The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  Despite their excitement, the urchins didn’t run noisily through the market. They were used to moving silently, warily, keeping clear of trouble, watching always for opportunities to steal, or rubbish worth picking through. They moved from shadow to shadow, through Saint Caterina’s. They skirted the open space where the tall gallows stood. Sucio grabbed hard at the hand of the biggest boy as they passed the site of his mother’s execution.

  “Get off me, little one,” said the boy. “What’s the matter?” But Sucio said nothing as usual.

  They went down a long sloping lane that was little more than an open sewer, stinking in the dry heat of the summer, and skirted an enormous church.

  “Is that another cathedral?” asked one of the boys.

  “I think so,” came the reply.

  “I wonder if they’ve got a God living in there?”

  A slight incline brought them out of the sewer, and into a wider lane. Here the buildings were grander, built on several floors, and the shops were bigger. An air of affluence reigned, and boys watched as merchants and their wives stepped from carriages to go to the shops.

  “Is this La Ribera?”

  “Not yet,” said the oldest, “But we are getting near.”

  They continued to slip from shadow to shadow, crossing a wider road with horses and horse-drawn carts, and then plunged into a complex maze of tiny lanes and alleys.

  “This is La Ribera, boys. Welcome to your new home.”

  They had never seen anything like it. Hovels and huts crowded close upon one another, like trees planted too close and gasping for sunlight; many of the huts had open fronts selling all kinds of things – piles of fruit, bright coloured cloth, strong-smelling spices, and shiney kettles, a living breathing bazaar. Tables piled with goods of all kinds spilled into the narrow streets. People lived and worked in desperately crowded conditions, but nevertheless an atmosphere of life and good humour seemed to pervade the choked streets. Terraces of shops, side by side and back to back, had mushroomed, creating a complex maze of narrow lanes. Here and there a small open space, sometimes with a water fountain, allowed sunlight and air to penetrate, but the lanes themselves remained in permanent shadow, and inside the shops and homes which crowded on either side, it was even darker.

  The area around the cathedral had been busy, with nobles cheek by jowl with the beggars and urchins, but La Ribera was far busier. No grand nobles, but a complete cross-section of working people. Dusty stone masons and woodworkers hurried amongst the shopkeepers and housewives; errand boys ran with messages, unheeding of who they splashed or knocked into in the teeming street; occasionally a reluctant donkey was dragged down the road, piled high with faggots or logs; and everywhere there was noise – laughter, crying, shouts and arguments, jokes and gossip – and smells.

  Such smells, the boys had not encountered before. Despite the open drains and rotten vegetation, another pungent smell filled the air, that of food being prepared. Bakers shops with pies and loaves, meat being roasted, and most of all the smell of frying fish. The boys stood open mouthed at a huge pan of fish cooking in front of a shack. The man cooking the fish saw them, and laughed.

  “Want some, boys?” he joked. “Plenty for everyone. If you can pay for it!” And he laughed some more.

  The boys turned away. It was unusual for them have let their guard down, and let themselves be so obvious. They retreated to the shadows.

  “We must find somewhere to sleep,” the oldest said. “Keep close.”

  They continued to wander deeper into the slum, turning corner after corner, through tiny alleys and lanes, penetrating the complex of homes, workplaces, and shops. Gradually they lost all sense of direction, all sense of where they were, or how they would ever get out. The heat of the day persisted into the evening, when oil lamps and tallow candles were lit, and the food stalls offered the last of the day’s stock.

  Turning a corner, Sucio saw a trestle outside a modest shop, with a small lamp lighting a few remaining cakes, just the kind his big boy had brought back for him earlier in the day. He stopped and looked at the cakes. He had eaten nothing all day since that morsel of cake, and the smell of the baking lingered in the air. The fat woman selling them turned away, and Sucio grabbed a cake. Holding it tightly to his chest, he slipped into a dark alley, found a corner, and ate it quickly. It was only as he finished it and looked up, that he realised the others had not seen him stop, not seen him steal the cake, not realised he was not with them. There was no sign of the gang.

  Panicking, he ran to the next corner, and looked both ways. No sign of the boys. He ran back, past the cake stall to the previous corner. Still no sign. He turned back to the dark alley where he had consumed the cake. He felt sick. If only he had not been tempted. Now the cake felt heavy and leaden in a stomach unused to such richness. He retched. He knelt and banged his head repeatedly against the wall. He was in an unknown part of the city, in this vast maze they called La Ribera, and he was entirely lost. Lamps were being put out around the slum, as the people settled for the night. It was getting darker and darker. He slumped into the corner, and cried his pathetic mewling cry until he fell asleep.

  He tossed and turned, fighting the usual nightmare demons, which now included the other boys running away from him, and he woke at dawn. He was hungry and very frightened. Crawling out from his corner, he looked around. The cake stall with the fat woman was still closed up, but from it he could smell the delicious aroma of baking. He ventured a little along the alley, hoping he might see the other boys, but of them there was no sign. Creeping a little further, he heard the splash of water, and came out into a small open space with a fountain. Early risers were filling various containers from the several brass spouts of the fountain, and he advanced with great caution and managed to get a drink of water. He wandered back, determined to remember at least this small part of the slum, and once more stood in a quiet spot, watching for the woman to open her cake stall.

  Gradually he took in his surroundings. Many small dwellings were squashed together on either side of the alley, and from many of them came the sounds and smells of the new day starting. The alley was becoming busy with early morning errands, boys running, women chattering and men hurrying by. No-one seemed to notice the little urchin with the big brown eyes. He peered cautiously between the shacks, and saw the heaps of rubbish and refuse thrown out by the various small businesses. This, at last, was something he knew about, and soon he was sorting out various bits of crust and vegetables – the kind of food he was used to scrounging.

  He went back to drink some more from the fountain which was becoming increasingly busy, and when he returned the second time, the woman had opened the front of her shack, and pushed the small trestle table halfway into the lane. He watched as she brought the day’s baking from the oven; he watched her eat one of her own cakes which had broken as she took it from the oven; and he continued to watch silently from the shadows as the day unfolded.

  Once or twice he felt the woman’s eyes on him, and he turned away. He’d stolen a cake the day before, and he didn’t want her to notice him and remember she had been one cake short at the end of the day.

  Thus he passed his first day in the Ribera slum. The legless beggar had been right – there was more chance to eat from the rubbish dumps of La Ribera, and it was easy to drink water from the ever-flowing fountain. As evening drew on, and lamps were lit, he sat in the alley, and when the lamps were extinguished, he crept back into the same corner to sleep again. This night there were not so many demons, and although he cried and mewled a little, it was not for long, and he slept.

  The next day was the same. He found good pickings from the food waste behind the shops, drank unmolested from the fountain, and steadfastly watched the fat woman at the cake stall. He felt unable to drag himself away. Without him understanding it, she had become a fixed point in his chaotic universe, and watching her made him feel safe. The routine of the day passed just as the previous had passed, and once more lamps
were being lit in the darkening alley.

  “OK, you scrappy little thing, what have you been looking at?” Suddenly the woman’s voice made him jump. He must have dozed and hadn’t seen her coming. She had come out from behind the trestle of cakes, and was bending over him. “What are you looking at? I said,” she repeated. He froze, horrified that she was addressing him directly, and stared back at her, speechless.

  “You are a skinny little thing, aren’t you? Come on.” And with that she held out a hand to Sucio. Very slowly, he raised his hand, and let her take it. He let himself be led round the trestle, where she indicated for him to sit on the floor in the shop.

  “Hungry, aren’t you? I suppose you’re always hungry. I’ve watched you for two days now, and I saw you sleeping round the back. There’s not much I miss in this street young man. Now, are you hungry?”

  He nodded his head. She reached behind her and brought out another broken cake. “I can’t sell this one, and I don’t need it, fat as I am,” she laughed, “so you can have it.”

  He hesitated for a long time, looking from the woman to the cake and back. “Go on, it won’t bite you.”

  Suddenly he grabbed the cake and stuffed it into his mouth.

  “That was quick!” she laughed again. “Did it taste as good as the one you stole?”

  His big eyes opened even wider. She knew! She had known all along. Now he knew he was done for.

  “Don’t look like that, I’ll not send you to the constable. My little boy was just like you….” and she paused. “Was just like you,” she repeated.

  “Now then, when did you last have a wash?” He continued to stare at her in silence. A wash? He didn’t wash. “OK, let’s start again. What’s your name?” Another silence. “Are you deaf and dumb? Can you hear me?”

  He nodded slowly. “That’s good then. Now can you speak?”

  He nodded slowly again, then whispered, “Yes.”

  “That’s good. And where d’you live?”

  He stared vacantly around. He didn’t live anywhere – he just lived where he was. He stared again at this extraordinary big woman. And the tears started to flow. He didn’t know why, but they just started to come and trickle down his grubby face. He collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  The woman found a small stool from the room, and lowered her great bulk onto it. She leaned forward.

  “Do you have a name?

  Again he nodded, his eyes big and round and full of tears. “Sucio” he whispered. This appeared to send the woman into fits of laughter, which frightened him more; but when she stopped and mopped the tears which flowed down her cheeks, she said, “We can’t call you that. Sucio indeed! It might be true, you are indeed a very dirty little one, but that’s no name for a boy. We’ll have to think of something else.”

  There was a pause as she looked at the tiny boy crumpled on the floor at her feet, and the little boy looked up at the big woman towering over him. Suddenly jumping up, she called out, “Father, come and see what we have here!”

  To Sucio’s surprise an elderly man shuffled from the shadows at the back of the shop. “Look,” she said. “This is the little street urchin I told you about.”

  “He looks just like…..” started the old man.

  “That’s what I thought,” she replied. “Come on, stand up. Let’s have a proper look at you.”

  She stood him up, and looked him over. The old man looked from Sucio to the woman and back again. “OK,” she said, “now talk to me.”

  She lowered herself back onto the stool so that her face was almost on a level with Sucio’s. He found himself staring into two blue eyes, round rosy cheeks, and a smiling mouth. Her dark hair was piled on top of her head in a kind of big bun, from which wisps and strands of hair escaped, to be pushed back constantly with one of her chubby hands. In a city where women dressed always in black, it was a rarity to see a woman in calico white. The rounded shape of the woman, swathed in the cotton cloth, resembled an enormous cottage loaf, and her round face with its rounded mass of black hair was like a gigantic currant on top of the loaf. In every direction, she was round, and Sucio’s instinct was to bury himself within her.

  She held out a hand to Sucio, and picking up the corner of her apron, wiped his tears. “Now, little man, tell me the truth. Do you have anywhere to live?” He looked puzzled. “Do you have anywhere to sleep?” She tried again. He shook his head. “Does anyone look after you?” Again he stared vacantly at her. She tried again, this time more firmly. “Where is your mother?”

  The tears started again, with alarming sobs. He started to shake, and she pulled him against her. “OK little one, you can tell me another time.”

  He stared around the shop. The room was small, and dominated by a large brick oven, which gave tremendous heat. There were plastered walls, painted ochre, and a wood-beamed ceiling. The whole room, including the baked earth floor, was warm from the oven. There was a table and a shelf with large containers, and the simple items of the baking trade arranged tidily. In a back corner of the room, an archway led to a very dark inner room.

  “Sleep here tonight, by the oven. Perhaps tomorrow you can tell me the story. Father, keep an eye on him while I shut up the shop.”

  She brought the few unsold cakes in and put them on the table; she lifted the trestle top off, brought the trestles in, and used the top to make a kind of makeshift door. Turning to Sucio, she smiled. “Now some supper.”

  Leaning over the little boy, she took a cloth and reached into the oven. She pulled out an iron pot containing a steaming stew of oysters and beans. The little room was filled with an aroma Sucio remembered. This was something his mother had made. He knew that smell, and he knew that what was coming would be good. His mouth watered.

  “Father, bring your stool here, we’ll eat in the shop tonight. We’ll not risk his fleas and nits indoors.”

  For the first time since the death of his mother, Sucio was under a roof, in a clean dry room, sitting on the floor, with a bowl of hot food, with someone who seemed to be ready to look after him. The old man seemed to be equally kind. Yes, the beggar was more right than he knew. Perhaps La Ribera would be a good home for a street urchin! He took some mouthfuls of the hot soup. It was delicious, but he could not keep his eyes open, and he rolled gently into a ball on the floor and fell asleep.

  He awoke to find a forest of feet and legs surrounding him. It was still dark, still night, but there was much movement in the tiny bakehouse. He lay still, unsure what to do.

  The old man was loading logs into the oven, and others, unknown, seemed to be in the room bringing bread or pies to be baked. Abruptly the shuffling was interrupted by a shout. “Hey, you’ve got one of those street urchins sleeping in here. Who knows what vermin he’s brought in?”

  “Leave him be,” came the voice of the fat woman. “I know he’s there. I’ll get to him in a minute.”

  “If there’s fleas and nits in my pies, you’ll know it,” came the first voice.

  “There’s fleas and nits in you, you old fool,” replied the woman. “Now get your pies in here and get out of my way.”

  Once the strangers had gone, the fat woman bent down to Sucio. “Are you awake, little one?” she asked. “It would be hard to sleep with them all trampling about. Now let’s get you up and sorted out. Fleas and nits indeed! Of course you have, but not for long.”

  With dawn breaking over La Ribera, Sucio found himself standing to attention in the centre of the little room, with the fat woman and her father inspecting him.

  “Right father, my mind is resolved. We’ll take him in and hope he’s good. With you getting older and slower, I need to train up a good boy to help me, and I think he’ll do.”

  The old man grunted his approval.

  “We’ll get him out of these rags and burn them.” She felt his matted hair. “And I think we’ll have to cut most of this off.” And with no hesitation, she started to undress the little boy. Despite his street life he was only filthy, not disease
d, and as she pulled him out of the rags, she revealed a wiry little body. As she undressed him she continued to talk to him.

  “Now, we’ll get you cleaned up. And find something decent for you to wear. I’m going to have to cut your hair, and once that’s done we’ll get you washed. It’s still early, there won’t be too many at the fountain! Hold him father, while get my scissors.” Wide-eyed, the boy stared at the scissors – something he’d never seen before – and soon his matted hair was joining the pile of rags on the floor. “You are a skinny little thing, aren’t you? Cat still got your tongue?”

  Sucio nodded, his mind a whirl of fear and apprehension. Things were happening too fast for him to have any reaction other than to stand mutely.

  “I think under all this dirt, you’ve got good blond hair, you lucky boy. We’ll soon see!”

  Sucio continued to stand, dumb and confused.

  “Come on then!” announced the woman, and grabbing the naked and shorn child by the arm, she propelled him out of the bakehouse and into the street. Looking back at her father, she called, “And burn the rags and hair – but not in the oven, they’ll stink when they burn and spoil the baking. Take them round the back!”

  The sunrise was promising another glorious Mediterranean day, and to his surprise, the boy liked the feeling of nakedness as he ran beside the woman towards the fountain. He did not like the cold water, however, and squealed when she thrust him under the gushing pipe. From her pocket she produced a lump of soap, and a familiar smell came to the boy. His mother had made just such soap when she was alive. That had been one of the skills which had led to her downfall.

  The jolly woman rubbed him all over with the coarse soap, removing the dirt and grime of two years on the streets, together with anything living on his skin or in his hair. Rinsing the spluttering boy under the fountain, she rubbed his shorn head affectionately. “OK,” she said, “no more nits!”

  There was laughter from the small group which had gathered. Coming to fill morning vessels with water, they had not expected to see the spectacle of the big woman washing the tiny boy, and it had provided an amusing diversion to start the day.