The Antiquarian (21 page)

Mariola said nothing. She just watched him, smiling. Not even those who knew her best could have said what was hiding behind her enigmatic expression. Enrique, still shocked at the discovery of an unknown facet of his father's life, hidden over the years like a private vice, and destined to remain that way so that nothing and no one could share it, didn't stop to look at Mariola. He felt moved, and his eyes welled up, though he did all he could to hold back the tears. Enrique didn't like to show his feelings, and strangely, thinking that Mariola could see him helped push his pain down to the deepest part of his inner self. The reason for his attitude immediately dawned on him: women were attracted to the alpha male, the one that lets nothing get to him. He couldn't keep from smiling as he realized that he liked Mariola enough to activate his subconscious.

A momentary calm seemed to settle between them. They both kept still, though for different reasons. Mariola broke the serene spell that had silenced them.

“Ready to work?” she asked softly.

“Whenever you say so.”

“We'll start over here. Make a list like this: number the pieces starting from one; I'll tell you the type of furniture, its condition, the period, and approximate starting price. I'll take a photo of each one, and that way we won't have to move the bigger ones.”

And so they whiled away the hours, with the ease of a river flowing into lazy pools where the waters stop to recover from the fatigue of their never-ending journey. Mariola, thrilled to find herself among the objects of her world, dictated an endless list of the most diverse objects, from large Regency-style desks to a collection of small
turn-of-the-century lighters arranged in a tabletop display case. Enrique listened carefully to Mariola's explanations, and was enjoying being close to her, the halo of her discreet perfume, and the silhouette of her beautiful, full lips. The atmosphere was imbued with the radiant happiness Mariola felt inside. Incapable of keeping it to herself, she passed it on to her perplexed makeshift secretary.

They stopped for barely half an hour for a bite to eat before continuing their work. Enrique felt transported to a world of bliss he had given up for lost years ago. This reencounter with the magic of childhood, when Artur had told him the wondrous stories he'd made up about the history of the antiques on display in the shop, together with the warm feeling he felt as an adult male spending time with a beautiful woman made him forget that days before in that same place, his adoptive father had been killed. That night, with much of the shop inventory down on the list, Mariola decided it was time to quit.

“That's enough for today. We've done a lot, and we can finish tomorrow morning. What time is it?”

“The cathedral bells struck nine a few minutes ago.”

“Well, I think I've earned a reward. Treat me to dinner?” she asked, gazing at him with her intense blue eyes.

“Seems like a small reward for all you've done for me.”

On a whim, Mariola insisted on having dinner nearby in Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol.

“I haven't had dinner down here in a long time,” she said.

All of the tables were taken by groups of students, savvy tourists, and the eclectic blend of locals: painters, poets, musicians, intellectuals, and their ilk. His father's friendship with the owner of Bar del Pi secured them a table well ahead of a long waiting list. It was set up on the edge of the terrace, toward the center of the square,
away from the din of conversations, which, with the typically Spanish lack of discretion, overlapped each other in an orchestrated ceremony of confusion. The waiter took their order right away, and soon their table was laid with a large salad and a pair of stuffed omelets.

“This square has a special charm I haven't found anywhere else in Barcelona,” Mariola said. “It's a little corner of Paris transplanted to Barcelona that, strangely, has somehow managed to adapt to its environment and people.”

“Do you know Paris?”

“
Très bien
.” She showed off a perfect French accent. “I studied fine arts there. My father is very conservative, one of those who only believes in religious education. And seeing that the priests back then were somewhat Frenchified, and that the École des Beaux-Arts is known all over the world, showing an utter lack of imagination, he sent me to Paris, where I spent five years of my life in a Montmartre apartment with two girlfriends. Dad never imagined that I'd learn much more than my professors taught in class!” She laughed again, content at the evocation of her past, enveloped in the nostalgic notes that the restaurant pianist seemed to be playing just for her. “His naïve little girl was gone by year one. She gave way to the woman that he never thought he'd find in me.”

“Not many parents know how to let their kids grow up without getting stuck at some point along the way.”

“Did the same thing happen to you?” Mariola asked.

“No, I don't think so. Maybe, because I was adopted, Artur kept a certain distance between us. Don't get me wrong, I don't mean that he didn't love me, but that he tried, out of the responsibility that he had taken and respect for the memory of my parents, to be as professional as possible in my upbringing. In hindsight, I see that he acted like a
strict guardian who was also my father. But, under that mask of strictness, there was a very lovable person who was always struggling to get out. He was a man of such character.”

“I agree—maybe even too much character.”

“What makes you say that?”

“When I proposed that Samuel and I partner up, he was radically opposed to it. The business situation wasn't good, I'm sure you know all about that. Religious art is a complex market, and it went through a dire period. He thought of it as the passing whim of a poor little rich girl, recently divorced, bored, and looking for a way to keep from being alone. He didn't think I would get involved in the business like I did, and he let me know directly, without pulling punches. He was polite—I mean, that was Artur—but he wasn't pleasant about it. It took me several years to earn his respect with regard to my work. And Artur's respect, in a world as given to hearsay as ours, could even outweigh the influence of someone like my father, who didn't want to intervene on my behalf so that people wouldn't accuse him of favoritism toward me.”

“I had no idea.” Enrique was crestfallen. Artur had never told him anything about this. He felt, perhaps irrationally, that this development could put a barrier between Mariola and him.

“It doesn't matter. I mean, it did then, but it all worked out in the end. We were always on friendly terms after that. There wasn't a friendship per se, because he thought that I would be offended by his initial reaction. I wasn't, but he kept his distance just the same. He went several years without attending any of the parties my father threw. Lately, fortunately, things were becoming more normal, and he would grace us with his presence at our get-togethers. But we were talking about your family. Didn't you have any other relatives on your mother's or father's side?”

“Yes, I did, but it was as if they didn't exist. My father's family went into exile in Russia after the Civil War, except for Artur. And my mother was an only child, the last of her lineage. There were some cousins, uncles, and aunts, but the relationship with them just withered after my parents died. They never got along with Artur.”

“It must have been so hard for you.” She took his hand.

“Yes, yes it was,” Enrique concurred, not withdrawing from that initial contact. “An eleven-year-old boy, suddenly left without parents. You just can't imagine. No one can.”

Mariola's only response was to squeeze his hand even tighter.

“Luckily, Artur put every effort into raising me, like the son he had decided not to have.”

“I don't get it.”

“It's pretty simple,” he laughed. “I wouldn't say that Artur was a misogynist, but he always said that all women did was distract men. I know,” Enrique said, leaning in, “that he had several affairs when I was little. He must have thought I never realized, but I was pretty clever for my age.”

“What about you? Do you share his opinion?” Mariola, with her left elbow resting on the arm of the chair, her chin in her hand, looked at him intently with a smile Enrique found mischievous.

“No.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” she answered in all seriousness.

The dinner had been so pleasant that the minutes turned to hours without either of them realizing it. Enrique was surprised to hear the eleven o'clock bells. He had forgotten that Bety would be waiting for him.

“It's really late. I need to get home,” he said suddenly.

“I understand,” Mariola replied, evoking the feminine voice that had answered his first phone call. “Someone's waiting for you.”

“But not like you're thinking. It's Bety, my ex-wife. She was close to Artur, and couldn't make it to the funeral. So she came a few days later to see if she could help me with anything.”

“I see.”

“Can I give you a ride home?” offered Enrique.

“No, don't worry about it. I'd rather stay down here and go for a walk. I'll take a taxi later.”

“Okay. Tomorrow—”

“At ten, just like today. We'll be done by midday.” Enrique leaned in and they kissed each other on each cheek, without the slightest hint of complicity. He walked away, and from the tiny passage that connected the two squares, Enrique looked back. Mariola was no longer there.

* * *

Bety was waiting for him on the terrace, in the dark, cloaked in the night. The burning tip of a cigarette was the clue that led Enrique to her, as she didn't answer any of his calls, and he didn't find her when he looked in the rooms. He sat down next to her. At their feet, Barcelona, lit by the shine of a million lightbulbs, submerged in the twinkle of the fluctuating sparkles, put on a magical show.

“How did you make out with the manuscript?” Enrique asked, knowing that it would be the only topic she would be willing to talk about.

“Fine.”

“Have you made any headway?”

“A bit. But I need to feel comfortable in order to work. And I don't.”

“How far did you get?”

“I'm about to start the list.”

“That part's fascinating, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

Desperate with Bety's terseness, Enrique had no clue as to how to continue, until a sudden, providential inspiration was kind enough to enlighten his thoughts.

“Are you still finding mistakes in my translation?”

“Enough to write a handbook for students of Introduction to Classical Philology. There are so many, and of so many kinds, that they actually surprise me, and I've often stopped to ask: Could this be? As I said the other day, it's the translation of an amateur, and I'm constantly reminded that that's what you are.”

Hearing her tirade made Enrique think he had overcome Bety's initial reluctance to talk, and he strove to continue on this path. He preferred her this way; angry was better than silent.

“Now that you've found the mistakes in the main part of the text, you may be able to make a new interpretation of it. That might lead us to the solution.”

“Unfortunately, that's not the case,” she said, taking a deep drag on the cigarette. “At first I thought that, if we sift through your syntax errors, we could decode, or at least clarify, the text, but aside from surprising me with its content, the manuscript is still a mystery to me. I don't have a single new clue. It's interesting on its own, as it tells of Casadevall's thoughts, worries, and problems, but for now, that's all.”

“Everything remains the same.”

“So it does. And on a different topic, how did the appraisal go? You two must have worked hard, you coming home so late.” She didn't repress a certain reproachfulness.

Enrique used the cover of darkness to bite his lower lip and think out a cautious response.

“Yes, that's right. We only stopped long enough to have a little lunch and a little dinner.” Bety's silence forced him on. “We appraised what was in the warehouse and much of the store. Mariola thinks we'll be finished by tomorrow midday.”

“What's she like?” Bety suddenly asked. Enrique was taken aback, but took no time in sensing the question's significance. The atonal register of her voice, deliberately devoid of all feeling, made it essential for him to answer honestly.

“She's marvelous,” Enrique said.

“Just as I thought.” She crushed her cigarette out in the ashtray, and stood to position herself behind Enrique. She gripped his shoulders. “I wish you luck.”

Bety went inside. Enrique got up wanting to talk to her, but an instinct held him at the terrace threshold. He didn't ponder the meaning of their conversation. To do so would have led to a conflict he preferred not to face.

Twenty-four hours later, Bety's mood had changed radically. If she had been ill-tempered enough on Saturday to almost completely ignore Enrique, on Sunday, surely thanks to the previous night's conversation, she was back to her normal behavior, as if she had expunged all her troubles and worries. Enrique heard her getting up for her morning run, and later they had breakfast together. They talked about Casadevall's odd behavior, and the outlandish mysteries described in the text. Bety thought they were an author's license, an essay in fantasy. Enrique, perhaps due to a professional bias, thought that everything the manuscript detailed could and must be true. They didn't speak of the appraisal. When breakfast was over, Bety told him she would return to San
Sebastián when she was definitively done with the translation, probably Tuesday or Wednesday. Saddened, Enrique nodded. It was true that her being there had helped him not just in the investigation, but also on the personal side. Her warmth and her usually cheerful mood had had something of a soothing effect on the wounds opened by Artur's death, alleviating his grief.