* * *
He awoke euphoric the next morning. Absorbed in his thoughts, he got dressed and went to the kitchen for breakfast. Though a morning person, Bety was still in her room; it was obvious she didn’t want to see him. He left her a note:
Dear Bety,
I had to go to the shop for the appraisal. I don’t need the manuscript. Feel free to work on it. Call me at the shop if you need anything. I arranged with Carlos for both of us to be covered. Remember, if you go out, don’t leave the manuscript in plain sight. Better yet, take it with you.
Be careful.
Enrique
He left it sticking out between the pages of the manuscript, which he placed on the floor in front of her bedroom door. Once in the car, he tried in vain to discern the vehicle his security detail was using to follow him. Try as he might, it was impossible to make out. He had briefly considered making a sudden wild turn, to force his protector to give himself away. His imagination always kept itself entertained dreaming up such acts, which he obviously would never dare attempt. Lost in the maelstrom of Barcelona traffic, which was rather heavy for a Saturday morning, he gave up trying. He parked his car in the garage, stopped at a newsstand to buy a paper, and walked to Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol. Like any other Saturday morning, it was packed with young and not so young painters condemned—or lucky enough, depending on one’s viewpoint—to exhibit their works in that sublime setting, far from the privileges and obligations of galleries.
It was just a couple yards from there to Artur’s shop. Mariola was waiting for him by the door: she looked different, and yet, identical to the woman he had met days before. She was dressed more casually, in a younger style, but there was no hiding her good taste and class. She belonged to that select group of people, the kind who, oblivious to fads and fashions, always captivate everyone around them. They exchanged greetings: Enrique hesitated for a second, and Mariola extended her hand. He shook it gently, then raised the blind and invited her in. At that time of morning, the sun lit up much of the street, and its nuanced light flooded the shop. A cloud of dust motes whirled in the sunbeams.
“No one’s come to do any cleaning since it happened,” Enrique explained. “He used to have a maid, but now …”
Engrossed in the pieces and furniture that surrounded her, Mariola wasn’t listening.
“Artur was a man of exquisite taste, and so experienced. The way the furniture is arranged is so intelligent, it captures your eye and you can’t help but look at it.” She looked at Enrique. “Your father knew how to grab the attention of people walking in front of the shop: viridian and ultramarine blue are loud colors on their own, but they make fine wood stand out like no others.”
“I’m no expert in your art, but his friends always praised his color coordination, his style.”
“Understandably,” Mariola replied. “He had a very special touch. So, ready to get to work?”
“At your service.”
“Get a pen and paper and come with me. We’ll start in the shop and then we’ll do the warehouse, though I would like to take a peek first.”
Enrique turned on the warehouse lights. The cold fluorescent tubes cast a pale glow that scarcely lit up the many nooks and crannies of Artur’s cavernous storeroom. Mariola moved with a graceful gait among the countless pieces of furniture. Some were covered with great cream-colored sheets; others, neglected, with a thick layer of dust. With a vigor at odds with her dainty appearance, Mariola suddenly pulled off one of the sheets. The cloth slid down the piece of furniture, a stunning teak sideboard garnished with gold-leaf inlay. She gave Enrique a look that almost beseeched his forgiveness for what she was about to do. Inspired by the revelation of such a handsome piece brought back into the light, she walked down the phantasmal aisles, revealing their hidden mysteries one by one, like a fairy with a magic wand whose simple touch brought them back from oblivion. Desks, china cabinets, a large bamboo cage, glass cabinets, a pedestal topped by a classical sculpture. Enrique, stunned by this unexpected turn of events, was brought out of his stupor upon hearing Mariola’s silvery laugh for the first time. Yes, she was laughing; she must have felt something different, something special, abandoned in a rhythmic feast of discoveries, each more surprising than the last.
When the last tarp had fallen to the ground, Mariola approached him, slightly out of breath, with a captivating smile on her face.
“Isn’t it wonderful?” she cried. “Artur had one of the most beautiful furniture collections in here that I’ve ever seen!”
“You’re right. It’s wonderful,” conceded Enrique, though he wasn’t referring to the same thing she was.
“I can’t understand why he didn’t have them out in the showroom. Do you know why?” She waved her hands around to include the entire contents.
“I don’t know what to say. I know a thing or two about antiques, of course, but I wouldn’t know how to tell the exact value of one piece of furniture from another.”
“Listen,” she started. She took on the complicit attitude of a parent about to tell their favorite child a nice bedtime story. “Artur had two types of furniture in the warehouse. Some he had selected to go to market; those are the ones that weren’t under sheets. Within that group, another distinction could be made, between those that needed to be restored—the ones near the warehouse door—and the others that already had been, which are placed closer to the shop.” She stopped a moment to catch her breath. “But, among them all, there is furniture of different periods, uses, and materials—absolutely different. What’s outstanding about this furniture is the combination of high-grade materials with exquisite finishings.”
“I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Sorry, I’m talking to you as if you were from the antiques world.” Mariola laughed again. “Enrique, your father had a museum in here—a veritable museum.”
His face must have expressed true astonishment because Mariola laughed again, even harder than before.
“He had conserved those precious few, extraordinary pieces that fall into an expert antiquarian’s hands over an entire lifetime. And there can be only one explanation. He had a little museum here for his personal enjoyment.”
“That’s why they were covered with sheets.”
“That’s right. They were exquisitely restored, a testimonial to craftsmanship, and tenderly, lovingly cared for. But they wouldn’t fit in the shop, and they’re practically impossible to keep in a regular house, because of either their size or unusual style.”
Enrique, infected with Mariola’s spontaneous joy, wandered through the narrow corridors, surrounded by the furniture that Artur had so loved.
“Can you imagine him in here, uncovering the furniture one piece at a time—”
“—with deliberate slowness,” Enrique interrupted, “savoring the act of returning them to the light. His movements would have been unhurried and purposeful, just like his life, but also intense, because he loved what he did. And this must have been a secret private pleasure. I can see him,” he continued, “acquiring each little jewel of his collection. The first of his revered pieces must have been in here a long time, while he debated whether to keep it or put it on the market. Soon after that, a second piece arrived, making his decision that much more difficult, as he placed it next to the other one; two treasures surrounded by a sea of mediocrity. That’s how he must have built this collection, more with his heart than his mind, based on impulse, not method.”
Mariola said nothing. She just watched him, smiling. Not even those who knew her best could have said what was hiding behind her enigmatic expression. Enrique, still shocked at the discovery of an unknown facet of his father’s life, hidden over the years like a private vice, and destined to remain that way so that nothing and no one could share it, didn’t stop to look at Mariola. He felt moved, and his eyes welled up, though he did all he could to hold back the tears. Enrique didn’t like to show his feelings, and strangely, thinking that Mariola could see him helped push his
pain down to the deepest part of his inner self. The reason for his attitude immediately dawned on him: women were attracted to the alpha male, the one that lets nothing get to him. He couldn’t keep from smiling as he realized that he liked Mariola enough to activate his subconscious.
A momentary calm seemed to settle between them. They both kept still, though for different reasons. Mariola broke the serene spell that had silenced them.
“Ready to work?” she asked softly.
“Whenever you say so.”
“We’ll start over here. Make a list like this: number the pieces starting from one; I’ll tell you the type of furniture, its condition, the period, and approximate starting price. I’ll take a photo of each one, and that way we won’t have to move the bigger ones.”
And so they whiled away the hours, with the ease of a river flowing into lazy pools where the waters stop to recover from the fatigue of their never-ending journey. Mariola, thrilled to find herself among the objects of her world, dictated an endless list of the most diverse objects, from large Regency-style desks to a collection of small turn-of-the-century lighters arranged in a tabletop display case. Enrique listened carefully to Mariola’s explanations, and was enjoying being close to her, the halo of her discreet perfume, and the silhouette of her beautiful, full lips. The atmosphere was imbued with the radiant happiness Mariola felt inside. Incapable of keeping it to herself, she passed it on to her perplexed makeshift secretary.
They stopped for barely half an hour for a bite to eat before continuing their work. Enrique felt transported to a world of bliss he had given up for lost years ago. This reencounter with the magic of childhood, when Artur had told him the wondrous stories he’d made up about the history of the antiques on display in the shop, together with the warm feeling he felt as an adult male spending time with a beautiful woman made him forget that days before in that same place, his adoptive father had been killed. That night, with much of the shop inventory down on the list, Mariola decided it was time to quit.
“That’s enough for today. We’ve done a lot, and we can finish tomorrow morning. What time is it?”
“The cathedral bells struck nine a few minutes ago.”
“Well, I think I’ve earned a reward. Treat me to dinner?” she asked, gazing at him with her intense blue eyes.
“Seems like a small reward for all you’ve done for me.”
On a whim, Mariola insisted on having dinner nearby in Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol.
“I haven’t had dinner down here in a long time,” she said.
All of the tables were taken by groups of students, savvy tourists, and the eclectic blend of locals: painters, poets, musicians, intellectuals, and their ilk. His father’s friendship with the owner of Bar del Pi secured them a table well ahead of a long waiting list. It was set up on the edge of the terrace, toward the center of the square, away from the din of conversations, which, with the typically Spanish lack of discretion, overlapped each other in an orchestrated ceremony of confusion. The waiter took their order right away, and soon their table was laid with a large salad and a pair of stuffed omelets.
“This square has a special charm I haven’t found anywhere else in Barcelona,” Mariola said. “It’s a little corner of Paris transplanted to Barcelona that, strangely, has somehow managed to adapt to its environment and people.”
“Do you know Paris?”
“Très bien.” She showed off a perfect French accent. “I studied fine arts there. My father is very conservative, one of those who only believes in religious education. And seeing that the priests back then were somewhat Frenchified, and that the École des Beaux-Arts is known all over the world, showing an utter lack of imagination, he sent me to Paris, where I spent five years of my life in a Montmartre apartment with two girlfriends. Dad never imagined that I’d learn much more than my professors taught in class!” She laughed again, content at the evocation of her past, enveloped in the nostalgic notes that the restaurant pianist seemed to be playing just for her. “His naïve little girl was gone by year one. She gave way to the woman that he never thought he’d find in me.”
“Not many parents know how to let their kids grow up without getting stuck at some point along the way.”
“Did the same thing happen to you?” Mariola asked.
“No, I don’t think so. Maybe, because I was adopted, Artur kept a certain distance between us. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean that he didn’t love me, but that he tried, out of the responsibility that he had taken and respect for the memory of my parents, to be as professional as possible in my upbringing. In hindsight, I see that he acted like a strict guardian who was also my father. But, under that mask of strictness, there was a very lovable person who was always struggling to get out. He was a man of such character.”
“I agree—maybe even too much character.”
“What makes you say that?”
“When I proposed that Samuel and I partner up, he was radically opposed to it. The business situation wasn’t good, I’m sure you know all about that. Religious art is a complex market, and it went through a dire period. He thought of it as the passing whim of a poor little rich girl, recently divorced, bored, and looking for a way to keep from being alone. He didn’t think I would get involved in the business like I did, and he let me know directly, without pulling punches. He was polite—I mean, that was Artur—but he wasn’t pleasant about it. It took me several years to earn his respect with regard to my work. And Artur’s respect, in a world as given to hearsay as ours, could even outweigh the influence of someone like my father, who didn’t want to intervene on my behalf so that people wouldn’t accuse him of favoritism toward me.”
“I had no idea.” Enrique was crestfallen. Artur had never told him anything about this. He felt, perhaps irrationally, that this development could put a barrier between Mariola and him.
“It doesn’t matter. I mean, it did then, but it all worked out in the end. We were always on friendly terms after that. There wasn’t a friendship per se, because he thought that I would be offended by his initial reaction. I wasn’t, but he kept his distance just the same. He went several years without attending any of the parties my father threw. Lately, fortunately, things were becoming more normal, and he would grace us with his presence at our get-togethers. But we were talking about your family. Didn’t you have any other relatives on your mother’s or father’s side?”
“Yes, I did, but it was as if they didn’t exist. My father’s family went into exile in Russia after the Civil War, except for Artur. And my mother was an only child, the last of her lineage. There were some cousins, uncles, and aunts, but the relationship with them just withered after my parents died. They never got along with Artur.”
“It must have been so hard for you.” She took his hand.
“Yes, yes it was,” Enrique concurred, not withdrawing from that initial contact. “An eleven-year-old boy, suddenly left without parents. You just can’t imagine. No one can.”
Mariola’s only response was to squeeze his hand even tighter.
“Luckily, Artur put every effort into raising me, like the son he had decided not to have.”
“I don’t get it.”
“It’s pretty simple,” he laughed. “I wouldn’t say that Artur was a misogynist, but he always said that all women did was distract men. I know,” Enrique said, leaning in, “that he had several affairs when I was little. He must have thought I never realized, but I was pretty clever for my age.”
“What about you? Do you share his opinion?” Mariola, with her left elbow resting on the arm of the chair, her chin in her hand, looked at him intently with a smile Enrique found mischievous.
“No.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” she answered in all seriousness.
The dinner had been so pleasant that the minutes turned to hours without either of them realizing it. Enrique was surprised to hear the eleven o’clock bells. He had forgotten that Bety would be waiting for him.
“It’s really late. I need to get home,” he said suddenly.
“I understand,” Mariola replied, evoking the feminine voice that had answered his first phone call. “Someone’s waiting for you.”
“But not like you’re thinking. It’s Bety, my ex-wife. She was close to Artur, and couldn’t make it to the funeral. So she came a few days later to see if she could help me with anything.”
“I see.”
“Can I give you a ride home?” offered Enrique.
“No, don’t worry about it. I’d rather stay down here and go for a walk. I’ll take a taxi later.”
“Okay. Tomorrow—”
“At ten, just like today. We’ll be done by midday.” Enrique leaned in and they kissed each other on each cheek, without the slightest hint of complicity. He walked away, and from the tiny passage that connected the two squares, Enrique looked back. Mariola was no longer there.
* * *
Bety was waiting for him on the terrace, in the dark, cloaked in the night. The burning tip of a cigarette was the clue that led Enrique to her, as she didn’t answer any of his calls, and he didn’t find her when he looked in the rooms. He sat down next to her. At their feet, Barcelona, lit by the shine of a million lightbulbs, submerged in the twinkle of the fluctuating sparkles, put on a magical show.
“How did you make out with the manuscript?” Enrique asked, knowing that it would be the only topic she would be willing to talk about.
“Fine.”
“Have you made any headway?”
“A bit. But I need to feel comfortable in order to work. And I don’t.”
“How far did you get?”
“I’m about to start the list.”
“That part’s fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
The Antiquarian Page 16