The Antiquarian (31 page)

Enrique understood that this was exactly what he wanted to hear. To him it was more important to ascertain that she not have any ties to the art smuggling world than a minor argument in public. Soothed by her response, Enrique didn't know how to continue the conversation. He watched her. Mariola didn't speak, but she didn't seem hurt, either. She guided the couple's steps toward Bisbe Irurita Street. They walked past the high watchtowers of the Roman city, and turned right at almost the exact spot where he had parted with Carlos an hour earlier. Evening was falling, and cottony clouds darkened the streets. Swallows stopping over in Barcelona on their migration glided joyfully through the sky, on impossible courses the human eye could barely make out, preceded by their unmistakable shrill calls.

They reached Plaça Sant Felip Neri through a narrow alley capped off with an archway. In the solitary square, the soft gurgle of its octagonal fountain was perfectly audible. Four leafy trees, encouraged by the springtime splendor, darkened the square to such extent that the pair could barely make out each other's faces.

Mariola sat on the edge of the fountain. Enrique stood before her, caressing her hair with his hands. He leaned down to kiss her lips, but she dodged him, turning to one side. Enrique made a second attempt, but she put her hand firmly on his chest to keep him from it.

“I didn't mean to hurt you,” said Enrique, with sincerity in his voice.

“I know.” She brought him closer to her. “But you did.”

A few dim lights meagerly lit the square, incapable of penetrating the veil of darkness that had settled there. Enrique stroked Mariola's silky hair again. She relaxed at his touch. She took Enrique's hands and raised her head to look at him.

“Let's forget about it,” she murmured.

Enrique kissed her. It was no more than a light contact, more a caress than a kiss. She made a gesture with her arms that invited him to sit next to her. Enrique wanted to break the silence but didn't know how.

“What a beautiful place.” It was a truly sublime square, a special corner of a special city.

“It is.” She looked around Enrique.

Evening yielded to night, and the weak lights in the square gained intensity.

“This corner of Barcelona reminds me of the most beautiful city in the world.”

“Which?”

Enrique felt that she had understood his intentions perfectly and given him permission to continue their conversation.

“Venice. That's the only place with nooks like this one.”

“A melancholic city, like your mood,” Mariola observed shrewdly. “How was Artur involved with Brésard?”

Mariola's question caught him off guard.

“Business,” he confessed gloomily. “Artur apparently dealt in pieces that Brésard stole.”

“And finding out has upset you, hasn't it?”

“Yes.”

“We never truly know the people around us, not even the most cherished. Anyone who claims to know another person is a liar. After all, is there even anyone who can truthfully say they know themselves?”

“I think there is.”

“I see that up here,” she said, stroking his head, “you're still an inexperienced kid. Listen to me: we never know what people are really like until it's too late. I'll break one of my cardinal rules for being happy in a relationship; I'll give you some advice,” she continued. “Never, ever judge anyone, under any circumstances. Don't assess, judge, criticize, or give your opinion. Each person is a universe in themselves, unrepeatable, motivated by things that no one around them could understand. And that goes for us, too. It's not a matter of keeping our opinions of others to ourselves; it's more about not having them, because who are we to judge? We all have our mistakes, our sins, our dilemmas.”

“Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

“Exactly. Who knows the reasons for Artur's relationship with the Frenchman?”

“According to Fornells, Brésard must be tied to many other antiquarians in this city.”

“It's likely,” Mariola admitted. “Some live above their means, and their financial picture would be hard to manage otherwise.”

Inevitably, Enrique's mind flashed back to Mariola's house. So colossal and luxurious, it dwarfed his apartment on the slopes of Mount Igueldo. But she was partnered with Samuel and was the sole heiress of an old-money family with a massive fortune. And she had given him her word. That was enough.

“The truth of the matter is, only a few people would have the contacts necessary to work with Brésard,” she continued. “It would take many years of regular jobs to build
trust in business like that, not to mention having a foot in circles that are quite select, to say the least. Prices on the black market cannot be low; no one would take such risks were it not for a healthy profit.”

“So with Brésard in jail, some of your ‘honorable' colleagues may be going down, too. If he talks, they'll probably go easier on him than if he keeps quiet.”

“It's possible. We'll know more over the next few days. The Frenchman's arrest is going to give heartburn to more than a few of them!” Mariola laughed. “But that's not what matters. They caught Artur's murderer. I hope he spends the rest of his life in jail.”

“Well, he hasn't been found guilty yet. They think it's him, but there are more hypotheses than facts at this point.”

“If it wasn't him, who could it have been? No, it had to be Brésard. Artur was a good man no one could ever want to harm.”

Enrique wondered whether he should tell her about the manuscript. Now, with the new perspective, keeping the secret seemed less important. Brésard's guilt changed things. And how could he keep anything from her after what had happened between them not even twenty-four hours before? He thought about it. In truth, he felt very close to her. Perhaps too close given the short period of time that had passed. She was so magnificent, so perfect, so sublime. He had not found a single fault in her, except her slight haughtiness that only made her that much more attractive. What would have been an argument against anyone else actually worked in her favor. Her beauty was beyond question, regardless of the beholder's taste; her mind, razor sharp; her personality, magnetic. Mariola was different from any woman he had ever met. More precisely, she was the diametric opposite of Bety, the only one he had ever really known.

Mariola had swept him away, out of this world. Now it hit him: he thought about her constantly. Even when he was preoccupied with other things—Artur, Carlos, the
manuscript, Bety—she was there before him, present in his mind, floating amid his ideas.

“What are you thinking about?” Mariola asked.

“Nothing in particular, just letting my mind wander over this whole damned story.”

“Come on, tell me, whatever it was. I know it was something specific. I could see it in your face.”

Bety's right. I'm so easy to read!
Enrique thought, and the idea bothered him.

“Actually, I was thinking about you.”

“You're a flatterer, and I don't believe you.”

“I swear.” It was true, but not in the way he had said it. His daydreams were centered on Mariola, but what was really under consideration was whether he should tell her about the manuscript. He didn't mind sharing the secret; he was certain of her discretion, maybe even her help. But he remembered Bety's reaction a few days before all too well, and he didn't want to cause a rift with her. She had come through for him, given him help and consolation, and he felt more confident checking with her before he made any moves, as she had asked, even knowing what her answer would be.

On another note, confessing that he had suspected Samuel, Artur's dearest friend and Mariola's partner, and that he had even authorized an investigation into him, now seemed nothing short of ridiculous. If Samuel found out, it could offend him. Enrique knew that if the shoe were on the other foot, he would definitely be offended, and in the extreme. No, it would be best to keep her out of it, at least for now.

“I don't know if I believe you,” Mariola said after a few seconds' thought.

“Are you sure I'm not telling the truth?”

“No.”

“Then give me the benefit of the doubt,” Enrique said.

Gusts of cool air blew into the square. Mariola shivered, and her eyes sought Enrique's.

“I think it's too late to be out without a wrap,” she said, “and I should get back to the shop.”

“Okay.”

They left the square by the side street that took them back to Baixada de Santa Eulàlia. Mariola kept her body close to his, and Enrique draped his arm around her shoulders in an attempt to keep her warm.

“I'd like to ask you for something,” she said.

“Anything you want.”

“You mentioned Venice earlier.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You may not believe it, but I've never been. I'd like for us to go.”

“We will, if you want. We'll go whenever you want. My editor has the draft of my next novel, and it doesn't need a single touch-up. I have all the time in the world.”

“Soon. We'll do it soon,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. After leaving Mariola in her shop, Enrique had the unbearable feeling of emptiness caused by separation from the person he wanted to be with. He wanted to be with her so badly, he would have even been willing to leave Bety alone at Artur's house. The only reason he didn't was his sense of feeling indebted to his ex-wife. Though she had expressly condoned his new relationship, leaving her alone would have been an affront that no one deserved, especially not her. And so, with contradictory feelings at battle inside him—the sadness of an ugly, painful truth against the happiness of spending time with his love—he headed back to Vallvidrera.

Enrique drove toward the small town. With nightfall, the shoulders of the roads became populated with the parked cars of Barcelona youths, more appreciative of the wonders nature had provided in their companions' bodies than the spectacle of twilight on the mountainside. Enrique felt hurt, sad, and somewhat vulnerable; he was not with Mariola, and Artur's house was not the place to rest with so many mixed emotions churning inside him. But they weren't really emotions, just ghosts, nothing but ghosts. For the first time in his life, he understood the oft-employed literary device: specters of the past. They exist, stalking us, ready to remind us of the inevitable miseries that make up part of our lives, our pasts, our futures. And when they appear, we have to know how to push them aside to keep moving ahead, seeking out the future.

He parked in front of Artur's house. He was in Vallvidrera, embedded on the slopes of Tibidabo, a mountain whose history he knew perfectly thanks to his past as a student of a Salesian school. The entire mountain had belonged to a single family, whose last descendant, Dorotea de Chopitea, donated it to the Salesians on the celebrated occasion of Saint John Bosco's visit to Barcelona. From that point on, the Salesians sold it off in ever-larger lots, almost to its very summit, the order's last redoubt, where an expiatory church commands breathtaking views. It didn't take long for development of the mountain to begin, driven by a powerful bourgeoisie with designs on spending the money they had made from the sweat of thousands of laborers.

A light was on inside; Bety was already home. Sitting in the car, Enrique took a long look at the house. The architecture appeared light, even frail, far from the heavy-looking piles it had for neighbors; it was wedged between three imposing summer
houses built at a time when Tibidabo was a paradise isolated from the city. Artur had commissioned the refurbishment of a discreet structure, of simple but elegant form, with a roomy design based on a single story with an attic apartment on top. The terrace was the centerpiece around which the house was arrayed: spacious and comfortable, built in a curved plan to afford a greater angle of vision. Enrique had to conclude that the plot must have cost Artur a fortune, and the construction, another. And that was money that he could only have come by through illegal means. Enrique had lived there happily for fifteen years, unaware of its story, ignoring reality. He had even been so accustomed to the vast view of his immediate surroundings that he had been unable to elude its influence when he relocated, substituting San Sebastián for Barcelona, and Igueldo for Tibidabo. Because what many dream of, knowing it's impossible, others, driven by experience, fight tirelessly until they achieve. That was what he had done, though he had not realized it until just then. As soon as he got to San Sebastián, he had wanted to soar over the bay, let his imagination go in La Concha's immense perfection, suspended between sky, earth, and sea. And he had done it, thanks to his effort and imagination.

That thought betrayed him. Artur had gone through something similar when he had been banished from his world by the vagaries of history and struggled to survive in a hostile environment. He had fought, and he had won. The house itself was irrefutable proof. For Artur, rising from the ashes came with a price: he broke the law, he smuggled art, the heritage of humankind, with works that, in most cases, would have been left to rot, prey to either the elements or the monetary shortcomings of a church suffering constant financial strife. Enrique, on the other hand, had every advantage. He grew up in the right atmosphere, feeling loved first by his parents, then by Artur. He had never been cold or hungry. There were always arms to comfort him when tears streamed down his face. He was brought up scrupulously, even beyond what was necessary, with
learning made into an entertaining game. The way Artur nurtured him had forged a creative soul.

Had it not been for Artur, he would never have been able to write. Artur encouraged him and supported him financially when, after college, he had declared his interest in literature and worked as a consultant and proofreader, first reader and critic. He owed everything that he was to his adoptive father. Did it make sense to condemn him? More than that: who was he to do it? Mariola had been right: we are no one to criticize, and people are all united in their error-prone ways.