Cathedral of the Sea

“We have to bleed him. If we do, the bleeding around the ganglions will disappear.”

“We have to lance the ganglions,” a third one opined.

The other doctors looked at the sick man and then at their colleague.

“According to our books, lancing is of no use.”

“After all,” said another one, “he’s only a caulker. Let’s look at his armpits and groin.”

There were big, hard, ganglions there too. Shrieking with pain, the plague victim was bled, and what little life he had left seeped out through the cuts the medical experts made in his suffering body.

That very same day, more cases were discovered. The next day, more still, and even more the day after that. The inhabitants of the city shut themselves in their houses, where some of them died amid terrible suffering. Others were left out on the streets for fear of contagion, and met slow, agonizing deaths. The authorities ordered a whitewash cross to be daubed on the door of every house where an outbreak had occurred. They continued to insist on hygiene, and for people to avoid all contact with the plague sufferers. They had the bodies burned in huge funeral pyres. Many of the inhabitants scrubbed at their skin until it came away in clumps, and wherever they could, they stayed away from the victims. But nobody thought of getting rid of the millions of fleas in the city, and to the astonishment of doctors and authorities, the disease continued to spread.

Several weeks went by, and like many others Arnau and Maria went every day to Santa Maria, offering prayers that received no response from the heavens. All around them, close friends, such as Father Albert, were dying. The plague also took the old couple Pere and Mariona, who were not able to resist the disease for long. The bishop organized a pilgrimage that would go round the entire city; it was to leave the cathedral and head down Calle de la Mar to Santa Maria. There the Virgin of the Sea would be waiting on her dais, and she would become part of the procession.

The Virgin was in Plaza de Santa Maria, with the bastaixos, who were to carry her on their shoulders. The men looked sadly at one another, silently wondering about all those who were no longer among them. Nobody said a word. They all clenched their teeth and stared at the ground. Arnau remembered earlier processions, when there had been so many of them they had to fight to get near the dais. The aldermen had to organize them so that everybody could have a turn carrying the statue, whereas now ... there were not enough bastaixos even to be replaced. How many had died? How long would this go on? The sound of people murmuring their prayers came down Calle de la Mar. Arnau looked at the head of the procession: everyone was shuffling along despondently. Where were all the nobles who were usually so proud to walk alongside the bishop? Four of the city’s five councillors had died; three-quarters of the Council of a Hundred had met the same fate. The others had fled the city. The bastaixos lifted their Virgin in silence, balanced the dais on their shoulders, let the bishop go past, and then joined the procession and the prayers. The pilgrims went from Santa Maria down to the Santa Clara convent via Plaza del Born. At Santa Clara, despite the incense the priests were burning, the smell of burned flesh was all too obvious; many of those present burst into tears. At San Daniel gate they turned left and headed toward the Nou gateway and the Sant Pere de les Puelles monastery; as they advanced they had to avoid several dead bodies and tried not to look at the dying who lay on every street corner and in front of doors daubed with a white cross that would never again open for them. “Holy Mother,” thought Arnau, carrying the statue on his shoulder, “what have we done to deserve this?” From Sant Pere the pilgrims carried on down to the Santa Anna gateway, where they turned left again in the direction of the sea, until they reached the Forn dels Arcs neighborhood, and headed back toward the cathedral.

Despite this public display of faith, many people were beginning to doubt whether the Church or the city authorities were doing anything useful: they prayed and prayed, but the plague continued to cause havoc everywhere.

“They say it’s the end of the world,” Arnau complained one day when he returned home. “All Barcelona has gone mad. They call themselves the flagellants.” Maria had her back to him. Arnau sat down, waiting for his wife to take his footwear off as usual. He went on: “There are hundreds of them out in the streets, naked from the waist up. They shout that the day of judgment is at hand, confess all their sins openly to anyone who cares to listen, and lash their backs with whips. Some of them are cut to ribbons, but they go on ...” Arnau stroked Maria’s forehead as she kneeled before him. She was burning up. “What... ?”

He lifted her chin in his hand. No, it could not be! Not her! Maria looked at him, glassy-eyed. She was sweating, and her whole face was swollen. Arnau tried to lift her head further in order to see her neck, but she winced with pain.

“Not you!” he wailed.

On her knees, Maria gripped his sandals and stared up at him. Tears began to course down her cheeks.

“My God, not you!” Arnau knelt beside her.

“Get away, Arnau,” Maria stuttered. “Don’t stay close to me.”

Arnau tried to put his arms round her, but as he did so, she whimpered with pain once more.

“Come here,” he said, helping her up as gently as he could. Sobbing, Maria continued to insist that he leave her. “How could I? You’re all that I have ... everything! What would I do without you? Some people recover from it, Maria. You will, you’ll see. You’ll get better.” Trying to comfort her, he led her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. There he could get a clear sight of her neck: the beautiful outline was tinged with black. “A doctor ! We need a doctor!” he shouted, flinging open the window and going out onto the balcony.

Nobody seemed to hear him. Yet that night, when the ganglions started to swell on Maria’s neck, someone came to paint a white cross on their door.

All Arnau could do was press cold cloths on his wife’s brow. She was shivering uncontrollably in bed. Every time she moved, she was in such pain she could not help moaning in a way that made the hairs on Arnau’s arms stand on end. She was staring blankly up at the ceiling, but Arnau could see the lumps on her neck growing, and turning ever darker. “I love you, Maria. How often would I have liked to tell you so.” He took her hand and knelt by the bed. He spent the whole night on his knees, clutching her hand and shivering and sweating along with her, imploring the skies for help each time Maria writhed in pain.

HE USED THE best sheet they had as a shroud to wrap her in, then waited for the cart for the dead to pass by. He was not going to leave her out in the street. He wanted to hand her body over himself. And that was what he did. When he heard the weary clop of horses’ hooves outside his house, he picked Maria up and went out into the street.

“Farewell,” he said, kissing her on her forehead.

The two officials, who were wearing gloves and had thick scarves to protect their faces, were taken aback when they saw Arnau unwrap the shroud and kiss his wife. Nobody wanted to go near the plague victims, not even their loved ones, who usually left them out in the street or at most called the officials in to take them from their