“She didn’t get the chance. She died giving birth to you.”
“Habiba loved me.”
“And I love you too.”
“But you’re not my mother. Even Joanet has a mother to caress his head.”
“Not all children have ...” Bernat started to say. “The mother of all Christians,” he suddenly thought, as the words of the priests surfaced in his memory.
“What were you saying, Father?”
“That you do have a mother. Of course you do.” Bernat could feel his son relax. “All children who like you have no mother are given another one by God: the Virgin Mary.”
“Where is this Mary?”
“The Virgin Mary,” Bernat corrected him, “is in heaven.”
Arnau lay in silence for a few moments before he spoke again.
“What use is it having a mother in heaven? She can’t stroke me, play with me, kiss me, or—”
“Yes, she can.” Bernat could clearly recall what his father had explained when he asked these very same questions. “She sends birds to caress you. Whenever you see a bird, send your mother a message. You’ll see how it flies straight up to heaven to give it to the Virgin Mary. Then the other birds will get to hear of it, and some of them will come to fly round you and sing for you.”
“But I don’t understand what birds say.”
“You will learn to.”
“But I’ll never be able to see her ...”
“Yes, of course you can see her. You can see her in some churches, and you can even talk to her.”
“In churches?”
“Yes, my son. She is in heaven and in some churches. You can talk to her through the birds or in those churches. She will answer with birds or at night while you are asleep. She will love and cherish you more than any mother you can see.”
“More than Habiba?”
“Much more.”
“What about tonight?” Arnau asked. “I haven’t talked to her tonight.”
“Don’t worry. I did it for you. Now go to sleep, and you’ll find out.”
8
THE TWO NEW friends met every day. They ran down to the beach to see the boats, or roamed the streets of Barcelona. Each time they were playing beyond the Puig garden wall and heard the voices of Josep, Genis, or Margarida, Joanet could see his friend lifting his eyes to the sky as if in search of something floating above the clouds.
“What are you looking at?” he asked him one day.
“Nothing,” said Arnau.
The laughter grew, and Arnau stared up again at the sky.
“Shall we climb the tree?” asked Joanet, thinking that it was its branches that were attracting his friend’s attention.
“No,” said Arnau, trying to spot a bird to which he could give a message for his mother.
“Why don’t you want to climb the tree? Then we could see ...”
What could he say to the Virgin Mary? What did you say to your mother? Joanet said nothing to his, simply listening and agreeing ... or disagreeing, but of course, he could hear her voice and feel her caresses, Arnau thought.
“Shall we climb up?”
“No,” shouted Arnau, so loudly he wiped the smile from Joanet’s lips. “You already have a mother who loves you. You don’t need to spy on anyone else’s.”
“But you don’t have one,” Joanet replied. “If we climb ...”
That they loved her! That was what her children told Guiamona. “Tell her that, little bird,” Arnau told one that flew up toward the sky. “Tell her I love her.”
“So, are we going up?” insisted Joanet, one hand already on the lower branches.
“No, I don’t need to either ...”
Joanet let go of the tree and looked inquisitively at his friend.
“I have a mother too.”
“A new one?”
Arnau was unsure.
“I don’t know. She’s called the Virgin Mary.”
“The Virgin Mary? Who is she?”
