Queens of All the Earth (5 page)

Somewhere, bells tolled, and they were answered by more bells somewhere else, hidden between the folds of the rippling orange-colored city. Olivia heard a music box playing nearby and almost left her mask at the counter of a coffee stall. She drifted without sense or destination until the bells tolled again. Then she saw the spire from which the sound came and walked toward it.

But walking in a straight line in the Gothic Quarter of Barcelona was nearly impossible, and while the latticed and jagged spire hooked her eye and pulled her toward it, it never seemed to grow closer, and she was
continually turning, trying to reach it. The stone pavement under her feet was smooth, forgiving, and cool, and led her into a small courtyard. There, past a trail of dark cafés and an obscure hostel with a yellow box sign, businesspeople sat by a fountain eating lunch.

The courtyard was an indefinable geometric shape, the meeting of several strands of alley and the awkward corners of buildings. On her left, the huge castellated wall of the Cathedral (or maybe not the Cathedral but something else that had grown from it) towered like a fat, sleeping beast of mud-colored stone. She had seen pictures of the Cathedral of Barcelona everywhere, from posters in the airport to banners on tour buses. It was so iconic she recognized it even in fragmented slices, but seeing the pictures become real was unexpectedly eerie, like seeing the characters of a movie walk off the screen and into the theater.

From the opposite corner, tucked away in a porch, came music. An accordion and its player spun fugues and requiems, which drifted from that fountainhead into the soft whispering of the street. Olivia couldn’t be sure if it was the accordion that breathed in air and exhaled melody, or the palm trees in the portico and the fountain at its center, or the spice- and sewer-scented air that slithered through the arches that contained it all.

As she watched the accordion player, the bells tolled again, joining his song and clashing with it. Drawn to the source of those sounds, Olivia wound her way through the next alley. She thought she saw a question mark faintly chalked on the side of a building, like the one she had glimpsed in the stairwell of the hostel yesterday, but her feet carried her away from it before she could be certain. The bells were very close now, and Olivia followed the current of music, trailing her hand along the side of the castle-like monster, seeking its head. As she followed its flank, the alley widened and the sun poured in. She lost the sound of the accordion player to traffic.

Then she was on the street, and the wall had dropped away into an
enclosed dirt square. The spire was just ahead of her. She rounded the corner and at last saw it all, complete and drenched in gold.

From a collection of coy glimpses, it had transformed into a cathedral, spinning toward the sky. It was huge and delicate, so infinitely detailed it made her eyes hurt, and its many small points of beauty jostled for attention until she couldn’t comprehend any of them at all and could only stand, looking up. The Cathedral’s voice had boomed, and out of respect, the other buildings had receded and formed a square.

If the Cathedral seemed grand and wise, Olivia felt small and ignorant. Her awe turned against her, and she grew frustrated at herself for not being able to recall the facts or trivia about this church that she had read in the books and on the posters and pamphlets that had made it seem so familiar. Even so, she knew what she had read had no relation to what it felt like to stand under the spires shredding the sky.

Shyly, she stepped toward the door.

Three beggars with scarves on their heads sat on the steps, clutching pictures of children.

“
Señorita
, please, I will pray for you.”

“Por favor, por los niños.”

“Please have pity,
señorita
.”

Olivia walked past them as quickly as possible and tried not to look, afraid if she stared at the grotesquely swelled foot of one, or the carved and wrinkled face of another, that she might feel guilty.

But she was safe in the entrance lobby, guarded by a short stout man in a red jacket and a woman behind glass who sold tickets. Here Olivia felt another stab of uncertainty. She had promised Miranda only to go a little way down La Rambla. Would she be missed at the hostel? Would Miranda worry and call their mom? But the woman behind glass and the man in the red jacket were staring at her, so she handed over five euro and took the plunge.

In the nave, her eyes turned nervously to a floor crossed by fragments of colored light, and she didn’t see Mr. Brown ambling toward her until he was already there.

“I didn’t know you were coming to the Cathedral today,” he said with cheerful surprise. “I thought your sister wanted you to stay near the hostel.”

“I got a little lost,” she said.

“Well, you’re with us now. No harm, no foul.”

Olivia smiled tightly, and did not know what to say.

“Do you want to come with us?” Mr. Brown continued, his gray face crinkling around the mouth. “Greg is on the roof, and I was just going to catch up with him.”

“There’s a roof? I mean, you can go up there? Is that legal?”

“Of course it’s legal—it’s recommended! And it’s completely safe. Come up, or you’ll regret it. The view is inspiring. You can see the water.”

So Olivia followed Mr. Brown past the choir stalls (whose architectural vintage she couldn’t remember) and several gated altars (whose dates she couldn’t remember), under the cupola (whose height she couldn’t remember), and into an alcove, and then to a small anteroom, and then the elevator, which creaked and took its rusty time, making Olivia anxious.

Olivia’s eyes had been dazzled when she entered the Cathedral, and only in the elevator had they eventually become adjusted to the low light. But when the elevator arrived at the top, the door opened on a different side, and stepping into the blinding sunshine, Olivia had no idea where she had turned, what she saw, or who formed the impressions crowding upon her.

Vision returned. In front of her was the castellated top of a tower, a curve of red-shingled roof, and an insubstantial-looking scaffold that screeched and groaned as tourists clattered up and down it.

Her pulse thudded to the tempo of the earlier bells. She looked over
her shoulder. Another narrow prominence blocked her view, but between it and the wall, a brilliant red glimpse of Barcelona peeked through.

“Walk up with me. It’s perfectly safe,” Mr. Brown said.

She took Mr. Brown’s hand—the scaffolding was safe but the railing didn’t bear his weight comfortably—and they ascended. A catwalk broached the peak of the roof and on the opposite side from the tallest, most jagged spire, a platform allowed visitors to sit and take in the view. Beyond that platform was an inaccessible roof, and then the roofs of other buildings piled up between the mountains, and then, behind a thin haze, the Mediterranean Sea.

“Look, there’s Greg,” said his father.

And there was Greg, leaning easily on the rail, the breeze blowing his hair back from his eyes, looking farther out than there was anything to see. His ease calmed Olivia. Mr. Brown, now leaning on Olivia’s arm, drifted toward him happily.

“Greg, look who I found downstairs. She’s all alone today.”

Greg smiled briefly and then looked down and strode to the other end of the catwalk.

“He doesn’t mean to be rude,” Mr. Brown said with a sigh. “He just wants to be alone.”

“That’s okay, I don’t mind,” Olivia replied, though she did mind.

“Well, I mind,” Mr. Brown said, nudging in on her thoughts. “I worry about him when he does that.”

“Oh.” Olivia attempted indifference for a moment, but curiosity edged it out, and she finally asked, “Why?”

“Because
he
worries. And people your age shouldn’t worry.”

“We have things to worry about,” Olivia said. “I mean, there’s things in the news. Miranda’s always telling me to watch the news.” She trailed off.

“How old are you?” Mr. Brown turned to her. “Eighteen? Greg’s eighteen.”

“Yeah.”

“And you come from a good house, I bet.”

“I guess. What does that mean?”

“You see, that’s all relative,” he said. “I don’t mean to pry. But if I mention one bad thing that’s happened to Greg, you’ll think of three worse things that have happened to you or someone you know, and none of that’s my business either, but you’d tell me.”

Olivia thought about it, and answered quietly, “No. I wouldn’t do that.”

Mr. Brown considered her, and his eyes said plainly that he believed her. But then, abruptly, he said, “Why do young people go to such lengths to make misery a sport?”

“We don’t all do that,” Olivia said defensively. She felt her palms begin to sweat again. Her breath was short.

“No. But everyone wants to prove they’ve suffered more. And no one really listens. So Greg stopped talking.”

“Greg doesn’t talk?”

“Of course Greg talks. Just not about anything important,” said Mr. Brown. “None of the things that make him worry and want to be alone.”

“Everyone’s unhappy sometimes.”

“Yes, but not everybody’s miserable about it,” Mr. Brown said.

There was a building between the cathedral and the sea with a columned belvedere on top, surrounded by potted palms. Another roof showcased an elaborate garden of trailing vines and arbors. Directly below, if Olivia craned over the scaffolding and squinted past the edge of the roof, she could see down into the courtyards surrounding the church. Somewhere down there sat the accordion player.

“Are you happy?” Mr. Brown asked. Olivia snapped her head up sharply.

“What?”

“Are you having a good time?”

“Yeah. I am. But I’m going downstairs now.”

“Do you want me to come with you? Or Greg?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I’ll see you at the hostel.” She didn’t want to be around Greg when he made it so obvious he didn’t want to be around her, and she didn’t want to be around his father, who seemed to be searching her soul. It made her uncomfortable.

Olivia hurried down the scaffold as quickly as she felt was safe, and while she waited for the elevator, she stared at the wall as if to examine some minute inscription there, to avoid looking up and seeing Mr. Brown again.

But when she returned to the nave, the pipe organ murmuring without melody reminded her of the accordion music twining atonally with the pealing of the bells. It was like listening to the stones in eerie conversation, and their old tuneless voices reminded her of her journey through the streets. Then the mammoth columns became rippled tree trunks, and she stretched her hand to touch one. She thought about what Mr. Brown had said about worrying, and she wondered what she had been worried about earlier when she first stepped inside. But then she shook off her thoughts about the Browns to focus on grasping this feeling, this now.

Olivia made a lazy circuit and then found the cloister outside, with a dim green garden enclosed in the center. A small fountain with drinking taps filled the cool quadrangle with natural music. Inside the garden fence, geese clattered to each other, and Olivia watched them eat lettuce. Then she purchased three postcards and an informative guide to the cathedral in the gift shop tucked between two chapels, and emerged into the sun once more.

While she had been inside, the day had slipped by, and Olivia realized by the tolling of the bells and the grumbling of her stomach that it must be late in the afternoon. With a resurgence of panic that seemed to have
been held in check by the walls of the Cathedral, she remembered her promise to Miranda and wondered what her sister had done all day. She set off in what she hoped was the direction of a larger street that might have a sign pointing her toward La Rambla. The shady afternoon light made the shadows cooler, and warm spots of orange light seemed to float above her reach.

This time, Olivia didn’t have to walk far before an unexpected square opened before her from unsuspicious, narrow, gritty streets. This square was cleaner and emptier of adornment than the others she had passed through that day, two ends dominated by blocky buildings with glaring statues guarding their doors. Its starkness arrested her. For a flashing moment, the totally empty square reminded her of the space inside her mind the morning she had laid on her bed, the van waiting outside, everyone sounding so scared.

Olivia couldn’t stay. Her stomach whined and fears of upsetting Miranda pierced the memory, which dissipated as quickly as it had arrived. She dragged her feet away, suddenly aware they were swollen and tired. Sure enough, she soon found a sign on the other side of the square which led her back to La Rambla.

As she walked, she wondered what made her so uncomfortable about Mr. Brown’s kindness, and why she couldn’t stop thinking about their encounter. The more Olivia wanted to stop thinking about it, the harder it became to forget, as she fought her way north through the crowds of blue-shirted Scottish football fans until the buildings grew younger and the signs brighter, and a large raucous noise became louder.

She had found the Plaça Catalunya, the large plaza straddling La Rambla that encircled a fountain in the center of Barcelona, right between the Gothic Quarter and the city’s nineteenth-century district. Just a few blocks north on La Rambla was Casa Joven and a bed Olivia’s feet screamed for.

Across the street from the Plaça Catalunya, she saw the source of the noise. A mob of Scottish football fans had formed a brick wall, though one that rippled and sang, and somewhere in the center, someone waved a
really
big flag. They’d collected here for no discernible reason, and before the first fan could struggle out, more and more poured in, until the crowd sustained itself, and no one was sure why they were all standing there, except that maybe it would result in victory. Potato chip bags and crushed beer cans paved the sidewalk, and the scent of both hung heavily in the warm air. Once again, Olivia thought momentarily she heard singing in Spanish, or maybe some ancient language, but now she knew it was only drunken Scottish.

The sound and the smells and the way the declining sun now gleamed into the corner of her eye, making her squint, heightened a headache lurking in her brain. She was tired of waiting for the pedestrian signal, but just as she elevated a foot over the curb, a taxi sped around the corner and whipped past her so close she felt its wind. Olivia stepped back as if slapped on the face, waited miserably with everyone else, and then crossed with the pack toward Plaça Catalunya.