“Reinvest it all,” he told Arnau. “Don’t worry about me. I don’t have any children or family, and I won’t need the money where I’m going. Someday, perhaps far off in the future, I will claim it back, or send someone to claim it. Until then, you are not to worry. I’ll be the one who gets in touch with you. Is that a problem?”
“Of course not,” replied Arnau. Guillem breathed a sigh of relief. “If that is what you want, so be it.”
They completed the transaction and Abraham Levi stood up.
“I have to say good-bye to some friends in the Jewry,” he said as he bade the two of them farewell.
“I’ll go with you,” said Guillem, making sure Arnau had no objection.
From the countinghouse the two men went to a scribe, in whose presence Abraham Levi signed away his rights to the money he had just deposited with Arnau Estanyol, and ceded him any profits that might accrue from this capital. Guillem returned to the countinghouse with the document hidden in his clothing. It was only a matter of time, he thought as he walked through the city. Formally, the money belonged to the Jew; that was what Arnau’s account books showed. But nobody could ever claim it from him, as Abraham Levi had signed away all his rights to it. And the three-quarters of the profits made on this capital that corresponded directly to Arnau would be more than enough for him to multiply his fortune.
That night while Arnau slept, Guillem went down to the countinghouse. He had found a loose stone in the wall. He wrapped Abraham Levi’s document in a cloth and hid it behind the stone, which he replaced as best he could. One day he would ask one of the workmen at Santa Maria to seal it properly. That was where Arnau’s fortune could lie until he found a way to tell him where it had come from. It was all a matter of time.
A matter of a long time, Guillem had to admit to himself one day when he and Arnau were walking back along the beach after attending to some business at the Consulate of the Sea. Slaves were still arriving at Barcelona; human goods that the boatmen transported to the shore crowded into their small craft. Men and boys who could work, but also women and children whose wailing led both men to stop and look at what was going on.
“Listen to me, Guillem. No matter how bad a situation we may find ourselves in,” said Arnau, “we will never finance any trade in slaves. I would prefer to be beheaded by the city magistrate before I did that.”
They watched as the galley was rowed farther out to sea.
“Why is he leaving?” Arnau asked without thinking. “Why doesn’t he take on another cargo for the return journey?”
Guillem turned toward him, shaking his head gently.
“He’ll be back,” he assured Arnau. “He’s only going to open sea... to carry on unloading,” he ended, with a trembling voice.
Arnau watched the galley heading out to sea. For a few moments, he said nothing.
“How many of them die?” he asked at length.
“Too many,” said the Moor, remembering one such ship.
“Never, Guillem! Remember that: never!”
36
OF COURSE IT would have to be outside Santa Maria, thought Arnau. He was standing at one of his windows watching as the whole of Barcelona crowded into the square, the adjoining streets, onto the scaffolding, and even inside the church, all of them staring at the dais the king had ordered erected in the square. King Pedro the Third had not chosen Plaza del Blat, the cathedral, the exchange building, or the magnificent shipyards he himself was building. He had chosen Santa Maria, the people’s church, the church being constructed thanks to the united efforts and sacrifices of all the citizens of Barcelona.
“There’s nowhere in all Catalonia that better represents the spirit of the people of Barcelona,” he had commented to Guillem that morning as they surveyed the work going on to erect the platform. “The king knows it, and that’s why he chose here.”
Arnau shivered. His whole life had revolved around that church!
“It will cost us money,” the Moor complained.
Arnau turned toward him to protest, but the Moor would not take his eyes off the platform, so Arnau chose not to say anything more.
Five years had gone by since they had opened the countinghouse for business. Arnau was thirty-two years old, happy ... and rich, very rich. He lived austerely, but his ledgers showed he had amassed a considerable fortune.
“Let’s have breakfast,” he said finally, putting his hand on Guillem’s shoulder.
Downstairs in the kitchen Donaha was waiting for them with Mar, who was helping her set the table. When the two men appeared, Donaha carried on working, but Mar ran toward them.
“Everyone’s talking about the king’s visit!” she cried. “Do you think we could get near him? Will his knights be with him?”
Guillem sat down at the table and sighed.
“He’s come to ask us for more money,” he explained to her.
“Guillem!” Arnau rebuked him when he saw the girl’s puzzled expression.
“But it’s true,” said the Moor in self-defense.
“No, Mar, it’s not,” said Arnau, winning the reward of a smile. “The king has come to ask for our help in conquering Sardinia.”
“Help meaning money?” asked Mar, winking at Guillem.
