The Antiquarian (18 page)

His upcoming entrapment effort concerned him to a certain degree. He had no doubt he could pull it off. He knew he was a good actor, and he had new resources to make his performance even more compelling: hate, a thirst for justice, and revenge. Yet none of those would justify him taking a slack approach to it. One of his guests had killed in cold blood, unscrupulously. He trusted Carlos. Carlos meant safety. The idea pacified his imagination as it grappled with sporadic thoughts of ambush and death.

Resolutely decided to get his mind off things, he began walking toward the neighborhood where he had grown up. After Enrique's parents' death in the harrowing accident, Artur decided that he should stay in the same school, the Salesianos de Rocafort. It was a denominational school that had seemed enormous to him back then: an entire city block of Barcelona's Eixample district, occupied by a three-story building, with high doorways, and the finishing touch of a sinister-looking church that always appeared in his worst nightmares. He arrived around five o'clock, just as the children were getting out and releasing their pent-up energies. Mothers and children mingled before the great gate that led to the inner courtyard. He passed through the crowd unnoticed, looking like just another parent, and stepped into the vast patio, which no
longer seemed so vast. Its appearance had changed enough to confuse him for a few seconds. Behind the wall that marked the school boundary there was now a new building with balconies overlooking the yard. The construction of a parking garage and underground sports complex had also altered it; the sidelines of the courts were not as Enrique remembered. He easily located the classrooms of his childhood through the large windows, and his mind was flooded with memories. There could be no doubt: he was having a nostalgic day. Teachers, classmates, stories … everything came forth in a confusing jumble. Most of his recollections were happy, some were sad, but they all formed part of his past, and had let him build his present: tiny pieces of the puzzle that was him.

The courtyard emptied out, and the watchman, a young seminarist of the order that ran the school, politely invited him to leave. Enrique left the place with the imprint of the past on his heart, and a certain worry: since Bety's arrival, he had only been looking back, never ahead. He was distracted, self-absorbed, and he couldn't afford to be in such a state. Enrique sauntered through the neighborhood in the direction of Casa de l'Ardiaca, reaching the outer edge of the Gothic Quarter by the highway. He deliberately skirted the area around the police station, eventually reached Ferran Street, and kept on, down to Plaça Sant Jaume, heart of the city's political and government activity. Enrique strolled through the Jewish Quarter, amid different buildings, but on the same alleyways that Master Casadevall and the mysterious S. had walked, alleys that may have known their secrets.

Casa de l'Ardiaca was next to the cathedral. It housed one of Barcelona's most exquisite libraries, both for its content and the uniqueness of the site. Bety was translating the manuscript on the upper floor of the library. He took the stairs two by two. Bety was sitting by one of the building's picture windows, immersed in her work.

The librarian recognized Enrique with a distracted glance, and moved to allow him in; after all, he had been coming several days in a row attempting to solve the enigma of the manuscript. He approached in silence. Absorbed in her work, Bety did not notice his presence until he was right beside her. She wasted no time in useless greetings, and, motioning for him to sit down, began speaking enthusiastically.

“This is an incredible document! Its intrinsic value well surpasses its possible material worth, not to mention the mystery it's hiding. Anyone studying the ways of life in the Late Middle Ages would let themselves be flayed to get their hands on it.”

“How far did you get?”

“I'm still working on the first part of the manuscript, the part that you, blinded by your issues, thought insignificant, you short-sighted hack.”

“I have more than enough reason to have a lack of interest in anything unrelated to the object,” Enrique snapped.

Her researcher's enthusiasm cut off, Bety suddenly realized Enrique's only goal.

“Forgive me.” Her voice froze the air. “I got carried away. It won't happen again.”

“It doesn't matter. Go on.”

“Okay,” continued Bety, “Your translation is, generally, fine, but too … liberal. You've made a lot of syntactic mistakes and they've distorted the manuscript's meaning. I'm worried about that; if you've made them in the first part, the second will be no different. Your Latin's not rusty—it's beyond corroded, and for a translation of this level, something that can reveal a hidden clue at any time, it's no good,” she admonished him. “Just look at these examples: look here, and here, you're confusing genitives and datives, nominatives and vocatives. Here's another one, look.” She showed him notes with the examples she had found. “And then, though it's not as serious, you've made morphologic mistakes, and you've mixed up certain meanings. I
think they distort the translation quite a bit, but I won't know how much until I'm done.”

“You're right,” conceded Enrique in a conciliatory tone. “It's been too long since I've faced a translation this challenging, and it's clearly beyond my ability. But I had no one to turn to.”

“It's always positive to admit our limitations,” Bety interrupted. “You didn't use to. You just might be maturing.”

“Right.” Enrique quickly stanched the discussion. “When do you think you'll be done with the translation?”

“I can't say for sure. It's intricate work, and you've seen that for yourself, as the manuscript transforms from its initial form—a log book—into something of a diary. I stopped and looked ahead to the part that we should really focus on, and the structure gets more complex. It's almost architectural. Master builders were not as fluent in Latin as the ecclesiastical hierarchy of the day, but Casadevall had language skills that were superior to those of most of his peers. I'll need at least three or four days for this first draft.”

Enrique sighed on hearing Bety's assessment.

“Just be patient and wait,” Bety recommended.

“Patient,” Enrique answered, more for himself than her. “I'll have to be.”

“Should we go home or do you want to eat something around here?” asked Bety.

“Sure, let's grab a bite. I don't feel like cooking.”

They shared a light dinner on one of the terraces in Plaça del Pi. Enrique had walked there unconsciously, purely from the habit of directing his steps toward the place in Barcelona he most dearly loved. Bety talked and talked about countless topics, fueled by the ease with which she could carry on a conversation, putting aside any
personal or work-related concerns. Distracted, Enrique barely paid attention. When he did say something, he spoke in monosyllables. But that didn't seem to deter Bety, who was capable of keeping herself entertained. Not even the bohemian atmosphere of the square, so reminiscent of the Parisian Latin Quarter, could hold his attention. Artur's memory hovered over Enrique, and that place only made it more poignant. The memory of Mariola seemed to accompany Artur's, though he couldn't explain why.

Bety suggested they return to Vallvidrera. Enrique agreed, eager to seek the false tranquility of sleep. It didn't take them long to get there. Once home, Enrique had just gotten out of the shower when the phone rang. Bety answered as Enrique toweled off his hair.

“It's for you, a Mariola,” she said from behind the door.

“Tell her I'm coming.”

“I already have.”

Enrique wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out into the dining room. Bety was sitting on the terrace, apparently distracted.

“Good evening,” he said, with such warmth that he surprised himself.

“Hi. Did you have a nice afternoon?”

“Yeah, it wasn't bad. It's nice to take a trip down memory lane every once in a while.”

“You're so right. Listen, Enrique, I won't be able to come to the shop tomorrow afternoon, but I've arranged my weekend to be available to you.”

“Great. But I don't want you to go out of your way,” Enrique lied. “Tomorrow I was planning to go meet up at the shop with some of Artur's friends to give them a present.”

“It's no trouble at all.”

“Your father said the appraisals would take a couple of hours.”

“Don't worry about it. Should we meet on Saturday at, say, ten?”

“Saturday? Sure.”

“See you then.”

“Thank you very much, Mariola.”

“No thanks necessary,” she said, and hung up.

Enrique went back to the bathroom and finished drying off. He put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and took a seat next to Bety on the terrace. She didn't say a single word. Her mood seemed to have changed inexplicably, and Enrique couldn't understand why. As for him, he felt extremely communicative, even cheerful. Despite his usual dimness, it didn't take long for him to understand that something was wrong.

“What's going on?”

Stony silence was her only answer.

“Bety, tell me what's wrong,” he insisted.

“I find it incredible that you can't figure it out.”

“Well, no, the truth is, I don't know what's bothering you.”

“That shouldn't surprise me. You're so indulgent with your own mistakes, provided you realize you've made them, but you have such little understanding for those of others.”

“What are you talking about?” Anger was taking the place of surprise.

“At the library, I told you that you'd changed; I was wrong,” she stated, almost placidly. “You're still the same irresponsible child you were years ago.”

“Tell me what's wrong with you now, and quit talking in circles. One reason we broke up was to keep from constantly being accused of something.”

“Fine, I'll tell you!” she shouted. “You had a plan ready to catch the killer—a trap, you called it. I didn't agree with you on that because it could have put you in danger, but you didn't listen.”

“It wouldn't have been smart to talk to the police.”

“Shut up and listen!” So much concentrated rage wrought a silencing effect on Enrique. “I've come to help you, sure that I could. I find myself enmeshed in a murder, and your stupid idea of solving it behind the backs of the police, either for revenge, or for your ambition of exclusively solving a mystery from the past. I'm helping you as much as I can, neglecting my personal obligations. And you, you incompetent fool, have no qualms about changing your plans without even bothering to let me know. I found out when I overheard you talking to that Mariona, or whatever her name is! I'm sure you'll understand, after spending four hours trying to entertain you with international current events and the sleaziest San Sebastián gossip, and getting in response the most diverse repertoire of grunts ever known since humankind acquired intelligence, I feel somewhat less than flattered.”

As always, Bety was right. He should have told her.

“Who is this Mariona?”

“Her name is Mariola.”

“I don't give a damn what her name is! Why aren't you doing the appraisal with Samuel and the other two?” It was absurd, but Bety's words were not being guided by reason.

“Remember, Puigventós offered to do it first, and Carlos himself advised against involving them in the appraisal.”

“So you accepted out of good manners. Is that it? Because I'm sure this Mariola isn't a wrinkled, sixty-year-old hunchback!”

Enrique didn't answer.

“Answer me! She's an elderly hunchback, isn't she?” she asked sarcastically.

“No, she's not,” answered Enrique, “but I don't see how that matters to what we're doing.”

“You'd have to be blind not to see it. I help you, and in return I get no thanks, but instead, you keep me in the dark about anything that develops.”

“I was planning to tell you, but I was distracted.”

“If you were planning on telling me, why didn't you? No, don't say anything,” she cut him off as he prepared to answer. “I'll tell you myself: you were thinking about her, and don't you dare deny it.”

“Bety, I—”

“I don't know why I'm surprised,” she said. “Any one of my twenty-year-old students is more mature than you.”

“That's enough! It's my turn to talk now. If I've been distracted all afternoon it's because tomorrow I'm meeting my father's murderer. How do you expect me to ignore that? Fine, I haven't told you about the change in plans, but I wasn't trying to hide it from you, and it has nothing to do with Mariola. It just didn't seem that important.”

Bety got up without looking at him and walked to her bedroom. Enrique, somewhere between angry and preoccupied with a new idea that had just occurred to him, followed her to the door.

“Don't say anything else, or you'll make me lose what little faith I have in you. I'll stay long enough to finish the translation, and then I'm going back home,” she said, closing the door behind her and leaving Enrique standing mute.

He was surprised, and an idea popped into his head like a sudden flash of lightning; it was at once flattering and blissfully unexpected. Was she jealous? She was angry
because he hadn't informed her of his change in plans, but her attitude regarding Mariola was one of outright hostility.

When they separated, Enrique thought there was much more between them than they let show. The looks, the gestures … he never quite understood women, but he did consider himself capable of knowing when there was chemistry between two people. That may have been why he had been in more relationships than most people he knew. He clearly remembered the day they had signed the divorce papers: Bety, seemingly cloaked in a chill aura, had used a pen that was different from her usual one, which she'd clipped in the outer pocket of her blazer and forgotten. Such an apparently trivial detail would hold little importance for anyone else, but not someone who lived in a paradigm of meticulousness like that of his ex-wife, so attached in her daily life to near-obsessive behavior. That seemingly meaningless detail turned her attitude into a perfect pose that was marred by a fissure visible to the one person who really knew her.