talking animatedly to his guests, while at the same time showing the slaves what they had to do and whom they were to attend to; the more he shouted and insisted, the more anxious they became. In the end, all of them— except for Estranya, who was in the kitchen preparing the meal—decided that the best thing was to follow Grau wherever he went.
Freed in this way from all supervision—as Estranya and her assistants were all busy laboring over their pots and fires—Margarida, Guiamon, and Arnau mixed the chicken with the nougat, and stuffed food in one another’s mouths, laughing and joking all the while. At one point, Margarida picked up a jug of undiluted wine and swallowed a whole mouthful. She immediately turned bright red and her cheeks flushed, but she succeeded in not spitting any of it out. She encouraged her brother and cousin to do the same. Arnau and Guiamon both drank from the jug, but although they tried to keep their composure like Margarida, they started coughing and spluttering, searching desperately on the table for water, their eyes full of tears. After that the three of them could not stop laughing: just from looking at each other, at the jug of wine, or at Estranya’s huge buttocks.
“Get out of here!” the mulatto shouted, tired of their shouts and laughter.
The three of them ran from the kitchen, still laughing and shouting.
“Shh!” another slave warned them at the foot of the main staircase. “The master does not want any children here.”
Margarida tried to protest. “But ...”
“No buts about it,” insisted the slave.
At that moment Habiba came down in search of more wine. The master had shot her a furious look when one of his guests had tried to pour some out and been rewarded with only a few miserable drops.
“Keep an eye on the children,” Habiba told the slave on the staircase as she passed by. “More wine!” she shouted at Estranya, going into the kitchen.
Worried that Habiba might bring ordinary wine rather than the special vintage reserved for this occasion, Grau came running after her.
The children had stopped laughing, and instead were keenly watching all this commotion. Grau spotted them with the slave.
“What are you children doing here? And you? Why aren’t you doing anything? Go and tell Habiba that the wine is to come from the old jars. Don’t forget; otherwise I’ll flay you alive. And you children, get off to bed.”
The slave bustled off to the kitchen. Their eyes still glistening from the effects of the wine, the three children smiled at one another. As soon as Grau had rushed back upstairs, they burst out laughing. Bed? Margarida stared at the wide-open front door, pursed her lips, and raised her eyebrows.
“Where are the children?” Habiba asked when the slave appeared in the kitchen.
“Wine from the old jars ...,” the slave repeated.
“What about the children?”
“The old ones. The old ones.”
“But what’s happened to the children?” Habiba insisted.
“In your bed. The master say go to bed. They with him. From the old jars, yes? He’ll flay us alive ...”
IT WAS CHRISTMAS. The streets of Barcelona were empty: no one would be outside until midnight mass and the sacrifice of a cock. The moon shone on the sea so brightly it seemed that the street they were walking down stretched on forever. The three children stared in wonder at its silver reflection.
“There’ll be no one on the beach tonight,” Margarida reasoned.
“Nobody puts to sea at Christmas,” Guiamon agreed.
The two of them turned to Arnau. He shook his head.
“No one will notice,” Margarida insisted. “We can go and be back very quickly. It’s close by.”
“Coward,” Guiamon hissed.
They ran down to Framenors, the Franciscan convent built on the shore at the far western end of the city wall. When they reached it, the children stared across the beach to the Santa Clara convent, which marked Barcelona’s eastern limit.
“Look!” Guiamon said excitedly. “The city fleet!”
“I’ve never seen the beach like this before,” said Margarida.
Eyes big as saucers, Arnau nodded in agreement.
All the way from Framenors to Santa Clara, the beach was filled with ships of all sizes. There were no buildings to spoil the children’s view of this magnificent sight. Once, when Grau had taken them and their tutor down to the strand to watch one of the ships he had an interest in being loaded or unloaded, he had explained that almost a hundred years earlier King Jaime the Conqueror had forbidden any building on the beach in order to leave it free for boats to be grounded. None of the children had thought any more of what Grau had said: wasn’t it natural for ships to be beached like that? They had always been there.
Grau had looked over at the tutor.
“In the ports of our enemies and trading rivals,” the tutor explained, “none of the boats are left on the beach.”
At that word “enemy” the four children were suddenly all ears.
“It’s true,” Grau went on, finally sure of their interest. “Our enemy Genoa has a wonderful natural harbor protected from the sea. That means they do not need to beach their ships. Our ally, Venice, has a great lagoon reached by narrow canals: their ships are safe there from any storms. The port of Pisa is connected to the sea by the River Arno; even Marseilles has a natural harbor protected from rough seas.
