The Antiquarian (43 page)

A spiral staircase, steep and lacking even the slightest light throughout its long turns, forced him to descend cautiously, despite using the flashlight he'd had the foresight to bring with him, feeling his way with his feet before he stepped to keep from falling down the uneven, timeworn stairs. Any misstep would cause a dangerous tumble that would be hard to stop. He took every possible precaution and sighed with relief when, after the last turn, he saw light: he was nearly at ground level. On reaching the nave, he saw the dean speaking to a security guard in the doorway of the sacristy. Seeing him, the dean rushed out to meet Manolo, reaching him at the top of the stairs that led down to the crypt.

“Finally! I was worried about you: it's past nine and you hadn't come to the sacristy, like we agreed. I was just asking our security guard to go up to the roof and look around, in case you had trouble coming down from the lack of light.”

“I did, at least part of the way, although I must admit, I didn't realize how late it was. I was on the roof as the sun went down, and I got caught up contemplating the twilight. I was very careful coming down. I took it slow, and here I am.”

“Well then, I'm glad you didn't have any real trouble. Did you get what you needed?”

“Yes. The fieldwork supports my hypothesis, but I'll still need to work up there a few more days to confirm all of the master builders' marks. I may even be able to finish late tomorrow.”

“The cathedral opens its doors at ten in the morning, the time of the first mass, but if you'd like you can come earlier—anytime after eight, through the sacristy door.”

“I appreciate that, but it won't be necessary. I need to check all of the inscriptions in the archive in the morning, so, if it's no trouble, I'll come in the afternoon.”

“Whenever you want. And now, if you'll excuse me, Pedro will see you out. I still have a great deal to do, as one's work is never finished.”

“Please, don't mind me.”

The dean returned to the sacristy and Pedro, the security guard, accompanied Manolo to the cloister door that opened onto Pietat Street. Outside the cathedral, Manolo took a deep breath. He walked toward Plaça de Sant Iu, on the opposite side of the building, savoring the special tranquility that has always distinguished Barcelona's Gothic Quarter. The gentle notes of a flute evoked in his mind memories of an imagined past, the era of the builders, when the cathedral was more a project than a reality; a half-building sheathed in scaffolds and canopies, swarming with hundreds of artisans and laborers. The musician, all alone and unaware of Manolo's presence, delighted in his own creation, driven more by his surroundings than any real need for an audience. The scarcity of coins in his flute case said as much. He was playing for himself and no one else, probably as inspired by the old stones surrounding him as Manolo was, though for a different reason. This was a magical realm, unknown to most, that changed by the day and even the hour, capable of showing the most diverse of faces at any given time.

Elated, confident, and sure of his success, Manolo walked down the street until coming out onto Plaça de la Catedral. There he turned to gaze on the huge vertical mass
of the temple whose hidden secret he was about to reveal. He laughed long and heartily. One more day and the Stone would be his. Well, not exactly his: he knew that Bety and Enrique had a certain right to it, but it was clear that without his participation all of their efforts would have been in vain. But that didn't matter; they would talk once he had the Stone in his possession. They were intelligent, educated people, and therefore, he assumed they were reasonable. Or at least they had been up until then. On Via Layetana he caught a cab. He gave the driver his address and sat back in the seat, thinking of treating himself to a nice dinner and a warm bath, and then settling down with an old book and a glass of well-aged cognac. The day called for a break from his usual strict self-discipline: he would finish it in style.

Two hours later, Manolo had completed his first two plans for the night. Wrapped in an old tattered bathrobe, he paced before his bookshelves, unsure of what to pick. He ran his hand over the spines of several, without deciding on any. He hesitated around Kafka's
The Metamorphosis
: he knew its content almost by heart, yet he always got a kick out of Gregor Samsa's unfortunate adventures and bizarre end. He pulled the book partially from the shelf with his index finger. Today might just be right for another reading. But he was in a good mood, too good to succumb to the psychological pull that led him to read it a couple of times a year. But near it, another spine with gold lettering caught his eye: the English version of
Utopia
, by the O'Toole brothers, a delightfully antique edition, published in Liverpool in 1923—a thing to behold by a learned collector like him. It was a heavy book, of large size and starkly clear print, full of rich illustrations, with a binding as dense as its content. “Full steam ahead. This is the book of the day,” he convinced himself.

While he was making his way to the sofa, there was a knock at his door. Somewhat perplexed by the late hour, he went to answer it. He wasn't expecting anyone. He
opened it, still holding the book under his arm. It was the last thing he did. A shadow lunged at him.

Utopia
fell to the floor with a dull sound before Manolo's body did the same. As he was dying, his mind generated a final thought as absurd as his own concept of life: now he would never again be able to reread that beautiful book.

Enrique saw Bety late that night, around one in the morning, when he got home from the palace where Mariola lived. He entered the house silently, without making a single noise. It wasn't deliberate, but he closed the door slowly and the plush hallway rugs muffled the sound of his steps. Bety was seated at Artur's desk, surrounded by a map and several books; some on history, others technical, checked out from the Architects' Association library. The desk stood to one side of the study, surrounded by bookshelves lined with thousands of books of all periods and subjects, meant to satisfy their former owner's insatiable appetite for knowledge. Leaning against the doorjamb, he saw Bety's intensity and concentration as she worked. He was surprised to see her wearing glasses. She had never needed them before, although her eyes did get tired after several hours' reading.

He was about to say something, when Bety, surprised to suddenly find someone else in the room, sprang up abruptly. The chair fell to the floor and she backed away a few steps until realizing it was Enrique.

“You jerk!” she yelled. “How could you sneak up on me like that? You scared me to death!”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to. I was just about to say hello as you were getting up.”

Bety shivered visibly. She shuddered, and panted involuntarily. With a sudden shove, she pushed some of the books off onto the floor.

“Idiot!” She put her hands over her mouth, still ruffled, and then crossed her arms. She was really unsettled.

“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Well that's good! After everything that's happened, you could be considerate enough to think about it. Don't you think?”

“I repeat: I'm sorry,” he said in a conciliatory tone as he picked up the books she had pushed to the floor, “I didn't think you would react like that.”

“And how am I supposed to react? Don't you think that Artur's death, the whole investigation, your wonderful trap, and the story of Diego de Siurana aren't reason enough for a person working alone in a house in the middle of nowhere to feel a little jumpy? You scared the life out of me!”

Enrique left the books on the desk and tried to change the subject. Bety left the room before he could start. She blew by him like a gust of air and disappeared down the corridor. She returned, calmer now, with a glass of cool water in her hand.

“Okay, let's forget the whole thing.” It was clear she wasn't bent on resuscitating ghosts of the past. “I have something to show you: come sit with me at the desk.”

They pulled another chair over to the desk and sat down.

“Go ahead.”

“I spent the afternoon gathering information on the fourteenth-century buildings that are still standing. Manolo thinks it could be useful to make a list in case we have to investigate them one by one. I think he's given me this job to keep me busy, or perhaps away from him, more than for any real usefulness. But at the end of the day, it didn't take much work. What's most likely is that, either the definitive solution is in the manuscript, or we'll be incapable of discovering anything about it. In the second case, the list would buy us some time.”

“Did you finish it?”

“Yes. They were very nice at the Architects' Association and they gave me the entire bibliography necessary to investigate the matter; a bibliography, by the way, that
they had in their own library. And so with that bibliography, I could draw up this map. It shows the site and state of the buildings from that time that are still standing. It was simple enough, although only a few have survived, as we imagined. Along with their sites, I made these cards with the information available about them: known builders, styles and influences, current condition, evolution over later years, and other things like that.”

Enrique peered at the map.

“Wow, there are twenty-four of them,” he noted, surprised. “I never would have imagined that so many would still be standing after six hundred years. Although the truth is, I'd never really thought about it.”

“The thirteenth and fourteenth centuries were the political peak of the Kingdom of Aragon. You could even say that it was the top Mediterranean superpower, probably even more powerful than Castille itself. Both kingdoms suffered political instability, but Aragon's location, with its coastline and the seagoing nature of its people, opened the doors to the international trade of the day. As could be expected, Barcelona, its capital, enjoyed spectacular growth in population as well as political, social, and cultural prominence. Around that time the city saw a construction boom. It was one huge work site, literally occupied by hundreds of artisans, quarrymen, workmen, and goldsmiths. The Montjuïc quarry couldn't cut stone fast enough.”

“Does the numbering mean anything?”

“No, I just did it for organization's sake. These sheets, next to the map, contain the list of buildings.”

“Well, let's see … I recognize most of them at first glance.” Enrique called out the names of the sites on the map as he pointed to them with his finger. “The cathedral, El Pi church, Sant Just and Sant Pastor, Santa María del Mar, Sant Pau del Camp, Santa
Anna, Santa Àgata, Sant Llàtzer, Sant Pere de les Puelles, Sant Martí de Provençals, Santa Llúcia, the chapel of Marcús, the Palau Reial Menor chapel, the Palau Berenguer, the Palau Episcopal, the arsenal, the Hospital of Santa Creu y Sant Pau, the Generalitat, formerly the Diputación General, this one's—” He hesitated before continuing the litany. “Damn, I can't think of the name. The Palau Requesens! And the Casa dels Canonges, the Saló del Tinell, which belonged to the Palau Reial Mayor, the marketplace, the Casa de la Ciutat and the Palau Bellesguard. How was that? Any mistakes?”

“None whatsoever. You know your city, no doubt about it.”

“Well, we tend to overlook our immediate surroundings, and the Barcelonese are no exception. I'd bet that ninety-nine percent of the people living in this city don't know the names of even a quarter of those buildings.”

“That's what I call a safe bet!” Bety laughed. “And I'm not gullible enough to take you up on it. So, now that you've proven your knowledge, the million-dollar question: How many of them, if any, have survived intact to the present day?”

Enrique took his time to think before answering.

“I'd imagine that more or less all of them have suffered some kind of mutilation or modification.”

“And you'd be right. The list contains the buildings that have made it to now with the fewest modifications, although, to be honest, some of them probably don't qualify for the list. Sant Martí de Provençals, the Casa dels Canonges, and the Casa de la Ciutat underwent major mutilations. And there are other buildings from that period that I haven't included because, although their exterior has been conserved, the inner modifications have been so significant that it would now be impossible to find the Stone even if it had been hidden there.”

“You've done a good job,” admitted Enrique. “Now we should compare it to Casadevall's list.”

“I already have. All twenty-four buildings are on it, along with another twelve of unknown existence. They were strictly civil buildings and must've been demolished over time.”

“Congratulations. A great job done in record time.”

Bety watched him closely before continuing. She was analyzing his responses.

“Do you mind me asking what's going on with you?” she asked point-blank.

“I don't know what you mean,” he lied.

“You've got to be kidding. You've changed completely in the past two days.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Come on, Enrique! It wasn't too long ago that you so fervently wanted to find the unknown object that turned out to be this Stone of God, that you were even willing to risk your personal safety to do it. And now it seems that you couldn't care less about it.”

“I wasn't risking my personal safety to find the Stone, which we didn't even know existed. It was to find Artur's killer, a whole different matter.”

“That's debatable. It only seems partly true to me. But the basic questions remains. What's happened to you? Don't you care anymore?”

He thought before answering.

“No, I don't care anymore,” Enrique conceded. “Everything has changed since Fornells told me about Artur's involvement in the stolen art market. What I told Manolo was true: it was a final tribute, the meaning of which has vanished. Now I'm watching your efforts with curiosity, but from the sidelines.”