The Athletic, "A glimpse behind the phenomenon of Jordi Lloret (Part 1/4)" by Alex Stones.
Llibreria de Fantasia, El Raval, Barcelona
We are sitting on makeshift seats of stacks of books near the entrance of Llibreria de Fantasia. Only the stubborn sunlight coming through the doorway illuminates this ancient-looking bookstore.
Heavy coughing interrupts the silent murmur of the neighborhood outside as Señor Garcia returns from behind a particularly large wall of books. As he reaches us, I notice him holding a disintegrating copy of La sombra del viento[1]by Carlos Ruiz Zafon.
"So…," Señor Garcia gazed outside through the store exit, "What do you wish to ask?"
I signal to White before continuing, "We know that this store was a very important place for him. That you were.. I mean, you are a very important individual to him. How do you feel seeing Jordi lead Barca to glory?"
Silence settles in response to my question as White and I exchange glances.
"I know you, lady. You have interviewed that rascal before."
I sit up straighter, "Yes, I am Alex."
He has still not removed his gaze from the street outside as the store goes silent again.
"He was a quiet kid, but he was full of wonder.
Every morning, I would hear the patter of his feet several moments before he would run in here.
No greeting, just a wide smile as he held up a raisin bread stolen from his mother's fresh batch. Without a word, the rascal would announce the beginning of a hidden transaction.
He would sit where your assistant is and would read till the sunlight had shifted from that area. Only after that would he put back the book, give me a wide smile, and run off."
For the first time, we spot a grin on Señor Garcia's rugged face.
"Has he always loved reading?" I instinctively asked.
Señor Garcia turns to me for the first time before turning back, "Yes."
"What is in your hand, Señor?"
"This was his favorite book. Since before he could read such a novel, he would have me read it to him. Somehow, out of all the settings of fantasy and adventure he read, this mystery set in Barcelona intrigued him most.
I have never let anyone else touch this book."
He lightly caresses the torn cover of the novel, still looking outside, "We are all vain people. I prefer to believe that, by introducing this book to him, I had some responsibility in his love for this city and its people."
…
"One last question, Señor Garcia. What would you like to say to Jordi?"
By now, we have gotten used to the customary silence after each question.
"Keep going, Narrador. You deserve everything." He gets up immediately, putting an end to the conversation.
As we step out of the bookstore, Señor Garcia stops us.
He hands me a khaki pack of books before turning back, "Tell him that we are all proud of him."
...
9 September 2006
"Ting"
The bell sounded as a customer entered the Lloret Bakery, faintly tucked into the residential neighborhood of El Raval.
"How are you, Raul?" The woman behind the counter had a rosy face with elegant brown hair pulled into a tight ponytail. Her eyes were blue and kind, comforting you as you kept looking.
"Same old, Lady Layla. I'll take the usual, please. In fact, add a couple croissants as well. The boss might be visiting my post office today," replied Raul, a pale-faced but stout man.
The morning commotion and conversation in the bakery did not reach the far corner. There, a heavy, silver television set was mounted on the top of the wall, surrounded by FC Barcelona scarves, frames, and shirts. Directly below, a boy sat on a red cushion staring at the blaugrana figures on the television.
The boy had the kind eyes and rosy cheeks of the woman behind the counter. His baby fat only exacerbated his cute features. His jet black hair covered his eyes and reached the bridge of his sculpted nose; both features without a doubt inherited from his other parent. His eyes shone bright through the hair, and if you lean in close enough, you could hear him consistently muttering.
He was predicting the plays, his eyes not trained on the player with the ball, but on the green patches and the figures veering into them. For each moment, he could come up with multiple trajectories for the ball to progress. The boy, just three years of age, would click his tongue when a player would not follow the trajectory he considered the best. He would hum along when they did.
"Xavi, Marquez, Ronaldinho…"
The boy understood. He understood the space, the shape, and the pace. Yet there was one player he could not understand. One boy whose next play he could not predict. The ordinary-looking boy wearing the number 19.
Jordi Lloret was born to Layla Lloret. His mother was a renowned baker in El Raval and beyond, and his uncle was the creator and president of the local FC Barcelona fanclub, Penya Culers del Raval. And so, little Jordi grew amongst the smell of bread and the sight of blaugrana.
[1] The Shadow of the Wind by Carlos Ruiz Zafon!! One of my favourite series of all time. Delightful writing and an amazing atmosphere built into the city of Barcelona.