The Antiquarian (37 page)

Martín clapped twice, loudly. From the door entered two men I had not seen before. One of them approached Martín and, bowing his head, murmured one word: “Rabbi.”

Martín whispered in his ear and the two left the church. Minutes later they returned with a writing tablet, an inkhorn, and the necessary scribe's paper. Martín handed it to me without a word. I added nothing, but merely wrote what I had said before. Then I gave it to Martín.

“You know what this document means.”

“It means trust.”

“Life or death could depend on it.”

“Indeed, but not only mine, that of my daughter as well.”

“This is security. Henceforth, we may begin to speak.”

“Is there such medicine, then?”

“There is a drug, a formula that, in many cases, is successful and prevents the patient's death. But it only does so half of the time. Its components are rare, very rare. They come from the Far East, and even beyond, and we have but little stock of
them. If the plague spreads throughout the city, we will need that drug. Still, we could give you enough for Eulàlia. But not for you.”

“Bring the drug as soon as you can! My daughter has been ill for a week. She needs the medicine immediately.”

“Not yet. The document is security, but it alone is not enough.”

“What else can I do?”

“You will help us, but one time. And before that time, we will have to speak on other occasions, because to help us you must understand things now beyond your reach, and which are essential to be able to do so.”

“I want my daughter to live, and I am willing to accept that condition. But for the same reason you gave before, I could not stand others suffering for Eulàlia to live.”

“No one will have to suffer or die, nor will you have to betray the Crown of Aragon. It is something simpler, and yet, more complex, than that. If you swear to do it, we will give you the medicine.”

“You know I cannot swear for my religion.”

“Then swear for whom you know.”

Before speaking, I stood, looking earnestly on Martín.

“I swear on the life of my daughter, Eulàlia, that if she recovers from her disease, I will provide whatever help is asked of me, as long as it harms no one else, nor causes me to betray my own.”

“It is all said, then. Here.” He took from within his tunic a bottle full of reddish powder. “This is the formula. You need only dissolve it in a small amount of water and have her drink it three times a day for a week. And above all, do not lance her boils any longer. For this causes new ones to form, and speeds the development of the disease. It can only be fought from inside the body. And remember this, Pere Casadevall, we cannot assure you it will work. Many of our own took it, and it did not save them from the grave. Do not blame us if it does not succeed.”

“I will not. At least you have given me hope, and that is enough.”

“Take leave, then. We will not see each other until the occasion arises, should it arrive because Adonai wills it. If all goes well, be discreet and quietly abide. And remember that no one, absolutely no one, must know the existence of the formula. Our lives, and those of our loved ones, hang in the balance.”

“Then I will say, ‘until we meet again' instead of ‘farewell,' as my heart tells me that it will be so.”

I left San Cristófol Chapel holding the bottle in my hand, inside my doublet. At first I walked slowly, but the possibility of holding my daughter's salvation in my hand caused me to quicken my steps as I left the Call behind. Soon I found myself running, hurling in a precipitate, chaotic dash to my own abode. I collided with the stall of a basket-weaver, and amid his and a customer's protests, I regained my wits as I mumbled an embarrassed apology. The bottle had to reach its destination intact, as there would be no more formula for us. I found no guards stationed outside my home. They must have detected other cases of plague, or perhaps old Aimeric had not reported our case. Whatever the reason, the path to our house was clear. I crossed the inner courtyard, strangely empty at those hours. Anna came to meet me with haste.

“Did you get the remedy?”

I remembered the promise I had made to Martín: no one could know. I had to keep it. Despite my fullest trust in Anna, I had but one alternative.

“There is no such remedy. And now, Anna, you must leave. We cannot both risk our lives staying at Eulàlia's side.”

“I will not leave her! She is a daughter to me!”

“Anna, there is no other way. You will do as I say, and you will do it now. Leave this house and go to Sant Gervasi. You can lodge in the house of Monsignor Enric Sabaté; tell him I sent you. Stay away as long as the plague endures, as we did eight years ago.”

“I do not want to leave the two of you!”

Leave the two of us: not only Eulàlia; she was including me as well. Never, in all these years, have I considered my relations with Anna growing beyond her being my daughter's governess. It was true that, had I wished it, our situation could perhaps be different than it now is. But in the manner in which we lived from our arrival in Barcelona, everything was plain even to the neighbors, whose gossip ended before it began, cut off at the root by my explanations and my post in the construction of the cathedral, which lent credibility to anything I declared about this or any other matter. In any event, there has never been, in public or private, even the most minimal approach or the slightest insinuation. Untroubled by slanderous whisperings, our bond has strengthened. Now, for the first time, Anna had expressed, subtly yet clearly, her true sentiment.

“If you truly love us, you must leave this house at once,” I said severely. “And if that is not reason enough, do it for the love we feel for you. Heed my words, as there is a powerful reason to do it thusly.”

Anna held her tears and prepared a bundle of clothing. With a wave, she bade us farewell from the threshold and departed for Sant Gervasi. When she had left I ran to the kitchen. There I examined the flask. The colored powder had a characteristic vegetable odor, but unlike any I know. I prepared a proper dose and, next to my daughter's bed, aroused her just enough so she could drink it.

Waiting. Waiting day after day, hour after hour, second after second, waiting for the smallest sign, a breath of life, a simple gesture, for her to open her eyes. Barely do I do anything other than give her the medicine and nourish her with a bit of soup. She has grown thin, and seems more consumed each day. I am overtaken by despair, and on occasion I find myself praying and am surprised by it. My decision to renounce my faith, once so firm, loses meaning as I lose my grip on the reality around me. I have been enclosed here for five days, and in this courtyard, it is now rare to hear the
murmur of the city living, thriving, awaking in the morning and battening down at night. I imagine the plague has spread, causing everyone to flee, to hide.

And yet she lives! I have never known anyone to survive the Black Death so long. The buboes have grown smaller and are fewer in number since I stopped counting them. Her fever has abated. There is hope!

Eulàlia opened her eyes! Two more days and I have received the first sign of her improvement. It was in the afternoon when, as I drowsed at her side, seated in a chair, I noted her observing me. I opened my eyes and saw hers looking; languid, it is true, but open at last. She wanted to speak but could not. I held her and cried for a long time. When I released her, she was sleeping again, but peacefully, and without fever.

There can be no doubt. Eulàlia has been cured.

My daughter can sit up in bed and speak a few words. She has inquired about Anna; I told her that I sent her to Sant Gervasi. She misses her, of course, but is aware of my loving care over all these days. I myself have managed to sleep several hours at once for the first time in twelve days. The fatigue of my body slowly fades as my daughter's strength grows, as if there were an invisible connection that joined us, each feeding the other. All is well, except that our provisions are exhausted. I must go into the city for wares.

I have just returned from my search for food. Barcelona is in silence; the only sound is of bells pealing the death knell. The streets are nearly empty. Here and there are fires burning the belongings of the dead. But at least this plague is not as bad as that of eight years ago, and of course it is much less severe than the previous one, which, though cruel, was lesser than that of 1348. In that day, the corpses were piled high in the streets and the
batlle
and
veguer
were powerless to check the reigning tumult and
chaos. This time, there must be fewer deaths, as if the divine chastening of the plague, which as any monsignor would say, could be the fair chastisement for the sins of the Barcelonese, were lessening with the passage of years. Could we Barcelonese have sinned less as these decades have passed? I believe that perhaps those who survived the plagues have become more resistant, or perhaps the weakest have died. Who knows? What is true is that, owing to it, I have acquired without much difficulty vegetables and some meat, scarcely fresh, but better than nothing.

We ate hungrily. Eulàlia is stronger now, and she has risen to take a few steps around her chamber. She will live. Martín's remedy has proven effective. But she has no recollection of her febrile days, and so the secret is safe. Only I know it.

All that remains is to wait.

Thirty days later, a peace has returned to Barcelona. Scarcely one thousand dead have been counted, and though a high number, the impulse to live is greater than that to die, and everything has returned to normal. Life hums around us again. I sent for Anna and she returned from Sant Gervasi. So content, so happy! Only a glow hidden behind her countenance appears to hint of a private reckoning she will never express in public.

The works on the cathedral have resumed. I am at my task again, like yesterday, like tomorrow. But, something is forever changed inside me. I no longer praise the Lord. Now I only construct a grand and complex edifice. My soul no longer dwells in those stones from Montjuïc quarry. And sadly, I know not to where it is destined.

Enrique left the translation on his night table and got up for a glass of water, still in awe of Casadevall's account. At first he hadn't understood the reasons that had driven him to the unusual decision of helping the Jews, but now everything was perfectly clear. More than the oath itself, the significant part was the existential crisis that made him doubt
and opened the possibility to approach them. Enrique didn't believe that Casadevall would have been bold enough to try it in other circumstances, with his daughter ill but without the doubts. But the punishment of so many deaths in his family was excessive. There had to be many who lost their entire families in those years, and certainly not all of them renounced Christianity. He nestled back under the sheets to continue with the next part of the translation.

Today, June 13, 1400, has been a day laden with joy. We celebrated the wedding of my daughter Eulàlia. Following a courtship of six months in keeping with proper custom, she contracted holy matrimony with Felip Bonastruc. He is the second son of Andreu Bonastruc, a merchant devoted to the trade in wool and linen fabrics. This man began as a simple artificer, but risked his savings on a voyage to Valencia, where he acquired a great amount of wool selling French fabrics, there difficult to attain. Owing to this, his family occupies a position of certain comfort, which is why I gave my consent to the wedding. Moreover, a refusal would have saddened my daughter immensely, as it is plain that there is much harmony between the two. The wedding was held, of course, in the cathedral itself, although Bonastruc would have preferred to have it in the seafront quarter, la Ribera, at Santa María del Mar. But although the works on our cathedral continue, and will continue for years yet, a greater social prestige is given by the bishop's sealing the matrimony, as has been done. There followed a long afternoon of celebration and festivities—even dancing—from which I retired at a prudent hour, not without first bidding my little girl farewell … My little girl, who is hardly little any longer. She has grown and is lovely in her twentieth year. There is no blemish from the Black Death on her body, just faint traces on her skin where the boils were lanced. When the time comes, she will bear her children, and shall live a full life. Looking at her, I regret nothing of
what I have done or said. I can only express joy, and a grief I do not forget, that Anna, our faithful Anna, died some months ago. How we miss her! And how happy she would have been!

If I write this today, after the last entry into the ledger, it is because, on returning home, a visitor awaited me inside my house. I was not alarmed, as I soon reckoned who it was.

“Good evening, and congratulations, Pere Casadevall, on the day of your daughter's wedding.”

“Welcome, Ángel Martín. Please feel at home in my house.”

“I thank you. Do you know why I am here?”

“I can imagine. But I was surprised that the day took so long to come.”

“Indeed, it has come too late, much more than you can imagine. But we needed to be alone, and after Anna's death and your daughter's wedding, the time has come. We never lost sight of you, watching Eulàlia grow up healthy and strong. The formula served its purpose.”

“Indeed. And I shall do my part, faithfully.”

“Of that I wish to speak to you. I will say it clearly, Casadevall: your daughter surviving was a providential sign from Adonai. We still have the document you wrote in the day. You do understand that, beyond your own safety, there is that of your daughter. And if that document saw light, your life would crumble completely.”

“You need not remind me. Even before the safety of my daughter is my own oath, to which I will hold.”

“Then you are a man of your word.”

“I consider myself one.”

“I must tell you that some of the things you are going to know will greatly affect you.”