Hello, Again

by Isabelle Broom

  In the end, she settled for: ‘Thanks. We can talk when I’m back’, feeling the air tighten in her chest as she pressed send. It was ridiculous that a civil exchange of messages with her own mother made her feel so jittery, but then again, their relationship was strained and fragile – had been for so long now that Pepper should have become accustomed to it. But she never had. There was always the hope that things would change, that she would be forgiven.

  And it was the hope that hurt most of all.

  Determined to put thoughts of her mother aside, Pepper sent another message, this time to Finn, then busied herself getting ready for a second day’s exploring. She and Josephine had stayed down at the beach until sundown the previous evening, before finding a nearby taverna and sharing a feast of fresh grilled sardines, tangy tomato and onion salad and a basket of warm bread, all washed down with a jug of sangria. Much later, with full stomachs and heavy eyelids, the two of them had wandered back towards the hotel through a city that showed no sign of winding down for the night. Pepper was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.

  Closing the door to her room behind her, Pepper spotted Josephine coming along the corridor in a flowing purple skirt and matching blouse, her stick and UFO hat in hand.

  ‘Darling!’ she proclaimed. ‘I was just coming to knock for you. Thought we could forego the buffet breakfast downstairs and get to the park nice and early?’

  Pepper had spent countless hours poring over photos of Park Güell, and when she and Josephine walked in through the ornate gates of Gaudí’s hillside utopia half an hour later, it felt utterly surreal, as if she had wandered right into a dream.

  ‘I can’t believe we’re actually here,’ she said, her hand on the strap of her camera. ‘I feel like I have déjà-vu, which I realise makes me sound completely bonkers.’

  ‘Well, goodie,’ Josephine replied. ‘Because all the best, most interesting people are.’

  They had only got as far the courtyard just inside the park entrance, but already Pepper had spied Gaudí’s iconic and resplendent mosaic dragon perched above them in the centre of a wide, stone staircase.

  ‘I have always been a fan of art that one is permitted to touch,’ Josephine said, moving away from Pepper to run her fingers across a swathe of broken tiles set into the back wall of an alcove.

  ‘Wonderful!’ she breathed. ‘And would you look at that stonework.’

  Pepper peered up at the little stone houses that contained the ticket office and café, smiling when she saw twisted turrets atop each one.

  ‘They look as if they’re made from gingerbread.’

  ‘Certainly a feast for the eyes,’ observed Josephine. ‘Jorge knew so much about Gaudí – did I tell you that mosaics were his favourite art form?’

  ‘He and I have that in common.’

  ‘What is it that draws you to those in particular?’

  Pepper thought for a moment. ‘I remember being told the story about finding a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow when I was little,’ she said. ‘But it always made more sense to me that it would be a mosaic – because of all the colours, you know?’

  ‘That is a lovely notion.’ Josephine’s expression softened. ‘And it would make a fabulous subject for a painting.’

  ‘I find it satisfying, putting all the pieces together and creating something whole,’ she went on. ‘It started with jigsaws when I was tiny and progressed from there. I suppose I like things to be in the right place, to have a purpose.’

  The two of them had begun to make their way up the steps, and in spite of the early hour, there was already a jumble of visitors huddled around the striped dragon. Unlike them, Pepper had no interest in posing for a selfie with it, but she did want to examine the sculpture in more detail, trace a finger over its blue, orange and yellow scales and the rippled arches of its back. The creation was over a century old, but it had none of the tells of age she had expected to find. Each polished piece seemed to glow, as if the dragon really did have fire in its belly.

  Josephine had fallen silent, a faraway look on her face.

  ‘Apologies,’ she said absently. ‘I was just thinking about what Jorge said to me the first time we came here. We stopped right here,’ she put a hand on the dragon’s head. ‘Here on these steps, exactly where you and I are standing now, and he told me that in his mind, we are all mosaics. All of us a sum of our parts. I have thought about that a lot throughout my life.’

  ‘And do you agree with him?’ Pepper asked.

  ‘Oh, absolutely.’ Josephine looked down at the dragon rather wistfully. ‘This little fellow here has lasted all these years because of his cracks, not in spite of them. Being imperfect has made him stronger. And isn’t that what mosaics really are – something beautiful from something broken?’

  There was a lump in Pepper’s throat that she was forced to swallow before she could reply.

  ‘Do you think he ever came looking for you?’ she asked. ‘Jorge?’

  Josephine’s hand tremored as she clasped it over Pepper’s.

  ‘If he did, my darling, then I was not aware of it.’

  ‘He broke your heart,’ she stated. ‘Didn’t he?’

  ‘Oh, almost certainly,’ agreed Josephine, her voice neutral. ‘But perhaps the cracks he left behind made me stronger in the end.’

  A queue had formed behind them as they talked, so she and Josephine continued up the central steps until they reached the Hypostyle Hall. Impressive stone columns stretched up like attention-seeking arms towards a honeycomb ceiling, pockets of which were decorated by large, circular mosaic collages. Pepper made her way to each one in turn, recognising the pattern of the sun and of the sea. It was intricate and inventive work, executed so beautifully, and as she looked, Pepper found herself struck by a deep sense of shame. Pepper had wanted to make a name for herself as an artist since childhood, but until recently, she’d let her insecurities and yearning for so-called perfection stop her from really trying. If she continued to do so, was she letting down those who had lit such a burning trail throughout history for her to follow? Standing here now, it felt as if she would be.

  There was a curved pathway behind the hall, and they followed it up and around, Josephine using her stick and Pepper for support as the incline steepened. At the top they discovered a wide veranda that overlooked the park entrance. Undulating bench seats had been carved out neatly along each side like cresting waves, and every surface bar the dusty ground was festooned with shattered pieces of glazed and painted tiles. It all appeared haphazard and spontaneous – just like the sea itself, thought Pepper – but she knew how much painstaking planning and placing it must have taken to achieve such a mesmerising result.

  What kind of pattern would her own life make, Pepper wondered, if she were to lay out all the pieces.

  ‘Jorge used to joke that you could see the Eiffel Tower from here,’ Josephine told her.

  They had made their way to the front of the veranda, to where an exquisite view of the city awaited. A cheerful morning sun was beating down on them now, the glorious Spanish heat as relentless as the marching feet of a soldier. Pepper was thankful for the floaty folds of her thin cotton dress, and the copious coatings of sun cream she kept reapplying.

  ‘We must find him,’ Pepper said beseechingly. ‘I bet he would be so thrilled to see you.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Josephine continued to stare out over the rooftops.

  ‘I cherish my memories of Jorge,’ she said. ‘And of myself during that summer I spent with him. We were both so young and insouciant; the world was simply our playground. Jorge was and likely still is the most incredible man, but I am beginning to wonder if seeing him again is the right thing. Going back to Lisbon and coming here with you has been everything I hoped it would be – and more.’

  She turned to face Pepper, a telling smile on her lips.

  ‘But there is always a risk when you dig up the past that you will unearth something you don’t want to find. Jorge and I, our story en
ded then – to hanker after it is pure sentimentality.’

  Pepper looked away, unable not to think of Bethan. In those first, awful weeks following her little sister’s accident, when the world felt as if it had been tipped over like a fishbowl, she wished that it had been she who drowned. She had lost so much of who she was, and the future seemed so impossible. But Pepper had known even as the thought came to her that it was foolish. Life was something – it was precious.

  ‘It’s not making you feel too melancholy, is it?’ she asked. ‘Being here?’

  Josephine patted her arm. ‘Only in a good way. Now, food time soon, I think. I don’t know about you, darling, but I am absolutely ravenous.’

  Pepper was halfway through agreeing when her phone vibrated inside her bag. Expecting it to be a reply from Finn, she was dismayed to find a message from the DVLA instead, reminding her that they would be taking out her car tax payment via direct debit. She must have made a small noise of disgruntlement, because Josephine gave her an enquiring look.

  ‘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 tr
ied 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?’

  ‘I can barely manage beans on toast,’ confessed Pepper. ‘Some wife I’ll make.’

  Josephine stared for a moment out into the open shaft of the stairwell. There was a strange echo in here, Pepper realised, much like the one you find at swimming pools or empty concert halls. It lent an almost ethereal quality to what was already a dreamlike setting.

  ‘Is that what you want then, darling? Josephine said, turning back to face Pepper. ‘To get married?’

  Pepper reddened. ‘I guess so. I mean, I used to think I didn’t really care all that much, but that was before.’ She hesitated, feeling suddenly embarrassed.

  ‘Before you met Finn?’

  Pepper squirmed. ‘Does that make me sound like an idiot? It’s such early days with me and Finn, but now that he’s coming to live with me, I don’t know, it just feels different – more grown-up than any other relationship I’ve had, even if we are both behaving like a pair of lovestruck teenagers.’

  ‘You are not an idiot,’ Josephine said, tutting at Pepper as they pressed the button for the lift that would take them up to Gaudí’s dragon-esque roof terrace. ‘You are just in love, my darling, and love makes fools of us all, does it not?’