to have been martyred in the year 303. This church got its name from the fact that it was built on Barcelona’s sandy shoreline, but the same process of sedimentation that had made the city’s ports unusable led to the church becoming separated from the sands of the coast, so that its name gradually lost its meaning. That was when it became known as Santa Maria de la Mar, because although the coast was no longer close by, all the men who made their living from the sea still worshipped there.
The passage of time, which had already robbed the tiny church of its sands, also forced the city to adopt fresh land outside the walls where the emerging middle classes could settle, now that there was no longer enough room for them inside the Roman walls. And of the three boundaries of Barcelona, the middle classes chose the eastern side, where the traffic to and from the port passed by. So it was that Calle de la Mar became home to the silversmiths; other streets got their names from the money changers, the cotton traders, the butchers and bakers, wine merchants and cheese-makers, the hat and sword makers, and the multitude of other artisans who came flocking there. A corn exchange was built, and it was here that foreign traders visiting the city were lodged. Plaza del Born, behind Santa Maria, was also constructed: jousts and tourneys were held there. And it was not merely the rich artisans who were attracted to the new Ribera neighborhood; many nobles chose to live there after the count of Barcelona, Ramon Berenguer IV, granted the seneschal Guillem Ramon de Montcada the lands that later gave rise to the street bearing his name, which began at Plaza del Born close to Santa Maria de la Mar, and was filled with huge, luxurious palaces.
When the Ribera de la Mar neighborhood turned into a rich, prosperous area, the old Romanesque church where the fishermen and others who lived from the sea went to worship their patron saint became too small and poor for the new inhabitants. However, the resources of the Barcelona church authorities and of the nobility were all poured into the rebuilding of the city’s cathedral.
United by their devotion to the Virgin, both rich and poor parishioners of Santa Maria de la Mar refused to be discouraged by this lack of official support. Their newly appointed archdeacon, Bernat Llull, asked permission from the ecclesiastical authorities to build what was intended to be the greatest monument to the Virgin Mary. Permission was granted.
So from the beginning, Santa Maria de la Mar church was built by and for the common people. This was made explicit by the first stone laid for the new building, which was placed exactly where the main altar was to be raised. Unlike other constructions, supported by the authorities, on this stone all that was carved was the coat of arms of the parish. This showed that the construction, and all rights pertaining to it, belonged solely and exclusively to the parishioners who had undertaken the task: the rich, with their money; the poor, with their work. From the moment the first stone had been laid, a group of the faithful and prominent men of the city known as the Twenty-Five met each year with the rector of the parish and an official notary to hand over the keys to the church for that year.
Arnau studied the man carrying the stone. He was still sweating and out of breath, but he smiled as he looked toward the new building.
“Could I see her?” asked Arnau.
“The Virgin?” the man asked, smiling now at Arnau.
“What if children were not allowed into churches on their own?” wondered Arnau. What if they had to go with their parents? What had the priest at San Jaume told them?
“Of course the Virgin will be delighted to receive a visit from boys like you.”
Arnau laughed nervously, and looked round at Joanet.
“Shall we go?”
“Hey, wait a moment,” the man said. “I have to get back to work.” He looked over toward the other busy workmen. “Angel,” he shouted to a youngster who looked about twelve years old. He came running over. “Take these boys into the church. Tell the priest they would like to see the Virgin.”
With that, he gave Arnau’s head a last pat and disappeared back toward the sea. Arnau and Joanet were left with the boy called Angel. When he looked at them, they both stared down at the ground.
“Do you want to see the Virgin?”
He sounded sincere. Arnau nodded and asked: “Do you ... know her?”
“Of course,” laughed Angel. “She’s the Virgin of the Sea, my Virgin. My father’s a boatman,” he added proudly. “Follow me.”
They went with him to the church entrance. Joanet looked all around him, but Arnau was still troubled, and did not raise his eyes from the ground.
“Do you have a mother?” he asked all of a sudden.
“Yes, of course,” Angel said, still striding out in front of them.
Behind his back, Arnau beamed at Joanet. They went through the doors of the church, and Arnau and Joanet paused until their eyes became accustomed to the gloom inside. There was a strong scent of wax and incense. Arnau compared the tall, slender columns being built outside with the squat, heavy ones in the interior. The only light came through a few long, narrow windows cut in the thick walls of the church, casting yellow rectangles on the floor of the nave. Everywhere—on the ceiling, on the walls—there were boats, some of them finely carved, others more rough-and-ready.
“Come on,” Angel urged them.
As they walked toward the altar, Joanet pointed to several figures kneeling on the floor that they had not seen at first. As they walked by them, the boys were surprised to hear them murmuring.
“What are they doing?” Joanet whispered in Arnau’s ear.
“Praying,” he explained.
He knew this because his aunt Guiamona had forced him to pray in front of a cross in his bedroom while she went to church with his cousins.
When they reached the altar, they were confronted by a thin priest. Joanet hid behind Arnau.
“What brings you here, Angel?” the priest asked him quietly, although his gaze was fixed on the two newcomers.
