As the shells whistle past above me, I wait my turn. It is only a matter of time.
I watch as the churches of Barcelona explode, one after another. Artillery shells strike them with perfect precision, turning their grand steeples and stained glass windows into powder. Even the ones that were burned twenty-seven years ago in the Tragic Week and rebuilt—even they are brought down.
It is time to finish the job. It is Civil War, when yesterday's nightmare is reborn.
This time, I have no doubt that I will fall. How can they possibly raze so many lesser churches without striking me down?
But am I afraid? Do I cower as my end approaches?
I do not.
My only regret is that it did not happen sooner. Ten years ago would have been perfect.
Then, I would not have had to live so long without my maker. Without my Gaudí.
The decade since his death has not been worth living. Others have continued to work on me, following his plans—but none of them can replace him. None have even come close.
None of them talks to me. None of them touches me the way Gaudí did. Or understands me the way that he did.
And none of them lives with me. They come in the morning and leave in the late afternoon, and they do not look back. They have lives away from me. Families other than me. Not like Gaudí.
Without Gaudí, I continue to grow...but I am nothing. All four of the giant bell towers that Gaudí started are done now. A giant, carved cypress in honor of Jesus Christ stands complete. A host of statues and pillars and pinnacles have all been finished.
But I feel less than I did before...as if all that was best about me was stripped away on the day Gaudí died. As if all the ornamentation is an elaborate shell.
Concealing nothing.
A shell whistles between my bell towers and crashes into a building across the street. As the shell explodes, blowing out smoke and fire and debris, I wish that I were that building. I wish that I were burning and buckling and crumbling, slouching back down into the hole in the Earth from which I sprang.
This is the only hope I have left. That I will die and go wherever it is that Gaudí went.
That I will see him again.
A shell soars in and strikes the ground near my foundation. It showers me with dirt and rocks, but does not hurt me.
Another shell lands on the other side of me, closer this time—but the effect is the same. No damage at all.
I concentrate, willing the missiles to strike me dead on and take me apart. I reach out with every bit of my strength, straining to pull them toward me. Begging for their touch.
One falls in the heart of me, inside my walls. Windows blow out in sprays of multicolored glass, and scaffolding tumbles like matchsticks and playing cards.
I shudder as more shells hit my walls, bursting against the stone—but the walls do not collapse. Gaudí built them too well. His own craftsmanship prevents me from joining him in merciful death.
Another shell strikes me, and another and another. Yet still I stand here, tall as ever. They chip away, but they cannot obliterate.
The artillery turns to other targets, and I lose heart—but not for long. That night, new opportunities for destruction arise, and I rejoice.
At least at first.
The city of Barcelona burns in the darkness like embers scattered over a vast hearth. Gangs with guns and torches and bludgeons roam the streets, turning shops and banks and offices into wreckage. It is like Tragic Week, only deadlier, with more gunfire.
I watch with interest as the gangs fan out across the city, howling and shooting and smashing. Instead of fear, I feel relief as they come closer. I wish they would hurry.
Their cries have an edge of twisted joy as they swarm through me like rats, eyes darting, noses twitching. Many run straight for my crypt and smash open the doors. They pour inside and go wild, shrieking and gnashing and tearing into me.
Everything of gold and silver, they steal. Everything of glass, they shatter. Everything of wood or cloth, they set afire.
It is beautiful.
By the light of my blazing pews, I watch their revels with gratitude. Their long shadows leap and mingle, a dark, sinuous festival in celebration of my impending release.
I wish that I could thank them for this service. I am happier than I have been for years.
Then, I see it start to go wrong.
While I am watching the main body of rioters, a group slips away into one of the chapels. I do not notice them or realize what they are doing.
Until more rioters race over to join them. My focus shifts, and I look inside the chapel...dreading what I will find.
Because, of course, I know what lies within. And I can guess.
At what they are doing.
For the first time today, I am horrified. Numb.
When I longed for my destruction, I did not think of this. Did not foresee such
Madness.
They have pried the heavy stone lid off the tomb. By force of numbers, they have laid it open to the air. His resting place.
And they have taken
Him
Out.
Removed him from his tomb. So now I do get to see him again after all. Gaudí.
See him dragged out and thrown to the floor. Stomped on. Spit on.
Gaudí.
I cannot watch, so I look elsewhere. See more of them bursting into his studio above the rectory, eyes and torches blazing.
They demolish his models and burn his plans. The air swirls with gypsum and plaster dust and the ash of paper and balsa.
They set fire to the furniture, from the drawing boards where he worked to the bed on which he slept his last night.
They gut the room where he spent the last months of his life. They wipe away every trace of him they can find.
It isn't enough to attack his cathedral. It isn't enough to drag his corpse from its tomb. They have to destroy his vision, too—the remains of his legacy.
As if he were the enemy.
By the next morning, nothing is left of him. Except me.
And now, I am truly hollowed out. Everything that could be burned or smashed has been burned and smashed. Everything that could be taken away has been taken.
Stone walls. That is all I am now. Stone walls praying for stronger mortar shells.
Or an earthquake.