Lost Cause (5 page)

“You going to look for a young lady?” she said, winking and prodding me knowingly in the ribs as the plane swooped toward the runway.

“I'm going to find my grandfather,” I replied.

She seemed disappointed. “Oh. He lives down there then?”

“He's dead,” I said, “but I think he fought in a war here a long time ago.”

Elsie gave me a long look. “Young fella like you shouldn't be bothering about boring old history. It's the present that matters, not the past.” She turned to her friend in the seat next to her. “Hey, Edna, this young fella doesn't know how to have a holiday. What d'you say we take him with us and show him a good time?”

Edna was younger than Elsie, but beneath a thick layer of makeup, it was hard to tell by how much. “Come with us, son,” Edna said with a terrifying leer. “I'll look after you.”

I must have looked nervous, because Elsie laughed and said, “Don't worry, lad. I won't let Edna get her talons into you. But don't be so serious. Make sure you leave some time for fun.”

“I will,” I said as the wheels touched down at the end of the runway. I said it confidently, but I was more nervous than I had ever been in my life, arriving alone in a foreign city with only an address that I knew nothing about. What if the person at the address wasn't interested in helping me? What would I do for the next two weeks? If I thought about it rationally, I knew I would be fine. I had the bank card and some cash, a guidebook and a few basic phrases of Spanish. I would get by, but I felt horribly lonely. And my task made me nervous. I was good at solving problems, specific problems with a concrete answer I could work toward. The problem Grandfather had set me hadn't been clear. What was I supposed to find out? A part of me wished I was going on a mindless, no-stress holiday on the beach.

“Come on,” Elsie said to Edna as she stood and rummaged in the overhead bin for her carry-on luggage. “We're wasting beach time.” She looked back at me as the brightly dressed, cheerfully babbling tourists filed down the plane's aisle. “If you get bored with the history stuff, we're at the Hotel Miramar in Lloret de Mar. You find yourself a nice young lady and come and visit us. I hear the disco there plays lots of that hip-hop music you youngsters like.”

“I'll try.” I smiled back weakly and grabbed my carry-on bag.

By the time I had collected my backpack, lined up interminably to be examined by Spanish customs and immigration, and fought my way through the crowds of arriving tourists to the front of the terminal building, I was exhausted even though it was still not quite seven in the morning.

As far as I could see in either direction, the sidewalk was a seething mass of sweating people hauling huge suitcases that must have contained enough clothes for three months, jostling into vast snakelike lines for cabs that were arriving one or two at a time, or shouting at hotel buses that sailed past with full loads. The prospect of spending most of my morning here wasn't thrilling, and my guidebook said that if I walked out of the airport to the main road, there were buses that ran regularly to downtown Barcelona. I hoisted my backpack onto my shoulders and set off.

As soon as I left the airport and the crowds, I felt better. The surrounding countryside was flat, treeless and crisscrossed by highways and dotted with industrial buildings, but the roads were quiet and the air pleasantly warm even though the sun was only just up. It felt good to be on my own and in charge, even if I was only catching a bus.

At the bus stop, I flipped open my cell phone. I had a new text.

Hey Mom and Steve too. I hope you are doing well. All is good here. Just getting ready to meet and start out. I figure 2 days up and 1 down. Back on the plane soon after and back home in less than 5. Don't worry about me. Everything is perfect—see you soon…and little brother remember if you need help I'm only a text away.

Typical arrogant DJ, going to climb a mountain like it was the same as going to Safeway. And he'd probably do it too. Easy for him with guides and everything, and here I was alone in a foreign country with only the sketchiest idea of what I was to do.

I almost ignored the text, but then I sent back, Doing my task. If u need any help let ME know.

The first bus that came along said
Plaça de Catalunya
on the front. I knew that Catalunya was downtown and not too far from the Gothic Quarter where my address was, so this was perfect, except that the bus was crowded. It was a long bus, jointed in the middle, and every inch was packed with seated or standing men and women in jeans, T-shirts, jackets and caps. There wasn't a suit or tie in sight. They were obviously not office workers.

I stepped back, prepared to wait for the next bus, but the vehicle wheezed to a stop and the doors opened. I waited for people to get off to make room for me and my backpack, but nothing happened. I peered in the double doors halfway along the bus's length. A sea of tanned faces smiled down at me. I hesitated. There was no room. A chorus of unintelligible words broke out and hands waved me on. Uncertainly, I stood on the step. Immediately I was grabbed and hauled in among the tightly packed bodies. My backpack disappeared over everyone's heads to the back of the bus and the doors closed behind me. The bus jerked forward. I felt like a sardine and wondered nervously if I'd ever see my pack again.

The guy beside me, his face inches from mine, smiled and said, “
Benvingut. ?Com estàs?
”

They were words I hadn't learned. In fact, the way he said them, they didn't even sound Spanish. “
Hola
,” I tried. “
Buenos días. Mi nombre es Steve
.”

The man shook his head. Everything about him was dark: his hair, his eyes, the shadow of a beard on his chin, even his black leather jacket. “No,” he said. “No
Espanyol.
” He dragged his right arm up from the crush and pointed to his forehead. “
Catalan
.” He managed to wave his hand over his head to include everyone on the bus. “
Catalan
,” he repeated.

I nodded. I had read that the people around Barcelona called themselves Catalan instead of Spanish, but I hadn't realized that they spoke a completely different language.

“Aina,” the man shouted over his shoulder. A disturbance ran through the crowded bus and a young woman pushed her way forward. All I could see of her was her head with her hair tied in a tight bun at the back. The man said something long and incomprehensible to her. She looked at me and smiled, her white teeth standing out dramatically against her olive skin.

“You are English?” she asked.

“I'm Canadian,” I replied.

She nodded as if that explained everything. “Welcome to Catalunya,” she went on. “My name is Aina. You would say Anna in English. My friend, Agusti”—she nodded at the man who had tried to talk to me—“speaks only Catalan.” She lowered her voice, “Actually, he speaks Spanish, but he does not like to.” The man gave Aina a withering look.

“You speak English very well,” I said.

Aina smiled once more. “Thank you. I worked in London for two years as a barmaid. Now Agusti and I work at the factory making boxes for the gears in cars.”

“Transmissions,” I suggested.

“Yes,” Aina said. “What is your name?”

“Steve.” Aina looked puzzled. “Steven,” I expanded.

“Ah, Steven. In Catalan, it is Esteve, in Spanish, Esteban. You have come here on holiday for our sunshine and beaches?”

Before I could answer, the bus pulled into another stop. A number of workers got off and headed into a large factory complex. This reduced the crush, but the group around me stayed where it was as Aina said something in Catalan. I assumed she was telling them about our conversation, because everyone looked at me and smiled. As we started up again, Aina looked at me expectantly.

“I haven't come for the beaches,” I said, thinking back to my companions on the plane. “I have come to find out what happened to my grandfather many years ago.”

“Your grandfather was in Barcelona?”

“Yes, in 1937 or '38. I think he might have been a soldier in the war.”

Aina suddenly became very excited and rattled off a whole string of Catalan, the only piece of which I understood was “
Brigadas Internacionales
.” Suddenly everyone started talking at once and jostling to pat me on the back as if I was some kind of hero. I was happy and embarrassed at the same time.

When the activity calmed down, Aina explained, “The foreigners who came to fight for Spain and Catalunya in our war are heroes here.”

A male voice somewhere behind Aina burst into song and was joined by others.

Viva la Quince Brigada,

rumba la rumba la rumba la.

Viva la Quince Brigada,

rumba la rumba la rumba la

que se ha cubierto de gloria,

¡Ay Carmela! ¡Ay Carmela!

que se ha cubierto de gloria,

¡Ay Carmela! ¡Ay Carmela!

Aina leaned forward and shouted in my ear. “It is the song of the Fifteenth Brigade who are covered in glory. Your grandfather was in the Fifteenth Brigade?”

“I don't know,” I shouted back. Most of the bus was singing now. “I suppose that's one thing I'll have to find out.”

Aina looked out the bus window. “We are almost at our work now.” She rummaged for a piece of paper in the bag hanging from her shoulder. She wrote for a moment and then handed it to me. “This is the name and address of Pablo Aranda, the grandfather of my cousin. He is an old man but still alive, and he lives in a village by the River Ebro, we call it the Ebre. As a boy in the war, he was rescued by some soldiers. Perhaps if you go to his village, he might tell you stories.”

Aina hesitated and looked at me with a frown. “He is a strange old man. He will not be what you expect, or wish. But he is part of history as well, and if you want to discover what happened, you must discover it all, not just what you would like to believe.”

I looked at the torn piece of paper.
Pablo Aranda, Avinguda Catalunya, 21, 43784 Corbera d'Ebre
. “Thank you,” I said. I was about to ask what Aina meant by the old man being strange, but I was cut off by her smile. The singing had died away, and the bus was slowing down.

“Stay on to the Plaça Catalunya,” Aina said. “It is the center of Barcelona. You can go anywhere from there. Good luck.”

As the workers poured off the bus, most smiled at me, shook my hand and wished me what I assumed was good luck. As the bus pulled away, Aina stood on the sidewalk and waved at me. I felt stupidly happy. If all Spaniards—Catalans, I corrected myself—were this friendly, I was going to enjoy my task. And I had another address. I seemed to be collecting them.

SIX

“Plaça Catalunya,” the bus driver announced. There were only half a dozen of us left on the bus, me and five office workers in suits who had boarded a few blocks back. I hauled my backpack from the luggage racks at the back of the bus, said “
Gracias
” to the driver and got off. It was only as I stood on the sidewalk, watching the bus pull away, that I realized I hadn't paid for the trip. The driver had said nothing, so I assumed Aina or someone else had taken care of my fare. Another example of Catalan generosity.

It felt as if I had already met guides, but there was only one who really mattered. I looked around the square to get my bearings. According to my map, the Ramblas, the street that led down to my address, was diagonally opposite. I set off.

Even this early in the morning, the Ramblas was awesome. It was really two streets with a wide pedestrian precinct with trees down the middle. Although it was only eight in the morning, a few outdoor cafés already had tables out, and scattered customers sat sipping coffee and reading newspapers. Casual strollers wandered past with no apparent objective other than to glance in shop windows. The shops were still closed and shuttered, and it made me think that I was maybe too early to go to the address Grandfather had given me. The last thing I wanted to do was wake up Marie Dolores Calderon Garcia, whoever she was.

I strolled down until I came to Carrer de la Portaferrissa. It was exactly as it had looked on Google—a narrow alley, about 4 meters wide and surrounded by ancient four- or five-story buildings. At this time in the morning, the street was in deep shadow and the few pedestrians just darker shapes in the distance. I knew that number 71 was at the far end, but the Ramblas seemed a much better place to kill time, so I turned back, selected a café and sat.

My guidebook recommended coffee and a pastry for breakfast. In fact, it said it was all I was likely to get outside an expensive hotel, so, using a few learned phrases, I stumbled through an order. The waiter seemed to think it was very funny, but eventually brought a tiny cup of brutally strong coffee and the sweetest pastry I had ever tasted.

I sipped the coffee but wolfed down the pastry since it was all I had eaten since getting on the plane the night before. I ordered another and a glass of water and took out my cell phone. I felt a bit bad about the way I'd blown off DJ's text at the bus stop. His arrogance annoyed me and he was always so formal. I don't think he liked texting, he preferred to talk or send an email. He claimed that texting was butchering the English language. Of course that just made me use as many chat abbreviations as I could, just to mess with him.