The Antiquarian (40 page)

It looked as if Artur's death was about to go unpunished, but it didn't bother him all that much; if anything he was slightly peeved, mildly indignant, nothing more.

“Let's not lose hope. Oftentimes the good evidence turns up when everything's said and done, with the investigation all but over, and us at our wits' end.”

Enrique silenced him with a thoughtful stare. Rodríguez's reasoning reminded him of those white lies that doctors tell patients with incurable diseases to keep their morale up. But he wasn't ill. The hatred he had been afflicted with at first had disappeared on its own. Artur was dead, and locking his murderer up for life would change nothing. Yet the thought of the Frenchman walking away stung the deepest part of his soul.

“I think I know why you're calling on the Santfelius.”

Rodríguez looked at him with curiosity.

“If Fornells told you about your father, it shouldn't surprise you that I've had an interview scheduled with them for several days now,” the police officer answered.

“Is there any connection between them and Artur's money laundering?”

“There could be,” admitted Rodríguez. “The Santfelius handled his financial portfolio, and it's not likely that they'd be unaware of it, either by taking an active part in the scheme or knowing the existence of funds whose origin was unaccounted for. If they didn't know, they wouldn't be the excellent money managers they claim to be. And that brings up a whole new set of problems: among their clientele are well-known businessmen and people from all walks of life who, of course, just by an association of ideas, maybe—who knows?—it could be that they're also running their little, or not so little, games on the taxman.”

“And so the web becomes more tangled.”

“When stuff like that surfaces, more than one guy usually gets dirty.”

“I imagine you'll look into their books.”

“Of course. But it's a family law firm with a father who's a notary and children specialized in corporate law. So it won't be easy. It's better to negotiate before we go charging in; remember, we're working on mere presumptions, and no judge would ever authorize an audit with what we have. We can't subpoena their books without some evidence that a crime has been committed. Things aren't as simple as they usually seem.”

Enrique asked for the check and paid it.

“That's often the way. Well, thanks for everything.”

“Don't mention it. I'm taking it for granted that no one will find out we had this conversation.”

“Don't worry.”

Outside the café, they shook hands again.

“We'll call you if anything new comes up,” Rodríguez said. “And remember, if you want to go back to San Sebastián, you need to get in touch with us first.”

“They're auctioning off the furniture from Artur's shop tomorrow. And I'll still be here this week to do family paperwork. Thanks.”

Enrique watched him walk away; he crossed Ronda Sant Pere at a trot and headed for the Santfelius' front door. Enrique felt his mood dropping. Without some stroke of wild luck, there was every indication Brésard would beat the murder charge. Despite it all, he was still shielded by that hard mantle of skepticism or fatalism that forced him to take things as they came, luckily, without letting them affect him too much. He called Mariola. Samuel answered the phone; Mariola wasn't in, but she'd left a message for Enrique. She would be waiting for him in the middle of Plaça de la Catedral between one and one thirty. It was one o'clock sharp; he had time to make it on foot, but he didn't feel like walking. He hailed a cab. As luck would have it, the driver was one of those garrulous types constantly tuned into talk radio, who aim to change the status quo through the irritating habit of nonstop criticism. A passenger who kept quiet meant nothing to the man, other than the perfect excuse to hold forth to his heart's content. Fortunately, the ride was short. Despite the trip's brevity, Enrique had time to hear his driver's ideas to combat the terrorism of ETA, ways to solve the country's economic woes, how to regenerate a political class suspected of corruption, details on the man's family, and even a home remedy for cold sores, all of it adorned with the peculiar accent of a Spanish emigrant who lived on the outskirts of Barcelona and bore the identity of a
charnego
, as such Catalans with roots in the rest of Spain were called. He was from neither here nor there, a strange hybrid converted into an unmatched example of
uprootedness. As he said good-bye to Enrique, he managed to wedge in one final bit of irony: “Have a good day! Nice talking to you!”

It didn't take Enrique long to spot Mariola. Her figure stood out in the middle of the square, which was nearly empty at that hour. A few solitary, idle retirees sat in the sun on the new individual benches that the city had installed, bent on imposing an architectural style in disaccord with popular tastes. She was standing near the center of the square: elegant, wearing a pantsuit as dark as the rest of her accessories, a leather purse and sunglasses that covered her inquisitive eyes. As he advanced, he noticed the few pedestrians in the square looking at her, some out of curiosity, others attracted by her smart stylishness. For others, she was simply a beautiful object, pure sexual attraction, the kind of woman ordinary men dream about and will never have, except in their dreams or in exchange for a hefty fee. Mariola saw him from a distance, but allowed him to approach. Enrique was still unsure as to how to greet her. She dispelled any possible doubts with a casual kiss on the lips.

“I thought you'd never come,” she whispered into his ear. “I've been calling you all morning and all I got was your voice mail. You've got a real problem with cell phones.”

“You're right, but here I am,” said Enrique, comforted by her presence.

“Better than yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“I know a spot around here with great food. The menu's simple and not too varied, but the chef is a genius, and the service is wonderful. We could go if you like.”

“Let's go then,” agreed Enrique. Mariola locked her arm in his and they walked down the street toward the restaurant.

“So tell me what you've done today,” she inquired.

Enrique sighed before answering. “Nothing special. I spent the morning doing some paperwork on Artur's affairs—changing names on accounts and all that. You know.”

“Do you really feel all right?” Mariola asked again.

“Yeah, really. I don't know why, but I feel much better than I thought I would. The truth is, over this past week, so many things have changed in my life that I can't even believe it. Fortunately, in the midst of so much tragedy, I've found you. That not only evens the scales between good and bad, it tips them in favor of good.”

A clear and sincere smile lit up her face.

“You're such a gentleman. Even when we're talking about you I wind up getting the praise. I'd say you think about me quite a bit.”

“More than you'll ever know.”

“Men today aren't like you. Maybe that's why I like you so much,” she answered.

“Women today aren't like you. Maybe that's why I like you so much,” he countered.

It wasn't long before they were seated in a small, three-story restaurant, decorated in rustic style, surrounded by old farming implements, diverse antiques, and original paintings by artists who were unknown but of unquestionable talent and taste. The building, as old as the street it stood on, afforded access to the various levels through a steep, winding stairway. The third floor was obviously the most seldom visited, and Mariola clearly knew it. The lower floors were nicer to look at, but also more crowded.

The waiter suggested a tasting menu as a first course. Mariola, a frequent patron, proposed the vegetables sautéed with egg as the main course. A bottle of good wine accompanied the meal. They talked about a whole range of topics: music, film, and of course, literature. To his surprise, Mariola's tastes partially coincided with his, which was odd to him, as he thought himself an eclectic, attracted by disparate authors of
apparently irreconcilable topics and styles. At last, as was inevitable, they talked about themselves, their pasts, and their relationships.

“Why did it end?” Mariola asked.

“There was no other way. Everything just led us to it.”

“But you loved each other.”

“Yeah, we loved each other. Well, at least I loved her. And I think she loved me, but I can't say for sure. When she told me she was leaving it was in no uncertain terms: there was no turning back, there was nothing to talk about, nothing to argue about. She left without looking back, and she did it right. She was right.”

“We're always right,” Mariola added sweetly. “But men usually don't see that until it's too late. I'd bet she warned you a thousand times about the road to nowhere you were both on.”

“You're right. She did. And not just with words, in lots of other ways. But I didn't realize it until later, when it was too late.”

“Don't be angry at me for what I'm going to say: you men lack sensitivity. There are very few exceptions to the rule. You're just different. You live things differently. That the family is the accepted form of social cohabitation never ceases to amaze me. Ninety-nine percent of all couples don't love each other. At first they feel attraction, passion, lust; everything works as long as the passion lasts, because problems get minimized, enveloped by the flames burning inside us. Later, the passion dies out and the problems loom larger due to the twisted egotism you all have inside you that—and I'm certain of what I'm about to say—that you transmit to your partners.”

“A feminist stance, though not completely off the mark. People fake happiness, even though their relationships are so broken that they live in different realities.”

“And separation is still taboo to most women. They're hopeful about it, but also scared and unsure.”

“That wasn't Bety's case.”

“She has character. She made a break with the past … permanently, I hope.” She looked him firmly in the eyes.

“Permanently,” he confirmed.

A somewhat uneasy silence settled over the dining room. The other customers had left, and only a light hum of activity from the other floors accompanied them. Enrique undid the tension with a move that smacked of cliché, which made it no less effective.

“Cheers!” He raised his glass.

Smiling, Mariola raised hers. There was a shadow of doubt in her expression, only making her that much more attractive. The glasses clinked: the clear, sparkling noise sounded throughout the room. Enrique stopped Mariola's glass with his free hand, savoring the sensation that plainly revealed his lover's feelings.

“You're waiting for my turn, aren't you?” she asked.

“No, not really. But I wouldn't mind listening to your story, finding out about you, getting to know you in every way: the past, the present, the good, the bad.”

“Okay then. At my father's shop I told you I was married to an art critic and dealer. His name was Eric Keitel, and I met him in Paris while I was in my final year of studying fine arts. That year, the students put together a group exhibition where we showcased our finest creations. Eric spent a lot of time in Paris on the hunt for new talent. He played Pygmalion to a lot of artists who were just starting out; a Pygmalion with his own best interest at heart, obviously, because once the agency contract was signed, he got a share of whatever those artists made. The first time I saw him he didn't catch my eye. He was too old for my taste; later, I found out he was sixteen years older
than me. Still, he wasn't unattractive. He looked like a man from a bygone time: elegant, polite, formal, and every inch a gentleman. You can imagine that someone like that would easily attract the attention of any woman.

“I was young, good-looking, financially well-off, and for the first time since my birth, able to do whatever I wanted. That independence, which I wasn't used to, was intoxicating. But, fortunately, it didn't take me long to regain control. I had several affairs, and even my first romantic relationship, which, like all first loves, ended very badly. Then I grew more cautious, or maybe more selfish—same thing.

“In those days, I had no significant other and I felt really happy, maybe happier than I've ever been since. I had so much to discover, and the world was just so big and beautiful! I'm telling you all this so you'll understand my mood. I was … I don't know, radiant, magnificent, fulfilled—that's the word.”

“You are now, too.” Enrique flattered her.

Mariola took his hands and flashed him a smile.

“No, it's not the same. I feel happy, but it's not the same,” she insisted. “Back then it was an awakening to a life I now know. So when Eric struck up a conversation with me on the day of the exhibition, I was slightly intrigued. It was no normal conversation, I could see that right away. He liked me, I knew it from the start. What could a man like him see in me? It couldn't be just sexual attraction; a man like that, attractive and wealthy, could definitely take his pick. And, even as I believed that, I went on the defensive because I didn't want another relationship. He came around to see me a few times, and was always very gentle. He was clever, courteous, and interesting. He was never boorish, never made me uncomfortable, and I ended up feeling flattered by his obvious interest. The third time we saw each other, we were discussing the virtues of a painting together. I remember it well: it was a composition of red roses on a black
canvas background. For some reason I remarked that it was my favorite flower, and he committed the detail to memory. He culminated his pursuit by sending a dozen red roses to my apartment every day for a week. I don't know how he got my address, I certainly never gave it to him, and he never told me. All the flowers came with was a card with his name and a phone number. I called to thank him, and before I knew it, I ended up having dinner with him in Montmartre, at one of those spots so like Plaça del Pi.