Catalonia Birds | Ona Batlle

PROLOGUE

Rosela let out a breath.

She took another deep breath, again and again, trying to contain the trembling in her hands, then, sitting in that chair opposite her mother, she went over once more what she had done without anyone knowing.

The final electronic enrolment form for the University of Barcelona had been sent a few minutes before.

That had been her first act of rebellion in 20 years. Minimal rebellion, but still. Because she was Rosela, and Rosela had always been well-behaved, almost always doing what she was told, which made her great at much of what she set out to be and do.

Most of her asks had been diminished for so long that this had now become painless, that her heart was almost infertile of desires, but one fine morning it woke her up. It could have been tiredness, frustration at the balls she had missed in that day's game, despair, Clarice Lispector's epiphanies, those recurring dreams in which she was happy on a beach in Barcelona or all of these things together.

The fact was that she had had enough.

And it didn't matter what had been the last straw.

What mattered was that Rosela Montserrat was doing something for herself for the first time in a long time.

She did it because she wanted to, and she wanted to now. INTRODUCTION

Rosela let out a breath.

She took another deep breath, again and again, trying to contain the trembling in her hands, then, sitting in that chair opposite her mother, she went over once more what she had done without anyone knowing.

The final electronic enrolment form for the University of Barcelona had been sent a few minutes before.

That had been her first act of rebellion in 20 years. Minimal rebellion, but still. Because she was Rosela, and Rosela had always been well-behaved, almost always doing what she was told, which made her great at much of what she set out to be and do.

Most of her desires had been diminished for so long that this had now become painless, that her heart was almost infertile of desires, but one fine morning it woke her up. It could have been tiredness, frustration at the balls she had missed in that day's game, despair, Clarice Lispector's epiphanies, those recurring dreams in which she was happy on a beach in Barcelona or all of these things together.

The fact was that she had had enough.

And it didn't matter what had been the last straw.

What mattered was that Rosela Montserrat was doing something for herself for the first time in a long time.

She did it 'cause she wanted to, and she wanted to now.

The girl spent the weekend between Clarice's words, her own anxious poetry on paper, exhausting runs in the park and wondering how she could fit in a trip to Barcelona in the middle of the school term and the match season without it harming her in any way, until, like a sign from fate (or simply the search algorithm, take your pick), an email notification arrived from a short university exchange agency.

Evaluating the Catalan capital's universities in the QS Quacquarelli Symonds ranking and then investigating which ones had the best sports programmes, the redhead chose to send application forms to the Polytechnic, Pompeu Fabra and the University of Barcelona - the latter of which she would choose if she could - hoping that her CV would be interesting enough for at least one of them.

Much to her nerves, PF and Poli returned a few days later at the same time, making her practise her rusty Catalan. But it was the contact made by telephone when she was going to bed that mattered most.