“Thank you so much.” Bety acknowledged his kindness sincerely. “I’ve been looking forward to it, too. It’s been a long time …”
“So it has. That’s life, huh? So. Well, well.” Samuel smiled again. “You left us pretty worried yesterday, Enrique. Fornells seemed so upset when you two went downtown. And Mariola didn’t tell me much of anything this morning: that they had to check out some information with you, but it was all classified and you couldn’t tell her anything.”
“The investigation seems to be getting more complex than anyone thought,” Enrique admitted. “Unfortunately, Mariola’s right. Fornells asked me to keep everything absolutely confidential,” he lied on the fly.
“Well, I’m sure it’ll work out soon.”
“Is Mariola around?” Enrique asked. “Last night she told me I’d find her here.”
“That’s right; she’s down in the basement. Excuse me, I’ll call her.” He took an intercom from a drawer and switched it on. An unseemly squawk flooded the shop; and a distorted voice answered.
“Mariola, Enrique and … Bety are here.”
“I’ll be right up,” Mariola answered.
A couple of minutes later, from a spiral staircase set at the end of the showroom that connected the two floors, Mariola emerged, looking as sharp as ever. She was wearing a pistachio-green skirt with a white blazer that was tapered at the waist, simple but elegant, and white mid-heeled shoes. Her dark hair, loose and carefully styled, seemed to float as she walked toward the desk. Enrique stood up, as did Bety and Samuel. On reaching them she greeted the group with soft “hello,” and gave Enrique a polite kiss on the lips.
“Mariola, this is Bety.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.”
They both reached out to take the other’s hand, as if by mutual agreement.
Enrique became aware of how odd the situation was when he saw the stealthy but extremely inquisitive look on Samuel’s face. He was studying the women and their reactions.
In a way, the scene looked like a photograph next to its negative. Mariola, with her flowing brunette mane, smartly attired, before Bety, blond hair in a ponytail, olive complexion, dressed casually in pleated slacks, flower-print blouse, and suede ankle boots. Two opposing forms of beauty: one classic, the other, contemporary. Mariola evoked the image of a woman from a century ago, with subtle, well-defined features: the thin-bladed nose, delicate lips, large and elongated eyes. While Bety was more from the present, with more familiar features, not as distant as those of her rival: fleshy lips, roundish cheeks, and almond-shaped eyes. Mariola’s beauty was more distant, less frequently encountered, exceedingly perfect. Bety, while far from common, personified the opposite style, closer to the tastes of the present.
It wasn’t only the two men who observed the scene with curiosity. Bety and Mariola, the players on center stage, appraised each other with concealed interest. Mariola was facing the woman who had been Enrique’s wife for years, who she had felt jealous of just days before. It was different for Bety; not even she understood the overpowering impulse that made her offer herself to her ex. Because that was what she had done, beyond any doubt: offer herself to him, the man she had shunned forever just years before. She didn’t know what had made her do it, but whatever it was, she was certain it deeply disgusted her. She’d felt humiliated when he rejected her, not so much for the rejection as the offering itself. In the end, though he’d changed drastically, Enrique was still who he was, or rather, he couldn’t stop being who he was. And being aware that the attraction—perhaps even love—that Enrique still felt for her, despite the years that had passed, had disappeared with the arrival of Mariola was something she didn’t like one bit. Her reaction, she’d known it then and there, before Mariola—beautiful, serene, distant—had come about on realizing she was losing her eternal admirer. She’d acted not because she was losing him, but rather, in equal measure, he was losing her. She’d done it not on her own initiative, but on one outside herself. Knowing the reason made her feel better, but she still noticed something wrong in her reasoning. After all, if everything was as she imagined, why was she still looking at Mariola with envy?
“We need to talk.” Enrique broke the little spell that had been cast on the situation. They had only taken a few seconds longer than normal to begin talking, nothing especially noticeable. As he said it he looked as Samuel, who understood his request immediately.
“Well, I’ll leave you to it and go grab a bite to eat.” He got up and took his jacket from a nearby coatrack. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Does that sound okay?”
“Whenever you want,” Enrique said.
“Fine. See you, then.” He looked at all three of them consecutively before bidding them good-bye. They watched Samuel as he exited out the door, first hanging the “Closed” sign on it. Then Mariola took the initiative.
“Please, sit down. I could fix some coffee if you like. Artur spread the custom among the other antiques dealers,” she explained. “The truth is, good customers love those kinds of perks.”
“Don’t bother on my account,” he said.
Bety shook her head in refusal, without taking her eyes off Mariola for one second. She seemed fascinated by her hostess.
“In that case …” She left the sentence hanging on purpose. Bety’s presence seemed odd to her too. She wanted an explanation.
“Samuel said you hadn’t told him anything. Yesterday I didn’t even realize that he might be worried and want to ask you about the situation.”
“I didn’t know how much of it I could tell him. I thought it would be better to say nothing until I talked to you. But along with his concern there is worry, which is no less important. Lately, we’ve been getting a lot of calls from Association members asking for Samuel, much more than usual. I get the feeling there’s some unspoken interest in finding out more about the Frenchman’s arrest. As I told you when it happened, more than a handful would be linked to his activities. And since Samuel was very close to you and Artur, well, they think he may know something. What I never could’ve imagined is what you told me last night.”
“Neither could we,” Bety interjected. It was now Mariola’s turn to study her. “But unfortunately, it did.”
“We’ve come to tell you, with a bit less pressure, what the situation is, and what we’ve come up with.” Enrique told her about the most important conclusion they’d reached after meeting with Carlos: someone had been watching them from the beginning. Manolo, who Bety had asked for help, had managed to find the Stone’s hiding place, in the cathedral. Their intention was to determine whether the Stone was still there or whether it was in fact in the hands of the killer.
“Then you know where Casadevall hid it.”
“We’re not at all sure of it, just a few ideas,” Enrique answered.
“I get the feeling you don’t want to tell me.”
“It’s more pragmatic than that,” he said. “I think that telling you could put you at risk. We don’t know what the killer knows, but he probably thinks we know. And it’s not worth it. It’s enough that the two of us know.”
“Enrique’s right,” Bety cut in. “It’s not worth it to share the risks when there could be such a high price to pay. Manolo’s and Artur’s deaths prove as much.”
“I see. Well, the truth is, I don’t like it. I’d rather be with Enrique, sharing his burden with him.” She treated Bety to a meaningful look as she said it. “But I guess that decision’s already been made.”
“Yes,” Enrique said. “I’m not going to put you in danger. It’s hard enough for me to think that Bety is exposed for what she knows about this whole stupid thing.”
“You share a lot, the two of you,” Mariola insinuated.
“Less than you think,” Bety retorted. “And I’d like for it to be even less.”
Each gave the other a lengthy stare. There was neither hostility nor aggressiveness in their looks, but the m
ental duel they were engaged in was obvious to Enrique. Mariola wanted to know the true nature of the relationship between Bety and him; and on her own behalf, Bety felt the irresistible desire to delve deeper, to know the true woman under the placid mask of self-control that Mariola wore. Having partly imagined the conversation would go that way, Enrique felt powerless to change the course of events. But it was Mariola who put the matter to rest, changing the subject with a new question.
“When are you planning on investigating the cathedral?”
“Carlos thinks he’ll be able to get authorization this afternoon or tomorrow morning. As soon as he does we’ll go up and see what the hell happened Tuesday afternoon.”
“Say you find the Stone,” Mariola said. “Wouldn’t that only put you in more danger? If the killer is watching, it might make him come after you. He wouldn’t let anyone get away with the object he’s fought so much for.”
“You’re right,” Enrique said. “But if we do find it, it’s clear that the investigative part of the game will be over. We’d go straight from the cathedral to the police to turn it over to Captain Fornells. I guess that way it would be over, once and for all.”
“Plus we have Carlos working with us,” Bety added. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to us. In fact, the only reason we’re here together now is because he told us not to split up at any time, under any circumstances.”
“Well, that puts me somewhat at ease. You say Carlos is a competent professional?”
“He’s an expert private investigator who’s solved some big cases. There’s nothing to fear with him at our side.”
“Good. Looks like you’ve made everything crystal clear. Bety, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Enrique alone.”
“Of course, be my guest.”
Mariola and Enrique went to the other end of the showroom, far enough for Bety not to hear them. From where she was sitting, Bety could see their profiles and, though she hated herself for it, she surreptitiously studied their movements and expressions to guess what they were saying.
“Enrique, there’s one thing I can’t understand about this whole thing. It’s not about the Stone, Artur’s or that other man, Manolo’s, murder. It’s about you, me, and above all, Bety.”
Enrique feared the worst.
“What is it?”
“Do you even have to ask?” she exclaimed.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you don’t want to know.” She paused, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. “Fine, I’ll tell you. I want to know why you haven’t been capable of telling me the whole story about the Stone of God from the time we decided to share everything. I want to know why you told me that half-truth last Tuesday afternoon.”
“I didn’t mean to hide anything from you,” he tried to explain.
“Well then! That’s a relief! Because there seems to be a gaping chasm between action and intent.”
Enrique told himself to be patient. In the end, Mariola was partly right, though not in the way she imagined. He hadn’t kept things from her to keep her sidelined, but because as the story developed he’d lost interest in it.
“Listen, please, and don’t interrupt me,” he pleaded. “If I didn’t tell you anything it’s because the one who was really interested was Bety. I mean, before I met you, I also felt involved in solving the whole mystery, but my interest faded as our relationship got stronger. For Bety it was exactly the opposite: like I told you, she came to Barcelona to help me after Artur’s death, but when she got to know the story, she went from calling me a fool for not going to the police with it to being the first to want to reveal its secret.”
“You don’t get it.” She shook her head. “That’s exactly why I’m angry, or rather, hurt—deeply wounded. I feel as if she’s taken my rightful place, even if she admits it’s partly due to circumstance. But it’s clear that you’ve kept me in the dark, and I don’t believe it’s a coincidence.”
Enrique weathered the storm with pursed lips. He felt unfairly treated, and worse, misunderstood. It seemed that this was his fate whenever there was a woman in the mix: involuntarily putting his foot in it and sending the whole thing rolling down a long, steep slope, like the tiny snowball that ends up triggering an unstoppable avalanche.
“I promise you that the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you.”
“But don’t you see? Can you really be so blind? If you hadn’t told me anything, or if you’d told me everything, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But no, you had to tell me part of the truth to justify Bety’s being in Barcelona, with you. Because that’s it, isn’t it?” Her eyes twinkled, lit by the sudden force of a revealing conviction. “You want to be with Bety. I’m sure of it.”
“You’re wrong,” he said soothingly, understanding the extent of her jealousy. Getting nervous would only lead to new mistakes, just as prolonging the conversation would. “I don’t want to be with her. It’s you I want to be with. Every minute I spend away from you makes me want to be with you that much more. But I can’t leave her side until the danger’s passed. You’ve got to understand that!”
“And you’ve got to understand me. I want you to quit the whole thing. Forget everything that’s happened. You don’t want to see me in danger, that’s what you said. Well, I don’t want to see you in danger either. Let’s go to away Venice. Let’s go now. Samuel won’t mind taking over the business. Let some time pass and everything will work itself out.”
“Maybe I could get away, but what about Bety? It’s too late and we’re too deep into this. The only solution is to go all the way and find out the whole truth. Plus, the police have asked us to stay reachable. I couldn’t leave Barcelona even if I wanted to.”
“Actually, I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mariola replied, pessimistically shaking her head. “You’d best be leaving now. No, you’d both best be leaving now,” she rectified her own sentence, turning her back on him to face the shop window.
Unseen to her, Enrique nodded.
“Say good-bye to Samuel for me.”
Mariola didn’t answer. Enrique hesitated for a moment: he was going to try to explain himself, but realized how useless it would be. He shut his mouth before he spoke, aware of Mariola’s unwillingness to listen. She had ruled against him. Appeal would only be possible with time and the final unraveling of the mystery. Until then it would be pointless to waste his efforts. He walked toward the desk, where Bety waited, already standing. She assumed, correctly, that it hadn’t gone well.
“Trouble?” she ventured.
“Trouble,” he confirmed.
Enrique picked up his jacket and they went out onto the street.
“If you want, I could try to talk to her,” Bety offered. “I know it’s a cliché, but the truth is we women understand each other better than men do, and in her place, I might have reacted the same way.”
“Even knowing the whole truth?”
“Even knowing the whole truth,” Bety admitted.
“No, I don’t think it’ll help much. It would only complicate things, not fix them.” He took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. “I thought I’d begun to understand women over the years. Now I see how wrong I was.”
They walked toward the Ramblas, retracing the path they’d taken to Samuel’s shop. “What do we do now?” asked Bety.
“Wait,” Enrique answered after another sigh. “Wait.”
Enrique felt pummeled. He knew going to see Mariola would only add to his woes, but still … As for Bety, she thought she understood Mariola: it didn’t take a genius to see her position in the couple’s eyes, distorting it into a triangle. She didn’t wish anything bad on them. But that tiny, wicked part of her, the one she always tried but rarely managed to suppress, that little part that felt offended, uncomfortable, and foreign to her, at times vexing and always evil, was overjoyed and brimming with happiness.
19
“I got it.” Carlos showed them a letter on the archbishop
ric’s letterhead, computer-printed, and adorned with a signature as overwrought and complex as the flourish. “They took their time deciding. Maybe they were checking me out, but they ended up granting me the authorization.”
“Without any objections?” Bety asked.
“Well, I don’t think they were thrilled to see a private investigator hanging around the archbishopric. And you can get very persuasive when people don’t pay attention to the needs dictated by reason. And let’s not forget that Manolo’s death, though it hasn’t hit them directly, did happen right after his investigations in the cathedral. But they couldn’t deny me the same permission they’d already given the police.”
“Fornells,” Enrique commented.
“That’s it. They were at the cathedral this morning. But of course, they didn’t find a trace of what they were looking for. In fact, I don’t think they even knew what they were looking for. They don’t know what we do.”
“So when can we go to the cathedral?” Bety wanted to know.
“Now. Right now.”
“The sooner we go, the sooner this whole thing will be over,” mumbled Enrique morosely.
Carlos picked up a backpack and emptied its contents out onto the desk: flashlight, hammer, chisel, sandpaper of different grains, and a spray can whose purpose was unknown.
“What’s that for?” Bety asked.
“I told you yesterday that Manolo had taken equipment with him. I looked at the police report. They found his kit at his apartment, in an old satchel. I think he had planned for the possibility of using all these tools in his search, so I made up my own set in case we need them. There was also a camera, but I don’t think it’d be appropriate to take one.”
“What’s that can for?”
“It’s compressed air. It sprays out pressurized air. They showed it to me in the specialty shop where I found it. Archeologists use them to clean away dirt and reveal worn-down inscriptions in stone. That way they can study them without damaging the original materials. It’s likely that Manolo was looking for a special inscription that would indicate the exact site where the Stone is hidden, although you told me that he’d investigated lots of other things, and it might have been part of his usual kit, not necessary for this case.”
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