The Antiquarian (26 page)

“With a résumé like that, he's clearly competent. Why haven't I ever heard of him? Anyone with such a gift must be a genius!”

“If the United Nations could only hire one translator, he'd send the rest to the unemployment line. The job would be his, hands down.”

“Great. How do I reach him?”

“Wait, wait, not so fast.” Quim implored Bety to be patient. “He's the best, but—”

“What's the matter?” Bety interrupted him. “He's not in Barcelona?”

“Oh, he's here. The thing is … I don't really know how to explain it to you. He works here, in the library. He has a research grant financed by the Generalitat, the Catalan government. Manolo occasionally travels to other cities—Bologna, Rome, Florence, Narbonne, or Paris—hunting down information. Right now he happens to be here. But, the thing is, Manolo's a little … quirky. What I mean is that he might not say no, but he might not say yes either.”

“So what is it that you're trying to tell me about this Manolo character?”

“Just what I said. He has his quirks. For him, the only thing that matters is his world. He doesn't give a damn about other people's affairs. He's with us, here in the department, because he's passionate about his work. But it's not the same kind of passion a normal person might have. It's different. As soon as he begins something he's interested in, and he only begins things that really interest him, everything else ceases to exist. He sleeps and eats because the body requires it. If he could, he'd go without.”

“The truth is, I'm a little confused by all this. I've known academics who were hooked on the vice of research, but even so, you're making him out to be a weirdo, like he was off his rocker. How does he get along with all of you?”

“He has no choice but to live with the full professors, and he's not distant, but I would say superficial. If we ask him for help, he doesn't refuse, because he knows it would be impossible for him to work in the university without good relationships with the professors. And you should realize he doesn't act like that because he feels superior, which he definitely is, or because he looks down on us—it's not that. He's not a bad guy; he's simply not interested in anything from outside his world. That's it.”

Bety sighed audibly before giving her opinion.

“Some guy.”

“That's right. Some guy. The best. But don't worry. If you take him something interesting, he'll get right on it. If not, he might turn in the translation tomorrow, and he might turn it in three months or a year from now. Or maybe never.”

“You're not encouraging me. I'd almost rather someone else did it.”

“Don't worry. Listen, I insist, Manolo's the very best,” Quim countered. “If he doesn't come through, we'll go to someone else. It so happens that here in our university, there's no shortage of specialists in Old Catalan. But let's try him first. And, a word of advice: when you talk to him, try to act discreet about your document and sources. It helps if you're cagey about the translation.”

Bety thought that acting cagey would be no problem. She had faithfully transcribed all of the notes, because, though she had the book with her, she preferred not to show it to anyone. And though the whole affair of the manuscript was not as dramatic since Artur's killer had been caught, there was still a mystery to solve. The fewer people who knew about it, the better.

“Okay, let's go,” Bety decided.

“Let's go, then,” Quim agreed.

They headed out through the empty corridors to the old university library.

“What did you say he was working on?”

“He's researching the influence of mercantile Catalan in the realm of Mediterranean languages from the eleventh to the seventeenth centuries, based on the development of Catalan Trade Law, and the new trade routes opened up following the Crusades.”

“Thrilling,” Bety deadpanned.

“It's his world. With this one, he's received nine consecutive grants. He won the first tender against three or four other researchers. His conclusions happened to support the opinions of the members of the jury responsible for awarding the grants. And if you're not only the best but you reach conclusions similar to those of your bosses, there's little the competition can do. All right, here we are. You've never been here before, have you?”

“No, never.”

“You're going to like it.”

They entered the library through a revolving door at one of its ends. It took them into a cavernous room some forty yards long and twenty wide. The height of the ceiling was equivalent to a building of three floors of ten feet each. On the first floor were rows of study lecterns for the general student population, the ends of which were supervised by librarians. The second floor, with restricted access, was made up of galleries fronted by a balustrade from which the first floor could be observed. The equivalent to the third floor housed a high, apparently endless row of old volumes that could only be reached by use of a very tall ladder. Sparse lighting, which made it possible to see only the desks with clarity and cast a dim halo over the stacks, gave a decidedly sinister air to the library, where everything seemed arranged to discourage the noncommittal student. Its gloomy light reminded Bety of an old Romanesque church—a place of withdrawal, completely removed from the modern concept of a library, where users and readers could take refuge from the real world and create their own, isolated from all other fellow scholars under a single and individual point of light.

They ascended to the second floor by a narrow, precipitous stairway. At the far end of the floor stood an old desk completely covered by mountains of books. In the midst
of them, they could just make out a figure that appeared immersed in a fit of feverish activity.

“That's him,” Quim whispered. “What do you think?”

“He looks like a classic library rat. And it looks like he's in his element.”

“Take him out of here, it's like taking a fish out of water. You can't imagine what he's like at faculty parties.”

They walked toward the table until they had a clear view of the figure surrounded by books. A tangle of hair that appeared to have forgotten what a comb felt like years before topped a face that, aside from the air of a crazed academic from a B-movie, had nothing especially distinct about it. His nondescript appearance was offset by a pair of fiery eyes that shone with particular force. His face was comprised of a thin chin and aquiline nose, sculpted more by skipped meals than any natural slimness. They stood before Manolo, who didn't detect their presence until Quim spoke.

“Good morning, Manolo.”

He squinted his eyes in an effort to see beyond the light of a lamp shining directly on his desk. He responded, Bety thought, more to the voice than to any actual vision of the person speaking.

“Quim,” he asked more than stated.

“Manolo, I've come to introduce someone to you.”

“Ah, okay.” He didn't bother to get up.

“This is Béatrice Dale, professor of classical philology from the University of the Basque Country. Bety, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón.”

“Very well.”

Bety thought that the irony of Quim reducing her formal academic title to a two-syllable nickname to break the ice meant little to Manolo. Either that or he didn't even catch it.

A silence ensued. Manolo was clearly waiting for them to leave him alone to go back to his papers but didn't know if the conversation was over or not.

“Manolo, Bety needs help that only an expert like you can give,” Quim said, taking control of the direction of the conversation.

“Good.” His tone of voice didn't convey irritation; indifference would more closely describe it. “Let's see what you need.”

He got up for the first time. Bety would have suffered a fit of laughter had it not been for her natural discretion and the importance she attached to the translation of the notes. He wore dated clothes that were as badly matched as they were ironed.

She took out her transcript of the side notes. Numbered, they took up fifteen pages. She handed them to Manolo. He took them without a word, pushed some books back from the edge of the table to clear a space to lean on, and took an unhurried look at all of the pages. After a few minutes, he said, “Interesting. They're in learned Catalan, second third of the sixteenth century. Lots of abbreviations. As a text, it's apparently simple, but it has no meaning without a frame of reference with which to establish a cause-and-effect relationship.” Here he took a long, deep breath. “When I say ‘simple' I mean that it wouldn't be hard to translate your notes. Whether they make sense is another matter. Could I see the original you got them from?”

Bety vacillated. It was clear that Manolo wasn't willing to involve himself without some greater motivation.

“They're notes from an early-fifteenth-century manuscript. It fell into my hands by chance and I'm studying its content.”

“Do you have it with you?” Manolo asked bluntly.

“Y-yes,” Bety nearly whispered, trapped between her desire to know and the need to keep the secret.

“Let me have it,” Manolo openly ordered her. Bety took the manuscript from her purse and handed it to the translator, who took it with more interest than he had shown up to then.

“Well, well. What have we here?” Manolo mused, savoring the words.

He placed it on his desk, further clearing the space he had been leaning on moments before. Carelessly stacking pile upon pile of books, he built two or three shaky columns. He leafed through several pages with curiosity, with Bety and Quim at either side. Finally, he turned back to his interpellators.

“Where'd it come from?”

“It was … a gift,” Bety improvised.

“No, no. I don't mean how it came into your hands,” he said impatiently. “I mean, what's the origin, the place it came from.”

“It turned up in the library of an old
masia
farmhouse.”

“Funny place for a bibliographic gem,” Quim interrupted.

“Yeah, it is,” added Manolo without taking his eyes off Bety's. “I'll help you,” he suddenly decided.

“When do you think we could begin?”

“Immediately. Right now, of course.”

“Seeing as you two have reached an agreement, I'll leave you to it,” Quim quickly broke in. “I've got work waiting. Remember, Bety, you owe me a favor. Do you think dinner would be fair payment?”

“Sounds about right. I'll call you before I go back to San Sebastián.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” She smiled.

“Great. You know where to find me. See you around, Manolo. Thanks for helping our colleague.”

Manolo made a sound akin to a grunt in response. As Quim walked away down the corridor, Manolo left Bety speechless with a question asked in the most natural way: “Now tell me: how did you get this manuscript from the Master Casadevall?”

Bety's jaw dropped. She had never been so surprised in all her life, she was sure of it, and doubted she would ever be so taken aback by any question in the future. Manolo Álvarez Pinzón had been aware that the Casadevall manuscript existed. He was waiting for an answer that Bety couldn't give him.

“Forgive me. I didn't expect my question to have such an effect.”

He seemed to want to clear the way for their conversation. Bety was aware of it, just as she was that the question lacked any malice. Manolo knew no other way to state things than the most direct, just as he felt them.

“How did you know it existed?”

Manolo collected his thoughts before he answered. “Quid pro quo. All right, I call that an exchange of information. We could reach an agreement: you tell me how you got the manuscript and what you've gleaned from its content, and I'll tell you what I know about it.”

Weighing up the pros and cons, Bety had nothing to lose and a lot to gain. They had spoken of an information exchange, not a handover of the manuscript for its study. From that standpoint, she could be confident, as she was at liberty to tell Manolo only what he was interested in. If he expressed a desire to study it in private, Bety could
delay the delivery until the most opportune moment. All she would have to do is tell him that the manuscript wasn't hers, but Enrique's.

“All right,” she agreed, “I'll tell you as long as you agree to translate the notes I've brought you.”

Manolo nodded and sat down to begin his story. Bety took one of the two free chairs. She was eager, and on realizing it, forced herself to tone her interest down.

“Before anything else, tell me exactly where they found it. You mentioned a
masia
.”

“Yes, somewhere near Ripoll. It belonged to the Bergués family.”

“Very, very interesting. Now then, before we begin, I need to know what you know about the Inquisition,” Manolo said.

“Well, the basics, more or less. I'm no expert. I know there was a poorly organized Medieval Inquisition, until the Catholic Monarchs' petition to establish one was accepted by Pope Sixtus IV at the end of the fifteenth century. After that, all I know are the same old stories everyone knows,” Bety admitted, “burnings at the stake, torture, autos-da-fé, the secular arm, the sanbenitos, the stories of Poe—you know, that sort of thing.”

“That's not much more than I knew when I was looking for an interesting topic to prepare my doctorate. One of my favorite professors suggested I study Inquisitorial texts. The idea seemed appealing. I did some research, and in a week's time I had enough information to see that it could be an exciting field of study. We chose a title for the thesis: ‘Evolution of Ecclesiastic Latin from the Fifteenth to the Nineteenth Century in Internal Legislative Frameworks.'

“With some letters of recommendation from my professors, who could see my true potential, I got authorization to research the Annals of the Inquisition in Toledo, which
are now in Madrid—the most complete archive that still exists in Spain after they were all burned following the abolition in 1834. That license was a true privilege; they only grant it to the most prominent researchers. I had just one limitation: I had full access to any documents I wanted, but I couldn't mention anything specific about their content in my work, only the linguistic details that were relevant to my research.”