The Antiquarian (25 page)

“After that, the police assumed that Brésard was living in Spain under false identities. But we couldn't even catch him that way. Every piece of evidence led to a dead end. We had to accept it: the Frenchman was too smart for us.”

“Why'd he kill Artur? Why in such a brutal way?”

“We don't know. I wasn't lying when I said that the murder investigation was at a stalemate. We didn't know where to turn until an informant gave us a tip. Tips like that usually turn out to be nothing, but when you've got nothing, you've got nothing to lose. And this one had some appetizing, well-conceived bait: they called my station directly and said that Artur's killer was the Frenchman. But they used his real name, not his alias. The anonymous caller also told us where to find him.

“The information looked solid. The call came from a phone booth in El Prat. Whoever snitched really had it in for him. And to know so much about him, it had to be someone he more or less trusted, someone close.

“After checking everything out, we went after him. We didn't know if he was the killer, but aside from his other crimes, we had to bring him in to rule out the possibility. He was living in a nice remodeled mansion near a luxury development in Sitges. He tried to run, but once he saw he was surrounded he gave himself up without any trouble. He's a big guy, strong, and looks really tough. And despite his age, there was no doubt he could have offered some resistance. But he didn't even argue, didn't say a single word until we got to the station. There, he demanded we call his lawyer, which we did, of course. What else could we do? Nowadays, you don't respect detainee rights, you find yourself in the middle of a shitstorm like you wouldn't believe. Anyway, before we began questioning him, and before his so-called attorney got there, he ‘accidentally' fell
down the stairs while trying to escape. But not even that worked; we didn't get a single bit of information out of him. He's a real tough guy, the kind that doesn't scare. And he knows perfectly well what to do and what not to do. By that stage, most of them would have softened up, at least a little. Anyhow, these days, perps have all the rights. I'm not saying it's bad, don't get me wrong. But sometimes we're lacking a little leeway in detainee processing. And the whole time, he's just sitting there all calm, out to lunch, like his mind has left his body. He knows all too well what he's in for. He won't say a word until the Art Trafficking Unit gets here from Madrid.

“But the papers we found when we searched his mansion are all too clear. They're just a few loose scraps of everything he has hidden somewhere—which we hope to find—but it's enough to link him to Artur.

“We also tried to trace him back to the antiques community. For now, none of the antiquarians know him, or so they claim. I imagine, like I think I already told you, that they know him too well for their own good. Let's hope it doesn't take long to refresh their memories.

“And that's where we are right now. With a notorious art thief behind bars, suspected of killing Artur, but without a single clue that incriminates him directly, just that anonymous voice.”

Enrique took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair.

“I can't believe Artur was a crook.”

“And I can't believe you. Are you telling me you consider your father a crook? He was anything but! Sure, he broke the law, but who doesn't?

“This whole story, this operation you find so shocking, doesn't even compare with lots of others that are far more complex and have very different purposes: political corruption, the drug trade, prostitution, and all that—they're thousands of times worse
than what Artur did. Those are real crimes, and this I know, much better than you. You're judging him wrong. He never hurt anyone doing what he did … except himself, now.”

“You may be right, but you also have the advantage of experience. He was … to me he was … I never could have imagined this! And knowing it all, how come you didn't step in?”

“I told him to quit several times. What could I do? Arrest him? He was my friend!” Fornells blurted out his response with the sincere spontaneity of a groan.

His sadness was clear, and it disarmed Enrique, who had been ready to object to any explanation. “You're right. He was perfectly capable of making his own decisions without anyone interfering. Talking to him about it wouldn't have changed anything.”

“That's right,” Fornells agreed. “All I need is time, a couple of days, tops. Time to investigate and come up with some evidence. Time to incriminate him. After that, let the law take care of him.”

The truths revealed in Fornells's long speech—met for the most part with mute incredulity from Enrique—weighed on both men. They sat in silence, each accompanied by his own thoughts and memories. Fornells had disclosed things to Enrique about the life of a man he loved, and it was impossible not to feel their sting. Enrique attempted to assimilate the new information but was unable to. In disbelief, he took almost personal offense at the shady dealings of the man who had been his father. The two looked at each other with empty, expressionless stares, their thoughts turned inward, with no desire to continue talking.

“I've got to go,” Fornells finally said. “I'm all worn out. I've hardly slept in three days, and at my age, the body doesn't take kindly to that. Retirement's too near. I'll keep you up to speed.”

“Fornells.” The chief, already moving away from the table, turned back to Enrique. “Thank you.”

“Don't mention it,” he said, and disappeared among the patrons of the now-crowded bar.

Enrique didn't go into specifics on the phone to Bety, though he did tell her enough information for her to finally make a decision she had been putting off for the past twenty hours. If the manuscript no longer meant mortal danger for whoever had it or knew its secret, she now had the chance to ask for help from someone who could give it. When she began the translation and saw how many mistakes Enrique had made, she had been sure of her own ability to find the hidden key within the master builder's prose. But now, having completed her most detailed work in recent years, not as much out of her own will as a desire to prove her professional capacity to Enrique, she had to admit defeat. The Latin text, so interesting on its own, gave no clues whatsoever to the enigma before them; she would have to translate the mind-boggling side notes. Feeling backed into a corner, and without permission from Enrique, who, she justified to herself, wouldn't have given it merely because the idea was hers, she decided to resort to her contacts in the world of Barcelonese academia. Just twenty minutes later, she had reached Quim Pagés, chair of the College of Classical Philology at the University of Barcelona, with whom she had shared a friendship—because, among other reasons, she wanted nothing more from him—for several years.

Bety had met him shortly before her divorce at a seminar on comparative linguistic research techniques in Madrid. At that critical time in her life, she couldn't help but feel drawn in by the obvious attraction that had arisen after she gave her lecture. She always carried herself with a certain shyness that drew attention to her. At that time, there was something in her expression, something frail, vulnerable; she was inner anxiety personified. She was deep in crisis, consumed by doubt, convinced she had a part in the
failure of two lives. Bety, always so resolute and sure of herself, was trapped in a dead end with no way out in sight. Her relationship with Enrique had sunk to an all-time low: they had spent the previous week without speaking to each other. The Madrid conference had been an excuse for her to get some distance, and, theoretically, think about the problem, and so avoid facing him.

It didn't take Quim long to sense the burden she was carrying. He was, like nearly all men, able to easily perceive the crises of the opposite sex and, driven by the inevitable paternalistic spirit, rush to give them his attention, help, and—why not?—anything else they might need. He didn't harass her; far from it. He had too much class for that. He was nice and pleasant, always available, a trustworthy fellow academic who became a friend and confessor in the space of forty-eight hours. In the end, on the third night of the conference, he offered himself, more than just a shoulder to cry on, as a substitute. Bety was about to give in to his entreaty, but an inexplicable sense of shame outweighed her desire, and she left him standing in the hotel hallway, with a kiss still fresh on his lips and a certain melancholic uneasiness in his heart—a feeling that didn't take long to fade.

They met again months later. With the divorce finalized, Bety had recovered her usual strength of character and armored her heart with a thick layer of insensitivity that made her inaccessible to any man. She wanted to be the best of friends, nothing more; the time wasn't right for an affair. Deep down, she knew the recent past had wounded her, and she wasn't willing to risk her just-won independence on a new relationship. Quim, who attempted a new strategy meant to wash away the bittersweet memory of their last meeting, found a Bety with no qualms about summing up her situation to him with total frankness. Instead of driving a wedge between them, the conversation led the
two to become close friends. Now it was time to call for the type of help that friends tend to give. If Quim couldn't help her, he was sure to know someone who could.

At twelve noon, Bety crossed the threshold of the university's most handsome entrance. Over it, the crest with the motto “
Libertas Perfundet Omnia Luce
” (“Freedom Shines with Perfect Light,” the first word of which had been banned during Franco's dictatorship) stood out under the pale light of a veiled sun, like a vague, uncertain promise of solution to a no less-murky puzzle.

She went through the left-side corridor to the old cloister of the University of Barcelona's College of Humanities. The building, of neoclassical style and built at the end of the nineteenth century, for many years housed all university disciplines, until the inexorable growth of the city rendered its classrooms too small. At that hour, pandemonium reigned. Students were wandering in every direction in the brief interval between classes, creating a chaotic jumble of unclassifiable activity: ranging from brazen flirtation to the simple sating of prelunch hunger pangs.

Bety patiently waited for Quim to make his appearance. Several of the undergrads eyed her with curiosity. Despite her experience, she never got used to being observed with the brassiness typical of university students, and it always took her at least a few days to set the necessary distance at the beginning of each year. When she saw Quim come through a side door that afforded access to the corridor connecting the colleges of sciences and humanities, what she felt wasn't exactly relief, but it was comforting. The last few stragglers who hadn't yet entered the classrooms observed with even greater curiosity this encounter between the distant figure of a department head and an attractive visitor.

Quim belonged to that small handful of men who didn't look their age. Approaching fifty, no one would have said he was older than thirty-five were it not for
the many gray strands that flecked his hair and only added to his natural attractiveness. He had broad shoulders and a face composed of classical features with a stubbly two-day beard. He was dressed in an elegant, somewhat contemporary style.

“How great to see you!” he said as they kissed each other's cheeks.

“Same here!” Bety smiled.

Quim gripped her by the shoulders and gave her a once-over. “You look fantastic, as always.”

“And you're still quite the flatterer.”

Quim couldn't help but laugh. “Come on now! Just because I once made a proposition that went beyond merely social bounds doesn't mean that's all I think about. I'm not saying it to be nice, it's the honest truth.”

“Okay, then,” conceded Bety, “don't get upset. You old lady-killer, you know I'm not on your list.”

“Come on, let's go to my office. It's quieter there so we can talk.”

They walked through the maze of the university's inner corridors until reaching the offices of the Department of Philology. Quim greeted a few colleagues as he opened the door to his office, revealing a functional and cozy space nothing like the airy salons one might imagine in such a building. Comfortably seated, the host started the conversation back up.

“So, I was surprised to get your call this morning. What brings you to Barcelona?”

“Well, not tourism. Enrique's—my ex's—father died.”

“Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. But you mentioned that you needed help with something. Is that the case?”

“It is.” She paused, trying to decide how to continue. “I have to translate some tracts—notes actually—written in Old Catalan, probably from the sixteenth or
seventeenth century. They're chock-full of abbreviations and contractions, and the truth is I haven't been able to do it. I need a precise translation, and I thought you might know someone trustworthy who could help me with them.”

Quim nodded silently. He drummed the desk with his fingers before answering.

“Well, well.” Quim smiled as he kept drumming on the wood. “I think I have just the person for the job. It's a guy who's a little out there, Manolo Álvarez is his name. The most brilliant damned philologist I've ever seen. If he can't do it, no one can, rest assured.”

“He's that good?”

“He's the best.” Quim tapped on his computer keyboard a few seconds until finding the information he was looking for. “Okay, here's his file. Listen to this: Manuel Álvarez Pinzón, born in Mérida, Spain, February 29, 1965. Got his bachelor's degree in Romanesque philology in 1995, classical in February 1996, and a doctorate in both in '97. He studied library science and documentation from 2003 to 2005. Graduated cum laude, just like in all the other degrees. He has proficiency-level certificates in Italian, French, English, German, Portuguese, Slavic languages, Hebrew, and modern Greek. He's also fluent in Russian, knows the different fields of the Semitics, Chinese, Japanese, and—I'm not kidding—several African dialects whose names I don't know how to pronounce. The man's extraordinary. Every time I read his file it blows me away.”