“The same as you,” he said. “Watching.”
“You’re not allowed to,” Arnau asserted.
“Why not? I’ve been doing it a long time now. I used to see you down there before too.” The boy fell silent. “Don’t they love you anymore? Why do you cry so much?”
Arnau realized that a tear was rolling down his cheek, and felt annoyed: he had been caught.
“Get down from there,” he ordered the other boy, climbing down himself.
The stranger jumped lightly to the ground and stood facing him. Arnau was a head taller than him, but the boy did not seem afraid.
“You’ve been spying on me!” Arnau accused him.
“You were spying as well,” the boy retorted.
“Yes, but they’re my cousins, so I’m entitled to.”
“Why don’t you play with them then, like you used to?”
Arnau could not prevent a sob from escaping, and his voice trembled as he tried to find an answer.
“Don’t worry,” the other boy said, trying to reassure him. “I also cry a lot.”
“Why do you cry?” Arnau asked with difficulty.
“I don’t know ... Sometimes I cry when I think of my mother.”
“You have a mother?”
“Yes, but ...”
“What are you doing here if you have a mother? Why aren’t you playing with her?”
“I can’t be with her.”
“Why? Isn’t she at your house?”
“No,” the boy said reluctantly. “Or yes, she is there.”
“So why aren’t you with her?”
The grimy-looking boy did not reply.
“Is she ill?” Arnau asked.
The boy shook his head.
“No, she’s well enough,” he said.
“What then?” Arnau insisted.
The boy looked at him disconsolately. He bit his lower lip several times, then finally made up his mind.
“Come with me,” he said, tugging at Arnau’s sleeve.
The strange little boy ran off at a speed that belied his small size. Arnau followed, trying hard not to let him out of sight. That was easy enough when they were crossing the open yards of the potters’ quarter, but became much more difficult when they reached the narrow alleyways of the city, crammed with people and stalls. It was almost impossible for them to make their way through the crowds, or for him to keep the boy in view.
Arnau had no idea where he was, but did not care: he was too busy trying to spot his companion’s quick, agile figure as he picked his way among all the people and stallholders, some of whom shouted in protest. He was less adept at avoiding the obstacles, and paid the consequences of the anger his fleet-footed companion’s passage aroused. One of the stallholders cuffed him round the ear; another tried to grab him by the shirt. Arnau managed to avoid them both, but by the time he had escaped, the other boy was nowhere to be seen. He found himself all alone, on the edge of a large square full of people.
He recognized the square. He had been there once before, with his father. “This is Plaza del Blat,” Bernat had told him. “It’s the center of Barcelona. Do you see that stone in the middle?” Arnau looked in the direction his father was pointing. “That stone divides the city into quarters: La Mar, Framenors, El Pi, and La Salada or Sant Pere.” Now Arnau reached the end of the silkmakers’ street and stood under the gateway of the Veguer castle. There was such a crowd in the square it was impossible for him to make out the figure of the boy in the square. He looked round: on one side of the gateway was the city’s main slaughterhouse; on the other stood trestle tables full of bread for sale. Arnau looked again, searching for the boy near the stone benches that lined the square. “This is the wheat market,” his father had explained. “On these benches here you can see people who sell it in the city; on those over there are the peasants who have brought their crops for sale.” But Arnau could see no sign of the boy on either side of the market, only tradesmen haggling over prices, or the country people with their sacks of grain.
While he was still trying to make out where the boy might be, Arnau found himself being pushed into the square by the crush of people making their way in. He attempted to stand to one side near the breadmakers’ stalls, but his back brushed against a table, and someone cuffed him painfully round the ear.
“Get out of here, you brat!” shouted the baker.
Arnau was quickly submerged again in the rush of people and the noise of the market. He had no idea which way to turn, but was pushed hither and thither by adults much taller than him; some of them, bent under sacks of grain, did not even see him under their feet.
He was starting to feel giddy, when all of a sudden the cheeky, dirt-streaked face of the boy he had been chasing through half of Barcelona popped up in front of him.
“What are you doing standing there?” said the stranger, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the crowd.
Arnau did not reply, but this time made sure he had a firm grip on the boy’s shirt as he was pulled across the square and down Calle Boria. At the far end they came into the coppersmiths’ neighborhood. The narrow streets here rang to the sound of hammers beating metal. By now they had stopped running; exhausted, Arnau was still clutching the other boy’s shirtsleeve, forcing his rash, impatient guide to slow to a walk.
“This is my house,” the boy said finally, pointing to a small, one-story building. Outside the door were copper pots of all shapes and sizes. A heavily built man sat there working. He did not even pause to look up at them. “That was my father,” the little boy said, once they had gone beyond the building.
“Why isn’t he ... ?” Arnau started to ask, turning back to look.
“Wait,” was all the other boy replied.
They went on up the alley and skirted the houses until they were behind them, in a series of small gardens. When they reached the one that belonged to the boy’s house, Arnau saw with surprise that the boy climbed the wall, and encouraged him to do the same.
“Why ... ?”
“Come on up!” the boy ordered him, straddling the top of the wall.
Then the two of them jumped down into the tiny garden. There, Arnau’s companion stood staring at a small hut, which had a small window opening on the side facing the garden. Arnau waited, but the boy did not move.
“What now?” Arnau asked finally.
The boy turned to Arnau.
“What ... ?”
But the little urchin paid him no attention. Arnau watched as he took a wooden crate and put it under the window. Then he climbed onto it, staring inside the dark hole.
“Mother,” he whispered.
A woman’s pale arm appeared hesitantly at the window. The elbow rested on the sill, while the hand went straight to the boy’s head and started caressing his hair.
“Joanet,” Arnau heard a soft voice say, “you’ve come earlier today. The sun is not yet high in the sky.”
Joanet merely nodded his head.
“Has something happened?” the voice insisted.
Joanet did not reply for a few moments. He took a deep breath and then said: “I’ve brought a friend.”
“I’m so happy you have friends. What’s his name?”
“Arnau.”
“How does he know my ... ? Of course! He was spying on me,” thought Arnau.
“Is he there with you?”
“Yes, Mother.”
“Hello, Arnau.”
Arnau stared up at the window. Joanet turned toward him.
“Hello ... madam,” Arnau said, unsure of how to address a voice coming out of a dark window like this.
“How old are you?”
“I’m eight... madam.”
“That means you are two years older than my Joanet, but I hope you get on well and can stay friends. Always remember: there is nothing better in this world than a true friend.”
That was all the voice said. Joanet’s mother’s hand went on stroking his hair, while the boy sat on the wooden crate, legs dangling.
“Now go and play,” the woman’s voice suddenly said, and she withdrew her hand. “Good-bye, Arnau. Look after my boy: you’re older than he is.” Arnau tried to say farewell, but the words would not come out. “Good-bye, my son,” the voice added. “Promise you’ll come and see me.”