and was somewhat battered by use. In it Gabriel had noted down the contents of each of the cases, boxes, and trunks theyâd taken as booty from their moving jobs. Since he was a diligent person, there was nothing missing in the notebook: the route, date, and an itemization of everything that had been plundered, which they divvied up like proper pirates.
This highway robbersâ existence, if youâll permit us the expression, afforded something close to an idyllic lifestyle for Gabriel and Bundó. It was idyllic because it compensated both of them for the instability of their early adolescence, while establishing them in a sort of itinerant paradise. Before talking about that, however, we have to get through a period of apprenticeship of hellish proportions.
It was the beginning of 1958, and Bundó and Gabriel were sixteen. The orphanage had moved to an establishment known as Llars Mundet, as had been planned for some time, and the change was very unsettling. The new institution, located high up in Vall dâHebrón, was a mammoth construction, built a long way from everything, a whole city in itself that obliged them to turn their backs on Barcelona. Within four weeks of the opening of the new building, they were longing for the labyrinthine passageways of the House of Charity. Now, from a distance, they were tormented by the conviction they were missing out on a world contained in the noisy vice-ridden maze of streets beyond the orphanage. So, what on earth were they doing up there, in that mountainous semiwilderness? A few pensioners from a nearby old peopleâs home wandered around filling their lungs with fresh air, and the younger kids had more space for playing outside, but what about these two? âThis is the Wild West,â they said and frittered away their time trapping lizards, improving their aim by throwing stones at an old tin, or plotting heroic escapes. Their indolence horrified the nuns,who wasted no time in finding a remedy. Since the boys were not especially brilliant students and, more importantly, because there was no family to take them in, the Mother Superior decided that they were old enough to leave their studies and get a job.
Gabriel wrote Spanish without too many spelling errors so he went off to be apprenticed to a typesetter in the House of Charity printing press. It didnât take him long to realize he didnât like the job. His main task was removing the residue of dry ink from the pieces of lead type that had gone through the printer. Sometimes they told him to stow the wooden pieces they used for titles in their correct boxes. At first he found it entertaining enough, not unlike doing a jigsaw puzzleâ F with the F s, B with the B s . . . but it wasnât very exciting, and the supervisor often shouted at him to hurry up. âMove it, boy!â Only occasionally, as a consolation prize, did they let him compose half a column of news or a few ads paid for by the word, but, since the dingy place was airless and he was weak and malnourished, the upside-down letters made his head spin and brought on attacks of queasiness. He was locked up in the printers twelve hours a day, from seven to seven and, in addition, he had to work Saturdays and Sundays twice a month because the Monday newspaper Hoja del Lunes was printed in the House of Charity. After work he would have liked to amuse himself for a while in his old neighborhood and, now that they gave him a bit more freedom, to venture on to the Rambla, or beyond Plaça de la Universitat into Carrer Aribau. But he had to run to get the tram and bus, crossing the whole of Barcelona to get to Llars Mundet. The nuns were very strict about punctuality and, if he got back late, they wouldnât give him dinner. To add insult to injury, he got a good reprimand as well.
One evening, as the tram climbed Carrer Dos de Maig and the sooty façades were lit up by the flashes of electrical sparks, he
This highway robbersâ existence, if youâll permit us the expression, afforded something close to an idyllic lifestyle for Gabriel and Bundó. It was idyllic because it compensated both of them for the instability of their early adolescence, while establishing them in a sort of itinerant paradise. Before talking about that, however, we have to get through a period of apprenticeship of hellish proportions.
It was the beginning of 1958, and Bundó and Gabriel were sixteen. The orphanage had moved to an establishment known as Llars Mundet, as had been planned for some time, and the change was very unsettling. The new institution, located high up in Vall dâHebrón, was a mammoth construction, built a long way from everything, a whole city in itself that obliged them to turn their backs on Barcelona. Within four weeks of the opening of the new building, they were longing for the labyrinthine passageways of the House of Charity. Now, from a distance, they were tormented by the conviction they were missing out on a world contained in the noisy vice-ridden maze of streets beyond the orphanage. So, what on earth were they doing up there, in that mountainous semiwilderness? A few pensioners from a nearby old peopleâs home wandered around filling their lungs with fresh air, and the younger kids had more space for playing outside, but what about these two? âThis is the Wild West,â they said and frittered away their time trapping lizards, improving their aim by throwing stones at an old tin, or plotting heroic escapes. Their indolence horrified the nuns,who wasted no time in finding a remedy. Since the boys were not especially brilliant students and, more importantly, because there was no family to take them in, the Mother Superior decided that they were old enough to leave their studies and get a job.
Gabriel wrote Spanish without too many spelling errors so he went off to be apprenticed to a typesetter in the House of Charity printing press. It didnât take him long to realize he didnât like the job. His main task was removing the residue of dry ink from the pieces of lead type that had gone through the printer. Sometimes they told him to stow the wooden pieces they used for titles in their correct boxes. At first he found it entertaining enough, not unlike doing a jigsaw puzzleâ F with the F s, B with the B s . . . but it wasnât very exciting, and the supervisor often shouted at him to hurry up. âMove it, boy!â Only occasionally, as a consolation prize, did they let him compose half a column of news or a few ads paid for by the word, but, since the dingy place was airless and he was weak and malnourished, the upside-down letters made his head spin and brought on attacks of queasiness. He was locked up in the printers twelve hours a day, from seven to seven and, in addition, he had to work Saturdays and Sundays twice a month because the Monday newspaper Hoja del Lunes was printed in the House of Charity. After work he would have liked to amuse himself for a while in his old neighborhood and, now that they gave him a bit more freedom, to venture on to the Rambla, or beyond Plaça de la Universitat into Carrer Aribau. But he had to run to get the tram and bus, crossing the whole of Barcelona to get to Llars Mundet. The nuns were very strict about punctuality and, if he got back late, they wouldnât give him dinner. To add insult to injury, he got a good reprimand as well.
One evening, as the tram climbed Carrer Dos de Maig and the sooty façades were lit up by the flashes of electrical sparks, he
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