The Antiquarian (30 page)

“So it is.”

“And it was a mere five hundred years ago.”

“That's right,” Enrique said.

The cathedral was curiously free from the usual throngs of visitors that tend to turn it into anything but a place of worship. Though it was just five in the afternoon, only a few—mostly elderly worshippers, veteran and inveterate believers—were praying in front of the chapels that lined the aisles or were seated in the pews before the high altar. Neither the stampedes of Japanese tourists on a quest for the perfect photo, surely distracted by the Gaudí craze rampant in their country, nor domestic visitors, incapable of keeping the silence the place deserved, disturbed the conversation between Enrique and Carlos. The peculiar peacefulness of the moment, and the building's excellent acoustics—perhaps the best of any Gothic structure for organ concerts—forced them to speak in very low tones, as befitted the prevailing silence. Using the pews to sit and discuss the developments of a murky case from the past was perfectly legitimate, just as disrupting proper order and propriety—as a sign on the wall near the entrance
indicated—was not. “It must be three or four years since I've been here,” Carlos commented. “Funny about things like this; I had forgotten how beautiful it is.”

“Me too,” Enrique admitted, letting himself smile. “But the truth is, this whole thing is over my head. I don't know where I am, what I'm doing, and, if you really want to know, what my part in it is. At first it all seemed simple: I was going to trap a killer, avenge Artur's death, and find some mysterious treasure from the past. But now, a stranger has snitched on the murderer, I've had my revenge but it's been no good to me, and the treasure is elusive and out of reach, assuming it even exists. And the most incredible thing: my entire past has suddenly been turned upside down.”

Carlos chuckled softly, restraining himself out of consideration for the ambience.

“My God, Enrique. If you put a mystery reader in your place, I bet they'd be as confused as you. Look, things in life aren't linear. They're an association of a thousand different events. Seeing those associations is a very complex business. So much so that only a few manage to get there. And that's what detectives and police do. The good ones have … we have—modesty aside—an innate knack for it. They're—how shall I put it?—able to see a whole network of things, for lack of a better way to explain it.”

“Give me an example,” Enrique asked.

“Imagine a net, hung out in front of you. Something happens on the upper left-hand corner of the net, and it moves horizontally across it. Every time it reaches the other side, it moves down a row and goes back in the other direction, until it reaches the bottom right-hand corner, which is where the end is. Add to that the vertical strands of the net, which are the concurrent events. When I investigate a case I try to spread the information out, like a net, to get a grip on the connections between the events. That way, you can get to the other side of the net without needing to have all the information, which is the usual way to work, following a lead, in a manner of speaking.”

“Great explanation.”

“Yeah, well, too bad that a job well done doesn't guarantee success, like this time. The investigation also ruled Samuel out as a suspect. He had a good alibi, like I told you over lunch. So your three suspects went up in smoke. And, without giving me time to tell you about it, you show up at my office, pull me away from my obligations—which I'm actually grateful for because I'm feeling pretty lazy and by this point in my career, my team is working for me so I can live off them—and take me to lunch in Plaça Reial to tell me they've caught Artur's killer. And not only that, you lay down some wild story that dates back five hundred years about a hidden treasure, and, to my surprise, now it turns out Artur was a black market art dealer.”

“Give me a break. My writer's psyche might have had something to do with creating a work of fiction complex enough to fool not only Bety but even a pro like you, but the pieces fit perfectly. That much you have to admit. What was it you said? ‘There's no such thing as coincidence,' or something like that.”

“Yeah, I said that,” Carlos agreed. “I said it because it's true. But whether or not it was a believable story, the truth is you hid information from me. It was clear as day from the very moment we talked on my boat, and I told you so. It didn't bother me, but I'd appreciate it if you told me why you did it.”

Enrique moved his hands and head in an attempt to express his mystification at his own motives.

“Oh, please! If a pimply twenty-year-old claimed not to know why he did things, it would seem reasonable. But you! All grown-up, and my friend, to boot!”

“It's true, I don't know what to say. I don't mean to justify it, but maybe it was the excitement of hunting a treasure, like when my real dad read me
Treasure Island
, and then we would play pirates in our apartment, stashing something somewhere and getting
my mother to hunt for it. The only thing missing was the ghost of Flint appearing to me in dreams, and a parrot singing ‘yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.' Christ, Carlos. I'm sorry, really. I didn't mean to mislead you.”

“If you'd been any other client, I would've cut you off cold. But you always were somewhat inconsistent and twisted. Don't laugh! Always trying to be the center of the world's attention, never realizing that the world could do just fine without you.”

“I deserve that,” Enrique acknowledged.

“Yes, you do. But you're my friend,” Carlos nodded, “so this time, I'll let it go.”

They were silent. The strength of their old bond warmed them, muting their voices. They sat with the intense feeling of brotherhood, so rarely felt in full. To speak would have only ruined the moment.

A little old woman lit a votive candle before the statue of Saint Pancras. The blend of incense and burning wax floated in the air, and anyone there, in their state of mind, would have thought they were living in a dream world.

“How are you coping with this whole Artur ordeal?” Carlos asked with a soft, cautious smile.

It was like pouring salt into a wound. Enrique leaned his head against the metal railing that separated the choir enclosure from the sanctuary before he spoke.

“Badly,” he said, and leaned his head forward until he held it in his hands.

The question was painful. Enrique's mood plummeted, and he made no attempt to hide it. Carlos thought he knew the effect his question would have even before he asked it. But even though he thought it necessary to ask, he never imagined an impact so deep. Enrique hadn't spoken about Artur since he outlined his activities over lunch, which showed how much it was affecting him. Carlos didn't want to leave him with that pain
inside. When shared, the intensity of pain is lessened. It was no consolation, but it was the first step toward acceptance.

“Let's get out of here,” Carlos suggested. Enrique got up alongside his friend. They left the cathedral through the cloister doorway. The spring sun still managed to illuminate with filtered beams a part of that courtyard originally meant for the priests' meditation, now a rapid thoroughfare for many, and a place of contemplation for few. They walked over the floor, clad with the tombs that belonged to the highest officials of the bygone guilds of Barcelona, toward Bisbe Irurita Street. There, Enrique said good-bye to his friend.

“I'd rather not talk about it. I really appreciate it, Carlos, but I want to walk alone awhile.”

Carlos didn't mention it again. He had given Enrique the chance to express his feelings, to ease his pain, like the good friend that he was. Enrique choosing not to was his business; it was beyond Carlos's reach.

“All right.” He extended his hand. “I'll head back to the office. When are you leaving?

“I don't know. I really don't know. Soon.”

“Call me before you do. It's
tramontana
season so there's a strong north wind. We could go out sailing any morning.”

“Yeah, maybe I will. Thanks for everything, my friend.” He waved as he made his way down Baixada de Santa Eulàlia.

Enrique walked slowly down the slope where, more than one thousand five hundred years before, the adolescent virgin who became the Patron Saint of Barcelona was martyred—put into a barrel with a nail-studded interior, and rolled down from the hill the Romans called Mons Taber. He too felt martyred, though his cross was not physical,
but spiritual. When Fornells had finished telling him about the developments in the case and walked out of London Bar, Enrique felt agitated, as if the weight of Artur's deceit fell on his shoulders all of a sudden, crushing him, smothering him. He wandered slowly around the wharf, trying to sort out his ideas, until he realized that Carlos's security detail was no longer necessary. In fact, the investigation itself had lost its purpose, its very reason for existence. He had gone to his friend's office hours earlier to tell him about the surprising developments in the case and to seek a consolation he was sure his pride wouldn't let him ask for.

He walked toward La Palla Street. He was right in the hub of Barcelona's antiques district, and he soon saw what had been Artur's shop in the distance. A few minutes later, he rested his forehead on the cool glass of a shop window, where under a sign that read “S. HOROWITZ, ANTIQUARIAN,” the shop run by his father's best friend was located. It looked contemporary, completely different from Artur's. They had used the low bearing arches of the building, some four hundred years old, to create a tasteful contrast with the light color of the walls. The lighting, warm and bright, aided in highlighting the quality of the objects on display, most of a religious nature. Samuel ran a specialized business where quality came before quantity. Inside, situated between two arches, a slender figure was perusing several documents arranged on a seventeenth-century baroque desk. Her long black hair hung loose over bare shoulders. She was wearing a light sleeveless burgundy dress, which brought out her clear eyes. Enrique stood and watched her for several minutes. Mariola handled the documents with what seemed to him like infinite grace. Her style and elegance came through even in insignificant everyday tasks.

Mariola finally detected his presence, more out of that hidden instinct that alerts someone when they're being watched than from raising her gaze. Her expression of
restrained surprise gave way to a soft, captivating smile. She waved him in with a hand that held a fountain pen, but Enrique shook his head no. Then, as if by magic, she crossed the shop threshold and was standing at his side.

“Hello.” She welcomed him with a gorgeous smile.

“Hello.”

“I thought you'd call this morning.”

“I wanted to, but I didn't have time. The police have arrested Artur's killer.”

Mariola knit her brow. It was the first time Enrique had seen that expression on her face and he didn't know how to interpret it.

“Wouldn't you rather come in? It's best we talk about it.”

“I don't feel like going in. I'd rather you come out.”

“I'm alone,” Mariola objected. “Samuel had some errands and can't come all afternoon. If I come out, I'll have to close the shop.”

“So do it,” Enrique said.

Mariola said nothing, but went back into the shop, turned out the lights, and set the alarm. When she came out, a sheer silk scarf covered her throat, and she wore a snug-fitting long jacket the color of pale wine. It reached her knees and had a generous neckline. The cuffs and lower hem were lined in angora wool.

“Where should we go?”

“I don't know. I'd been wandering around until I wound up with my head leaning against the glass of your shop. Let's just walk.”

“Okay.”

Mariola took his arm and they walked leisurely toward Plaça de la Catedral.

“Who did it?”

“Well, the truth is, I'm not supposed to say.”

“Come on!” she spurred him. “Do you think I'll blab it everywhere?”

“Apparently, a man named Phillipe Brésard,” offered Enrique, who had actually been yearning to share the story.

“The Frenchman,” Mariola added.

Enrique stopped short in front of her.

“You know him?”

“Who doesn't?”

A devious idea was spawned in Enrique's mind.

“So you've worked with him too.”

“You don't have to ‘work' with someone, as you say, to know him. I also know cases of corruption that plague our country, and I'm in no way associated with those involved in them,” she answered without any trace of irritation or anger.

“So then … ?”

“I've lived in the world of antiquarians and art since I was a little girl. Brésard may not be known to everyday people, but he is a living part of antiquarian ‘mythology.' How could the members of our profession not know the biggest art thief in Europe—and maybe the entire world? What's odd isn't that I know him but that you don't.”

Though her voice didn't so much as hint at offense being taken, Enrique couldn't help feeling he'd made a mistake.

“I didn't mean that you knew him personally. Fornells, the police captain, told me that, in his view, the majority of antiquarians as of a certain level deal in stolen art. There's even a special National Police unit exclusively devoted to these things,” he justified himself.

“I know that too, and I don't belong to it.”

For the first time, Enrique felt he didn't know Mariola. Up to now, he had only shared brief experiences with her that had been barely enough to reveal a small part of her personality. He knew she was cultured, passionate, and somewhat aloof. He hadn't known that she could cloak herself in such indifference. Her words showed no irritation at Enrique's veiled accusation, but her astonished expression did.

“I've only heard of Brésard, and I've never ‘worked' with him in my life,” Mariola concluded.