been perfectly competent, thought Jesus each time he heard a fresh outburst.
IN THE MORNING, when father and son set off for work, Joanet stayed to help Mariona, Pere’s wife. He would clean and tidy the house, then accompany her to market. After that, while she busied herself with her cooking, he would head off to the beach to find Pere. The old man had spent his life fishing, and apart from receiving occasional aid from their guild, he also earned a few coins by helping the younger fishermen repair the nets. Joanet went with him, listening to all his explanations and running off to get whatever he might need.
Apart from all this, whenever he could he escaped and went to visit his mother.
“This morning,” he explained to her one day, “when Bernat went to pay Pere, he gave him back some of the money. He told him that the ‘little one’ ... that’s me, Mother, that’s what they call me ... well, he said that seeing that the little one helped so much at home and on the beach, there was no need for him to pay for me.”
The imprisoned woman listened, hand on her son’s head. How everything had changed! Ever since he’d been living with the Estanyols her little one no longer sat there sobbing, waiting for her silent caresses and words of affection. A blind affection. Now he spoke, told her about his life. Why, he even laughed!
“Bernat hugged me,” Joanet said proudly, “and Arnau congratulated me.”
The hand closed on the boy’s head.
Joanet went on talking, in a rush to tell her everything. About Arnau, Bernat, Mariona, Pere, the beach, the fishermen, the nets they repaired. But his mother was no longer listening: she was only happy that her son finally knew what it was like to be hugged, to be happy.
“Run, my boy,” his mother interrupted him, trying to conceal the tremor in her voice. “They’ll be waiting for you.”
From inside the walls of her prison, she heard how her little one jumped down from the crate and ran off. She imagined him climbing the wall she wished she had never seen.
What was left for her? She had survived for years on bread and water within those four walls, every last inch of which her fingers had explored hundreds of times. She had fought against solitude and madness by staring up at the sky through the tiny window the king, in his great mercy, had allowed her. She had fought off fever and other illnesses, and had done all this for her son, to be able to stroke his head, to give him encouragement, to make him feel that, in spite of everything, he was not alone in the world.
Now he was not alone. Bernat hugged him! It felt as though she knew him. She had even dreamed of him during the endless hours of her imprisonment. “Take care of him, Bernat,” she had whispered to the thin air. And now Joanet was happy. He laughed, ran everywhere, and ...
Joana sank to the ground and stayed there. That day she did not touch any of the bread or water left for her; her body did not need it.
Joanet came back the next day, and the day after, on and on. She could hear how he laughed and talked of the world so full of hope. All that came out of the window were faint words: yes, no, look, run, run and live.
“Run and enjoy the life that because of me you have never enjoyed until now,” she whispered as he climbed back over the wall.
The pieces of bread formed a pile on the floor of Joana’s prison.
“Do you know what has happened, Mother?” said Joanet, pulling the crate against the wall to sit on: his feet still did not touch the ground. “No, how could you?” He sat curled up and pressed his back against the wall exactly where he knew his mother’s hand could reach down and touch his head. “I’ll tell you. Well, yesterday one of Grau’s horses ...”
But no arm appeared through the window.
“Mother, listen. It’s funny, I tell you. It’s about one of the horses ...”
He turned and looked up at the window.
“Mother?”
He waited.
“Mother?”
He strained to hear above the sounds of the coppersmiths hammering in the streets all around: nothing.
“Mother!” he shouted.
He knelt upon the crate. What could he do? She had always forbidden him to approach the window.
“Mother!” he shouted again, standing up on the crate.
She had always insisted he should not try to look in and see her. Yet there was no answer! Joanet peered inside: it was too dark for him to see anything.
He climbed up and lifted his leg through the window. He was too big—he would have to slide in sideways.
“Mother?” he said again.
He grabbed the top of the window, lifted both legs onto the sill, then squeezed in on his side. He jumped to the floor.
“Mother?” he said as his eyes grew used to the gloom.
Gradually he could make out a point of light that gave off an unbearable stench, and then on the other side of the room, to his left, he saw a body curled up on a straw pallet against the wall.
Joanet waited without moving. The noise of hammers on metal had faded into the distance.
“I wanted to tell you a funny story,” he said, going over to the shape on the floor. Tears started to course down his cheeks. “It would have made you laugh,” he stammered, coming up to her.
