Guernica by Dave Boling Page B

had no choice but to yank the beret from his head and fill it. He struggled across the deck and heaved the ballooning
     hat overboard. It floated away like a menacing black jellyfish. It would be a long time before he would wear a beret again.
    José Antonio Aguirre confessed a few pedestrian sins to Father Xabier Ansotegui, a junior priest at the Basilica de Begoña
     in Bil-bao. But before the priest could mete out the Hail Marys, Aguirre opened a discourse on Spain’s political volatility.
    “Primo de Rivera’s henchmen in the Guardia Civil have too much latitude; they’re vigilantes more than a national police force
     in some areas, and they’ve hated and pressured us for decades,” the man said. “And at this rate, there will never be rights
     for workers or for women, and certainly not for the Basques. God help you if you’re a working Basque woman.”
    “I think I’m supposed to give the lectures in here,” Xabier said, peering through the lattice. “Who are you?”
    Aguirre introduced himself, and Father Xabier recognized the name. A former soccer star from a family of Bilbaino chocolate
     makers, Aguirre was mayor of nearby Getxo and was rumored to be the leading candidate for president if the Basques ever gained
     independence.
    “I’m sorry, I get worked up,” Aguirre said.
    Xabier conceded that was one of his own shortcomings.
    When Aguirre discovered that the priest was from Guernica, he launched into high oratory fit for a stump speech. “More than
     four centuries ago, Basques held a congress beneath the tree of Guernica,” Aguirre said, too loudly for the confessional.
     “They declared that all Basques were equally noble before the law without exception. And any law, whether by king or court,
     should be disregarded if it ran contrary to liberty—”
    “Yes, I know,” the priest interrupted. “Do you have any more sins we need to discuss?”
    He did not, but for half an hour, they visited about labor problems, social issues, the dictates of the church, the alcohol
     content of holy wine, the best eating places on either side of the Nervión River, and poetry. Aguirre was a friend of the
     local poet/journalist Lauaxeta; Father Xabier was an admirer of the Andalusian poet/ playwright Federico García Lorca. Through
     the grating, Aguirre quoted Lauaxeta from memory, and Xabier volleyed a Lorca line about the poet who wants “to press his
     ear to the sleeping girl and understand the Morse code of her heart.”
    “Yes, but he’s not Basque, so it’s sadly inferior,” Aguirre said.
    “You sound like my brother,” said Xabier, which led to a discussion of Justo and farming and the phenomenon of elder siblings
     and the influence of birth order.
    When Aguirre finally exited, having talked his way out of penance, the elderly woman waiting for the confessional shook her
     head in scorn, imagining the sins he must have committed to be in there that long.
    Miguel loved the ritual of being a fisherman even if he barely tolerated the practice. He even enjoyed the predawn walk to
     mass at Santa María de la Asunción, across the brick cobbles slippery with the night dew that seeped up from the harbor.
    A sense of peace calmed Miguel when he stepped through the main door of the centuries-old church. The wooden floors answered
     their steps with a groan in the same dialect spoken by the deck planks of their boat. The Navarro crew gathered in the front
     of the church near a small side altar dominated by the likeness of San Miguel subduing a fearsome sea serpent. To his left
     the archangel Rafael proudly held a large fish like a trophy. The Navarros considered it a daily reminder of their goals:
     to catch bigger fish and hope that divinities controlled any threats that might rise up from the seas. Piety was no guarantee,
     but before leaving every morning, Miguel bowed to San Miguel, visited the sign of the cross upon his chest, kissed his thumbnail,
     and pointed to the heavens.
    On the short