Recovering the Secret History of a CityMontserrat Roig's Ramona, adéu Carmiña Palerm (bio) From there, after six days and seven nights, you arrive at Zobeide, the white city, well exposed to the moon, with streets wound about themselves as in a skein. They tell this tale of its foundation: men of various nations had an identical dream. They saw a woman running at night through an unknown city; she was seen from behind, with long hair, and she was naked. They dreamed of pursuing her. As they twisted and turned, each of them lost her. After the dream they set out in search of that city; they never found it, but they found one another; they decided to build a city like the one in the dream. In laying out the streets, each followed the course of his pursuit; at the spot where they had lost the fugitive's trail, they arranged spaces and walls differently from the dream, so she would be unable to escape again. Italo Calvino, Invisible Cities Barcelona and the Gendered Space of the City A long tradition, in both Spanish literature and European literature in general, figures the city as a space of freedom. The German idiom Stadtluft macht frei, or "city air makes free," dates back all the way to the Middle Ages—it points to the fact that after a year and a day of residence in a city, freed serfs could no longer be claimed by their employers. An early novel of the late Catalan novelist and documentarist Montserrat Roig, El temps de les cireres (1977), resonates with this very old tradition of understanding cities as spaces of freedom.1 In Roig's novel, set in the 1970s, the city of Barcelona functions both as a catalyst that enables the female protagonist to understand her past and as a space used by the Catalan people in order to retaliate against a totalitarian state. Here the city is therefore understood as a potential space of freedom for the dispossessed and disenfranchised. Many works of Spanish literature that represent [End Page 13] the oppression of women in rural areas—such as the short stories of Emilia Pardo Bazán or the theater of García Lorca—complement this view of the city as a site of liberation.2 The quote with which I began this essay, however, suggests that for women the city has also meant something quite different. For Calvino's representation of the fictional city of Zobeide as a kind of net to entrap women suggests that with respect to women, the city might entrap as well as liberate. In fact, when one examines the history of the city from a feminist standpoint, one sees that the history of the city has always been two histories: one told and one unspoken. When, for example, the urban planner Charles Adams describes the city as a human artifact, his use of the gendered pronoun is telling: A city … is the pulsating product of the human hand and mind, reflecting man's history, his struggle for freedom, his creativity, his genius—and his selfishness and errors. It is a palimpsest on which man's story is written, the record of those who built a skyscraper or a picture window, fought a pitched battle for a play street, created a bookshop or a bakeshop that mattered. It is a composite of trials and defeats, of settlement houses, churches, and schoolhouses, of aspirations, images and memories.3 The city is indeed a sedimentation of these struggles, but the great majority of those Abrams mentions were waged by men. In the conventional historiography of the city, focused in particular on wars and revolutions, women simply disappear. At the same time the mechanisms by which women have been made to disappear—whether ideological or material—have themselves disappeared from the story of the city. Monserrat Roig's first novel, Ramona, adéu (1972), a fictional chronicle of the fates of three women—a grandmother, her daughter, and that daughter's daughter—in three different historical Barcelonas, works against this two- fold disappearance of women from the city. The novel begins with a pregnant mother's...