The Antiquarian (10 page)

A gentle breeze blew in from the terrace, too cool to ignore. He drew the curtains, turned off the living room lights, and went back, after a long while, to what had been his bedroom. He flopped onto the bed, and his bones protested against a mattress no longer
familiar. After a bout of tossing and turning, he managed to sleep a few hours in an uneasy drowse.

The events of the next morning felt like they belonged in a dream.
Enrique had a lot to do: he called Rodríguez to give him what he needed to complete the forms; he called Samuel to ask him to arrange the ceremony at the cemetery; he left several messages for his Barcelona friends. He then returned the rented car at a branch in the city, and picked up Artur's from the Hospital Street garage.

He found the visit to the notary mentally trying; everything was now so final. If the morning's activities had borne a tinge of fantasy, the attorneys, with their blunt practicality, brought him back to the real world. They told him that he was the general heir to all of Artur's property, with the exception of a few things he left to Bety and old personal friends like Samuel, and some charity donations. After reading the clauses relative to third parties, they took Enrique by surprise: the value of Artur's property stood at over a million euros. The amount left him speechless. He knew Artur's business had been making money for years, but he never imagined it could be so much. This meant forgetting about the mortgage on the Igueldo apartment, in addition to inheriting the Vallvidrera house, with a value of around six hundred thousand euros, and a collection of antiques worth at least another two hundred and forty thousand. The inheritance tax had to be paid, of course, and depending on certain variables, it could come to twenty-five or thirty percent of the total—obviously an amount that was excessive for anyone with his simple tastes. The attorneys offered to settle the necessary paperwork. Still stunned by the windfall, Enrique left the notary's office, awash in mixed emotions.

If his visit to the notary's office had been unpleasant, his trip to the morgue was nothing less than terrifying. As promised, Rodríguez had prepared everything. All Enrique had to do was sign some papers. He wanted to see the body; Rodríguez had advised against it, as the beating, autopsy, and days that had passed since the murder had all taken their toll. But Enrique insisted and was allowed to see the corpse. Rodríguez had been right: it was beyond unpleasant, but not because of the damage inflicted on Artur's body, now nothing but lifeless flesh. What he found cruel was not the physical aspect, but Artur's now-eternal absence. They told Enrique that Artur's remains would be taken to the cemetery at four thirty, so the ceremony could start at five o'clock. He then went to see Samuel.

Some of the antiquarians from La Palla Street had already started to gather at Samuel's shop in an informal meeting, Guillem and Enric among them. Mariola Puigventós, Samuel's partner and daughter of the president of the Antiquarians' Association, was still away in Madrid. The antiques dealers received Enrique with sincere condolences, which he took with heartfelt thanks. They went back to their shops and left him to have a long conversation with the man who had been his godfather's best friend for twenty years. Samuel outlined his idea for the ceremony: a simple eulogy to be given before Artur's closest friends. He offered to accompany Enrique to Artur's shop, but Enrique said he would rather not until Artur's body had been interred. On sudden impulse, he decided to part ways with Samuel. He wanted to be alone. They arranged to go to the cemetery together; Enrique would pick him up at four thirty.

A number of leading figures from the city's cultural elite were on hand in the Montjuïc Cemetery: politicians, bigwigs from the Antiquarians' Association, owners from surrounding businesses (such as the art galleries on Petritxol Street), and a diverse showing of the offbeat habitués from the peculiar Plaça del Pi scene who had known Artur so many years. The casket sat in front of the Aiguader vault, surrounded by several wreaths of flowers.

The mourners sat on benches arranged in front of the entrance to the vault. Samuel began the ceremony by describing the life and personality of Artur in simple terms imbued with an emotion that eventually spread to all present. Artur, there could be no doubt, was much loved in his world. Once he had finished, Samuel gave the floor to Enrique, who limited his remarks to words of thanks to all for their attendance. He would have liked to have said more—something literary, something brilliant—but he lacked the strength. The cemetery caretakers placed the casket in the vault. When they came back out and closed the door, an indescribable sorrow grasped Enrique's soul.

It was the final good-bye.

The mourners slowly dispersed, giving Enrique their condolences and wrapped up in the conversations of those who have not seen each other in years, and who only met on such occasions. Fornells was nearly the last to leave, and in the end, only Samuel and Enrique remained before the vault.

“I want to thank you, Samuel. Your eulogy was so beautiful, so subtle and sincere. I know he would have loved it.”

Samuel shook his head before he spoke.

“Yes, he may have …” He left the phrase hanging in the air a few seconds before continuing. “Listen, Enrique, I want you to know something. Everyone's time comes sooner or later, and the only thing we're left with is knowing whether the ones we've raised are doing well in life, going through it with their head high. Let me tell you that no man has ever been prouder of his son, I promise you. Let's go now, my boy. It's time we left this place.”

“You're right.” They walked out together, arm in arm. “I'm leaving a big part of my life behind in that vault. But it was Artur himself who taught me, after my parents died, that we always have to move on.”

“That's good. That's the way it should be. Death is part of life, and while many may fall, the rest of us must continue. We have to live with his memory, keep it alive in our minds. That's the best tribute we can pay him, not drowning in our own misery or obsessing over the inevitability of death.”

Later, Enrique parked the car in Artur's usual space. They walked along the Ramblas to Pla de la Boqueria and then crossed to the Gothic Quarter and stopped in front of Artur's shop.

“Why would anybody do this?” Enrique asked. “I just don't get it.”

“Nobody does,” Samuel said with a gesture of indifferent skepticism. “Let's hope the police catch the killer as soon as possible. And Enrique …”

“What?”

“This probably isn't the right time, but I wanted to tell you as soon as possible, because I assume you'll be going back to San Sebastián before long. I imagine you won't want to continue with your father's business; literature is your world. So I want you to know that if you decide to liquidate the antiques, I'm willing to take them off your hands at a fair price. I'd even buy the shop. Take your time, I don't need an answer now.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. I guess I will end up selling it all, but right now I don't think I'd be capable. I'll let you know before I leave. Now then—”

“I understand, believe me. Don't worry. Well, I've got some errands to run. If you need anything, you know where to find me. Don't hesitate to call no matter the hour.”

“Thank you, Samuel.”

The most daunting moment of his return was at hand. He had to go to the shop and face the place where Artur had been murdered. He opened the door and disconnected the alarm. Right in the middle, visible from any viewpoint, stood the altar. On it, the
outline of a dark stain marked the site of the tragedy. The splintered railing of the loft was the other telltale reminder of the crime. He crossed the shop, averting his gaze from any place that held evidence of the murder, and ascended to the loft. Atop the study table was a mass of books and manuscripts that had undoubtedly been rifled through by the murderer and left there by Fornells and Samuel.

Enrique looked for
The Practice of Christian Perfection
on the table but couldn't find it. It was too obvious a hiding place, given all of Artur's precautions. He must have hidden it in his beautiful book collection, consisting of some four hundred volumes of various sizes, subjects, and conditions. Over four decades, Artur had accumulated a significant number of old tomes with which to sate his double thirst for books and knowledge. Most of them were in the Vallvidrera house, though he always kept a healthy sample on hand in the shop, to consult when the need arose. The books would have to join their counterparts in Vallvidrera. If he did sell the shop, as was likely, under no circumstances would the books be included. He too thought of himself as a bibliophile, though still only a novice; he had a few books, whimsical gifts to himself, nothing compared to the spectacular majesty now before him. Many of them were true gems, the legacy of a distant past, significant for their content or craftsmanship.

He found
The Practice of Christian Perfection
on one of the shelves in the study. It was made up of three old volumes with covers of dark, timeworn leather. The title was a blurred golden thread nearly impossible to make out against the grime that had built up over three centuries of handling. He took down the first volume with a curiosity not devoid of reverence. In his hands was Artur's fabulous discovery, and, by his own hunch, the cause of his death. He gently touched the wrinkled leather of the cover and surrendered to his inner senses. A conviction rose up inside him. Yes, he was sure of it now. With a strength even he hadn't been aware of, his intuition told him that Artur's
killer was searching for the book he now held. It had been no neighborhood crook, no mob retaliation. Someone who knew of Artur's discovery had done away with him to take it for themselves, without stopping to imagine that, thanks to his sixth sense, Artur had concealed the book under the guise of a code of religious perfection, turning it into another nondescript book among hundreds; literature disguised as literature. In Artur's study, lined with shelves overflowing with old books, no one could ever have found the manuscript hidden in a different cover. Now it was in his power. The hunch had become truth with force and prodigious transparency.

Now with his wits about him for the first time since he had arrived in Barcelona, fully alert, Enrique settled in to Artur's favorite chair and examined the book. His godfather had removed the original pages and replaced them with others, a manuscript with a number of notes in the margins. Enrique knew then that he was holding the object his godfather had been murdered for. Why else would he have camouflaged the book to look like something else? What did it contain that was so worth hiding? He tried to read the complex scrawl of the author, but his Latin was too rusty to allow a coherent reading of the text. He could translate the odd phrase, but the overall meaning was beyond him. The notes, written in a sort of Old Catalan, were not easy to decipher either. It would take him time to translate the book, unless he asked for help, something he did not wish to do. If, as he believed, someone had been willing to kill over its contents, making the text known to a third party would automatically put them at risk. At that moment he assumed that he too was in danger, as he was the only person who, by pure logic, managed to find the manuscript, although the killer could not know whether Artur had shared the secret with anyone before he died.

With the book in his pocket, he locked up the shop and left for the parking garage. An in-depth study of the text was fundamental, and to do that he would need peace and quiet, as well as time. Vallvidrera was just the place.

Despite his exhaustion and rusty Latin, Enrique made headway translating the Casadevall manuscript. With his initial pains subsiding as he refreshed his knowledge of the classical languages that Artur had insisted on teaching him years ago, Enrique delved into amazing events from centuries ago.

There was no presentation or formal authorship to the text, but it was easy enough to recognize the author of the manuscript through his repeated references to his milieu. He belonged to the Casadevall family and held a ranking office in the architectural world of his day. Through a direct reference in the text, Enrique eventually identified him as the assistant to the master builder, and it did not take long to situate him historically. One of the old books from Artur's library, entitled
Hiftory of the Building of the Cathedral of Barcelona
, “published in the noble city of Tortosa in the Year of Our Lord Seventeen-Hundred and Sixty,” enabled him to identify Casadevall. Architect Pere Casadevall had been among those responsible for the works executed during construction of the Cathedral of Barcelona over a span of forty-six years, from 1368 to 1414. The list of his works did not include much of relevance, aside from the significant progress made on construction of the cathedral—which was stalled until then, thanks to the work of Bishop Planelles—and his strange death: his body was found in unusual circumstances that were never explained.

His job was to assist the master builders of the cathedral in their tasks. He supervised the economic and administrative dealings behind the construction of Barcelona's most important building. Like a modern architect, he looked after the countless details behind a project, though he had never worked independently. His
occupation boiled down to directing specific works in certain sections of the cathedral, as well as others in civil buildings of the booming city.

Once he confirmed Casadevall's historical existence, Enrique went back to his translation. The first thirty pages revealed nothing in particular. They were a compilation of the main activities performed in the exercise of his office. Yet, as the months went by, the architect began to write in the pages of his book more about the general impressions he got from doing the work than merely listing them. In a way, the log turned into a diary. And the diary became something else: a place for confession, reverie, and doubt.