The Antiquarian (24 page)

“It was a radical change. He opened what would later develop into his business, a small antiques shop, and went back to school. His exceptional intelligence made it easier for him, and after seven years he had earned his high school diploma and two university degrees, in history and classical philology. He had an education and a business that, though it had its ups and downs, was respectable; he thought he could seek Núria's hand in marriage, but her parents rejected him outright. They didn't want to tarnish the family's good name with what they considered an uneven match. Núria was desperate. Her parents, who never imagined the magnitude of their relationship, forbade her from ever seeing him again. And, in that class, in that day and age, an order like that from your parents could never be disobeyed, not even questioned. Artur, crushed by a reaction he never expected, licked his wounds and considered what route to take next, because he was sure he would eventually achieve his goal.

“Now I'll tell you about Lluís. Artur had a funny relationship with him. Though at first Artur had approached him as a way in to the restricted circle of upper-class youth, they ended up becoming true friends. Lluís wasn't like most people in that group. He was aware of the privilege of his social status, but didn't have the class consciousness that his friends seemed so proud of. To him, Artur was an example of struggle and tenacity; a role model to be followed, not shunned. Like everyone else, he knew the rumors about Artur, but he preferred not to put stock in them. He was a good man even in that. He always said that he was no one to judge the lives of others.

“And so, in that chance way, their friendship grew. They had similar points of view and hobbies, and they became nearly inseparable. They knew everything about each other, except for one thing: they were both in love with the same woman. That's the way it was. Lluís wanted to marry Núria too, and I think any man in his right mind would have: she was like a fairy-tale princess.”

“She was,” Enrique concurred, remembering the old photos kept in the family albums.

“I only saw her once, but I did get that impression. She had something unearthly about her: those big eyes, the delicate features. She looked like she was not of this world. But I'm getting off the subject,” Fornells said, returning to his story. “I also don't know why they, knowing each other as well as they did, kept their love for Núria secret. Maybe because, no matter how close you are to someone, there's always something you can't share; or maybe they just each suspected it about the other and didn't want to bring it up.

“Whatever the reason, one day Lluís decided to ask Núria to marry him, even though she had no idea how he felt. He knew that without her father's permission, there would be no wedding, which is why he had to get it before moving on to the next step. The conversation with Núria's parents was long and fruitful, and it ended with the two parties sealing the deal. Lluís was the ideal candidate: nice, upstanding family, with money, that he would have coming to him as
hereu
—you know, the Catalan tradition of the first-born son being the general heir. Their marriage would benefit both families, and although her consent was the last thing her parents were worried about, Lluís chose to talk to her.

“When Lluís popped the question, Núria didn't know what hit her. After all those years of friendship, finding out that Lluís had been secretly in love with her was a total
shock. She let him down easy. Even if she didn't love him, she thought the world of the man, and never would have hurt him. She didn't say anything about there being someone else, and her refusal was as nice as it could be.

“But Lluís didn't give up. Without his knowing, Artur languished in love while Lluís began to call regularly on the object of his desire. It was a strategy of attrition, and it eventually worked: one day, Núria finally said yes. I don't know why she did it; maybe she didn't love Artur anymore, maybe she had fallen in love with your father. She was young, and young people can be inconsistent in their desires. But we'll never know.

“What I do know is that, after the wedding, Artur put some distance between himself and them. At first, Lluís thought it was Artur playing it safe; two's company, three's a crowd. But after a while, it became clear that there was more to it. So, at Lluís's request, Artur ended up revealing his love for Núria. Instead of making him angry, it had the opposite effect. They became the best of friends, and though Artur tried to avoid them at first, their insistence ended up bringing him into the fold.

“You're probably wondering how I know all this. Artur and I saw each other now and then in those years. I was based at the Vía Layetana station, and Artur's first shop was nearby at the top of La Palla Street, so we'd run into each other every so often on the street or at breakfast. We didn't hang out like we once had, but that trust was still there. He told me a lot of this stuff himself. Other things I figured out on my own.”

Fornells stopped talking. An hour and a half had passed, and his throat was sore from narrating the story. He ordered a bottle of sparkling water. Fornells and Enrique saw that London Bar, which had been open awhile, had a large and varied clientele. Andreu brought the sparkling water in an old-time, half-liter bottle, a format no longer on the market that was probably only available in a few places.

“I'm parched. It's been a long night, but there are memories that can bring anyone back to life.” He poured himself a glass, drank, and let the liquid rest in his mouth, as if savoring a fine wine. He took a long look at Enrique's face. “There's so much you didn't know about them!”

Enrique, who had followed the long explanation immersed in a strange trance brought on by unexpected revelations on an unknown past, nodded faintly. The reason they were having this conversation was still beyond him, but he was fascinated, captivated by the story of his people. Fornells failed to repress a long yawn, and then he continued.

“The years went by, and the three of them kept up their friendship. That put the rumor mill into action, but they couldn't have cared less. They even said that you weren't Lluís's son, but Artur's.” Enrique was beyond flabbergasted. “And they may have been right.”

“I don't believe it!”

“Believe it. There's no point stirring up the past, especially if the people in it aren't with us anymore, but you can't close your eyes to certain things. When you were little, you didn't look much like Lluís. Now that you're older, grown up, don't you think you look a little like Artur? The chin, the cheeks, you have the same hair—not the style, but the hairline's the same—even your bearing. You look so much like him when he was your age that when you came into the station for the first time I couldn't help but remember Artur, the way he was years ago. We could find out if you want. The lab could work up a DNA analysis no problem, but I don't think it's worth doing—or at least, I wouldn't. In a way, whoever your father was, you ended up being raised and loved by both of them.”

“So that's why Artur adopted me.”

“There was no other way. Even if he wasn't your real father, the bond between Lluís, Núria, and him was too strong. Obviously, the families opposed the adoption, but Lluís's will was crystal clear. They took the whole thing to court, but there was no way to change anything. Artur fought for you like a wounded wolf protecting its cub, and he won. That's why the only family you had was Artur. The others ceased to exist.”

“I remember my relatives, vaguely: my grandfather, my cousins. But from the time I went to live with Artur I never heard from them again.”

“He didn't want you to become one of them. That's why he kept you away from their influence. He brought you up like a normal kid, with one single privilege: Vallvidrera. You don't realize how special it is to live in that eagle's nest until you're old enough to appreciate the beauty of the simple, the fragile, the gift of just looking at something. Take away Vallvidrera and you were just another boy playing in the streets of a normal neighborhood, with no old-money privileges. They've already read you the will, right?”

Enrique nodded.

“Weren't you surprised to see the fortune Artur had made?”

“The truth is, yes, I was,” Enrique admitted.

“The shop made money, but not that much. I assume you realize that.”

“Are you insinuating there was something dirty behind Artur's fortune?” Enrique asked hotly.

“I'm not insinuating, I'm stating the facts. I'm a cop, remember? And I've worn out many a shoe sole walking the streets. These hands are calloused from turning the pages of case files. I have a copy of the will, and all the paperwork from the banks. Artur couldn't have had as much as he did without something a bit off in his accounts. But he was always smart, and he covered his tracks well. The money vanished into a web that
not even Financial Crimes could untangle. There were as many as five companies tied to Artur, all dissolved now. Allegedly, they laundered money, but there's no evidence—not a shred—just a fortune. Of unknown origin.”

“Did you know?”

“I always knew. Years ago, I advised him to get out of it. Unfortunately, he didn't listen.”

“I never would have thought that Artur was capable of being mixed up in anything illegal.”

“For a writer, you don't have much of an imagination.”

“That's the second time I've been told that in a week.”

“But in this case, it's understandable. You really never imagined anything? Suspected anything?”

“No. And it's hard for me to believe that Artur was a common criminal.”

“So you never suspected anything. Okay, that's possible,” Fornells conceded. “It doesn't matter much anyway. But don't get to thinking it was all as dirty as that. The way you define ‘criminal' depends, like any other word, on a thousand nuances. Is a serial killer the same as a guy who cheats on his taxes? They've both broken the basic laws of society. So they're both criminals.

“All Artur did was deal in stolen art. Now that might seem despicable to some people, but to me, a guy who's spent the last forty years surrounded by hookers and pimps, dealers and addicts, small-time crooks and kingpins, up to my neck in all the shit society excretes and would rather forget, it doesn't seem all that bad. He never hurt anyone, that's for sure. And that, believe it or not, matters to me.”

“I don't know if you're just saying that to cheer me up or you really believe it, but I doubt you can imagine how difficult it is for me to take in what you're saying. Criminal or not, he was deep into something illegal. Art trafficking! This is incredible!”

“Do you really think so? I'd bet my pension that more than one or two ranking Barcelona antiquarians have, have had, or will have a sideline like that, be it occasional or ongoing. When your business becomes your passion, you kind of change, and all of a sudden you can justify the unjustifiable.

“But I have solid proof of what I'm telling you. There's a warehouse in the name of a front man, but it really belonged to Artur. We went up there. Found a Romanesque altarpiece, complete and in perfect condition, wrapped in pieces. We're working out the origin now. And that's what got him killed.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Look, Enrique, I'm not supposed to tell you certain things about the investigation, so I'll have to give you a quick rundown of how this ring worked. First off, most art is stolen to be put up for sale among the usual buyers later on. But Artur only worked to order for certain clients, whose identity, obviously, we don't know. Whenever a client found out about an interesting piece, they would contact Artur. He would take the order, travel to wherever the piece was, and make an initial appraisal, and then he'd meet with a specialist. They'd draw up a proposal that Artur would take back to his client; if the client said yes, they gave Artur ten percent. That got the operation underway. As of the time the money changed hands, all responsibility went to the specialist. He would set up the infrastructure necessary to cover and move pieces of a size that would make such a thing seem impossible. Once the job was done, Artur's duty was to collect the rest of the money and transport the piece to its destination. The specialist and buyer could
never, ever meet. All contacts were exclusively through Artur. He was the middleman to guarantee the identity of both parties was kept secret. A well-run racket, that's for sure.

“The specialist was none other than Phillipe Brésard, one of the most successful international art thieves in the world. The story of Brésard, aka the Frenchman, goes back thirty years. He started off small, but it didn't take him long to rise in his odd little trade. His first years in the business were total progression, constantly climbing. They busted him in Italy, his favorite hunting ground, early in his career, but he got off with a suspended sentence, never spent a day in jail. From then on, he became one of the best. He was behind those famous hits on the Mausoleum of Verona and the Uffizi Gallery paintings. Everyone knew it was him; his signature technique was identifiable to the extent that, even though they had no evidence, Interpol put out an international search warrant on him.

“But after the gallery job, the Frenchman vanished off the face of the earth. There would be other heists in several countries, but never any evidence. He was simply untraceable. They did get close once. The Frenchman is the temperamental type, and he's got a mean streak. When he works, he turns into this infallible machine. That explains how, after thirty years of nonstop work, he's only ever been caught red-handed once, at the beginning of his career. There was a second time, a few years later, but it had nothing to do with his ‘work.' That time, he got thrown in the slammer on the Costa del Sol after a barroom brawl. Story goes he was bombed and picked one hell of a fight. He spent the night in jail, and only three days after being released on bail was it discovered, through photos and prints, that this hothead was actually a wanted art thief using a false identity. I'm not criticizing the police chief; it wasn't a big town, and they usually have too much work to stop and think that some guy with a foreign accent might actually be on the wanted lists of half the police forces in Europe. Back then, no one
looked at foreigners as potential illegal immigrants. Actually, as tourists, they were the country's main source of income.