The Antiquarian

by Julián Sánchez

  Enrique picked up Mariola’s insinuation.

  “Bety only came to help me. There’s nothing between us. And do you honestly think I could be with both of you at once?”

  Mariola thought before she answered.

  “No, not you. But men are perverse. And most wouldn’t have had any qualms about doing it, or at least trying.”

  “Well, thanks for the trust.”

  “You’re welcome. Anyway, I wanted to … well, I don’t want you to get angry, but you should understand that …”

  It was obvious that Mariola knew how to say what she meant but didn’t trust the reaction it would cause in Enrique.

  “I get it. You want Bety to go back to San Sebastián.”

  “Yes,” she assented, relieved. “You should understand; even if there’s nothing between you two, you’re living under the same roof, and you were together for years. It’s hard for me to say it, but that’s how I feel.”

  Enrique could see she felt truly uncomfortable, and more than that, perhaps hurt by the situation. Although she wasn’t blaming him, it didn’t change how she felt.

  “Don’t worry. She’s leaving soon.”

  Mariola nodded. Her eyes were moist.

  “I just can’t understand it,” she whispered, her voice failing. “I can see her coming to help you when you were alone, but now it just doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand why she’s still here, unless she wants to get back together with you.”

  From her standpoint, Mariola was right. It may have been that, at some point, the magic that once united them had resurfaced, but that had long since passed. If Bety was still in Barcelona, it was to unravel the mystery of the manuscript. There was no other solution than to tell her everything—or nearly everything, since the details were not that important.

  “Look, Bety hasn’t left Barcelona because she’s working on an important translation. You know she’s a university professor of classical philology. Artur was working on the translation of an old manuscript, whose author we’ve identified as a man named Casadevall, a master builder from the late fourteenth century. It appeared to contain the keys to a strange mystery that Artur had apparently solved: a letter he sent me the very weekend of his death said as much. It looks like it’s some kind of object that we know nothing about. And for now, after an initial translation, we haven’t made any progress. There’s a list of possible hiding places of whatever it is: they’re buildings from that period, of which, naturally, very few are still standing. Many have been rebuilt or drastically altered; others, torn down. But we’re still at it, hoping to find the solution, though I’m afraid it’s very difficult. Most likely, the object is gone forever.”

  “I’m speechless.” She partially recovered her smile. “Do you mean to say that if Bety’s still in your house it’s because of an investigation you’re working on? Just that? You don’t think she has any ulterior motive?”

  “Just that. But even so, I’ll tell her what’s going on, and that way we’ll set everything straight. Or if you’d rather,” Enrique offered enthusiastically, “I could stay with you, at your house. That way we’d avoid the whole problem.”

  Mariola didn’t answer right away. She seemed to weigh Enrique’s proposal.

  “Not yet,” she answered. She looked him straight in the eyes, her head slightly tilted and a captivating, cryptic smile on her lips. “Not yet. It’s too soon.”

  “Okay. Then in that case, she’ll have to go.”

  “I wouldn’t want to disrupt your—”

  “No, it’s not a problem,” Enrique cut her off. “She was planning to return to San Sebastián around Wednesday. Does that sound all right?”

  Mariola nodded, satisfied.

  “Yes, it does.” She sent him an air kiss over the table. “I’d rather she did it today, tonight even, but I understand the situation. I’ll wait until Wednesday. Well then, I have to go. It’s late, and I’ve been out of the shop all day.”

  They gathered their things and went down to the ground floor, where Enrique paid the check. They parted ways on the Ramblas: Mariola was headed to the shop, while Enrique had to stop by his publisher’s office.

  “Enrique, I want you to know how much I appreciate your understanding, that you listen to me.”

  “You don’t need to thank me.”

  “I think I do,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “And one more thing: Are you upset that I didn’t let you come stay with me?”

  “I would’ve liked to be with you, but I understand that maybe I’m moving too fast.”

  “No you’re not; it’ll be soon, sooner than you think,” said Mariola, and kissed him on the lips. “Come over this evening, around eight. I’d rather you didn’t stay, but that doesn’t mean we can’t spend some time together.”

  “I will.” Enrique smiled happily.

  Mariola walked away among the multitude of pedestrians streaming through the neighborhood. As she did, Enrique congratulated himself on such a woman being a part of his life.

  14

  The Scholar rummaged around a table so cluttered with hundreds of books it looked as if it would collapse at any minute. The librarian, an older woman with a demeanor that was serious and so strict it made her seem snooty, took occasional glances at him with a mix of curiosity and something like worry, mainly owing to the chaotic mess occupying the worktable. This outlandish character, in a fit of fertile creativity, took incessant notes, without ever stopping his activity, except to request new and extremely rare documents not once taken out in the past thirty years, the time in which she had been working in that oasis of peace that was the library of the Crown of Aragon’s archive. She wasn’t the only one disconcerted by the invasion of a preestablished, rarely disturbed order: the other researchers honoring the world of the past with their presence also watched the disheveled young man rifling through the papers and books at a frantic pace. The proof was to be found in their surreptitious glances, or trips to the restroom with detours made to walk behind the researcher and see what books the strange intruder was consulting.

  The librarian remembered him from other visits: they hadn’t been too frequent, as it was easy to identify such a peculiar subject from among the rest of his fellow researchers. The majority were men getting on in years, old retired professors or professional researchers. Among that community, the Scholar, as she called him, broke the archive’s usual working paradigm. The first time she saw him, years ago, she had even been indignant at what she considered an offensive presence: a youngster in blue jeans so tight they left nothing to the imagination, and a shirt so overprinted with flowers it hurt to look at, in the company of one of the most venerable philologists of the Barcelonese academic community, who introduced him as his brightest student. It had been a less than positive impression against which she could do little, as the letters of recommendation from that professor were enough to open the doors of any private library in the country to him. Yet after watching him at work, overflowing with enthusiasm and faith, she ended up changing her opinion of him: he may have had a sloppy appearance, but the way his eyes shone as he studied the old sheaves was truly special. That’s why she had christened him “the Scholar.” The others were scholarly as well, there could be no question, but this young man whose name she didn’t know reflected a true joy, a rare happiness at being surrounded by the past in its purest form. Moreover, he was polite to a fault, and always sincerely thanked her for the efforts she devoted to him.

  Still, acknowledging his professional capabilities was not equivalent to tolerating the mess he made when he worked. It was always the same: it began with an endless string of requests that always ended up overwhelming the expert, normally sedate librarian: titles that hadn’t been taken off the shelf since 1950. Dossiers in places she barely remembered, that she had almost forgotten existed, were stacked in a mingled heap on the table, making her yearn for the order with which the rest of the researchers did their work: methodically organized, document by document, never
fourteen at a time. On his lectern were the Chronicle of the Rationale of the City, the Book of the Solemnities of Barcelona, the Diary of the General Council, the Private Diary of Jaume Safont, Boscà’s Memorial, and many others, all jumbled about.

  In any event, the librarian had grown accustomed to his presence, and to tolerating his confused work system based on comparative analysis. It was nothing new to her to see him rushing through document after document with a storm of energy while around him, the Scholar’s whirlwind activity made the rest of researchers seem to work in slow motion. What was truly extraordinary and disrupting was the sudden word that resounded throughout the reading room, raising the incredulous faces of the other researchers:

  “Fuck!”

  It was an abrupt, categorical “fuck.” It bore the unmistakable aura of final conclusion, of discovered evidence, of victory achieved, but most of all, it was a “fuck” of genuine surprise. With the echo of the word still indolently bouncing off the walls of the library, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón hurriedly gathered up his notes and the manuscript; he stacked all his working documents into a single pile and ran to the entrance, stopping only briefly to justify his departure.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, I won’t be able to pick up all the books; I’m in too big a hurry,” he said, and left the archive with a dumbfounded librarian in his wake.

  Still stunned by the evidence, his slender body nearly lost its balance on his way down the dark stairway as he tried to take the steps two by two. The sun was shining bright, forcing him to squint as he left the building. Temporarily blinded, he cut a pathetic figure, and again tripped and nearly fell down the steps that led from the archive to the street. The stumble made him regain his senses, and despite his anxiety, he calmed his gait as much as possible. He had to walk only fifteen yards before finding the majestic building he sought: he raised his gaze to view it in its fullness and smiled to himself. The truth was, it hadn’t taken that much effort to discover the building where Casadevall had hidden the Stone of God: all he had to do was apply pure logic. Could it be anywhere but that place? He checked the time: it was ten minutes to one. There was no need to hurry. He had enough time to put his contacts into motion before they closed the building to the public. With his work notes in hand he entered through a side door, fully convinced he would find the wondrous object. He hadn’t noticed the figure following him at a distance. After all, why would he have to worry about such a thing?

  And that’s what sealed his fate.

  * * *

  After finding the manuscript’s hidden key, he had cast himself into a frenzy of activity. He needed authorization to move around the parts of the building that were off limits to normal citizens, because not just anyone could visit certain areas of the Cathedral of Barcelona, where Casadevall had concealed the Stone of God. There was no more logical place: the master builder knew it perfectly, like the back of his hand. After all, he had spent thirty years working on its construction. And not only that, in Christian societies, cathedrals became imperishable symbols, above and beyond the infighting that rattled a world in constant evolution. No one dared desecrate them, unless the world order changed to such a degree that the planet ceased to exist. If there was any sacred symbol accepted by Christian civilization, it had to be a cathedral. That’s why he’d hidden the Stone there. Such bitter irony, thought Manolo: hiding one of the most important symbols of Judaism in the very heart of Barcelonese Christianity. He imagined Casadevall with the Stone in his power. Just possessing it must have been a shock difficult to overcome. He had accepted the mission to hide it, something unusual in itself, and he was aware of its value, as S. had shown it to him in the gahal. What happened when its secret name was pronounced wasn’t reported in the manuscript, but it must have been truly overpowering to steel his resolve as it had. And now he, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón, scholar, researcher, so often vilified by peers and professors, was literally on the path to unraveling an enviable mystery.

  It didn’t take him long to contact certain high-ranking church officials influential enough to keep anyone from denying him the possibility of studying the various engravings and inscriptions that decorated the stones of the building’s walls. After his lauded doctoral work on the evolution of ecclesiastic Latin, he was sure he could pull such a favor, as in reality it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Alleging he was at work on a study of the cathedral building would serve as the perfect excuse to access any part of it without arousing any suspicion at all. The secretary of the archbishop of Barcelona told him that his authorization would be ready first thing in the afternoon, when he could address the dean of the cathedral. He had plenty of time to prepare the tools necessary for the investigation: pencils and pens, the Casadevall manuscript, a camera, a flashlight, sandpaper of various grains to clean the stones from the layer of filth deposited over six centuries exposed to the elements, a spray he could use to clean and bring out inscriptions that burins engraved centuries ago, an awl, and a hammer. He would have liked to have included the notebook where he kept his notes on the Stone of God, but Bety had it now. It wasn’t that great a loss, as he knew its entire content by heart. But not having it with him disrupted his usual meticulousness.

  Fully equipped, he made a timely appearance at the cathedral sacristy at four in the afternoon. He spoke to the dean, outlining his imaginary work plan. Manolo told him he was researching the various architects who had erected the building over the years. He needed, first off, to consult the books of works that detailed the incidents occurring in and around the building from its earliest days to the present. The archive was located over the cloister, and although he had rough ideas of things, he had to contrast them with the most authorized existing document. Later, he would have to check in situ the different seals that the master builders used to mark the stones of their contributions to the works, in order to clarify some of the documentation he was studying. His work would not interfere in any way with services, nor would temple worshippers or visitors notice him, as it would be done mostly in the galleries, in the triforium, and on the roof of the building. The dean didn’t offer much resistance: despite his appearance, Manolo’s recommendations were unparalleled. He’d even heard the Bishop himself speak of him, though he hadn’t read any of the research the man was so famous for. After just half an hour in the archive, the dean walked Manolo to the stairs that led to the tribunes. There were two: one next to the Sant Iu Portal and another next to the cloister doorway. They began their ascent to the roof of the cathedral through the access near the Sant Iu Portal: it was a narrow, winding stairway with little lighting, with steps worn down from the passage of time. The dean walked with care; he was an elderly man, and apparently not too accustomed to going up and down stairs, as he was unable to hide his labored breathing. He stopped to catch his breath several times, once upon reaching the tribunes, and again at the triforium. Finally, on the roof, and satisfied with the thoroughness of his visitor’s cathedral knowledge, he asked Manolo to excuse him. Keeping a complex temple running properly required a great deal of work and dedication, and he was unable to give him all of the necessary attention. If Manolo needed to ask him anything he could find him in the sacristy, where he should check back in when he was finished. Manolo thanked the dean for his assistance and walked him back down to the tribunes where they bid each other good-bye for the time being. The man could never imagine the favor he was doing him! With such freedom of movement, he could do as he pleased without having to justify anything.

  Once alone, Manolo sat on one of the benches and took out the plan from a complete tourist guide to the cathedral that he had bought in one of the shops in the cloister. It showed the structure of the temple, from the twenty-eight side chapels to a projection of the vaults, with their keystones, and the arch spans of the vaults of the main nave and aisles. He looked through a small blank notebook he had brought to jot things down, and made a peculiar diagram with several circles interconnected by arrows. Under it, he wrote the followin
g caption: “The Tree of Life, a kabbalistic illustration reflecting the connections among the different sephirot.” Excited, he smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. He had always dreamed of finding the place, and without the Casadevall manuscript it would have been impossible. And without all those studies of the Jewish religion and Kabbalah, he wouldn’t have been able to find it in a building as big and impressive as this. But now he knew he would find it in the Kingdom of God, and when his eyes saw the mark corresponding to the Kingdom, he would have found it. And with this as his goal, he got to work.

  Three hours later, Manolo returned to his starting point. In his study of the cathedral, he had been through all of the areas where he thought his destiny might be found, to no avail. The floors of the tribunes, as well as their roofs, which corresponded to the floors of the triforium, gave negative results. He studied them carefully; even though he didn’t expect to find it there, he couldn’t rule anything out, even if it was irrational. He found nothing. The roof of the cathedral, on which so many of his hopes were riding, rendered the same results. The old stones of the cathedral were marked with the seals of several masters of works, but none matched what he needed to find to confirm his hypothesis. Bewildered, as he had thought his reasoning foolproof, he felt hopeless. Something was wrong, that much was clear; it had to be a triviality, a meaningless detail, something obvious, so much so that he could have overlooked it, the typical trifle that would cause hilarity and amazement in equal doses once he discovered it. It was frustrating. He had always stood out for his analytical capability, and he was sure there was a mistake in some part of his reasoning.

  He tried to refocus his thoughts, start the information collection and structuring process anew, but he came to the same conclusions. “That’s logical. The error can’t be there. But if it isn’t there, where the hell is it?”

  He took out the master builder’s manuscript and thumbed through its pages until finding the spot he was looking for. He read the key passage, the one that concealed the complex structure in which he, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón, had found the key to locating the Stone of God, hidden for two thousand five hundred years. It was crystal clear. There could be no other interpretation: there had to be a sign, a distinctive mark, an imprint, a symbol that confirmed it. He put the manuscript into his satchel, with the rest of the papers and materials, and went back up to the roof of the cathedral. There he wandered aimlessly, his mind emptied, in the attempt for his subconscience to solve the puzzle. His steps guided him over the roof deliberately domed to accommodate the pressure of the arches and the shape of the vaults to the point where he thought the solution should reside: the vault closed by the fourth keystone, situated above the choir, the seal and closure of which would have been the work of Casadevall himself. Nothing. There was nothing there. He meticulously went back over each stone, one by one, letting his fingertips graze along them in search of any indentation that could conceal even the slightest sign of the desired mark covered by the filth of six centuries. He came up empty-handed. He walked to the cross, set atop the fourth keystone, that of the presbytery, and sat down on the ancient stone. His determination was sunk and he’d lost faith in soon finding a solution to the enigma.