The Antiquarian

by Julián Sánchez

  With superhuman effort, Bety managed to get up one second after Mariola had. There they were, in the narrow corridor, face-to-face. Their breathing came faster, almost a pant that Enrique, far away, heard muffled. Mariola looked undecided; by the time Enrique was up she had her gun trained on Bety, but then she seemed to withdraw it.

  “Get out of there.” He heard Mariola’s voice in the distance. “Get out of the way!”

  “It was you,” he heard himself saying. “It was you who killed them.”

  He was able to think clearly for the first time since the blow.

  “Give me the Stone,” she ordered. Enrique hesitated. Mariola stretched out her hand, encouraging him to give up the Stone. “Give it to me and I’ll go back the way I came, and nothing else will happen, I promise you.”

  “She’ll kill us if you give it to her!” shouted Bety.

  “Tell that bitch she’d better shut up and stay that way.”

  “Why’d you have to kill them?” Enrique asked, still shaken by the sight of her with a pistol in her hand, completely ignoring her command. “Why’d you have to kill Artur? Why’d you have to kill my father?”

  “Give me the Stone,” she demanded again.

  “Why?”

  “Because the Stone was supposed to be mine.”

  “I trusted you. You took advantage of me. Everything that happened between us was fake. You did it just to find out about the Stone. You tricked me! You manipulated me like a fool!”

  “That’s not true,” she denied. “I never meant to use you. What happened between us would have happened anyway, even without the Stone.”

  “How do you expect me to believe you after what you’ve done?”

  “I don’t expect you to believe me. But it’s the truth.”

  “Nothing’s stopping you from shooting. If you do, you can take it, no problem.”

  “Don’t make me do it.” Her icy voice was tinged by a hint of worry. “Don’t make me do it, because that, I really would regret.”

  Enrique thought for several lengthy seconds. She could have easily killed him. If she’d plotted to draw him to her to be able to knock him out, it was because she didn’t want him dead. That much was clear. And yet, she’d shown no reservations about shooting Carlos, and she probably wouldn’t mind doing the same to Bety. He didn’t know what to do. The revolver was in his jacket pocket, next to the Stone, the leather bag, and the keys to Artur’s car and house. He thought of drawing the gun; she would never expect anything like that. All he would have to do was pull the trigger to catch her off guard, but he was surprised to find that, beyond all the fear, the hate, and the pain, he didn’t wish for her death. A stabbing premonition told him that if he tried it, in the end, Mariola would be forced to shoot. What to do? A sudden inspiration motivated him to rummage through his pocket a few seconds until he found the bag that held the Stone; next, he laid his hand on the railing, seventy-five feet above the cathedral floor, now packed with concertgoers enthralled by sacred music.

  “Shoot me, and I’ll open my hand, and you’ll lose the Stone forever.”

  “If you don’t hand it over to me now, I’ll shoot Bety without a second thought.” She changed the angle of the gun barrel and pointed at Bety. “As much as you try, you won’t be able to save her. Plus, your friend is bleeding to death. Look at him; his only chance depends on you giving me the Stone. Then you could get him to a hospital.”

  Enrique shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Mariola was right: laid out on the floor and unconscious, Carlos was losing a lot of blood, more than Enrique had ever seen in his life. It was spreading out in a huge puddle that threatened to brim over the edge of the triforium and spill into the presbytery. Bety had gotten out from under his friend’s body, and squatting next to him, she fought to stop the bleeding with both hands.

  “I can’t trust you after everything you’ve done.”

  “Don’t test me! Everything I’ve done to get the Stone, I’d do for you.”

  “Then leave! If you do, I’ll try to forget you, and the pain you’ve caused me.”

  “Forget me? You couldn’t. It’s too late. We’ve been joined forever. For better and for worse. So I’ll say it one more time: give me the Stone.”

  “Fine, take it.” He held his arm out toward her. Mariola approached cautiously, taking tiny steps, her right hand holding the pointed pistol and her left out toward Enrique’s, where he held the bag. She had one eye on Bety’s movements and the other on Enrique’s. Her fingers brushed against her lover’s. Enrique felt them as if all his senses were concentrated in his fingertips and nothing else existed. And then the bag was flying toward Mariola’s face. She was taken by surprise, and it hit her right between the eyes. She backed up at the same time she instinctively pulled the trigger of the pistol.

  The bag flew between the bars of the safety railing that formed a parapet along the triforium, and fell down into the concert audience. Enrique thrust his entire body forward, with eyes closed. The blow to her face from the Stone caused Mariola to lose her aim, changing the trajectory of the bullet, which grazed his arm. He clearly felt the nick of the steel, but not the pain. Mere yards separated him from Mariola, and their bodies clashed with extreme force. They fell to the floor in a tangle of torsos and limbs. Mariola had managed to partly dodge Enrique’s blind rush. The gun was still in her hand, but her lover powerfully grasped her arm: not enough to force her to drop it, nor so little that she could escape his oppressive grip. They twisted around, half crawling, half dragging themselves. Mariola contorted her body to one side. Enrique’s wounded arm took an impossible angle, causing the strength to drain out of him. A victorious smile crossed Mariola’s face, but vanished as soon as she heard an ominous metallic snap behind her. The safety railing had given way under the weight of her body. She was slipping into the void. Her hands grasped at space, imploring, searching for any handhold, any support, but the inexorable force of gravity was pulling her inevitably toward the distant floor of the presbytery.

  Enrique threw himself over the falling body with a desperate cry, and just managed to stop her deadly fall by grabbing hold of her by the waist. The momentum of his body and the inertia of the drop were about to include him in Mariola’s fatal fall, but he stopped himself at the very edge, half of his body hanging in the void. Below, the crowd dispersed like tiny ants surprised by a rainstorm. A mortal silence fell, punctuated only by isolated screams of hysteria. The organ had stopped playing.

  “Hold on! For the love of God, hold on!” Enrique kicked desperately, until his foot found a column on which he levered his leg into an impossible contortion that stopped the slow but definite advance, inch by inch, of his body into the abyss.

  “Bety! Help me!”

  “Enrique!” begged Mariola. “Enrique!”

  “Bety!” he roared, desperate.

  His wounded arm partly gave way. Now he was only holding onto Mariola by her underarm. “Bety!”

  He felt a hand feeling its way across his straining back muscles until it stopped at the belt of his pants. Bety grasped it to keep Enrique from falling.

  “Enrique! I can’t hold you!” Bety cried. “If you don’t drop her we’ll all fall!”

  Mariola turned her face up to Enrique’s. It showed neither fear nor despair, simply an indescribable feeling that he could see in all its magnitude.

  “Good-bye, my love,” she said, and let go.

  “No!”

  Enrique closed his eyes and put his entire soul into his hand, Mariola’s only remaining support. There he concentrated all his energies and desires, all his hopes and dreams, all his prayers and supplications. It was in vain. His hand, coated in sweat, slipped over the bare skin of her arm. It was at her elbow now, now higher, and now her hand, completely lax. He struggled to clasp her fingers, he clenched them in his with a strength born out of the most complete desperation.

  Suddenly, his hand was free.

  He opened his eyes. Mariola was falling, her skirt billo
wing around her, tracing a path through the air like a butterfly with quivering wings, her arms upraised imploringly toward him. He managed to home in on the shine in her eyes until she was far below, until they became undistinguishable, eventually melting into the oval of her face. At last, her fall came to an end. A crowd more morbidly curious than concerned converged in a circle around the body. Enrique closed his eyes.

  “No,” he softly said to himself. “No.”

  Bety helped him up. She begged him not to, but he rushed downstairs anyway in a wild, headlong descent that caused him to slam into the stone walls more than once. At the end of the staircase, he violently kicked open the door to come out into the presbytery. When they saw him and his ashen face, trailing blood from the wound on his arm, the crowd parted; they feared what he might do next, and they didn’t know he hadn’t caused Mariola’s death intentionally. Enrique flung the disordered chairs aside until he reached Mariola. She had fallen over one of them, which was made into a splintered wreck by the force of her impact. Her green skirt and white blazer were covered in blood. Sobbing, Enrique cast himself over her body and embraced it. Pulling her bloody face to his, he was shocked to hear a tiny rattle of air: she was still breathing.

  “Mariola, Mariola, it’s me, Enrique.”

  “Enrique,” she whispered with a voice so weak he thought he was imagining it. “Enrique, I didn’t trick you, I swear.” A bloody froth suddenly erupted from her mouth, making her cough. “Enrique, can you hear me?”

  “Yes my love, I’m here.”

  “I love you, Enrique. You must believe me …”

  “I believe you,” he answered.

  “You could be saying it out of pity.”

  “Do you know for a fact it’s untrue?”

  “No.”

  “Then give me the benefit of the doubt,” he whispered in her ear, just for her.

  Mariola’s breathing grew weaker, lighter, less detectable. Enrique held her in his arms, her body broken by the brutal fall, her limbs lifeless. He wasn’t cognizant of the moment she stopped breathing. Someone’s hands tried to separate him from her, but he resisted with all his waning might, clutching the remains that were Mariola. When, after a time so eternal it ceased to exist, he felt his forces fail and fell completely into gloom, those same hands lifted him onto a gurney and took him to the hospital.

  Hours later, Bety and Enrique, his arm in a sling, appeared before Rodríguez and Fornells in a room of the Hospital Clínic. Fornells informed them that Carlos had undergone successful surgery and was in serious but stable condition; he would make it. Enrique’s silence spurred Bety to tell the part of the story that was of interest to the policemen, who gave her their undivided attention. They took several pages of notes, though they didn’t doubt Bety’s word; hundreds of witnesses had seen Enrique trying to hold onto Mariola, putting his own life at risk in the process. Once they had the facts, the policemen departed and left them alone.

  20

  Six months later, Enrique was busying himself with several lines on the deck of the Hispaniola when he saw Bety approaching down the brand-new pontoon, recently installed by the San Sebastián Port Authority. She’s so beautiful, he thought, watching her walk toward him.

  “Hi!” she said, leaping onto the deck.

  “Hi,” Enrique greeted her. “You look beautiful.”

  A courteous smile was all the response he got.

  “How’d you know I was down here?” he asked.

  “I imagined you would be since I’ve been calling all morning and yesterday afternoon and there was no way to reach you on the phone. I had some errands to do around here so I thought I’d come down.”

  “I’m going over all the gear,” he explained unnecessarily. “I’m planning a long trip and I want to have everything ready.”

  Bety sat across from Enrique in the cockpit, facing him as he coiled a couple of lines. “Where are you planning on going?”

  “For now, Galicia. From there, wherever the wind blows me. I might point my bow southward and head for the Mediterranean or, if the wind is really blowing, I’ll try to make my first Atlantic crossing. Carlos proposed we sail to Greece together, but we’ll see about that.”

  “How is he?”

  “Better than ever. He has a nice scar on his chest. I was in Barcelona a few months ago to finish up some corrections on the final draft and we had dinner together. He feels a little out of it, but he hopes to get back into shape with a couple weeks’ sailing. He’s the only one who has a souvenir from this whole adventure—a lead one.”

  “Your publisher sent me this.” She took a thick book from her purse and handed it to him.

  “The Secret of the Antiquarian. So, Juan decided on that title in the end,” Enrique mused. “Well, I don’t blame him. It really does sound better than the others we were considering.”

  Enrique perceived what else had brought her there, but he resisted Bety’s unspoken desires. If what she wanted was to talk, she’d have to take the initiative.

  “It’s a great book, one of the best you’ve written. It draws you right in from the beginning.”

  “I don’t deserve any credit for writing it,” he confessed. “It was all in my head; it didn’t take me more than four months to finish. The printing proofs took another month. Everything else was pure publishing routine.”

  “It’s on its fourth edition in just two weeks. It’s the best seller of the season—no,” she corrected herself, “of the year. It’ll be a blockbuster.”

  “It’s an absurd way to join the club of the majors. If the readers didn’t know that it’s partly based on a true story it would’ve sold a lot less. Only my most loyal readers would’ve bought it then.”

  “I liked the dedication. It’s the first one you’ve ever done.”

  “‘To Artur,’” Enrique recited. “It was about time. He deserved it. A tribute that came too late to the man who made me what I am.”

  Bety put the book back in her purse. She looked at Enrique. He continued, absorbed in his task.

  “Feel like going out?” he suddenly improvised. “We could take a little sail around the bay. There’s a bit more wind than you like, but I promise to be careful.”

  Bety wasn’t sure; she had absolutely no desire to go out to sea, but Enrique would feel more comfortable in his element. And that could make it easier to achieve her real goal.

  “Okay. But don’t leave the bay.”

  “I promise. Get the stern mooring.”

  She moved over the deck with certain unsteadiness. She hadn’t been sailing since they divorced; she’d never really cared for it. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the beauty and the freedom that came with leaving land and steering a sailboat, but because of the sense of fragile insecurity that sailboats gave her. Those thin walls holding back an entire ocean inspired little trust in her, even with a sailor as experienced as Enrique. And she never lost the fear of capsizing, despite Enrique’s explanations on how unlikely such a thing was. After all, fears are irrational things, and seldom mastered.

  She pulled in the line once Enrique had untied the knot. She coiled it while he started the engine and released the bow mooring. She felt rusty, unpracticed; years back, it wouldn’t have taken her so long to do something so simple.

  A minute later they were crossing the mouth of the port of San Sebastián. Enrique turned the boat into the wind and first hoisted the mainsail and later, with the starboard side windward, raised the jib. With a graceful tack, the Hispaniola glided toward the center of the bay. They were sitting to the left of the helm, which Enrique steered with his right hand. At sea, the wind is never as mild as it seems on land. It blew hard in gusts from the southeast that caused the sailboat to pitch lightly despite Enrique’s efforts to avoid it.

  “We can turn around for home if you want,” he said, seeing that the movement of the boat was more than Bety seemed willing to take.

  “No.”

  She was enjoying the sail more than she dared adm
it. It was the end of October, probably the best season to be on the Cantabrian Sea: constant wind that swept the air clean and, contrary to what the uninitiated thought, weather with little rain or clouds, meteorologically stable. The sun was shining bright, magically sharpening the outlines of the objects that its warm rays fell upon, bringing out that inner quality so rarely seen. The bay sparkled with the brilliance of a gigantic gem.

  “It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” Enrique asked with the complicity that comes from already knowing the answer.

  Suddenly, Bety knew that he too had something to say; that was why he’d suggested they sail.

  “Our ‘unparalleled scenery.’ I’d never seen it like this.”

  They skirted the island, distancing themselves from it, tacking toward the beach, to avoid the surrounding sandbanks. Behind them, Mount Urgull, with most of its trees bare, and its summit capped by the castle. Before them, Mount Igueldo sat baking in the sun, and beyond them, further inland, they could see other hills and mountains, covered by the inevitable green of the Basque Country.

  “Neither had I. And sailing around this bay is like taking a walk down La Concha Esplanade to me.”

  They kept silent. Bety tried to order her thoughts. Enrique … Who could have known? She gathered all her courage and was the first to speak. She needed to know all those things that, at the time, out of caution or respect for Enrique’s feelings, she hadn’t dared to ask.

  “Why did she do it?” She decided to begin with the most difficult question. “You didn’t make it all that clear in the book.”