24
IT WAS ALMOST two months since Maria and
Arnau had been married in Santa Maria de la Mar. The ceremony had
been led by Father Albert, and all the members of the guild of
bastaixos had been present, as well as Pere and Mariona, and Joan,
who already had the tonsure and the white habit of the Franciscan
order. With the promise of increased payments after his marriage,
Arnau and his wife chose a house down by the beach. Maria’s family
and all the many others who wanted to contribute helped them
furnish it: Arnau did not have to do a thing. House, furniture,
crockery, linen—all appeared thanks to the efforts of Maria and her
mother, who insisted he do nothing. On their wedding night, Maria
gave herself to him willingly, even though with little passion.
When Arnau woke at dawn the next morning, his breakfast was waiting
for him: eggs, milk, salt meat, bread. The same scene was repeated
at midday, and that evening, and the next day, and the one after
that: Maria always had Arnau’s food on the table. She also took his
shoes off, washed him, and helped treat any cuts or wounds he might
have. She was always willing in bed. Day after day, Arnau found
everything a man could want: food, cleanliness, obedience, care and
attention, and the body of a young, attractive woman. Yes, Arnau.
No, Arnau. Maria never argued with him. If he wanted a candle,
Maria dropped whatever she was doing to fetch him one. If he
complained, she smothered him in kisses. Whenever he breathed,
Maria ran to bring him air.
The rain was pouring down. The sky suddenly
darkened, and flashes of lightning pierced the dark clouds,
lighting up the stormy sea. Soaked to the skin, Arnau and Bartolomé
were standing on the beach. All the ships had left the dangerous
open port of Barcelona to seek refuge in Salou. The royal quarry
was shut. There would be no work for the bastaixos that
day.
“How are things with you, my boy?” Bartolomé asked
his son-in-law.
“Good, very good ... except...”
“Is there a problem?”
“It’s just that ... I’m not used to being treated
as well as Maria treats me.”
“That was what we brought her up to do,” said
Bartolomé proudly.
“But it’s too ...”
“I said you would not regret marrying her.”
Bartolomé looked at Arnau. “You’ll get used to it. Enjoy the love
of a good woman.”
They were still discussing the matter when they
came to Calle de las Dames, a small side street that gave onto the
beach. They saw a group of about twenty poor-looking women, young
and old, pretty and ugly, healthy and sick, walking up and down in
the rain.
“Do you see them?” asked Bartolomé, pointing in
their direction. “Do you know what they are waiting for?” Arnau
shook his head. “On stormy days like today, when the fishing boat
captains who are not married have done all they can to stay afloat,
when they have commended their souls to all the saints and virgins
in the Church and still cannot ride out the storm, they have only
one other choice. Their crews know it and demand they keep the
tradition. In his moment of despair, a captain must swear to God in
front of his crew that if they reach port safely he will marry the
first woman he sets eyes on as soon as he steps on dry land. Do you
understand, Arnau?” Arnau looked more closely at the group of women
pacing nervously up and down the street, staring out to sea.
“That’s what women are born for: to get married, to serve their
man. That was how we brought Maria up, and that’s how we gave her
to you.”
The days went by, with Maria utterly devoted to
Arnau, while he could think only of Aledis.
“Those stones will ruin your back,” said Maria as
she massaged him and applied ointment to a wound Arnau had near his
shoulder blade.
Arnau said nothing.
“Tonight I’ll check your headpiece. It can’t fit
properly if the stones cut into you like that.”
Arnau still said nothing. He had returned home
after dark. Maria had helped him off with his footwear, served him
a cup of wine, and forced him to sit down while she massaged his
back, in the same way she had seen her mother do for her father all
through her childhood. As always, Arnau let her get on with it. If
he said nothing, it was because the wound had nothing to do with
the stones for the Virgin, or with his headpiece. His wife was
caring for a wound that shamed him, a wound made by the nails of
another woman, a woman Arnau could not renounce.
“Those stones will destroy all your backs,” Maria
repeated.
Arnau drank down the wine in one gulp, feeling
Maria’s hands gently rubbing his shoulders.
EVER SINCE HER husband had brought her down to the
workshop to see the punishment he had meted out to the apprentice
who had dared look at her, Aledis did no more than spy on the young
men at night. She discovered that they often slipped out into the
garden, where they met women who climbed over the wall to be with
them. The apprentices had the leather, the tools, and the knowledge
to make themselves thin sheaths, which they greased and put on
their penises before they penetrated any of the women. The
guarantee that they would not become pregnant, added to the
youthful vigor of their partners and the darkness of the night,
meant that many local women succumbed to the temptation of an
anonymous nocturnal adventure. Aledis had no difficulty getting
into the apprentices’ sleeping area and stealing some of these
ingenious sheaths; the lack of any risk in her relations with Arnau
served only to inflame her passion still further.
Aledis told him that with these sheaths they would
not have children. Could it be the grease from them that stuck to
his penis? Was it a punishment for going against divine law? Maria
was still not pregnant. She was a strong, healthy young woman. What
other reason apart from Arnau’s sins could there be for her not
being with child? Why else would the Lord not reward her with the
offspring she so desired? Bartolomé needed a grandson. Father
Albert and Joan both wanted to see Arnau a father. The entire guild
of bastaixos was waiting for the moment when the young
couple would announce the good news: the men joked about it with
Arnau; their wives visited Maria to offer their advice and to extol
the virtues of family life.
Arnau also wanted a son.
“I don’t want you to put that on me,” he said to
Aledis one day when she pounced on him on the way up to the
quarry.
Aledis would not listen.
“I don’t want to lose you,” she said. “Before that
happens, I would leave the old man and come and find you. Then
everyone would know what had gone on between us. It would mean your
downfall: they would expel you from the guild, and probably from
the city as well. Then you would have only me; I would be the only
one willing to follow you. My life makes no sense without you:
otherwise I’m condemned to live my days alongside an old, obsessed
man who cannot satisfy me in any way.”
“You would see me ruined? Why would you do
that?”
“Because I know that deep down you love me,” Aledis
said firmly. “In fact, I would only be helping you take a step
you’re too frightened to take on your own.”
Hidden among the bushes on the slopes of Montjuic
hill, Aledis slid the sheath onto her lover’s penis. Arnau let her
do it. Was what she had said true? Was it true that deep down he
wanted to live with her, to abandon his wife and all he had in
order to run away with her? If only his body were not so pleased to
be with her ... What charms did she have that so completely
undermined his willpower? Arnau thought of telling her the story of
Joan’s mother, and of the possibility that if their relationship
became known, her husband could have her walled up for the rest of
her days. Instead, he climbed on top of her ... yet again. Aledis
panted as he thrust into her, but all he could hear was his own
fears: Maria, his work, the guild, Joan, disgrace, Maria, his
Virgin, Maria, his Virgin ...