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
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
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