Cathedral of the Sea

“We’re going to make only jugs and storage jars,” declared Grau. “That’s all.” Guiamona glanced at the four masterful pieces he had made for his examination. “I’ve seen lots of traders,” he went on, “begging for jars to sell their oil, honey, or wine in. And I’ve seen lots of potters turn them away on the spot because their kilns were full of complicated tiles for a new house, bright crockery for a noble, or an apothecary’s pots.”

Guiamona ran her fingers over the masterpieces he had created. How smooth they were to the touch! When Grau had triumphantly presented them to her after passing his examination, she had imagined that she would be surrounded with similar beautiful pieces. Even the guild officers had congratulated Grau, because he had shown he was a true master of his craft: the decorations of zigzag lines, palm leaves, rosettes, and fleur-de-lys on the water jug, the two plates, and the bowl, displayed a wealth of color on a white tin glaze background; the coppery green so typical of Barcelona that every master potter had to use, but also violet manganese, black iron, cobalt blue, and antimony yellow. Each line or design was of a different shade. Guiamona could scarcely wait for the pieces to be fired, in case the clay cracked. As a finishing touch, Grau applied a layer of clear lead glaze, which made them entirely waterproof. Guiamona could still feel how much smoother they were. But now ... all her husband was going to make was storage jars.

Grau went up to her. “Don’t worry,” he said to calm her fears. “I’ll make more pieces like them just for you.”

Grau’s calculation had proved correct. He filled the yard in front of his humble workshop with jugs and storage jars, and soon the traders of the city became aware that in Grau Puig’s workshop they could find everything they wanted. No longer would they have to beg for favors from arrogant master craftsmen.

As a result of this, the building that Bernat and little Arnau came to a halt outside was very different from that first tiny workshop. What Bernat could see out of his left eye was a big house on three floors. Open to the street at ground level was the workshop; the master potter and his family lived on the upper two floors. Along one side of the house ran a garden for vegetables and flowers; on the other were sheds leading to the kilns and a terrace where hundreds of jugs and storage jars of all shapes, sizes, and colors were displayed. Behind the house, as stipulated in the city regulations, there was empty ground where the clay and other materials could be loaded and stored. It was here too that the potters threw the ashes and other waste from the kilns, which they were forbidden to throw into the city streets.

Bernat could see from outside that there were ten people working nonstop in the workshop. None of them looked like Grau. Bernat noticed two men saying good-bye next to an oxcart laden with brand-new storage jars. One of them clambered on board the cart and set off. The other man looked well dressed, so before he could disappear back into the workshop, Bernat called to him.

“Wait!”

The other man watched him approach. “I’m looking for Grau Puig,” said Bernat.

The man stared him up and down.

“If it’s work you’re after, we don’t need anyone. Our master has no time to waste,” he growled, “and nor have I,” he added, turning his back on the newcomer.

“I’m a relative of Grau’s.”

The man stopped in his tracks, then whirled round to face him.

“Hasn’t the master paid you enough? Why do you insist on demanding more?” he snarled, pushing Bernat out into the street. Arnau began to cry. “You’ve already been told that if you come here again, we’ll report you to the authorities. Grau Puig is an important man, you know.”

Although he did not understand any of this, Bernat let the man force him backward.

“Listen ... ,” he protested, “I ...”

By now, Arnau was howling in his arms, but then all of a sudden there was an even louder cry from one of the upper-floor windows.

“Bernat! Bernat!”

Bernat and the man turned round together and saw a woman leaning half out of the window, arms whirling like windmills.

“Guiamona!” shouted Bernat, returning her greeting.

The woman pulled her head in. Bernat turned to the man, his eyes narrowed.

“Does Mistress Guiamona know you?” the man asked.

“She’s my sister,” Bernat answered curtly. “And by the way, nobody in this house has ever paid me a thing.”

The man apologized, hoping he was not in trouble. “I’m sorry. I was referring to the master’s brothers: first one came, then another, and then still another.”

But Bernat saw his sister coming out of the house, so he cut the man off and ran over to embrace her.

“WHERE’S GRAU?” HE asked his sister once he had cleaned off his eye and handed Arnau over to the Moorish slave who looked after Guiamona’s small children. As he watched the boy wolf down a bowl of milk and cereal, he added: “I’d like to greet him too.”

Guiamona looked uncomfortable.

“Is something wrong?”