The Antiquarian (45 page)

Enrique couldn't keep from smiling.

“So you have read them!”

“Silly!” Mariola chided him with mock indignation. “Of course I read them! There isn't one of your books that I haven't read and loved.”

“Just kidding, just kidding,” he said with his hands open, palms up. “Why don't you show me the catalog?”

“Okay, let's go up to the lobby.” They climbed the stairs arm in arm, without hiding their recently formed bond. Mariola's attitude surprised Enrique: she wasn't ostentatious with her feelings, but she didn't hide them either. Any observer could see it plainly. He watched her, mesmerized by her beauty. They reached the lobby, and Mariola handed him a catalog.

“Well, there you have it.” She handed him a booklet of several pages. “It's actually the list of pieces and furniture that we made over the weekend, revised and enhanced with more summarized descriptions. Nothing more is needed: the people who will be coming knew Artur well, and they know that any goods from his shop are of high quality.”

“Do you think you'll sell it all?”

“Most likely. Unless there are any surprises, Samuel and I will keep the altar, which is the most complicated piece in the lot because it's too big, heavy, and eccentric. It fits right in with the style of our shop. If you take that off the list, the rest of the pieces won't be too difficult. I think we'll sell it all.”

“Or at least we hope to,” interjected Samuel as he extended his hand to Enrique.

Mariola's partner, and the man who had been Artur's best friend, came up behind the couple. Impeccably dressed, he was carrying one of the catalogs in his hand, with a profusion of notes written throughout its pages.

“Ever been to an auction?” he asked Enrique.

“This will be his first,” answered Mariola.

“It's something to see. For old-timers like us, it's like a game, but no matter how many times you've been, it never loses its charm. You'll see it all, especially the friendly rivalries inherent to this profession.”

“What have you marked there?” asked Mariola, pointing to the program,

“You already know,” Samuel smiled. Enrique looked at the catalog as Mariola leafed through its pages. Almost all of the pieces had names written next to them, in some cases two or even three. Mariola clarified their meaning before Enrique could ask.

“It's a game Samuel and I play,” she explained. “At every auction, we bet on who of our colleagues will bid on certain items.”

“A harmless pastime in which surprise and imagination come into play. But I don't think I'll have an opponent this time. Mariola has been too busy getting the auction ready to waste time on such idle conjecturing, haven't you?”

“Yes. Usually the person offering the wares acts as the organizer; the association lets them use the premises in exchange for a small commission. But you don't have the experience, and Artur was who he was.”

“Preparing an auction isn't difficult, but it does require certain knowledge of the field,” Samuel added. “Though she's only been part of our world for a few years, Mariola is already quite an expert in it. Let me assure you that getting everything ready in five days isn't something that just anyone can do. Now then, she has almost completely neglected her obligations at the shop, forcing me to hold down the fort all alone. But, since it's a matter of helping a friend, I won't hold it against her. Believe me, she's done a great job.”

Enrique looked at Mariola.

“I know.” Those two simple words expressed his entire appreciation.

“Well, well: I saw the Massachses and the Ribós arriving as I was leaving the garage. The room will be packed to the rafters in twenty minutes' time. Where's Pere?” he asked Mariola.

“He went up to his office to change. I'll go get him.” Mariola left for the showroom on the upper floor, where she would find her father in his office. Enrique watched her walk away, still partly stricken by the rapture he'd felt on the stairs that the conversation had not put an end to.

“She's a fine woman,” remarked Samuel. “If I were thirty years younger, and I didn't love her like a daughter, I would take a different approach to our relationship. Though it seems she's already made her choice,” he said, winking at Enrique.

“So you've noticed.”

“How could I not? All those phone calls and messages could be on account of the auction, but I knew there was something more than that moment I saw you together. The way you look at her gives you away.”

“You're right, I think there is something more to it,” conceded Enrique.

“And I'm happy for you, son, I really am.” Samuel placed his hands on Enrique's shoulders. “She's a strong-willed woman with a lot of character.”

“Thank you.”

Just as Samuel had predicted, the first auction participants soon arrived. There was still plenty of time before the scheduled beginning, but the auction was a special event in a community with such strong social bonds. For the guests, attending it meant paying tribute to Artur's memory while also having the chance to benefit from the excellent antiques that his shop always boasted. Slightly more than twenty minutes later, the room had filled with a who's who of the Antiquarians' Association members, dressed in appropriate attire and exhibiting the manners typical of the good families they belonged
to. Fortunately for Enrique, Mariola and, even more so Samuel, took turns protecting him from the excessively good intentions of the antiquarians, keen to pay him their respects, give them their condolences, express their appreciation, and regale him with stories of experiences shared with the man who had been his father for twenty years. Against her wishes, but bound by her condition as hostess, Mariola was unable to pay him much attention. She was busy keeping everyone happy, making them believe she thought them necessary, and that they were the key figures at this gathering. And despite being taken under Samuel's friendly wing, Enrique soon felt out of place in that atmosphere.

Only Guillem and Enric stayed longer with Enrique than the rest of the guests, being allowed to do so by his father's old friend. Once they had drifted back into the crowd, Enrique surprised himself thinking about how those two men, so harmless in appearance, had aroused several people's suspicions as the possible murderers of Artur. He watched them surreptitiously: Guillem, with his usual blend of energy and courtesy, was surrounded by the largest circle of people in the room. Enrique did not miss any of his moves. In a social group with its own character, where elegance, charm, and savoir faire were the predominant values, he was the king. Everyone followed in the wake of his attractiveness, and chuckled at his stories, with all due politeness. He wasn't just a buffoon who cheered up the gathering; he was the very soul of it, the axis on which the life of the group revolved. A man with a special gift, the gift to be admired and loved by others. As for Enric, he was off in a corner, speaking in measured tones with three or four elderly people, displaying his usual seriousness. It would be hard to find a pair of friends more different physically and socially, though not intellectually.

From the rest of the guests he drew one conclusion: it was true that they formed a true group in which family tradition had a lot to do with their unity. He, Enrique
Alonso, despite being the son of Artur Aiguader, didn't feel integrated among the auction's friendly attendees. He'd never felt attracted to the world of antiques, and Artur had never made him feel as if he had to continue what had been his life's work. The atmosphere was too exclusive. The guests enjoyed being who they were, without hypocrisy or false appearances of any kind. They didn't think themselves different, they really were different.

When the bell rang to mark the beginning of the auction, Enrique was surprised to find himself drinking a glass of juice that he hadn't even remembered ordering. Mariola came to him with a decided air and Samuel slipped away into the crowd. They walked between the rows of chairs to the front of the room, where some seats had been reserved along the wall. As they went, Enrique could hear, among different remarks on the catalog, gossipy whispers about them. Mariola left Enrique seated next to Samuel and went back down the aisle to help her father—laboriously advancing down the corridor—and walk him to the auctioneer's podium. There, Puigventós picked up the microphone and took the floor to address his attentive and suddenly hushed listeners.

“Dear colleagues and lovers of art, I bid you good day. It's not often that the Association president speaks to the audience before the auction begins, but today is a special day and I have been given the opportunity to pay final homage to the memory of an old friend who is no longer with us. I will not try to give a eulogy, just a brief word or two about his character, so please bear with this poor old man. You all knew him very well: naturally, I'm referring to Artur Aiguader.

“Forty years ago, an intelligent young man was bold enough to acquire, also at an auction, the shop of an old association member who the more elder among us will still remember, Lluís Foxà. For political reasons, Lluís was forced to emigrate to keep from ending up in jail, or worse. The shop, one of the most emblematic on La Palla Street,
cost Artur next to nothing on account of its origin. Those were bad times, the market was almost nonexistent, and Artur took a great risk. That's why, when Artur continued with Lluís's business, more than a few of us, myself included, criticized him openly or behind his back. Who was this young upstart who dared set foot in our world, where he did not belong? As always, and as is still true today, we were too self-centered: we criticized him with zeal without knowing that he had managed to send a considerable amount of money, corresponding more or less to the real value of the shop and its content, to its legitimate owner, then in Mexico City. Artur was patient: the Association's condescending attitude never bothered him, and little by little, he won the personal—though not collective—affections of many of us. Years later, when Lluís got back in touch with my father, then president of the Association, in his letter he asked him to thank Artur for not taking advantage of him and his situation, and sending them the money necessary to begin a new life in Mexico. As you can imagine, the news caused quite a stir in the Association, and it forced the total acceptance of that young man as an equal among our ranks.

“That was Artur: discreet and generous, a true gentleman in the classic sense of the word, always willing to help others and asking for nothing in return. A man from another time.

“Unfortunately, Artur has left us. A heartless, unscrupulous person has taken from us a good man, a good friend. Because, above all his many other virtues, Artur was, as Machado said of himself: ‘a good man.'”

Puigventós stopped to catch his breath. Enrique, taken aback by this tribute to his deceased father, observed the rapt attention of the audience, Association members and outsiders alike, who knew and were fond of Artur for so many years. From the seat next to his, Mariola openly took his hand, and smiled at him.

“Today his son, Enrique, is here with us. I've also known him for many years, since, if memory serves, he came up to about here.” Puigventós touched a hand to his hip. “Enrique grew up surrounded by antiques, by old dusty furniture, dark paintings in need of cleaning, and hundreds of the old books that were Artur's passion.

“Today, Enrique, general heir to his father's estate, has decided to untie himself from the world of antiquarians. In one way, it's something I regret, as it will mean the disappearance of a historic shop, and a bond that should also be considered historic. But it also makes me happy because I know that he has a rare and special talent, and this way he'll be able to devote his full attention to it. I'd rather him spend his time writing the wonderful books he has us accustomed to than see him locked inside a tiny shop for which he doesn't feel the love that the rest of us do. And so, to Enrique, as the heir of Artur, who was our friend, colleague, and Association vice president, in that order, as the chief representative of the guild, I present this plaque, in his honor and memory.”

From under the podium, Puigventós took out a case that he opened to the sound of the refined applause of the audience. The silver plaque sparkled under the reflection of the fluorescent lights. Mariola spurred a startled Enrique out of his seat to accept the gift. With tears in his eyes, the Association president stepped down from the podium and hugged the guest of honor, who didn't bother to disguise his emotion either. After the embrace, Enrique murmured and inaudible “thank you” as he held up the plaque. Then he took his seat again next to a smiling Mariola.

“I bet this was all your doing,” he whispered into her ear. “You organized this whole thing, so you must've known. You could've warned me!”

“It wasn't my idea, it was my father's,” she answered him in equal terms. “He wanted to do something like this, and now was the time. And of course, there was no way I could spoil the surprise. And there's another reason …”

“What?”

“I'm sure that any temptation to underbid will have disappeared after that touching scene. I know my colleagues well; that's the way we are.”

A deep voice sounded out over all others in the auction room. Its owner was a man some forty years old, slim, with aristocratic bearing, wearing a dour black suit, the epitome of seriousness. He presented the lot they were about to auction off as “a fantastic collection of diverse pieces, all of the highest quality,” and immediately proceeded to present them in the order in which they were listed in the catalog. After praising the properties of each piece, he announced its asking price, previously stipulated by Mariola, who had wisely set them somewhat lower than would be expected, to encourage bidding among the attendees. During the auction, the audience members conducted themselves with a cultivated demeanor, and in no case did anyone get swept away in an absurd bidding war over any piece. Whenever the amount rose by approximately one third of the asking price, one of the bidders always ended up withdrawing. Enrique was surprised to see that the participants enjoyed a relaxed, even jovial, atmosphere where chatting and running commentary were predominant. Samuel himself, after bidding on a few items, began moving around the room to discuss different developments with other people, and even went to the adjoining room where the waiters and bartenders continued working for anyone in need of refreshment. Samuel was there on behalf of Samuel Horowitz, Antiquarian, since Mariola, as the organizer of the event, preferred to stay out of the bidding and discuss the auction's evolution with Enrique. When the bidding came to the altar that Samuel and Mariola had identified as their preferred piece, they had to bid against an apparently well-funded man. Mariola whispered into his ear that it must have been a personal matter, a whim of the other bidder that they hadn't counted on. The altar couldn't be easily marketed since
it could only be used as Artur had used it: the focal point in the decor of a large showroom or terrace. They had planned to put it in their showroom—not for sale—and use it to redistribute all of the interior space in their shop. Enrique protested the altar being put on auction in the first place, but Mariola assured him that it was just a way of getting the most profit for him; losing the bidding was not all that important. In the end, the man was sold the altar, although at a price much higher than initially set.