Madeleine realised they must make a strange sight, two completely drenched people dripping water from every part of their bodies and clothing. If her face looked like Jordi’s, then they were both white and strained from cold and the stress of the journey. Philippe and Bernard were looking at them both with astonishment.

‘
Bonsoir, mes oncles
,’ Madeleine rushed into speech. ‘Uncle Bernard, this is Jordi, who brought me back on his motorbike. We got,’ she said, gesturing helplessly to their clothes, ‘a bit wet. But when I called the hotel Mme Curelée told me Martin had gone missing, so I thought I’d better get right back.’

The two men were still gazing at them blankly, but finally Philippe pulled himself together and got up to greet Jordi, and called to the barman to bring coffee and brandy, and towels. They rubbed the worst of the wet from their
hair and clothes, dried their faces, and wrapped the towels around themselves to ease the shivers which set in as soon as they began to react to the warmth of the café.

‘You need to get changed into dry gear,’ declared Bernard. ‘But you probably want to know what’s happened here before you go.’ Madeleine nodded, and sat down to drink her coffee. Jordi sat in a chair in the background and watched, nursing his hot coffee cup in his hands.

‘Where’s Colette?’ asked Philippe, and Bernard gestured towards the stairs.

‘Upstairs. She’s preparing food for the search party. She won’t come down just now.’

Philippe nodded. Madeleine was shocked by his appearance. His bony, boyish face was tightly drawn and he seemed suddenly older, furrowed, and his very movements were hesitant as he began to speak, his hands held open almost in supplication.

‘Colette told Martin today,’ he explained. ‘I’ve been urging her to tell him the truth, because it seemed to me that above all we needed to avoid him learning it by chance, from some dropped word or by overhearing a conversation. Think how awful that would have been!

‘But I think now I was wrong. It should have waited until Colette was calmer, and had got over this week a bit and made her peace with Daniel. Too much haste, that’s always been my weakness, and not enough thought.’

His voice raised briefly in self-anger, and then he looked towards the stairs and checked himself. Madeleine kept her voice gentle as she questioned.

‘So what happened?’

‘Well, she told him. She tells me it was incredibly difficult, and he wanted to know all about his real father, and how he had died, and why he had died, and Colette said she just couldn’t tell him the whole truth about Jean-Pierre, and was controlling how much information she gave out. But she was crying, and Martin’s voice was raised, and they made too much noise, and Jean-Pierre came through to the sitting room. He doesn’t move about much on his own, you know, so nobody ever expects him to appear. But today he did, just at the wrong moment, and he started yelling at Martin, saying he was nothing but a common bastard, and his mother was a whore, and that his “father” had just got what was coming to him, and Martin had been lucky to have house room all these years, and more to that effect. Colette couldn’t tell me everything – she was shaking like a leaf when I spoke to her. Anyway, Martin screamed back, saying he hated him, and had always hated him, and called him despicable, and a murderer, and when Colette appealed to him he told her he hated her too, and left, ran out of the room and away, and no one has seen him since.’

‘How long ago did it happen?’

‘About three o’clock. He came home early from school because a teacher was ill, and it was a quiet moment here in the café, which is why Colette decided to talk to him. What time is it now? Eight o’clock? So five hours ago.’

‘But wouldn’t he have gone to a friend’s house?’

Philippe shook his head in desperation. ‘We’ve checked everywhere. Daniel thought he might have gone up to the vineyard, to his shed, but he’s not there or in
any of the other sheds up there. And we checked the school. But of course he could have taken the bus to almost anywhere. It’s the bad weather which is worrying people, including Henri, the policeman you saw just now. Now that it’s dark and some hours have gone by, a good few people in the village have become involved. They just know that a teenager had an argument with his parents, but they’re worried nonetheless, and since the fishermen won’t be out this evening we have a good-sized squad looking for him.’

Bernard nodded, and added, ‘Philippe and I have been given the unofficial role of coordinators, so we get to stay in the dry. What’s worrying us most is that it had barely begun to rain when he ran off, and he only had on his school shorts and shirt. So we’re really hoping he’s taken shelter somewhere.’

‘Yes.’ The voice was Jordi’s, coming from the shadows, and Bernard looked at him in surprise, as though he’d forgotten he was there.