The Antiquarian (42 page)

It didn't take him long to contact certain high-ranking church officials influential enough to keep anyone from denying him the possibility of studying the various engravings and inscriptions that decorated the stones of the building's walls. After his lauded doctoral work on the evolution of ecclesiastic Latin, he was sure he could pull such a favor, as in reality it didn't seem like anything out of the ordinary. Alleging he was at work on a study of the cathedral building would serve as the perfect excuse to access any part of it without arousing any suspicion at all. The secretary of the archbishop of Barcelona told him that his authorization would be ready first thing in the afternoon, when he could address the dean of the cathedral. He had plenty of time to prepare the tools necessary for the investigation: pencils and pens, the Casadevall manuscript, a camera, a flashlight, sandpaper of various grains to clean the stones from the layer of filth deposited over six centuries exposed to the elements, a spray he could use to clean and bring out inscriptions that burins engraved centuries ago, an awl, and a hammer. He would have liked to have included the notebook where he kept his notes on the Stone of God, but Bety had it now. It wasn't that great a loss, as he knew its entire content by heart. But not having it with him disrupted his usual meticulousness.

Fully equipped, he made a timely appearance at the cathedral sacristy at four in the afternoon. He spoke to the dean, outlining his imaginary work plan. Manolo told him he was researching the various architects who had erected the building over the years. He needed, first off, to consult the books of works that detailed the incidents occurring in and around the building from its earliest days to the present. The archive was located over the cloister, and although he had rough ideas of things, he had to contrast them with the most authorized existing document. Later, he would have to check in situ the different seals that the master builders used to mark the stones of their contributions to the works, in order to clarify some of the documentation he was studying. His work
would not interfere in any way with services, nor would temple worshippers or visitors notice him, as it would be done mostly in the galleries, in the triforium, and on the roof of the building. The dean didn't offer much resistance: despite his appearance, Manolo's recommendations were unparalleled. He'd even heard the Bishop himself speak of him, though he hadn't read any of the research the man was so famous for. After just half an hour in the archive, the dean walked Manolo to the stairs that led to the tribunes. There were two: one next to the Sant Iu Portal and another next to the cloister doorway. They began their ascent to the roof of the cathedral through the access near the Sant Iu Portal: it was a narrow, winding stairway with little lighting, with steps worn down from the passage of time. The dean walked with care; he was an elderly man, and apparently not too accustomed to going up and down stairs, as he was unable to hide his labored breathing. He stopped to catch his breath several times, once upon reaching the tribunes, and again at the triforium. Finally, on the roof, and satisfied with the thoroughness of his visitor's cathedral knowledge, he asked Manolo to excuse him. Keeping a complex temple running properly required a great deal of work and dedication, and he was unable to give him all of the necessary attention. If Manolo needed to ask him anything he could find him in the sacristy, where he should check back in when he was finished. Manolo thanked the dean for his assistance and walked him back down to the tribunes where they bid each other good-bye for the time being. The man could never imagine the favor he was doing him! With such freedom of movement, he could do as he pleased without having to justify anything.

Once alone, Manolo sat on one of the benches and took out the plan from a complete tourist guide to the cathedral that he had bought in one of the shops in the cloister. It showed the structure of the temple, from the twenty-eight side chapels to a projection of the vaults, with their keystones, and the arch spans of the vaults of the
main nave and aisles. He looked through a small blank notebook he had brought to jot things down, and made a peculiar diagram with several circles interconnected by arrows. Under it, he wrote the following caption: “The Tree of Life, a kabbalistic illustration reflecting the connections among the different sephirot.” Excited, he smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. He had always dreamed of finding the place, and without the Casadevall manuscript it would have been impossible. And without all those studies of the Jewish religion and Kabbalah, he wouldn't have been able to find it in a building as big and impressive as this. But now he knew he would find it in the Kingdom of God, and when his eyes saw the mark corresponding to the Kingdom, he would have found it. And with this as his goal, he got to work.

Three hours later, Manolo returned to his starting point. In his study of the cathedral, he had been through all of the areas where he thought his destiny might be found, to no avail. The floors of the tribunes, as well as their roofs, which corresponded to the floors of the triforium, gave negative results. He studied them carefully; even though he didn't expect to find it there, he couldn't rule anything out, even if it was irrational. He found nothing. The roof of the cathedral, on which so many of his hopes were riding, rendered the same results. The old stones of the cathedral were marked with the seals of several masters of works, but none matched what he needed to find to confirm his hypothesis. Bewildered, as he had thought his reasoning foolproof, he felt hopeless. Something was wrong, that much was clear; it had to be a triviality, a meaningless detail, something obvious, so much so that he could have overlooked it, the typical trifle that would cause hilarity and amazement in equal doses once he discovered it. It was frustrating. He had always stood out for his analytical capability, and he was sure there was a mistake in some part of his reasoning.

He tried to refocus his thoughts, start the information collection and structuring process anew, but he came to the same conclusions. “That's logical. The error can't be there. But if it isn't there, where the hell is it?”

He took out the master builder's manuscript and thumbed through its pages until finding the spot he was looking for. He read the key passage, the one that concealed the complex structure in which he, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón, had found the key to locating the Stone of God, hidden for two thousand five hundred years. It was crystal clear. There could be no other interpretation: there had to be a sign, a distinctive mark, an imprint, a symbol that confirmed it. He put the manuscript into his satchel, with the rest of the papers and materials, and went back up to the roof of the cathedral. There he wandered aimlessly, his mind emptied, in the attempt for his subconscience to solve the puzzle. His steps guided him over the roof deliberately domed to accommodate the pressure of the arches and the shape of the vaults to the point where he thought the solution should reside: the vault closed by the fourth keystone, situated above the choir, the seal and closure of which would have been the work of Casadevall himself. Nothing. There was nothing there. He meticulously went back over each stone, one by one, letting his fingertips graze along them in search of any indentation that could conceal even the slightest sign of the desired mark covered by the filth of six centuries. He came up empty-handed. He walked to the cross, set atop the fourth keystone, that of the presbytery, and sat down on the ancient stone. His determination was sunk and he'd lost faith in soon finding a solution to the enigma.

The twilight, red and gold in its entirety thanks to several elongated and furtive clouds in the blue Barcelona sky, populated the roof of the cathedral with sharp shadows. With nightfall, he would be forced to come down from the heights, to postpone his search for at least a few hours. It may have been best: the night can be a
good adviser, able to reactivate and energize a mind exhausted by the efforts of constant concentration. Several minutes went by: the starlings, as on every spring evening, frolicked through the air, excited by an irrepressible impulse, brimming with energy. Manolo watched the black shapes gliding through space, fantastic and astonishing as they darted and dodged. The formation spread out behind its leader: up, down, forward, back. Thousands of birds followed a single tiny spot whose banking maneuvers tested its flock's reflexes. With his back resting against the cross, Manolo's eyes relaxed with the graceful flight of the birds. He felt his mind drift off, in time to the rhythmic movement. Completely disengaged, far from this world, a sudden sharp turn caused the enormous flock to completely change its direction. The lead starling had made a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, and the rest of the murmuration was slow to react; even though it took less than a split second, it would have been plain to anyone bird-watching. One second this way, another way the next, a difference insignificant to the rest of the world—except Manolo. Intuition struck his mind with unprecedented force. He got up and walked to the fourth vault, where he stopped to snatch out his notebook in a single move. He raced through the pages, tempering his excitement as best he could, until he came to the diagram of the Tree of Life. The idea was as absurd as he had imagined, so much so that it was logical to ignore it, to overlook it even as a possibility. Up to then, he had acted according to logical reasoning: Casadevall had rebuilt the fourth vault, and it seemed reasonable that it be there, exactly there, where the Stone would be hidden, in the Kingdom of God, as the manuscript said. The keystone of the arch had the same position as was occupied by the Kingdom of God in the kabbalistic figure known as the Tree of Life. If that were not coincidence enough, the language used by Casadevall in the manuscript, at first glance banal, clearly pointed
in that direction. That was the theory Manolo had been forced to reconsider, without discovering any new alternative. Until now.

Manolo remembered the words of his old professor: “Simplicity is the researcher's first rule. Never look for complex or involved structures, no matter how attractive they may seem, unless you've already discarded the simpler options. Complexity is to be avoided, because it distracts the researcher's spirit and numbs their imagination.” In this case, the solution to the mystery of the site was the right one. It had to be. There was no other plausible explanation. It was the only one the manuscript pointed to. The error was only due to his own perception, distracted as he had been by a factor outside the solution to the problem that seemed to coincide with it: no, Casadevall had not hidden the Stone over the fourth vault of the cathedral's nave. The Stone was up there, and its place was as had been imagined, but as had been imagined by Casadevall, not the pathetic, confused and absent-minded Manolo. It was all so simple! All he had to do was mentally enlarge the kabbalistic figure, and then …

He calmly walked to the right place: he had dreamt of this moment a thousand and one nights, and now, he was sure of it, he had at last cracked the enigma. The shadows, darker now, kept Manolo from seeing little more than the outlines of shapes. He shone his flashlight into the space, and didn't take long to spot the symbol he was looking for. Eyes closed, he ran his fingers over the old sign, over the past itself, over the mark that Casadevall had cut with his own hands, as he could trust no one else, so many years ago. The symbol—the letter, for that's what it was—was still perfectly distinguishable to anyone who knew its meaning.

He shouted victoriously to the open sky and thousands of starlings, with his fists clenched and his face turned toward the stars. The birds sounded their call. A smile of joy spread across his face. He took the hammer and awl from his bag, ready to chisel
out the Stone, despite the growing darkness. He examined the site: a compact block, affixed to its neighbors with mortar. A tactile inspection of the Stone revealed a tiny groove running all the way across its face, something the surrounding stones lacked. He was not sure where to begin, or whether to separate the Stone from the place where it lay or penetrate the odd groove, which he was sure had much to do with the mystery. He placed the awl over the mortar between the stones and tapped it with the hammer. The traffic on Via Layetana did more than its share to drown what little noise he made. He put his tools aside to shine the flashlight on the groove and examine his progress. A whitish nick told him that the task would not be overly difficult, but it would not be a matter of minutes, either. To top it off, it was impossible to hold the flashlight and tools at the same time, and the irregular surface of the roof didn't allow him to set the light down anywhere it would be stable. This was unfortunate, because the late hour would keep his activity from drawing attention. He couldn't work on the Stone in broad daylight; he would be forced bide his time until the next evening, when the lengthening shadows of a new twilight would conceal his activity. Given the late hour, the dean could come for him at any minute and catch him red-handed. Disappointed, he gathered up his papers and tools, and made his way toward the stairs to the ground floor of the cathedral.

On his descent, Manolo went to the triforium and looked down. The temple was empty. It closed its doors to the public promptly at nine o'clock, and it was now twenty minutes past. Most of the lights in the nave were off, and the magnificent Catalan Gothic rose up before him—partly sober, partly somber—starkly different from what visitors to the cathedral saw. The only lights on were those of the stained glass windows, oriented outward, and others in the various chapels. The entire ensemble, viewed from Manolo's privileged perch, had taken on peculiar nuances that awoke in
him a vague stirring. He had never imagined how solitary and impressive the temple could appear, completely vacant, stripped of its purpose, emptied of the souls it was meant to save. It had been transformed, the veils that once concealed it, and what it had been in the fourteenth century, were removed: the house of an inflexible, rigid god, who condemned anyone who ventured from the straight and narrow path to eternal damnation. A dark temple for a dark time and yet, perfect and sublime.