Fénix in Finisterre

Trigger warnings: contained scenes depicting mental health, suicide/self harm, substance abuse, and physical violence.

Finisterre, present day

Mari Carmen stared at the items she had thrown into this metal barrel which had been set up as a firepit by her hospitalero^1. A stack of origami hearts with hidden love letters, a heart-shaped spatula from their spoon carving class, and a home-made pilgrim shell painted with the blues of the sea and the vivid splashes of red and orange representing the sunset she had witnessed moments ago from the rocks at Cape Finisterre, “Finis Terrae” meaning literally “Land’s End” or “The End of the World” as the Romans believed it to be.

***

She arrived at Finisterre earlier that day, having walked from her home in Santiago de Compostela four days prior. It had taken her many years to work up the courage to undertake this journey alone, to put behind the traumas of her past and finally set her soul free. Leaving the bustling capital city of Santiago, she soon found herself in the quiet countryside. Wandering through the dense and fragrant eucalyptus forests, the air fresh from the recent heavy downpour, she could not help but feel there was something mystical about this ancient path.

As Finisterre was thought to be the end of the known world at the time, many medieval pilgrims would continue walking west from Santiago towards the Atlantic Coast until they reached the Cape, a place which held spiritual and physical significance.

“MC, when you get to Finisterre, you need to do these 3 things to purify your body and soul, ok?” Explained Lucía, her sommelier/self-proclaimed bestfriend.

“Firstly, you need to bathe in the Lagosteira Beach, to purify your body, but be careful with the waves…”

“Secondly, they say you should burn your clothes, but this is controversial. A lot of pilgrims have caused fires over the years doing this, and it polluted the air, because they put synthetic clothes and boots into their makeshift fire!”

“So maybe I shouldn’t do that then?” Asked Mari Carmen.

“I’ll think of something… maybe my cousin José can help… I personally like the idea of it being a letting go of something that you no longer need, something from the past that troubles you.”

“And then finally, you should walk to the lighthouse at the Cape and watch the sunset there. As the sun dips below the horizon, travelling from the Land of the Living into the Land of the Death, it symbolises death of the previous life and to be reborn as new,” she added.

As she approached the lighthouse at Cape Finisterre, she understood why the place was also called Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death, in Gallego. The rugged coastline was treacherous in parts, and the brutal wind brought from the Atlantic Ocean added an extra layer of danger, she was glad she had her trusted hiking poles - humpty and dumpty. She met up with a few pilgrims she had met along the Way and together they shared their Camino stories while downing their Estrella Galicia waiting for the sun to disappear. MC was accustomed to watching sunsets but she had to admit, the sunset at Finisterre was indeed magical. The ocean appeared so vast and moody, she observed, as the waves alternately caressed and violently crushed against the rocks she was standing on. The dramatic clouds constantly shifting and only disappearing at the last minute, giving them a magnificent array of colours as the sun quickly disappeared into the Land of the Death.

When she arrived back at her albergue, a pilgrim hostel, Lucía’s cousin José had prepared a surprise for her. He led her to the garden at the back of the albergue which was connected to the beach and showed her this metal drum he had prepared. It was standing on concrete ground and propped by 4 cinder blocks. At the bottom, she could see that José had drilled small holes for ventilation. He had also placed some dry wood and cardboard at the bottom of the barrel.

“Only fill it until the halfway mark, I have some old newspapers to serve as kindling, and here’s a box of matches,” He explained.

“I’ll leave you to it because I appreciate it’s quite a personal thing. I’ll be at the bar, inside… It’s a bit chilly tonight, no?” He was already folding his arms across his chest in a futile gesture to try to keep warm.

She nodded to thank him for his generosity and went to grab the various items she had prepared for this ritual from her backpack.

***

As she watched the fire burning, its flames dancing against the dark surroundings, MC reminisced the weekend Diego had come to her Santiago apartment with arts and crafts kit to make their own pilgrim shells. Those colours were chosen to remind her of her hometown in the Galician fishing village of Vigo and the many lazy afternoons spent at the crescent shaped Rodas beach. He would apply wide strokes to colour the originally white scallop shells whereas she would use a fine brush to draw the cross of St James delicately just like how she created mini figurines and decorations for her cakes.

This pretty much summed up their relationship, he was the big thinker and she was detail-oriented. Their romance blossomed rapidly one summer when she returned to visit her ailing grandmother in the seaside. He would invite her to his boat and she would watch him catch octopus. Octopus is a delicacy in Galicia, pulpo gallego, served on a thick wooden plate, with a dash of olive oil and topped with sprinklings of paprika. Diego would give her the biggest octopus to bring home, and her grandmother would call that love. To this day, her memory of those warm summer nights at her grandmother’s stone-walled cottage largely consisted of inhaling the sweet aroma of octopus simmering in a big pot of salt water in the kitchen.

He had encouraged her to open her own restaurant and they found the perfect spot within the Mercado de Abastos, the main food market at Santiago. Diego would ensure she received the freshest quality seafood and she would stroll the market, making small talks with the paisanas, the old peasant ladies, while eyeing a basket of red tomatoes, so rich and shiny that she wondered if they had been sprayed with beeswax. Her dishes were local and seasonal, the menu would change daily depending on what looked appetizing at the market that day. She would put small tables and chairs outside her stall and by noon the place was buzzing. By 3 in the afternoon, her dishes would be sold out. Her life was seemingly perfect, at first.

***

Santiago de Compostela, 7 years previously

MC was dragging her feet as she slowly walked up the stairs towards her 5th floor apartment. She had been at the Forum Gastronomico at A Coruña for the last few days and it had been a non-stop flurry of workshops, exhibitions, and meetings with local producers and distributors. She managed to catch up with her old boss Jordi Roca, of the famous Roca brothers from the 3 Michelin starred restaurant in Girona, who hinted at a possible angel investor from London. She badly needed a cash injection if she were to expand from her little market stall. She was used to working 18-hour days in her younger years while working her way up the culinary ladder, but now she just felt so exhausted with the endless talking and negotiating, never mind standing up all day long. She looked down towards her ankles which appeared a little swollen and unbuttoned her jacket which felt a little tight.

“Damn those exhibition foods!” She muttered to herself as she turned the key into her apartment.

Inside, the light was on and she could hear the radio coming from the kitchen. She found Diego sitting there next to 4 empty bottles of sidra^2, eyes bloodshot. He looked enraged.

“Wherev’ you been? You’re meant to be hhhome hours ago?!” He shouted angrily.

“I had to stay behind after the last workshop, there’s a possible investor, he might come and check out our stall next…”

“Nonsense! Stop treating me like an idiot, as if I believed all ‘ese beezzz-ness meetings, they’re all men yea? Don’t lie to me. How many of ‘em you sleepin’ with?” Accused Diego.

“What? I would never…. Diego, you’re drunk and you’re being paranoid again.”

“Naarll… don’t be ridicu-lush… ’m not that drunk…” His speech was slurred. He rose from his chair to walk towards her but promptly tripped his foot. MC caught his shoulders and helped him get back on his feet, and slowly helped him to the bedroom.

This wasn’t the first time MC found Diego in such an inebriated state. The economic situation in Vigo was worsening, a lot of small-sized fisheries had to close down, many of them were family business that had run for generations. They were being driven out by large-scaled multinationals who imported cheap labours. Diego and his friends were fighting hard, they had formed a local cooperation and were busy lobbying the local government for support.

But that wasn’t the only thing that worried him. He also felt emasculated. Gone were the days when he was her protector, the man who caught the biggest octopus in Galicia and gave it to his girlfriend. She was no longer the impressionable young girl who doted on his every words. She was a rising star in Galician gastronomy, with an impressive resumé, having previously worked under the patronage of some of the world’s most renown chefs. She had high aspirations for her future and he was proud of her. But he also felt like he was slowly losing her. He had a constant need to be wanted, to be desired, but now he feared he was no longer enough for Mari Carmen.

The day of the investor visit was fast approaching and MC had been busy innovating new dishes in their tiny apartment kitchen. She was currently working on a twist on the traditional Galician empanada, a thin crusty savoury pie typically filled with fish or meat. Inspired by the smash cake her friends baked for her birthday, she wanted to create something similar with the traditional empanada, with the classic cornflour dough shaped into individual globe-shaped balls filled with corn-based emulsion “foam” and the finest cockles steamed in Albariño wine. Her thermomix was busy whisking up her latest version of corn emulsion and she hadn’t paid attention to the tall figure standing at the door.

“I said, when are you going to go to bed, like a good woman you should be?” Diego shouted over the grinding noise of the thermomix.

“Oh, sorry hun. I’ll finish soon, promise… Here, wanna try my latest version of sofrito?” MC offered a spoonful of her delicious mix of onion, tomatoes, and peppers.

Instead, Diego threw away the spoon and pushed her towards the wall, holding her by the neck.

“Always working… You finish at the market, you come home and continue working in our kitchen! You never have time for me anymore! Do you even realise what day it is tomorrow?” He looked at the clock on the wall.

“Or today even?” He continued, not releasing his hold on her neck.

By now, her eyes had started to well up with tears as she struggled to find the voice to speak up.

“It’s my 30th birthday!!!” Exasperated, he finally released his hold but quickly grabbed a rolling pin he had seen on the worktop earlier. He returned to threaten her.

“What do you have to say to that?”

He banged the rolling pin against the worktop when he didn’t her respond. The noise startled her and by now she was uncontrollably crying.

“Ha-haappy birthday” Her voice was soft and she hiccuped as she tried to swallow some of the tears back.

“I can’t hear you. Say that again!” This time he hit the rolling pin against the cupboard door next to her face.

She was absolutely petrified at the demon that had evolved in front of her. She had never seen him like this before. She made a dash out of the kitchen but he followed her while continuously banging the rolling pin against whatever surface he could find. Finally cornered in the hallway, he grabbed her wrists with one hand and dragged her across the hallway into their bedroom and unceremoniously threw her on the bed. She had already feared for the worst when suddenly Diego left the room and walked towards the toilet. She knew this was her only chance.

She ran towards the front door, grabbed her coat and keys on the way, quickly unlocked the door and made her exit. She ran in no particular direction and soon found herself at Parque de Belvís, a local park she walked past everyday on her way to the market. She could hear the cathedral bells chimed twice, it was already 2AM, and she froze. Where could she go at this hour?

Looking up, she saw the terracotta rooftops and tower bell of the Convento de Belvís, a monastery run by Dominican nuns. She had often visited the nuns there who made the most delicious tartas de Santiago, a famous almond tart from the region, and had befriended a rather chatty Sr Paloma over their shared passion for desserts. Sometimes she would bring fresh produce from the market when she came to visit and took inspiration from their simple way of life to inspire her next dishes. She doubted anyone would respond at this hour, but she walked towards the cloister and knocked anyway. To her surprise, someone opened the door.

***

The following morning, she was sitting at the breakfast table quietly sipping her coffee, when she heard footsteps and a booming voice.

“Mari Carmen!!! They said I might find you here, how are you, cariña?” Smiled Sr Paloma.

She sat down next to MC when she didn’t reply straight away.

“We missed you at the lauds^3, but I heard you got here really late last night, so that’s understandable,” She looked concerned.

She gave a short summary of her situation with Diego and recounted the events of the previous night. The look on Sr Paloma’s face grew more and more perturbed as the incident unfolded.

“Have you reported this to the Police?” She focused her eyes on the red marks around MC’s neck.

She shook her head.

“I don’t think I’d want to. I’d end up having to repeat the same story over and over again, and in the end, nothing would happen,” she started sobbing again.

“Besides… I may not want anything to happen to him…”

“I’m pregnant.”

***

Finisterre, present day

She opened a photo album she had brought and started peeling off photos and throwing them into the fire. Summer holidays by the sea, visits to the mussel farms in O Grove, tasting home-made wine at traditional furanchos^4…

The last 7 years had passed by in the blink of an eye. She had been in survival mode for the sake of her daughter, Amelia, who was currently with her grandparents in Vigo, enjoying her school holiday. Despite everything that had happened, she did manage to secure the funding she needed to open her own restaurant, Amelia. It was only a stone’s throw away from her humble beginnings at the market and she still bought her produce from the paisanas. They had been very kind to her and often would offer to look after Amelia when she was a baby. More recently, her London-based investor asked her to help him design a restaurant in Soho, and with this consulting fee she purchased a food truck, Fénix, or phoenix, complete with its own wood fired oven.

As she reached the last photo in the album, she paused. It was taken the day she opened her stall at the Mercado de Abastos. Diego had brought a box of fresh seafood and she had just finished writing the menu on the chalkboard. They looked happy and proud. She sighed.

After she left, Diego had spiralled deeper into alcoholism and depression. He withdrew from the cooperation he founded with his friends, even as their work started to gain recognition and later was granted EU funding. One day his boat was found drifting off the coast of Vigo, empty. His body was never found. She felt a little tinge of sadness that Amelia never got the chance to know her father.

As the flickering embers died out, she decided to go for a walk on the beach. Under the bright moonlight, she found many scallop shells washed up and half buried in the sand. She started collecting them. She had a great idea for a new dish at Fénix, she thought. She chuckled as she imagined what Lucía would say when she saw her come back from Finisterre with even more shells than what she had brought.

***

“Our greatest glory is not in never failing, but in rising every time we fall.”

Confucius

***

1. People who help, cater, and care for pilgrims of the Camino de Santiago (The Way of St James), a pilgrimage pathway in Northern Spain to reach the tomb of St James the Apostle in Santiago de Compostela.

2. Apple cider, usually between 5-6% ABV.

3. Morning prayer.

4. A private house offering visitors the surplus wine from their harvest, often accompanied by hearty home-made food.