Cathedral of the Sea (62 page)

“I thought you merchants were in favor of conquest.”

“We wouldn’t open any new trade routes in Castille. No, it’s a difficult situation, Joan. Guillem was right.” At the mention of the Moor’s name, Joan looked askance. “We have only just conquered Sardinia and the Corsicans have risen against us: they did so as soon as the king left the island. We are at war with two powers, and the king’s coffers are empty; even the city councillors seem to have gone mad!”

They began to walk toward the high altar.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that there is no money available in Barcelona. The king is pressing ahead with his building schemes: the royal dockyards and the new city wall—”

“But both of them are needed,” said Joan, interrupting him.

“The dockyards, possibly, but after the plague there is no need for the wall.”

“Well, then?”

“Well, the king is still exhausting his reserves. He has obliged all the surrounding villages to contribute to the new wall, because he says one day they will take refuge inside it. He has also created a new tax for it: the fortieth part of all inheritances is to be set aside for its construction. As for the dockyards—all the fines that the consulates collect are poured into building them. And now here we are with another war.”

“Barcelona is rich.”

“Not any longer, Joan, that’s the problem. The more money the city gave him, the more privileges the king granted it. As a consequence, the councillors have taken on so much that they cannot finance everything. They’ve increased the taxes on meat and wine. Did you know that part of the city’s budget went to keeping those prices down?” Joan shook his head. “It used to be half of the city’s budget. Instead of that, now they’ve brought in new taxes. The city’s debts will bring ruin to us all, Joan—you mark my words.”

The two men stood lost in thought in front of the high altar. When they finally left the church, Joan resumed the attack.

“What about Mar?”

“She will do whatever she wants, Joan.”

“But...”

“No buts about it. That is my decision.”

“KNOCK,” ARNAU SAID to him.

Guillem knocked with the heavy door knocker. The sound echoed along the deserted street. Nobody came to open.

“Knock again.”

Guillem knocked again, not once but seven, eight times. At the ninth, the peephole opened.

“What’s the matter?” the eyes on the other side of the door asked. “What’s all this fuss? Who are you?”

Clinging to Arnau’s arm, Mar could feel him grow tense.

“Open up!” Arnau commanded.

“In whose name?”

“Arnau Estanyol,” Guillem said solemnly, “owner of this building and of everything there is in it, including yourself if you are a slave.”

“Arnau Estanyol, the owner of this building...” Guillem’s words resounded in Arnau’s ears. How long had it been? Twenty years? Twenty-two? Behind the spyhole, the eyes hesitated.

“Open up!” Guillem insisted.

Arnau looked up at the heavens. He was thinking of his father.

“What... ?” the girl began to ask.

“Nothing, nothing,” Arnau said with a smile, just as one of the doors that allowed people on foot into the palace opened in the huge double gate.

Guillem stood back to let Arnau past.

“Both gates, Guillem. I want them to open both gates wide.”

Guillem went inside, and Arnau and Mar could hear him giving orders.

“Can you see me, Father? Do you remember? This was where they gave you that bag of money that led to your downfall. What else could you have done?” Arnau recalled the rising in Plaza del Blat; people shouting, his father one of them, all of them pleading to be given grain! Arnau could feel a lump rise in his throat.

The gates opened and Arnau went in.

Several slaves were standing in the courtyard. On the right was the staircase up to the principal rooms. Arnau did not look up at them, but Mar had no hesitation, and could see shadows moving behind the windows. The stables were in front of them: the grooms were lined up outside. “My God!” Arnau’s whole body shook. He leaned on Mar, and she glanced at him.

“Here you are,” said Guillem to Arnau, handing him a rolled-up parchment.

Arnau did not take it. He knew what was in it. He had learned its contents by heart ever since Guillem had shown it to him the previous day. It was an inventory of all Grau Puig’s possessions that the magistrate had awarded Arnau in payment of his debts: the palace, the slaves—Arnau looked in vain for the name of Estranya on the list—together with several properties outside Barcelona, among which was a small house in Navarcles in which he decided to allow the Puig family to live. Some jewels; two pairs of horses with all their harnesses; a carriage; suits and other clothing; pots, pans, and crockery; carpets and furniture—everything in the palace was detailed on this rolled-up parchment that Arnau had read time and again the previous evening.

He glanced once more at the door to the stables, then surveyed all the cobbled courtyard ... until his eyes alighted on the foot of the staircase.

“Shall we go up?” asked Guillem.

“Yes. Take me to your mas—to Grau Puig,” Arnau corrected himself.

The slave led them upstairs. Mar and Guillem looked all around them; Arnau stared straight ahead. The slave led them to the main chamber.

“Announce me,” Arnau said to Guillem before the doors were opened.

“Arnau Estanyol!” his friend cried out, flinging them open.

Arnau did not remember what this main chamber was like. As a young boy he had not even looked when he had crossed it... on his knees. Nor did he pay much attention this time. Isabel was seated in a chair next to one of the windows. Josep and Genis were standing on either side of her. The former, like his sister, Margarida, was married now. Genis was still unmarried. Arnau looked for Josep’s family, but could not see them. In another chair sat Grau Puig, a drooling old man.

Isabel confronted him, eyes blazing.

Arnau stood in the middle of the room, next to a hardwood dining table that was twice as long as the one in his countinghouse. Mar and Guillem were both behind him. The family slaves had clustered in the doorway.

Arnau spoke in a loud enough voice for everyone in the room to hear.

“Guillem, those shoes are mine,” he said, pointing to Isabel’s feet. “Get her to take them off.”

“Yes, Master.”

Mar was taken aback, and turned toward the Moor. Master? She knew Guillem was a slave, but had never before heard him speak to Arnau in this way.

Guillem signaled to two of the slaves standing in the doorway, and the three of them walked over to Isabel. The baroness still sat there haughtily, challenging Arnau with her look.

One of the slaves knelt down, but before he could touch her, Isabel took off her own shoes and let them fall to the floor. She stared straight at Arnau.

“I want you to gather up all the shoes in the house and burn them out in the yard,” said Arnau.

“Yes, Master,” said Guillem once more.

The baroness was still gazing at him defiantly.

“Those chairs,” said Arnau, pointing to the ones she and Grau Puig were sitting in. “Take them out of here.”

“Yes, Master.”

Grau’s children lifted him out of his chair. The baroness stood up before the slaves could take the chair from under her and stack it with the others in a corner of the chamber.

But she was still defying him.

“That robe is mine too.”

Did he see her tremble?

“You don’t mean to say... ?” spluttered Genis Puig, still carrying his father.

“That robe is mine,” Arnau insisted, staring straight at Isabel.

Was she trembling?

“Mother,” said Josep, “go and change.”

Yes, she was trembling.

“Guillem,” shouted Arnau.

“Mother, please.”

Guillem went up to the baroness.

She was trembling!

“Mother!”

“What do you want me to put on?” howled Isabel to her stepson. Then she turned again to face Arnau. Her whole body shook. “Do you really want me to take my robe off?” her eyes asked him.

Arnau frowned sternly, and slowly, very slowly, Isabel lowered her gaze to the floor. She was sobbing with rage.

Arnau waved to Guillem to leave her. For a few moments, the only sound in the main chamber of the palace was of her sobbing.

“By tonight,” Arnau said at length to Guillem, “I want this building empty. Tell them they may go back to Navarcles, which they should never have left.” Josep and Genis stared at him; Isabel was still weeping. “I’m not interested in those lands. Give them some of the slaves’ clothes, but no footwear. Burn it all. Sell everything else and close this house up.”

Arnau turned round and saw Mar, her face flushed. He had forgotten all about her. He took her by the arm and they walked out of the room.

“You can close the gates now,” he told the old man who had let them into the palace.

The two of them walked in silence to his countinghouse, but before they went in, Arnau came to a halt.

“Shall we go for a walk on the beach?”

Mar nodded.

“Has your debt been repaid now?” she asked him when they could see the sea in front of them.

They walked on a few steps.

“It never will be, Mar,” she heard him murmur. “Never.”

 

A
RNAU WAS WORKING in the countinghouse. The seagoing season was at its height. Business was thriving, and Arnau had become one of the richest men in all Barcelona. Even so, he still lived in the small house on the corner of Canvis Vells and Canvis Nous, together with Guillem, Mar, and Donaha. Arnau would not heed Guillem’s advice and move to the Puig family palace, which had been shut for four years. Mar was proving to be quite as stubborn as Arnau, and had still not agreed to be married.

“Why do you want to push me away from you?” she said to him one day, her eyes bathed in tears.

“I ... ,” Arnau stammered, “I don’t want to push you away from me!”

She went on weeping, and leaned against his shoulder.

“Don’t worry,” Arnau reassured her, stroking her head. “I’ll never force you to do anything you don’t want to.”

So Mar went on living with them.

But on the morning of June 9, a church bell suddenly began to ring. Arnau stopped what he was doing. A moment later, another bell began to sound, and soon afterward many more joined in.

“Via
fora,”
Arnau said to himself.

He went out into the street. At Santa Maria, the workmen were quickly swarming down the scaffolding; masons and laborers emerged from the main doorway. In the streets all around, people were running and shouting, “Via
fora!”

Arnau met Guillem, who was walking quickly toward the house, a worried look on his face.

“War!” Guillem shouted.

“They’re calling out the host,” said Arnau.

“No ... no.” Guillem stopped to get his breath back. “It’s not the city host. It’s Barcelona and all the towns and villages for two leagues around.”

That meant the hosts from San Boi and Badalona. From San Andreu and Sarrià; from Provencana, San Feliu, San Genis, Cornellà, San Just Desvern, San Joan Despí, Sants, Santa Coloma, Esplugues, Vallvidrera, San Martí, San Adrià, San Gervasi, San Joan d’Horta ... the ringing of bells could be heard all round the city.

“The king has invoked the
usatge princeps namque,”
explained Guillem. “It’s not the city going to war; it’s the king! We’re at war! We’re being attacked. King Pedro of Castille has launched an attack ...”

“He’s attacking Barcelona?”

“Yes. Barcelona.”

The two men ran into their house.

Shortly afterward, they came out again. Arnau was carrying the weapons he had used when he served under Eiximèn d’Esparca. They ran down Calle de la Mar toward Plaza del Blat, but soon realized that the crowd shouting,
“Via fora,”
was headed in the opposite direction.