The Antiquarian (39 page)

Then, S. murmured a strange litany in Hebrew, and despite my efforts to understand it, I must admit that I found it impossible. Perhaps he spoke in some unusual dialect, or perhaps it was a magic formula from the beginning of time. He then moved the candelabrum and pressed part of the molding that encircled the altar. The place which housed the seal descended; the molding governed a mechanism that made it possible to move the Stone. He placed his hands into the hollow and took it out.

What happened next was too incredible to be told or written in these pages. Everything S. had said was true. The only proof needed was that His name was there, and S. dared pronounce it.

They were right. It is my duty as a Christian and as a human being to hide it forever. I must find the way to hide it and forget what I have seen, what I have held in my hands. I will hide it, if they so desire, although I believe that it is so well hidden down there so as to make my intercession hardly necessary. Martín believes differently, as, according to him, when the inevitable expulsion comes, everything that belonged to the Jews will be plundered, and the safety of the object cannot be assured.

May God forgive me, because my sin has been the darkest of them all. May He forgive me, because if I did sin it was to keep others from sinning, and to prevent worse evils from befalling mankind. Fully knowing, I damn myself. May the Lord have mercy on my soul.

I have done everything I could. In the end, assisted and guided by love and good judgment, I have found in the Kingdom of God the only logical place that our Lord has deemed fit to show me.

Just as he had days before, Enrique reread the key text of the Casadevall manuscript. Although Bety's complete translation resolved some of the major enigmas, the main one remained open, dancing before his eyes, taunting him: where could it be hidden? Had it survived to the present day? And most important: would they be able to find it? Who was this mysterious S., whose name was always hidden? And how could Casadevall let himself be put so far under his visitor's spell?

So many questions deserved solid answers. Any man with an inkling of curiosity would not resist the temptation to find them—not to mention a writer. In good hands, like his, this material could be the bones of a powerful novel, a true best seller. In fact, the work was already done. All that was needed was to give it a bit more structure and
intertwine the main story with a few subplots to enhance its complexity, to avoid the dull, monotonous safety of linear narration. Yes, once he got the important matters out of the way, he would think about it. Once he and Mariola … Once everything was sealed. Until then, the manuscript would be put on the back burner.

Enrique had pleasant dreams, the kind that you don't remember but that leave a palatable impression; not so intense as to want to redream them, or so incoherent as to forget them when you open your eyes. So when he woke up, he felt brand-new. Relaxed, with an almost absent feeling, he took his time making breakfast and showering. It was late: gone noon. That explained why he felt so restored in body and mind.

Bety wasn't there. Before leaving, she had been thoughtful enough to take the phone off the hook so nothing could bother him. She must have seen something in his attitude the night before that recommended it. It had only taken a few hours to change Enrique's mindset; nothing seemed as it had yesterday. The worst was over: perhaps he had not reconciled himself with his past, but at least he no longer fought against it. The wound was healing faster than expected. Sooner or later, one forgets. And forgetting eases the pain.

He put the receiver back on its cradle and turned on his cell phone to check his voice mail. Mariola had probably called. She had said she would when they last parted.

He dressed quickly. Ready to go out, he took two editions of several newspapers Artur was subscribed to from the mailbox. He decided to spend the morning taking care of this sort of thing: canceling Artur's many subscriptions, changing the name on the electricity, gas, and municipal tax bills, and seeing the attorneys.

* * *

As for Bety, she began the morning according to custom: a few miles jogging around the slopes of Tibidabo, enough to activate her body for the rest of the day. The habit she had picked up in her early days as a university professor had become law: she couldn't do without her run under any circumstances.

When she returned to Artur's house, she decided to take the phone off the hook. Enrique was sound asleep, and she didn't want him disturbed. The past few days had been rough: the night before, she saw him lose control of his actions as they argued in the kitchen. Too much tension: Enrique hadn't been able to distance himself from the pain caused by the past few hours' revelations. Few in his place would have. After the quarrel, he'd been immersed in an uncommon laxness; seeing him taking a drink had surprised her. After everything he'd been through, the old Enrique would have taken it worse, of that she was certain. In the time that had passed since their separation Enrique had changed more than she could have imagined. In a way, he had become an enigma to her. He seemed more sensitive and perceptive, more rational, no longer governed by instinct or his frequent mood swings, rather, to an increasing degree, by pure and simple reason. Although it might not have been more than a passing change. But now was not the time to meditate on Enrique's evolution. Manolo had assigned her a specific research task that would help supplement the final translation of the text. Their ultimate goal: find the Stone of God. In two days' time she was to make a complete list of the buildings—religious and civil—built in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, taking special note of those in which Casadevall had a hand. She was to locate and site them on a map of Barcelona, to be able to investigate in situ those still standing if, when the time came, it was necessary. It probably would not be good for much: most of them would have disappeared over time; but there was always hope that Casadevall had hidden it in a place where, owing to some special trait, it could have survived the
centuries. Or perhaps the opposite would have happened; the years wearing away its hiding place, turning it into dust and debris, relegating the object to eternal oblivion. It was hard to imagine the system Casadevall would have chosen to hide it: it seemed safer to toss it into the Mediterranean and let its depths shroud it under a dark mantle. Why hide it anywhere? Only Casadevall could answer that—he and the mysterious S., of course. There had to be some hidden reason, but in truth, worrying about such questions was not worth it. They would do best to keep to the events explained in the manuscript, the list of the last pages, and that final “LLO. SI. D.”—Praise Be to God— that seemed to hint at the solution for Casadevall, and obscure it for them.

With the references Manolo provided churning in her head, Bety left for the library at the Barcelona Architects' Association, where she expected to find the necessary documentation.

Her mind was occupied on the long taxi ride, engrossed in the enigmatic, tangled web created by the manuscript, in awe at the power its mystery encased. Five hundred years had gone by. Now the past had convened a small group of people with the purpose of solving it. It seemed as if the document had something of a life force all its own. It had landed in the hands of some of the few experts capable of decoding its content: first, an old antiquarian in love with the past; then, a young and celebrated writer; and finally, a philologist specialized in classical languages. And the interest in solving the mystery had only intensified under each successive pair of eyes. No, it couldn't be; it was absurd to think of a manuscript with such power, practically with a life of its own.

She was surprised to see the taxi driving up Via Layetana, toward the city center; she was standing on the curb next to the street, and didn't even remember paying the fare. It wasn't like her. She was always so focused, and distant from her own interests. She shouldn't let herself get carried away. She couldn't give in.

Bety stopped before a shop window in Plaça Sant Jaume: her perplexed reflection looked back at her, seeming to look through her. She didn't like what she saw: a woman overcome by a cause that wasn't her own. She made her way toward the archive again, resolved to make up lost time. Bety's desire to know gnawed at her insides like never before.

* * *

Enrique let the hours pass in nondescript fashion. Going through the red tape was a necessity. Many in his place would have preferred to let more time go by before facing what seemed to be not a deliberate, but definitely a final obliteration of part of Artur's memory. He parked the car in the Hospital Street garage. He had no desire to face the swarming city traffic; he would take taxis. The morning transpired like a hazy dream in which he appeared to want no part. Physically, he was there, speaking as always, signing off on the changes in accounts, but his soul was so far away it was impossible to imagine. The only thing that stood out was his visit to the notary's; he decided to sell Artur's shop. The Santfelius of today were descendants of a long lineage of men of law, and faithful to tradition, their office was in a stately old building near the Arc de Triomf, in the lower part of the Dreta de l'Eixample. The luxurious entry hall, appointed with exquisite taste, left little room for doubt. He didn't have an appointment, but they saw him without much delay. Perhaps Artur's memory still had pull, or maybe it was purely business; they were eager to be put in charge of administering his substantial fortune. Who knew? Once the antiques were sold and the shop closed, the material forms of the past would not be long in disappearing. He only had interest in the Vallvidrera house, as much of his life had taken place within its walls. Maybe he would
return to live in Barcelona in a few years, although, if he hadn't done so after his separation, accustomed as he was to San Sebastián, he could see no reason to, except for a certain person. To think of selling or renting it out didn't sit well with him. The thought of strangers living in what was once his home didn't seem right. Nonetheless, keeping up both residences at once didn't make sense, even though he could afford it.

The Santfelius promised to take care of everything. Although real estate wasn't part of their service offering, they would put the matter in the hands of specialists, and would see to the necessary paperwork and settlements. They were competent, yes, but to what degree? Were they connected to the money-laundering screens Artur had set up? They might be, but it didn't matter much now. They promised to call him whenever necessary. That was enough for Enrique, who wanted to put the whole thing to rest as soon as possible.

He was surprised to bump into Detective Rodríguez as he left the notary's offices. They shook hands.

“Fancy meeting you here. How are you?” asked Rodríguez with his usual politeness.

“Fine.” Enrique wasn't in the mood for talking, but he wanted to know what had happened with Brésard. “Do you have a minute?”

“Of course. The Santfelius aren't going anywhere,” he joked, more for himself than Enrique. “Let's grab a drink. There must be someplace around here.”

“Okay.”

They went into the first place they came across; an old, nearly deserted café with vintage 1970s decor. It had an abundance of red imitation leather, dim lighting, and waiters who, judging by their age and lack of enthusiasm, had been there since the day
of the grand opening. They sat at a table next to the plate glass window and ordered two coffees.

“Okay if we talk on a first-name basis?” Enrique asked.

“Sure, that'd be better. What's on your mind, Enrique?”

“I've been going nonstop all morning, and I haven't had time to talk to Fornells. I was hoping you could bring me up to speed on the whole Frenchman affair.”

“Frenchman? The Captain talked to you, didn't he? Though I don't know why I'm surprised; I should've imagined it.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, Enrique, this is strictly confidential information. If it got out, he could find himself in a tricky situation, though I imagine that, this close to his retirement, he doesn't care too much.”

“Is it still confidential?”

“Yes.”

“Then you can't tell me anything.”

“No. But if I don't, and Fornells finds out, he'll be so pissed off he'll make my life even more of a living hell than usual, so ask me whatever you want. I'll answer as best I can.”

“Has he confessed?”

“No. And it doesn't look like he will. Fornells has run him through the usual gauntlet, and then some. But Brésard hasn't opened his mouth even once. He's a tough one.”

“So what happens now?”

“All we have on him is circumstantial evidence, indirect stuff. Testimony from a confidential informant isn't enough to build a solid case against him. It's possible that
there was this relationship between him and your father, and it has actually been proven, but with what we have it's impossible to think he's our killer. Samuel Horowitz said he knew there was some disagreement between your father and the Frenchman, but still, it's just another bit of circumstantial evidence, and that's not enough. Everything seems to point to him, but we need more evidence or we're going to lose him.”

“I can't believe he could slip through your fingers just like that.”

“Things aren't as easy as people think.” He shook his head. “Since the arrival of the Art Smuggling Unit, Brésard's been out of our jurisdiction. If we find any evidence to pin on him, we could maybe get an indictment, but without it … And there are outstanding warrants on him from Interpol, and from all over Europe. In fact, they'll be moving him to Madrid soon. When they do, a report from our unit on the Aiguader case, as we're calling it, will be going with him, but—”

“Jesus Christ, Rodríguez! Don't tell me he's going to get off scot-free!”