Cathedral of the Sea (10 page)

Grau Puig’s house was decked out for the Christmas celebrations. The youngster who at the age of ten, thanks to a neighbor’s generosity, had been able to leave his father’s lands had finally triumphed in Barcelona. Now he waited alongside his wife to receive his guests.

“They’re coming to pay me homage,” he told Guiamona. “It’s unheard-of for nobles and merchants to come to a mere artisan’s house like this.”

His wife contented herself with listening.

“The king himself has backed me. The king himself! Our King Alfonso!”

That day no work was done in the pottery. Despite the cold, Bernat and Arnau sat on the ground in the yard and watched the constant comings and goings of slaves, craftsmen, and apprentices in and out of the house. In all those eight years, Bernat had never set foot again in the Grau mansion, but he did not care. He ruffled Arnau’s curls, and thought to himself: “I can put my arms around my son. What more could I ask?” His boy ate and lived with Guiamona, and even studied with Grau’s children. He had learned to read, write, and count at the same time as his cousins. Yet thanks to Guiamona he had never forgotten that Bernat was his father. Grau himself treated the boy with complete indifference.

Bernat insisted time and again that Arnau should be well behaved in the big house. Whenever he came laughing into the workshop, Bernat’s own face lit up. The slaves and all the craftsmen—even Jaume—could not help but smile at the boy when he ran out into the yard to wait for his father to complete one of his tasks, only then running toward him and hugging him tight. Afterward he would go off and sit down again, watching his father and smiling at anyone who spoke to him. On some nights, after the workshop had closed, Habiba let him out of the house, and father and son had time to talk and laugh together uninterrupted.

Things had changed, even though Jaume still adhered strictly to his master’s instructions. Grau paid no attention to the money brought in by the pottery, and had nothing to do with the day-to-day running of it. In spite of this, he could not do without it, because it was the basis of his position as guild official, alderman of Barcelona, and member of the Council of a Hundred. However, once he had achieved all this, Grau Puig dedicated himself to politics and high-level finances, as befitted a city alderman.

From the outset of his reign in 1291, Jaime the Second had tried to impose himself on the old Catalan feudal nobility. To do this, he had turned to the free cities and their citizens, especially Barcelona. Sicily had been part of the crown’s possessions since the days of Pedro the Great. Now, when the pope granted Jaime the Second the right to conquer Sardinia, it was the citizens of Barcelona who financed the enterprise.

The annexation of these two Mediterranean islands was in everyone’s interest: it guaranteed the supply of grain to Catalonia, as well as sealing Catalan domination of the western Mediterranean and, with it, control over the sea trade routes. The monarch kept for himself the silver mines and the salt on the island.

Grau Puig had not lived through these events. His opportunity came on the death of Jaime the Second and the accession of Alfonso the Third. In that same year, 1327, the Corsicans began to cause trouble in the city of Sassari. At the same time, fearing Catalonia’s commercial power, the Genoese declared war, attacking all ships that sailed under the Catalan flag. Neither king nor traders hesitated a moment: the campaign to stifle the revolt in Sardinia and the war against Genoa were to be financed by the burghers of Barcelona. And this was what happened, thanks largely to the efforts of one of the city’s aldermen: Grau Puig. It was he who, in addition to contributing generously to the costs of the war, succeeded by his fiery speeches in convincing even the most doubtful to take part. The king himself publicly thanked him for his efforts.

Today, as Grau peered anxiously out of his windows to see if his guests were arriving, Bernat kissed his son on the cheek and sent him back inside.

“It’s very cold, Arnau. You should go in.” The boy made as though to protest, but his father insisted. “You’ll eat a fine meal tonight, won’t you?”

“Cockerel, nougat, and wafers,” his son said enthusiastically.

Bernat gave him an affectionate tap on the behind. “Run inside. We can talk another day.”

ARNAU ARRIVED JUST in time to sit down to dinner. He and Grau’s two youngest children—Guiamon, who was the same age as him, and Margarida, a year and a half older—were to eat in the kitchen. Josep and Genis, the two older children, were allowed to dine upstairs with their parents.

The arrival of so many guests had made Grau even more nervous than usual.

“I’ll see to everything,” he had told Guiamona as she was preparing the feast. “You look after the women.”

“But how are you going to ... ?” she started to protest, but Grau was already giving instructions to Estranya, the cook, a plump, impudent mulatto slave, who kept one eye on her mistress while appearing to pay attention to what Grau was saying.

“How do you expect me to react?” thought Guiamona. “You’re not talking to your secretary, or in the guild or the Council of a Hundred. So you don’t think I’m capable of looking after your guests? So I’m not good enough for you?”

Behind her husband’s back, Guiamona had tried to restore order among the servants and to make sure that the Christmas feast was a success, but now, as their guests arrived and Grau fussed over everything, including their rich capes, she found she was pushed into the background as her husband had wished, and had to make do with smiling pleasantly at the other women. Grau meanwhile looked like a general in the thick of a battle: he was talking animatedly to his guests, while at the same time showing the slaves what they had to do and whom they were to attend to; the more he shouted and insisted, the more anxious they became. In the end, all of them—except for Estranya, who was in the kitchen preparing the meal—decided that the best thing was to follow Grau wherever he went.

Freed in this way from all supervision—as Estranya and her assistants were all busy laboring over their pots and fires—Margarida, Guiamon, and Arnau mixed the chicken with the nougat, and stuffed food in one another’s mouths, laughing and joking all the while. At one point, Margarida picked up a jug of undiluted wine and swallowed a whole mouthful. She immediately turned bright red and her cheeks flushed, but she succeeded in not spitting any of it out. She encouraged her brother and cousin to do the same. Arnau and Guiamon both drank from the jug, but although they tried to keep their composure like Margarida, they started coughing and spluttering, searching desperately on the table for water, their eyes full of tears. After that the three of them could not stop laughing: just from looking at each other, at the jug of wine, or at Estranya’s huge buttocks.

“Get out of here!” the mulatto shouted, tired of their shouts and laughter.

The three of them ran from the kitchen, still laughing and shouting.

“Shh!” another slave warned them at the foot of the main staircase. “The master does not want any children here.”

Margarida tried to protest. “But ...”

“No buts about it,” insisted the slave.

At that moment Habiba came down in search of more wine. The master had shot her a furious look when one of his guests had tried to pour some out and been rewarded with only a few miserable drops.

“Keep an eye on the children,” Habiba told the slave on the staircase as she passed by. “More wine!” she shouted at Estranya, going into the kitchen.

Worried that Habiba might bring ordinary wine rather than the special vintage reserved for this occasion, Grau came running after her.

The children had stopped laughing, and instead were keenly watching all this commotion. Grau spotted them with the slave.

“What are you children doing here? And you? Why aren’t you doing anything? Go and tell Habiba that the wine is to come from the old jars. Don’t forget; otherwise I’ll flay you alive. And you children, get off to bed.”

The slave bustled off to the kitchen. Their eyes still glistening from the effects of the wine, the three children smiled at one another. As soon as Grau had rushed back upstairs, they burst out laughing. Bed? Margarida stared at the wide-open front door, pursed her lips, and raised her eyebrows.

“Where are the children?” Habiba asked when the slave appeared in the kitchen.

“Wine from the old jars ...,” the slave repeated.

“What about the children?”

“The old ones. The old ones.”

“But what’s happened to the children?” Habiba insisted.

“In your bed. The master say go to bed. They with him. From the old jars, yes? He’ll flay us alive ...”

IT WAS CHRISTMAS. The streets of Barcelona were empty: no one would be outside until midnight mass and the sacrifice of a cock. The moon shone on the sea so brightly it seemed that the street they were walking down stretched on forever. The three children stared in wonder at its silver reflection.

“There’ll be no one on the beach tonight,” Margarida reasoned.

“Nobody puts to sea at Christmas,” Guiamon agreed.

The two of them turned to Arnau. He shook his head.

“No one will notice,” Margarida insisted. “We can go and be back very quickly. It’s close by.”

“Coward,” Guiamon hissed.

They ran down to Framenors, the Franciscan convent built on the shore at the far western end of the city wall. When they reached it, the children stared across the beach to the Santa Clara convent, which marked Barcelona’s eastern limit.

“Look!” Guiamon said excitedly. “The city fleet!”

“I’ve never seen the beach like this before,” said Margarida.

Eyes big as saucers, Arnau nodded in agreement.

All the way from Framenors to Santa Clara, the beach was filled with ships of all sizes. There were no buildings to spoil the children’s view of this magnificent sight. Once, when Grau had taken them and their tutor down to the strand to watch one of the ships he had an interest in being loaded or unloaded, he had explained that almost a hundred years earlier King Jaime the Conqueror had forbidden any building on the beach in order to leave it free for boats to be grounded. None of the children had thought any more of what Grau had said: wasn’t it natural for ships to be beached like that? They had always been there.

Grau had looked over at the tutor.

“In the ports of our enemies and trading rivals,” the tutor explained, “none of the boats are left on the beach.”

At that word “enemy” the four children were suddenly all ears.

“It’s true,” Grau went on, finally sure of their interest. “Our enemy Genoa has a wonderful natural harbor protected from the sea. That means they do not need to beach their ships. Our ally, Venice, has a great lagoon reached by narrow canals: their ships are safe there from any storms. The port of Pisa is connected to the sea by the River Arno; even Marseilles has a natural harbor protected from rough seas.

“The Phocian Greeks are known to have used the harbor at Marseilles,” the tutor added.

“You say our enemies have better ports than us?” asked Josep, the eldest. “And yet we defeat them: we’re the lords of the Mediterranean!” he said, repeating the words so often heard from his father. The other children agreed: how was it possible?

Grau turned to their tutor for the explanation.

“Because Barcelona has always had the best sailors. We don’t have a harbor, and yet ...”

“What do you mean, we don’t have a harbor?” protested Genis. “What’s this then?” he said, pointing to the beach.

“This is not a harbor. A harbor needs to be a sheltered place, protected from the open sea, but this...” The tutor waved his hands toward the waves lapping on the shore. “Listen, Barcelona has always been a city of sailors. Many years ago, there was a harbor here, like all the other cities your father mentioned. In Roman times, ships sheltered behind the Mons Taber, which was over there somewhere ... ,” he said, pointing to inside the city walls, “but gradually the land took over from the sea, and the harbor disappeared. Then there was the Comtal harbor, but that has gone too, and so has Jaime the First’s, which was also sheltered by another small natural outcrop, the Puig de les Falsies. Do you know where that is now?”