The Antiquarian (58 page)

“Let's go watch the bay,” Bety said. “I want to see the
galerna
come in.”

Enrique agreed, pleased by her wish. The normally crowded seafront by the little port was empty. The pedestrians had rushed indoors to watch the force of nature from behind a window, preferably in a warm café. The wind blew hard on the sea's surface; the waves, driven by the howling wind, overtook each other, swelling in size and might. The first drops of rain fell here and there. After watching the storm a while, Bety spoke up again.

“Enrique, there's still something I don't quite understand. According to your story, or your perception of what happened, or whatever you want to call it, the Stone looks after itself. If it ended up in your hands, how could it let you throw it into the sea?”

At first, Enrique appeared to meditate on his response, and then began a halfhearted explanation, as if his words lacked conviction or formed a barrier that broke as he managed to get them out. His initial doubts gave way to a compelling narrative, his reluctance to talk transformed into impassioned eloquence. Finally, he revealed his secret.

“I've thought about that, and the truth is I don't have a solid answer. I honestly don't know. When I decided to do it, I was expecting something to stop me from doing
it—procrastination, changing my mind at the last minute, even divine intervention. But I went out to sea and sailed on to where I needed to go: a clean, beautiful sail, harmonious. I felt at peace with myself. And then, I felt as if I needed to be in a very specific spot, and that I was there. I lay to, took the Stone out of my pocket, and looked at it. I remember thinking it was so beautiful, but that the time had come for it to disappear forever. Sitting astern, I touched the ocean with my hand. It was as if the water stroked me back, and I felt I wanted to do this with all my being. I'd sailed out there with that intention, and the desire to be rid of it had grown and grown so that no other solution was possible. And then, something really strange happened, Bety, you've got to believe me. My hand was right there, over the water, and I was holding the Stone in the palm of my hand, and … I couldn't open my hand, Bety. For the longest time, I simply could not open my hand. It might have been hours later, and there I was, still, the sea utterly calm around me, for so long it was if I was suspended, outside the world, looking in.

“I felt as if I had the power to do anything I wanted, make any dream come true. If I just made one simple movement. Just put my hand back in the gangway and the Stone back in my pocket. All I had to do was keep it with me and when the time came, pronounce the name written on it. Yes, I swear I felt it, Bety, I swear it! I didn't want to believe that I wanted to feel it … and that's why I felt it. From outside of me, something seemed to tell me not to do it. Something from outside was shackling my will. And that's why I couldn't open my hand when I wanted to. I wanted to open it, and I couldn't! I've never felt that way in my life, and fortunately, I don't think I ever will again. I managed to slip a single thought into that vicious cycle that was keeping me from reacting: I remembered Mariola falling into space, smashing onto the floor, lying covered in blood on the cold stone of the cathedral floor. Then, and only then, with the
vision of Mariola, bloodied—and so beautiful—set in my mind, was I able to open my hand and feel the Stone slip out over my palm and into the ocean.

“I did nothing else. I didn't feel joy or pain. I didn't watch it falling into the depths. I took the helm, hoisted the jib, and with a westerly wind that suddenly blew up, I tacked for home. That's how I got rid of the Stone forever. Thanks to Mariola. Without her, I wouldn't have been able to.”

Bety listened, overcome, and hardly able to breathe. There was no doubt: it had really happened that way. It was impossible for such conviction, such eloquence, to come from a fabrication. The Stone had dropped forever out of humankind's reach, where it could rest in peace. And yet, acknowledging its magical powers with those strange events before throwing it into the sea was the only way to mitigate Mariola's responsibility and harbor an image of her that entailed certain beauty. What if the story wasn't true? What if Enrique had only wanted it to happen that way? She knew his powerful imagination, his vast ability to narrate, the ease with which, at gatherings, press conferences, or his publisher's promotional events, he could enthrall listeners and journalists with his words, conveying all the feeling that permeated the pages of his books. If Enrique thought that things would be better that way, he was perfectly capable of convincing everyone that it was true.

“You don't believe me,” he said without looking at her. “You think what I've told you is a lie—if not the entire thing, at least part of it. You must think that the Stone is in the drawer of my desk, and that I perform magic rituals with it every single night, like a sorcerer's apprentice.”

“Don't worry. You're right: it doesn't matter what I believe. You didn't have to give me any explanation; you did it and that's it. It's best just to forget it.”

“I'm sorry you don't like my answers. I warned you.”

“You still miss it,” Bety suddenly affirmed.

“Yes. As much as I missed you. As much as I still miss you.”

Bety was silent. She'd been expecting this from the moment she decided to talk to him.

“I feel alone, Bety, very alone. Infinitely alone.”

“It can't be, Enrique,” she said sadly.

“I've loved two women in my life. The first, you, who I lost out of stupidity; the second was snatched away from me by fate. And I know I'll never be able to love anyone else. My heart belongs to both of you. Nothing will ever change that.”

The drizzle gave way to a still-incipient rain that held the promise of a coming storm. The
galerna
hovered over La Concha.

“It's too late,” whispered Bety. “There are a lot of things that would keep us together, and just as many that would keep us apart. And Mariola is the biggest one of all. Even if we were together we could never escape her constant memory. I'm right. You know it.”

“Yes. But even so, it's what I want.”

“You know my answer.”

“Of course.”

The rain began to fall more quickly. If they stayed, they'd be soaked in minutes.

“I'm leaving, Enrique. It's best this way.”

He nodded almost imperceptibly, without diverting his gaze from the bay. Bety was about to place her hand on his shoulder, but she stopped short at the last second. With a lump in her throat and an entire world of grief in her heart, she walked away in the rain, never looking back. Enrique, alone on the esplanade and soaked by the raging storm, the
tears on his face melding with the raindrops, grasping the stone wall with both hands, waited in vain for a miracle that he knew would never come.

 

There is a wealth of information available on this period of the city's history. I highly recommend a visit to the Arxiu Históric de la Ciutat, located in Casa de l'Ardiaca (Ca de l'Ardiaca in Catalan), Carrer Ciutat, 1, and thank them for their assistance. The visit alone is worthwhile, as Casa de l'Ardiaca is a handsome building; it's a fortunate coincidence that the greatest possible amount of documentation on the history of Barcelona can be found inside.

Should the opportunity arise, visit on the day of the Corpus Christi festivities, and you'll see its courtyard decorated with hundreds of flowers and the legendary
L'Ou Com Balla
(Dance of the Egg): an empty eggshell bobbing atop a spout of water from its decorated fountain.

The Crown of Aragon's archive (located at Carrer Comtes, 2; in the Palau del Lloctinent), under the aegis of the Ministry of Culture, also has a vast collection of documents on the period, and has become all the more relevant since the repeal in 2006 of the mandatory condition of having to hold a researcher's license to consult its collection. But the building itself, right next to the cathedral, is another of the beautiful spots to be visited in Barcelona. Moreover, under its foundation lie the incredible ruins of the Roman city of Barcino, which can be visited from the ground floor of the Museu d'Història de la Ciutat de Barcelona.

The book
Història de la Ciutat de Barcelona
, published by Aedos in Barcelona in 1975, helped me a great deal in situating the society of that time.

Other sources of information are easy to find on the Internet; but please take some personal advice: researcher beware. According to the source, the dates of the events
searched for can oscillate from five to fifteen years. Check any information from the Internet against other documented historical sources. If there is any slight discrepancy among the historical dates, characters, and true events mentioned in this work, they must be considered small narrative licenses for which I beg the reader's pardon in advance.

 

There are many studies on the construction of the cathedral that are available to nonexperts. Some of them can be purchased at the cathedral itself, and are naturally suited to the understanding of anyone uninitiated in architectural subject matter.

Nevertheless, if one seeks in-depth documentation on the process of its construction, a visit to the archive of the Col.legi d'Arquitectes de Catalunya (Barcelona Office, located at Carrer Arcs, 1-3, 4th floor) is a must. Theoretically, access is restricted to architects and researchers. Although most of its collection focuses on the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, there is accurate documentation on the cathedral, especially on the restoration works carried out in the 1970s, which returned the chromatic splendor to a building darkened by the passage of centuries.

Lastly, a word of advice: the roof of the cathedral, which was not open to the public when this novel was written, can now be visited. It is thrilling to approach the cross and know that it was there, at your feet, where the “object” was hidden for centuries! If you look closely, you may notice that the mortar around one of the stones of the base is more recent.

 

This is one of the greatest mysteries of humankind. I cannot speak at length about it, as I have given my pledge not to, and as Casadevall told the
converso
Ángel Martín so many years ago: “I'm a man of my word.”

I will only say that the kabbalistic tradition has existed, still exists, and always will exist. There are many frauds that do not deserve even the slightest credit. Anyone truly wishing to approach it must devote years of study and personal commitment to even begin to grasp its mysteries; either that, or win the trust of someone who does know. No knowledge is obtained or granted without effort; to that I can testify.

As for the sephirot, they are the very breath of God. Much information can be found on them; most of it is false or distorted. A very small part of it is true. That the Tree of Life, the kabbalistic structure that diagrams the relationships among the sephirot, and the architecture of the keystones on the roof of the Cathedral of Barcelona are extraordinarily similar makes for one of those rare coincidences that any even slightly circumspect author couldn't ignore and be amazed at their own capacity to associate ideas. Perhaps there is no such coincidence. Perhaps, as the private investigator Carlos Hidalgo wrote with his computer, “There's no such thing as coincidence.”

Of any possible study that the reader may perform based on this novel, this would be the most complex of all, because the feeling that branches blocked their path would be certain, acute, and deep at all times: there is nothing stranger than intuiting a truth and knowing that it can never be grasped. But the true purpose is in the attempt: the destination is unimportant when the journey becomes true passion.

 

I cannot be impartial about the city where I live. It is probably the most beautiful in all of Spain, if not the entire world. Its physical beauty is not only to be found in the “unparalleled scenery” of La Concha Bay. The Urumea River treats pedestrians to breathtaking walks through a decidedly Frenchified ambience, especially as evening falls. Mount Urgull, living history of the city and a must-see for any visitor; the delicate English Cemetery, a bit of evocative nostalgia sure to move anyone with a feeling for such things. Igueldo, on the other side of La Concha, offers unmatched views and true spiritual peace, the same peace that allowed the writer Enrique Alonso to distance himself from worldly affairs.

But Donostia–San Sebastián is more than a picture-perfect city. It's a thriving metropolis, with a full calendar of first-rate social and cultural events, in the midst of a transformation toward a friendly and citizen-centric urban model. Its International Film Festival, International Jazz Festival, status as home to the Basque National Orchestra, Musical Fortnight, Horror and Fantasy Film Festival, and many other cultural activities are proof of this decided and growing cultural vitality.

It is precisely for that reason that, following an arduous selection process, it has been chosen as European Capital of Culture for 2016 under the motto, “Waves of People's Energy.”

I'd like to invite you to come discover my adopted city. I can promise, from experience, that it won't let you down.

Faithfully yours,

Julián Sánchez

Julián Sánchez
(b. 1966), a native of Barcelona, decided to be a writer after reading Jack London's novel
Martin Eden
at the age of ten, but also developed a career in the pharmaceutical industry and played professional basketball for fifteen years. He continues to have close ties with the sport, currently as a trainer. Literature and basketball are two fundamental activities in his life.