Authors: Dave Boling
Dodo had told his friends his feelings about the Guardia so often that they could have joined him in the recitation: They
are those not intelligent enough to clean fish, those not dignified enough to shovel manure, those for whom a rifle serves
in place of the fundamental male organ.
He cleared his throat to begin voicing the screed for the Guar-dias.
“Stop . . . now,” the shorter guard said, elevating the rifle from Dodo’s chest to his face. “I will count to three.”
“Oh, that’s it; I wondered what the qualifications were to join the Guardia Civil,” Dodo cracked. “Now I know; it is the capacity
to count to three. Let’s hear you, now, one . . . two . . .”
Miguel moved to step between the two, and the shorter Guardia, sensing a threat, pivoted the rifle butt to catch Miguel on
the jaw. He dropped instantly, but as the Guardia paused, Dodo wrenched the rifle from his hands and struck him exactly as
he had done to Miguel. The taller Guardia lifted his weapon toward Dodo but froze in place at the sight of his bloodied compatriot.
Fully confronted by indecisiveness, the taller guard chose not to fire his weapon, instead blowing his whistle for reinforcements.
Behind him, Miguel struggled back to kneeling and lunged at the guard, knocking him to the ground.
Instinctively, the brothers scrambled and separated. Miguel slumped between buildings and slipped into the shadows of the
huge church. Dodo, unhurt and able to simply outrun the Guardias, headed brazenly across the square. The crowd that had gathered
around Olentzero parted for a moment and then swallowed him up.
By the time the half-dozen Guardias had collected, their mettle dimmed by the sight of their fellow’s blood freezing in rectangular
patterns around the cobbles, Dodo was already being carried off in a basket, wearing the hat and jacket of the jolly coal
man Olentzero. Josepe Ansotegui, now clothed in another’s borrowed coat, had surrendered his disguise to allow Dodo’s escape.
The Guardias splintered in pairs to search for the criminals, two up toward the center of town, two down toward Isuntza Beach,
and two around the wharf. Even though he had been knocked into semiconsciousness, Miguel recognized the time and tide. After
sneaking behind the church and gaining distance from the Guardias, he recovered his breath and merely strolled away from the
threat.
The tidal current had reversed from its low point a short time earlier, allowing him to keep his feet dry for the entire walk
out to San Nicolas Island. The inflow submerged his path almost the minute he reached the island’s southern edge. From a leeward
rock, he watched the frenzy in the plaza. The Guardia had set up posts near the entrance and exits of the church and examined
all who attended mass. Even with the wind blowing icy needles and the arthritic groaning of the frozen pines, Miguel could
hear the organ playing in the distance and hymns being sung.
“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled to himself, spitting blood and pulling from a pocket the slice of bread that Dodo had forced
upon him. He had to break the bread into small pieces to wedge it between his tender jaws. He shivered through the frigid
night in a three-sided notch in the rocks covered with gull dung. Shortly before dawn, the
Egun On
arrived on the seaward side of the island, blocked from view of the land, and picked up the suffering Miguel. Onboard were
his father and a surprisingly cheerful Dodo, pleased to have drawn blood in the skirmish. They had deduced Miguel’s whereabouts
and apologized for not being able to retrieve him earlier.
The frigid trip to Saint-Jean-de-Luz on the nearby French coast didn’t calm Dodo, who was excited to explore mischief in the
old pirate town. Even inside the protected harbor there, flexing waves caused the
Egun On
to bounce against the bumpers as Dodo accepted a wobbling embrace from his father and then his younger brother.
“Try to stay out of trouble,” José María Navarro said as he handed Dodo a small envelope.
“Keep it,
patroia
, I will be fine,” Dodo protested, looking down at his father’s scarred hands.
“I know you will, but you’ll need to get settled here and find work.”
Miguel thought of jokes about wine being more expensive and women being more demanding in France, but his mouth was swollen
and talking was painful; his vomiting on the trip to Saint-Jean had ripped open cuts on the inside of his mouth. He was too
angry to joke.
Dodo stepped up onto the dock and, turning to wave good-bye, saw his brother’s critical look.
“Miguel . . . I’m sorry,” Dodo said sincerely, but then pointed to his brother with a grin. “I wouldn’t doubt if I’ve done
you a favor. You’re going inland now; you were never meant to be on the water.”
Miguel, for the first time, added up the consequences: He would leave his home, lose his good job, and have to move to a strange
town, always keeping watch over his shoulder in case the Guardia was around.
“Thanks,” he said with as little movement of his mouth as possible, “appreciate it.”
José María Navarro piloted the
Egun On
back out to sea. “I must have set a fine example of fishing as a way of life,” he said. “It looks like neither of you will
be on board with me for a while.”
Miguel didn’t answer, patting his father on the shoulder and then hugging him with one arm from the side as both looked out
over the bow.
By evening, the
patroia
had ferried his son as far as possible up the estuary. Miguel disembarked at a high-tide pier, and although he knew he was
on firm ground, the earth still bounced and dodged beneath him with every step.
(1933–1935)
Dearest Miren,
I hope you all are well, and you and your mother have been
keeping my big brother in his place. A bear of a man like him
tricking your mother into marriage is one of the great acts of deception.
I wanted to tell you of a friend who is moving to Guernica. His
name is Miguel Navarro, and I have known his family for many
years. You may remember him from your visits to Lekeitio when
you were much younger. He is one of the boys who lived across the
street in the family of my friend José María Navarro. I have already
contacted Mendiola in Guernica, and he has the need for a
helper in his carpentry shop. A change in locations will be good
for Miguel. He is a fine young man.
I’m hoping you will meet Miguel and can help him settle in
there. I’m sending this letter to you rather than your father because
I fear Justo would end up scaring the boy. I can trust you to
help him make friends and meet people if you get the chance.
Miguel is about your age, or a little older, perhaps twenty, and my
daughters have assured me that it is not a chore to have to look at
him.
Thank you, Miren.
Love to your beautiful mother and that big brother of mine.
Osaba Josepe
* * *
Finally absorbing the importance of Alaia’s message—that becoming a pest is not charitable—Miren fought her instincts to bring
food and help with cooking and cleaning and all those jobs she was certain were easier for a sighted person. A protocol evolved:
She visited Alaia’s cabin only when invited or by prearrangement. But they saw each other every Monday at the market as Miren
jumped in with making change and packing soaps when business was brisk. She also served as Alaia’s unofficial ambassador,
telling everyone in town of the wonders of her products. They ate together one night each week, usually at Errotabarri, where
Mariangeles cooked her specialties and Justo entertained with his stories, always happy to perform before a larger audience.
And once a week Miren cooked at Alaia’s, baking and preparing some items that would keep for meals later in the week. Within
this unspoken arrangement Alaia grew increasingly independent.
One Monday at the market, Alaia invited Miren to come to her cabin.
“Is there a surprise?” Miren asked when she arrived.
“Yes, I am giving you a present . . . your own soap,” Alaia said, handing her a stack of yellow-green bars separated with
waxed paper. Miren inhaled and was enthralled.
“I love it; what’s in it?”
“Miren . . . it’s a secret.”
“It’s like no soap I’ve smelled . . . it’s like . . . what . . . Erro-tabarri?”
“That’s what I was looking for.”
“This is so different.”
“It is,” Alaia said. “I wanted something that said ‘Miren.’ I tried combinations of things, and this was the one I settled
on. The older women like the florals, the jasmines and lilacs; the younger women like the citruses or the mixtures, oats and
honey or almonds and strawberries . . . not as powerful, but they still smell like soap.”
Miren inhaled the scent again.
“Don’t keep it a secret; what is it? I promise I wouldn’t tell anyone about my soap.”
“I’ll give you some hints,” Alaia said, enjoying the game. “It’s made with a little oil extract so that it will serve as a
lotion, too, and keep your skin soft and moist.”
“There’s more.”
“Yes, that’s the secret. I heard about it from a wise man one time.”
“I can’t wait to try it out.”
“There’s a pot of water that I warmed; strip off your blouse and give it a try,” Alaia said.
“Alaia!”
“Miren, I’m blind, you couldn’t have more privacy in the convent. Besides, you don’t have anything that I don’t have . . .
except for eyes.”
“Well, I’ll tell you, I’ve actually got less than you’ve got, if you have to know the truth.”
Self-conscious against logic, Miren turned and tentatively removed her blouse and soaped her torso. She breathed in the fresh
fragrance, splash-rinsed herself, dried off with a towel near the sink, and replaced her blouse.
“Oh, I love this, thank you so much,” Miren said. “How could you know this would be so perfect for me?”
“Because when I smelled it, I thought of you.”
“I’ve never heard of anything so thoughtful,” Miren said, hugging her friend. “Now when I come near you, you’ll be able to
identify me by my smell.”
“Miren, I can usually hear you chattering with people long before I can smell you.”
“But now when you hear those people talking to me, I’m sure they’ll be saying, ‘Oh, there goes Miren Ansotegui—doesn’t that
girl smell nice?’ ”
They hugged once more and Miren, without thinking, began tidying up Alaia’s worktable.
“Miren . . . stop it.”
“I’m sorry.” Miren put down the mixing bowls Alaia had been using. “I have a question for you, and feel free to tell me no
if you are uncomfortable with it: Would you mind if I shared some of the new soap with my mother? I think she would love it,
too.”
Mariangeles did love the soap. And so did her husband, Justo.
The Guardia Civil may have dispossessed Miguel Navarro in Lekeitio, but it did him the service of creating a job opening for
him in Guernica. Raimondo Guerricabeitia, assistant carpenter in the shop of Teodoro Mendiola, was stolen off by armed guards
one day on his walk home from work. No explanations were given to his family; he simply did not arrive home that evening.
Without the formalities of charges or a trial, the Guardia planted Guerricabeitia in a prison. Was he a criminal? A revolutionary?
Or did a neighbor betray him with a false claim to the Guardia?
While not uncommon in other areas of the Pays Basque, such an abduction was still rare at the time in Guernica, where the
Guardia mostly tolerated cultural displays and acted incursively only on tips. All that Mendiola knew was that Raimondo was
a serviceable carpenter who gave no outward indications of political leanings. But someone may have said something, someone
with a grudge. And he was gone as if erased.
When Josepe Ansotegui sent to Mendiola a young shipbuilder in need of quick employment, the timing worked for all concerned.
Josepe was delighted when he heard that he was actually filling a manpower void. Raimondo, though, was experienced and well
past the apprentice stage. Mendiola ran a small but well-established business. His helper usually felled the trees and milled
the lumber with a ripsaw and planer, while Mendiola constructed the furniture, cabinets, and hardwood flooring. The felling
of the soft pines and cypress used for cabinets and inexpensive furniture was simple, but dealing with the old-growth oaks
required greater exertion. At the least, the young man who delivered himself for work looked healthy and fit enough for the
challenges of handling the obstinate hardwoods.
“The recommendation of Josepe Ansotegui is enough for me,” Mendiola said when Miguel arrived. “I’ve known him and his brothers,
Justo and Xabier, for a long time. Justo is filled with pride and hot air, and Xabier is filled with the Holy Ghost. Josepe’s
word—now that, that is solid as oak. And Josepe tells me you are a fine shipbuilder from a good family. That is all I need
to hear.”
Mendiola anticipated a period of unprofitable adjustment. But that was not the case, not even in the first days. Miguel’s
experience at the shipwright’s in Lekeitio translated well to his new duties. Miguel had worked with quarter-sawn oak when
building ships; he was acquainted and comfortable with the planing and joining and finishing of wood.
The construction of boats is a marriage of utility to function, with the conservation of space and weight being key. There
was little need for ornamentation or the fashioning of the wood into pleasing and comforting forms. Making furniture was about
little else. But the young man impressed his new boss with his indefatigability and, as an unexpected bonus, with his creativity.
Mendiola, hands darkened to sepia by years of applying stain, started Miguel’s lessons with the construction of a traditional
Basque chest of oak, with heavy hinges and an ornate flap lock. After a look at the plan for the standard measure ments, Miguel
confidently set about building the chest.
“It won’t look like a boat, will it?” Mendiola needled.
“No, but it might turn into a very attractive bait box,” Miguel answered.
When Miguel returned to the shop with sturdy oak timbers one day in the first week, Mendiola commented on their size and potential
for larger furniture pieces.
“I thought you’d like it,” Miguel said. “I know I’m new here, but I found this huge oak with a little fence around it next
to that assembly building, and I thought I should go ahead and cut it rather than go all the way up into the mountains looking
for timber. People made a fuss, but I got it down anyway.”
Mendiola stuttered in panic before grasping Miguel’s joke. He elaborated on the story in each of the
tabernas
he visited that night, commenting that he was sure he was going enjoy working with the new man.
After mere weeks, Miguel stopped reading the printed designs for the furniture and began creating works of his own vision.
“Where did you get the idea for the lines of this?” Mendiola asked Miguel after he finished a chair that had an appealing
bend to the back supports.
“When I was felling the tree,” he said.
To Miguel, an arching branch might ask to be the arms for a rocker, and stout bole wood sought to become the central pedestal
for a dining table. The cypress, with its delicate, persistent scent, called out to be a drawer for clothes or the lining
of a chest. The wood also seemed to speak to those who purchased the furniture. Miguel would incise a delicately curved notch
in the arms of a chair that invited hands to rest there, or he would rout a bevel on a tabletop that insisted that all who
passed must drag their hands across the edge.
Mendiola found his net income rising because of Miguel’s growing clientele. In turn, Miguel discovered a job that suited him
even better than shipbuilding. He could be productive, creative, and expressive, and be gratified that his work would last
long after he was gone. He inhaled the smells of fresh wood chips and sawdust and varnishes and stains, not fish. And the
ground had finally stopped rolling beneath him.
The
txistulari
, playing his small black flute with his left hand while beating his tabor drum with the right, created more sounds than seemed
possible for one person. The woman on the accordion joined in, especially for the
jotas
, along with a boy who finger-drummed a tambourine. They provided music, without stop, all afternoon and evening at the Sunday
erromeria
, attracting nearly everyone in town.
Families arrived together and danced, sometimes three or four generations at a time. Grandfathers executed the steps they’d
mastered sixty years earlier as little ones squealed in their arms. Old quilts and canvas tarps made a bright patchwork across
the grounds around the dance area, where families lounged and ate sandwiches of chorizo and thinly sliced beef tongue. Some
dozed beneath trees after too much wine. Others played
mus
or whist at small tables, or just enjoyed the spectacle of the spinning dancers.
The
erromeria
served as an outdoor crucible for the selecting and melding of future mates. It was Sunday; all had been to mass, taken communion,
and been freshly absolved, guaranteeing this to be a wholesome family-oriented environment where the inquisitive and bored
could scrutinize the courting pairs.
Miren Ansotegui rarely stood still long enough for young men to attach themselves. She joined the choreographed folk dances
with her group of friends and then broke off to share dances with a random succession of males and females, whoever happened
to orbit her sphere at the moment. But she did rest on occasion, now that she was old enough to refresh herself with the wine
kept near the tables under the canopy shade.
Mendiola urged Miguel to attend the function as a way to meet the villagers who were their customers. Mendiola accompanied
the musicians on the slow waltzes with an old crosscut saw that quivered with his mournful bow strokes. Miguel enjoyed the
music and the flowing current of the dancers but found his attention quickly fixed on a young woman with a thick braid that
extended past the vee of her white scarf and whipped behind her as she spun. She was elegant and moved with a grace that caused
him to stare without realizing it.
After several dances in the encroaching twilight, Miren retreated toward the café canopies where Miguel sat. At the moment
she passed his table, a lamp on a nearby post was lit, and to Miguel, it seemed to illuminate only her face. Miguel moved
involuntarily. Without offering his name or asking hers, Miguel waved to the girl to catch her attention.
“Can you come here?” he said, surprising himself with how much he sounded like his brother Dodo. “Sit down.”
He fell in love several times each day without making an effort, but the sight of her unsettled him like mornings at sea.
When the warm-honey lamp glow fell across her face, he was stunned.
She turned, paused, and took quick inventory. She saw the typical Basque face, varnished by work in the sun; the typical teeth,
made to seem whiter in contrast to the burnt-olive face; the typical hair, black and fiercely independent; the typical body,
powerful but lean, with ropy muscles knotted by the hauling of nets or the wrestling of stubborn rams. He did not wear a beret,
but yes, he was acceptable.
“Why not?” she answered—agreeable, but without any eagerness that could be misinterpreted. Her posture on the edge of the
chair signaled that the length of her stay would depend on his powers to charm.
Miguel read the signs and sensed the pressure.
“You have the most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen,” he said without prologue.