La Cucaracha

La Cucaracha

A short story by David Ebsworth

The Irish tour guide, Brendan Murphy, was still a serving member of Franco’s Foreign Legion. There had been plenty of Irishmen fighting here for the Republic, of course, with the International Brigades. But there were others, like Murphy, too. Those who saw this as a holy conflict, to defend Spain’s Catholic Church. But the country’s Civil War seemed a long way from San Sebastián on this September afternoon in 1938, even as the rain began to fall.

          The tourists themselves managed to climb back aboard the carriages without getting drenched and the canopies helped to keep them reasonably dry until they had retraced their journey to the road tunnel. From this side it was more obvious that the royal parkland dividing the two beaches also accommodated a substantial palace, although it seemed badly neglected, the grounds overgrown but still splashed with yellow oxalis vinagrillos, with fiery marigolds, blue hydrangea, purple anemone.

          ‘That's the Miramar Palace up on our right,’ shouted Murphy. ‘The Royal Family used to spend August here. It’s all boarded up just now but don't worry. Today you'll still dine like royalty. Look.’

          He pointed to the left where, upon the beach, there was an extraordinary sight that had been hidden from them travelling in the opposite direction. For, at the foot of the Pico del Loro, where a private staircase ran down to the sand, there was a rail track, but with an enormous gauge, perhaps twenty feet across. And upon the rails sat a monumental beach house. It possessed something of the style and splendour of the Royal Pavilion at Brighton, though naturally on a smaller scale, but it remained impressive, its arabesque shutters brightly painted, its onion domes striped in green and white.

          For today’s purposes, the structure had been hauled to the nearer end of the rails but it was obvious that the entire pavilion could, when required, be rolled down to the water’s edge, regardless of the state of the tide, so that their Royal Majesties might take a dip in complete privacy within the enclosed lido platforms at the rear.

          Inside, the tour group was welcomed by the city’s mayor to King Alfonso’s private dining room, while a Bishop was on hand, once again, to bless both their endeavours and their food, although neither could stay for the meal itself. The chef was introduced, Señor Armendariz Escurra. He had apparently just opened a new restaurant in the town and, yes, this was a positive sign of prosperity returning to San Sebastián. The food was exquisite. Barely a whisper about ‘decent English food’ or ‘too much oil and garlic.’ They enjoyed brochetas of either fried prawns in a vinaigrette, or succulent kid with peppers and onion. Marinated octopus. Meat balls in tomato and txakoli. Lightly battered cod in romesco sauce. Grilled vegetables. Baskets of stale bread to mop up the juices.

          And it was wonderful. Until the cockroach appeared.

          The creature slipped unnoticed past the two young women who had been employed to wait on table, but ran in plain view of Dorothea Holden, who screamed and rose suddenly from her chair, tipping it backwards to the floor. Several of the others jumped to their feet also, by instinct.

          'What is it, my sweet one?' said the Professor, her husband.

          'Cucurucho!' cried Dorothea.

          He craned his long neck, finally spotting the object of her fears as it made a rapid circuit on the wall opposite.

          ‘Ah! I think, my dear, you will find the correct word to be cucaracha. A cucurucho is an ice-cream cone, unless I’m badly…’