The Antiquarian (3 page)

“Played the field? You've uncovered the books of a converted Jew? A conspiring Freemason?” questioned Guillem.

“There are not enough volumes to consider them a representative corpus on religious matters. The most significant part are some manuscript translations of old Arabic, Greek, Latin and—this will interest you especially, Samuel—Hebrew tracts. Some are on magic, the occult, catechism; others are partial translations of the Koran or the Talmud. Also, inside the trunk I found another smaller chest locked with a key. It contained several handwritten letters from different periods, all from the Casadevall family, and what appears to be some sort of diary.”

“Casadevall?”

“That's right. Do you know that name too, Samuel?”

“Well, it seems I remember a Casadevall, centuries prior to the Berguéses, but I couldn't tell you exactly what they did.”

“What about you two?”

Enric and Guillem looked at each other and shook their heads.

“The first known Casadevall, and the one these papers refer to, was an assistant to the master builders who constructed the cathedral at the end of the fourteenth century. Most of the letters are about everyday affairs, but they still give us intriguing insights into the family's goings-on. I've only analyzed a quarter of these letters, but I'm hoping to find a manuscript from one of the older ancestors.”

“Sounds like quite a mishmash,” Guillem cut in. “Would you mind telling us how on earth you always manage to come up with these treasures?”

“Ah, my friend, that's the only professional secret that can't be given away,” Artur answered, smiling. “Everything else can be learned, but not revealing your sources is as sacred to us as it is to journalists, or confessors, if you'll allow the comparison, considering the circumstances.”

“Come on, Artur! The last four or five lots of any worth to come onto the market have fallen into your hands, and the only one that got away was snatched up by this old Jew. It used to be,” he said, pointing at Samuel, “you were on par with the rest of the antiques dealers, maybe a notch above, but since you've partnered up with Mariola Puigventós, you been getting closer and closer to becoming the god of Barcelona antiquarians, sitting here before us, and soon neither of you will stoop to fraternize with us poor little mortals. At this rate, soon I'll be selling old pinewood trunks, which will not allow me to afford my fabulously rakish lifestyle. Enric,” he said, looking directly at
his young colleague, “I think the best thing we can do is to get out of antiques and into the restoration business. I hear it's booming.”

“This old Jew respectfully suggests that you don't spend so much money going out at night. That way you could spend your mornings cultivating your contacts.”

“Oh please, Samuel! If I didn't go out nights, I'd have no ‘contacts' at all!”

They all laughed again. The truth was that Guillem's shop was also among the most frequently patronized by decorators and antiques buffs, and Guillem himself was an outstanding and extremely refined professional. It could be said that the four men were among the elite in the Barcelona antiquarian community: competent, instinctive, and erudite.

“Well, Artur, I'm dying to know more. You said some of the books were manuscript translations from other languages. Do you have any of them here?” Samuel asked.

“Yes, I was just working on them. I have the books I've already classified at home in Vallvidrera—maybe two thirds of the total. Here on the table in the study are the ones I have left to classify, and the ones that really caught my eye after a first glance. Look,” he said, as he got up and walked to the large worktable, and all followed suit, “here they are. The ones on the right I've already looked at. The rest are waiting to reenter the world after their long exile.”

On the table sat some of the old books salvaged from oblivion by the grace and effort of a family in need of money, and an old bookseller seeking to understand the past through the legacy of bygone generations. Small and large, some in good condition and others on the verge of disintegrating in the hands of a careless reader, all had waited patiently over the years for someone to open their covers and peruse their contents. And of all the men who could have reached them, few would have done so with Artur's
tenderness and devotion. With great respect and care, the four men surrounded the table, joined in a rapt silence, owing as much to their being antiquarians who might be looking on one-of-a-kind pieces as to what the volumes represented. They were friends because they shared the same passions, chiefly their love of books. Old books were, in themselves and regardless of their value, inestimable things to be safeguarded against an uncertain future. The men leisurely glanced over the different tomes, making summary analyses of their characteristics.

“Look,
Sophismata
, by Paulus Venetus. And this one, a Torah dated 1654,” said Guillem.

“A copy of
Ars Generalis
, by Llull, undated. From the binding, I'd say it's a reprint from the mid-seventeenth century,” mused Samuel

Guillem picked up another. “
On the Truth of the Catholic Faith
, translation to the vernacular of the Latin manuscript with this title, written by Saint Thomas Aquinas, a direct copy of the Nicolas Jensen edition, from 1480.”

The men discussed other titles out loud, except for Enric, who kept to himself throughout the scholarly banter. He stood to one side, giving all his attention to one of the books among those in the best condition. He was about to place his hands on it when Guillem, joking around, clapped him on the back.

“Well, well, well! What is it that's caught your eye, my good man? It wouldn't be that book there by any chance, would it?” He reached down toward the book.

Enric's hand hesitated an instant over the cover and over the hand of his fellow antiquarian, as if to cut off his initial movement and keep Guillem from picking up the book. But he was surprised to find himself withdrawing it to clasp his other hand, yielding to Guillem's initiative. Guillem took the book, remarked that it lacked a title, and set to assessing its characteristics.

“Let's see, a calfskin binding over Gothic-style boards, decorated with blind fillets and rolled borders of tiny heads inside ovals. Meticulous work, a thing to behold. Let's look inside. An undated manuscript. Written in Latin in very crooked handwriting, and look at all of these notes in the margins throughout much of the text. My Latin isn't great, but at first glance, it doesn't look like anything out of the ordinary. By the way, I don't recognize the text at all. Do you know what it's about?” he asked Enric.

“No, what caught my attention is that it's in such good shape. Let me see it.”

Guillem handed him the book and turned to contemplate another manuscript. Artur and Samuel approached Enric, and together they began to translate several passages.

“Let's see, let's see.” Artur came closer, pushing his glasses up his nose toward his brow. “You've found the handwritten diary. In fact, I've already taken some notes on this one.”

“Classical Latin; the handwriting looks like that of a learned person, probably an ecclesiastic,” added Samuel. “Look at this.” He pointed to the curved strokes of the endings of several letters. “Possibly from the end of the fourteenth century, maybe the fifteenth.”

“They look like notes on someone's activities,” Enric volunteered. “Look at this one: ‘Meeting between the master and the bishop.' And this looks like the list of matters they were to discuss.”

“Or this one,” said Guillem, “‘New stones to arrive from Segur quarry.' That tells us more about whoever wrote this, probably a master builder or his assistant.”

“How about this? ‘Meeting with representatives of religious orders,'” said Enric.

“Look, most of the side notes are in Old Catalan—or they seem to be; there aren't many words you can read clearly, but there's no doubt about it. Look here.” Samuel pointed to an example, after leafing through a number pages.

“It looks like the notes only begin as of a certain date,” said Guillem.

“Well, well! You all appear to be taken with that one. It's ‘the Casadevall manuscript,' that's what I'm calling it. As for the notes, it looks like, centuries after it was first written, someone went back over and worked on the text. I'd already noticed that, though I hadn't gotten as far as you.”

“The notes appear to name the Casadevall family frequently,” added Enric after skipping over several pages. “The name is in several places, and the capital
C
's may refer to them.”

Samuel turned some more pages. Artur stopped him at one, ostensibly at random, though the quickness of his gesture suggested otherwise.

“Yes, yes, it's true,” said Samuel, no longer caring about the translation. “And it's clear that whoever wrote the notes is not the same person as the original author. The handwriting is completely different, possibly from another era altogether. Look at the uppercase
F
's, and the endings of the
s
's and the
t
's. Intriguing.” He suddenly jumped forward several pages. “Looks like you've found a toy to while away your free time.”

“Stop there, Samuel, right there.” Artur pointed to a page where a bookmark had been inserted. “Listen, everyone. If I told you this lot was something exceptional, it's because of this manuscript—specifically, that very spot. I've underlined it in pencil.”

“‘… the location of the object is, unto itself, a mystery to be kept under the exclusive responsibility of this master … ,'” translated Samuel.

“Curious thing to say, don't you think?” asked Artur.

“What makes you say that? Have you come upon some hidden secret?”

“For now let's just say that I've found a chance to return to that past that I so cherish. This manuscript is going to give me the entertainment we old folks need, which you hinted at earlier.”

Samuel closed the manuscript and offered it to its owner.

“Well, you'll have time to read it from start to finish, as I'm sure you'll do right away.”

“In fact, you've all seen that I've already made some notes, just a rough draft, but I find it attractive enough to keep working on it over the weekend.” Artur lowered his glasses down to the tip of his nose as he took the diary from his friend. “I'm curious to see what I can get out of it.”

“In your hands, I have no doubt it will give up everything it has to give,” said Enric.

“Artur, I envy your good luck,” concluded Guillem. “Not only do you have a singular piece in your hands, but you got it without even realizing it. And I can only imagine what other hidden treasures await you in these stacks. Oh, Lord!” He raised his hands skyward. “Why do you protect only the chosen few?”

“Okay, okay,” Artur said with a grin, “heaven only smiles on me. But it's high time I opened the shop. And it would be nice to get something to eat first. Allow me to kindly show you the door. I'll see you all next week.”

He walked with his three guests out onto the street, and locked up the shop.

“Well, gentlemen, I'm going for a bite at the Bar del Pi before I open. Next Friday is Samuel's turn. I'll see you there. By the way, Samuel, could you walk with me to the bar? I'd like to talk to you about something.”

“No problem. Mariola is out of town and won't be back until mid-afternoon, but you know no one ever comes by right after lunch.”

“Good. We'll see you next week, boys.” After saying their good-byes, the men paired up and headed in opposite directions.

Samuel and Artur walked slowly and in silence along the empty street until they reached Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol. In one corner of the square sat a tramp singing in a drunken monotone, lost in his daydreams and surrounded by two empty, crushed cartons of cheap wine. An aura of destitution emanated from his gaunt body, wrapped in the tatters of a blanket as worn down as his soul. Artur approached him, smiling sympathetically.

“How's it going, Pomés? Did you get enough for the guesthouse yet?”

“See for yourself, Mr. Aiguader.” He pointed to a handkerchief on the ground dotted with a few meager coins. “The hearts of the Barcelonese have shrunken smaller than Gulliver in the land of the giants.”

Artur reached into his wallet and handed the old man a bill.

“This should be enough for a snack, some dinner, and a decent bed. Now don't spend it on wine. It may be a cliché, but I know you've done that more than once. I'm going for a bite with my friend here, so when I come out of Bar del Pi, I expect to see you gone off this corner. After fifteen years here, the wall has the same shape as your back. No one will take it from you.”

“Mr. Aiguader, you're proof that there are still a few gentlemen left in this city. Unfortunately, you're an endangered species. Don't worry. I'll be on my way to Casa Felisa, a nice hostel where they cater to couples sneaking around as well as the dispossessed, as long as we pay our way.”

With an effort, the beggar got up and disappeared from their sight along Pi Street. Artur and Samuel sat down at a table in the square, which was practically deserted at that hour. A waiter approached and Artur ordered
calamares al capricho
, the house specialty. He ate in silence until Samuel spoke up.

“You know as well as I do that he'll just go and spend it on wine.”

“He might. But who am I to tell him what to spend it on? Leave him alone, let him take refuge in his fantasy world; there's little this one can offer him, except the kicks and blows of street gangs. If he's lucky he'll have enough to get a few drinks in him and bed down in that hostel. Just look at the man. I still remember him young. Who would have thought he would end up spending his days wasting away on cheap wine? And back then, any of us could have ended up like him.”