José

By Henry Gold

For two young lovers, stormy seas lie ahead.

 

Asturias, Spain, 1885. Life is hard in the picturesque but desperately poor fishing village of Rodillero. With hunger and tragedy lurking around every corner, any chance at happiness has to be seized before it can slip away.
 

José and Elisa yearn to wed and build a life together here. But it's not only the cruel whims of the sea that stand in the young lovers' way. Their mothers are against the marriage, and they are prepared to resort to underhand means to stop it.
 

José is a compelling tale of fear and bravery, despair and hope, greed and selflessness. Timeless yet deeply rooted in its setting and era, it invites us into a way of life that, though now lost to the past, turns on feelings that resound through the ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Merci Beaucs
• Release date: Jul 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9798201420710

Book preview

I

It was two in the afternoon . The sun shone brightly and sparkled over the sea. The breeze was so light that it was barely strong enough to swell the sails of the fishing boats traversing the ocean in search of a catch. The high peaks of the coast and the inland mountains loomed clear in the distance, wrapped in the finest shimmering blue. Villages were stamped as white marks in the inlets along the coast. Silence reigned: the solemn, infinite noiselessness of the sea at rest. Most fishermen were sleeping or resting in varying states of relaxation. Some reclined on the wales of their boats, some sat, and others lay face up on the planks of their vessels. In their right hands they all held the lines of their tackle, which cut the water in parallel lines behind the boat. Force of habit meant that they would not release their grip even when fast asleep. Thirty or forty boats were visible, forming something of a little armada, and they moved so slowly over the smooth, glittering surface of the water that they appeared at times to be completely motionless. Tarpaulin flapped frequently against the masts, producing a muffled thud that further invited sleep. The heat was stifling and suffocating, as it sometimes can be at sea.

The skipper of one boat abandoned the helm for a moment, pulling a rag from his pocket to mop the sweat from his brow. Then he took up the tiller once more and scanned the horizon, noticing a boat that had moved some distance away. He soon returned to his distracted state, indifferently observing his slumbering mates. He was a young man, light haired and blue eyed. His features were cracked and tanned from the inclement weather, but no less attractive for all that. He had a thick beard and wore a coat similar to those worn by all seafarers, blue cotton shoes and jacket, and a white hat, which was of slightly better quality and in better repair than the rest of his outfit.

One of the sailors looked over the wales of the boat. Rubbing his eyes, he muttered darkly and spoke with ill humour:

I’ll be damned if things don’t stay this quiet for the rest of the day.

Don’t be so sure, replied the skipper, scrutinising the horizon once more. There’s a fresh wind coming from the west within the hour; there are signs of it coming from yonder. Tomás has already set off.

Where is Tomás? the sailor asked, looking out over the sea and using his hand to screen his eyes from the sun.

He’s out of sight.

Has he caught anything?

It doesn’t look like it; but he will – and so will all of us. We won’t be going home without bonito today.

We’ll see, grunted the sailor sceptically as he settled down to sleep again.

The skipper was left once again as the only man awake on board. Tired of surveying the view, the mountains and the boats, his eyes came to rest on an old seafarer who was sleeping on his back under the benches of the vessel, pulling an alarmingly ferocious face as he snored. But rather than becoming concerned, the skipper smiled with pleasure.

Hey, Bernardo, he said as he tapped the sailor he had just been talking to on the shoulder, look how ugly Corsario is when he sleeps.

The sailor lifted his head again and gave his skipper a mischievous grin.

Hold on a minute, José, let’s give him a surprise. Pass that rock over here.

Understanding instantly, the skipper picked up a large stone that was used as ballast at the stern. He silently passed it to his companion. Bernardo slowly and carefully pulled Corsario’s tackle out of the water. When he reached the hook, he powerfully drove it into the stone, which he delicately allowed to drop into the water. As quick as a flash, he dove back into his previous position and feigned sleep.

My word! the sailor shouted in panic as he felt a heavy pull on his tackle. He rose so quickly that he hit his head against a bench, but he gave no sign of having noticed.

The other sailors were now awake and leaned over the port side, where Corsario began to haul with all his might. Bernardo also raised his head and exclaimed ill temperedly:

Corsario has caught something! The sea would have to be empty of fish for this lucky wretch not to catch anything!

As he spoke, he winked at another fisherman, who nudged another, who did the same in turn to another, so that everyone was in on the joke in no time at all.

Is it a big one, Corsario? Bernardo asked.

Big? You come over and try to hold on! You’ll see how hard it’s pulling!

The sailor took the line that was offered to him and pulled comical faces of shock at his mates, solemnly declaring:

May God strike me down if it doesn’t weigh thirty pounds! It must be the best catch of the season.

Meanwhile, Corsario was trembling, smiling and bursting with pride. He vigorously yet carefully pulled on the line, lowering it once in a while to ensure that the catch could not escape. The fishermen turned their faces toward the water, stifling their laughter as best they could.

But what magnet or foul trickery is this thief using to catch fish even when he is asleep? Bernardo exclaimed, with increasingly grotesque grimaces.

Corsario noticed that the bonito, in contrast to its normal habits, was constantly pulling downward. But he ignored this and continued to pull on the line, until the stone was clearly visible through the water.

And then the game was up. The fishermen gave in and burst out laughing as one; unable to restrain their guffaws, they exploded in cries of hilarity and held their sides with their hands, bent double over the benches.

On you go, Corsario! You’re nearly there!

It’s no bonito – but it’s a fish held in high esteem for its tenderness and flavour.

Especially with oil and vinegar and a pinch of paprika.

See if it doesn’t weigh thirty pounds, just like I said.

Corsario pulled the stone aboard with irritation, untied it and dropped the tackle into the water again. He then cast a fearsome look at his boatmates and murmured:

Swine! If you’d seen the trouble I have, you’d be in no mood for jokes!

And he laid down, cursing as he did so. But this did not stem the laughter, which continued for some time, revived by another humorous comment whenever it was on the verge of ending. Eventually, though, the men calmed down. The atmosphere shifted to pleasant chatter, and subsequently to lethargy and sleepiness again.

After a while, the breeze began to stiffen. The flapping of the tarpaulin against the masts intermingled with the murmurs of the water against the keel.

Keeping his head raised and without losing sight of the other boats, the skipper happily breathed in the wind; it was a sign that there would soon be fish to catch. He checked the nets to make sure that they were not tangled, helmed a little to allow for the wind, pulled the sheet as hard as he could and let it go. The vessel responded by canting and picking up speed. The eagle-eyed helmsman spotted that one boat had just furled its sails.

We’re coming on top of the bonito now! he shouted at the top of his voice, but nobody heard him.

A moment later, the sailor closest to the bow cried out in surprise:

My God!

The skipper lengthened the sheet to slow the boat. The sailor paused before he began to haul in. The memory of the earlier joke came to him and he glanced nervously at his boatmates, asking:

Is this a stone, too?

Pull, you fool! called José, fearing that the fish might escape.

The bonito had already pulled away almost all of the line. The sailor began to pull hard. After hauling in a few fathoms of line, he loosened it again, because the fish was still fighting and might easily snap it. He pulled the line in and let it go again, and by repeatedly doing so, he was soon able to discern a dark lump at the end of the line, twisting furiously with flashes of silver. And the closer it came to the surface of the water, the more desperately it fought to escape. When the fisherman slackened the line a couple of times, the fish seemed to have achieved its aim. But in the end, worn out and nearly lifeless, the fish docilely allowed itself to be pulled to its death. When it was finally dragged out of its native environment and hauled on board, it flung water in every direction with its leaping and writhing. Then when the hook was pulled from its mouth, it was still for a moment as if playing dead, before suddenly beginning to flap again under the benches with such a clatter and furore that it seemed it might manage to jump back into the water. Nobody paid it any attention by this point, however; another two bonito had been hooked almost at the same time, and the fishermen were preoccupied with hauling them in.

The fish were plentiful. Within three or four hours, there were one hundred and two bonito on board.

How many? came the call from a nearby boat.

A hundred and two. Yourselves?

Sixty.

Didn’t I tell you! Bernardo exclaimed to his companions. You’ll see – the best of them won’t be bringing more than eighty home. Nothing makes a man keener to work wonders than the chance of marriage!

And they all turned smiling toward the skipper; he smiled in return, rendering his expression all the more good natured.

Is the date set yet, José? asked one of the fishermen.

Tomás and Manuel are already headed for shore, he said, without answering. Let go of that halyard, Ramón; we need to tack it.

After they had completed the task, Bernardo spoke again:

You were asking when José is getting married? Well, it’s obvious – as soon as the new boat hits the water.

When are they tarring it?

Very soon. The caulker told me that it’d be ready in a couple of weeks, Bernardo replied.

There’ll be fine meats to eat then, eh, José?

And a good bottle of red, added another fisherman.

And some Cuban cigars, said a third.

I’d forgive him anything if he took us to see a good show on the day of the wedding, Bernardo suggested.

He can’t. Have you forgotten that he can’t be late to bed that night?

Well then, he should give us the cash to go, and he can stay at home.

The skipper heard everything without saying a word, the same benevolent smile playing on his lips.

I can’t think of a funnier show, exclaimed one of the men, than being married to the daughter of the schoolmaster’s wife!

Hey! Watch your mouth! said José, halfway between laughter and irritation.

The men celebrated the joke as if it were the finest ever told and continued to laugh and chat, while the wind, which was beginning to ease, pushed them gently toward land.

II

It was dusk as the boats entered the inlet at Rodillero. Waiting at the shore was a crowd made up almost entirely of women and children who were shouting, laughing or bickering. The old folk sat peacefully a little further away, perched on the sides of boats that were resting on the pebbled shore while they awaited a new coat on their hull. Meanwhile, the well-to-do contemplated the arrival of the fishing boats from their stone benches in front of the houses that were closest to the beach. From lifelong experience, the people on the shore already knew that the boats would be bringing in bonito. And as always, knowing this brought smiles to their faces. The women prepared the baskets to receive the catch and rolled up their sleeves with splendid satisfaction. The children climbed the closest rocks so that they might be the first to confirm what was in the bottom of the boats. The vessels slowly approached. The fishermen, serious and silent, lazily allowed their oars to fall into the water.

One boat after another ground onto the pebbles. The seamen emerged from them, jumping onto land in order to avoid getting wet. Some remained on board to unload the fish, which they tossed one by one onto the shore. The women collected, beheaded and gutted the fish with remarkable speed, before piling them up in baskets. Hitching up their skirts, the women then took a few steps into the water to wash the fish. Much of the water and the shore itself were covered in blood in no time at all.

As soon as they reached land, the skippers formed a group and set about agreeing on the price of the fish. The owners of the fish-pickling businesses and the old wives who sold fresh fish waited impatiently a short distance away for the outcome of the discussion.

One old woman was dressed more