The Antiquarian (27 page)

Manolo was gathering steam as he thought back to his early research. He loosened up, and his words, which at first were spoken with measured caution, now flowed like a rushing stream.

“At first, it was what I'd call normal work, with more tedious tasks than attractive ones. To reach the conclusions I was after, I had to study an inordinate number of documents in depth. But then, by sheer chance, and barely even realizing it, I fell under the spell of the deeds of the inquisitors—so incredibly evil, yet at the same time fascinating. I had considered focusing my comparative analysis on the directives and reports of the Council of the Supreme and General Inquisition, the central body known as
La Suprema
, but … One day I read just one of their dusty reports. It wasn't necessary for my work, but I did it. And from then on, I couldn't keep from the documented reading of hundreds of Inquisitorial sentences, always after finishing the work I allotted myself in order to stay on schedule and progress in what I was really meant to be studying. I spent whole nights reading those old sheaves. Many of them were similar, but every now and then one would appear that was different, that could hold the attention of anyone with even minimal imagination. I still have them etched in my memory.

“See, in those reports you found every misery, all the defects, fears, and horrors, the pain, the torture, the unjustified persecution, the indiscriminate punishments. The Inquisition was an organization created to persecute: first, the purity of the race, which
had to be cleansed of the deformities that the Jews and Moors represented for the kingdom; then, old Christians themselves, whose spiritual purity the Inquisition saw to incessantly, accusing them of absurd religious deviations that ended up with the plundering of their property, and, oftentimes, their being burned at the stake; last, as a tool for the state as well as the church, to do away in one fell swoop with the bothersome internal interferences that the authorities in either structure suffered from time to time.

“I was completely caught under the spell of the research. Its strange allure had a hold on every fiber of my body. The sentences were bleak in their descriptions. They just told of certain sections: genealogy and sentence, formal abjuration, instrument of secret, instrument of penance, and annexed documents. The first was usually the most complex, and the documents, when any existed, consisted of the strangest compilation of odd observations.

“And so, as I bored through file after ancient file, incomplete remnants of fearsome dramas, I came upon a different sort of case. Dated February 29, 1612: that's what I see when I bring to mind its content. From the very moment I laid my eyes on it, I knew I had found something special, because it violated the usual procedure followed by the Inquisition. The law dictated that the cases be heard by different courts around Spain, each one with a specific territory of influence. Their sentences had to be validated by the Council of the Supreme and General Inquisition, which normally confirmed them. But that time, it didn't happen.

“Diego de Siurana was the victim chosen by the Inquisition. He'd been born in the tiny village of Siurana, which still exists, in the Tarragona province. A beautiful place that I eventually got to know, with scarcely more than five houses, a church, and the ruins of a castle all nestled along the very edge of a steep cliff. When he was still a
child, the parish priest observed in him a curiosity uncommon in a farm boy; that's what the sentence says. A few years later, Diego took the vows in Tortosa. His brilliant career in the ecclesiastic world, and as secretary of the archbishopric's archive, according to the Inquisitorial sentences, was cut off, probably because of an anonymous denunciation by some envious colleague. He was investigated by the Barcelona Inquisitorial court for observing infrequent practices: he cleaned himself excessively, and—a heinous crime—never ate pork. The inquisitors investigated his family tree until they found a branch from two hundred years prior that was related to a
marrano
, as they called Jews back then. That on its own was equivalent to a sentence. The first session had consisted of a simple interrogation. Diego admitted his ‘guilt.' But that wasn't enough to satisfy on that occasion. They were looking for something more. Diego pleaded ignorance; big mistake, as nothing could infuriate the inquisitors more than contradicting them. They gave him two more chances, and on the third, he was tortured. About to faint, mad with pain, he surprised his torturers by mentioning an object to which there is no reference in the sentence. The inquisitor called a private consultation with the secretary, who corroborated Diego's words, whatever they were. With the physician's consent, they renewed the torture until he passed out. It was obvious that Diego was hiding something, but what? A Talmud? A Koran? As he was tried as a potential heretic, those were the most probable alternatives. An in-depth investigation was launched on the goods seized, and through it, several conclusions were reached which, unfortunately, have been partially lost, as certain parts of the Inquisitorial sentence—the final pages—are missing. Whatever they were, they must have been important if the
Suprema
, after being informed, decided to intervene in the case and write an annexed report considered secret, and that I've only been able to read a part of. The annex to the sentence—a report sent to Rome, no less—is in poor condition, corroded by damp, and lacking at
least another few pages. I gathered some information from it that I've tried to complete through other sources. And so, I discovered what the object was.”

He paused for air. Bety was captivated by the story. She was going to know definitively what it was about, what it was that had so impressed Casadevall and caused the torture and death of Diego de Siurana.

“What little was left of the annexed report was none too explicit. It referred to the Stone of God, and how its existence had been made known by Diego. Only one name is mentioned:
Magister Operis Ecclesiae
Casadevall.”

“Now I see why the notes interested you as soon as you read them!” Bety cut in.

“Anything having to do with what caused Diego's death is of utmost interest to me. You appearing in this library with the manuscript that could help solve the mystery is a godsend.”

“What is the Stone of God?”

“The Stone of God. Oh, it's no big deal.” Manolo smiled. “It took me nearly two years to figure out what it was. And for me, two years is a long time, let me assure you.

“See, once I found myself hooked on this mystery, I was torn between two fronts. Time was passing, and all I could do was investigate in a piecemeal way, far from my true interest and usual work method. Finally, two years on, I found enough time to immerse myself fully in the affair, and the deeper I went, the more fascinating the results were. At first I gathered a lot of information from different libraries here in Spain, but it wasn't enough. And so, before long I was on a plane to Israel. Some friends from my university had given me a contact there. It's to him, and no one else, that I owe the true cracking of that part of the enigma.”

“Wait, wait a minute. You say you had to travel to Israel to discover what it was. Why not Rome, where you probably would have found a copy of the report sent by the Inquisition?”

“There's no way to access those documents. No one can study them, except for extremely rare exceptions. And a philologist, no matter how good he is, isn't a member of that elite club, unless he belongs to one of those ultra-orthodox Catholic groups that are so fondly looked upon in Rome. I'm sure that only the highest offices of the Vatican curia are allowed to read them.”

“So access to them is restricted.”

“That's right. They're under a documentary seal that even today applies to much of the Vatican's archive. It seems incredible that so many years later we can't study them, but that's the case.”

“So you went to Israel …”

“In Spain I had several people assisting me in my search. But not one of them could tell me what the hell the Stone of God was. They ended up referring me to one of the greatest specialists in Hebraic tradition, Isaac Shackermann. I wrote a report on the content of my research and sent it to him. That was the key that got me in to see him. Shackermann is a Sephardic Jew, a descendant from an old family that had been established in Toledo. An exceptional man, loved and respected by all. Sephardim are usually proud of their ancestors and of who they are, and Shackermann was no exception. That pride in his heritage was present and very strong. Like all Sephardim, he respected the traditions of his ancestors; the key to the old family home in Toledo hangs on the wall in the most important room in his house: the study.

“Just picture it: this little old harmless-looking man, protected from the outside world by thick eyeglasses. Snow-white hair that fell on either side of his head, forming
long side curls. Always dressed in black, except for his shirt, which was as white as his hair. His small, wrinkled, frail-looking body couldn't disguise the fact that it had once belonged to a fine figure of a man.

“Shackermann lived in a beautiful house in the old city, near the Armenian convent of Saint Jacques. It stood a ways apart from the other buildings, so the sunlight poured in through the windows. A charming place, far from the hustle and bustle of the big city that is Jerusalem. You can't reach his house by car. The neighborhood is made up of very narrow, pedestrianized streets. It's a way to isolate himself from a world that's now out of his reach, because his legs are weak and he can only walk short distances. He lives under the care of two black servants, Ethiopian Jews. One of them led me to him, in the incredible study where his brilliant mind, oblivious to the limitations of a decrepit body, keeps churning out thousands of ideas.

“His man introduced me. Shackermann was waiting patiently for me, seated in a nice armchair, with some tea and pastries on hand for my reception. On the other side of the study, a state-of-the-art PC told me that he might have been old, but his work method wasn't. He was genuinely kind. He praised the recommendations that had gotten me in to see him, admitting that it was a difficult thing to achieve. Then he complimented me on my mastery of his language, which he considered excellent. And then we talked about all manner of things, except the real reason for my trip. He wanted to know everything about my life, practically from my childhood. And after talking about my modest self, we spoke of his world and his people. He was clearly testing my character and my reasons. I have the impression that if he hadn't liked me he wouldn't have hesitated to show me out, with all due politeness, of course.

“The next day went by in more or less the same way. We kept talking, and, finally, he proposed an intellectual game: he had my résumé, so he knew of my fluency in
ancient languages. He looked at me and said, of a sudden: ‘
Pere nost, che t'ies n ciel, siba sanctificá ti inuem, vënie ti rëni, sibe fata ti voluntà coche n ciel nsci n tiëra
.' Could you follow this prayer in that ancient language?

“He was speaking to me in Ladino! I answered him, facing what I considered, perhaps, the final test. ‘My knowledge of Ladino is purely theoretical. I've never spoken it. You're saying an Our Father. I could give it a try. It must go like this:
Da-nes nauri nose pam d'unidi y lasce-nes dó nose debit, coche neüs biscion dó a nosc debitëures, y no nes nemé tla tentación, ma libre-nes del mal.
'

“He asked me if I had really never said it before. ‘No,' I said, ‘I haven't.' ‘Well, you should know that your pronunciation is very close to perfect. Let's keep talking in that old, now-forgotten tongue,' he said.

“It was a wonderful experience, because it took me straight back to a past that is only alive in the memory of men like him. It may have formed part of a test he was putting me through.

“Fortunately, he must have seen in me what I really am, a simple philologist in love with the history of languages, absolutely harmless, incapable of thinking of research as a means to personal gain. The fruits of our labor aren't ours. They're for all of humankind. Shackermann picked that up over those two days of long conversations we had by the window, bathed in the warm sunbeams, and only interrupted by mealtimes and the e-mails he was constantly getting. By the end of the second day, I knew that being with that man was a true privilege. And he had spent two days of his precious time talking to me, a total stranger. I drew a conclusion from that: if he was devoting so much time to me it was because he was more than interested in what I could tell him.

“On the third day we changed the focus of our conversation. We went straight to religion. He asked me what my beliefs were, how I expressed my spirituality, what I
thought about the meaning of religion, and a lot of other things like that. I hesitated: I'm not especially religious, and I was afraid that fact might put distance between us. But, I decided to tell the truth, because I was sure he knew it anyway after all of our conversations. Christened at birth—who wasn't back then?—I abandoned religious observance as I grew up. The truth is, I've never taken a hard look at my feelings on life's more transcendent issues. I never had time to. What for many is just an excuse is really true in my case. But it was no impediment. Shackermann delved into my inner self, searching for the real me, and he definitely found it. His verdict was positive, and at the end of the third day of talks he announced that he would answer my questions the next morning. It wasn't late, right around five, and I asked him if we couldn't start then and there. His answer left me perplexed: ‘Some things can only be discussed in broad daylight. You'll have to be patient and put up with this poor old man's idiosyncrasies. Come back tomorrow.'

“I'd been in Jerusalem four days, so another day's wait wasn't going to matter. I remember that morning clearly: I went to Shackermann's house on a gray, rainy morning, not at all like the previous ones. A surprise squall was hovering over the place. The old city, darkened by the rain, had lost part of its charm, and the atmosphere, contrary to what I expected, was as leaden and heavy as the day itself. Shackermann's neighborhood, fairly empty most days, was even emptier that morning. As I went farther along the wall road, I came across fewer and fewer people on the streets, until I found myself walking completely alone down the old and narrow alleyways. The truth was, the usually bright appearance of those old palaces had been given over to a ghostly air, accentuated by how deserted the streets were.