The Antiquarian (20 page)

Enrique walked them to the door, where they said their good-byes. He watched as they walked off toward Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol, and then pushed on the door to make sure it was locked, overcome by a sudden fear. Now that the act was over, the built-up tension was taking its toll. An abrupt chill belied the warm atmosphere in the shop and made him break out in goose bumps. He went up the stairs two at a time, stuffed the manuscript and notes into his leather satchel, and ran back down to the door. Besieged by doubt, he made a decision there: he opened the door, looked out at the empty street, and brought the blind down with a single pull.

He couldn't wait for Bety inside the shop. He was sure he'd just shared a cup of coffee with his father's killer at the scene of the crime, and the anxiety he felt at returning to the shop that afternoon was now joined by a fear of suffering the same fate. Though dark and not well-lit, the street was peopled by several carefree pedestrians, giving it a feeling of safety, which, though it may have been false, was enough for Enrique. Staying close to the wall to watch both ends of the curving street, he saw Bety in the distance. He stepped out to meet her and took her by the arm. They walked toward the garage in the opposite direction from Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol.

The other end of La Palla Street led into Plaça de la Catedral. Surrounded there by a gaggle of nighttime skaters, Enrique breathed more easily. They sat on one of the
benches in front of the majestic Gothic cathedral, and Enrique recounted the group's conversation to Bety, especially their odd indifference toward the manuscript. Just one remark about the manuscript had been made, and in passing. It was true that the conversation had soon turned to literary topics, but that was the only comment made. That didn't matter to Bety, though she was eager to know who had taken the bait, or rather, who had started the conversation. The answer, Guillem, confirmed her suspicions.

Bety tried to calm Enrique down. She ran her hand across his back. His muscles were beyond tense; they were blocked. His skin responded to the contact.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“No, no I'm not,” he answered.

They got up. Bety put her arm around his waist, he put his over her shoulders, and side by side they walked to the parking garage in Plaça de Catalunya.

Behind them, hidden in the shadows cast over the square by the colossal watchtowers of the old Roman city wall, a figure cloaked in darkness, silent and unmoving, watched them walk away. When they were out of sight, the figure turned back and slipped into the dark maze of narrow streets.

Over breakfast, Enrique remembered how Carlos had caustically dressed him down over the phone the night before. He had called Carlos to tell him that he'd successfully, in his opinion, laid the bait. But the only response he got was a string of obscenities that would have put even the saltiest sailor to shame. His honest indignation was caused as much by the incredible recklessness of Enrique's exposing himself to any unforeseen reaction by the alleged—and unknown—killer, as it was by his having organized it without informing Carlos. Bety, listening on the other line, couldn't suppress peals of laughter, fortunately unheard by Carlos.

After he had vented, Carlos ordered Enrique to lock the doors and windows until he received a call to his cell phone in which the only word spoken would be “relax.” It would mean that the security arrangements were in place, and he could rest at ease. From then on, he would be under twenty-four-hour surveillance by detectives from Carlos's agency who were experts in the discretion necessary for tails and stakeouts. Carlos also recommended that, the next time Enrique took any sort of initiative without letting him in on it, he also look for another private eye.

“This whole thing is too serious for an amateur to try things on his own and think they're going to come off. Remember, nothing is bolder than ignorance, and the price you pay for a mistake might be your life.”

“So, what can I do now?”

“Normal daily activities. You have to move around to give the killer a chance to act, while always staying within whatever your normal behavior is. Don't make any
strange moves that might throw your guardian angel off. If you want my advice, work—in libraries, at home, wherever. It's best you stay busy.”

“Should I carry the manuscript on me?”

“It doesn't matter. What he cares about isn't so much the manuscript as the fact that you know its secrets. But pretending to carry it will up the chances of him acting sooner. Just think: if he attacks you, he could kill two birds with one stone. If you decide not to carry it on you, hide it in a place where he can't find it.”

“All right.”

“Take this phone number down.” Carlos dictated a number. “It's the cell phone where you can reach me, anytime, anywhere. If anything seems fishy to you, call me—even if it's silly or insignificant. Better to be woken up over some nonsense than regret something later. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good luck and see you soon.”

“Thanks for everything.”

Bety came out of the bedroom and approached him.

“Well, would you look at that. I'm not the only one angry with you for being kept out of the loop. But Carlos is right: you took too much of a risk last night. Why didn't we think of that before?”

“We didn't think the killer would act right away.”

“Well, we haven't thought about it at all, or we've thought about it wrong. You can never know how a killer's mind works, how it reasons. An immediate attack, without time for him to plan his moves, wouldn't have been likely. You were at the same scene as the first crime, and finding your body there after you'd just had them over for coffee would be plain as day to even the dimmest cop. When we analyze his movements, we
should leave a little margin for surprises. He might be under pressure, or feel hunted, and do something unexpected.”

“And if that had happened, I'd be dead now.”

“And maybe me, too,” added Bety. “I'm not surprised you hadn't thought of it, but for
me
to overlook it …”

They both laughed.

* * *

Later on, after dinner, the old flame had been on the verge of rekindling. Bety insisted on giving him a massage, and Enrique didn't refuse. Laying facedown on the sofa, he felt her hands slide over his muscles, working them into a gelatinous mass: pure primeval clay. Then and there, the same thing was probably going through both their minds: the memories of their past were hard to forget. They looked at each other, suddenly possessed by a vague feeling. Enrique didn't remember his lips approaching Bety's, but they must have, since she got up and ran toward her bedroom as the ring of the phone resounded throughout the room. His guardian angel had seen fit to separate them. Alone on the couch, he hit his forehead with the heel of his hand and cursed his bad luck.

* * *

He awoke euphoric the next morning. Absorbed in his thoughts, he got dressed and went to the kitchen for breakfast. Though a morning person, Bety was still in her room; it was obvious she didn't want to see him. He left her a note:

Dear Bety,

I had to go to the shop for the appraisal. I don't need the manuscript. Feel free to work on it. Call me at the shop if you need anything. I arranged with Carlos for both of us to be covered. Remember, if you go out, don't leave the manuscript in plain sight. Better yet, take it with you.

Be careful.

Enrique

He left it sticking out between the pages of the manuscript, which he placed on the floor in front of her bedroom door. Once in the car, he tried in vain to discern the vehicle his security detail was using to follow him. Try as he might, it was impossible to make out. He had briefly considered making a sudden wild turn, to force his protector to give himself away. His imagination always kept itself entertained dreaming up such acts, which he obviously would never dare attempt. Lost in the maelstrom of Barcelona traffic, which was rather heavy for a Saturday morning, he gave up trying. He parked his car in the garage, stopped at a newsstand to buy a paper, and walked to Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol. Like any other Saturday morning, it was packed with young and not so young painters condemned—or lucky enough, depending on one's viewpoint—to exhibit their works in that sublime setting, far from the privileges and obligations of galleries.

It was just a couple yards from there to Artur's shop. Mariola was waiting for him by the door: she looked different, and yet, identical to the woman he had met days before. She was dressed more casually, in a younger style, but there was no hiding her good taste and class. She belonged to that select group of people, the kind who,
oblivious to fads and fashions, always captivate everyone around them. They exchanged greetings: Enrique hesitated for a second, and Mariola extended her hand. He shook it gently, then raised the blind and invited her in. At that time of morning, the sun lit up much of the street, and its nuanced light flooded the shop. A cloud of dust motes whirled in the sunbeams.

“No one's come to do any cleaning since it happened,” Enrique explained. “He used to have a maid, but now …”

Engrossed in the pieces and furniture that surrounded her, Mariola wasn't listening.

“Artur was a man of exquisite taste, and so experienced. The way the furniture is arranged is so intelligent, it captures your eye and you can't help but look at it.” She looked at Enrique. “Your father knew how to grab the attention of people walking in front of the shop: viridian and ultramarine blue are loud colors on their own, but they make fine wood stand out like no others.”

“I'm no expert in your art, but his friends always praised his color coordination, his style.”

“Understandably,” Mariola replied. “He had a very special touch. So, ready to get to work?”

“At your service.”

“Get a pen and paper and come with me. We'll start in the shop and then we'll do the warehouse, though I would like to take a peek first.”

Enrique turned on the warehouse lights. The cold fluorescent tubes cast a pale glow that scarcely lit up the many nooks and crannies of Artur's cavernous storeroom. Mariola moved with a graceful gait among the countless pieces of furniture. Some were covered with great cream-colored sheets; others, neglected, with a thick layer of dust. With a vigor at odds with her dainty appearance, Mariola suddenly pulled off one of the
sheets. The cloth slid down the piece of furniture, a stunning teak sideboard garnished with gold-leaf inlay. She gave Enrique a look that almost beseeched his forgiveness for what she was about to do. Inspired by the revelation of such a handsome piece brought back into the light, she walked down the phantasmal aisles, revealing their hidden mysteries one by one, like a fairy with a magic wand whose simple touch brought them back from oblivion. Desks, china cabinets, a large bamboo cage, glass cabinets, a pedestal topped by a classical sculpture. Enrique, stunned by this unexpected turn of events, was brought out of his stupor upon hearing Mariola's silvery laugh for the first time. Yes, she was laughing; she must have felt something different, something special, abandoned in a rhythmic feast of discoveries, each more surprising than the last.

When the last tarp had fallen to the ground, Mariola approached him, slightly out of breath, with a captivating smile on her face.

“Isn't it wonderful?” she cried. “Artur had one of the most beautiful furniture collections in here that I've ever seen!”

“You're right. It's wonderful,” conceded Enrique, though he wasn't referring to the same thing she was.

“I can't understand why he didn't have them out in the showroom. Do you know why?” She waved her hands around to include the entire contents.

“I don't know what to say. I know a thing or two about antiques, of course, but I wouldn't know how to tell the exact value of one piece of furniture from another.”

“Listen,” she started. She took on the complicit attitude of a parent about to tell their favorite child a nice bedtime story. “Artur had two types of furniture in the warehouse. Some he had selected to go to market; those are the ones that weren't under sheets. Within that group, another distinction could be made, between those that needed to be restored—the ones near the warehouse door—and the others that already had been,
which are placed closer to the shop.” She stopped a moment to catch her breath. “But, among them all, there is furniture of different periods, uses, and materials—absolutely different. What's outstanding about this furniture is the combination of high-grade materials with exquisite finishings.”

“I'm not sure I follow you.”

“Sorry, I'm talking to you as if you were from the antiques world.” Mariola laughed again. “Enrique, your father had a museum in here—a veritable museum.”

His face must have expressed true astonishment because Mariola laughed again, even harder than before.

“He had conserved those precious few, extraordinary pieces that fall into an expert antiquarian's hands over an entire lifetime. And there can be only one explanation. He had a little museum here for his personal enjoyment.”

“That's why they were covered with sheets.”

“That's right. They were exquisitely restored, a testimonial to craftsmanship, and tenderly, lovingly cared for. But they wouldn't fit in the shop, and they're practically impossible to keep in a regular house, because of either their size or unusual style.”

Enrique, infected with Mariola's spontaneous joy, wandered through the narrow corridors, surrounded by the furniture that Artur had so loved.

“Can you imagine him in here, uncovering the furniture one piece at a time—”

“—with deliberate slowness,” Enrique interrupted, “savoring the act of returning them to the light. His movements would have been unhurried and purposeful, just like his life, but also intense, because he loved what he did. And this must have been a secret private pleasure. I can see him,” he continued, “acquiring each little jewel of his collection. The first of his revered pieces must have been in here a long time, while he debated whether to keep it or put it on the market. Soon after that, a second piece
arrived, making his decision that much more difficult, as he placed it next to the other one; two treasures surrounded by a sea of mediocrity. That's how he must have built this collection, more with his heart than his mind, based on impulse, not method.”