I could not put this book down! As an immigrant, myself, I find the stories in “Voices” to be fascinating. They reach back several generations and bring the tumultuous times of the 19th and 20th centuries to life. I can relate to much of the political and cultural drama (and trauma) from my own family’s experience. It got me thinking about similar trends today. The organization of the book is different than what I am used to. The sections themselves are chronologically ordered, but the chapters within the sections are ordered by “voices” of each family generation. Once I realized what was going on, it helped me to understand how the lives of the older family members affected the lives of the more recent members. I came to really love these characters! And the ring? I won’t give that story away…
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Leonor
Tita
First of all---don't think you have to share the author's Basque and Caribbean heritage to enjoy this book. Even if your background is British Isles, or Greek/Mediterranean, or Indian Sub-continent, or whatever, the stories the author tells are of family, of humanity, of generations, which crosses all cultures. Gabirondo is a talented story-teller and his stories move fast. He tells each family story in a chapter. The chapters each cover a particular character, time period, and location. If you exercise a little patience, the stories will gradually form a tapestry or mosaic, eventually painting an illuminating picture. It may remind you of your own family tapestry that shaped and formed your life. Each little piece of the tapestry is a gem in itself, and the whole is greater than the sum, as the saying goes. Well worth your reading time.
Stett
A great journey Voices of the Basque Signet begins as a series of disparate voices and stories, but soon weaves into a taut and compelling narrative that spans generations, continents and realities. The Basque diaspora is a world probably unknown to most, but Gala Gabirondo brings it to life. The novel is a family history at root, but transcends into universal themes of home and belonging, love and loss and the enduring power of memory. It's a great journey I am richer for having taken.
dcherri71
What a captivating saga that not only brings to life the stories of multiple generations across different continents but also serves as a poignant exploration of identity, resilience, and the enduring bonds of family. Through a meticulous and empathetic narrative, Gala constructs a world that is rich in cultural and historical specificity yet universal in its emotional truths.
Her strength lies in character development. Each character is rendered with depth and complexity, allowing readers to engage with their struggles, aspirations, and transformations. The author skillfully uses these personal stories to reflect broader historical and social themes, making the novel resonate with readers from diverse backgrounds.
The book's structure, which moves back and forth across time, mirrors the inter contentedness of past and present, showing how history shapes individual lives and how, in turn, individuals can influence the course of history. This narrative technique enriches the reading experience, offering a multifaceted perspective on the characters' lives and their cultural legacies.
Gala's novel is a profoundly moving and beautifully written testament to the power of storytelling in preserving memory and understanding our place in the world. It celebrates cultural richness, the complexities of family dynamics, and the indomitable human spirit. For those who appreciate historical sagas and narratives that span cultures and continents, "Voices of the Basque Signet" is a must-read. It offers insights into the characters' lives and the universal themes of love, loss, and the search for identity.
Overview
Based on people and events in the author's own family, the overlapping tales move back and forth across time and generations starting with Mikel's fascination with the family ring, to the reflections of the irreverent Basque matriarch Amaia, alone in her sprawling mansion during the siege of Madrid. Her anarchist son Arturo, caught between his village roots and political activism, fled to New York a decade earlier. There he met and married Monserrat, a Puerto Rican woman holding a secret. She finds herself in Madrid on the eve of the Spanish Civil War, waiting nervously for her husband to re-join her and their three children for a new life in Republican Spain. Their unexpected flight from Spain back to her native Puerto Rico is told through the eyes of her rebellious daughter Esmeralda, whose untamed imagination holds the key to her resilience in New York, Los Angeles, and a small town in the hills of Northern California. "Voices of the Basque Signet" flows from the mountains of the Basque country and old Puerto Rico to Madrid, San Juan, New York, Los Angeles, and revolutionary Nicaragua. The women and men of the Itsasmendía, Quijano, and Romero clans navigate the upheavals of the twentieth century with humor, hope, and tenacity. Throughout, the Basque signet ring will change hands and reverse fortunes in this saga of love, war, secrets, and survival, reminding us that we are more than our best deeds or our worst shortcomings: we are part of a legacy.
Book Signing
(Stand by... For now, here is an sample section from the book)
CHAPTER FIVE: THE GOOD SHIP ALGIERS
Esmeralda Quijano Romero
(New York, NY, 1924—Santa Rosa, CA, 2011)
December 5, 2010—Santa Rosa, CA
The smell woke me up. I found myself in the arms of a strapping seaman whose light steps and rolling gait would have lulled me back to sleep had it not been for the odor of his oilskin jacket. I couldn’t place it, and as I parsed out the scents of fish, grease, salt, and sweat, I opened my eyes. The stacks of crates and the nets hanging from the beams of the warehouse were vaguely familiar, but not enough. I snapped my head up, wide awake and terrified.
Before I could scream, my mother ran to me from out of the shadows with her finger on her lips. “We are leaving now. Don’t make a sound.”
My brothers, fast asleep, were being carried out behind me. Mother lugged a suitcase with our belongings. Something was missing.
“¡Mi muñeca!”
“Shh!” my mother bared her teeth.
She didn’t understand. The doll my grandmother gave me was the only thing I was allowed to take when we left Madrid. “My doll!” I screamed. “My doll! My doll!”
My mother tried to put her hand over my mouth, but I shook my head and began kicking and pummeling the poor sailor, crying and calling for my doll. My mother raised her hand to slap me quiet. It wouldn’t have made any difference.
The man turned towards her, “Tranquila, Señora. ¿Dónde está la muñeca, niña?”
“By the bed,” I whimpered.
My mother gave me a glare that said a slap was coming later.
The sailor strode back with me in his arms. There, on the canvas cot where my brothers and I had spent the night, sat my doll, smiling at my return. I put her under my coat. We hurried out to the docks.
“Niña, have you ever played las escondidas?” he asked.
“Si,” I whispered.
“Let’s hide in the dark and be very quiet. ¿Si? No one will find us.”
Clinging to my doll, I nodded and closed my mouth tight.
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Only the most powerful fragments of memory survive from my time in Spain. Like the day I watched in horror as a group of men turned into monsters when they tipped over a trolley in front of the market, their faces long and contorted with rage. Or when gypsies danced for money below our balcony, graceful, elegant women, calling out to me as I imitated their swirling hips and sculpting hands. They raised up off the ground, bodies spinning and arms like wings. And the day my grandmother stood up to the Guardia Civil who told us not to play on the grass at the park. She was so tiny next to him in his tall boots, dark cape, and strange, shiny hat with the brim turned up in the back. I watched as she grew big as a tree and shook her finger in his face. “¡Mire, Usted!” she fumed. “These are children. And children play!”
People around us laughed. Embarrassed, he left us alone. As soon as he was out of earshot, my grandmother said, “¡Guardia mierda!” under her breath.
The details of our escape from Spain are forever burned into my mind. The moonless sky was quiet. The seaman climbed down a ladder and sat me in a damp rowboat alongside my brothers, who were sleeping sitting up. The harbor stank of mud and fish. My mother came down last, shivering with fear, which I found odd because now that I had my doll, things were looking up. Round ballast stones were piled in the bottom of the boat and the oarlocks were wrapped with rags. We disappeared into the night without a sound. The long oar blades made phosphorescent green swirls in the inky water, which I tried to point out to my mother, but she was frozen to the seat with her eyes closed, one hand on her rosary, the other gripping the thwarts.
"Dios te salve, María. Llena eres de gracia, el Señor es contigo,” she murmured.
“Look, Mima,” I whispered. “The stars are swimming.”
“Bendita tú eres entre todas las mujeres, y bendito es el fruto de tu vientre, Jesús.”
I tugged lightly at her arm, but she kept on hailing Mary. “Santa María, Madre de Dios, ruega por nosotros, pecadores, ahora y en la hora de nuestra muerte. Amen”
Oh good, I thought, looking up at her. She’s finished. My mother clenched her teeth and started another bead on her rosary.
The seaman smiled at me and nodded at the water and the stars. That’s when I noticed his long, curly hair and the gold earring dangling from his right ear, like a gypsy. I forgot about my mother. “Never forget the beauty of this moment,” I said to myself.
My Spanish Aunt María, who taught me to paint, once told me, “Look closely. Try to feel what is in front of you and then make the picture in your mind before you start. That way, even if the light changes or your model moves, your brush will never lose its way.”
We left Spain before I could get any good at painting, but I never forget an image once I’ve seen it within. I can still relive that night, and the days that followed, through the impressionable eyes of a neurotic seven year-old girl on her first real adventure. It is a form of meditation, one that transports me into the unruly world of memory, where truth flows from the meaning we bring to what we think happened, and where events are humble placeholders in the stories we tell. Never grovel before the facts. Like memories, they are unfaithful friends. Cut off from our stories, they turn on us. La memoria es como el mal amigo; cuando más falta te hace, te falla. It is the story itself that nurtures the truth—it’s time for me to speak mine.
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About the Author
Gala Gabirondo, child of Puerto Rican-Basque immigrants, has spent decades living, working, and traveling in Europe and the Americas. As an accomplished political analyst, Gala published numerous non-fiction books, articles, and essays before taking up as a novelist to rediscover the joy of family storytelling.