The Antiquarian (51 page)

“I need to see Mariola,” he suddenly said to Bety.

“What?” It wasn't that she was shocked, but rather she'd simply been too distracted to hear him.

“I need to see Mariola,” he repeated cautiously.

“Okay. Let's go.”

Enrique couldn't believe Bety had answered as she had. He would have expected any reaction but her indifference and that plural ‘let's go.' But was it real indifference?

“She must be worried, and I think I need to tell her what's going on,” he explained needlessly. “Last night I promised her I'd come by the shop today. And I'm sure Fornells will want to talk to her.”

“It's not a problem for me. Where's the shop?”

“A ways past Artur's, closer to the cathedral.”

“Let's go.” She stood up.

Bety's decision stunned him. It was the diametric opposite of apathy. That was it: Bety wanted to satisfy her curiosity and meet her substitute, and he'd given her the perfect opportunity to do it.

“I thought you wouldn't want to meet her,” he offered meekly.

“Well, you were wrong,” she replied. If she'd been quiet and withdrawn on the way to the port, on the way back to the city she was self-assured and chatty. She bought the
Diario Vasco
at the first newsstand on the Ramblas, and busied herself giving commentary on the news items from Gipuzkoa with an intensity that told Enrique of her true lack of interest in them. Neither the jocular tone she used to review the latest local gossip or the political jokes so easy to make up about a place as tragically blighted as the Basque Country could hide her anxiety over meeting Mariola. Following in her wake, Enrique couldn't disguise his concern.

“Do you really think this is all right?”

“I don't get you. If you proposed it, you must've already decided that it is.”

He didn't answer. He knew she would rebuke any objection he could offer with the utmost simplicity and offhandedness. Enrique's memory of past experiences was too clear to consider wasting time with arguments that were lost before they began. What he was really worried about was a different matter. How would Mariola react when she saw the two of them walk into the shop? He chose to ignore the uncomfortable question, putting off its resolution until the inevitable clash of the two women.

“I'd like to ask you something.” Bety kept up her chatter.

“Go ahead.”

“It's just that, you told me that Mariola came back to Barcelona after her divorce. Why did she partner up with Samuel?”

Enrique was relieved. The question lacked the anticipated malice.

“I don't really know their whole story. Artur told me once, when I was visiting, but I didn't pay much attention. If I remember it right, she was looking for a job, and she got here right as Samuel was starting up an old project to expand his shop. Mr. Puigventós made the proposition and they both agreed to team up. That must've been about four years ago.”

“I see. And one other thing: if we run into Samuel, which is likely, do you know what you're going to tell him about the questioning?”

“No,” he answered after thinking a moment. “But I'll think of something.”

They walked up the Ramblas to Pla de la Boqueria; there they entered the city's old quarter on Cardenal Casañas Street. In Plaça del Pi they came across the small sampling of antiques exhibited each Thursday for pedestrians to feast their eyes on the mementoes of yesterday, to the delight of lovers of the past. People from all walks of life strolled along browsing the tables; further on, a saxophonist accompanied by
background music playing from a CD concentrated all his efforts on the performance of a jazz piece vaguely familiar, but whose title Enrique could not recall, unless it was Miles Davis's “All Blues.”

On La Palla Street they passed all the old shops, one by one. Nearly all of them were empty, though they did spot a customer who had wandered into Guillem's. On reaching Artur's, Enrique couldn't help but cast a glance inside. It was empty, except for a thin film of dust that, from out of nowhere, had begun to settle on the floor. The walls, painted in their bold greens and blues, with no pieces to highlight, seemed faded, more becoming of a suddenly enlarged dollhouse momentarily emptied by its whimsical owner than of a real, life-sized building. In the loft, the splintered railing stood in mute testimony to the tragedy that took place three weeks prior. Seeing it, a lump formed in Enrique's throat and he struggled to swallow.

“Come on.” Bety urged him on, softly tugging his arm. “This place belongs to a past you need to leave behind.”

“It's not that easy,” he answered, with his hand in his left pocket, “when the past refuses to leave your present.”

S. HOROWITZ. ANTIQUARIAN. The old sign, with its gothic lettering, was weathered, lending it an appearance of plausibility for an antiques shop. The establishment was striking, with the arcade that was hidden under stone, brought to light by Samuel and Mariola's renovation. Seated at the old baroque desk, Samuel was skimming through a newspaper. He raised his head as soon as they opened the door; a broad smile lit up his wrinkled face.

“Kids! What a nice surprise!” He gave Bety a kiss on each cheek and shook Enrique's hand. “Please, sit down, sit down,” he insisted courteously. “You look great, Bety. I'd been looking forward to seeing you. Enrique told me you'd been in Barcelona
several days, but between one thing and another I haven't found the time to get in touch.”

“Thank you so much.” Bety acknowledged his kindness sincerely. “I've been looking forward to it, too. It's been a long time …”

“So it has. That's life, huh? So. Well, well.” Samuel smiled again. “You left us pretty worried yesterday, Enrique. Fornells seemed so upset when you two went downtown. And Mariola didn't tell me much of anything this morning: that they had to check out some information with you, but it was all classified and you couldn't tell her anything.”

“The investigation seems to be getting more complex than anyone thought,” Enrique admitted. “Unfortunately, Mariola's right. Fornells asked me to keep everything absolutely confidential,” he lied on the fly.

“Well, I'm sure it'll work out soon.”

“Is Mariola around?” Enrique asked. “Last night she told me I'd find her here.”

“That's right; she's down in the basement. Excuse me, I'll call her.” He took an intercom from a drawer and switched it on. An unseemly squawk flooded the shop; and a distorted voice answered.

“Mariola, Enrique and … Bety are here.”

“I'll be right up,” Mariola answered.

A couple of minutes later, from a spiral staircase set at the end of the showroom that connected the two floors, Mariola emerged, looking as sharp as ever. She was wearing a pistachio-green skirt with a white blazer that was tapered at the waist, simple but elegant, and white mid-heeled shoes. Her dark hair, loose and carefully styled, seemed to float as she walked toward the desk. Enrique stood up, as did Bety and
Samuel. On reaching them she greeted the group with soft “hello,” and gave Enrique a polite kiss on the lips.

“Mariola, this is Bety.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure's all mine.”

They both reached out to take the other's hand, as if by mutual agreement.

Enrique became aware of how odd the situation was when he saw the stealthy but extremely inquisitive look on Samuel's face. He was studying the women and their reactions.

In a way, the scene looked like a photograph next to its negative. Mariola, with her flowing brunette mane, smartly attired, before Bety, blond hair in a ponytail, olive complexion, dressed casually in pleated slacks, flower-print blouse, and suede ankle boots. Two opposing forms of beauty: one classic, the other, contemporary. Mariola evoked the image of a woman from a century ago, with subtle, well-defined features: the thin-bladed nose, delicate lips, large and elongated eyes. While Bety was more from the present, with more familiar features, not as distant as those of her rival: fleshy lips, roundish cheeks, and almond-shaped eyes. Mariola's beauty was more distant, less frequently encountered, exceedingly perfect. Bety, while far from common, personified the opposite style, closer to the tastes of the present.

It wasn't only the two men who observed the scene with curiosity. Bety and Mariola, the players on center stage, appraised each other with concealed interest. Mariola was facing the woman who had been Enrique's wife for years, who she had felt jealous of just days before. It was different for Bety; not even she understood the overpowering impulse that made her offer herself to her ex. Because that was what she had done, beyond any doubt: offer herself to him, the man she had shunned forever just
years before. She didn't know what had made her do it, but whatever it was, she was certain it deeply disgusted her. She'd felt humiliated when he rejected her, not so much for the rejection as the offering itself. In the end, though he'd changed drastically, Enrique was still who he was, or rather, he couldn't stop being who he was. And being aware that the attraction—perhaps even love—that Enrique still felt for her, despite the years that had passed, had disappeared with the arrival of Mariola was something she didn't like one bit. Her reaction, she'd known it then and there, before Mariola—beautiful, serene, distant—had come about on realizing she was losing her eternal admirer. She'd acted not because she was losing him, but rather, in equal measure, he was losing her. She'd done it not on her own initiative, but on one outside herself. Knowing the reason made her feel better, but she still noticed something wrong in her reasoning. After all, if everything was as she imagined, why was she still looking at Mariola with envy?

“We need to talk.” Enrique broke the little spell that had been cast on the situation. They had only taken a few seconds longer than normal to begin talking, nothing especially noticeable. As he said it he looked as Samuel, who understood his request immediately.

“Well, I'll leave you to it and go grab a bite to eat.” He got up and took his jacket from a nearby coatrack. “I'll be back in about twenty minutes. Does that sound okay?”

“Whenever you want,” Enrique said.

“Fine. See you, then.” He looked at all three of them consecutively before bidding them good-bye. They watched Samuel as he exited out the door, first hanging the “Closed” sign on it. Then Mariola took the initiative.

“Please, sit down. I could fix some coffee if you like. Artur spread the custom among the other antiques dealers,” she explained. “The truth is, good customers love those kinds of perks.”

“Don't bother on my account,” he said.

Bety shook her head in refusal, without taking her eyes off Mariola for one second. She seemed fascinated by her hostess.

“In that case …” She left the sentence hanging on purpose. Bety's presence seemed odd to her too. She wanted an explanation.

“Samuel said you hadn't told him anything. Yesterday I didn't even realize that he might be worried and want to ask you about the situation.”

“I didn't know how much of it I could tell him. I thought it would be better to say nothing until I talked to you. But along with his concern there is worry, which is no less important. Lately, we've been getting a lot of calls from Association members asking for Samuel, much more than usual. I get the feeling there's some unspoken interest in finding out more about the Frenchman's arrest. As I told you when it happened, more than a handful would be linked to his activities. And since Samuel was very close to you and Artur, well, they think he may know something. What I never could've imagined is what you told me last night.”

“Neither could we,” Bety interjected. It was now Mariola's turn to study her. “But unfortunately, it did.”

“We've come to tell you, with a bit less pressure, what the situation is, and what we've come up with.” Enrique told her about the most important conclusion they'd reached after meeting with Carlos: someone had been watching them from the beginning. Manolo, who Bety had asked for help, had managed to find the Stone's
hiding place, in the cathedral. Their intention was to determine whether the Stone was still there or whether it was in fact in the hands of the killer.

“Then you know where Casadevall hid it.”

“We're not at all sure of it, just a few ideas,” Enrique answered.

“I get the feeling you don't want to tell me.”

“It's more pragmatic than that,” he said. “I think that telling you could put you at risk. We don't know what the killer knows, but he probably thinks we know. And it's not worth it. It's enough that the two of us know.”

“Enrique's right,” Bety cut in. “It's not worth it to share the risks when there could be such a high price to pay. Manolo's and Artur's deaths prove as much.”

“I see. Well, the truth is, I don't like it. I'd rather be with Enrique, sharing his burden with him.” She treated Bety to a meaningful look as she said it. “But I guess that decision's already been made.”

“Yes,” Enrique said. “I'm not going to put you in danger. It's hard enough for me to think that Bety is exposed for what she knows about this whole stupid thing.”

“You share a lot, the two of you,” Mariola insinuated.

“Less than you think,” Bety retorted. “And I'd like for it to be even less.”

Each gave the other a lengthy stare. There was neither hostility nor aggressiveness in their looks, but the mental duel they were engaged in was obvious to Enrique. Mariola wanted to know the true nature of the relationship between Bety and him; and on her own behalf, Bety felt the irresistible desire to delve deeper, to know the true woman under the placid mask of self-control that Mariola wore. Having partly imagined the conversation would go that way, Enrique felt powerless to change the course of events. But it was Mariola who put the matter to rest, changing the subject with a new question.