“You’re probably wondering how I know all this. Artur and I saw each other now and then in those years. I was based at the Vía Layetana station, and Artur’s first shop was nearby at the top of La Palla Street, so we’d run into each other every so often on the street or at breakfast. We didn’t hang out like we once had, but that trust was still there. He told me a lot of this stuff himself. Other things I figured out on my own.”
Fornells stopped talking. An hour and a half had passed, and his throat was sore from narrating the story. He ordered a bottle of sparkling water. Fornells and Enrique saw that London Bar, which had been open awhile, had a large and varied clientele. Andreu brought the sparkling water in an old-time, half-liter bottle, a format no longer on the market that was probably only available in a few places.
“I’m parched. It’s been a long night, but there are memories that can bring anyone back to life.” He poured himself a glass, drank, and let the liquid rest in his mouth, as if savoring a fine wine. He took a long look at Enrique’s face. “There’s so much you didn’t know about them!”
Enrique, who had followed the long explanation immersed in a strange trance brought on by unexpected revelations on an unknown past, nodded faintly. The reason they were having this conversation was still beyond him, but he was fascinated, captivated by the story of his people. Fornells failed to repress a long yawn, and then he continued.
“The years went by, and the three of them kept up their friendship. That put the rumor mill into action, but they couldn’t have cared less. They even said that you weren’t Lluís’s son, but Artur’s.” Enrique was beyond flabbergasted. “And they may have been right.”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Believe it. There’s no point stirring up the past, especially if the people in it aren’t with us anymore, but you can’t close your eyes to certain things. When you were little, you didn’t look much like Lluís. Now that you’re older, grown up, don’t you think you look a little like Artur? The chin, the cheeks, you have the same hair—not the style, but the hairline’s the same—even your bearing. You look so much like him when he was your age that when you came into the station for the first time I couldn’t help but remember Artur, the way he was years ago. We could find out if you want. The lab could work up a DNA analysis no problem, but I don’t think it’s worth doing—or at least, I wouldn’t. In a way, whoever your father was, you ended up being raised and loved by both of them.”
“So that’s why Artur adopted me.”
“There was no other way. Even if he wasn’t your real father, the bond between Lluís, Núria, and him was too strong. Obviously, the families opposed the adoption, but Lluís’s will was crystal clear. They took the whole thing to court, but there was no way to change anything. Artur fought for you like a wounded wolf protecting its cub, and he won. That’s why the only family you had was Artur. The others ceased to exist.”
“I remember my relatives, vaguely: my grandfather, my cousins. But from the time I went to live with Artur I never heard from them again.”
“He didn’t want you to become one of them. That’s why he kept you away from their influence. He brought you up like a normal kid, with one single privilege: Vallvidrera. You don’t realize how special it is to live in that eagle’s nest until you’re old enough to appreciate the beauty of the simple, the fragile, the gift of just looking at something. Take away Vallvidrera and you were just another boy playing in the streets of a normal neighborhood, with no old-money privileges. They’ve already read you the will, right?”
Enrique nodded.
“Weren’t you surprised to see the fortune Artur had made?”
“The truth is, yes, I was,” Enrique admitted.
“The shop made money, but not that much. I assume you realize that.”
“Are you insinuating there was something dirty behind Artur’s fortune?” Enrique asked hotly.
“I’m not insinuating, I’m stating the facts. I’m a cop, remember? And I’ve worn out many a shoe sole walking the streets. These hands are calloused from turning the pages of case files. I have a copy of the will, and all the paperwork from the banks. Artur couldn’t have had as much as he did without something a bit off in his accounts. But he was always smart, and he covered his tracks well. The money vanished into a web that not even Financial Crimes could untangle. There were as many as five companies tied to Artur, all dissolved now. Allegedly, they laundered money, but there’s no evidence—not a shred—just a fortune. Of unknown origin.”
“Did you know?”
“I always knew. Years ago, I advised him to get out of it. Unfortunately, he didn’t listen.”
“I never would have thought that Artur was capable of being mixed up in anything illegal.”
“For a writer, you don’t have much of an imagination.”
“That’s the second time I’ve been told that in a week.”
“But in this case, it’s understandable. You really never imagined anything? Suspected anything?”
“No. And it’s hard for me to believe that Artur was a common criminal.”
“So you never suspected anything. Okay, that’s possible,” Fornells conceded. “It doesn’t matter much anyway. But don’t get to thinking it was all as dirty as that. The way you define ‘criminal’ depends, like any other word, on a thousand nuances. Is a serial killer the same as a guy who cheats on his taxes? They’ve both broken the basic laws of society. So they’re both criminals.
“All Artur did was deal in stolen art. Now that might seem despicable to some people, but to me, a guy who’s spent the last forty years surrounded by hookers and pimps, dealers and addicts, small-time crooks and kingpins, up to my neck in all the shit society excretes and would rather forget, it doesn’t seem all that bad. He never hurt anyone, that’s for sure. And that, believe it or not, matters to me.”
“I don’t know if you’re just saying that to cheer me up or you really believe it, but I doubt you can imagine how difficult it is for me to take in what you’re saying. Criminal or not, he was deep into something illegal. Art trafficking! This is incredible!”
“Do you really think so? I’d bet my pension that more than one or two ranking Barcelona antiquarians have, have had, or will have a sideline like that, be it occasional or ongoing. When your business becomes your passion, you kind of change, and all of a sudden you can justify the unjustifiable.
“But I have solid proof of what I’m telling you. There’s a warehouse in the name of a front man, but it really belonged to Artur. We went up there. Found a Romanesque altarpiece, complete and in perfect condition, wrapped in pieces. We’re working out the origin now. And that’s what got him killed.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Look, Enrique, I’m not supposed to tell you certain things about the investigation, so I’ll have to give you a quick rundown of how this ring worked. First off, most art is stolen to be put up for sale among the usual buyers later on. But Artur only worked to order for certain clients, whose identity, obviously, we don’t know. Whenever a client found out about an interesting piece, they would contact Artur. He would take the order, travel to wherever the piece was, and make an initial appraisal, and then he’d meet with a specialist. They’d draw up a proposal that Artur would take back to his client; if the client said yes, they gave Artur ten percent. That got the operation underway. As of the time the money changed hands, all responsibility went to the specialist. He would set up the infrastructure necessary to cover and move pieces of a size that would make such a thing seem impossible. Once the job was done, Artur’s duty was to collect the rest of the money and transport the piece to its destination. The specialist and buyer could never, ever meet. All contacts were exclusively through Artur. He was the middleman to guarantee the identity of both parties was kept secret. A well-run racket, that’s for sure.
“The specialist was none other than Phillipe Brésard, one of the most successful international art thieves in the world. The story
of Brésard, aka the Frenchman, goes back thirty years. He started off small, but it didn’t take him long to rise in his odd little trade. His first years in the business were total progression, constantly climbing. They busted him in Italy, his favorite hunting ground, early in his career, but he got off with a suspended sentence, never spent a day in jail. From then on, he became one of the best. He was behind those famous hits on the Mausoleum of Verona and the Uffizi Gallery paintings. Everyone knew it was him; his signature technique was identifiable to the extent that, even though they had no evidence, Interpol put out an international search warrant on him.
“But after the gallery job, the Frenchman vanished off the face of the earth. There would be other heists in several countries, but never any evidence. He was simply untraceable. They did get close once. The Frenchman is the temperamental type, and he’s got a mean streak. When he works, he turns into this infallible machine. That explains how, after thirty years of nonstop work, he’s only ever been caught red-handed once, at the beginning of his career. There was a second time, a few years later, but it had nothing to do with his ‘work.’ That time, he got thrown in the slammer on the Costa del Sol after a barroom brawl. Story goes he was bombed and picked one hell of a fight. He spent the night in jail, and only three days after being released on bail was it discovered, through photos and prints, that this hothead was actually a wanted art thief using a false identity. I’m not criticizing the police chief; it wasn’t a big town, and they usually have too much work to stop and think that some guy with a foreign accent might actually be on the wanted lists of half the police forces in Europe. Back then, no one looked at foreigners as potential illegal immigrants. Actually, as tourists, they were the country’s main source of income.
“After that, the police assumed that Brésard was living in Spain under false identities. But we couldn’t even catch him that way. Every piece of evidence led to a dead end. We had to accept it: the Frenchman was too smart for us.”
“Why’d he kill Artur? Why in such a brutal way?”
“We don’t know. I wasn’t lying when I said that the murder investigation was at a stalemate. We didn’t know where to turn until an informant gave us a tip. Tips like that usually turn out to be nothing, but when you’ve got nothing, you’ve got nothing to lose. And this one had some appetizing, well-conceived bait: they called my station directly and said that Artur’s killer was the Frenchman. But they used his real name, not his alias. The anonymous caller also told us where to find him.
“The information looked solid. The call came from a phone booth in El Prat. Whoever snitched really had it in for him. And to know so much about him, it had to be someone he more or less trusted, someone close.
“After checking everything out, we went after him. We didn’t know if he was the killer, but aside from his other crimes, we had to bring him in to rule out the possibility. He was living in a nice remodeled mansion near a luxury development in Sitges. He tried to run, but once he saw he was surrounded he gave himself up without any trouble. He’s a big guy, strong, and looks really tough. And despite his age, there was no doubt he could have offered some resistance. But he didn’t even argue, didn’t say a single word until we got to the station. There, he demanded we call his lawyer, which we did, of course. What else could we do? Nowadays, you don’t respect detainee rights, you find yourself in the middle of a shitstorm like you wouldn’t believe. Anyway, before we began questioning him, and before his so-called attorney got there, he ‘accidentally’ fell down the stairs while trying to escape. But not even that worked; we didn’t get a single bit of information out of him. He’s a real tough guy, the kind that doesn’t scare. And he knows perfectly well what to do and what not to do. By that stage, most of them would have softened up, at least a little. Anyhow, these days, perps have all the rights. I’m not saying it’s bad, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes we’re lacking a little leeway in detainee processing. And the whole time, he’s just sitting there all calm, out to lunch, like his mind has left his body. He knows all too well what he’s in for. He won’t say a word until the Art Trafficking Unit gets here from Madrid.
“But the papers we found when we searched his mansion are all too clear. They’re just a few loose scraps of everything he has hidden somewhere—which we hope to find—but it’s enough to link him to Artur.
“We also tried to trace him back to the antiques community. For now, none of the antiquarians know him, or so they claim. I imagine, like I think I already told you, that they know him too well for their own good. Let’s hope it doesn’t take long to refresh their memories.
“And that’s where we are right now. With a notorious art thief behind bars, suspected of killing Artur, but without a single clue that incriminates him directly, just that anonymous voice.”
Enrique took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair.
“I can’t believe Artur was a crook.”
“And I can’t believe you. Are you telling me you consider your father a crook? He was anything but! Sure, he broke the law, but who doesn’t?
“This whole story, this operation you find so shocking, doesn’t even compare with lots of others that are far more complex and have very different purposes: political corruption, the drug trade, prostitution, and all that—they’re thousands of times worse than what Artur did. Those are real crimes, and this I know, much better than you. You’re judging him wrong. He never hurt anyone doing what he did … except himself, now.”
“You may be right, but you also have the advantage of experience. He was … to me he was … I never could have imagined this! And knowing it all, how come you didn’t step in?”
“I told him to quit several times. What could I do? Arrest him? He was my friend!” Fornells blurted out his response with the sincere spontaneity of a groan.
His sadness was clear, and it disarmed Enrique, who had been ready to object to any explanation. “You’re right. He was perfectly capable of making his own decisions without anyone interfering. Talking to him about it wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“That’s right,” Fornells agreed. “All I need is time, a couple of days, tops. Time to investigate and come up with some evidence. Time to incriminate him. After that, let the law take care of him.”
The truths revealed in Fornells’s long speech—met for the most part with mute incredulity from Enrique—weighed on both men. They sat in silence, each accompanied by his own thoughts and memories. Fornells had disclosed things to Enrique about the life of a man he loved, and it was impossible not to feel their sting. Enrique attempted to assimilate the new information but was unable to. In disbelief, he took almost personal offense at the shady dealings of the man who had been his father. The two looked at each other with empty, expressionless stares, their thoughts turned inward, with no desire to continue talking.
“I’ve got to go,” Fornells finally said. “I’m all worn out. I’ve hardly slept in three days, and at my age, the body doesn’t take kindly to that. Retirement’s too near. I’ll keep you up to speed.”
“Fornells.” The chief, already moving away from the table, turned back to Enrique. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” he said, and disappeared among the patrons of the now-crowded bar.
10
Enrique didn’t go into specifics on the phone to Bety, though he did tell her enough information for her to finally make a decision she had been putting off for the past twenty hours. If the manuscript no longer meant mortal danger for whoever had it or knew its secret, she now had the chance to ask for help from someone who could give it. When she began the translation and saw how many mistakes Enrique had made, she had been sure of her own ability to find the hidden key within the master builder’s prose. But now, having completed her most detailed work in recent years, not as much out of her own will as a desire to prove her professional capacity to Enrique, she had to admit defeat. The Latin text, so interesting on its own, gave no clues whatsoever to the enigma before th
em; she would have to translate the mind-boggling side notes. Feeling backed into a corner, and without permission from Enrique, who, she justified to herself, wouldn’t have given it merely because the idea was hers, she decided to resort to her contacts in the world of Barcelonese academia. Just twenty minutes later, she had reached Quim Pagés, chair of the College of Classical Philology at the University of Barcelona, with whom she had shared a friendship—because, among other reasons, she wanted nothing more from him—for several years.
Bety had met him shortly before her divorce at a seminar on comparative linguistic research techniques in Madrid. At that critical time in her life, she couldn’t help but feel drawn in by the obvious attraction that had arisen after she gave her lecture. She always carried herself with a certain shyness that drew attention to her. At that time, there was something in her expression, something frail, vulnerable; she was inner anxiety personified. She was deep in crisis, consumed by doubt, convinced she had a part in the failure of two lives. Bety, always so resolute and sure of herself, was trapped in a dead end with no way out in sight. Her relationship with Enrique had sunk to an all-time low: they had spent the previous week without speaking to each other. The Madrid conference had been an excuse for her to get some distance, and, theoretically, think about the problem, and so avoid facing him.
It didn’t take Quim long to sense the burden she was carrying. He was, like nearly all men, able to easily perceive the crises of the opposite sex and, driven by the inevitable paternalistic spirit, rush to give them his attention, help, and—why not?—anything else they might need. He didn’t harass her; far from it. He had too much class for that. He was nice and pleasant, always available, a trustworthy fellow academic who became a friend and confessor in the space of forty-eight hours. In the end, on the third night of the conference, he offered himself, more than just a shoulder to cry on, as a substitute. Bety was about to give in to his entreaty, but an inexplicable sense of shame outweighed her desire, and she left him standing in the hotel hallway, with a kiss still fresh on his lips and a certain melancholic uneasiness in his heart—a feeling that didn’t take long to fade.
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