The little story
There is great history, the kind that appears in books, the kind that shapes common life. Now, these days, with the death of Pope Francis, the conclave, and the election of Leo XIV, we have experienced an important chapter. But it is not that history I want to talk about. Newspapers, radio stations, and television stations—what they call the media—have already spoken about it at length. No, I want to talk about a kind of history that, for me, is as interesting as, or more so than, any other. I like to call it small history, the kind that considerably enriches the larger history, the kind that tells us about the lives of people, more than about the facts. And if it tells us about the facts, it does so to add human nuances, to preserve places and customs, to bring us closer to everyday life.
The other day I received a book from a friend, dedicated to him. I skimmed it as I always do with a new book, to get my bearings. I read the introduction and couldn't put it down. The book is titled My Adri's Paradise And it's by the journalist Pius Pujades, whom I've known all my life, as they say. It's a beautiful book. The author doesn't aim to write literature; he simply wants to tell us what he remembers about his time in Adri when he was very young. And he does. Memory is his main source, but that's why he hasn't stopped researching things; he's spoken to people his own age, if they're still alive; he's spoken to the children or grandchildren of the people he remembers.
The authorHe is the son of Consol Lladó, who was Adri's teacher even before the Spanish Civil War. He returned later, after the first World War, when Pío was very young. When he was five years old. And he spent a little over a year there. His father had died in the forehead...
Memories play an important role in the book. In fact, it's a book of memories. But it's also full of questions, of things the author doesn't remember and wonders about. But it doesn't matter. The fabric of memories is made of a kind of fog, which is sometimes thick and sometimes clears, becoming threads that must be sewn together to make a coherent story. The author never hides this, and this is one of its charms.
The book is structured with chapters, more or less long. Most are short. And they are headed by a title that gives us the thematic key. Thus: "The Horses and the Fury," "The Wheat Field," "Rocacorba, Hermitage and Castle," "The Mud and the Shotgun," "Saturdays at the Inn," "Adri's Farmhouses," "Main Festival," etc. These are, as you can see, diverse themes—and there are many more than I mention so as not to bore you—that shape the story of a memory and a life. Pío Pujades knows how to step outside himself to talk about others, and so, for example, he tells us about the horses they took to the blacksmith's shop, how they were shod, how the blacksmith shaped the horseshoe, the furnace and the anvil, the hammering on the red-hot iron, the smell of the kissing hoof. A whole world that has disappeared. I suppose the blacksmithing fascinated him, as it fascinated me when, on my way to school, I passed by a blacksmith on Migdia Street. I'd stop and spend quite a while. That scorched smell, if it could be reproduced, would do so right now. The world of Adri's hostel also fascinated that five-year-old boy. The men, peasants, and charcoal burners playing cards; now the smell is different, no longer scorched, but a smell of tobacco, ideals and snacks, wine, and especially the roasts and stir-fries that were made in the kitchen for the dishes, which were also eaten at the inn. Eating, drinking, and playing cards. This was the function of the inns. "What games were played in those years in the country inns? I can only speak from what I've seen many years later. Before butifarra became popular, the game played was truco, which could be played by two, four, or six. That was when the only game at stake was the drink. Those who wanted to gamble for money usually played with the most money. Much later, I saw seven and a half played, but I couldn't say if it was already quite popular."
There are two chapters that have particularly interested me: the one that refers to games, not those at the inn, but those played by children, and the one that refers to tacos. The author doesn't know if the games he's talking about were learned from Adri or later. The same goes for swearing. As I've already said, memory is frayed and it likes to mix things up. But at all costs, Pius Pujades's book manages to construct an entire world, finished, already dead forever.