To know what is happening, we must also understand what is neither explained nor made explicit. The ghost that keeps Carles Puigdemont awake at night is threefold: the terror of the competition from ultra Aliança Catalana; confusion in not knowing how to capitalize on your results; personal anguish of continuing to wander far away, like a wandering stateless person.
The drama begins with the parafascist Aliança trampling the Junts in the territory of the C-25, which connects that highway, the eix transverse of the hinterland, of Carlist Catalonia, between Girona and Lleida. Post-convergent mayors feel that their bite destabilizes them, they replicate their ultra recipes. The metallic and rude hieratism of his spokesperson in Congress prevents him from presenting the amnesty, the advancement of the Catalan or the plan of other regional financing as his successes, partial or incomplete. Instead of pointing them out (the traditional ultras accuse them of their “blackmail”), they despise them.
Thus, devoid of apparent triumphs and energetic leaders in matters of democracy, the retro-Carlist middle bourgeoisie, with urban residence in Vic, Manresa or Ripoll, and with atavistic rustic cultural roots, is an orphan. He will miss the nationalist Christian democracy of Jordi Pujol, yes, because it is messianic, but he dreams of Nazi deportations: he assumes black OR moritos immigrants make sausages, t-shirts or screws, and at the same time try to erase them, the poor are always annoying. That’s why they switch en masse to the national racism of Aliança. And it contaminates layers of the tolerant bourgeoisie of Barcelona. The convergence of Montagnards He’s already saying goodbye to you.
Him processes It was the result, like Brexit, of the discomfort following the Great Recession of 2008. With a late forge (the pseudo-referendum of 2017), but stubborn. The craftsmanship and the bourgeoisie, disappointed by expectations, industrial crises and secular daydreams, climbed the mountain. Puigdemontism embodied them: it transformed convergent pragmatism into a tactic bordering on anti-system: that abyss between Prat de la Riba, builder of the Mancomunitat, and Colonel Macià of the coup d’état idiot in Prats de Motlló.
The path back was narrow, but seemed doable. The levers of the seven “decisive” deputies, of surprise, of shock and of the continuous ultimatum, for better or for worse, worked for him. Now he is busy converging with the ultras, who were also late in understanding, when their opposites are already emerging, from Holland to New York.
The one from Waterloo throws his bobbin lace into the sea, and neither does the zealous head of the employers’ association, the excompany by lluita Josep Sánchez Llibre, reunited, will be able to sponsor it more: with the support of which avant-garde? With what clean money? Without mayors, and with seven sterile seats, what tool does he have left? Nothingness. Which destination? Irrelevance. And the sad personal future of a born-again wandering Dutchman.
