Cathedral of the Sea (21 page)

“T
HEY ARE MY mother’s brother and his son,” Margarida explained to her stepmother when she was surprised that Grau had taken on two more people for only seven horses.

Grau had told Isabel he wanted nothing to do with the horses. In fact, he did not even go down to inspect the magnificent stables on the ground floor of the mansion. His new wife took care of everything: she chose the animals and brought her chief stableman, Jesus, with her. He in turn advised her to employ an experienced groom, whose name was Tomás.

But four men to look after seven horses was excessive even for the way of life the baroness was used to, and she said as much on her first visit to the stables after the two Estanyols had arrived.

Now she encouraged Margarida to tell her more.

“They were peasants, serfs on a lord’s lands.”

Isabel said nothing in reply, but a suspicion was planted in her mind.

Margarida went on: “It was the son, Arnau, who was responsible for my little brother Guiamon’s death. I hate both of them! I’ve no idea why my father has kept them on.”

“We’ll soon find out,” muttered the baroness, her eyes fixed on Bernat’s back as he brushed one of the horses down.

When she brought the matter up that evening, Grau was dismissive.

“I thought it was a good idea,” was all he said, although he did confirm that they were fugitives.

“If my father got to hear of ir ...”

“But he won’t, will he, Isabel?” said Grau, looking at her intently. She was already dressed for dinner, one of the new customs she had introduced into the life of Grau and his family. She was only just twenty, and like Grau was extremely thin. She was not particularly attractive, and lacked the voluptuous curves that he had once found alluring in Guiamona, but she was noble—and her character must be noble too, Grau thought. “I’m sure you wouldn’t want your father to discover that you are living with two fugitives.”

The baroness looked at him, eyes ablaze, then swept out of the room.

In spite of the baroness’s and her stepchildren’s dislike of him, Bernat soon showed his worth with the horses. He knew how to deal with them, feed them, to clean their hooves and frogs, and to look after them when they were sick. He moved easily among the animals: the only part of his work where he lacked experience was in turning them out spotlessly.

“They want them to shine,” he told Arnau one day as they walked back home. “They don’t want to see a speck of dust. We have to scrape and scrape to get all the grit out of their hair, then polish them until they really glisten.”

“What about their manes and tails?”

“We have to cut them, plait them, and put ribbons on them.”

“Why do they want horses with so many ribbons?”

Arnau was forbidden to go near the horses. He looked at them admiringly in the stables, and could see how they responded to his father’s care. What he most enjoyed was when only the two were there and he was allowed to stroke them. As a treat, when there was no one around, Bernat allowed him to sit on the back of one or other of them inside the stable. Usually, though, his tasks meant he was never allowed to leave the harness room. He would clean the harnesses over and over again, greasing the leather, then rubbing it with a cloth until the grease was completely absorbed and the surface of the saddles and reins gleamed. He cleaned the bits and stirrups, then combed the blankets and other pieces of tackle until he had got rid of every last horse hair. Often he had to finish the job by using his hands as a pair of pincers to pull out the fine, needle-like hairs that stuck so closely to the cloth they seemed to be part of it. If there was any time left after he had done all this, he would polish and polish the new carriage that Grau had bought.

As the months went by, even Jesus had to admit Bernat’s worth. Whenever he went into one of the stables, not only did the horses not become alarmed, but more often than not they moved toward him. He touched and stroked them, whispering to reassure them. When Tomás came in, on the other hand, the steeds flattened their ears and retreated to the farthest wall when he shouted at them. What was the matter with him? Until now he had been perfectly competent, thought Jesus each time he heard a fresh outburst.

IN THE MORNING,
when father and son set off for work, Joanet stayed to help Mariona, Pere’s wife. He would clean and tidy the house, then accompany her to market. After that, while she busied herself with her cooking, he would head off to the beach to find Pere. The old man had spent his life fishing, and apart from receiving occasional aid from their guild, he also earned a few coins by helping the younger fishermen repair the nets. Joanet went with him, listening to all his explanations and running off to get whatever he might need.

Apart from all this, whenever he could he escaped and went to visit his mother.

“This morning,” he explained to her one day, “when Bernat went to pay Pere, he gave him back some of the money. He told him that the ‘little one’ ... that’s me, Mother, that’s what they call me ... well, he said that seeing that the little one helped so much at home and on the beach, there was no need for him to pay for me.”

The imprisoned woman listened, hand on her son’s head. How everything had changed! Ever since he’d been living with the Estanyols her little one no longer sat there sobbing, waiting for her silent caresses and words of affection. A blind affection. Now he spoke, told her about his life. Why, he even laughed!

“Bernat hugged me,” Joanet said proudly, “and Arnau congratulated me.”

The hand closed on the boy’s head.

Joanet went on talking, in a rush to tell her everything. About Arnau, Bernat, Mariona, Pere, the beach, the fishermen, the nets they repaired. But his mother was no longer listening: she was only happy that her son finally knew what it was like to be hugged, to be happy.

“Run, my boy,” his mother interrupted him, trying to conceal the tremor in her voice. “They’ll be waiting for you.”

From inside the walls of her prison, she heard how her little one jumped down from the crate and ran off. She imagined him climbing the wall she wished she had never seen.

What was left for her? She had survived for years on bread and water within those four walls, every last inch of which her fingers had explored hundreds of times. She had fought against solitude and madness by staring up at the sky through the tiny window the king, in his great mercy, had allowed her. She had fought off fever and other illnesses, and had done all this for her son, to be able to stroke his head, to give him encouragement, to make him feel that, in spite of everything, he was not alone in the world.

Now he was not alone. Bernat hugged him! It felt as though she knew him. She had even dreamed of him during the endless hours of her imprisonment. “Take care of him, Bernat,” she had whispered to the thin air. And now Joanet was happy. He laughed, ran everywhere, and ...

Joana sank to the ground and stayed there. That day she did not touch any of the bread or water left for her; her body did not need it.

Joanet came back the next day, and the day after, on and on. She could hear how he laughed and talked of the world so full of hope. All that came out of the window were faint words: yes, no, look, run, run and live.

“Run and enjoy the life that because of me you have never enjoyed until now,” she whispered as he climbed back over the wall.

The pieces of bread formed a pile on the floor of Joana’s prison.

“Do you know what has happened, Mother?” said Joanet, pulling the crate against the wall to sit on: his feet still did not touch the ground. “No, how could you?” He sat curled up and pressed his back against the wall exactly where he knew his mother’s hand could reach down and touch his head. “I’ll tell you. Well, yesterday one of Grau’s horses ...”

But no arm appeared through the window.

“Mother, listen. It’s funny, I tell you. It’s about one of the horses ...”

He turned and looked up at the window.

“Mother?”

He waited.

“Mother?”

He strained to hear above the sounds of the coppersmiths hammering in the streets all around: nothing.

“Mother!” he shouted.

He knelt upon the crate. What could he do? She had always forbidden him to approach the window.

“Mother!” he shouted again, standing up on the crate.

She had always insisted he should not try to look in and see her. Yet there was no answer! Joanet peered inside: it was too dark for him to see anything.

He climbed up and lifted his leg through the window. He was too big—he would have to slide in sideways.

“Mother?” he said again.

He grabbed the top of the window, lifted both legs onto the sill, then squeezed in on his side. He jumped to the floor.

“Mother?” he said as his eyes grew used to the gloom.

Gradually he could make out a point of light that gave off an unbearable stench, and then on the other side of the room, to his left, he saw a body curled up on a straw pallet against the wall.

Joanet waited without moving. The noise of hammers on metal had faded into the distance.

“I wanted to tell you a funny story,” he said, going over to the shape on the floor. Tears started to course down his cheeks. “It would have made you laugh,” he stammered, coming up to her.

Joanet sat for a long while next to his mother’s body. As though she had guessed her son might come into her cell, Joana had buried her face in her arms, as if trying to avoid him seeing her like this even after her death.

“Can I touch you?”

The little one stroked his mother’s hair. It was filthy, disheveled, dry as dust.

“You had to die for us to be together.”

Joanet burst into tears.

BERNAT KNEW WHAT to do as soon as he returned home and was met by Pere and his wife, interrupting each other as they tried to tell him that Joanet had not come back. They had never asked him where he disappeared to. They always thought he went to Santa Maria, but nobody had seen him there that afternoon. Mariona raised her hand to her mouth.

“What if something has happened to him?” she said.

“We’ll find him,” Bernat said, trying to reassure her.

Joanet was still sitting beside his mother’s body. First he stroked her hair; then he curled it between his fingers, getting some of the knots out. After that, he got up and stared up at the window.

Night fell.

“Joanet?”

Joanet looked back up at the window.

“Joanet?” he heard once more from beyond the wall.

“Arnau?”

“What’s happened?”

He answered: “She’s dead.”

“Why don’t you ... ?”

“I can’t. I don’t have a crate inside here. The window is too high up.”

“THERE’S A VERY bad smell,” concluded Arnau. Bernat beat on the door of Pone the coppersmith’s house once more. What could the little one have done, shut up in there all day? He called out again, in a loud voice. Why did nobody answer? At that moment, the door opened, and a gigantic figure almost filled the entire doorway. Arnau took a step back.