The architect

Enclosed in its walls, streaked with narrow streets, where multi-story buildings squeezed and pressed each other all around, with brightly colored facades heaping out, patches of vegetable plots and floral gardens were nestled between the houses seen in the daylight. The town hadn’t taken risks crawling outside its tight fortress wall boundaries.

The town was just a town. People living here stuffed themselves with meat, drank diluted beer pounding on the table with their fists, taking part in the festivities in the square playing with dice and tablets tirelessly; the tables were carved from wood or ivory, laid out on the table de brelan. As for me, who had played nothing before with my brothers but rounders or squash, I was incredibly curious gazing at the whole universe created by the excitement, money and food. Pork carcasses were spinning on a roasting-jack, fat sizzled, making everybody’s mouth water for everything in the town.

“Please, give some bread for the blind from the Rotten Field!”, “Please, give some bread for the lepers from the Blossoming Field!” The Town begged, pleading, the Town was constantly hungry.

My hunger strike turned into a symbol of struggle against a new lifestyle. Having had a plentiful dinner, I would gulp down a few buckets of water inside my belly to vomit.

I wasn’t interested in girls, because anyone could call Jorge ‘an old jerk’. The interest in sensual delights, no matter how brightly I was inflamed, could never prevail over the striving for something spiritual – as much as a young man of my age could bear it. I was also in no hurry to make friends, getting closer only with Carlo, a local young bishop, so that I could stay close to the church and continue to get sacraments.

I kept sending letters to Graben Abbey several times a year, but received no answer to any of them.

In the new world, some crafts were considered worthy of others, and independent sloggers could only rely on temporary earnings, so I started looking for a master.

Jean-Baptiste, head of the construction shop, accepted me for the price I had taken away from the monastery. As the number of ‘internal’ family students could be any, and all the sons of Jean-Baptiste were already in his service, only one student was supposed to be taken ‘from the outside’. To get into this loophole, I had to give out all the coins in front of the master. Finally, in the presence of two jurors and four masters, we signed a written contract, stipulating the amount of fees, duration of apprenticeship and the terms of my accommodation, in accordance with, I would be on full board at the teacher’s house, getting clothing and meals from him. After a number of years, I would become an apprentice.

“There are two ways of overlapping,” Jean-Baptiste started teaching, “using a flat arch and a round arch.”

And I rolled up my sleeves.

* * *

Lucia brought a basket of bread each Sunday Mass, and on the way back, passed the nearby workshop, to watch me carefully, always being among the first ones keen to get back to work. “Ite missa est”[4 - Latin “Go, it is ended.”] was a password for her, allowing her to stare at me shamelessly.

“Who is she?” I asked Jean-Baptiste.

Lucia, the daughter of the most dominant figure in the Town. On Sundays, she helps the poor by bringing them bread and clothing.”

“A charity girl?”

The master shook his head.

“She is the money girl. One of those whose ancestors have been just regular, though diligent craftsmen two hundred years ago. Now they are like gentry, and would like to get their bit of admiration as if they were really noble.”

A week later, I stayed late at the church, discussing some urgent tricky issues with Carlo. As soon as I saw Lucia, I immediately went back to the bench to take a look. Would she dare to bother me here?

Something bumped into my shoulder, it was a bread basket. The smell of fresh baking was driving me crazy.

“Would you like some?” Lucia gave me some bread.

“Panem nostrum quotidianum da nobis hodie?[5 - Latin. Bible. “‘Give us this day our daily bread.’”] I broke off a small piece, giving back the rest.

“Not only are you beautiful, you are also literate,” she started with flattery. It was pretty good.

But I was firm,

“Everybody knows prayers.”

“Everyone knows, but not everyone prays,” Lucia smiled and left the temple.

And then a month later, she came along to Jean-Baptiste with her father, a red-skinned, bulky Aubrey, to make a deal to mend their stables. As night came, Lucia was sent home. I sneaked around the corner of the house and with haste followed her along the bylanes. Strands of hair loosened out of her hairnet, not fastened by scarlet ribbons, not restrained by veils, fluttered to the rhythm of her rapid gait. But I remembered – oh, I remembered! – what an ardent look she threw at me before leaving. And I had to keep an eye on her burgundy surcoat with roses, gold brooches, brown hair. I followed her along the wasteland, cautiously stepping on the rough ground further, to the market square where the towers were asleep, where the beggars were sleeping, where the shuttered windows were asleep. She knew that I was around, and was intentionally slowing down, adjusting the fabric of her clothes, tidying her hair. And I was embarrassed by these thoughts, confused and my left leg was cramped until we both stopped in the stuffiness of the coming night.

“I followed you a few blocks, but you didn’t turn around. But you were aware that I was following you, weren’t you? You did know and deliberately didn’t look back, didn’t you, Lucia?”