The Lions of Catalunya

by Jeremy D. Rowe

  “You shall be its first tenant,” said the master mason, “and with your new salary as a master mason, you will be able to afford the rent.”

  “No,” stated Faneca, producing a small purse. “Here is your reward. You have proved your worth as a mason, and surpassed all expectations in your apprenticeship; but more than that, you have upheld the traditions of Catalunya. When I watched you dance upon the keystone, and heard your voice raised in the old Catalonian folk songs, I resolved to find, somehow, a way to recognise and reward you as best I can. With the contents of this purse, you can buy your house. Master Macia, you are now a man of substance.”

  With shaking hands, Antoni opened the leather purse and took out the coins, more money than he had ever held in his hands before. With a catch in his throat, he managed to say thank you to Master Faneca, as his eyes pricked with tears. Wiping his face with the back of his hand, he grinned and stammered, “I don’t know why I’m crying. I don’t know what to say. Was ever an apprentice so lucky?”

  Slapping him good-naturedly on the back, the master mason grinned again, and said, “Take the rest of the day off, young Macia. Go tell your father of your good fortune; and go and look at that house.”

  Impulsively Antoni hugged the mason and kissed Faneca on the cheeks, before turning and running out towards the chiringuito. The older men laughed, and the mason turned to his grinning labourers. “Is this a holiday or what? Back to work you fools.” Their faces fell, and carried by the euphoria of the moment, the mason relented. “OK, so it is a holiday. Just for one day. Go get drunk, but don’t forget that you, and Master Macia, will be back to work tomorrow!”

  Carrer de Sant Miquel was one of the longest of the narrow streets laid out by Master Verboom, starting near the old city walls in the northern end of Barceloneta, and stretching all the way to the beach in the south. The street was broken by the open placa of the church, and some distance south of the church was number one hundred. Antoni led his mystified parents up from the beach to his new house without telling them of the surprise he had in store. At the appointed dwelling, he pulled out the bundle and unwrapped the key. Grinning broadly, he fitted it into the lock, and opened the door.

  Stepping cautiously into the cool shade of the interior, Susana looked around. The large room was rectangular with a window on either side of the door. The windows were heavily shuttered, and Antoni pushed the shutters open one by one and the midday sun filtered in. Turning to his parents, he told them the story of the completion of his apprenticeship, and his new status as a master mason. He paused as they congratulated him, but then they hesitated. “But why are we here in this house?” asked his mother.

  “Because it is mine, mother,” smiled Antoni. “Master Faneca gave me a reward. It seems he secretly is a supporter of Catalunya. In his position, he cannot be open about his beliefs, but he heard me singing, and became determined to reward me for it, and all that it symbolises.”

  Antoni was himself familiar with the layout of the house, identical as it was to many hundreds more in the Barceloneta new town development, but his parents were curious; they had never been inside one before. The classical symmetry of the frontages gave the new development a distinctive air. Above each window at street level was a classic keystone, mirrored by a similar but larger design over the wide door. On the upper floor the windows were repeated with identical keystones, and over the door, a tall, wide window of classic proportions, again with a grand keystone, gave a promise of a light, airy upper room. Above the upper floor was the crowning glory of the house: a huge cornice with a large triangular pediment, far grander than would be expected on a house of this size, and in complete contrast to the vernacular buildings of old Barcelona.

  Everything about the architecture was clean, modern and revolutionary. Somehow the socialist ideals of Catalunya had been created in stone in the new town; the good citizens of Castilian Barcelona were taken by surprise; Masters Faneca and Verboom had created a new barrio in which all were equal. There was no grand big house for a rich merchant; the only grand edifice was the church of Sant Miquel. Every other dwelling was of equal size and status.

  Susana climbed the steep staircase to the upper floor, and looked around the spacious airy room. “All this is your’s?” she asked. Antoni nodded. “Then the time has come for you to make a respectable woman of Alissia. What a lucky young woman she is, to be coming to this wonderful new house.”

  Returning to the chiringuito for supper, Antoni’s head was full of plans and celebrations. Chattering constantly, he told his parents that he would ask Alissia to marry him as soon as possible and that they would fill the new house with children. He spoke eagerly of how he would teach them all to sing the Catalan folk songs of old and how they would all read and write in both Castillian and Catalan. He spoke of furniture and linens, and how he would provide a comfortable home for his family.

  Suddenly, in the midst of all this speculation, he stopped. “Father,” he said, “you have told me that one day I will be the Lion of Catalonya.”

  “Yes,” replied Rafael, aware of a sudden solemnity in his son’s voice.

  “Then when I marry Alissia, it should be as Antoni Blanxart, and our children should continue the Blanxart name and inheritance.”

  Rafael smiled and sipped the good rioja wine. “Well spoken, my son,” he replied. “And when you become a Blanxart, you will become the Lion of Catalonya, and this burden I have born for so long will be yours.” He tapped the sword strapped in its familiar place beneath his clothes. “By all the saints, after so many years, it will be strange to give up this bloody thing.”

  Antoni slept that night in his new house. Without a stick of furniture, he had nothing to sleep on except the floor, but he was determined to have his first night in his own home. Turning the key, and lying on the floor listening to the silence of sleeping alone for the first time in his life, he drifted off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  He was woken before sunrise, by a tremendous hammering on the door. The two labourers from the stoneyard, having spent their unexpected holiday getting drunk, just as the master expected, had been sent to wake the young master mason.

  “Get up, get up,” they chanted, “Master Macia, there’s stone to be cut, with snails inside them. Master Macia, have you a woman in there? Have you been chipping away at her all night? Hey, Master Macia, the sun is rising. Time for all men of substance to be at their counting houses!”

  Smiling at their jollity, Antoni whispered to himself, “Master Macia eh? What will you say when I am Master Blanxart, the Lion of Catalonya?”

  Antoni spoke first to Alissia, and then with her parents, and all agreed to the match. A few days later, Rafael called his family together at the chiringuita for a meeting with Alissia and her parents. “This is more than just a marriage between a girl and a boy,” began Rafael, standing in the old kitchen. “It is an important moment in the history of Catalunya.” Susana smiled at the puzzled faces of Alissa and her parents, remembering a similar meeting years ago when she had been brought into the Blanxart family. “Today I share a great secret; a secret I have carried for many years; a secret shared only with a very few loyal Catalonians.” Taking off his coat, he continued, “Just as my father, before he was murdered in the name of Catalunya, handed me the Sword of Catalunya, so the time has come for me to hand the sword to my son. And just as I was born a Blanxart, so my son now takes that as his name. I have hidden behind the name Macia to protect the sword, and hidden my son behind the name to keep him safe. The time has now come to reveal his, and my, true identity.” As he spoke, he unfastened the sword from its senyera wrappings, and held it aloft. “ I have hidden the Sword of Catalonya all these years, and kept it safe, so I now hand it on to my son Antoni Blanxart. With it I hand him the Macia flag, brought into the family by my wife Susana. And with them, I bestow upon him the title, Lion of Catalonya.”

  With a flourish, he removed his rough hat and allowed the long curls to fall free, the gold tarni
shed with silver in his old age. Alissia’s father was the first to recover his composure after the fantastic revelations, and spoke with pride. “It is an honour to celebrate the joining of our two families Senor Blanxart. I salute your courage and fortitude. Long have I dreamed of a day like today, since the dark days of the siege. I believe my father and your’s were acquainted, and he told me of the fierce battle on the barricades. He spoke of your father’s sword, and how many Castilians were despatched with it. I never expected that I would see it for myself. It is with delight and pride that I give my daughter to your son. Alissia is a very lucky young woman, not only to be marrying the handsome man she loves, and to marry a man of the world, with a house of his own, but also to be carrying forward the hopes of our nation. May she have many children.”

  “And may her first born be as handsome as his father,” smiled Susana.

  “And with the Blanxart blond curls,” said Rafael.

  Antoni and Alissia put their arms around one another in a mixture of embarrassment and joy. Antoni went to kiss his future bride, but Alissia’s mother intervened. “Enough of that!” she laughed, “Come my girl, we have a wedding to organise; and you, young man, have a sword, a flag, and a great new responsibility to deal with.”

  Later in the night, after the usual bottle of rioja had been shared, Rafael strapped on the sword for the last time, and limped with his son across the dunes and up Carrer de Sant Miquel. Entering the new house, he cautioned Antoni not to light a candle. “Here, my son, is your burden. It is not yet safe to reveal that we have this sword. Our duty is to keep it hidden, ready for the time when Catalunya shall rise again.”

  “For once, father, it is my turn to reveal a great secret.” replied Antoni. Turning to a collection of his carving tools, he selected two stout steel bars, and inserted them into either end of a huge flagstone in the centre of the floor. Heaving mightily with all his stone mason’s muscles, he lifted the flagstone. The floor surface was smooth, but unexpectedly the underside of the stone was also carved smooth. Levering the stone to one side, Antoni revealed a small dry chamber beneath the floor, lined in stone, rectangular in shape. Rafael gasped.

  “Here is the chamber I prepared for the sword and the flag. No-one in the world knows it is here, and you will remain the only person to see it. Tonight we will lay the sword in its hiding place, and seal the chamber. I will tell no-one, not even Alissia, the secret. The next time this chamber is opened, it will be to reveal its contents to my first born son, and hand on to him the secret of the sword. Meanwhile, father, you must tell me all you know of its history, not only in the siege, but before that, so that I can in turn pass the story to my child.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Carla, now well over seventy years old, was determined to attend the marriage of Antoni and Alissia, and was brought on a handcart. The wedding was the first to take place in the church of Sant Miquel, which was as yet unfinished. Nine months later, a baby boy was born, and Carla lived just a few weeks more, celebrating the achievement of living long enough to have a great-grandchild. Her funeral was attended by almost everyone living on the beach, the large crowd filling Sant Miquel with solemn prayers for the old lady.

  Francesc was one of the few Blanxarts to know all of his grandparents. Rafael, fifty-seven at the time of the baby’s birth, was delighted to see the boy’s blond curls, sealing his fate and destiny as the future Lion of Catalunya. Throughout his son’s childhood, Antoni continued to work on the decoration of St Miquel; but he started to attract interest throughout Spain as a master sculptor. His skills and knowledge of the new classical architecture meant that he was much in demand as his reputation grew.

  Rafael and Susana’s chiringuito flourished, and without their illustrious brother, the younger children worked hard to assist their parents, and gradually take over the running of the beach kitchen. Susana would often steal away from the heat of her stove to the cool of Alissia’s house to catch some time with her grandson, and soon his siblings.

  It was early one evening in 1760, when Antoni brought Master Faneca to their home. Susana was playing with Francesa, and Alissia feeding the next baby, and supervising a rabbit stew; but Antoni and Faneca insisted Alissia return with them to the church. Leaving Susana with the children, they hurried her up the street. In the elegant placa outside the church, a small crowd had gathered, gazing up at the facade. Alissia followed their eyes and saw the attraction: the statue of Sant Miquel himself was finished, and placed in its proud position in the centre of the facade.

  The angel stood tall and proud, his feet resting on a creature like a large rock. Twice the size of any man, the marble saint was wearing voluminous clothing, which opened to reveal a marvellous physique, muscled chest and stomach, with strong legs. A large halo hovered above, and the massive wings of the saint, with every feather in clear detail in the white marble, seemed almost to be beating in the summer air. In his right hand, a sword, and on his head a mass of curly hair.

  Alissia caught her breath, and her thoughts crowded in upon her. This was the musculature of a mason; the sword of Catalonia; and the curly hair of her husband. He had created himself in stone. She was not looking at a saint, but at Antoni Blanxart, master mason, the man she loved. Unable to express her thoughts, and fearful of betraying the secret of the sword, she could only gasp in astonishment. Gradually she became aware of Master Faneca’s voice.

  “… and with the installation of this magnificent statute of Sant Miquel, the church is finished. It is my masterpiece, thanks to the skills of Master Macia here…”

  “Now to be known as Master Blanxart!” exclaimed Antoni; and his announcement sent a thrilling ripple of exclamation through many of the Barceloneta neighbours, who understood its significance.

  Alissia swayed a little on her feet, and leaned against her husband. Putting her hand upon his arm, it was as if she was putting her hand upon the statue. Gazing up at the image, glowing in white marble against the grey limestone of the facade, she could think of nothing but to kiss Antoni and whisper, “It’s wonderful, it’s wonderful,” over and over again.

  At that moment, Susana arrived, carrying the baby, and with little Francesc clinging to her skirts. Her reaction was exactly the same as Alissia’s: there was her son, a saint in white marble. Francesc looked up at the statue and pointed, and in his babyish voice he cried out loudly, “Papa!”. The crowd turned to see the small child pointing at the statue, and Susana gulped. Alarmed by the little boy’s honesty, she quickly picked him up, and with the boy and the baby both squashed together in her arms, retreated down the street.

  Quietly, Antoni whispered to his wife, “A symbolic sword now stands in Barceloneta for all to see. Let people gaze upon it, and know that Catalunya will rise again from the oppression of Castile.”

  Feeling the arms of Master Faneca embracing them both from behind, there was a moment of stillness, and then Faneca’s bass voice, quiet and confidential, “Amen to that.” And in an even lower voice, the architect continued, “And is that a chained devil that our great Sant Miquel is killing, or is it Castile?”

  Alissia gasped, and Antoni grinned. “Hard to tell from this distance,” he said.

  To the delight of Antoni and Alissia, Francesc was a quick learner and rapidly mastered reading Catalan and Castilian. Despite his youth, he started to devour the few books the household possessed, and when Antoni returned from working elsewhere in Spain on yet another classical masterpiece, he would bring books for the boy. The other children were pleased to receive toys from their father, and a homecoming was always a time of noise and excitement. Francesc would stand back from his siblings and watch them leap and screech at their father; and then when they had calmed down and recovered from the excitement of his return, he would come quietly forward, and his father would let him unwrap the latest book he had found. Anything printed in Catalan was a rarity, but Antoni was able to afford many Castilian novels, which Francesc vowed he would one day translate into Catalan.

&n
bsp; As the family library grew in the upper room of the house, and Francesc entered his teenage years, he grew more demanding of his father’s generosity: asking for books in French, which he mastered easily, finding many similarities with his native Catalan, and in English, which he found impossible at first. He was twelve years old when his father sat him down in the upper room, with the chest of books beside them, to talk to him.

  “At your age, young man, I was working full time in your grandmother’s chiringuito,” began Antoni. “You have had a strangely easy life, but now the time has come to consider your future. You have shown no aptitude for the life of a mason.” Francesc took a sharp intake of breath, but his father reassured him. “No, don’t worry, my son, I am not about to apprentice you into my profession, but I must know how you see your life ahead of you. You have always been a studious and thoughtful lad, and I cannot think you have not pondered upon these things yourself.”

  “I have father, and I fear I will never enter your Guild of Master Sculptors. I may be a disappointment to you, but my dreams are elsewhere. Fearfully, I hesitate to tell you of my dream.”

  Antoni smiled into the serious face of his eldest son. “You should speak, boy. I will listen.”

  Francesc allowed a slight smile to hover around his face as he spoke. “I love to read, father, and you have given me a library beyond compare. I love the stories in Castilian, and I can manage to read and understand much of what’s in the books in French and English; but most of all I love the few Catalan books I’ve got, and the stories of our own land. You and mother have given me knowledge of our heritage, and my brothers and sisters sing the Catalan folk songs you have taught us. We love especially to sing with our grandparents, knowing we are continuing the old and vital traditions.”

  Francesc paused, and Antoni was puzzled. He could not tell where this conversation was leading. “Go on boy,” he encouraged.