The Antiquarian

by Julián Sánchez

  He prepared to read its content closely. The long letters his father sent were wonderful things: intelligent reads with just the right balance of culture and gossip to satisfy a discerning reader. Factoring in the natural affection Enrique felt for him, nothing could keep him from devoting all his concentration to the letter and staving off the drowsiness that threatened to overtake him. Enrique always thought that his father should have been a writer, but Artur answered that his world was the past, and the past interested no one. The only thing that truly satisfied him was his work as a historian and bibliophile, and for that there could be nothing better than what he did.

  Dear Godson,

  First, forgive me for being so tardy in answering your last letter. You sent it long ago, and as is custom, the blend of laziness toward my personal affairs and a heavy workload typical of those who love what we do are to blame. I should say, as you well know, our relationship is much more interesting and enriching than could be expected from a mere family tie, and that despite that, I couldn’t help but break my promise to answer your missives in less than three or four months. I hope you will excuse me as I promise that such a long delay has occurred for the first, and I hope the last, time. By the way, let me reaffirm my intention to stay true to the written word, above and beyond the modern trappings of electronic mail, the handiness of which is beyond all doubt, but that along with other similar things will, most certainly, eventually do away with anything that is special or distinct in life. So get used to the idea of living with these remains from a majestic past that survive even in these times of mediocrity that so-called modernity is bringing upon us.

  But let’s change the subject and forget the peeves of the undersigned, who loves you so.

  In your letter you included an outline—too detailed, by the way, to be called that—of the plot and characters of your most recent novel. I found your choice of subject matter very intriguing, definitely original, and not excessively dealt with previously: “… exploring the relationship of a couple living together, despite being interested in different things, and analyzing their feelings and reactions as if they were experimental laboratory animals.” Interesting. Curious, even.

  Do you really think you could fiddle around with some characters and pull such a thing off? Playing about this way with topics you have no expertise in is a folly that only a naive mind, little-trained and with obvious structural limitations such as yours, could be so bold as to try. Such recklessness could have only one result: disaster. You have never stood out for your intelligence when it has come to establishing and maintaining personal relationships—I mean romantic relationships, of course. Do you really intend to explore a universe unknown to you? Your specialty is doing whatever it takes to ruin everything, not the opposite. (By the way, how’s Bety? Have you heard from her?) So your intention to make a constructive, objective analysis of a couple seems to me difficult, if not impossible. If your editor has given you carte blanche to delve into such a subject matter, I am sure he’s as crazy as you … or that he owes you too much to deny your every whim.

  I picture you seated before your computer, in a contrived attempt to create a plot that catches the reader’s attention, and what comes to my mind are the expeditions led by the valiant (though they were little more than a motley crew of killers bent on rape and pillage) New World explorers from the early sixteenth century: not the ones who achieved their aims like Pizarro, Cortés, or Jiménez de Quesada, but the others, like Dortal, Ordás, Dalfinger, Federmann, and Benalcázar—remember those stories you loved for me to tell you when you were just a boy?—who failed. They had no idea where they were going, and their ignorance led them, by several days’ march, to miss their intended target and end up in lands devoid of anything of profit, where they found every imaginable disaster, and ultimately, the one final destiny that we all share. Yes, you will search, but you will not find your destination, simply because it is not within your reach.

  Still, another explanation for your outrageous project does occur to me. Is it not something personal? Are you not airing out your problems, your own personal miseries, turning what should be a simple literary exercise into a justification or exploration of your personal woes? It wouldn’t surprise me at all, given your natural inclination to self-vindication. You’ve always been too indulgent with yourself. I’ve been telling you that since you were old enough to understand what the words meant. What’s more, if you didn’t wallow so much in what you were, instead of exploring what you could be, I am sure that your place in the literary world would take a qualitative leap that would surprise critics and the public alike. Instead, you are settling for being a good writer in the midst of other good writers, but still so distant from the literary greats.

  I don’t know at what point this letter will find you. You’ve probably already finished your work, and my prognosis will prove wrong, something that would thrill me to no end; however, in the worst scenario, it will prove true. If that is the case, I hope to have helped you as much as I did when you landed in Barcelona with your second manuscript—or was it the third? I’m losing my memory in old age—for us to revise together. Let me know as soon as possible; don’t follow the example of this forgetful, absentminded old fool.

  Let’s put our literary affairs aside to move on to more mundane matters. I wanted to tell you that four months ago I was appointed vice president of the Antiquarians’ Association of Barcelona. They had been trying to get me to accept the post for years, and I had refused time and again. As you know, I’ve never been fond of having my picture up on the wall or holding pompous (and worthless) titles. But lately the state of the association has taken a turn for the worse, especially regarding its capacity for adaptation to modern times. The market can’t absorb the offering that we old dealers have as well as that of the wave of new antiquarians who have recently set up shop in the area. So many shops have opened down there lately that La Palla is starting to look like a Turkish bazaar. These shops have every indication of being fronts for another activity that I’d rather not mention, but I have no choice. Rumor has it that they launder money from illegal activities, and it’s better not to conjecture further about it, so as to keep from discovering too much unpleasantness.

  The shops are so well-manicured on the outside but poorly tended on the inside that I cannot believe they belong to new colleagues recently introduced into the antiques world in which, as you’re well aware, we all know each other. Therefore, and as a provisional measure, I agreed to take the open post on the association’s board of directors, with the intention of finding out as much as possible about the people and investors behind the new shops. Old man Puigventós insisted that I was just right for the job, owing to my “experience, skill, and contacts”; the last being far more valuable than the former two, no doubt. He may be right, but I’m less than thrilled.

  For now, my investigations haven’t revealed anything. I’m sure you remember Captain Fornells, that conceited old card I used to run around with in my student days, and who now works in the Raval Precinct. Well, Fornells hasn’t managed to make any inroads either, despite his many contacts. And if he can’t do it, we’ll have to appeal to higher powers because it seems obvious that this is more than just a neighborhood gang. Fornells discussed the case with some people at the Financial Crimes Unit down at police headquarters. I gave them all the information available on the new shops, and they promised to make the “relevant inquiries.” I’ll let you in on something: except for Fornells and a couple of fellow old-school police, our new law enforcement leadership is made up of nothing but a bunch of bureaucrats who are all photocopies of each other, as much in the way they talk as in the way they act: they say the same things and they dress the same way. Let’s hope that their investigation is successful and allows us to unmask the newcomers before any untoward filth taints our old profession.

  My dear godson, I must stop here. Don’t forget to write soon. Your letters are, and I mean this with all my heart, a true source of joy fo
r this old antiquarian.

  Yours,

  Artur

  P.S.: I am writing this several days after finishing the letter, on my way to send it. Just a few days ago I purchased a lot that includes all the contents of an old, noble mansion belonging to a historic Catalan clan, the Bergués family. I’ve found something unbelievable in their library, something that could surpass even a mad antiquarian’s expectations. I can’t tell you anything until I’ve determined what it is, until I’ve made sure that it’s not just the imagination of an old man, and that the foundation of it proves true. For some reason I can’t understand, I’m uneasy. For the first time in many years, I feel I’m in over my head. Should anything happen to me—who knows, one of those funny illnesses that befall us old folk, a heart attack or anything of the sort—I recommend you read The Practice of Christian Perfection, volume one. It contains all the information necessary to continue my work. You’ll find it in the library of my shop.

  I don’t know why I’m adding this—as if anything were going to happen to me! How silly I am!

  A big, heartfelt hug.

  Enrique finished the letter with a smile on his face. As always, Artur’s comments were as accurate as his humor was subtle. He had not been able to bring his novel under control with the original plot idea. Enrique had wasted a lot of time before realizing that the work he’d done was of little quality, cohesion, or interest, and he had been forced to start over with a simple outline of the topic, as his godfather had indicated. The time he would have saved if he had received the letter earlier! There could be no doubt: Artur knew him all too well, much better than many parents knew their children. And he probably loved him even better than he knew him.

  But if anything piqued Enrique’s curiosity, it was the end of the letter: What could the mysterious discovery be? It must have been huge, as he had never known his adoptive father’s self-control to falter as much as it had in his postscript. “Should anything happen to me …” Happen to him? He could understand that, having made a discovery of certain import, Artur was afraid of dying before getting to the bottom of it. Time did march on, but his health was fine, and he was not so old as to believe that the end was near. The finding must have been very special for Artur to harbor such fears. Curiosity about the mystery normally would have ignited his writer’s imagination, always ready to take in unlikely stories and situations, but Enrique was too tired to make anything of it for the moment.

  After reading the postscript, Enrique left the pages of the letter on the sink. He had been in the water quite a while, and it was starting to cool off. He got out of the bathtub and was drying himself with an oversized towel when the phone rang. He was tired enough to ignore it, but his answering machine was off, and whoever was calling was being persistent. He picked up after the tenth ring and sat down on the sofa.

  The sun lit the room with warm golden rays. A familiar voice—loved, loathed, and, despite himself, missed—spoke immediately.

  “Enrique? Are you there? I finally caught you!”

  “Hi, Bety.” His fatigue from sailing was compounded by the tedium of having to talk to her. “What’s going on?”

  “Where were you?” The female voice did not disguise a nasty mood. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days!”

  “What does it matter where I’ve been?” answered Enrique. He barely had any contact with his ex. There were no children to warrant them keeping up any sort of bond, and although they still said hello and good-bye when they happened to meet in public, to the extent that it was possible, each tried to do without the other.

  “Don’t give me that. If I’m calling you it’s not to relive one of those mindless conversations we were so good at when we lived together.”

  “I don’t know what you could say that might possibly interest me,” Enrique began, helpless against starting down the runaway track to another fight.

  There was nothing in the world he wanted less than to argue with Bety, but since their separation it had been impossible for him to control himself. The bitterness accumulated by a separation rooted in his inability to understand her was greater than his desire to want her for a friend, not to mention a partner.

  “Listen, Enrique, I was going to break this to you gently, but I see you’re still at war with yourself and everyone else, so I’ll get to the point. Artur’s dead.”

  Bety’s news—hard, dry, and final—stunned Enrique, who, his mouth open in surprise, was unable to answer. A long silence ensued, until she broke it.

  “Enrique? Are you okay?”

  Enrique did not answer. He was standing next to the picture window, facing the bay, his gaze cast somewhere over the distant mountains. He was unable to find the words; in fact, he doubted they even existed.

  “Enrique? Enrique?” Bety insisted, worried.

  “Yes …” He left the word hanging there, incapable of adding anything else.

  “I … Forgive me; it didn’t come out like I had planned, but you know there are things I can’t stand. I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

  “Don’t worry, I understand. I … The thing is …” He could not concentrate. His mind was on the postscript he had read not even ten minutes ago. Artur, dead! How? When? He thought back to the letter and shuddered to think of his father’s clairvoyance; that “if anything should happen to me.” How many times had they both laughed at the world of premonitions, the supernatural, the occult!

  “Enrique, I know how you feel. I know what your love and your friendship with Artur meant to you. If you want, call me later. I’ll be at home.”

  “No, no, tell me how it happened.”

  “They’re not sure. They saw the shop closed in the morning, but they didn’t think anything of it. But seeing it still closed in the afternoon seemed odd. Samuel Horowitz looked in through the window and saw his body lying dead on that old altar. He apparently fell from the loft. They called the police, and opened the shop, but didn’t let anyone in. But Enrique, that’s not the worst part.”

  Bety stopped, unsure of how to keep telling Enrique what had happened.

  “It’s not?”

  “No. Artur was murdered.”

  “Good god,” murmured Enrique, his mind reeling.

  Bety felt bad about giving him the news the way she had. She knew that, however she told him, the end result would be exactly the same, because Enrique loved his adoptive father more than most people loved their birth parents. She wished she could have told him in a way that was less traumatic, less painful.

  “Maybe it’s better if I tell you in person,” offered Bety with the hope of somehow being useful.

  “Yeah, fine. Come over if you want.”

  “It’s number 36, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll be there in, say, twenty minutes. Hang in there. I’ll be right over.”

  Enrique did not respond. A few seconds passed. The busy signal on the phone brought him back to earth. He finished drying off and put on clean, casual clothes. He couldn’t think clearly. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind in a burst of wild hypotheses that he tried to debunk, only to see them immediately replaced by others. He opened a bottle of chocolate milk and sat sipping it on the balcony, wishing this would all turn out to be a bad dream, a stupid nightmare brought on by lack of sleep and his fertile imagination—just a dream that gave life to his most deeply hidden fears. But he had not been asleep. The sun, now shrouded by a thin sea mist, did little to warm the air. But Enrique could not even feel the chilly touch of the northern wind.

  The doorbell brought him out of his bitter daydreams. He opened the door: Bety stood there, beautiful as ever. The same long golden hair, the same little bangs on her forehead; her big, green eyes barely made up save for a dash of eyeliner to highlight them; her full lips; the elegant oval of her face; her soft, olive skin. She was dressed as smartly as ever, in a designer pantsuit. She was wearing heels, which was very unusual for her, so she looked taller. Whatever the circumstances, as Enrique already knew
, she always shone.

  “Hello, Enrique.” Her voice caressed her host as she hugged him.

  “Hi,” he managed, distracted, effortlessly enveloping the body that had always fanned his desire, but toward which today he was indifferent.

  “Aren’t you going to let me in?” Spoken in another tone, it would have been an invitation to do battle. But the way she said it, it was a warm and sincere peace offering.

  “Of course, excuse me. I’m a little … I don’t know … out of it, disoriented.”

  “Here, dry your tears.” She handed him a handkerchief.

  “What tears?” asked Enrique, bewildered, until he realized that he had been crying. Bety took charge immediately. She closed the door and walked Enrique to the living room, where they sat.

  “This is a beautiful apartment,” she remarked with admiration. “You must be doing well to afford it.”

  “Well, I can’t complain. The last book sold pretty well, you know about that—a critically acclaimed bestseller.”

  “Did you decorate it yourself?” she asked, looking at the accumulation of fine old wooden furniture matched in perfect harmony with other newer pieces.

  “Yes. It took me a while to find what I wanted, but I did it myself.”

  “Delicate and exquisite. Do you have anything to drink?” Bety wanted to get to the real conversation instead of wasting time with small talk, but she didn’t know how.

  “Yes. Well, no. You know, there are some bottles of juice and some milk in the fridge, but that’s it.”

  “That’s good enough for me. It’s too early for anything else. Where … ?”

  “That door there,” instructed Enrique. “You relax. I’ll get it.”

  “No, you won’t,” she ordered with authority. “You stay sitting right there. I’ll be right back.”

  True to her word, Bety was back in seconds with a glass of pineapple juice. While she was poking around in the refrigerator for a juice she liked, she had tried in vain to figure out how to let him know she wanted to help him. She wasn’t surprised; on the drive from her house she hadn’t been able to come up with anything either. She came back to the living room, took a seat next to Enrique, and waited patiently for him to take the initiative.