In Figuera, the time machine

PalmEvery year around this time, a crowd gathers in Palma's Plaça de Cort to celebrate New Year's Eve. They do so to the sound of the chimes of the Figuera clock, located on the façade of the City Hall. Its history stretches back more than six centuries, to when this time machine began its journey. According to legend, the first clock in Figuera—there have been successive clockwork mechanisms—was much older: it was supposedly brought with them by the Jews who emigrated to Mallorca when Jerusalem was captured by the Roman Emperor Vespasian. As for the bell, it was said to have been in the synagogue in that same city where Jesus was condemned to death. It was the chronicler Joan Dameto who determined that this was impossible. Indeed, clockwork mechanisms date from the late Middle Ages. Figuera was one of the pioneers: at that time, Mallorca traded with much of Europe; it was not some remote place. It is believed to have been the first public clock in the entire country.

Around 1384, the Gran y General Consell, an institution of the Kingdom of Majorca, purchased a tower from the Dominicans, located on what is now Victoria Street, very close to Cort Square. The clock and its bell were installed there. From then on, it was known as the Torre de les Hores or Figuera Tower.

Why Figuera? This name comes from the maker of its original bell: the silversmith Pere Joan Figuera. In 1386, the bell was installed in the tower, which must have been quite a task, as it weighed 1,567 kilograms. These were the times of Peter the Ceremonious, the monarch who had reintegrated the Islands into the Crown of Aragon.

Having a clock was not a mere whim of the island institutions, nor was it simply a matter of good fortune. For centuries, the chimes of the bells governed civic life. As Pere Galiana notes, "they could be heard throughout the city and much of the surrounding area." They regulated the irrigation schedules for the orchards and guided the night watchmen on their patrol times.

The fourteen-hour day

Of course, the bell ringing patterns varied depending on the message being conveyed. The curfew, or 'Seny del Lladre' (Thief's Wisdom), consisted of twenty-five hurried chimes, three hours after sunset. The city gates were closed. From that moment on, everyone had to stay home. If someone had to go out for an urgent need, they had to carry a lantern. And if they didn't, they were arrested and imprisoned—as if for complaining about the COVID lockdown. This coercive measure remained in effect until 1865. Back then, without mobile phone alarms, the various bell ringing patterns signaled the corresponding emergencies. The 'Via Fora' (Get Out) was a call for citizen cooperation in case of danger. The fire bell was specifically for fires, and so precise that, depending on the ringing pattern, it indicated which neighborhood was affected. The pronouncement bell served to announce a change of government, and local authorities were also summoned by ringing the bell.

The 'sometente', or peal, was another emergency measure. It was rung in 1868, when the Glorious Revolution temporarily expelled the Bourbons: "I don't know how many hours the bell of Figuera tolled away, vibrating and stirring the air and hearts," recalled Miquel dels Sants Oliver of that episode.

Figuera announced the hours very differently than it does now, and also than it was done on the Iberian Peninsula. An island oddity, but not entirely original: it was the Babylonian system—counting the hours from dawn—imported via Italy. The maximum number of hours allowed was not twelve, but fourteen, which is the number of daylight hours in summer. That is to say: in winter, more hours were rung at night than during the day, and in summer, just the opposite. The French traveler Alexandre de Laborde, at the beginning of the 20th century, described it as "unique in the world," perhaps somewhat exaggeratedly. But things deteriorate with the passage of time. Cracks appeared in Pere Figuera's bell, and it had to be recast around 1680 by Joan Cardell. As Galiana observes, the corresponding specifications "would have nothing to envy in today's," due to their rigor—except, of course, for the occasional exception, which also exists. The bell had to be exactly the same, Cardell had to provide a one-year and one-day guarantee, he would be penalized for each day of delay, and he had to guarantee the fulfillment of the contract with all his assets. The same thing happened with the machinery. As early as 1463, a worker had to be hired to strike the hours manually. With the characteristic Mallorcan tendency to be slow and deliberate, it wasn't until 1823 that the City Council installed the clock in the Torre de les Hores (Clock Tower). This clock had previously been located in the now-demolished headquarters of the Inquisition, in what is now the Plaça Major (Main Square). The bell was also reused to chime the quarter and half hours.

The clock that came from Paris

Finally, the tower itself also suffered damage. In 1824, a gust of wind tore away part of the structure. Despite numerous attempts at repair, the tower had to be demolished in 1848. It was at this point that Figuera moved to its current location: the City Hall. To house the bells and machinery, a new two-story tower was built atop the building. This tower, incidentally, was later moved during renovations at the end of the 19th century. The clock face was installed on the façade, which required the closure of what had originally been a balcony on the second floor. This extravagant, Babylonian feature was eliminated, and to make it perfectly clear, the inscription "Mean Time" was added. That is to say: twelve hours, whether summer or winter. In 1902, a further step was taken: Figuera, like the rest of the clocks in the country, was adapted to Greenwich Mean Time, the international standard.

Behind Figuera's sphere was the archive in the past, before part of it was moved to the current Archive of the Kingdom of Mallorca, on Ramon Llull Street, and another part, the strictly municipal part, to Can Bordils. In 1960, a strong gust of wind hit the sphere—no, it wasn't lightning; this is film footage. Back to the Future—and it fell into the square and shattered. But, in addition, the documents being kept there were nearly blown away.

By the mid-19th century, the machinery of the old inquisitors' clock was no longer very reliable. A new one was brought from Paris, where the children used to come from. The date chosen to ring the bells for the first time was October 10, 1863, which was the birthday of the then Queen Isabella II—it seems that currying favor with the monarchy isn't a recent phenomenon. That marvel of engineering didn't satisfy everyone either: according to the writer Miguel Villalonga, towards the end of the 19th century in Figuera it was "a perfect model of inaccuracy."

The Cort clock became so popular with the people of Mallorca that it gave its name to a publication of the same title, In Figuera, from 1893. It was humorous in nature and among its collaborators were well-known personalities of the time, such as Gabriel Llabrés, Mateu Obrador, Miquel dels Sants Oliver, Pedro de Alcántara Peña, Gabriel Alomar, Frederic Soler Serafín Pitarra and the poet Marcelina Moragues, among others.

As time went on, the Parisian clock also began to show signs of wear. One of those New Year's Eve nights when the crowd had gathered in the Plaça de Cort to celebrate the twelve chimes, they were all left disappointed, because the clocks didn't ring. Around 1964, the City Council—then still appointed by the Franco regime, like all the others—considered the need to buy a new clock. They had consulted with clockmakers from Mallorca, Barcelona, and Paris, and all agreed that repairing it wasn't cost-effective.

It was then, as Galiana recounts, that the miracle occurred. One of the councilors claimed that he knew the man in Figuera who could make it work. It was Fernando Fernández, the watchmaker from Coll d'en Rebassa. Born in 1931 in Ibeas de Juarros (Burgos), he had come to Mallorca with his family and they settled in Porreres. He was a man of many talents: a musician, inventor, and repairer of anything, be it sewing machines, phonographs, scales, or, of course, watches of any kind.

Watchmaker Fernández climbed the Cort tower, meticulously examined the machinery, and made his diagnosis: "This has arrangement", to the satisfaction of the City Council. And, indeed, he made it work. The decisive moment arrived, of course, on New Year's Eve of 1964. One more peak, the crowd gathered in front of the Cort façade, holding their breath. Intentionally slowed, as is done every year for this decisive moment, lest people make a mistake with the grapes. In 2008; although by then, for health reasons, he had already had to hand over the reins to another clockmaker: Pere Caminals. in Figuera for the great moment: the New Year's Eve chimes. But the Cort clock is much more than that: it is the silent testimony –or perhaps not so silent– of six centuries of the City's history.

Information prepared from texts by Pere Galiana Veiret, Gaspar Valero, Bartomeu Bestard, Catalina Cantarellas, Miquel de Sants Oliver, Luis Ripoll, Miquel Ferrà y Martorell and Valentí Puig and the Great Encyclopedia of Majorca (GEM).