The Antiquarian (52 page)

“When are you planning on investigating the cathedral?”

“Carlos thinks he'll be able to get authorization this afternoon or tomorrow morning. As soon as he does we'll go up and see what the hell happened Tuesday afternoon.”

“Say you find the Stone,” Mariola said. “Wouldn't that only put you in more danger? If the killer is watching, it might make him come after you. He wouldn't let anyone get away with the object he's fought so much for.”

“You're right,” Enrique said. “But if we do find it, it's clear that the investigative part of the game will be over. We'd go straight from the cathedral to the police to turn it over to Captain Fornells. I guess that way it would be over, once and for all.”

“Plus we have Carlos working with us,” Bety added. “He wouldn't let anything happen to us. In fact, the only reason we're here together now is because he told us not to split up at any time, under any circumstances.”

“Well, that puts me somewhat at ease. You say Carlos is a competent professional?”

“He's an expert private investigator who's solved some big cases. There's nothing to fear with him at our side.”

“Good. Looks like you've made everything crystal clear. Bety, if you don't mind, I'd like to speak to Enrique alone.”

“Of course, be my guest.”

Mariola and Enrique went to the other end of the showroom, far enough for Bety not to hear them. From where she was sitting, Bety could see their profiles and, though she hated herself for it, she surreptitiously studied their movements and expressions to guess what they were saying.

“Enrique, there's one thing I can't understand about this whole thing. It's not about the Stone, Artur's or that other man, Manolo's, murder. It's about you, me, and above all, Bety.”

Enrique feared the worst.

“What is it?”

“Do you even have to ask?” she exclaimed.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I think you don't want to know.” She paused, waiting for an answer that didn't come. “Fine, I'll tell you. I want to know why you haven't been capable of telling me the whole story about the Stone of God from the time we decided to share everything. I want to know why you told me that half-truth last Tuesday afternoon.”

“I didn't mean to hide anything from you,” he tried to explain.

“Well then! That's a relief! Because there seems to be a gaping chasm between action and intent.”

Enrique told himself to be patient. In the end, Mariola was partly right, though not in the way she imagined. He hadn't kept things from her to keep her sidelined, but because as the story developed he'd lost interest in it.

“Listen, please, and don't interrupt me,” he pleaded. “If I didn't tell you anything it's because the one who was really interested was Bety. I mean, before I met you, I also felt involved in solving the whole mystery, but my interest faded as our relationship got stronger. For Bety it was exactly the opposite: like I told you, she came to Barcelona to help me after Artur's death, but when she got to know the story, she went from calling me a fool for not going to the police with it to being the first to want to reveal its secret.”

“You don't get it.” She shook her head. “That's exactly why I'm angry, or rather, hurt—deeply wounded. I feel as if she's taken my rightful place, even if she admits it's partly due to circumstance. But it's clear that you've kept me in the dark, and I don't believe it's a coincidence.”

Enrique weathered the storm with pursed lips. He felt unfairly treated, and worse, misunderstood. It seemed that this was his fate whenever there was a woman in the mix: involuntarily putting his foot in it and sending the whole thing rolling down a long, steep slope, like the tiny snowball that ends up triggering an unstoppable avalanche.

“I promise you that the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you.”

“But don't you see? Can you really be so blind? If you hadn't told me anything, or if you'd told me everything, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But no, you had to tell me part of the truth to justify Bety's being in Barcelona, with you. Because that's it, isn't it?” Her eyes twinkled, lit by the sudden force of a revealing conviction. “You want to be with Bety. I'm sure of it.”

“You're wrong,” he said soothingly, understanding the extent of her jealousy. Getting nervous would only lead to new mistakes, just as prolonging the conversation would. “I don't want to be with her. It's you I want to be with. Every minute I spend away from you makes me want to be with you that much more. But I can't leave her side until the danger's passed. You've got to understand that!”

“And you've got to understand me. I want you to quit the whole thing. Forget everything that's happened. You don't want to see me in danger, that's what you said. Well, I don't want to see you in danger either. Let's go to away Venice. Let's go now. Samuel won't mind taking over the business. Let some time pass and everything will work itself out.”

“Maybe I could get away, but what about Bety? It's too late and we're too deep into this. The only solution is to go all the way and find out the whole truth. Plus, the police have asked us to stay reachable. I couldn't leave Barcelona even if I wanted to.”

“Actually, I shouldn't be surprised,” Mariola replied, pessimistically shaking her head. “You'd best be leaving now. No, you'd both best be leaving now,” she rectified her own sentence, turning her back on him to face the shop window.

Unseen to her, Enrique nodded.

“Say good-bye to Samuel for me.”

Mariola didn't answer. Enrique hesitated for a moment: he was going to try to explain himself, but realized how useless it would be. He shut his mouth before he spoke, aware of Mariola's unwillingness to listen. She had ruled against him. Appeal would only be possible with time and the final unraveling of the mystery. Until then it would be pointless to waste his efforts. He walked toward the desk, where Bety waited, already standing. She assumed, correctly, that it hadn't gone well.

“Trouble?” she ventured.

“Trouble,” he confirmed.

Enrique picked up his jacket and they went out onto the street.

“If you want, I could try to talk to her,” Bety offered. “I know it's a cliché, but the truth is we women understand each other better than men do, and in her place, I might have reacted the same way.”

“Even knowing the whole truth?”

“Even knowing the whole truth,” Bety admitted.

“No, I don't think it'll help much. It would only complicate things, not fix them.” He took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. “I thought I'd begun to understand women over the years. Now I see how wrong I was.”

They walked toward the Ramblas, retracing the path they'd taken to Samuel's shop. “What do we do now?” asked Bety.

“Wait,” Enrique answered after another sigh. “Wait.”

Enrique felt pummeled. He knew going to see Mariola would only add to his woes, but still … As for Bety, she thought she understood Mariola: it didn't take a genius to see her position in the couple's eyes, distorting it into a triangle. She didn't wish anything bad on them. But that tiny, wicked part of her, the one she always tried but rarely managed to suppress, that little part that felt offended, uncomfortable, and foreign to her, at times vexing and always evil, was overjoyed and brimming with happiness.

“I got it.” Carlos showed them a letter on the archbishopric's letterhead, computer-printed, and adorned with a signature as overwrought and complex as the flourish. “They took their time deciding. Maybe they were checking me out, but they ended up granting me the authorization.”

“Without any objections?” Bety asked.

“Well, I don't think they were thrilled to see a private investigator hanging around the archbishopric. And you can get very persuasive when people don't pay attention to the needs dictated by reason. And let's not forget that Manolo's death, though it hasn't hit them directly, did happen right after his investigations in the cathedral. But they couldn't deny me the same permission they'd already given the police.”

“Fornells,” Enrique commented.

“That's it. They were at the cathedral this morning. But of course, they didn't find a trace of what they were looking for. In fact, I don't think they even knew what they were looking for. They don't know what we do.”

“So when can we go to the cathedral?” Bety wanted to know.

“Now. Right now.”

“The sooner we go, the sooner this whole thing will be over,” mumbled Enrique morosely.

Carlos picked up a backpack and emptied its contents out onto the desk: flashlight, hammer, chisel, sandpaper of different grains, and a spray can whose purpose was unknown.

“What's that for?” Bety asked.

“I told you yesterday that Manolo had taken equipment with him. I looked at the police report. They found his kit at his apartment, in an old satchel. I think he had planned for the possibility of using all these tools in his search, so I made up my own set in case we need them. There was also a camera, but I don't think it'd be appropriate to take one.”

“What's that can for?”

“It's compressed air. It sprays out pressurized air. They showed it to me in the specialty shop where I found it. Archeologists use them to clean away dirt and reveal worn-down inscriptions in stone. That way they can study them without damaging the original materials. It's likely that Manolo was looking for a special inscription that would indicate the exact site where the Stone is hidden, although you told me that he'd investigated lots of other things, and it might have been part of his usual kit, not necessary for this case.”

“Looks like he was fully prepared,” Enrique said. “I don't think he would've taken all that gear if he didn't have a clear idea of what he was looking for. The hammer and chisel speak for themselves.”

“We'll know soon enough.” Carlos stood up. “It's time to find out.”

There are several ways to go from Plaça Reial to the cathedral. None of them is more direct or convenient than the others; the streets must be walked to get there, no matter which route is taken. On top of that, each has something attractive, something that sets it apart. You can walk up the Ramblas to Portaferrisa Street, so called because of an iron gate embedded in the second wall of Barcelona. Or, without going that far up the Ramblas, you can turn right at Pla de la Boqueria. From there, you can take Cardenal Casañas, crossing Plaça del Pi and Plaça de San Josep Oriol, and finally going down La Palla Street to reach the cathedral. The third way is to go up the slope along
Ferran Street to Mons Taber itself, the hilltop at the heart of the ancient Roman city. There, you can either turn into the old narrow streets of Barcelona's Call, or walk to the cathedral up Bisbe Irurita Street. Carlos chose the third option. They left Plaça Reial through a double arcade that emptied onto Ferran Street. The group turned right on Ferran and walked all the way to Plaça Sant Jaume. There, among politicians' limousines and groups of tourists, several municipal foot patrolmen and
Mossos d'Esquadra
meandered about, mixed with the odd pickpocket, watchfully awaiting the perfect opportunity. They dodged a pod of Japanese tourists who, fascinated by the carving of a knife-skewered skull visible in the archway that crossed the street of the storied bishop, blocked the other pedestrians' free movement. They entered the cathedral though the Pietat Street entrance. For no particular reason, Enrique checked the time: it was six thirty.

They found the sacristy, as Enrique instructed, to the right of the high altar. They asked to see the dean. He wasn't there yet but appeared before long with two laymen carrying stacks of papers and files. Carlos introduced himself with exquisite manners and told him their business. The dean examined the archbishopric's letter with close attention and obvious signs of annoyance.

“It looks like this week they have nothing better to do than grant authorizations like this. It's the third one in three days, and the more I see, the less I like them. The first one, from that poor odd-looking young man, may have been justified. But the police, and on their heels, you, coming here, to my cathedral, in search of I don't know what … I don't like it, truthfully. I don't like it at all. We're up to our necks in work. Plus, today, as if all this wasn't enough,” he said, pointing to the profusion of paperwork on the sacristy desk, “we have an organ concert of sacred music, with accompaniment by a choir, which will turn the whole cathedral on its ear.”

“We don't want to disturb you; quite the contrary,” Carlos said. “We understand how busy you are, and we only have to retrace the final steps of your first visitor in the triforium and on the roof.”

“That's exactly what the police asked me for. Except that I had to tell them where poor Mr. Álvarez, may he rest in peace, was investigating. You, I do not have to tell,” the dean observed keenly. “Let's suppose I was beset by the very human defect of curiosity, and I asked you what in the hell, may the Lord have mercy and pardon my French, you're after in my cathedral.” He looked at them with such absolute naïveté that it caught his three guests off guard.

“I'm afraid not even we know the answer to that.” Carlos was quick to answer to avert any participation in the conversation on the part of Bety or Enrique. “It's exactly what we've come to find out.”

“Interesting. The police gave me that very answer this morning. Well then, it's impolite to stick one's nose into others' affairs, especially when one's superior is giving authorization. Come with me.”

They left the sacristy. The choir that was to accompany the organ had arrived. There were forty or fifty people of all ages, dressed in the uniforms of their respective choral groups. Their director busied himself seating them in the chairs arrayed around the high altar. Several choristers tried to calm the excitement that the proximity of the concert aroused in the youngest members, no more than ten or twelve years old. Members of the large audience milled about looking for a free space on the pews or the many chairs set up for the concert, all of them occupied by music aficionados.