The Antiquarian

by Julián Sánchez

  “Come on, wipe that look off your face! If you haven’t been able to find ‘it,’ and Artur could, you’re failing somewhere in your understanding of the whole thing, or … I don’t know, maybe it’s your translation.”

  “Has it occurred to you that his knowledge could have given him clues that I can’t or don’t know how to find?”

  “I didn’t mean to wound your manly ego. Yes, it has occurred to me. It just seems to me that the former is more probable than the latter. Anyway, we’ll be able to discard one of the two possibilities, which will allow us to focus more on other areas. Come on, get dressed. We’ll go to one of those peaceful old archives where you’ve been working, and we won’t be distracted.” She pushed him toward his room.

  “Okay, okay! I give up. I’ll take you. Just don’t push me.”

  “Good decision. Better to give in to logic in the beginning than at the end: it saves time, and time is money,” Bety stated.

  “Either way I can’t spend all morning with you,” Enrique added. “I have to go see Puigventós about the auction.”

  “As long as you have enough time to get me started on the text and decode your hieroglyphic notes, I’ll be fine. Once you’ve done that, you’re free to go,” said Bety, winking at him.

  “Fine. Let’s get dressed.”

  * * *

  An hour later, they settled into the cavernous reading room of Casa de l’Ardiaca, a library and archive housed in the archdeacon’s residence, which was nearly empty at that hour. Only a few academics getting on in years observed them with the curiosity of those who detect an invasion of what they consider their private territory. Once they had finished their reconnaissance and expressed their disapproval, they returned to their tasks. Enrique explained the overall content and keys to his translation. He gave Bety an overview of the text in its three parts: first, more a list of activities in a log book than anything else; the second, made up of the annotations that comprised the actual mystery, marked by the beginning of the lateral sidenotes; and third, the detailed list of buildings.

  Believing it the most important, Enrique told Bety to begin with the translation of the second part, but she refuted his argument.

  “That’s the problem: you lack the soul of a researcher. You’re just a second-rate amateur. Your notes are sketchy, and the key to solving the puzzle could be in there, though it’s unlikely. We shouldn’t overlook that part, and again, I don’t think it contains the solution, so we ought to look at the manuscript as a whole. Haste makes waste.”

  An hour later, with Enrique’s translation properly organized and the code to his abbreviations and scribbles broken, Bety dismissed him.

  “Now I can start work. You may leave.”

  “Great. When should I come back for you?”

  “Come this afternoon, late. I’ll only leave to grab a bite.”

  “Bety—”

  “I’ll be careful with the manuscript, don’t worry,” she said, perfectly interpreting Enrique’s unspoken suggestion. “I won’t leave it alone even one second.”

  “Bye, then.”

  “Go, and don’t worry.”

  Enrique left Bety at work in the archive. A certain unease pursued him for leaving her alone with the manuscript. He walked toward Boulevard dels Antiquaris to meet old Puigventós, president of the professional Antiquarian’s Association. He crossed Portal del Ángel, lined with fast-fashion megastores and packed with young shoppers intent on emptying them of their contents. Once in Plaça de Catalunya, he began the ascent up the stately Rambla de Catalunya. Taking the Rambla instead of Passeig de Gràcia meant straying slightly off course, as the entrance to the Boulevard was on the latter thoroughfare. But Enrique had always been inclined to what seemed to him like the French touch of that charming avenue lined with fragile lime trees. Its buildings, elegant and harmonious, showed few scars from metropolitan Barcelona’s unbridled urban expansion. Here and there, an isolated hotel or an office building was reminiscent of the city of today, which had not yet managed to penetrate that hallowed sanctuary of light and beauty. He walked down the broad central median, where pedestrians held priority over cars, a unique oasis from another time that topped off the charm of the Ramblas, submerged in memories of his childhood. He had lived there as a boy. He felt drawn to that peaceful avenue where he had spent so many afternoons with his mother, so quiet compared to its surroundings, so dignified, with the imaginative modernista buildings that gave it magic and color. Enrique had dreamed of living in one of those buildings with their magnificent bay windows, from which he could watch the promenade, carpeted in the green of its lime trees. Dreams from the past, intrinsically wrapped up with the memory of his parents, and the mother he had worshipped.

  Crossing the six lanes of Aragon Street dispersed his recollections. The places one has lived cherished experiences have the capacity to amplify the emotions they stir up. They can bring memories into focus as if an unexpected spotlight was shone on them, bringing them back from the near-infinite sea of experiences to be relived with painful clarity. He crossed from Rambla de Catalunya to Passeig de Gràcia through a popular shopping mall that played out along a twisting maze of corridors occupying a block that lay between the two streets. In front of one of its shops, he felt a sudden urge to buy Bety a gift, as he had so many times before. But he thought better of it and decided not to. Enrique was easy prey to the nostalgia of an idealized past, and it was hard for him to return to the reality of the present. It seemed that memories embedded themselves in his head to distort reality. Banishing them required enormous effort; he didn’t want to cast them aside.

  He walked up the stairs that led to the permanent exhibition of Boulevard dels Antiquaris. Puigventós had a large shop there, to the rear of the showrooms. He was an elderly man of nearly eighty, the doyen of the antiques community, which he had served as president for the past twenty years. His was a family business: his ancestors had been renowned wood carvers, and in time, his father had established an antiques trade that did well enough to become one of the city’s most prominent. Following his father’s death, he inherited a large shop, and when the Boulevard opened, he relocated there.

  Enrique crossed the gallery, surrounded by the precious heritage of the past, until reaching the old man’s place of business. An attractive woman not yet forty suddenly emerged from behind a Chinese folding screen. She was tall, nearly six feet. Clearly aware of her beauty, she wore a snug-fitting black dress that showcased her shapely figure. Her very dark brown, nearly black, hair was pulled back in a chignon, and her face was composed of the classic features typical of the most attractive Catalan women: broad bone structure, somewhat round, prominent cheekbones, and full lips. She wore little makeup, just a brush of color on her cheeks, and a soft line beneath her blue eyes. Her lips were painted in a discreet russet wine tone. She approached him and spoke with the confidence intrinsic to the expert-seller/ignorant-buyer relationship. There could be no doubt: she was a woman of class and character.

  “Good morning. Can I help you?”

  “Good morning. I’m Enrique Alonso. I’d like to see Mr. Puigventós.”

  Enrique’s answer seemed to take her by surprise.

  “Enrique Alonso? Artur’s adopted son?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You don’t remember me?” She smiled. “I’m Mariola Puigventós.”

  Enrique reached to shake her hand and was received with a firm squeeze, nearly masculine in its intensity. The old man’s daughter; he had not seen her in at least fifteen years.

  “My father’s downstairs, in the association office. Give me just a minute, I’ll call him.”

  “Maybe it’d be better for me to go down—” Enrique started.

  “No, no. He likes receiving visitors up here, in what he calls his ‘dominions.’ He feels more comfortable. Please, have a seat.” She dialed as Enrique took a seat in a modernista-style chair.

  While Mariola spoke on the telephone, Enrique cast his eyes around t
he shop. Puigventós specialized in the modernista and later styles; none of the furniture displayed predated 1870. There were even some avant-garde pieces that perfectly matched their surroundings, as difficult as that was to achieve. “Style.” Enrique remembered Artur’s words. “Style is what makes the greats great. Style makes the difference.”

  “He’ll be right up,” said Mariola.

  “Thank you.”

  “No thanks are necessary.” She paused. “I wanted to tell you how sorry we all are for your loss, especially the way it happened. It’s been a huge blow to the community in general, and to us especially. Artur was such a good man. My father considered him practically family.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  She seemed to Enrique like a woman who was educated, cultivated—or rather, refined—and competent. A woman with experience, striking looks, and the beauty of well-carried maturity, the kind that age only enhances.

  “Pardon me if this is indiscreet, but … are you all right?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Sorry, but you seem distracted, as if your mind were elsewhere.”

  Her powers of observation took Enrique by surprise.

  “You’re an observant woman. Yes, I am feeling a bit distracted. It’s hard for me to be here, in Barcelona, under the circumstances.”

  “That makes sense. Artur always talked about how close you two were. He also said how proud he was of you.”

  “Again, I have to thank you, Mariola. You’re too kind.”

  An awkward silence ensued, although Mariola seemed not to notice.

  “Mariola, my father talked about you from time to time, several years ago now. Weren’t you living overseas?”

  “I moved to New York after I married. My husband was an art dealer and critic, and his office was in Manhattan. We separated four years ago, and I came back to Barcelona, to my family and friends.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No, no. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t want to. Now then,” she remembered aloud, “I seem to recall that you too were married.”

  Enrique was taken aback. Without intending to, he had asked about her private life, and she, instead of dodging the issue, had responded to him on equal terms. The game had begun. She returned the ball to him without hesitation, probably even knowing what his answer would be.

  “I was. Now I’m not.”

  “I see.” Her smile lit up the entire shop. “You know what? Even though I was living in the States for so long, I read all your books.”

  “Which was your favorite?” he asked, almost sure he knew the answer. He was slightly unsettled at the change in conversation, but also flattered.

  “Eulogy for Impossible Love. It’s a beautiful story, and you wrote it with such feeling. It’s one of my favorite books.”

  “We writers love to hear things like that.” In Enrique’s case it was all too true.

  “I’m not saying it to flatter you.” Her gaze acquired an intensity that was difficult to bear.

  “I didn’t say you were.” His eyes also shone forcefully.

  It was at this instant that Puigventós made his appearance. He entered the shop with a briskness unusual for his years, despite the fatigued appearance of his wrinkled face, on which one feature stood out above them all: his eyes, as attractive as his daughter’s. Enrique looked at the old man, and immediately turned his gaze back on Mariola.

  “You’re looking at our eyes, aren’t you?” she asked soberly.

  Enrique nodded. They were identical.

  “Father, let me help you.” Mariola approached the old man and took his arm. “Look, Enrique’s here.”

  “It’s my pleasure, young man. I’m sorry I was unable to attend Artur’s funeral service, but at my age, our bodies betray us and we cease to be the masters of our own actions.”

  “Please, don’t worry, sir. I know you were friends, and that even though you were unable to come, you were there in spirit.”

  “Indeed, I was. But please, don’t call me ‘sir’! Don’t make me feel any older than I already am!”

  “Whatever you prefer.”

  “Walk us to the study, dear.”

  They walked to the far end of the shop, where Mariola opened a door next to a mirror. It revealed a small, cozy office. Puigventós settled into a comfortable armchair, and Mariola invited Enrique to do the same.

  “Do you need anything, father?”

  “No, my dear. Thank you.”

  “I’ll leave you alone, then,” she said, and left without looking at them. Enrique’s eyes followed her out. He was surprised to see that the mirror next to the entry door was a one-way glass, offering to anyone inside the office a perfect vantage point over part of the shop and the corridor leading to it. Puigventós chuckled, content to see that Enrique had noticed it.

  “A very useful instrument,” he mused. “It belonged to a respected upper-class family, whose name I won’t reveal. They had it installed on one of their bedroom walls. They surely used it in ways much less mundane than ours.”

  “I think I can get the idea.”

  “You know, in public you have one image, in private, another very different one. It’s always been like that, and always will be. But don’t let me occupy your time with the digressions of a senior citizen. Now, then, what brings you here?”

  “I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. Artur’s will designates me as general heir, and I plan to liquidate his business. Like you told me, I think the best way to proceed is an auction of the antiques for professionals only.”

  In the part of the shop visible from the office, the elegant Mariola made dry flower arrangements with an expert hand. Enrique asked himself how much of her acts were being done out of necessity, and how much out of unconscious—or perhaps conscious—exhibitionism. He made a huge effort to divert his attention from the delight of unseen observation and focus on the words of the old man.

  “… you’re right to accept,” Puigventós was saying when Enrique tuned back into the conversation. “You’ll make more money, and the respect for Artur’s memory will keep them from trying to pull too many fast ones. We’re all very community-minded that way. How do you want to set the auction up?”

  “To tell you the truth, sir, I thought you could—”

  “Don’t ‘sir’ me, remember?”

  “Sorry. I thought you could help me put it together. There’s only one part I’d like to handle on my own: setting the starting price for a couple of items.”

  “I was going to suggest that Mariola help you. She has a good eye for these things. She got it from her mother, God rest her soul.”

  The offer threw Enrique off. He looked at Mariola again through the one-way glass. Gorgeous. He had planned to lay the trap for the suspects by asking them to help him set the prices, but the possibility of spending a few afternoons in the company of Mariola was so attractive to him that, in a burst of inspiration, he changed his mind.

  “I’d be thrilled, provided she wants to.”

  “Of course she’ll want to!” Puigventós answered with unbridled enthusiasm. “She liked Artur too much to deny his adopted son a favor. So, let’s find a day,” he said as he opened his datebook. “You could do the appraisals over the weekend, or even on Friday afternoon; as many pieces as the shop has, and as I understand it, there are many, you won’t need more than two days’ work. So the auction could be on, say, next Wednesday morning, the antiques dealers’ day off. Yes, that would work. Does that sound all right to you?”

  “If it’s all right with Mariola, it’s all right with me.”

  “Perfect, then! I’ll coordinate the whole affair. It will be just the thing for me to get away from the dull responsibilities that come with being president of this association. Help me up, son.”

  Enrique offered an arm and walked him out. Mariola came to meet them.

  “So, have you settled your business?”

  “Yes, dear, but I’m afraid I�
�ve taken the liberty of pledging your time to help someone other than me.”

  “Time spent helping our friends is never wasted,” she answered, glancing momentarily at Enrique.

  “Enrique’s going to liquidate stocks in Artur’s shop by auction. He needs an expert to appraise all the furniture and pieces.”

  “I see. I’ll be happy to help you, Enrique,” she said to him directly. “When should we begin?”

  “Your father plans to hold the auction next Wednesday.”

  “We could do the appraisal over the weekend,” Mariola offered. “It won’t take long if you help me.”

  “Okay.”

  “Call me at this number—no, it’s better if I call you. Give me your cell phone number.”

  Enrique gave her his cell and home phone numbers, and Mariola wrote them down in a small notebook she had taken from her purse.

  “When is a good time to reach you?”

  “At home, around eleven at night. I’m usually there by then, and I mostly leave my cell phone turned off.”

  “Okay, talk to you soon then,” she said, offering her hand.

  “I hope so.” His brief phrase was charged with meaning. “Thanks to you both.”

  “It’s our pleasure, son. Remember: you have friends in us.”

  Enrique left the shop tangled up in a habitual feeling of déjà vu. The certainty of having already lived a similar situation permeated all his thoughts, and once again he was forced to ask himself what it could all mean, and why it happened to him so often.