Lleida – The Shadow Over the Porta dels Apòstols
The hot afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the alleyways of Lleida, but I had no intention of breaking a sweat on my way up to the mighty Seu Vella cathedral. And why should I? Spain is the promised land for anyone who wants to conquer steep old-town hills without a single drop of perspiration on their brow.
A low, metallic hum announced the urban luxury ahead: the city’s outdoor escalators. As the steps glided smoothly beneath me, carrying me meter by meter up the castle hill, I offered a silent prayer of thanks to Lleida’s visionary city architects. There is hardly anything more elegant than floating upward with hands in pockets, gliding past panting pedestrians, and watching the massive sandstone walls of the cathedral gradually emerge from a sea of rooftops.
Reaching the top, I strolled over to the Porta dels Apòstols, the imposing main portal. Even from a distance, I could hear a resonant, well-trained voice. A tour guide, cloaked in the absolute authority of his office, stood with an index finger raised before a cluster of tourists who hung spellbound on his every word. I inconspicuously adjusted my pace, crossed my arms, and casually slipped into the outer edge of the group like a paying guest.
The guide paused before a particularly ornate niche and dramatically lowered his voice:
“Look upon these stones, senyores y senyores! The year is in the 14th century. The great master stonemason Bartomeu has been commissioned to create this portal. Years of his life were poured into the figures of the Apostles, but when it came to his masterpiece—the recess in the arch and the statue of the Virgin Mary—his luck ran out. His hands grew heavy, his mind weary. The figure remained stiff, cold, unfinished.
Eventually, his young apprentice secretly took up the tools. In just a single night, driven by divine inspiration, the youth carved the face of the Madonna. When Bartomeu stepped onto the scaffolding the next morning, he couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a figure of such incomprehensible, flawless beauty that the stone itself seemed to breathe. But instead of awe, dark bile welled up inside Master Bartomeu. Envy consumed his heart. He could not bear the thought of being outshone by his own student. In a blind rage, he grabbed his heaviest mallet and struck the youth full in the face. The apprentice reeled, lost his footing, and plunged from the highest scaffolding to his death on these very cobblestones before the eyes of the horrified onlookers.”
The guide took a well-calculated dramatic pause. But while the group murmured in awe, he slowly turned around. His gaze locked onto me. Throughout his entire monologue, he had been casting subtle, disapproving glances in my direction. It certainly hadn’t escaped his notice that I had joined his paying audience without contributing a single cent for a ticket.
Now he saw his chance to humiliate the free-rider in front of everyone. He offered me a condescending, smirk-laden smile, pointed his index finger at me, and spoke loudly enough for even the last person in line to hear:
“Well now… I must say, in my career I have certainly had better listeners than this gentleman here in the blue cap!”
A few heads turned toward me with amused grins. The group waited for my embarrassment. But I didn’t so much as blink. I stepped half a pace forward, calmly tipped the brim of my cap, and replied in a steady, carrying voice:
“Well, my dear sir—and I have certainly heard better legends than this exact one. In fact, I already know it. Exactly three months ago, I heard it at a church in Vilnius, the capital of Lithuania. There, too, it just so happened to be the very last stone on the facade that the apprentice carved far better than his master. And there, too, the master pushed the poor boy off the scaffolding out of pure envy.”
I paused briefly to let the sentence hang in the air, then added with a smile: “Looks like stonemasons across medieval Europe had the exact same little PR problem.”
A loud snort broke the ice. First an older gentleman in the front row burst out laughing, and then half the group joined in with hearty laughter.
The guide turned bright red in an instant. His condescending smile froze on his face. He cleared his throat hurriedly, glanced at his watch, and clapped his hands together: “Well then! Moving along to the cloisters, we have very little time!”
With brisk steps, he herded his group away. I remained alone at the Porta dels Apòstols, leaning comfortably against the cool sandstone wall and enjoying the view over the city—secure in the knowledge that even without a ticket, you sometimes get the best entertainment.
