The Last Potter - 1. Chapter 1: The Last Potter in the Village

Juan groaned half-silently as the harsh bell on the old alarm clock rang out in his dark and spartan bedroom. No snoose facility was available, and anyway, Mother would have a few things to add to her ever-increasing list of his inadequacies if he thought he could get away with a lie-in one day a week. “The devil makes trouble for idle hands.”, was one of her refrains, to be supplemented by pointed case studies of those who had indeed had idle hands and who had fallen by the wayside.

Today, Monday, should be calm enough, though. The Sunday evening sermon had been about loving everyone: the rich, the poor, even the illegal immigrant. Juan was looking forward to hearing what the upper caste of the village church goers thought of the new young curate’s challenging sermon. Especially those, he observed, who were keen to identify any sinners and kept their lists of such persons. Of course, one never heard any confessions from the self-appointed saintly caste in the village, of which his mother was a leading member. Um, yes, last night’s service had been enjoyable. But then a worry entered his head: was he on their lists? Had he been seen approaching that bar in the town 25 kilometres away? He’d been a fool, yes, but he was just a lonely guy, and he could meet similar guys there. But if the church mafia suspected…. It was turning out to be a not so calm start to the day after all.

Forced to get out of this inner turmoil by a loud banging nearby, Juan quickly finished his ablutions and headed downstairs to his domain, the display of his work as a potter in what had once been an important town in the whole of the zone, renowned for its pottery and ceramics. He laughed drily to himself, for he was now the only potter left in a village where once there had been 60 independent kilns as late as the mid 20-century, making the village a regional tourist attraction. And now his was the only kiln left. His father had drummed into him time and again that they, the Sanchez’s had survived the Civil War, the post-war “flight” to the cities etc., unlike many others. They had proudly foreseen a glorious future as the ‘Sanchez potteries and ceramics’ blossomed at the service of countless visitors as they had done since they were founded in 1857. The Sanchez family should be proud according to his parents because they continued to survive whilst the rest, in twos and threes shut down each year or so. Now when people followed the sign from the main road to visit the advertised ‘Ceramic Art Centre’, it would be to visit the ‘Sanchez pottery and ceramics centre’. What profits awaited the family.

However, two things went wrong for this “illustrious” pottery; although it cost his father and mother a lot to find out and to come to terms with Juan and his problems: firstly, his talent, or their perceived lack of it, and secondly, his failure even now at 40 to have produced the next potter his family so badly needed. As an only son and still with no sign of even a girlfriend, let alone a wife, Juan was a sad disappointment. So much so that not long before his recent death, Juan’s father had some sharp comments on the lack of skill in his son, “He can’t even get the simple straight lines painted,” he said, “let alone be a ceramic artist. Hopefully, the next generation will give us a team of potters to be proud of.” He was to pass away still disappointed and deceived.

Going downstairs, Juan wandered around the cluttered, perhaps kitzy, works of art for sale and reflected on his father’s harsh words. Juan was no fool. He believed he was no great ceramicist but it was what he wanted to do. The basic stuff, little bowls and plates for olives and their stones, “souvenirs” with the town’s name, all this he could produce day in and day out, but the more elegant stuff in fashionable colours so in demand today, he believed was beyond him – and what were fashionable colours anyway? ‘If only I could have got to an art school’ was a not uncommon unspoken lament after having been trodden down again by father or mother. More than once, he had wished he had had the courage to say the thought aloud. God alone knew what would have been the response. Now, of course, it was too late. He was allowed to experiment with his ceramics in his free time, although his mother insisted they would never sell. But Juan could tell by the looks of the visitors that many were disappointed with the paltry goods which filled nearly all the space. Occasionally, there were the surreptitious glances of pity from the more cultured visitors at the poverty of artistry on display. Unwanted pieces were bought out of kindness. Most didn’t even glance to the corner where he placed his ceramics. His attempts to give them more prominence had been laughed at. “Who’s going to pay 40 euros for one of your ‘salad bowls’?” his mother had cackled as she reordered the display once more.

He moved on to the other side of the room and after a few moments to check on the pots waiting to be painted, Juan carried on down the steep and rickety stairs to the ground floor: his studio with all the accoutrements necessary for the ‘last potter’ to keep going for another day. How much peace would his mother give him today, he wondered, as he clicked the switches to ‘on’ for the large kiln to start heating up. He longed to light up a cigarette, just like the one that guy had given him in the bar the other night. And he bought me a drink, he remembered with a wistful smile; he was a foreigner, English or American, perhaps. His Spanish had been quite fluent but not enough to understand the Spanish for “pottery”. His attempt to explain had been interrupted by the arrival of a Spanish guy, obviously with him, who translated the unknown words, but somehow the magic of his chat with the English or American guy was cut short. The other had been ready to leave.

His reverie was interrupted by a loud crash of falling pottery, by a strong, very unlady-like curse, and by the door opening to announce that Mother had arrived. He sighed, forced a smile and got ready to greet her. Consuela Orts i Roig was surprisingly small given the strength of both voice and personality. Nevertheless, what she lacked in stature was made up for by her dominant willpower and the determination with which for nearly forty years she had tried to bend her son to her will, just as she had successfully done with his father when they married. Unlike his father, however, Juan was the immoveable object to her irresistible force. It was not a happy relationship for either of them.

“Good morning, Mother. Did you sleep well?”

“Adequately,” was the curt reply. And with that she drew herself up, flung open the door and headed out to the early morning Mass. Juan sighed and turned once more to the preparation of his materials. Routine and boredom were back again. But once the wet clay was in his hands, being moulded, formed and reformed, he began to relax. ‘Shit’, he thought, ‘I might be talentless, but this feels so good.’ Without thinking he had clicked on the old, battered radio and the sound of an old favourite piece began. He began to paddle, and the wheel spun ever faster. Automatically he splashed water on the base and threw the grey clay expertly on the centre. Work had begun for another day. But his thoughts were on that brief encounter with the guys from the other evening. Why?

oOo

30 kilometres north, Jack was also bored, but for a different reason. They had come north to the Pyrenees in the hope of escaping the horrific heat of Valencia and its summer nights of suffocating humidity. They had been only partially successful; there were, indeed, lovely cool nights but the days were relentlessly hot, worse at times even than at home. The important thing, thought the logical Englishman, was to get up early, enjoy a brief breakfast in the cool of the ‘casa rural’ garden, and then hit the road for the day’s explorations. He was bored because it was now ten am. The heat was on its way, whilst Joan lounged in bed, spending this precious morning time between dozing and checking his iPhone.

Their young puppy, Greta, was also bored. It was surely playtime, she thought, but even Jack failed to respond to her attempts to provoke him by chewing the olive stones that littered the terrace. That usually got him mad, and he would chase her around the garden and through the house. Finally, barking proved to be successful. The little dachshund was nothing if not inventive. Jack got the message, picked up the lead, and called up to Joan who replied that he was having a quick shower and would be with them shortly. Both owner and puppy doubted that, so they headed out for a good walk through the semi-abandoned village.

An hour later, Joan declared himself to be ready and commented, slightly defensively, that he since they were on holiday there was no fixed timetable. “Anyway, where are you taking us today?” he asked. “Sommos”, was the one-word reply. Luckily, he remembered how Jack had raved about the architecture of the bodega and the high reviews of its wines.

The visit had been a success. Both raved about the incredible design of the buildings, reminiscent of the Guggenheim Museum in Bilbao, which they had visited long ago on one of their first holidays together. It was after Jack had given up the hell which was investment funds and sought a new life with the guy he had meet on a one-night stand nearly 25 years before. Somehow, against the odds, perhaps, they had survived as a couple. But now, as Jack struggled with a case of wine which would somehow have to fit into an overloaded car on the return journey, came the perennial question of where to go next. “The ceramic centre we saw advertised, perhaps?” suggested Joan. “It’s on the way back and it still won’t be unbearably hot.” It was agreed and shortly after they saw the huge sign which would lead them to a village, so it said, which was a famous centre of pottery and ceramic production. “Wouldn’t it be funny,” commented Jack, “if that potter guy we met the other night had a pottery there.” “Unlikely,” replied Joan with a tight smile. On the back seat Greta stretched out lugubriously, as only a dachshund could. ‘This could be interesting,’ she thought.

oOo

15 kilometres west as the crow flies, Juan’s morning followed his usual routine. He set out the newly formed items, ashtrays today, as ordered and stood up, stretching his back. After Mass, gossiping over a coffee and croissant with her churchgoing friends, Mother arrived back. Begrudgingly, as usual, and surely not quite as generously as she might have done as a good Christian, she would open the doors to the studio and sit imperiously, like a later-day Cerberus, to scare aware anyone from entering, whilst her beleaguered son fled up the hill to the Square for his own late breakfast.

He greeted neighbours and acquaintances whom he passed on the way to one of the three remaining bars in the village, whose population was down to just over 500. When he was born in 1984, there had been well over a thousand and more than a handful of potteries. Finding a shady spot on the terrace, he sat wearily and stretched his legs. Soon his usual ‘bocata’ with tortilla arrived together with a brandy-laced expresso. It was a moment of bliss. Closing his eyes he was drawn back to the bar in the town. He had been looking at himself in the scratched mirror: certainly not a stud but he had noticed the odd glance or two. He smiled and asked himself why he never returned those tentative looks. Cowardice or the perennial shame instilled in him, perhaps. At the end of the day, it didn’t matter. He simply couldn’t. So why had he smiled back at that sociable tourist? It was a shame that the guy’s friend had returned. For once he had overcome his nerves and even chatted about his life as a potter. Still, the farewell handshake, very British, he thought, had been firm and as the guy left, he had turned his head back and with a sparkle in his eyes whispered a gentle, “Bona nit.” He smiled now as he had done then. Suddenly a dog barked nearby and, coming out of his reverie, Juan had looked at his watch, sworn, and skuttled off down the hill towards his prison or so it always felt at this time every day.

oOo

Five kilometres away to the east things were slightly tense. It had taken them nearly half an hour to do ten kilometres; bend after bend were taking a toll on the occupants of the car. Even Greta was expressing her discontent on the back seat with some loud dramatic sighs and the occasional woof. Then, suddenly a long straight viaduct lay ahead. Joan suggested pulling over to stretch their legs and to allow Greta to have a sniff around, his excuse to have a cigarette. The scenery was wonderful as what would be a dramatic cascade in Spring still had a splendour about it. Even in the heat-ridden height of summer it was a marvellous spot. It took Jack a moment or two to realise that there was absolutely no sound. It was as if the daily volume of life had been silenced. And then, looking up they both saw a pair of eagles gliding up and down in the air currents. Jack blinked and grabbed for his iPhone. Straining to capture an impossible shot, he now saw four more eagles and then four more. He looked without words at Joan, moved over to him and gave him a sideways hug, which was returned with a loving smile. Joan too had felt the magic of the moment. Greta was also quiet and wandered around to her own rhythm, unaware of the scene way above. There were now over thirty eagles involved in intricate movements. Were they aware of the humans below? It seemed doubtful. They seemed lost in their own beauty. And so were the creatures below.

oOo

Finally, the guys pulled off the “main road” and entered an ever-narrowing street. Seeing some kind of rough parking area, Jack pulled in and parked the car. They had arrived in the famous village…

“Okay, let’s get organised. How many shops are there to visit? And there must be a good restaurant for lunch, surely?” Joan turned to a passing local and a rapid-fire conversation ensued in Catalan. Jack looked on catching more from Joan’s look of disappointment than from his knowledge of the regional language.

“It appears that the hoarding was not exactly telling the truth,” explained Joan. “One hundred metres away is the only bloody pottery in this place.”

“Well, let’s give it a shot… and with a smile, please, Joan.”

Approaching the pottery they noticed a few other visitors, most with a similar expression to Joan’s. The heat was now intense, Greta was getting fretful and the morning, which had started well, now looked like being a disaster. Going into the shade they found themselves in the studio. Everywhere around them were small pieces of pottery waiting to be glazed. It was not exactly inspiring. A small sign indicated a “showroom" up a narrow flight of stairs. “Shall we?” “Why not,” replied an increasingly tetchy Joan who grasped a wriggly puppy under his arm.

Upstairs what seemed to be a sea of yellow greeted them. All the possible horrors of souvenir pottery lay before them. They both groaned inwardly. What a waste of time. And then, as Jack in his English way was selecting a few little plates to ease his guilt at going without anything, Joan gave a gasp. Almost hidden away in a corner was a collection of exquisite ceramic bowls. He beckoned to Jack, but at that moment he had turned away towards the counter. There, amazingly, was the guy from the bar, the potter. They looked at each other, one with pleasure at the coincidence, one with terror at being recognised. Jack bulldozed on ahead. “Hey, Mister Potter! This is such a great surprise, no?”

Before Juan could reply, Joan had called both over with an imperious wave. The other night Juan had felt pretty uncomfortable when the other had appeared in the bar whilst he was chatting to Jack; now it was like they were old friends. “It’s Juan, isn’t it? This stuff is gorgeous. The size and shape of the bowls is so distinctive, and the designs are unique. The whole shop should be dedicated to these.” He swept on oblivious to any feelings the potter might have had. “Wonderful. I have a Dutch friend in Valencia who could sell everything you can produce. Lunch?” The little dachshund looked up in hope.

Juan felt somewhat overwhelmed, frankly, but he glanced at Jack who nodded encouragingly. ‘Why not?’ he thought to himself. It was a day when his mother had lunch with her colleagues in the Charity Commission, so she would remain ignorant until he was spotted away from the studio.

Whilst Joan focussed on drinks, menus and food in the simple bar-restaurant near the square, Jack quietly chatted to Juan about the coincidence of meeting in ‘that’ bar. The latter almost started to shake. He had never spoken about who he was, his desperation to escape from the chains of his family history, the pressure, still, to find a wife and to produce the next generation of potters. But once he started his story poured out. At one point he began to have tears forming in his eyes, there was so much locked up inside. Far more than a lunch could cover. Finally, he drew to an embarrassed close and looked up shyly. “God, you two must think me a wimp,” he muttered. The others glanced at each other, and it was Joan who replied for them with a gentle smile and a simple question. “Do you have any dreams, Juan?”

“Now you will think me crazy. When things get too much, I drive down to the old viaduct. Once or twice I even thought of jumping off into the torrents but then one day I looked up and saw an eagle, and then another and then so many more. I stood there mesmerised for an age. They were so beautiful, so free. I went home a bit shaken but began to work on my abstract ceramics that very afternoon. They, and the thought of ‘my eagles’ have kept me sane for many a year.” The others looked knowingly at each other.

Lunch continued with less intensity after that, and Joan spoke like the businessman he was, about the potential market for the ceramics. The guys exchanged contact details and Joan promised to show the bowls they were buying to his Dutch friend. At that point, Greta indicated that her patience was at an end. They strolled back to the carpark and said an easy farewell. The guys were heading home a day or so later and needed to pack.

Juan headed slowly back and some of his optimism began to falter as he saw his mother standing outside with her arms folded. But enough courage was left to get him past this hurdle. “Good afternoon, Mother.” He went on after being greeting with a silent dismissive glance, “I have met some businessmen from Valencia interested in my work. This afternoon I will be drawing some new ideas to send them. See you later.” She looked after him in amazement but almost with respect for the first time.

oOo

A week later, four hundred and eighty kilometres south, Johannes squealed with delight, as only he could, “But my dears, these bowls are to die for. Whence do they come?” Like nearly all Dutch he spoke fluent English. His, however, had come more from Jane Austen than from Berlitz. Sat with friends in the Valencian apartment of Joan and Jack, he was ready to be fed well and entertained with gossip from the holidays.

“Oh, the bowls,” replied Joan. “We picked them up in a rundown pottery in the middle of nowhere. Jack was rather keen on the potter, whilst I was more interested in a business opportunity for you and me.”

“My dear, details, details. We will come to the bowls, but first tell me all about Jack and his little potter friend.”

Jack sighed and headed to the kitchen to escape. Sometimes Johannes was just too much.

oOo

At that same moment many kilometres north, Juan was sat on a bar stool carefully rationing his bottle of now warm beer. His mother had gone off on a church-organised trip to Lourdes. He was free for five days and had plucked up his courage and headed out in the evening.

“Hi! I’m Pepe. I’ve seen you here once or twice. Fancy another beer?”

The moment had come. It was yes or be damned. Nevertheless, Juan hesitated. Pepe started to think he had misinterpreted the glances he had been noticing. It felt like a clock was ticked evermore loudly in Juan’s head. And then he thought, being the last potter didn’t have to condemn him to a life of misery. He had hope for the future for the first time.

“The name’s Juan. A cold beer would be really good, thank you.”

oOo

A thousand kilometres north-west, Consuela Orts i Roig sang out the Ave Maria as gustily as ever, proud of her leading position in the Midnight Procession. Suddenly her candle blew out and it felt as if someone was walking over her grave. Something gave within her and she fell to the ground. She died as she had lived, a loyal daughter of Holy Mother Church but nothing more.

Without knowing it, Juan was truly free at last: free to live, to love and to create. He might well be the last potter, but he was going to do it his way. He lay back in the strange bed and felt Pepe’s arm stretch out and pull him closer. He fell back to sleep with a gentle smile on his lips… yes, and free to love whomsoever he wished.