The Antiquarian (4 page)

“You're such a bleeding heart, even if it is a big heart.”

“I'll never consider generosity a fault, although that doesn't necessarily make it a virtue, either.”

Artur finished his food in silence. Samuel finally ventured to start up the conversation again.

“So come on, tell me … what's the matter? You look worried.”

Artur stroked his right earlobe, as he always did when he was unsure or undecided.

“Today, first thing in the morning, the Frenchman paid me a visit.” As soon as he said it, he felt the definite relief of a man who knows he is in a bind and finally finds a way to express what he had been incapable of saying until then.

“So? He doesn't usually, but there doesn't seem to be anything odd about it,” Samuel commented.

“We have some business underway.”

“I see,” nodded Samuel.

“The transaction was complete, and then the buyer had second thoughts. The Frenchman turned up in the shop and demanded I find a solution. I told him I couldn't put a piece of that size and with those characteristics on the market for at least another couple of months. He didn't like that, and asked me for the buyer's name. I refused, obviously. Then he said I should cover the price of the piece myself.”

“Did you pay him the indemnity you'd agreed on?”

“Of course, there was no problem with that. The customer hadn't paid it in advance because I trusted him. But he settled up when he withdrew. It was all on the level.”

“Was it a big piece?” asked Samuel.

“Yes, and extremely valuable.”

“It must be in a safe place. Does he know where?”

“Of course he knows. What do you think?”

“Why are you so touchy? You're on the defensive.”

“Forgive me. Don't let me take my own mistakes out on you.” Artur let out a long, annoyed sigh. “Yes, I am on the defensive,” he confessed. “But I think I have reason to be. He threatened me before he left the shop. He gave me until Monday to get him his money. Samuel, it's not the first tussle I've had with the Frenchman, but for the first time in twenty years, he gave me the impression that he might have been serious.”

“I see.”

“So, what would you do in my place?”

“Well, his conduct is a breach of all your agreements, that much is clear. As far as I know, he's never threatened any of his associates.”

“That's right. Everyone knows that he may cut a few corners, and he appears to be in financial trouble, to boot. The truth is, and I hate to admit it, I'm a little worried.”

Samuel shook his head, not surprised by the Frenchman's misconduct.

“It's not the first time he's lost his composure, but it is the first time he's acted like this. That's the price you've all got to pay for his services. He's the best there is. His only weakness is that lousy temper of his. He's a cranky man, and you've all given him the short end of the stick too many times already, don't forget that.”

“No, I haven't forgotten. But I am worried. For some time now, maybe over the past couple of years, he's become more aggressive than ever. Showing up like that, in the shop, in broad daylight. I think he's losing it; seriously, any day now, the game will be up. Two years ago he almost got caught in that terrible business in Tortosa. Since then, all he does is prepare himself for his last big job, which he then postpones another month to keep taking on more jobs that are more and more reckless, with increasingly higher payoffs.”

“All right, take it easy. I don't think it's that big of a deal. It seems like much ado about nothing. If you're asking for my advice, I say it's just his character. He'll get over it,” concluded Samuel.

“It's clear from how calm you are that it's me who's being threatened, not you,” Artur snapped.

“That was a rude thing to say,” Samuel replied without losing his cool. “Why are you asking for my opinion, then?”

“I … I'm sorry.” Artur pursed his lips. “This thing with the Frenchman has put me on edge.”

“You should have gotten out years ago. I suggested you quit that business way back; I've never understood why you continued. Artur, Artur … these things are over our heads now, they're not for us anymore. We're getting older, and we don't need the money. The years pass by, and we don't have the same interests as before. Let the new generations deal with him!”

“I hope you don't expect me to go about things like those new generations who brought your business back from the brink.”

Samuel looked at his friend in disbelief. He made his disgust clear with a loud blow of his fist on the metal table, releasing all of his rage, and drawing looks from the other
patrons in the café. “I never would have thought that talking with the Frenchman could upset you enough to make you forget your manners,” said Samuel, now struggling to contain his anger.

Artur stroked his earlobe again before answering. He knew he had offended his friend and colleague by reminding him of the tough times his business had been through a few years ago—tough times that got easier once he had partnered up with Mariola Puigventós. And yet, a strange pride that wasn't tameable kept him from apologizing a third time. He felt possessed by a guilty sadness.

“You may not want to hear it, but the fact is your business wasn't prospering either, and the only thing that saved you from ruin was bringing Mariola on board. If I never ended my dealings with the Frenchman it was because they provided a steady income that covered my costs and let me focus my antiques business on what I was really interested in. When you decided to cut him off, you knew what was at stake. You took the risk and came very close to failing. But … but the years take their toll, and I have the feeling that every word I'm saying is gibberish.” He regretted what he'd said. “Maybe you're right. I should quit. My time has come and I refuse to admit it. Perhaps I should retire not just from these jobs, but maybe it's time to close shop once and for all.”

Samuel looked at him, surprised, allowing melancholy to take the place of anger. It was pointless to argue with his old friend over something that, after all, was true.

“Well, don't worry. Really, I doubt anything will come of it. He'll forget about it as soon as he calms down from his tantrum.”

“You're right, better just to forget it.”

The two regarded each other, and silence once again settled over them. They had uttered painful truths. Artur felt that an invisible wall now kept them apart, because of
his precipitation and tactlessness. Contrite, but lacking the courage to admit his error, he took cover behind a feigned indifference.

“I have to go and open the shop,” said Samuel. “Like I told you, Mariola won't be back until late. By the way, I almost forgot, if you're up for some fun, Mariola said to remind you of the meeting her father is hosting at Boulevard dels Antiquaris.”

“I won't be going.” Artur usually steered clear of the antiques community's social scene, and in the peculiar circumstances he was living through at the time, the last thing he wanted was to see colleagues, whose mere presence would only remind him of the menacing figure of the Frenchman. “I have too much work to do to waste time at a social event. If I spend the whole weekend classifying the collection, maybe I'll have it done by Monday. Give them my apologies, will you? And tell old man Puigventós and his beautiful daughter what's tying me up; he'll understand.”

“I'll do that, but Mariola won't be happy. She's already upset with you because you never go to these events. When it's not one thing it's another. And you know how highly she thinks of you.”

“First things first. And there could be nothing more fun than that.”

“See you Monday, then.”

They got up. Artur paid the check, leaving a generous tip. Then, without shaking hands, each man walked back to his place of business.

The afternoon saw a steady stream of customers. The Friday clientele usually consisted of couples of all ages, anxious to decorate their homes with any sort of antique. Artur, like any good dealer, enjoyed lavishing attention on them. But the closeness of the books in his study excited his imagination and made him yearn for closing time. After eight, he lowered the metal blind over the entrance and went up to his study, where he once again became entranced in the reading of the books until the
wee hours. He left the shop at three in the morning and went home to Vallvidrera to sleep.

The next morning, Artur woke up late, around ten. He had an unhurried breakfast, skimmed the morning papers on the terrace as he did on any other day, and returned to Barcelona. The sublime, almost summer-like weather made a decisive contribution to Sant Jordi's Day, marked by a fantastic turnout. The streets were jam-packed; pedestrians so densely thronged the Ramblas that Artur, once he had parked his car in the garage on Hospital Street, could not resist the temptation to take a stroll down to the harbor before returning to his shop and the wondrous promise of the mysteries contained in the Casadevall family books.

He took the opportunity to have a light lunch in London Bar, though he wasn't very hungry; he knew that once he started to work, the hours would steal by so quickly that he would forget not only lunch, but quite possibly dinner, too.

He went into the shop through the Pi Street entrance and left the door open with the blind down to air out the establishment; it was a very old building, and the walls gave off the unmistakable aroma of ancient dankness typical of such big old houses. This way, the wood could breathe and the smell of damp did not permeate the atmosphere.

He worked on the strange Casadevall manuscript all day Saturday. The book was not exactly a diary, but more an engagement book, though it also contained a second author's impressions. Artur identified the author of the original text as the assistant to a master builder from the early fifteenth century. He had pinpointed this writer as the master builder Casadevall, who had held the rank of assistant from 1398 to 1424. It was impossible for him to know the name of the person who wrote the notes in the margins, though he knew one thing for sure: the mixture of translations was the most complex he had faced in years, and he had definitely seen countless manuscripts and old
correspondence that had offered less resistance than the enigmatic manuscript. As the hours slipped by, his in-depth reading of the handwriting and notes began to reveal unbelievable events. He transcribed onto draft sheets a number of notes that he found confusing and required urgent checking. Yet he found the text so puzzling and cryptic as he advanced that he preferred to keep uncovering the centuries-old secrets than to rush out to confirm the veracity of what he had found in other libraries or archives.

When Artur looked at his watch, it was already two thirty in the morning. The first translation of the book had taken him thirteen hours of nonstop work. The architect's dense handwriting had made it exceedingly difficult, even for a classical language expert like him. With tired eyes and a burning desire to urinate, he gave himself permission to end the session. His back hurt. Cool night air filtered through the open door. Outside, the temperature had dropped, and the shop was freezing. He went to the toilet, picked up his jacket, and prepared to return home. He stared intently at the Casadevall manuscript. For the first time in years, he felt a stab of real fear. It was unlike the anxiety he felt after his talk with the Frenchman. What he once felt as fear was barely an inkling of the feeling that now rose up inside him, with its roots in a story that was turning out to be incredible. It was a deep, primal, uncontrollable dread that grew slowly and without remit, despite his age, despite his experience, and despite his confidence. He fought against it, and overcame it with great effort.

He decided to take the text home with him. Suddenly giving into an unknown instinct, he picked the manuscript up, and with the expertise that only comes with knowledge and experience, undid the threads that bound the old pages to the spine of the book. He repeated the procedure with another old book from his work library, one of similar size and little value, the first volume of
The Practice of Christian Perfection
. Artur then smeared fast-drying glue on the spine and swapped their contents. He placed
the Casadevall book on a shelf, surrounded by another one or two hundred specimens of little value, and even then only to specialists. He took the unused cover and left the shop with it and the original pages from the book whose cover now housed the manuscript, and tossed them into a litter basket on the street. The content of the manuscript had awoken in Artur one of those innate fears of the unknown that he thought he had grown out of with the passage of time and the arrival of adulthood.

The street was empty. Little more than a hundred yards separated his shop from Plaça del Pi, but he walked them briskly. Upon reaching the square, he let out a sigh of relief. The bars were closing. Artur made use of the neighborly friendship forged over the years with the owners of one establishment to eat a frugal dinner, even though the café had its front blind down. He then crossed the Ramblas, made his way to the garage and got into his car to head home, where he could get some much-needed rest.

Sunday dawned cold and cloudy. Saturday seemed to have monopolized all the weekend's good weather. The truly unpleasant morning, torn by gusts of wind from the still-snowy Pyrenees, called for nothing other than staying home and lying around in bed. He had not slept soundly; outlandish dreams unlike any he had ever had filled his head the entire night. When he had slept, it was lightly, restlessly at best. The hours had passed by slowly. Artur listened to the chimes from his living room clock every fifteen minutes while his mind, spinning with the revelations he believed he had found in the Casadevall manuscript, gave itself over to one delirious scene after another, surpassing the wildest dreams of the old antiquarian. He awoke seconds before his alarm clock went off, as he always had in his younger days, when the urgency of his affairs drove him to closely manage his time. He was tired, but he had a lot of work to do—so much that he had only a light breakfast and didn't even stop to read the papers. He only paused in his library to pick up a few books that could help him; that's when he
remembered the long letter he had written but still not sent to his son. It was lying on his study table, and now was as good a time as any to finish it, especially since he could add some surprising news he was sure would delight a man with an imagination so vast he had become a professional writer. Artur jotted a few hurried lines as a postscript, and put the letter into an envelope on which he wrote the address and affixed the necessary postage. He held a lighter to the bar of wax he used to seal his letters, and once it was dry enough, pressed his signet into it, first daubing the ring with a drop of oil to keep the wax from sticking to it. With the letter in hand, he left the house and got into his car. He only stopped a moment at the mailbox in the town square to drop the letter in before driving on to the city.