|
My father held me tightly as I frantically moved my arms and legs, like a squid caught in the net. Swimming was the most extraordinary experience since I had learnt how to walk. The water threw light into my eyes, and through the sparkle I distinguished the house of the engineers, Alfonsito Vilallonga, slender and skittish like an anchovy, quivering from the cold in his towel, and Caterina Roig wearing her glasses, a bathing suit with a floral pattern, and a saffron coloured rubber skullcap.
My cousin tried to grab me by my bottom, and I pedalled as hard as I could. On a bicycle, the world opened up before me, immense. From Camp dels Pilans to the oaks of Mas Sant Joan, Blanca, Piluca, and I had our own beat. Having reached our objective, we opened our plastic containers and ate omelette and breaded meat. After that, we didn’t know what to do. So we turned back to mess around in the landfill of L’Escala: pieces of netting, breadbaskets with holes, or a rather scary armless puppet. If the landfill gave up no treasures, we’d finish the afternoon with our noses on the ground in the vineyard by the Roman wall, where Gambo had found the cameo that he proudly showed anyone willing to listen to him.
To walk on the thick cover of dry leaves under the Chestnut trees of Can Barris, looking for mushrooms, made me conscious of the silence, and silence made me anxious. The guards in La Vajol were even more afraid than the people they were watching over. In 1975 the Albera was still a wild range; my husband at that time had taken the place of Doctor Grabulosa, who still visited sick farmers on horseback, rewarded with measures of ratafia liquor and toast.
Nostalgia for the Aiguamolls. Sudden flights of geese through a red sky, that feathers turn nearly black. Returning home on the paths of Pelacalç, avoiding the puddles.
My neoprene suit was four sizes too small. I entered the icy December water and felt how it heated up on my body. The night the Century changed we dined in Pins on garotes, red and black fruit, spiky like cactus.
The train. Vineyards of Perelada. Wild boar. Songs in Espolla. Pomegranate and Tamarind along the paths. Work in summer and rest in November. The rhythm of school reversed. When the tourists leave, we go to the beach.
Three or four days later the neighbour who was repairing the roof made a mistake. Through a large hole in the sky it snowed on the eiderdown of our bed in Camallera. Just like today; it has been snowing all day in Bassegoda; it rained on the pond by our home; the arch of Sant Martí appeared twice, and now the peaceful moon of January is shining.
|
