Cathedral of the Sea

“I hope so.” Berenguer de Montagut patted him on the back. “We need your stones. There’s still a lot to do.”

Arnau followed his gaze as he surveyed the work going on.

“Do you like it?” Berenguer de Montagut asked him all of a sudden.

Did he like it? It was a question Arnau had never asked himself. He had watched the church growing—its walls, its apses, its magnificent, slender columns, its buttresses—but did he like it?

“They say it will be the best church to Our Virgin in the whole of Christianity,” he said finally.

Berenguer turned to him and smiled. How could he explain to a youth, a bastaix, what the church would be like, when not even bishops or noblemen could envisage his creation?

“What’s your name?”

“Arnau.”

“Well, Arnau, I don’t know if it will be the best....” Arnau forgot his aching foot and turned to face him. “But what I can assure you is that it will be unique, and to be unique does not mean to be better or worse, but simply that: unique.”

Berenguer de Montagut stared intently at the construction work. He went on:

“Have you heard of France or Lombardy, and Genoa, Pisa, Florence?” Arnau nodded—of course he had heard of his country’s enemies. “Well, all those places are building churches as well: magnificent cathedrals, grandiose and lavishly decorated. The princes of those realms want their churches to be the biggest and most beautiful in the world.”

“But isn’t that what we want too?”

“Yes and no.” Arnau shook his head. Berenguer de Montagut turned to him and smiled. “Let’s see if you can understand. We want this to be the finest church ever, but we want to achieve that by different means from those the others use. We want the home of the patron saint of the sea to be a home for all Catalans, to be like the homes in which the faithful themselves live. We want it to be conceived and built in the same spirit that has made us what we are, making use of what is uniquely ours: the sea, the sunlight. Do you understand?”

Arnau thought for a few moments, then shook his head.

“At least you’re sincere,” laughed the master builder. “Those princes create things for their personal glory. We do it for ourselves. I’ve noticed that sometimes, instead of carrying a load on your own, two of you use a pole and carry it between you.”

“Yes, when it’s too big and heavy to carry on our backs.”

“What would happen if we made that pole twice as long?”

“It would snap.”

“Well, that’s exactly what happens with those princes’ churches ... No, I don’t mean they break,” he added, seeing the boy’s surprised look. “What I mean is that they want them to be so big, tall, and long, that they have to make them as narrow as possible. Big, long, and narrow: do you see?” This time, Arnau nodded. “But our church will be the opposite. It won’t be as long or as tall, but it will be very broad, so that every Catalan will be able to find room to be with their Virgin. Once it’s finished, you’ll be able to appreciate it: there will be a shared space for all the faithful, without distinction. And the only decoration will be the light: the light of the Mediterranean. We don’t need anything more than that: space and the light that will pour in from down there.” Berenguer de Montagut pointed to the apse and drew his hand down toward the floor. “This church will be for the common people, not for the greater glory of any prince.”

“Master ...” The ropes and stakes had been sorted out, and one of the craftsmen had appeared next to them.

“Do you understand now?”

It would be for the common people!

“Yes, Master.”

“Remember, your blocks of stone are like gold to this church,” Montagut said, clambering to his feet. “Does it still hurt?”

Arnau had completely forgotten about his ankle. He shook his head.

SINCE HE DID not have to work with the bastaixos that day, Arnau returned home early. He had cleaned the chapel quickly, replaced the spent candles with new ones, said a rapid prayer, and bidden the Virgin farewell. Father Albert saw him running from the church, and Mariona saw him running into the house.

“What’s wrong?” the old woman asked. “What are you doing here so early?”

Arnau glanced quickly round the kitchen: there the three of them were—mother and two daughters, sewing at the table. The three of them stared at him.

“Arnau!” Mariona repeated. “Is something wrong?”

He realized he was blushing.

“No ...” He had not even thought of an excuse! How could he have been so stupid? And they were staring at him: all three of them, peering at him standing in the doorway, panting. “No,” he said, “it’s just that I finished early today.”

Mariona smiled and glanced at the girls. Their mother, Eulalia, could not help smiling either.

“Well, if you’ve finished early,” said Mariona, disturbing his thoughts, “you can go and fetch me some water.”

She had looked at him again, thought Arnau as he carried the bucket to the angel fountain. Did that mean something? He swung the bucket: of course it did.