The last of the group was middle-aged, in his early forties, and dressed with sublime exquisiteness. He was tall, with jet-black hair that he wore combed back with gel. His lips were thin but endowed with a refined sensuality. He had green eyes and a nose of perfect dimensions. Dressed in an immaculate blue wool suit and a stylish white shirt, he wore a garnet ascot under his chin and black, monk-strap shoes. He was a man fully cognizant of how attractive he was, inside and out: a seducer. His voice carried the three men’s conversation, and of course, he was the first to speak.
“Artur, old friend, always so wrapped up in your business! Or should I say pleasure?”
“You’re right. To me, and I’d say to you too, all this is not just business, but genuine pleasure,” answered the shop owner with a smile. “Come on up, my friends. Today, I’ll show you a blend I think you’ll find extraordinary: equal parts of mocha, Colombian and Turkish coffees, with just a splash of well-aged cognac.”
“Perhaps we should postpone until you’ve had something to eat,” the youngest of the three timidly offered.
“I won’t hear of it, Enric. Old men like Samuel,” he started, pointing to the second visitor, “and I don’t need to eat as much as you youngsters. Come on up, and get ready to discover something new.”
The three men settled in around the small study table while Artur opened the door of a confessional that took up an entire wall of the ancient building. A result of an old inside joke, it had been outfitted with a complete set of kitchenware, china, and a liquor cabinet featuring bottles of the finest and most renowned liqueurs. Once a week, each taking turns in their own shop, the four antiquarians treated each other to an after-lunch blend of select coffees and liqueurs, in something of an unspoken competition meant to discover the most savory combination possible. The contest, such as it was, was merely a pretext to gather and enjoy each other’s company. The coffee did not take long to brew. Its conspicuous aroma floated into the study and melded with the scent of the incense, which, though it had gone out hours earlier, still lingered and formed part of the shop’s trademark ambience. Artur served his blend in a seventeenth-century coffee set, invaluable pieces of Sèvres porcelain, adorned with bucolic motifs. He placed the tray on the table and pulled up his chair, with the aid—despite his repeated protests—of the ever-accommodating Enric. Artur served several drops of cognac from an old decanter of Venetian cut glass. They sipped their coffee in silence.
“So, what do you think?” asked Artur.
“Superb,” answered Guillem. “I can honestly say I’ve never tasted better.”
“For once, and without wishing to set a precedent, I agree with our usually overstated friend: this blend is truly exceptional,” added Samuel. “Artur, my dear friend, today you’ve outdone yourself. And lest we forget, last week Enric’s blend was among the best I’ve ever had.”
“How about you, Enric? What do you think?” Artur asked expectantly.
“Delicious,” he answered, pouring himself another cup. “It looks as if you’re a step ahead of us in this, too.”
“So Artur, tell us: what’s so important that it made you forget our little gathering?” asked Guillem. “As far as I can recall, it’s the first time something like this has happened in the past two years.”
“There’s nothing special about it. Like I said, it was just the love for my work. I was sorting through the manuscripts and books of my latest acquisition. That’s what made it slip my mind. And it was only a slight slip, wasn’t it? After all, you can’t say I didn’t surprise you with my succulent blend.”
“Gentlemen,” said Guillem, standing and doffing an imaginary hat, “let us salute the old master. He has astonished us yet again.”
The friends laughed in unison. This was vintage Guillem, always spontaneous and cheerful.
“So Artur, was it a big lot?” inquired Enric.
“It was. It comprised all the furnishings, including a fabulous library of some five hundred volumes, from an old mansion near Ripoll that belonged to the Bergués family. We moved it all down here last Tuesday, and I’ve already started appraising the furniture. Does the family name ring any bells?”
The three men looked at one another, concentrating not just to answer Artur’s question, but to take part in a new game that put their own professional mettle to the test. Samuel was the only one to pipe up.
“I seem to remember that surname having to do with the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. A family that belonged to the budding bourgeoisie of the time, they eventually purchased a title. Honorable citizens. Did they have something to do with “La Biga”—you know, those families who controlled business and politics in Barcelona back then?”
“Your memory is, as always, prodigious,” Artur said, smiling at Samuel’s display. “Yes, they started out as builders, architects. But in the mid-sixteenth century they changed their primary activity and began importing salt-cured foods. They continued doing this until the end of the eighteenth century, when the main part of the family found itself without direct descendants, although there were a few ‘indirects’ who held a certain influence on Catalan civil society. In the end, their fortune dwindled, and they scattered into rural properties of little standing throughout the principality.”
“If that’s the case, you must have found yourself a nice piece or two,” said Guillem, without concealing his burgeoning interest.
“Yes. The furnishings are from later periods, especially the eighteenth century, and have been kept in fine shape. They won’t be too expensive to restore, and I think they’ll sell quite well. The best part is a collection of document chests and wardrobe trunks that are just beautiful. But aside from the furniture, what is exceptionally attractive about this lot are the books from the library. It’s a huge collection, with two incunabula in fairly decent condition. The rest of the library is nothing to sniff at either, though the value of the books will have more to do with what’s inside them than their covers.”
Artur now kept deliberately quiet, focusing on properly stirring a small sugar cube in his demitasse. He relished in the gentle grate of metal over the delicate porcelain, as much as or more than he did the expectation his silence caused.
“My old friend, you do enjoy torturing your guests,” interjected Samuel, winking at him. “Anyone of even the slightest sensibilities wouldn’t keep such a silence on purpose, unless he had a trump card up his sleeve.”
“Fine! You’ve caught me!” The host grinned mischievously. “Making his friends suffer—friends who are his competitors, no less—is one of the autumnal pleasures of this poor old man. Listen, the books run the gamut, and as a collection could even be called common. What surprised me was one of the document chests, which I think hadn’t been opened in years, packed with different works on religious themes, though not all of them Catholic. I’d say the owners of the library played the field when it came to religious philosophy.”
“Played the field? You’ve uncovered the books of a converted Jew? A conspiring Freemason?” questioned Guillem.
“There are not enough volumes to consider them a representative corpus on religious matters. The most significant part are some manuscript translations of old Arabic, Greek, Latin and—this will interest you especially, Samuel—Hebrew tracts. Some are on magic, the occult, catechism; others are partial translations of the Koran or the Talmud. Also, inside the trunk I found another smaller chest locked with a key. It contained several handwritten letters from different periods, all from the Casadevall family, and what appears to be some sort of diary.”
“Casadevall?”
“That’s right. Do you know that name too, Samuel?”
“Well, it seems I remember a Casadevall, centuries prior to the Berguéses, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what they did.”
“What about you two?”
Enric and Guillem looked at each other and shook their heads.
“The first known Casadevall, and the one these papers refer to, was an assistant to the
master builders who constructed the cathedral at the end of the fourteenth century. Most of the letters are about everyday affairs, but they still give us intriguing insights into the family’s goings-on. I’ve only analyzed a quarter of these letters, but I’m hoping to find a manuscript from one of the older ancestors.”
“Sounds like quite a mishmash,” Guillem cut in. “Would you mind telling us how on earth you always manage to come up with these treasures?”
“Ah, my friend, that’s the only professional secret that can’t be given away,” Artur answered, smiling. “Everything else can be learned, but not revealing your sources is as sacred to us as it is to journalists, or confessors, if you’ll allow the comparison, considering the circumstances.”
“Come on, Artur! The last four or five lots of any worth to come onto the market have fallen into your hands, and the only one that got away was snatched up by this old Jew. It used to be,” he said, pointing at Samuel, “you were on par with the rest of the antiques dealers, maybe a notch above, but since you’ve partnered up with Mariola Puigventós, you been getting closer and closer to becoming the god of Barcelona antiquarians, sitting here before us, and soon neither of you will stoop to fraternize with us poor little mortals. At this rate, soon I’ll be selling old pinewood trunks, which will not allow me to afford my fabulously rakish lifestyle. Enric,” he said, looking directly at his young colleague, “I think the best thing we can do is to get out of antiques and into the restoration business. I hear it’s booming.”
“This old Jew respectfully suggests that you don’t spend so much money going out at night. That way you could spend your mornings cultivating your contacts.”
“Oh please, Samuel! If I didn’t go out nights, I’d have no ‘contacts’ at all!”
They all laughed again. The truth was that Guillem’s shop was also among the most frequently patronized by decorators and antiques buffs, and Guillem himself was an outstanding and extremely refined professional. It could be said that the four men were among the elite in the Barcelona antiquarian community: competent, instinctive, and erudite.
“Well, Artur, I’m dying to know more. You said some of the books were manuscript translations from other languages. Do you have any of them here?” Samuel asked.
“Yes, I was just working on them. I have the books I’ve already classified at home in Vallvidrera—maybe two thirds of the total. Here on the table in the study are the ones I have left to classify, and the ones that really caught my eye after a first glance. Look,” he said, as he got up and walked to the large worktable, and all followed suit, “here they are. The ones on the right I’ve already looked at. The rest are waiting to reenter the world after their long exile.”
On the table sat some of the old books salvaged from oblivion by the grace and effort of a family in need of money, and an old bookseller seeking to understand the past through the legacy of bygone generations. Small and large, some in good condition and others on the verge of disintegrating in the hands of a careless reader, all had waited patiently over the years for someone to open their covers and peruse their contents. And of all the men who could have reached them, few would have done so with Artur’s tenderness and devotion. With great respect and care, the four men surrounded the table, joined in a rapt silence, owing as much to their being antiquarians who might be looking on one-of-a-kind pieces as to what the volumes represented. They were friends because they shared the same passions, chiefly their love of books. Old books were, in themselves and regardless of their value, inestimable things to be safeguarded against an uncertain future. The men leisurely glanced over the different tomes, making summary analyses of their characteristics.
“Look, Sophismata, by Paulus Venetus. And this one, a Torah dated 1654,” said Guillem.
“A copy of Ars Generalis, by Llull, undated. From the binding, I’d say it’s a reprint from the mid-seventeenth century,” mused Samuel
Guillem picked up another. “On the Truth of the Catholic Faith, translation to the vernacular of the Latin manuscript with this title, written by Saint Thomas Aquinas, a direct copy of the Nicolas Jensen edition, from 1480.”
The men discussed other titles out loud, except for Enric, who kept to himself throughout the scholarly banter. He stood to one side, giving all his attention to one of the books among those in the best condition. He was about to place his hands on it when Guillem, joking around, clapped him on the back.
“Well, well, well! What is it that’s caught your eye, my good man? It wouldn’t be that book there by any chance, would it?” He reached down toward the book.
Enric’s hand hesitated an instant over the cover and over the hand of his fellow antiquarian, as if to cut off his initial movement and keep Guillem from picking up the book. But he was surprised to find himself withdrawing it to clasp his other hand, yielding to Guillem’s initiative. Guillem took the book, remarked that it lacked a title, and set to assessing its characteristics.
“Let’s see, a calfskin binding over Gothic-style boards, decorated with blind fillets and rolled borders of tiny heads inside ovals. Meticulous work, a thing to behold. Let’s look inside. An undated manuscript. Written in Latin in very crooked handwriting, and look at all of these notes in the margins throughout much of the text. My Latin isn’t great, but at first glance, it doesn’t look like anything out of the ordinary. By the way, I don’t recognize the text at all. Do you know what it’s about?” he asked Enric.
“No, what caught my attention is that it’s in such good shape. Let me see it.”
Guillem handed him the book and turned to contemplate another manuscript. Artur and Samuel approached Enric, and together they began to translate several passages.
“Let’s see, let’s see.” Artur came closer, pushing his glasses up his nose toward his brow. “You’ve found the handwritten diary. In fact, I’ve already taken some notes on this one.”
“Classical Latin; the handwriting looks like that of a learned person, probably an ecclesiastic,” added Samuel. “Look at this.” He pointed to the curved strokes of the endings of several letters. “Possibly from the end of the fourteenth century, maybe the fifteenth.”
“They look like notes on someone’s activities,” Enric volunteered. “Look at this one: ‘Meeting between the master and the bishop.’ And this looks like the list of matters they were to discuss.”
“Or this one,” said Guillem, “‘New stones to arrive from Segur quarry.’ That tells us more about whoever wrote this, probably a master builder or his assistant.”
“How about this? ‘Meeting with representatives of religious orders,’” said Enric.
“Look, most of the side notes are in Old Catalan—or they seem to be; there aren’t many words you can read clearly, but there’s no doubt about it. Look here.” Samuel pointed to an example, after leafing through a number pages.
“It looks like the notes only begin as of a certain date,” said Guillem.
“Well, well! You all appear to be taken with that one. It’s ‘the Casadevall manuscript,’ that’s what I’m calling it. As for the notes, it looks like, centuries after it was first written, someone went back over and worked on the text. I’d already noticed that, though I hadn’t gotten as far as you.”
“The notes appear to name the Casadevall family frequently,” added Enric after skipping over several pages. “The name is in several places, and the capital C’s may refer to them.”
Samuel turned some more pages. Artur stopped him at one, ostensibly at random, though the quickness of his gesture suggested otherwise.
“Yes, yes, it’s true,” said Samuel, no longer caring about the translation. “And it’s clear that whoever wrote the notes is not the same person as the original author. The handwriting is completely different, possibly from another era altogether. Look at the uppercase F’s, and the endings of the s’s and the t’s. Intriguing.” He suddenly jumped forward several pages. “Looks like you’ve found a toy to while away your free time.”
“S
top there, Samuel, right there.” Artur pointed to a page where a bookmark had been inserted. “Listen, everyone. If I told you this lot was something exceptional, it’s because of this manuscript—specifically, that very spot. I’ve underlined it in pencil.”
“‘… the location of the object is, unto itself, a mystery to be kept under the exclusive responsibility of this master … ,’” translated Samuel.
“Curious thing to say, don’t you think?” asked Artur.
“What makes you say that? Have you come upon some hidden secret?”
“For now let’s just say that I’ve found a chance to return to that past that I so cherish. This manuscript is going to give me the entertainment we old folks need, which you hinted at earlier.”
Samuel closed the manuscript and offered it to its owner.
“Well, you’ll have time to read it from start to finish, as I’m sure you’ll do right away.”
“In fact, you’ve all seen that I’ve already made some notes, just a rough draft, but I find it attractive enough to keep working on it over the weekend.” Artur lowered his glasses down to the tip of his nose as he took the diary from his friend. “I’m curious to see what I can get out of it.”
“In your hands, I have no doubt it will give up everything it has to give,” said Enric.
“Artur, I envy your good luck,” concluded Guillem. “Not only do you have a singular piece in your hands, but you got it without even realizing it. And I can only imagine what other hidden treasures await you in these stacks. Oh, Lord!” He raised his hands skyward. “Why do you protect only the chosen few?”
“Okay, okay,” Artur said with a grin, “heaven only smiles on me. But it’s high time I opened the shop. And it would be nice to get something to eat first. Allow me to kindly show you the door. I’ll see you all next week.”
He walked with his three guests out onto the street, and locked up the shop.
“Well, gentlemen, I’m going for a bite at the Bar del Pi before I open. Next Friday is Samuel’s turn. I’ll see you there. By the way, Samuel, could you walk with me to the bar? I’d like to talk to you about something.”
The Antiquarian Page 2