‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah.’ Pepper opened her message inbox, then did the same with WhatsApp, but there was nothing there, nothing from Finn. It wasn’t like him to ignore her – he was usually super-punctual at getting back to her.
‘I was just hoping it would be Finn,’ she said, feeling as lame as she sounded.
‘I see.’ Josephine frowned down at the screen. ‘Well, I’m sure he’s just busy. He has that air about him, doesn’t he? One of those men with people to see and places to be.’
‘I guess so,’ Pepper said, trying her best not to be despondent. It was still early, after all. Finn didn’t exactly keep office hours – as far as she could tell, he got up whatever time suited him. And knowing him, he’d most likely had a late night at Freunde. Perhaps Otto kept him drinking out in the street until six in the morning and he was sleeping it off.
Just in case, she texted him again. A quick: ‘Call me when you wake up. Miss you’ and added a heap of kisses at the end.
There, she thought, feeling slightly cheered by the sight of the two grey ticks telling her the message had been delivered. She was bound to hear from him soon. There was nothing at all to worry about.
But as she and Josephine made their way out of Park Güell and headed back down the hill, Pepper could not shake the feeling that she had somehow missed something important.
Chapter 33
The day that had started out pleasantly tepid was now hot, and Pepper gazed appreciatively up at the sun as they walked, marvelling at its power. The park they had just left behind was in the La Salut neighbourhood in the north of the city, which was a sprawling mix of residential high-rise buildings, shops, cafés and several large hotels.
They traversed streets lined by neatly sculpted trees and stopped to admire acid-pink bursts of bougainvillea tossed artfully against walls. Palm fronds cast skeletal shadows across pavements, car horns blared, and a gentle breeze chased lilac petals into dusty corners. Just as she had been in Lisbon and Hamburg, Pepper found herself easily captivated, her senses reeling as she took in the new sights, sounds and smells – so many of which were different from the ones she encountered at home. Barcelona was everything that Aldeburgh was not, in terms of its colour wheel, its loud-and-proud cacophony of noise, and the sheer size of the buildings. Where Lisbon had been all nooks and crannies, Barcelona was wide open.
Josephine chatted away almost non-stop, pointing out flowers that had broken through cracks, dogs straining at leads and the curled slug-like moustache of a man selling newspapers outside the Metro station. With every step, she seemed to remember more about the city, and she kept clapping her hands in unbridled delight every time a memory struck. This would have been fine if she did not keep forgetting about her stick – Pepper had to retrieve it from the ground so many times that she lost count.
After a quick breakfast of coffee and the lightest, fluffiest omelette Pepper had ever tasted, Josephine announced that she wanted to visit Casa Batlló, a grand six-storey residence in the heart of the city, which Gaudí had been commissioned to renovate in the early nineteen-hundreds.
‘Welcome to Jorge’s dream house,’ she said, sweeping up her arm and leaning back on her stick in order to see right to the top. ‘The two of us only came here together once, but we stayed for hours and hours. Jorge was reluctant to leave at all – he said that as far as he was concerned, there could be no better place.’
Pepper consulted the leaflet they had been given at the ticket office.
‘It says here that it’s also known as “the house of bones” or “house of yawns”,’ she said, squinting upwards. ‘That must be because of the balconies.’
‘Curious, aren’t they?’ Josephine agreed. ‘And look at those thin stone columns – don’t they remind you of fish bones?’
Pepper nodded, utterly enthralled by what she was seeing, by the creativity and imagination.
The change in temperature as they crossed the threshold only served to reinforce just how hot it was, and although the sunshine had been lifting Pepper’s spirits ever since they arrived, it was still a relief to get some respite.
‘Isn’t it simply marvellous?’ Josephine declared, coming to a stop in the centre of what was once a formal dining room. A wide front-facing window was made up of intricate panels of coloured glass, while Gaudí’s fascination with water was evident everywhere, from the strange droplet design on the ceiling to the wave-like curves on the walls. Not a single detail had been overlooked, and Pepper experienced a rush of satisfaction as she slid her fingers over one of the moulded brass door handles.
‘Gaudí really did think of everything,’ Pepper remarked, stopping to admire the spiral folds around the central light fitting. ‘It’s like being at the bottom of the ocean.’
Yet more magic awaited them in the central stairwell, which was bathed in light and tiled in a myriad wash of blues. The closer they climbed to the top of the house, the paler the ceramic tiles became, as if they were rising up from the depths of the sea to its surface.
‘This part of the house was Jorge’s favourite,’ said Josephine, tapping her stick against the thick glass panels separating them from the inner chamber. ‘Have a look through and tell me what you see.’
Pepper crouched down on her haunches and rocked from side to side.
‘Oh, wow,’ she breathed. The glass panels were rippled, making it seem as if the blue tiles behind them were moving like shifting water. Back and forth she bounced on her heels, eyes wide and heart open. It was miraculous – the further she ventured along the roller-coaster tracks of Gaudí’s imagination, the more inspired she felt. He had been by no means an orderly and tidy artist, but it was exactly his penchant for the chaos of nature that made his work so appealing, and so real. Gaudí, she was sure, would have scoffed at the very idea of artistic perfection – he simply looked at the world, thought about how it made him feel, then did his very best to recreate that feeling for others. It was what Pepper had been trying to do with her painted tiles – express all that wonderful love she felt for Finn.
Although, of course, to really achieve the level of greatness that someone like Gaudí had, she would eventually need to share her work, not keep it locked away in a cupboard.
‘I knew it,’ Josephine said happily as Pepper stood up with a smile of wonderment on her face. ‘I knew you would love this place just as much as my dear Jorge did. I would wager it’s an even better tonic for the soul than gin, although don’t tell anybody else I said that.’
‘I have never seen anything quite like it,’ Pepper said. ‘I keep expecting fish to swim past.’
‘That is exactly what Jorge said.’ Josephine beamed. ‘He told me that when he became as rich and famous an artist as Gaudí, he would build us our own home, even better and more fantastical than this one. It was his dream.’
‘Do you think he ever managed it?’ Pepper asked. She had been wanting to ask this question for a while – ever since they had tried and failed to find a trace of Jorge online. ‘When I was young, I used to dream about becoming all sorts of things.’
‘You are still young,’ Josephine said gravely. ‘I know you may not always feel that way, but you’ll have to trust me on that. As for Jorge, I cannot say for sure. I always encouraged him to pursue his art, but he was also an incredible chef. I imagine he could easily have made a career for himself by sticking to that vocation. I used to tell him that there was as much artistic merit in fine cuisine as there is in fine art, which he found rather amusing, as I am sure you can imagine?’