The Antiquarian

Julián Sánchez

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Original Title: El anticuario

copyright © 2009 by Julián Sánchez

Translation: The Antiquarian

copyright © 2012 by Patrick Bones

ISBN: 978-1-4532-6394-5

This 2012 e-book published by:

Barcelona Digital Editions, S.L.

Av. Marquès de l’Argentera, 17 pral.

08003 Barcelona

www.barcelonaebooks.com

This 2012 edition distributed by:

Open Road Integrated Media

180 Varick Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com

Some of the events depicted in this novel actually happened. I leave it to the reader’s imagination or investigative abilities to determine which. The names of all characters have, of course, been changed.

To my own

For Julia,

who will blossom into the loveliest flower.

Your time has come.

For Iván,

the son who grew into a friend.

The noblest person I know.

And especially, for Mercedes,

mirror of my dream, my voice of reason,

glory of my life.

CONTENTS

Part One: The Antiquarian and the Writer

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Part Two: The Casadevall Manuscript

Part Three: The Fall of the Butterfly

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Appendix

About the Author

Back Ads

PART ONE

The Antiquarian and the Writer

1

Barcelona lay radiant beneath a beautiful April sky. The sun warmed the air with zeal, as if in retaliation for the unusual harshness of the previous winter. Crowds of people strolled the streets, anxious to put the rainy days behind them. The added hum in the air signaled the anticipation typical of the twenty-second of April, the eve of Sant Jordi’s Day.

On La Palla Street, a narrow alley that begins alongside Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol and Plaça del Pi, to end in Plaça de la Catedral—the traditional hub of antiques dealers—a man shuffled a number of books around on the worktable in his shop. He was an older man, somewhere in his sixties, though he looked much younger at first glance. Slim, and of medium height, he wore a simple, dark blue suit that was slightly outdated and showing wear. His white, neatly combed hair and slender physique gave him a somewhat ethereal quality, which was heightened by movements that, though brief, revealed an agility surprising in someone his age.

His blue eyes, behind thin-rimmed metal eyeglasses, stood out on a face marked by a splay of clear-cut wrinkles spanning out from the corners of his lips and eyelids. His gaze was imbued with a lively energy. It hinted at the power of concentration possessed by a man passionate for his work; a man who, sealed away in his passion, was perfectly able to withstand any distraction to finish his task. The glasses perched on a nose so unique it defined the man’s entire demeanor all on its own. The bone had been sunken by some long-forgotten blow. The nose itself, crooked like those of boxers in 1950s Hollywood movies, appeared solid and steadfast, and at odds with the intellectual activity inherent in the owner’s current occupation.

His slender hands, with their long fingers and well-kept nails, gently handled the old books and delicate manuscripts as he arranged them on the table. One finger bore a heavy gold ring—an antique engraved with a gothic A, the seal and symbol for generations of the House of Aiguader. It was now being worn by its last descendant, Artur Aiguader, bookseller and antiquarian.

The table where Artur was sorting the old tomes of his recently purchased lot stood in a room that functioned as a study. His shop was one of the largest in the antiques community, to which he had belonged for some forty years, and consisted of three areas.

A large room served as the shop and housed a jumble of furniture, sculptures, paintings, books, and a miscellany of objects, all thrown together in no apparent order. Nevertheless, it proved irresistible to passers-by, who stopped to admire the establishment from the street. The ever-present fresh fruit and cut flowers embellished the rich décor, and the aroma of incense and sandalwood burning in a small brazier gave the finishing touch.

The second room was Artur’s personal study, where he busied himself with classification and research. The antiquarian was a self-taught philologist and historian. He would study anything that stirred his interest, though his preference ran to subjects related with the history of a city. In truth, he often decided what to acquire more by his own taste than the real needs of a business that had already given him more than enough to live on.

The study was in a loft at the end of the room. The space was arranged so that Aiguader could keep an eye on the shop from there. The walls of the study were covered with shelves packed with books of all kinds, most of them old. Next to the picture window, from which he could watch the entire room, Artur sat before a beautiful eighteenth-century walnut writing desk decorated with marquetry and inlaid bronze. A large worktable like the kind architects use, stacked with books and manuscripts, took up most of the room. Between the table and the desk, a slender cherrywood table and three beautiful Spanish armchairs made of old leather completed the simple arrangement of his personal study.

The third room was actually a large storeroom accessed from Pi Street. A massive wooden door separated it from the shop. This was where Artur and his old friend and colleague, Samuel Horowitz, kept the lots acquired before classifying and repairing them. They also used it as temporary storage for restored pieces that were awaiting shipment to the homes of their buyers or exposition in the shop. It was a vast warehouse, with perhaps four thousand square feet of space. If the tangle of furniture and myriad objects in the shop was surprising, that of the storeroom was simply overwhelming. Just as the study and shop reflected the delicacy inherent to Artur’s tastes, the warehouse was nothing if not functional, and it bore the signs of its age: the smell of damp and a certain mustiness, both blended with the scent found in places where cats roam free, and these coexisted with the odors of chemical products and the fragrances of wax polish for wood.

Artur was studying a manuscript when someone knocked on the shop door. He pushed his glasses up his nose far enough to see who it was and pressed the button that unlocked the door, causing a loud metallic click. A man getting on in years entered the shop. Tall, heavily built, and completely bald, he had thick lips, though they were not at all sensual, and dark eyes, framed by long lashes and heavy brows. His dress was casual, but unabashedly refined. He walked to the center of the room and stopped. His gait had a peculiarity that was barely detectable. Something in it reminded Artur of the caution and tension of a cat; he walked as if expecting a surprise that would make him jump at any second. The man put his hands on his hips and waited silently next to a marble altar.

The antiquarian rose with an exaggerated sluggishness, perhaps the result of fatigue accumulated over a long week of work. He walked to the stairs without looking down at the lower floor. He stopped. His visitor remained silent.

“Well?” asked Artur.

“Well, what? I am still waiting.” The visitor spoke in a strange, vaguely guttural accent. His s’s were softened and drawn out.

“This is not the time or place. I was working.”

“Working on something interesting, of course—interesting enough for you to forget what really concerns us.”

“Yes, that’s right, something interesting. I’ve acquired some old papers that belonged to a Catalan bourgeois family, the Berguéses,” answered Artur in a clear attempt to divert the conversation. “They look promising. I’ve come upon a couple of manuscripts that may be quite valuable. And that’s not all—”

“Oh, I am sure. I am sure.” The man cut him off with undisguised sarcasm. “I am sure they’re just the thing to make you forget the last ‘piece’ I handed over to you.”

“It’d be better if you came back later, after I’ve closed,” answered the antiquarian, whose patience seemed to be running out.

“It would be better this, it would better that, it would be better the other way,” scoffed the man. “Yes. You have always been good at giving orders: ‘Do this, do that, go up, go down, leave, then come back.’” His z’s and s’s were stretching into the words that followed. “But maybe I am sick of all these orders wrapped inside suggestions. Now I want action.”

“French, I’m telling you that now is not the time.”

“Enough bullshit! I have earned the money! And you know I really need it. Maybe I could wait under other circumstances, but I have my own problems to solve. I did my part: two months preparing, a detailed plan, a discreet operation—not to mention the complexity of the place—difficult transport, keeping the others quiet. Now it’s your turn!”

Artur came down the stairs, alarmed by his visitor’s shouting, wanting to calm him down any way he could. He stood on the other side of the altar, facing the man, and spoke with deliberate slowness.

“Listen, French, let me talk. You and I agree. The piece is very good; the best we’ve had in years. But you know as well as I do that the market is saturated and the crisis is taking its toll on all of us, rich and poor. The buyer withdrew after he placed the order, even though he knew it meant losing his deposit. The transaction had been completed. I covered your expenses and gave you everything that was left over as indemnity, as per the terms. I made no profit whatsoever. What more can I do? I need time to get a feel for the market before I offer such pieces. Not everyone can reach that deeply into their pockets. I mean, I don’t know how much we’re talking about in euros, but fifty million pesetas—”

“Blah, blah, blah! Excuses! You talk and talk. Do not try to play me. I did my part, as I always have. You cannot deny me my money. I earned it fair and square. Plus I am sure you spend more time buried in your damn books than you do looking for a buyer.”

“I can’t give you what I don’t have,” responded Artur, his forbearance beginning to fray.

“Then let me settle it!” retorted the Frenchman. A perverse smile revealed his broad eyeteeth. “Give me the name of the person who ordered it. I’ll convince him soon enough to pay me. He’ll be quick to accept my terms!”

Artur refused, shaking his head. It was the first time he had seen the Frenchman lose his temper.

“Are you listening to yourself? That’s impossible! There are rules to abide by. Clients’ names are secret. Only I can know them. The only way for this business to work is to uphold privacy. Break the rules and we’re finished—not just the two of us, but the entire profession. Give you the name? You must be out of your mind!”

“Merde alors!” The man pounded the altar with his fist. “You have to fix this. You come up with the money.”

Artur weighed the proposal. He might be able to put the amount together. And sooner or later the piece would go onto the market. A medieval altarpiece worshipped as fervently by the locals as it was neglected by the church and institutions, which had practically left the historic work of art to rot in the sun. Now it was hidden away, its whereabouts known only to Artur and the Frenchman. It was completely safe, and the process necessary to restore the worm-eaten wood was already underway, with the full guarantee that its retouched polychromy would last another seven hundred years. It was so captivating. He was tempted to give in, above all to keep enjoying its presence for himself, savoring the details, appreciating the quality, simplicity, and balance of the piece as a whole. But that was impossible; work and pleasure could never mix, and giving in now could take him to a point of no return.

“That was not the deal. We’ve been in this together for twenty years, and we’ve never—I repeat, never—had a problem like this. Be patient. It won’t take me long to find a buyer—a couple of months, if we’re lucky.” The Frenchman’s look turned aggressive. “If you need, I could lend you some money. Enough for you to make ends meet—”

“That is not it!” the Frenchman shouted. “I need all the money. I did my part. Now you do yours.”

“I can’t. This profession entails certain risks, which you know perfectly well.”

The Frenchman nervously paced in a circle on the shop floor, frowning, while Artur, awaiting an answer, leaned forward with his palms down on the altar.

The Frenchman came to a sudden decision. “This conversation is over,” he said, now standing next to the door. He leveled an index finger at Artur. “I want the money Monday morning, just like standard procedure. If you do not have it, prepare for the consequences.”

“That sounds like a threat,” responded Artur, unperturbed. “You don’t frighten me. And come Monday, I won’t be giving you any money.”

“You heard me: if not, prepare for the consequences.” The man smiled and closed the shop door with an unexpected delicateness.

Alone again, the antiquarian took a deep breath. Tiny beads of sweat had broken out on his forehead, and he felt his heart, calm until then, pounding faster now. He was back in his element, surrounded by the things he knew and loved. The episode, which had disrupted the order in his private universe, had ended on a slightly unpleasant note, but he wanted to believe it was not unexpected. In his private life, the Frenchman moved on impulse, and every now and then, he lost the composure he relied on in his irregular profession. In any event, a brusque intrusion like that in Artur’s shop, during business hours, was terribly dangerous, and incompatible with the precautions to be taken by a man like him. There could be no doubt: the passage of time did nothing to benefit the mental equilibrium of the top purveyor of stolen Spanish art.

Artur was not sure whether to mention what had happened to Samuel, his closest friend and confidant, with whom he had shared so many adventures, or to wait until Monday. Although the Frenchman did not intimidate him, Artur’s hand trembled ever so slightly as he brought a snifter of aged brandy to his lips. He was sure the Frenchman would never try anything against him. Or was that a mere morsel of solace to soothe him while he tried to push the problem out of mind? The two had argued bitterly in the past, but the disputes were usually over in a matter of days, or even hours. No one in their right mind would do anything to kill, or even scare, the goose that laid the golden eggs. Artur knew that arguments came with the territory in this business, and the bigger the job, the louder the quarrel. Yet everyone had too much at stake for the hostilities to last long. So he decided to forget the threats and return to his work.

He sat down at his desk, determined to get back into his routine. Some of the documents in the most recent lot had turned out to be fascinating, and he harbored no doubts as to their historical value, beyond the mere business considerations of his profession. He eagerly burrowed back into the piles on his table, surrounded by sheaves that were sometimes indecipherable, but always precious and, in their way, comforting. They could, by themselves, reinstate the order taken from the uncertain world in which Artur had to live. That let him forget all about the ugly scene he had just played a part in.

Engrossed in his work, time passed him by. The doorbell brought him back to the real world. After a cursory glance, he pressed the entry button, and three men came into the shop in the midst of a lively conversation. Artur was surprised to see the time on his pocket watch: six hours had passed since he began classifying the Casadevall book collection after having been interrupted by the Frenchman. Since then he hadn’t felt so much as a hunger pang. He got up, walked to the top of the stairs and invited the newcomers up to the study.

“Come up, come up. I’m sorry I don’t have the coffee on. I was working and I didn’t notice the time; in fact, I haven’t even had lunch.”

The three men walked across the shop, toward the stairway. One was young, thirty at the most, with close-cropped blond hair. His round eyeglasses gave him the unmistakable air of an intellectual, confirmed by his ponderous gestures and an obvious shyness. His attire was simple and his face a faithful reflection of his personality: slightly round, with rosy cheeks and thin lips. He had an aquiline nose and broad forehead that hinted at oncoming baldness. His was a circumspect face that would never attract attention to itself, perhaps more for the owner’s wish to go unnoticed than anything else.

The second visitor appeared to be Artur’s age. Completely bald, his face, furrowed by countless wrinkles, was reminiscent of a topographic map. He had one of those identifying features that marked a person for life: one of his eyes was dark, nearly black, and the other a pale yellowish-green, an almost honey-like color. He was wearing a dour gray, flannel suit that matched the severity of his appearance. He carried an ivory walking stick with a bronze handle in the form of a dragon’s head. He used the cane more to consummate his image as a dandy than out of any real necessity.

The last of the group was middle-aged, in his early forties, and dressed with sublime exquisiteness. He was tall, with jet-black hair that he wore combed back with gel. His lips were thin but endowed with a refined sensuality. He had green eyes and a nose of perfect dimensions. Dressed in an immaculate blue wool suit and a stylish white shirt, he wore a garnet ascot under his chin and black, monk-strap shoes. He was a man fully cognizant of how attractive he was, inside and out: a seducer. His voice carried the three men’s conversation, and of course, he was the first to speak.

“Artur, old friend, always so wrapped up in your business! Or should I say pleasure?”

“You’re right. To me, and I’d say to you too, all this is not just business, but genuine pleasure,” answered the shop owner with a smile. “Come on up, my friends. Today, I’ll show you a blend I think you’ll find extraordinary: equal parts of mocha, Colombian and Turkish coffees, with just a splash of well-aged cognac.”

“Perhaps we should postpone until you’ve had something to eat,” the youngest of the three timidly offered.

“I won’t hear of it, Enric. Old men like Samuel,” he started, pointing to the second visitor, “and I don’t need to eat as much as you youngsters. Come on up, and get ready to discover something new.”

The three men settled in around the small study table while Artur opened the door of a confessional that took up an entire wall of the ancient building. A result of an old inside joke, it had been outfitted with a complete set of kitchenware, china, and a liquor cabinet featuring bottles of the finest and most renowned liqueurs. Once a week, each taking turns in their own shop, the four antiquarians treated each other to an after-lunch blend of select coffees and liqueurs, in something of an unspoken competition meant to discover the most savory combination possible. The contest, such as it was, was merely a pretext to gather and enjoy each other’s company. The coffee did not take long to brew. Its conspicuous aroma floated into the study and melded with the scent of the incense, which, though it had gone out hours earlier, still lingered and formed part of the shop’s trademark ambience. Artur served his blend in a seventeenth-century coffee set, invaluable pieces of Sèvres porcelain, adorned with bucolic motifs. He placed the tray on the table and pulled up his chair, with the aid—despite his repeated protests—of the ever-accommodating Enric. Artur served several drops of cognac from an old decanter of Venetian cut glass. They sipped their coffee in silence.

“So, what do you think?” asked Artur.

“Superb,” answered Guillem. “I can honestly say I’ve never tasted better.”

“For once, and without wishing to set a precedent, I agree with our usually overstated friend: this blend is truly exceptional,” added Samuel. “Artur, my dear friend, today you’ve outdone yourself. And lest we forget, last week Enric’s blend was among the best I’ve ever had.”

“How about you, Enric? What do you think?” Artur asked expectantly.

“Delicious,” he answered, pouring himself another cup. “It looks as if you’re a step ahead of us in this, too.”

“So Artur, tell us: what’s so important that it made you forget our little gathering?” asked Guillem. “As far as I can recall, it’s the first time something like this has happened in the past two years.”

“There’s nothing special about it. Like I said, it was just the love for my work. I was sorting through the manuscripts and books of my latest acquisition. That’s what made it slip my mind. And it was only a slight slip, wasn’t it? After all, you can’t say I didn’t surprise you with my succulent blend.”

“Gentlemen,” said Guillem, standing and doffing an imaginary hat, “let us salute the old master. He has astonished us yet again.”

The friends laughed in unison. This was vintage Guillem, always spontaneous and cheerful.

“So Artur, was it a big lot?” inquired Enric.

“It was. It comprised all the furnishings, including a fabulous library of some five hundred volumes, from an old mansion near Ripoll that belonged to the Bergués family. We moved it all down here last Tuesday, and I’ve already started appraising the furniture. Does the family name ring any bells?”

The three men looked at one another, concentrating not just to answer Artur’s question, but to take part in a new game that put their own professional mettle to the test. Samuel was the only one to pipe up.

“I seem to remember that surname having to do with the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. A family that belonged to the budding bourgeoisie of the time, they eventually purchased a title. Honorable citizens. Did they have something to do with “La Biga”—you know, those families who controlled business and politics in Barcelona back then?”

“Your memory is, as always, prodigious,” Artur said, smiling at Samuel’s display. “Yes, they started out as builders, architects. But in the mid-sixteenth century they changed their primary activity and began importing salt-cured foods. They continued doing this until the end of the eighteenth century, when the main part of the family found itself without direct descendants, although there were a few ‘indirects’ who held a certain influence on Catalan civil society. In the end, their fortune dwindled, and they scattered into rural properties of little standing throughout the principality.”

“If that’s the case, you must have found yourself a nice piece or two,” said Guillem, without concealing his burgeoning interest.

“Yes. The furnishings are from later periods, especially the eighteenth century, and have been kept in fine shape. They won’t be too expensive to restore, and I think they’ll sell quite well. The best part is a collection of document chests and wardrobe trunks that are just beautiful. But aside from the furniture, what is exceptionally attractive about this lot are the books from the library. It’s a huge collection, with two incunabula in fairly decent condition. The rest of the library is nothing to sniff at either, though the value of the books will have more to do with what’s inside them than their covers.”

Artur now kept deliberately quiet, focusing on properly stirring a small sugar cube in his demitasse. He relished in the gentle grate of metal over the delicate porcelain, as much as or more than he did the expectation his silence caused.

“My old friend, you do enjoy torturing your guests,” interjected Samuel, winking at him. “Anyone of even the slightest sensibilities wouldn’t keep such a silence on purpose, unless he had a trump card up his sleeve.”

“Fine! You’ve caught me!” The host grinned mischievously. “Making his friends suffer—friends who are his competitors, no less—is one of the autumnal pleasures of this poor old man. Listen, the books run the gamut, and as a collection could even be called common. What surprised me was one of the document chests, which I think hadn’t been opened in years, packed with different works on religious themes, though not all of them Catholic. I’d say the owners of the library played the field when it came to religious philosophy.”

“Played the field? You’ve uncovered the books of a converted Jew? A conspiring Freemason?” questioned Guillem.

“There are not enough volumes to consider them a representative corpus on religious matters. The most significant part are some manuscript translations of old Arabic, Greek, Latin and—this will interest you especially, Samuel—Hebrew tracts. Some are on magic, the occult, catechism; others are partial translations of the Koran or the Talmud. Also, inside the trunk I found another smaller chest locked with a key. It contained several handwritten letters from different periods, all from the Casadevall family, and what appears to be some sort of diary.”

“Casadevall?”

“That’s right. Do you know that name too, Samuel?”

“Well, it seems I remember a Casadevall, centuries prior to the Berguéses, but I couldn’t tell you exactly what they did.”

“What about you two?”

Enric and Guillem looked at each other and shook their heads.

“The first known Casadevall, and the one these papers refer to, was an assistant to the master builders who constructed the cathedral at the end of the fourteenth century. Most of the letters are about everyday affairs, but they still give us intriguing insights into the family’s goings-on. I’ve only analyzed a quarter of these letters, but I’m hoping to find a manuscript from one of the older ancestors.”

“Sounds like quite a mishmash,” Guillem cut in. “Would you mind telling us how on earth you always manage to come up with these treasures?”

“Ah, my friend, that’s the only professional secret that can’t be given away,” Artur answered, smiling. “Everything else can be learned, but not revealing your sources is as sacred to us as it is to journalists, or confessors, if you’ll allow the comparison, considering the circumstances.”

“Come on, Artur! The last four or five lots of any worth to come onto the market have fallen into your hands, and the only one that got away was snatched up by this old Jew. It used to be,” he said, pointing at Samuel, “you were on par with the rest of the antiques dealers, maybe a notch above, but since you’ve partnered up with Mariola Puigventós, you been getting closer and closer to becoming the god of Barcelona antiquarians, sitting here before us, and soon neither of you will stoop to fraternize with us poor little mortals. At this rate, soon I’ll be selling old pinewood trunks, which will not allow me to afford my fabulously rakish lifestyle. Enric,” he said, looking directly at his young colleague, “I think the best thing we can do is to get out of antiques and into the restoration business. I hear it’s booming.”

“This old Jew respectfully suggests that you don’t spend so much money going out at night. That way you could spend your mornings cultivating your contacts.”

“Oh please, Samuel! If I didn’t go out nights, I’d have no ‘contacts’ at all!”

They all laughed again. The truth was that Guillem’s shop was also among the most frequently patronized by decorators and antiques buffs, and Guillem himself was an outstanding and extremely refined professional. It could be said that the four men were among the elite in the Barcelona antiquarian community: competent, instinctive, and erudite.

“Well, Artur, I’m dying to know more. You said some of the books were manuscript translations from other languages. Do you have any of them here?” Samuel asked.

“Yes, I was just working on them. I have the books I’ve already classified at home in Vallvidrera—maybe two thirds of the total. Here on the table in the study are the ones I have left to classify, and the ones that really caught my eye after a first glance. Look,” he said, as he got up and walked to the large worktable, and all followed suit, “here they are. The ones on the right I’ve already looked at. The rest are waiting to reenter the world after their long exile.”

On the table sat some of the old books salvaged from oblivion by the grace and effort of a family in need of money, and an old bookseller seeking to understand the past through the legacy of bygone generations. Small and large, some in good condition and others on the verge of disintegrating in the hands of a careless reader, all had waited patiently over the years for someone to open their covers and peruse their contents. And of all the men who could have reached them, few would have done so with Artur’s tenderness and devotion. With great respect and care, the four men surrounded the table, joined in a rapt silence, owing as much to their being antiquarians who might be looking on one-of-a-kind pieces as to what the volumes represented. They were friends because they shared the same passions, chiefly their love of books. Old books were, in themselves and regardless of their value, inestimable things to be safeguarded against an uncertain future. The men leisurely glanced over the different tomes, making summary analyses of their characteristics.

“Look, Sophismata, by Paulus Venetus. And this one, a Torah dated 1654,” said Guillem.

“A copy of Ars Generalis, by Llull, undated. From the binding, I’d say it’s a reprint from the mid-seventeenth century,” mused Samuel

Guillem picked up another. “On the Truth of the Catholic Faith, translation to the vernacular of the Latin manuscript with this title, written by Saint Thomas Aquinas, a direct copy of the Nicolas Jensen edition, from 1480.”

The men discussed other titles out loud, except for Enric, who kept to himself throughout the scholarly banter. He stood to one side, giving all his attention to one of the books among those in the best condition. He was about to place his hands on it when Guillem, joking around, clapped him on the back.

“Well, well, well! What is it that’s caught your eye, my good man? It wouldn’t be that book there by any chance, would it?” He reached down toward the book.

Enric’s hand hesitated an instant over the cover and over the hand of his fellow antiquarian, as if to cut off his initial movement and keep Guillem from picking up the book. But he was surprised to find himself withdrawing it to clasp his other hand, yielding to Guillem’s initiative. Guillem took the book, remarked that it lacked a title, and set to assessing its characteristics.

“Let’s see, a calfskin binding over Gothic-style boards, decorated with blind fillets and rolled borders of tiny heads inside ovals. Meticulous work, a thing to behold. Let’s look inside. An undated manuscript. Written in Latin in very crooked handwriting, and look at all of these notes in the margins throughout much of the text. My Latin isn’t great, but at first glance, it doesn’t look like anything out of the ordinary. By the way, I don’t recognize the text at all. Do you know what it’s about?” he asked Enric.

“No, what caught my attention is that it’s in such good shape. Let me see it.”

Guillem handed him the book and turned to contemplate another manuscript. Artur and Samuel approached Enric, and together they began to translate several passages.

“Let’s see, let’s see.” Artur came closer, pushing his glasses up his nose toward his brow. “You’ve found the handwritten diary. In fact, I’ve already taken some notes on this one.”

“Classical Latin; the handwriting looks like that of a learned person, probably an ecclesiastic,” added Samuel. “Look at this.” He pointed to the curved strokes of the endings of several letters. “Possibly from the end of the fourteenth century, maybe the fifteenth.”

“They look like notes on someone’s activities,” Enric volunteered. “Look at this one: ‘Meeting between the master and the bishop.’ And this looks like the list of matters they were to discuss.”

“Or this one,” said Guillem, “‘New stones to arrive from Segur quarry.’ That tells us more about whoever wrote this, probably a master builder or his assistant.”

“How about this? ‘Meeting with representatives of religious orders,’” said Enric.

“Look, most of the side notes are in Old Catalan—or they seem to be; there aren’t many words you can read clearly, but there’s no doubt about it. Look here.” Samuel pointed to an example, after leafing through a number pages.

“It looks like the notes only begin as of a certain date,” said Guillem.

“Well, well! You all appear to be taken with that one. It’s ‘the Casadevall manuscript,’ that’s what I’m calling it. As for the notes, it looks like, centuries after it was first written, someone went back over and worked on the text. I’d already noticed that, though I hadn’t gotten as far as you.”

“The notes appear to name the Casadevall family frequently,” added Enric after skipping over several pages. “The name is in several places, and the capital C’s may refer to them.”

Samuel turned some more pages. Artur stopped him at one, ostensibly at random, though the quickness of his gesture suggested otherwise.

“Yes, yes, it’s true,” said Samuel, no longer caring about the translation. “And it’s clear that whoever wrote the notes is not the same person as the original author. The handwriting is completely different, possibly from another era altogether. Look at the uppercase F’s, and the endings of the s’s and the t’s. Intriguing.” He suddenly jumped forward several pages. “Looks like you’ve found a toy to while away your free time.”

“Stop there, Samuel, right there.” Artur pointed to a page where a bookmark had been inserted. “Listen, everyone. If I told you this lot was something exceptional, it’s because of this manuscript—specifically, that very spot. I’ve underlined it in pencil.”

“‘… the location of the object is, unto itself, a mystery to be kept under the exclusive responsibility of this master … ,’” translated Samuel.

“Curious thing to say, don’t you think?” asked Artur.

“What makes you say that? Have you come upon some hidden secret?”

“For now let’s just say that I’ve found a chance to return to that past that I so cherish. This manuscript is going to give me the entertainment we old folks need, which you hinted at earlier.”

Samuel closed the manuscript and offered it to its owner.

“Well, you’ll have time to read it from start to finish, as I’m sure you’ll do right away.”

“In fact, you’ve all seen that I’ve already made some notes, just a rough draft, but I find it attractive enough to keep working on it over the weekend.” Artur lowered his glasses down to the tip of his nose as he took the diary from his friend. “I’m curious to see what I can get out of it.”

“In your hands, I have no doubt it will give up everything it has to give,” said Enric.

“Artur, I envy your good luck,” concluded Guillem. “Not only do you have a singular piece in your hands, but you got it without even realizing it. And I can only imagine what other hidden treasures await you in these stacks. Oh, Lord!” He raised his hands skyward. “Why do you protect only the chosen few?”

“Okay, okay,” Artur said with a grin, “heaven only smiles on me. But it’s high time I opened the shop. And it would be nice to get something to eat first. Allow me to kindly show you the door. I’ll see you all next week.”

He walked with his three guests out onto the street, and locked up the shop.

“Well, gentlemen, I’m going for a bite at the Bar del Pi before I open. Next Friday is Samuel’s turn. I’ll see you there. By the way, Samuel, could you walk with me to the bar? I’d like to talk to you about something.”

“No problem. Mariola is out of town and won’t be back until mid-afternoon, but you know no one ever comes by right after lunch.”

“Good. We’ll see you next week, boys.” After saying their good-byes, the men paired up and headed in opposite directions.

Samuel and Artur walked slowly and in silence along the empty street until they reached Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol. In one corner of the square sat a tramp singing in a drunken monotone, lost in his daydreams and surrounded by two empty, crushed cartons of cheap wine. An aura of destitution emanated from his gaunt body, wrapped in the tatters of a blanket as worn down as his soul. Artur approached him, smiling sympathetically.

“How’s it going, Pomés? Did you get enough for the guesthouse yet?”

“See for yourself, Mr. Aiguader.” He pointed to a handkerchief on the ground dotted with a few meager coins. “The hearts of the Barcelonese have shrunken smaller than Gulliver in the land of the giants.”

Artur reached into his wallet and handed the old man a bill.

“This should be enough for a snack, some dinner, and a decent bed. Now don’t spend it on wine. It may be a cliché, but I know you’ve done that more than once. I’m going for a bite with my friend here, so when I come out of Bar del Pi, I expect to see you gone off this corner. After fifteen years here, the wall has the same shape as your back. No one will take it from you.”

“Mr. Aiguader, you’re proof that there are still a few gentlemen left in this city. Unfortunately, you’re an endangered species. Don’t worry. I’ll be on my way to Casa Felisa, a nice hostel where they cater to couples sneaking around as well as the dispossessed, as long as we pay our way.”

With an effort, the beggar got up and disappeared from their sight along Pi Street. Artur and Samuel sat down at a table in the square, which was practically deserted at that hour. A waiter approached and Artur ordered calamares al capricho, the house specialty. He ate in silence until Samuel spoke up.

“You know as well as I do that he’ll just go and spend it on wine.”

“He might. But who am I to tell him what to spend it on? Leave him alone, let him take refuge in his fantasy world; there’s little this one can offer him, except the kicks and blows of street gangs. If he’s lucky he’ll have enough to get a few drinks in him and bed down in that hostel. Just look at the man. I still remember him young. Who would have thought he would end up spending his days wasting away on cheap wine? And back then, any of us could have ended up like him.”

“You’re such a bleeding heart, even if it is a big heart.”

“I’ll never consider generosity a fault, although that doesn’t necessarily make it a virtue, either.”

Artur finished his food in silence. Samuel finally ventured to start up the conversation again.

“So come on, tell me … what’s the matter? You look worried.”

Artur stroked his right earlobe, as he always did when he was unsure or undecided.

“Today, first thing in the morning, the Frenchman paid me a visit.” As soon as he said it, he felt the definite relief of a man who knows he is in a bind and finally finds a way to express what he had been incapable of saying until then.

“So? He doesn’t usually, but there doesn’t seem to be anything odd about it,” Samuel commented.

“We have some business underway.”

“I see,” nodded Samuel.

“The transaction was complete, and then the buyer had second thoughts. The Frenchman turned up in the shop and demanded I find a solution. I told him I couldn’t put a piece of that size and with those characteristics on the market for at least another couple of months. He didn’t like that, and asked me for the buyer’s name. I refused, obviously. Then he said I should cover the price of the piece myself.”

“Did you pay him the indemnity you’d agreed on?”

“Of course, there was no problem with that. The customer hadn’t paid it in advance because I trusted him. But he settled up when he withdrew. It was all on the level.”

“Was it a big piece?” asked Samuel.

“Yes, and extremely valuable.”

“It must be in a safe place. Does he know where?”

“Of course he knows. What do you think?”

“Why are you so touchy? You’re on the defensive.”

“Forgive me. Don’t let me take my own mistakes out on you.” Artur let out a long, annoyed sigh. “Yes, I am on the defensive,” he confessed. “But I think I have reason to be. He threatened me before he left the shop. He gave me until Monday to get him his money. Samuel, it’s not the first tussle I’ve had with the Frenchman, but for the first time in twenty years, he gave me the impression that he might have been serious.”

“I see.”

“So, what would you do in my place?”

“Well, his conduct is a breach of all your agreements, that much is clear. As far as I know, he’s never threatened any of his associates.”

“That’s right. Everyone knows that he may cut a few corners, and he appears to be in financial trouble, to boot. The truth is, and I hate to admit it, I’m a little worried.”

Samuel shook his head, not surprised by the Frenchman’s misconduct.

“It’s not the first time he’s lost his composure, but it is the first time he’s acted like this. That’s the price you’ve all got to pay for his services. He’s the best there is. His only weakness is that lousy temper of his. He’s a cranky man, and you’ve all given him the short end of the stick too many times already, don’t forget that.”

“No, I haven’t forgotten. But I am worried. For some time now, maybe over the past couple of years, he’s become more aggressive than ever. Showing up like that, in the shop, in broad daylight. I think he’s losing it; seriously, any day now, the game will be up. Two years ago he almost got caught in that terrible business in Tortosa. Since then, all he does is prepare himself for his last big job, which he then postpones another month to keep taking on more jobs that are more and more reckless, with increasingly higher payoffs.”

“All right, take it easy. I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. It seems like much ado about nothing. If you’re asking for my advice, I say it’s just his character. He’ll get over it,” concluded Samuel.

“It’s clear from how calm you are that it’s me who’s being threatened, not you,” Artur snapped.

“That was a rude thing to say,” Samuel replied without losing his cool. “Why are you asking for my opinion, then?”

“I … I’m sorry.” Artur pursed his lips. “This thing with the Frenchman has put me on edge.”

“You should have gotten out years ago. I suggested you quit that business way back; I’ve never understood why you continued. Artur, Artur … these things are over our heads now, they’re not for us anymore. We’re getting older, and we don’t need the money. The years pass by, and we don’t have the same interests as before. Let the new generations deal with him!”

“I hope you don’t expect me to go about things like those new generations who brought your business back from the brink.”

Samuel looked at his friend in disbelief. He made his disgust clear with a loud blow of his fist on the metal table, releasing all of his rage, and drawing looks from the other patrons in the café. “I never would have thought that talking with the Frenchman could upset you enough to make you forget your manners,” said Samuel, now struggling to contain his anger.

Artur stroked his earlobe again before answering. He knew he had offended his friend and colleague by reminding him of the tough times his business had been through a few years ago—tough times that got easier once he had partnered up with Mariola Puigventós. And yet, a strange pride that wasn’t tameable kept him from apologizing a third time. He felt possessed by a guilty sadness.

“You may not want to hear it, but the fact is your business wasn’t prospering either, and the only thing that saved you from ruin was bringing Mariola on board. If I never ended my dealings with the Frenchman it was because they provided a steady income that covered my costs and let me focus my antiques business on what I was really interested in. When you decided to cut him off, you knew what was at stake. You took the risk and came very close to failing. But … but the years take their toll, and I have the feeling that every word I’m saying is gibberish.” He regretted what he’d said. “Maybe you’re right. I should quit. My time has come and I refuse to admit it. Perhaps I should retire not just from these jobs, but maybe it’s time to close shop once and for all.”

Samuel looked at him, surprised, allowing melancholy to take the place of anger. It was pointless to argue with his old friend over something that, after all, was true.

“Well, don’t worry. Really, I doubt anything will come of it. He’ll forget about it as soon as he calms down from his tantrum.”

“You’re right, better just to forget it.”

The two regarded each other, and silence once again settled over them. They had uttered painful truths. Artur felt that an invisible wall now kept them apart, because of his precipitation and tactlessness. Contrite, but lacking the courage to admit his error, he took cover behind a feigned indifference.

“I have to go and open the shop,” said Samuel. “Like I told you, Mariola won’t be back until late. By the way, I almost forgot, if you’re up for some fun, Mariola said to remind you of the meeting her father is hosting at Boulevard dels Antiquaris.”

“I won’t be going.” Artur usually steered clear of the antiques community’s social scene, and in the peculiar circumstances he was living through at the time, the last thing he wanted was to see colleagues, whose mere presence would only remind him of the menacing figure of the Frenchman. “I have too much work to do to waste time at a social event. If I spend the whole weekend classifying the collection, maybe I’ll have it done by Monday. Give them my apologies, will you? And tell old man Puigventós and his beautiful daughter what’s tying me up; he’ll understand.”

“I’ll do that, but Mariola won’t be happy. She’s already upset with you because you never go to these events. When it’s not one thing it’s another. And you know how highly she thinks of you.”

“First things first. And there could be nothing more fun than that.”

“See you Monday, then.”

They got up. Artur paid the check, leaving a generous tip. Then, without shaking hands, each man walked back to his place of business.

The afternoon saw a steady stream of customers. The Friday clientele usually consisted of couples of all ages, anxious to decorate their homes with any sort of antique. Artur, like any good dealer, enjoyed lavishing attention on them. But the closeness of the books in his study excited his imagination and made him yearn for closing time. After eight, he lowered the metal blind over the entrance and went up to his study, where he once again became entranced in the reading of the books until the wee hours. He left the shop at three in the morning and went home to Vallvidrera to sleep.

The next morning, Artur woke up late, around ten. He had an unhurried breakfast, skimmed the morning papers on the terrace as he did on any other day, and returned to Barcelona. The sublime, almost summer-like weather made a decisive contribution to Sant Jordi’s Day, marked by a fantastic turnout. The streets were jam-packed; pedestrians so densely thronged the Ramblas that Artur, once he had parked his car in the garage on Hospital Street, could not resist the temptation to take a stroll down to the harbor before returning to his shop and the wondrous promise of the mysteries contained in the Casadevall family books.

He took the opportunity to have a light lunch in London Bar, though he wasn’t very hungry; he knew that once he started to work, the hours would steal by so quickly that he would forget not only lunch, but quite possibly dinner, too.

He went into the shop through the Pi Street entrance and left the door open with the blind down to air out the establishment; it was a very old building, and the walls gave off the unmistakable aroma of ancient dankness typical of such big old houses. This way, the wood could breathe and the smell of damp did not permeate the atmosphere.

He worked on the strange Casadevall manuscript all day Saturday. The book was not exactly a diary, but more an engagement book, though it also contained a second author’s impressions. Artur identified the author of the original text as the assistant to a master builder from the early fifteenth century. He had pinpointed this writer as the master builder Casadevall, who had held the rank of assistant from 1398 to 1424. It was impossible for him to know the name of the person who wrote the notes in the margins, though he knew one thing for sure: the mixture of translations was the most complex he had faced in years, and he had definitely seen countless manuscripts and old correspondence that had offered less resistance than the enigmatic manuscript. As the hours slipped by, his in-depth reading of the handwriting and notes began to reveal unbelievable events. He transcribed onto draft sheets a number of notes that he found confusing and required urgent checking. Yet he found the text so puzzling and cryptic as he advanced that he preferred to keep uncovering the centuries-old secrets than to rush out to confirm the veracity of what he had found in other libraries or archives.

When Artur looked at his watch, it was already two thirty in the morning. The first translation of the book had taken him thirteen hours of nonstop work. The architect’s dense handwriting had made it exceedingly difficult, even for a classical language expert like him. With tired eyes and a burning desire to urinate, he gave himself permission to end the session. His back hurt. Cool night air filtered through the open door. Outside, the temperature had dropped, and the shop was freezing. He went to the toilet, picked up his jacket, and prepared to return home. He stared intently at the Casadevall manuscript. For the first time in years, he felt a stab of real fear. It was unlike the anxiety he felt after his talk with the Frenchman. What he once felt as fear was barely an inkling of the feeling that now rose up inside him, with its roots in a story that was turning out to be incredible. It was a deep, primal, uncontrollable dread that grew slowly and without remit, despite his age, despite his experience, and despite his confidence. He fought against it, and overcame it with great effort.

He decided to take the text home with him. Suddenly giving into an unknown instinct, he picked the manuscript up, and with the expertise that only comes with knowledge and experience, undid the threads that bound the old pages to the spine of the book. He repeated the procedure with another old book from his work library, one of similar size and little value, the first volume of The Practice of Christian Perfection. Artur then smeared fast-drying glue on the spine and swapped their contents. He placed the Casadevall book on a shelf, surrounded by another one or two hundred specimens of little value, and even then only to specialists. He took the unused cover and left the shop with it and the original pages from the book whose cover now housed the manuscript, and tossed them into a litter basket on the street. The content of the manuscript had awoken in Artur one of those innate fears of the unknown that he thought he had grown out of with the passage of time and the arrival of adulthood.

The street was empty. Little more than a hundred yards separated his shop from Plaça del Pi, but he walked them briskly. Upon reaching the square, he let out a sigh of relief. The bars were closing. Artur made use of the neighborly friendship forged over the years with the owners of one establishment to eat a frugal dinner, even though the café had its front blind down. He then crossed the Ramblas, made his way to the garage and got into his car to head home, where he could get some much-needed rest.

Sunday dawned cold and cloudy. Saturday seemed to have monopolized all the weekend’s good weather. The truly unpleasant morning, torn by gusts of wind from the still-snowy Pyrenees, called for nothing other than staying home and lying around in bed. He had not slept soundly; outlandish dreams unlike any he had ever had filled his head the entire night. When he had slept, it was lightly, restlessly at best. The hours had passed by slowly. Artur listened to the chimes from his living room clock every fifteen minutes while his mind, spinning with the revelations he believed he had found in the Casadevall manuscript, gave itself over to one delirious scene after another, surpassing the wildest dreams of the old antiquarian. He awoke seconds before his alarm clock went off, as he always had in his younger days, when the urgency of his affairs drove him to closely manage his time. He was tired, but he had a lot of work to do—so much that he had only a light breakfast and didn’t even stop to read the papers. He only paused in his library to pick up a few books that could help him; that’s when he remembered the long letter he had written but still not sent to his son. It was lying on his study table, and now was as good a time as any to finish it, especially since he could add some surprising news he was sure would delight a man with an imagination so vast he had become a professional writer. Artur jotted a few hurried lines as a postscript, and put the letter into an envelope on which he wrote the address and affixed the necessary postage. He held a lighter to the bar of wax he used to seal his letters, and once it was dry enough, pressed his signet into it, first daubing the ring with a drop of oil to keep the wax from sticking to it. With the letter in hand, he left the house and got into his car. He only stopped a moment at the mailbox in the town square to drop the letter in before driving on to the city.

Artur worked all day. He analyzed the different transformations of the city’s historic center on a map, making impromptu outlines on tracing paper. He managed to find more information on the Casadevall family, and place the figure of the architect in his historical context. Artur also took down the kabbalistic books that graced his library and refreshed his memory. Those tomes, unknown to most, would be essential now. His conclusions confirmed the veracity of most of the enigmas contained in the text. Seeking to validate some of his impressions, he called Samuel, who guided him as best he could, despite the intentional vagueness of Artur’s questions. In fact, once the evidence Artur had gathered appeared to fit together, he practically hung up on Samuel in midsentence. Samuel’s information was useful for him to corroborate the expectations he had created. It also helped dispel the tension remaining between the two following Friday’s conversation.

* * *

He had only to get a few more facts on Casadevall. To do so, he would have to check the books of construction works found in the archives of the Cathedral of Barcelona and the archbishopric. Artur would have to be patient and wait until Monday to outline the personality and behavior of Casadevall, the master builder, which he had determined to be an indispensable part of his investigation. With the information he would get, he was sure he would achieve his objective: he began to imagine what it could be about, and he relished the anticipation of the mystery soon to be unraveled.

The sun had set hours before he came to that conclusion. He placed the camouflaged book on the shelf and prepared to leave the shop. A series of raps on the door glass told him that he was not alone. The darkness of his showroom kept him from seeing who it was, but despite his age, Artur did not frighten easily.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Artur. I’d like to talk to you a minute.” Artur, anxious because it was so late, recognized the voice right away.

“I never would’ve thought you’d drop by at this hour. It’s late.”

“Look, something’s come up and I thought you might be able to help me.”

“Fine, I’ll see what I can do. Come up, I’m in the study,” he said as he pressed the button to open the door.

* * *

A shadow cautiously made its way forward, skirting the objects in the shop, and came up the stairs.

“How did you know I was here?” Artur asked dubiously.

“Pure coincidence. I saw a light on and thought you might be in here. It surprised me, being so late, and I thought you could have left it on accidentally. But no, you were working.”

“The passion of this old man, as you well know, is his work. And today I’ve found something that I think could be worthwhile: a hidden code I plan to break tomorrow.”

“A code? What code?”

“One hidden in a manuscript,” Artur said smiling. “But I’d rather keep it a secret until I verify all the details. That’s all I can say for now.” He turned his back on his visitor and placed the pages of notes in a desk drawer.

“How can I help you?”

“You can’t,” replied his visitor, laconic.

When Artur turned back to straighten up his table, his caller picked up a heavy marble paperweight, raised it with both hands, and brought it down hard toward the old man’s head. Artur had been in the process of getting up, surprised by the odd statement he had just heard. The sudden movement helped him avoid the blow to the head, though it had exposed a different target: his collarbone. The dull snap of broken bone sounded throughout the shop. The antiquarian lost his balance, and would have fallen to the floor if the force of the blow hadn’t pushed him back over the desk. He managed to turn around, though his left arm hung lifelessly next to his body. More than pain, the expression on his face was of utter shock.

Artur’s assailant methodically raised the paperweight a second time. Artur tried to cover his head with his good arm and partially parried the force of the blow, which impacted the side of his skull. He fell to the floor, his face bloodied. The cold marble had opened a gash that ran from his forehead to his ear, from which blood flowed out profusely. Next to the stairway he rose, panting, and faced the figure that—he knew as soon as their eyes met—had come to send him to his death.

“Why?” he managed to murmur with a sliver of a voice. “Why?”

His attacker raised the paperweight a third time; it crashed down fully on Artur’s face. The force launched him back toward the handrail, which gave way under the old man’s weight. His body fell through the air and landed on the marble altar taken from an abandoned church. In Artur’s shop, it had been the centerpiece of the antiques on exhibit. The visitor cautiously looked over the ledge. Shrouded in darkness, the body lay on the altar, unmoving. The reinstilled silence was then broken by the assailant’s triumphant voice.

“Because what you’ve found must be mine,” came the reply the asker could no longer hear.

The aggressor gathered the transparencies Artur had worked up over the weekend, and then removed the notes from the drawer where Artur had stowed them. The visitor looked in vain for the book. Impatient, the shadowy figure cast the books occupying the table onto the floor, but still did not find it. A sudden thought: the desk. Writing desks from that period usually had a secret drawer to hide documents, or even a small book. The drawers on the right all opened, but there was one on the left that did not. The visitor rummaged through the drawers and soon found the spring that opened the hidden drawer. One of the moldings that decorated the sides of the desk concealed it, and it now slid outward. Artur’s assailant was disgusted to find it empty.

Agitated, the attacker went back through the drawers and books on the floor, to the same result and, becoming impatient, kicked at Artur’s chair until it tipped over.

Looking next at the book collection Artur kept in the study, and reviewing the spines of the books twice but finding nothing, the figure murmured, “Damn! He must have it at his house in Vallvidrera. There’s nothing I can do, unless …”

A slight groan interrupted this train of thought. The visitor turned out the desk lamp and walked down the stairs. Approaching Artur’s body, the assailant was surprised to find him still alive, though barely conscious. Next to the altar, on a small panoply, a collection of silver letter openers with mother of pearl handles awaited a buyer. Now it had found a killer. The visitor took the longest of them all and stabbed Artur in the back, between two ribs, in search of the heart.

“I can’t let you live.” The voice was little more than a whisper. “But it’s dishonorable for the winner to prolong the agony of the vanquished.”

The murderer paused a few moments to make sure Artur was really dead, and then fished through Artur’s pockets until coming upon a set of keys. The visitor then carefully slinked back onto the street. It was drizzling, and as was to be expected, there was no one out walking. Face covered, Artur’s killer went outside and headed toward the port.

2

A young man in his midthirties sat before a computer, typing with an utter calm that bordered on idleness. Suddenly, as if activated by an irresistible impulse, his keystrokes came faster. The letters appeared on the screen in a whir. He seemed caught up in a sudden attack of inspiration that he had to make the most of, knowing that it could vanish at any second. He was an expert writer, and he knew the workings of his mind all too well; he worked consistently, but flurries like that made for his best work. He could not afford to waste them.

Under his tangled brown hair, his eyes, of the same color, twitched to follow on the screen the words his fingers tapped out on the keyboard, in a vain attempt to type at the unattainable speed of thought. His tongue caressed his thin lips with relish, as if savoring the sweet taste of a recently created, well-conceived work.

He kept the frantic pace for several minutes, perhaps twenty. It made for two pages of what he immodestly considered excellent work. For a week now, he had been on the verge of completing what would be his sixth book, two months ahead of the deadline set by his editor, but he had been stumped on the ending. The action of the novel had taken a course well outside his original plan, to the point that the book’s end was different from what he had initially conceived. This had happened before. He tried as best he could to write out the events according to his plan, but despite his numerous alternatives, he had to give in to the obvious: there was no logical possibility to cap off the book other than what the action itself was leading up to. He had just realized this when inspiration snuck up on him. Minutes later, the revelation had achieved what he had been unable to do in the seven days prior.

He saved the document on a memory stick and made a backup copy of the file before turning off the computer. He got up to look out the window. Dressed in navy blue pajamas, Enrique rested his broad forehead on the glass of the window pane. He had an olive complexion, and he was tall, about six feet one, and rather burly. His body still respected the proportions of his height, but he was slightly on the heavy side, with a few pounds to spare. He pressed his aquiline nose against the glass to comic effect, held his head there a few seconds and let out a long sigh. It was an uncomfortable position, but judging from the stain his oily skin left when he pulled back from the glass, repeated in several other places on the pane, it was one he took often. He could see his reflection in the window—distant and unclear, but it was how he saw himself. He looked lost, and it was how he wished to imagine himself, as if returning from the dream world where he spent much of his life. A world so different from reality, but with an intense quality of perfection that made it seem a viable alternative to this one. His tousled hair, vacant gaze, dark circles under his eyes, the dishevelment that came from working under total concentration in his own home, alone, did not keep him from recognizing himself in that grisly figure: yes, it was him. The broad, noble forehead, the distant stare of his own big brown eyes, his thick, well-defined eyebrows, the nose he had always considered elegant, the jaw, not so broad as it was thin. Yes, it was him, and he had returned once again from the world of writers, that magical place where he had been wandering lost for the past several months, until finally managing to isolate himself from the real world.

He could not avoid taking in the view of the bay. The sky was perfectly clear. The sun warmed it with zeal. On days like this, looking out on La Concha Bay from his home was a true privilege. Pondering the slopes of Mount Igueldo, one of the two hills that sheltered the bay with its tricky Cantabrian waters, in the most beautiful landscape of the entire coast, Enrique let his memories soar back to that day, not long ago, when he came to this place. He remembered how, after setting up house, he was unable to write a single line for two months, so captivated had he been by the enigmatic and disquieting perfection of the bay. He had arranged his desk under a round window that afforded him a view of the entire seafront of the city of San Sebastián. All he had to do was glance up from the computer to be mesmerized by the vista. The phenomenon became so significant that more than once he had considered relocating to a place where he would not be distracted by so much natural beauty, as it was clear that the view of La Concha altered his creative capacity. At last, in his third month, and after great effort, he managed to sit before his computer and defeat the scenery’s attraction. But nothing comes for free, and the price Enrique had to pay was high, though pleasant: he managed to concentrate on his work, but once he was finished he could not keep from spending hours sitting at his window watching the ebb and flow of the tides, to such an extent that he was well on his way to becoming a modern-day hermit.

He opened the door to his balcony and went outside. A gust of cool, northern wind caressed his face, and brought him back to reality at once. A scrutinizing gaze into the distance confirmed his suspicion: the wind was strong and constant, and it was nicking the foam off the waves. In a sudden frenzy he put on the first thing he found in his bedroom closet: jeans, sneakers, a T-shirt, and a blue sweater decorated with nautical flags. He opened the drawer of a small chest in the entry hall, took out a set of keys, and ran down the stairs, where he found the mailman leaving letters in the residents’ mailboxes. In the box marked “Enrique Alonso,” there were two large envelopes and a number of letters waiting to be collected. He hesitated, and decided it was better to pick them up on when he got back. He got into his car, an old hatchback half eaten away as much by the salty air and rain as by the neglect of its owner, and drove to the city center. He arrived in just a few minutes, and parked his beat-up car in the parking garage off Zumardia Boulevard next to the city hall. He left his car without bothering to lock it, and did not stop until he had descended a stairway off the jetty, where, after crossing over the decks of several boats, he reached that of his own sailboat, christened Hispaniola in tribute to the famous schooner created in the fertile imagination of Stevenson. He opened the companionway with one of the keys and checked the control panel and radio: everything was in working order. He went back above deck ready to cast off, when a rasping voice caught his attention.

“Well, well, look who we have here! If it isn’t our famous writer!”

A completely hairless head craned out of the boat moored alongside Enrique’s. It belonged to an older man, well into his seventies, with a face decimated by cold, heat, sun, and rain, wearing a weather-faded T-shirt.

“Hey, Mikel, you old sea dog! Zer moduz? How are you?”

“Oso ondo, my friend, oso ondo. Fine, fine. I thought I heard someone running around up here, but I didn’t think it would be you. Might I ask where you’re off to in such a hurry?”

“Where else could I go? Sailing!” Enrique made no attempt to hide his enthusiasm. “I just finished the book! Now I’m free to ply the seas!”

Mikel let out an honest belly laugh that spread to Enrique.

“Kid, the wind’s not going to up and disappear all of a sudden! You ought to take it easy!”

“Forget that!” His honest smile earned him, as always, an immediate tenderness from the retired fisherman. “I haven’t sailed—or so much as been out of the house—for two months! And it’s been six days since I’ve moved from my desk, because I couldn’t finish the damned book. But now I have and it’s time for payback and then some! So get back on that tub you call a squid boat and let me cast off.”

“Where are you headed?” asked Mikel, now serious. “The northwester’s starting to blow like a son of a bitch. Weather report says it’ll be worse come evening, force six. With wind like that, we’ll be getting waves—ten-, thirteen-footers. A good old-fashioned squall’s brewing. I don’t need a weather report to tell me that. I can feel it in these old, rheumatic bones of mine, and in the air. Feel how pure it is.”

The port’s high breakwater, even at low tide, could not keep the rising gusts from sweeping over Enrique’s face, covering it with a longing anticipation.

“I don’t know,” answered Enrique with an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. “I’ll go wherever the wind takes me.”

“Nuts as always,” Mikel confirmed. “Be careful. This wind’s gonna blow like a bastard, the kind that kicks even old-timers’ asses. So watch the shifts. And keep your radio on!”

Enrique nodded. He started the engine, cast off the lines that moored the Hispaniola to the berth, and headed toward the mouth of the port. He raised the mainsail, then the jib. He sailed around the bay in farewell tribute to the beauty that surrounded him, from the foot of Mount Urgull to Ondarreta Beach, and returned to cross the sandbar in the direction of the open sea.

Three days later, early in the morning, Enrique returned to the port of San Sebastián. He had sailed without direction, driven by a powerful wind he felt had been sent for him to enjoy exclusively.

As Mikel had predicted, with the wind came the waves, and the sailing got rough. But that only made Enrique enjoy it that much more. It demanded he use all his skills, and he had a deep stock of them. He could hardly sleep on board, but it was just what he needed to get rid of the tension of finishing another book. He didn’t feel exhausted, simply a light, floating fatigue that, as he had found on other occasions, awaited his arrival on shore before it became overwhelming. His mind was so alert that he even came upon the right title for his work—something he was usually bad at, as all of his editors modified his title proposals for the better.

“Not this one,” he said to himself proudly, “this will be the title.”

The port of San Sebastián was small, and didn’t offer much space for pleasure craft. Sailing hadn’t quite caught on among the locals; the few vessels worthy of being called sailboats were moored at the innermost part of the port, gunwale to gunwale, in a small space that in any other marina would have been used for small motorboats before sailing yachts. Enrique maneuvered with utmost slowness; he fished out the mooring line with a gaff and tied it to the bow of the Hispaniola. After arranging the lines on the deck, he locked the companionway hatch and walked over the decks of the other boats until he reached the stairs that took him back to the pier. Before returning home, he stopped at a pastry shop near city hall, where he purchased a generous supply of sweet cakes, enough for two people. On his way back to Igueldo, he noticed a foul odor inside the car, and was surprised to discover that he was causing it. Three days of constant exertion without any washing, along with as much seawater as had splashed him, were taking their toll. But that only heightened his anticipation of the bath he planned to take as soon as he got home.

It didn’t take him long to find a parking space in front of his building. He stopped to pick up his mail before going up to his apartment, and quickly sorted it into three groups: no interest whatsoever—from banks, publishers, and advertisers; undetermined—from strangers, possibly readers of his books; and interesting—letters from friends and fellow writers. In any case, one stood out above all others: it was from his adoptive father, Artur Aiguader.

Enrique turned on the hot water to let the tub fill before undressing. He used the time it took for the bath to run to eat all of the sweet pastries and open the letters. He always started with those of least interest: he preferred to get the dull news out of the way to better savor the pleasures the good letters would offer him afterward. He had time to make a stack of bills, payment reminders, mortgage slips, account statements, and the like before getting into the water. In normal circumstances, he would have opened the letters from his readers next, but the prospect of spending a long, pleasant spell submerged in hot water made him take his father’s letter, break the seal the old man used to show off his style, and slip into the tub, careful not to dampen any of its several pages.

He prepared to read its content closely. The long letters his father sent were wonderful things: intelligent reads with just the right balance of culture and gossip to satisfy a discerning reader. Factoring in the natural affection Enrique felt for him, nothing could keep him from devoting all his concentration to the letter and staving off the drowsiness that threatened to overtake him. Enrique always thought that his father should have been a writer, but Artur answered that his world was the past, and the past interested no one. The only thing that truly satisfied him was his work as a historian and bibliophile, and for that there could be nothing better than what he did.

Dear Godson,

First, forgive me for being so tardy in answering your last letter. You sent it long ago, and as is custom, the blend of laziness toward my personal affairs and a heavy workload typical of those who love what we do are to blame. I should say, as you well know, our relationship is much more interesting and enriching than could be expected from a mere family tie, and that despite that, I couldn’t help but break my promise to answer your missives in less than three or four months. I hope you will excuse me as I promise that such a long delay has occurred for the first, and I hope the last, time. By the way, let me reaffirm my intention to stay true to the written word, above and beyond the modern trappings of electronic mail, the handiness of which is beyond all doubt, but that along with other similar things will, most certainly, eventually do away with anything that is special or distinct in life. So get used to the idea of living with these remains from a majestic past that survive even in these times of mediocrity that so-called modernity is bringing upon us.

But let’s change the subject and forget the peeves of the undersigned, who loves you so.

In your letter you included an outline—too detailed, by the way, to be called that—of the plot and characters of your most recent novel. I found your choice of subject matter very intriguing, definitely original, and not excessively dealt with previously: “… exploring the relationship of a couple living together, despite being interested in different things, and analyzing their feelings and reactions as if they were experimental laboratory animals.” Interesting. Curious, even.

Do you really think you could fiddle around with some characters and pull such a thing off? Playing about this way with topics you have no expertise in is a folly that only a naive mind, little-trained and with obvious structural limitations such as yours, could be so bold as to try. Such recklessness could have only one result: disaster. You have never stood out for your intelligence when it has come to establishing and maintaining personal relationships—I mean romantic relationships, of course. Do you really intend to explore a universe unknown to you? Your specialty is doing whatever it takes to ruin everything, not the opposite. (By the way, how’s Bety? Have you heard from her?) So your intention to make a constructive, objective analysis of a couple seems to me difficult, if not impossible. If your editor has given you carte blanche to delve into such a subject matter, I am sure he’s as crazy as you … or that he owes you too much to deny your every whim.

I picture you seated before your computer, in a contrived attempt to create a plot that catches the reader’s attention, and what comes to my mind are the expeditions led by the valiant (though they were little more than a motley crew of killers bent on rape and pillage) New World explorers from the early sixteenth century: not the ones who achieved their aims like Pizarro, Cortés, or Jiménez de Quesada, but the others, like Dortal, Ordás, Dalfinger, Federmann, and Benalcázar—remember those stories you loved for me to tell you when you were just a boy?—who failed. They had no idea where they were going, and their ignorance led them, by several days’ march, to miss their intended target and end up in lands devoid of anything of profit, where they found every imaginable disaster, and ultimately, the one final destiny that we all share. Yes, you will search, but you will not find your destination, simply because it is not within your reach.

Still, another explanation for your outrageous project does occur to me. Is it not something personal? Are you not airing out your problems, your own personal miseries, turning what should be a simple literary exercise into a justification or exploration of your personal woes? It wouldn’t surprise me at all, given your natural inclination to self-vindication. You’ve always been too indulgent with yourself. I’ve been telling you that since you were old enough to understand what the words meant. What’s more, if you didn’t wallow so much in what you were, instead of exploring what you could be, I am sure that your place in the literary world would take a qualitative leap that would surprise critics and the public alike. Instead, you are settling for being a good writer in the midst of other good writers, but still so distant from the literary greats.

I don’t know at what point this letter will find you. You’ve probably already finished your work, and my prognosis will prove wrong, something that would thrill me to no end; however, in the worst scenario, it will prove true. If that is the case, I hope to have helped you as much as I did when you landed in Barcelona with your second manuscript—or was it the third? I’m losing my memory in old age—for us to revise together. Let me know as soon as possible; don’t follow the example of this forgetful, absentminded old fool.

Let’s put our literary affairs aside to move on to more mundane matters. I wanted to tell you that four months ago I was appointed vice president of the Antiquarians’ Association of Barcelona. They had been trying to get me to accept the post for years, and I had refused time and again. As you know, I’ve never been fond of having my picture up on the wall or holding pompous (and worthless) titles. But lately the state of the association has taken a turn for the worse, especially regarding its capacity for adaptation to modern times. The market can’t absorb the offering that we old dealers have as well as that of the wave of new antiquarians who have recently set up shop in the area. So many shops have opened down there lately that La Palla is starting to look like a Turkish bazaar. These shops have every indication of being fronts for another activity that I’d rather not mention, but I have no choice. Rumor has it that they launder money from illegal activities, and it’s better not to conjecture further about it, so as to keep from discovering too much unpleasantness.

The shops are so well-manicured on the outside but poorly tended on the inside that I cannot believe they belong to new colleagues recently introduced into the antiques world in which, as you’re well aware, we all know each other. Therefore, and as a provisional measure, I agreed to take the open post on the association’s board of directors, with the intention of finding out as much as possible about the people and investors behind the new shops. Old man Puigventós insisted that I was just right for the job, owing to my “experience, skill, and contacts”; the last being far more valuable than the former two, no doubt. He may be right, but I’m less than thrilled.

For now, my investigations haven’t revealed anything. I’m sure you remember Captain Fornells, that conceited old card I used to run around with in my student days, and who now works in the Raval Precinct. Well, Fornells hasn’t managed to make any inroads either, despite his many contacts. And if he can’t do it, we’ll have to appeal to higher powers because it seems obvious that this is more than just a neighborhood gang. Fornells discussed the case with some people at the Financial Crimes Unit down at police headquarters. I gave them all the information available on the new shops, and they promised to make the “relevant inquiries.” I’ll let you in on something: except for Fornells and a couple of fellow old-school police, our new law enforcement leadership is made up of nothing but a bunch of bureaucrats who are all photocopies of each other, as much in the way they talk as in the way they act: they say the same things and they dress the same way. Let’s hope that their investigation is successful and allows us to unmask the newcomers before any untoward filth taints our old profession.

My dear godson, I must stop here. Don’t forget to write soon. Your letters are, and I mean this with all my heart, a true source of joy for this old antiquarian.

Yours,

Artur

P.S.: I am writing this several days after finishing the letter, on my way to send it. Just a few days ago I purchased a lot that includes all the contents of an old, noble mansion belonging to a historic Catalan clan, the Bergués family. I’ve found something unbelievable in their library, something that could surpass even a mad antiquarian’s expectations. I can’t tell you anything until I’ve determined what it is, until I’ve made sure that it’s not just the imagination of an old man, and that the foundation of it proves true. For some reason I can’t understand, I’m uneasy. For the first time in many years, I feel I’m in over my head. Should anything happen to me—who knows, one of those funny illnesses that befall us old folk, a heart attack or anything of the sort—I recommend you read The Practice of Christian Perfection, volume one. It contains all the information necessary to continue my work. You’ll find it in the library of my shop.

I don’t know why I’m adding this—as if anything were going to happen to me! How silly I am!

A big, heartfelt hug.

Enrique finished the letter with a smile on his face. As always, Artur’s comments were as accurate as his humor was subtle. He had not been able to bring his novel under control with the original plot idea. Enrique had wasted a lot of time before realizing that the work he’d done was of little quality, cohesion, or interest, and he had been forced to start over with a simple outline of the topic, as his godfather had indicated. The time he would have saved if he had received the letter earlier! There could be no doubt: Artur knew him all too well, much better than many parents knew their children. And he probably loved him even better than he knew him.

But if anything piqued Enrique’s curiosity, it was the end of the letter: What could the mysterious discovery be? It must have been huge, as he had never known his adoptive father’s self-control to falter as much as it had in his postscript. “Should anything happen to me …” Happen to him? He could understand that, having made a discovery of certain import, Artur was afraid of dying before getting to the bottom of it. Time did march on, but his health was fine, and he was not so old as to believe that the end was near. The finding must have been very special for Artur to harbor such fears. Curiosity about the mystery normally would have ignited his writer’s imagination, always ready to take in unlikely stories and situations, but Enrique was too tired to make anything of it for the moment.

After reading the postscript, Enrique left the pages of the letter on the sink. He had been in the water quite a while, and it was starting to cool off. He got out of the bathtub and was drying himself with an oversized towel when the phone rang. He was tired enough to ignore it, but his answering machine was off, and whoever was calling was being persistent. He picked up after the tenth ring and sat down on the sofa.

The sun lit the room with warm golden rays. A familiar voice—loved, loathed, and, despite himself, missed—spoke immediately.

“Enrique? Are you there? I finally caught you!”

“Hi, Bety.” His fatigue from sailing was compounded by the tedium of having to talk to her. “What’s going on?”

“Where were you?” The female voice did not disguise a nasty mood. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days!”

“What does it matter where I’ve been?” answered Enrique. He barely had any contact with his ex. There were no children to warrant them keeping up any sort of bond, and although they still said hello and good-bye when they happened to meet in public, to the extent that it was possible, each tried to do without the other.

“Don’t give me that. If I’m calling you it’s not to relive one of those mindless conversations we were so good at when we lived together.”

“I don’t know what you could say that might possibly interest me,” Enrique began, helpless against starting down the runaway track to another fight.

There was nothing in the world he wanted less than to argue with Bety, but since their separation it had been impossible for him to control himself. The bitterness accumulated by a separation rooted in his inability to understand her was greater than his desire to want her for a friend, not to mention a partner.

“Listen, Enrique, I was going to break this to you gently, but I see you’re still at war with yourself and everyone else, so I’ll get to the point. Artur’s dead.”

Bety’s news—hard, dry, and final—stunned Enrique, who, his mouth open in surprise, was unable to answer. A long silence ensued, until she broke it.

“Enrique? Are you okay?”

Enrique did not answer. He was standing next to the picture window, facing the bay, his gaze cast somewhere over the distant mountains. He was unable to find the words; in fact, he doubted they even existed.

“Enrique? Enrique?” Bety insisted, worried.

“Yes …” He left the word hanging there, incapable of adding anything else.

“I … Forgive me; it didn’t come out like I had planned, but you know there are things I can’t stand. I’m sorry, truly sorry.”

“Don’t worry, I understand. I … The thing is …” He could not concentrate. His mind was on the postscript he had read not even ten minutes ago. Artur, dead! How? When? He thought back to the letter and shuddered to think of his father’s clairvoyance; that “if anything should happen to me.” How many times had they both laughed at the world of premonitions, the supernatural, the occult!

“Enrique, I know how you feel. I know what your love and your friendship with Artur meant to you. If you want, call me later. I’ll be at home.”

“No, no, tell me how it happened.”

“They’re not sure. They saw the shop closed in the morning, but they didn’t think anything of it. But seeing it still closed in the afternoon seemed odd. Samuel Horowitz looked in through the window and saw his body lying dead on that old altar. He apparently fell from the loft. They called the police, and opened the shop, but didn’t let anyone in. But Enrique, that’s not the worst part.”

Bety stopped, unsure of how to keep telling Enrique what had happened.

“It’s not?”

“No. Artur was murdered.”

“Good god,” murmured Enrique, his mind reeling.

Bety felt bad about giving him the news the way she had. She knew that, however she told him, the end result would be exactly the same, because Enrique loved his adoptive father more than most people loved their birth parents. She wished she could have told him in a way that was less traumatic, less painful.

“Maybe it’s better if I tell you in person,” offered Bety with the hope of somehow being useful.

“Yeah, fine. Come over if you want.”

“It’s number 36, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll be there in, say, twenty minutes. Hang in there. I’ll be right over.”

Enrique did not respond. A few seconds passed. The busy signal on the phone brought him back to earth. He finished drying off and put on clean, casual clothes. He couldn’t think clearly. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind in a burst of wild hypotheses that he tried to debunk, only to see them immediately replaced by others. He opened a bottle of chocolate milk and sat sipping it on the balcony, wishing this would all turn out to be a bad dream, a stupid nightmare brought on by lack of sleep and his fertile imagination—just a dream that gave life to his most deeply hidden fears. But he had not been asleep. The sun, now shrouded by a thin sea mist, did little to warm the air. But Enrique could not even feel the chilly touch of the northern wind.

The doorbell brought him out of his bitter daydreams. He opened the door: Bety stood there, beautiful as ever. The same long golden hair, the same little bangs on her forehead; her big, green eyes barely made up save for a dash of eyeliner to highlight them; her full lips; the elegant oval of her face; her soft, olive skin. She was dressed as smartly as ever, in a designer pantsuit. She was wearing heels, which was very unusual for her, so she looked taller. Whatever the circumstances, as Enrique already knew, she always shone.

“Hello, Enrique.” Her voice caressed her host as she hugged him.

“Hi,” he managed, distracted, effortlessly enveloping the body that had always fanned his desire, but toward which today he was indifferent.

“Aren’t you going to let me in?” Spoken in another tone, it would have been an invitation to do battle. But the way she said it, it was a warm and sincere peace offering.

“Of course, excuse me. I’m a little … I don’t know … out of it, disoriented.”

“Here, dry your tears.” She handed him a handkerchief.

“What tears?” asked Enrique, bewildered, until he realized that he had been crying. Bety took charge immediately. She closed the door and walked Enrique to the living room, where they sat.

“This is a beautiful apartment,” she remarked with admiration. “You must be doing well to afford it.”

“Well, I can’t complain. The last book sold pretty well, you know about that—a critically acclaimed bestseller.”

“Did you decorate it yourself?” she asked, looking at the accumulation of fine old wooden furniture matched in perfect harmony with other newer pieces.

“Yes. It took me a while to find what I wanted, but I did it myself.”

“Delicate and exquisite. Do you have anything to drink?” Bety wanted to get to the real conversation instead of wasting time with small talk, but she didn’t know how.

“Yes. Well, no. You know, there are some bottles of juice and some milk in the fridge, but that’s it.”

“That’s good enough for me. It’s too early for anything else. Where … ?”

“That door there,” instructed Enrique. “You relax. I’ll get it.”

“No, you won’t,” she ordered with authority. “You stay sitting right there. I’ll be right back.”

True to her word, Bety was back in seconds with a glass of pineapple juice. While she was poking around in the refrigerator for a juice she liked, she had tried in vain to figure out how to let him know she wanted to help him. She wasn’t surprised; on the drive from her house she hadn’t been able to come up with anything either. She came back to the living room, took a seat next to Enrique, and waited patiently for him to take the initiative.

“Tell me how it happened,” he said at last.

Bety took a breath. She had imagined this scene several times, but it was hard for her to convey what had transpired with any coherence. She too was grieving for Artur and was having trouble assimilating his violent death. In truth, she had loved him nearly as much as her own parents. Her relationship with Artur went beyond the formalities of that between most in-laws, thanks to the antiquarian’s unique kindheartedness.

“I’m not exactly sure. When they couldn’t reach you, the police found me, through Samuel Horowitz. You were Artur’s only direct next of kin, and since they couldn’t find you, Samuel got in touch with me to tell me what had happened. He didn’t have my phone number, but he got it from the university secretary’s office.”

“No, don’t tell me about that. Tell me how they killed him.”

“Fine. Samuel was the first to see his body through the window. The investigation is underway, and they haven’t said anything officially. But he told me that they had clubbed him over the head and stabbed him in the back with a knife.”

“Jesus! That’s it? You don’t know anything else?”

“Do you really think they feel a need to tell his adopted son’s ex much more? They used me to find you, that’s all.”

“Yes, of course, I understand,” said Enrique, though that wasn’t true; the truth was he didn’t understand a thing.

He rubbed his eyes. They were puffy, and they were practically closing on their own from fatigue. He had never felt so disoriented. Not even the memory of Bety telling him she was leaving him that long-ago night had been so awful, so capable of altering the order of his small and perfect world.

“Why would anyone want to kill someone like Artur?” Enrique wondered.

“What was that?” asked Bety, surprised.

“Sorry, I was just thinking aloud. I can’t understand why anyone would want to kill an antiquarian.”

“Who knows? Maybe to rob him,” Bety speculated.

“Any thief, even a small-timer, knows that antiquarians don’t handle cash. The prices are too high for anyone to carry those amounts on them.”

“Whatever the reason, you should get to Barcelona as soon as you can. Captain Fornells is handling the case; apparently he’s an old friend of Artur’s, and he wants to talk to you. You were missing and I couldn’t travel. Even so, I was ready to go; I’d even canceled my classes at school. And it’s the worst time of year since we’ve just finished with the lectures, and exams are right around the corner. I even had a ticket for this afternoon’s flight. Now …”

“I’ll go. What time is the flight?”

“Five o’clock sharp. Can I give you a ride? You look really tired. Maybe you shouldn’t drive to the airport.”

“Yeah, thanks, I haven’t slept in three days.”

“You look like you’ve been sailing. Have you?”

“I have. Let me tell you, I’m exhausted. And now …”

“Some things never change,” Bety said with a soft smile. “If you want, I could stay with you.”

“No, no. I don’t want to bother you. You’ve done enough already.”

“You’re wrong about that. I haven’t done anything. Enrique, I know how you must feel. Artur practically raised you from the time you were just an eleven-year-old kid. He was your father, and later, your friend. I loved him too. Even after we broke up, he and I stayed more or less in touch. He wanted me to think of him as a friend, not just a relative of yours. I say this with all my heart: if I can help you, just let me know.”

The offer was sincere, Enrique didn’t doubt it. But still, an arrogant frostiness was rising inside him, keeping him from asking for the support he needed from the one person who could really give it to him. Their separation wasn’t recent, but the wounds it had left in both of them were still fresh enough to form a barrier between them that Enrique considered insurmountable.

“No, Bety. I appreciate it, but I’d rather be alone.”

“I understand,” she murmured sadly, then suddenly took cover behind a veneer of cheery composure. “Well, there’s no time to waste then. I’ll be by to pick you up at three thirty. Let me call the travel agency to change the name on the ticket.”

Enrique got up to walk her to the entry hall, but she refused.

“Don’t even think about it.” She stopped him, placing her hands on his shoulders. “Rest, get your strength; you’ll need it these next few days.”

Bety left. His rejection had stung her, and part of him took wicked delight in it, while the other, still dulled from sleeplessness and pain, chose to ignore it instead of facing reality: after all these years he still loved her, even more than in the beginning.

True to form, Bety was right on time: she was downstairs, parked in front of the building, at three thirty on the dot. Two quick honks of the horn let Enrique know she was there. He gestured from the window to acknowledge that he’d heard. Seconds later, he appeared in the lobby with a large duffel bag. Bety opened the passenger door, and Enrique plopped his bag into the backseat and sat down next to her.

“How are you?” Bety wanted to know.

“Not good. I lay down in bed for a while and tried to get some sleep, but I couldn’t. I’m too tired and my muscles are all stiff.”

“Put your seat belt on,” Bety instructed.

“You know I don’t like wearing them.”

“I know you don’t, but this is my car, so don’t argue. Come on Enrique, are you really going to spend your whole life objecting to everything I say and do? You know how important it is to me for everyone in the car to have their seat belts on when I’m driving, yet you still argue with me! Is it so hard for you to give in on something so trivial?”

“No, it’s not hard,” Enrique admitted, aware of how awkward it was to be arguing just then. “You’re right.” He immediately put the seat belt on and adjusted it. “Bety, I’m sorry. It’s not the best time for me right now. I had just finished my new book, and then I went out for three days of good, hard sailing. I felt so at peace with myself, I never could’ve expected anything like this. All I wanted was to crash out and sleep for twenty-four hours straight.”

“It’s fine, really. We don’t have much time, so let’s take the expressway.”

They said little to each other during the drive. In an attempt to get Enrique’s mind off things, Bety tried to get him to talk about his novel, but he wasn’t up to it. She drove in silence. Enrique opened the glove compartment looking for CDs. Among them he found a mix of boleros that he’d recorded for her a while back, shortly before they separated. He slipped it into the player and turned it on. Lost in thought, he scarcely remembered that they’d shared their first kiss with these very songs playing in the background. In fact, he wasn’t surprised Bety had kept it. He would never have been able to, but she was pragmatic enough to ignore such incidentals.

Bety parked right in front of the airport terminal. She had the gift of always finding a parking space as close as possible to her destination. Together they went to the Iberia Airlines ticket counter and confirmed a different passenger would be traveling on Bety’s ticket. They went to the cafeteria and ordered coffee, waiting for the boarding call to be announced.

“Captain Fornells said he needed to talk to you as soon as he could. Here’s his number at the station,” she said as she slid him a slip of paper with the number written on it. “Where will you stay? I have to know where you are, Enrique. I don’t want to miss the funeral, but I’m afraid it’s going to be hard to leave my chair at the university right now.”

“I don’t know yet. I’d like to go to the house in Vallvidrera, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it. I’ll see when I get there.”

“I want you to call me—on my cell phone or at home—and let me know everything that’s going on.”

“I will, don’t worry. I hope Fornells has a theory, some clues he can investigate. I’ll let you know.”

The announcement that Enrique’s flight was boarding sounded over the PA. They finished their coffees and headed to the first of the only two boarding gates at the modest Hondarribia Airport.

“Okay, I hope it goes well,” Bety said in parting. “Call me, no matter what.”

“Thanks for the ride. I will.”

They looked each other in the eyes. Bety, in a spontaneous move, kissed his cheek. Enrique couldn’t remember how long it had been since he felt her full lips against his skin, and he couldn’t help but think back to happier times. Bety waved good-bye as Enrique made his way toward the airplane.

3

The flight to Barcelona was without incident: the weather was good, and just forty-five minutes later the plane landed at El Prat Airport. Enrique stopped long enough to rent a car; it would be essential if he wanted to move freely around a big city like Barcelona. Before he picked it up, he decided to call the Raval police station to talk to Fornells. He was told that Fornells was out, but that he would be back soon. He left a message: Fornells should be informed that he was in Barcelona and would be at the station shortly. He then got into his tiny, rented hatchback and headed toward the city.

Every time he returned to his city—because he did feel that it was still his, despite his years away—a feeling sprang inside him that was hard to define. It was a combination of homesickness, a desire to return, and relief at no longer belonging to the place. This feeling had accompanied him for years, no matter how much time he spent away, and it was just as strong and intense as it was the first day he left. After all, Barcelona had been his home for twenty-seven years, and of those, he had lived in the hills with the city at his feet for sixteen. And today he was returning with an emptiness in his heart. Whenever he had come back from his travels he had followed the same ritual, disciplined as a worshipper with the trappings of their religion: a mandatory visit to the man who had first been his godfather and later, for sixteen years, had stepped in for Enrique’s deceased parents. Now his ever-present yearning was accompanied by the bitter pain of his loss.

He drove calmly. It was not because of the radar cameras now nested regularly along the highway, but because of the uneasy knowledge that something would be missing when he got home, something very important, a definite absence that he did not want to face, that he would try in vain to put off. He entered the city on the Ronda Litoral coastal loop, which took him to a point on the landward side of the port with ready access to the lower stretch of the Ramblas. It didn’t take him long to reach the station, where he parked in front of the door.

The Raval Precinct police station occupied three spacious floors of what had been, at the turn of the twentieth century, one of the most prominent homes in Barcelona’s finest district. It had a noble entryway with ten-foot ceilings and pockmarks of peeling plaster. A nearby private university, as well as a handful of public colleges, shored up the neighborhood, and helped curb the sense of laissez faire inherent to old streets near Mediterranean ports. Even so, a few former seamen still stuck around; perhaps out of nostalgia, perhaps out of stubbornness, or perhaps because they were simply too old and too tired to find new a harbor to dock their dilapidated bodies. In the midst of the languor, the station no longer hummed with activity as it had in times past. Still, all of the detectives worked at desks piled with cases enough for several months of hard work. Enrique asked the first one he came across where Fornells’s office was. In response, the detective pointed to a room at the inner end of a corridor. Just before Enrique rapped on the door, a baritone voice made him stop.

“Don’t bother, he’s not back yet.” The voice came from a young, athletic-looking man in his midtwenties who, in comparison with his fellow officers, was impeccably dressed.

“You’re Alonso, the writer, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am,”

“Let me introduce myself, I’m Detective Juan Rodríguez. I’m working with Fornells on your father’s case.”

“Pleasure.” Enrique mechanically held out his hand, and gave the detective’s a halfhearted squeeze.

“Fornells will be back any minute now. He had a coordination meeting with the district chief of the Catalan regional police, you know, the Mossos d’Esquadra, but he called five minutes ago and said he was on his way. Let’s step into his office,” he said, opening the door.

Enrique went in with the detective and took the opportunity to confirm his first impression: Rodríguez had to belong to one of the latest graduating classes of mossos. His appearance and poise made him look more like a fashion model than a policeman. His balanced, harmonious features conveyed a style and attitude that radiated positivity and self-confidence. If Fornells trusted him enough to bring him onto a case like Artur’s murder, he must have been competent—a pro—despite his obvious youth. Rodríguez sat down next to him in the other chair in front of the desk.

“I am authorized to answer any questions you may have, but first I wanted to tell you what a big fan I am of your work.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that.” Enrique answered with his automatic good manners and the respect he felt for those who bought his books, a respect in this case tinged by the shattering of his police officer stereotype, and the definitive corroboration of his hypothesis about Rodríguez.

“I really liked Chronicle of a Nonexistent Love, but I prefer the fantasy stuff; I loved Dream World. I’d like …”

“Sure, I’ll be happy to sign them for you,”

“I don’t want to bother you. I know this isn’t the best time.”

“Don’t worry, it’s not a problem.”

“That’s kind of you. I’ll bring them, then. But excuse the literary digression; I’m here to help. If you’d like I could bring you up to speed on your father’s case.”

“Well, the truth is I don’t know anything at all. My ex-wife happened to find me this morning, and she told me that Artur had been murdered, but not much else.”

“I myself tried to reach you several times, but I never could get you, even though I called at different times.”

“I was at sea, on my sailboat.”

“Now I understand. Well, if it’s okay with you, I could give you a rundown of what happened and what we know as of now.”

“Please do,” Enrique entreated.

Rodríguez took a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket. After leafing through a few pages, he narrated the events with the steeliness of a veteran cop, in contrast with his rookie image.

“The autopsy confirmed time of death as Sunday night, about half past midnight. Your godfather was in his shop for reasons unknown, but it’s likely, according to what we’ve gathered from some of his colleagues … let’s see,” he said, looking at his notes, “Samuel Horowitz, Guillem Cardús, and Enric Torner, with whom he had coffee Friday afternoon, that he was sorting out what they referred to as a ‘lot.’” Rodríguez stopped, as if awaiting confirmation that it was all right to continue after wielding this piece of antiquarian jargon.

“Please, go on.”

“It’s not a pretty tale.”

“I imagine it’s not. But I’d like to know the specifics.”

“Okay. At that time, someone entered the shop, but we haven’t found any signs of forced entry through the door or blinds. That, right off, could tell us that your father knew his killer, although we can’t be sure. If he was working, he may have fallen asleep, and a thief could have made his way in silently. Your father would have woken up when he heard a noise, and then … He struck your father on the head twice using a marble paperweight. One of the blows knocked him back, causing him to fall from his loft onto an altar on the ground floor. Once there, the assailant stabbed him with a letter opener that went through his back all the way to his heart: he died instantly.”

“Unbelievable,” mumbled Enrique, stunned.

“Yes, death is a terrible thing,” mused Rodríguez aloud. “And violent death is even worse. Are you all right?” Rodríguez asked, noting the paleness of Enrique’s face.

Enrique hid his face behind his hands. Being told how Artur had died was a bitter shock, and he felt deeply pained. His imagination conjured up the image of Artur’s body lying atop the altar in a pool of blood. He felt the color leaving his face. Never in his life had he dealt with anything similar, not even in literary terms. The closest thing he could liken it to were images from television series and thrillers. From here on, what had been his ignorant distance would become a nauseating familiarity.

“Sorry,” he excused himself, “I just haven’t gotten my mind around it yet.”

“Don’t worry, it’s understandable. Can I get you some water? Coffee?” the detective asked, eager to help.

“Coffee, please.”

“I’ll be right back with it.” He left the room. It took less than a minute for him to return with a mug of strong, steaming coffee. Enrique took a few shaky sips.

“Who could have done it? And why?”

“We’re working on that.”

“Can you tell me anything or is it all confidential?”

“Normally we couldn’t, but Fornells knew your father, and he knows you. That’s why he insisted on taking the investigation personally, and he told me to tell you the main parts. For now, we’re investigating on three fronts. The first is looking into run-of-the-mill hoods and cons of the Raval, and including those from outside the neighborhood as well. It could have been a holdup gone wrong. We don’t think that’s likely, but we can’t rule it out. We brought in a few local small-timers for questioning, but the truth is, they know better than to physically assault anyone. Besides, Artur was, in a manner of speaking, a local. In those cases there’s a bond there that keeps them from taking liberties with anyone who’s known. It could have been a junkie. When people are doped up, they can lose control and become unpredictable.

“The second possibility is that it’s—how should I put this?—a message being sent by an organized crime ring. Your father had sought the captain’s help on an investigation, the details of which aren’t important now, and his death could be something of a lesson, to discourage anyone else from sticking their nose into these people’s business. But, to be realistic, we don’t think that’s too probable either. If these groups are up to anything dirty, the last thing they would do is call attention to themselves with something like this. But we are working hard on that part of the investigation. Then there’s a third front, which is also pretty interesting. We think that—”

“That it could be some business deal that we don’t know about yet, that poor Artur was in with some associate,” interjected someone who had just entered the office. “That would explain how the killer didn’t have to force his way into the shop, why he took Artur’s house keys, and why he spent the entire night there rummaging around, top to bottom, which the small-timers and mobsters also could have done, but doesn’t fit at all with the way they usually operate. Too dangerous.”

The door had been opened to let in Captain Fornells, who finished his subordinate’s sentence for him. Fornells was short, squat, and almost completely bald except for a few stray hairs that were combed over the top of his head in an unsuccessful attempt to cover his barren scalp. He wore faded jeans, a flea-market plaid shirt, and a dated, black leather jacket. His pinkish cheeks and a network of reddish thread veins spanning his nose formed a complex tapestry that advertised his penchant for enjoying wine in generous helpings. His metal-framed glasses had not been in style since the seventies, and he vigorously exhaled the smoke from a fat Cuban cigar. To any observer, Fornells would have fit the profile of an old-school detective stuck in a past that, while painful to remember, may have been better than the awkwardness of a present that was outside his realm of understanding.

Detective Rodríguez and Enrique were on their feet in an instant. Fornells approached Enrique and offered his hand.

“I’m sorry, Enrique. It’s been a long time, and I’m sorry we have to meet over something like this. How’re you doing?”

“I know what you mean, Fornells. It’s been what, seven years? As for how I’m doing, well, truth be told, I’m stunned, confused, and, I might as well admit it, pretty devastated.”

“You have reason to be. From what I overheard, it sounds like Rodríguez here has brought you up to date on nearly everything. I’ll get straight to it: is there anything that Artur might have told you that we don’t know? Any personal or professional issues Artur told only you about?”

Enrique thought for a few moments. Artur’s letter left no doubt: he had found something important and even had an uneasy feeling about it, which had proven to be true. What if someone had learned of Artur’s find and wanted it for themselves? That would explain why they ransacked his house in Vallvidrera; they were hunting for Artur’s treasure, but could not find it because he, cautious as he was, had hidden it. Letting the police in on that would mean giving up the papers he needed to find the thing himself. But no, that was impossible. Kill Artur to take something he dug out of a random antique lot? It was ridiculous! Harebrained ploys like that only happened in cheap airport novels. Aware that the two officers were waiting for an answer, he finally decided to respond.

“No, I don’t think so. In his last letter he did say he had asked you for help with all these new antiques shops that were opening down here, but he also said that your investigation hadn’t come up with anything yet.”

“Do you have that letter here?” Rodríguez asked.

“No, I didn’t bring it,” answered Enrique, swallowing, sure that his lie was in plain sight of both policemen. “I’m sorry.”

“Try to remember, Enrique. Any detail that seems trivial to you could mean a lot to us. Think back: was there anything in the letter that was strange, even trifling, that stood out to you?”

“Fornells, from what I’ve heard, it seems that it might have been someone he knew.”

“Yes, it’s possible,” said the captain. “The killer did it in the study, and there are no signs of violence anywhere else in the shop—no forced doors or locks. If he knew his killer, that would explain why they were together in his study at such odd hours. But I knew your father well, even if we didn’t see each other that often, and I don’t know of anyone who could have a beef with him big enough to do this. The truth is, I don’t think there’s anyone who could hold that sort of grudge against him. The other antiques dealers loved him. He was such a good guy, straightforward, and he couldn’t hurt a fly. That’s why we’re putting our money on some kind of mob hit, or a financial motive. I’ll tell you something, but I think you already know it: Artur wanted to unmask the money-laundering these slick new places are up to, and that might have pissed off their so-called backers.”

“It’s our main line of investigation right now, though, to be honest, it doesn’t fit with the way they solve these things,” Rodríguez added. “Something as visible as this goes against their code. That’s why we think there could be another reason, another motive. But right now we don’t know what.”

“In his letter he said you had asked the Financial Crimes Unit to join the investigation.”

“We have, to no avail for now. Investigations like that take time, sometimes too much time. And until Financial Crimes gives us more information, there’s not a lot we can do on that front.”

“I see,” answered Enrique. “Fornells, where’s … his body?”

“In the city morgue. Being a violent death, they had to do an autopsy. And since you’re his only living relative, no one has come for the body. We were waiting to get hold of you.”

“Can he be buried soon?”

“Of course. In fact, you just have to sign a couple papers, and they’ll release the body.”

“I want to do it as soon as possible—tomorrow, even.”

“Remember that Artur was very well-known in this city’s artistic circles. A lot of people will want to say their good-byes.”

“Artur had his family’s graves relocated to a vault he bought a few years back in Montjuïc Cemetery. I’d like to hold a ceremony for him there, as private a ceremony as possible.”

“I could help you work everything out with the funeral parlor and the cemetery,” Rodríguez offered. “Leave it to me. I’ll handle the paperwork: obituaries, certificates …”

“That’d be nice of you. I appreciate it.”

“Don’t mention it. It’s hard to deal with red tape at times like this, and I can do it for you no problem. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go get started,” Rodríguez said, and left the room.

“That Rodríguez is a sharp kid. He’s worked up more contacts in six months than I have in forty years. He’ll handle it, don’t worry. So, Enrique, where were you planning on staying?”

“I’m not sure. I thought the best idea was to stay in Vallvidrera, but Artur’s memory might still be too fresh. I don’t know if I could stand it. And if they ransacked the house …”

“I had two detectives up there dusting for prints on Monday and Tuesday. They were under orders to be thorough. They didn’t find anything important, and I straightened it up as much as I could with Samuel Horowitz’s help so it wouldn’t be too shocking if you decided to stay there. See, there’s something odd about this: whoever killed him turned the place upside down, as if they were looking for something. You won’t find anything in its right place, that I can tell you.”

“Looking for something in particular?” The question blurted from Enrique’s mouth.

“That’s what I said. As if they were looking for something, but they might have done it to throw us off, make our job harder. Whatever it was, they did a complete search. Must’ve taken them two or three hours. Samuel says as far he knows, nothing valuable was missing. He was up there pretty regularly so we took his word on it. If you do notice anything gone, let us know right away.”

Enrique sighed, feeling as if he was being buried under the weight of it all. He shifted in his chair, and came to a sudden decision, determined to get out of there however possible.

“Fine. I’d have to go sooner or later, so what’s the difference?”

Fornells took two sets of keys from a desk drawer and handed them to Enrique.

“The killer used Artur’s keys and left them stuck in the lock. You should change a lock or two, just to be on the safe side.”

“Will do.”

“How’d you get here from the airport?”

“A rental car.”

“Artur’s is parked in the old garage over on Hospital Street. It’s yours to drive.”

“Okay, I’ll take it,” said Enrique, sighing deeply. “I’ll straighten everything out tomorrow.”

“Good. Listen, before I forget. You need to get in touch with—let me see if I can find it …” After groping through his pants pockets he pulled out a wrinkled card and handed it to Enrique. “Here, this Sant Feliu notary firm. About the will. I also have a message from Samuel Horowitz. He wants to talk to you as soon as possible.”

Enrique felt his eyes weling up. Notary, will, autopsy, body, funeral … the words had a single design: to drag him down into a pit of incomprehension. He felt his mind would explode if he didn’t get out of that room.

“I’ll call them tomorrow. Fornells, if there’s nothing else you need, I’d like to go now.”

“Sure, of course. How long d’you think you’ll be in Barcelona?”

“I’m not sure, but I guess I’ll be around a couple of weeks, at least.”

“I’ll let you know as things develop. And if you happen to remember anything that might be related at all to the case, please, call me right away. Here’s my card, with the number to this goddamned cell phone they make me carry.”

“I will. See you, Fornells.”

“See you tomorrow afternoon, Enrique.”

It didn’t take Enrique long to cross the city and take the road that connected the metropolis to the tiny paradise of Vallvidrera. He drove uphill under streetlights that had just come on, reminding him that in spring, dusk was a quick affair that gave way to sudden, steely nights. On a more fitting occasion, he could have taken any of the exits off the winding strip of asphalt that was the Arrabassada Highway. From them, at any of the numerous pull-off viewpoints where young couples without bedrooms to share used their cars as poor substitutes, Enrique would have been offered the visual feast of the city below readying itself for the night. But Enrique was not in the right mindset to enjoy any such delights. He parked near his father’s house, hesitating a few seconds before putting the key into the lock. In a way, even though legally speaking the house would now be his and there could be nothing wrong with what he was doing, he couldn’t help feeling it was a sort of desecration. He opened the door carefully and turned on the foyer light.

Indeed, the house showed clear signs of having been turned upside down. The work of Fornells and Samuel Horowitz had been enough to clear the floor of the tossed-around objects, but not to restore the meticulous order that Artur had so cherished in life. Atop tables and shelves were mountains of books, papers, and pieces of decor, most of them quite valuable antiques. The same dumbfounding scene repeated itself in every room of the house. Whoever did it had left no nook untouched.

Enrique took a couple of hours to tidy up the rooms the way Artur had liked them. Once he had restored a certain normality, he remembered his promise to telephone Bety. But the calls would have to wait another day. Not only was it already too late, he was not in an explanatory mood. Enrique fixed himself something to eat from his father’s well-stocked refrigerator, and opened the sliding doors to the terrace to dine with the city at his feet. He then took a quick shower to freshen up before going to sleep, but instead of relaxing him, the hot, near-scalding water had the opposite effect, and he felt wide awake. Pursued by the omnipresent memory of Artur in each and every corner of the house, he settled down in the study, prepared to let time slip by. He went back over the letter, though he had no need to: he had already memorized the final paragraphs. Among the set of keys that Fornells had given him were those to the shop. There he hoped to find The Practice of Christian Perfection. He felt momentarily driven to return to Barcelona and hunt the book down right then, but he restrained himself. He felt tired, exhausted; in fact, he was beyond fatigue. Enrique felt decimated, vanquished, and humiliated by a miserable life that was bent on leaving him lonely; his parents, his wife, his adoptive father … he always ended up losing anyone who had ever meant anything to him. Plus, the next day would be an unending succession of dismal scenes. He would have time to investigate later. Sleepless, overcome by a storm of nostalgia that he had unfortunately already become familiar with at other times in his life and was now a traveling companion on his life’s journey, he chose to leaf through the family photo albums. They contained countless scenes from Artur’s life, and his as well. He skipped over those of Artur showing the first signs of old age. He did not stop until he reached the ones in which Artur posed next to Enrique’s biological parents on their wedding day. How many times had he gazed on those very pictures as a child: his mother, so beautiful and refined; his father had such presence. Later, Enrique began making appearances: christening, birthday, first communion, family celebrations … until reaching that traumatic day when his parents died in a senseless car accident. The next photos showed Enrique in the house of his godfather, who was much more than that by then—legal guardian and effective, affectionate father, with responsibilities to raise, protect, and educate the child who was the son of his best friend: his godson.

Those had not been easy years. It took Enrique time to adapt to his new environment, and for a man who had never even been married, it had not been easy to correctly care for a child disoriented by the tragic loss of his parents. But the goodwill of both helped them reach harmonious understanding. Enrique found a new father, and Artur, the son he never had.

More photos: trips, friends, first loves, graduation—it was all there. And Artur was always by his side, keeping him on the right path. His wedding photos: Bety, sublimely beautiful, a real-life fairy-tale princess, walked to the altar by Artur, in impeccable morning dress. In others, the three of them on a trip to the Costa Brava. He came upon a few taken in their home in San Sebastián, before their marriage crumbled. And the last photograph, one year old, just after Enrique had bought the Igueldo apartment. Artur had not relished the prospect of traveling to San Sebastián, but after much begging, Enrique convinced him and he didn’t regret making the trip. It had been worth it just for that spectacular view. There were no more photos after that. The album had another four or five pages, but they were empty, just like he felt.

A gentle breeze blew in from the terrace, too cool to ignore. He drew the curtains, turned off the living room lights, and went back, after a long while, to what had been his bedroom. He flopped onto the bed, and his bones protested against a mattress no longer familiar. After a bout of tossing and turning, he managed to sleep a few hours in an uneasy drowse.

The events of the next morning felt like they belonged in a dream. Enrique had a lot to do: he called Rodríguez to give him what he needed to complete the forms; he called Samuel to ask him to arrange the ceremony at the cemetery; he left several messages for his Barcelona friends. He then returned the rented car at a branch in the city, and picked up Artur’s from the Hospital Street garage.

He found the visit to the notary mentally trying; everything was now so final. If the morning’s activities had borne a tinge of fantasy, the attorneys, with their blunt practicality, brought him back to the real world. They told him that he was the general heir to all of Artur’s property, with the exception of a few things he left to Bety and old personal friends like Samuel, and some charity donations. After reading the clauses relative to third parties, they took Enrique by surprise: the value of Artur’s property stood at over a million euros. The amount left him speechless. He knew Artur’s business had been making money for years, but he never imagined it could be so much. This meant forgetting about the mortgage on the Igueldo apartment, in addition to inheriting the Vallvidrera house, with a value of around six hundred thousand euros, and a collection of antiques worth at least another two hundred and forty thousand. The inheritance tax had to be paid, of course, and depending on certain variables, it could come to twenty-five or thirty percent of the total—obviously an amount that was excessive for anyone with his simple tastes. The attorneys offered to settle the necessary paperwork. Still stunned by the windfall, Enrique left the notary’s office, awash in mixed emotions.

If his visit to the notary’s office had been unpleasant, his trip to the morgue was nothing less than terrifying. As promised, Rodríguez had prepared everything. All Enrique had to do was sign some papers. He wanted to see the body; Rodríguez had advised against it, as the beating, autopsy, and days that had passed since the murder had all taken their toll. But Enrique insisted and was allowed to see the corpse. Rodríguez had been right: it was beyond unpleasant, but not because of the damage inflicted on Artur’s body, now nothing but lifeless flesh. What he found cruel was not the physical aspect, but Artur’s now-eternal absence. They told Enrique that Artur’s remains would be taken to the cemetery at four thirty, so the ceremony could start at five o’clock. He then went to see Samuel.

Some of the antiquarians from La Palla Street had already started to gather at Samuel’s shop in an informal meeting, Guillem and Enric among them. Mariola Puigventós, Samuel’s partner and daughter of the president of the Antiquarians’ Association, was still away in Madrid. The antiques dealers received Enrique with sincere condolences, which he took with heartfelt thanks. They went back to their shops and left him to have a long conversation with the man who had been his godfather’s best friend for twenty years. Samuel outlined his idea for the ceremony: a simple eulogy to be given before Artur’s closest friends. He offered to accompany Enrique to Artur’s shop, but Enrique said he would rather not until Artur’s body had been interred. On sudden impulse, he decided to part ways with Samuel. He wanted to be alone. They arranged to go to the cemetery together; Enrique would pick him up at four thirty.

A number of leading figures from the city’s cultural elite were on hand in the Montjuïc Cemetery: politicians, bigwigs from the Antiquarians’ Association, owners from surrounding businesses (such as the art galleries on Petritxol Street), and a diverse showing of the offbeat habitués from the peculiar Plaça del Pi scene who had known Artur so many years. The casket sat in front of the Aiguader vault, surrounded by several wreaths of flowers.

The mourners sat on benches arranged in front of the entrance to the vault. Samuel began the ceremony by describing the life and personality of Artur in simple terms imbued with an emotion that eventually spread to all present. Artur, there could be no doubt, was much loved in his world. Once he had finished, Samuel gave the floor to Enrique, who limited his remarks to words of thanks to all for their attendance. He would have liked to have said more—something literary, something brilliant—but he lacked the strength. The cemetery caretakers placed the casket in the vault. When they came back out and closed the door, an indescribable sorrow grasped Enrique’s soul.

It was the final good-bye.

The mourners slowly dispersed, giving Enrique their condolences and wrapped up in the conversations of those who have not seen each other in years, and who only met on such occasions. Fornells was nearly the last to leave, and in the end, only Samuel and Enrique remained before the vault.

“I want to thank you, Samuel. Your eulogy was so beautiful, so subtle and sincere. I know he would have loved it.”

Samuel shook his head before he spoke.

“Yes, he may have …” He left the phrase hanging in the air a few seconds before continuing. “Listen, Enrique, I want you to know something. Everyone’s time comes sooner or later, and the only thing we’re left with is knowing whether the ones we’ve raised are doing well in life, going through it with their head high. Let me tell you that no man has ever been prouder of his son, I promise you. Let’s go now, my boy. It’s time we left this place.”

“You’re right.” They walked out together, arm in arm. “I’m leaving a big part of my life behind in that vault. But it was Artur himself who taught me, after my parents died, that we always have to move on.”

“That’s good. That’s the way it should be. Death is part of life, and while many may fall, the rest of us must continue. We have to live with his memory, keep it alive in our minds. That’s the best tribute we can pay him, not drowning in our own misery or obsessing over the inevitability of death.”

Later, Enrique parked the car in Artur’s usual space. They walked along the Ramblas to Pla de la Boqueria and then crossed to the Gothic Quarter and stopped in front of Artur’s shop.

“Why would anybody do this?” Enrique asked. “I just don’t get it.”

“Nobody does,” Samuel said with a gesture of indifferent skepticism. “Let’s hope the police catch the killer as soon as possible. And Enrique …”

“What?”

“This probably isn’t the right time, but I wanted to tell you as soon as possible, because I assume you’ll be going back to San Sebastián before long. I imagine you won’t want to continue with your father’s business; literature is your world. So I want you to know that if you decide to liquidate the antiques, I’m willing to take them off your hands at a fair price. I’d even buy the shop. Take your time, I don’t need an answer now.”

“Thanks, I appreciate that. I guess I will end up selling it all, but right now I don’t think I’d be capable. I’ll let you know before I leave. Now then—”

“I understand, believe me. Don’t worry. Well, I’ve got some errands to run. If you need anything, you know where to find me. Don’t hesitate to call no matter the hour.”

“Thank you, Samuel.”

The most daunting moment of his return was at hand. He had to go to the shop and face the place where Artur had been murdered. He opened the door and disconnected the alarm. Right in the middle, visible from any viewpoint, stood the altar. On it, the outline of a dark stain marked the site of the tragedy. The splintered railing of the loft was the other telltale reminder of the crime. He crossed the shop, averting his gaze from any place that held evidence of the murder, and ascended to the loft. Atop the study table was a mass of books and manuscripts that had undoubtedly been rifled through by the murderer and left there by Fornells and Samuel.

Enrique looked for The Practice of Christian Perfection on the table but couldn’t find it. It was too obvious a hiding place, given all of Artur’s precautions. He must have hidden it in his beautiful book collection, consisting of some four hundred volumes of various sizes, subjects, and conditions. Over four decades, Artur had accumulated a significant number of old tomes with which to sate his double thirst for books and knowledge. Most of them were in the Vallvidrera house, though he always kept a healthy sample on hand in the shop, to consult when the need arose. The books would have to join their counterparts in Vallvidrera. If he did sell the shop, as was likely, under no circumstances would the books be included. He too thought of himself as a bibliophile, though still only a novice; he had a few books, whimsical gifts to himself, nothing compared to the spectacular majesty now before him. Many of them were true gems, the legacy of a distant past, significant for their content or craftsmanship.

He found The Practice of Christian Perfection on one of the shelves in the study. It was made up of three old volumes with covers of dark, timeworn leather. The title was a blurred golden thread nearly impossible to make out against the grime that had built up over three centuries of handling. He took down the first volume with a curiosity not devoid of reverence. In his hands was Artur’s fabulous discovery, and, by his own hunch, the cause of his death. He gently touched the wrinkled leather of the cover and surrendered to his inner senses. A conviction rose up inside him. Yes, he was sure of it now. With a strength even he hadn’t been aware of, his intuition told him that Artur’s killer was searching for the book he now held. It had been no neighborhood crook, no mob retaliation. Someone who knew of Artur’s discovery had done away with him to take it for themselves, without stopping to imagine that, thanks to his sixth sense, Artur had concealed the book under the guise of a code of religious perfection, turning it into another nondescript book among hundreds; literature disguised as literature. In Artur’s study, lined with shelves overflowing with old books, no one could ever have found the manuscript hidden in a different cover. Now it was in his power. The hunch had become truth with force and prodigious transparency.

Now with his wits about him for the first time since he had arrived in Barcelona, fully alert, Enrique settled in to Artur’s favorite chair and examined the book. His godfather had removed the original pages and replaced them with others, a manuscript with a number of notes in the margins. Enrique knew then that he was holding the object his godfather had been murdered for. Why else would he have camouflaged the book to look like something else? What did it contain that was so worth hiding? He tried to read the complex scrawl of the author, but his Latin was too rusty to allow a coherent reading of the text. He could translate the odd phrase, but the overall meaning was beyond him. The notes, written in a sort of Old Catalan, were not easy to decipher either. It would take him time to translate the book, unless he asked for help, something he did not wish to do. If, as he believed, someone had been willing to kill over its contents, making the text known to a third party would automatically put them at risk. At that moment he assumed that he too was in danger, as he was the only person who, by pure logic, managed to find the manuscript, although the killer could not know whether Artur had shared the secret with anyone before he died.

With the book in his pocket, he locked up the shop and left for the parking garage. An in-depth study of the text was fundamental, and to do that he would need peace and quiet, as well as time. Vallvidrera was just the place.

4

Despite his exhaustion and rusty Latin, Enrique made headway translating the Casadevall manuscript. With his initial pains subsiding as he refreshed his knowledge of the classical languages that Artur had insisted on teaching him years ago, Enrique delved into amazing events from centuries ago.

There was no presentation or formal authorship to the text, but it was easy enough to recognize the author of the manuscript through his repeated references to his milieu. He belonged to the Casadevall family and held a ranking office in the architectural world of his day. Through a direct reference in the text, Enrique eventually identified him as the assistant to the master builder, and it did not take long to situate him historically. One of the old books from Artur’s library, entitled Hiftory of the Building of the Cathedral of Barcelona, “published in the noble city of Tortosa in the Year of Our Lord Seventeen-Hundred and Sixty,” enabled him to identify Casadevall. Architect Pere Casadevall had been among those responsible for the works executed during construction of the Cathedral of Barcelona over a span of forty-six years, from 1368 to 1414. The list of his works did not include much of relevance, aside from the significant progress made on construction of the cathedral—which was stalled until then, thanks to the work of Bishop Planelles—and his strange death: his body was found in unusual circumstances that were never explained.

His job was to assist the master builders of the cathedral in their tasks. He supervised the economic and administrative dealings behind the construction of Barcelona’s most important building. Like a modern architect, he looked after the countless details behind a project, though he had never worked independently. His occupation boiled down to directing specific works in certain sections of the cathedral, as well as others in civil buildings of the booming city.

Once he confirmed Casadevall’s historical existence, Enrique went back to his translation. The first thirty pages revealed nothing in particular. They were a compilation of the main activities performed in the exercise of his office. Yet, as the months went by, the architect began to write in the pages of his book more about the general impressions he got from doing the work than merely listing them. In a way, the log turned into a diary. And the diary became something else: a place for confession, reverie, and doubt.

The entries had not been made on a daily basis. He only took down his impressions in cases of apparently common, or especially significant, events: a daughter’s illness, problems on the site … There were also references to the archbishop, visits of papal emissaries, and resistance and quality tests for several types of quarry rock, among other things. As the text went on, it gradually abandoned any professional musings to focus on the fate of his family, and the Black Death that devastated Barcelona in 1393.

On page sixty, for the first time, and coinciding with the appearance of a mysterious character identified only as S., Enrique came across the side notes.

Enrique’s translation suddenly became more difficult, not because there was more to translate, but because of how cryptic much of the original was. The side notes, written in Old Catalan, had him racking his brain more than once, because some of the brief comments were simply bizarre. He got little if anything from them, and he decided to turn to the Latin text, even it was rendered confusing and fragmented by his deficient translation. In any case, it seemed obvious to him that the notes were closely related to the presence of S., as they could be found on any page where S. was mentioned.

In the attempt to simplify his work, Enrique began a draft list of pages with a summary of the notes. If he did not understand them, he transcribed them literally; unfortunately, most completely baffled him.

At last, skipping forward, on page ninety-four Enrique came across the first reference to “the object.” The architect had written that the meeting—he used the term gahal, the Hebrew word from which Call was derived—would be held at Ángel Martín’s house in the old Call, Barcelona’s Jewish Quarter, where they would show it for the first time. Enrique felt a rush of excitement, sure that he had come upon the first reference to Artur’s enigmatic discovery. Next, for reasons unexplained by the text, a major disappointment had occurred: something had gone wrong, since nothing had been shown at the gathering. As Casadevall had understood it, it might have been done out of caution, a test to check the master builder’s trustworthiness. His next entries spoke of the incredible effect that the existence of “it” had had on him, but without any mention of what in the world “it” really was. The side notes continued as before, rife with abbreviations and contractions, but they were also full of question marks and exclamation points that hadn’t appeared until then.

The deeper he went into the manuscript, the more confused Enrique felt. The text explained nothing but the odd relationship between the architect Casadevall and the mysterious S., and the Jews of Barcelona’s Call, which in itself was intriguing, as the social prominence of a master builder would have made it unthinkable for him to associate with anyone outside his circle of ecclesiastic obligations, let alone people of other religions. It would not be long until the Catholic Monarchs expelled the Jews from Spain in 1492, but even by then the Christian majority could hardly stand their presence, and they were certainly frowned upon by the nobles and clergy who had become deeply indebted to Jewish financiers. In the case of Barcelona, the Jews were officially driven out of the Call in 1424. All of Spain had witnessed the pogroms against the Jews in 1391, and Barcelona had been one of the cities where they were most ardently persecuted. Therefore, the social status of the Jewish community was that of an isolated, barely tolerated, and even officiously persecuted minority. And so, how could it be understood that a person of standing in those days had such close contact with Jews of the Call, even if they wore the guise of converts, the so-called conversos? Even they were social outcasts, called marranos—swine—and looked down on by public opinion as untrustworthy traitors to their faith.

The confusion that the complex text was generating in Enrique’s imaginative mind was of such magnitude that he became lost in abstraction, letting the hours pass and forgetting the obligations made in and to the real world. The sudden ring of the telephone snapped him back to reality. He knew who it was even before he picked up the receiver.

“Enrique?”

“Yes, Bety.” Submerged in the hidden world of the manuscript, he had forgotten the promise he had made on leaving San Sebastián.

“Sometimes I think you’re a real son of a bitch.” Her pleasant tone could not hide a true loathing that gave her words the cutting effect of a brand-new scalpel. “You promised you’d call, and you didn’t. I read about the funeral in the paper. Oh, and because I called Fornells. Some guy named Rodríguez confirmed the ceremony was yesterday.”

The word given and not upheld, the value of the commitment accepted and violated: this was where Bety’s condemnation lay. Enrique struggled to free himself from a conversation that, despite the good intentions that now governed Bety’s acts, did not appeal to him in the least, even if the reason was different from what she may have imagined.

“I’m sorry Bety, I truly am. You have no idea what shape I’m in. I didn’t forget. I just feel like I’m living in a haze, that all of this is bigger than me. Time just slips away without me realizing it. Plus, I haven’t felt like talking to anyone.” He listened to himself lie, although he knew the lie would be discovered, just like they always used to be. “Artur’s not here anymore.” He kept up the deception, having decided that once begun, he would see it through to the end.

“Well, if you don’t feel well … ,” Bety granted.

“Being at home without him just feels so strange,” Enrique continued. “I’m still not accustomed to him not being here, and the truth is, it’s really hard on me.”

“I see,” said Bety, believing more in the reasons than Enrique’s honesty.

Enrique had no desire to keep talking. He thought it was the perfect time to end the conversation. But he also knew that if he did, his curtness would only fan the flames of Bety’s curiosity. In the end, it was Bety who decided to steer the conversation away from personal matters.

“What have you heard about the investigation? Rodríguez said he wasn’t at liberty to tell me anything, but that you knew how it was going.”

Enrique outlined the possibilities that Fornells had been over with him, without going into his own opinions. Going that far would only make Bety worry, and worry was the last thing he wanted to convey to her. But somehow, his ex-wife seemed to pick up, with that peculiar instinct honed over their years of living together, that he was hiding something.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” he lied again, tossing himself into the abyss of ever-expanding perjury. “I don’t care who did it. I just want them caught as soon as possible.”

Following another silence, talk turned to the inheritance. Bety was surprised to learn that Artur had included her, even if only to give her what could be considered a gift, though not exactly a small one. She had always felt drawn to an old book dated 1544, a Latin compilation of several works of Aristophanes, who Bety considered one of the great Greek comic playwrights. Artur was aware of her fondness for the book, and had decided to leave it to her to remember him by. The gesture moved her to tears that the distance could not hide. She told Enrique to keep her posted and hung up.

Enrique thought about going back to the translation, but his mood had changed. He wanted to do it as much as he wished he had not fibbed his way through the conversation with Bety. He felt confused and angry with himself, prisoner of a lie he wished he had not told, no matter how necessary. It was always the same; he always pushed her away when she could have helped him the most. He could never share the recesses of his inner world, perhaps because he himself found them surprising and excessive, even knowing that it only added to the distance between them.

A second call came in. He wondered whether to answer; he didn’t feel up to it, but the possibility of it being Fornells with news on the case spurred him to pick up.

“Hello?”

“Enrique?” inquired a peculiar baritone that stirred a vague memory in his mind.

“Speaking.”

“Good morning. This is Guillem Cardús. I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m in the antiques business, a good friend of your father’s. Artur introduced us about four years ago, in his shop, one day when you were passing through Barcelona. We also saw each other the day before yesterday at Samuel’s.”

“Yes, I remember. You were in the cemetery yesterday. Thanks for coming.”

“Artur was a good friend and colleague, in that order. Missing the funeral would have been an inexcusable discourtesy and a breach of loyalty.”

“I appreciate it.” The politeness of his words could not cover the stiffness of his voice.

Now this was a conversation he could have really done without, and he was willing to let it show. He let silence work for him; any initiative would have to be taken by the person on the other end of the line. To his surprise, Guillem had intentions that immediately sparked his interest, although in an unexpected way.

“I’m calling, though I must admit it’s not the best time, about a business matter.”

“I’m listening,” answered Enrique, surprised to be talking business at what anyone, except a genuine Catalan entrepreneur, would consider a completely inappropriate time.

“Listen, Enric Torner, another colleague who, as you may already know, was also a good friend of Artur’s, and I thought that you probably won’t want to pursue your father’s line of business. If so, we’d be looking to purchase the entire contents of his shop and even the shop itself. There’s no way we could come up with what we’d consider a reasonable amount independently, so we’ve decided to set up a partnership, should you accept our figure. We’re willing to make a good offer, an offer that will be hard for anyone to match. That would allow us to carry on with Artur’s work philosophy, which we both share.”

“I see,” Enrique hid his budding surprise. “Look, Guillem, to be perfectly honest, I still haven’t decided what I’m going to do with the business. I’ll make a decision in a few days, and when I do, I’ll call you. I assume your number’s in Artur’s phone book.”

“Yes, it’s in there for sure. I’d appreciate that. And pardon me for bothering you, but I’d like to ask you one last thing before I hang up.”

“Go ahead.”

“Has anyone else made an offer on Artur’s shop?”

“Yes, Samuel Horowitz made the same proposal just yesterday. Why?”

“Old Samuel. Uh-huh. I should’ve seen that one coming. Okay, it’s always good to know who you’re up against. I look forward to hearing from you. Thanks for everything,” he added quickly before hanging up.

“Don’t mention it,” said Enrique, too late, to no one. He had hardly hung up the phone when alarms began sounding in his head. In just twenty-four hours, the last three people that Artur had spoken to before he died had offered to buy the shop as well as its contents. Had the circumstances lacked the logical order they now seemed to take on, this could have been considered natural, but unfortunately, it was only getting more conspicuous. Something was going on right under his nose, and he had not realized it until speaking to Guillem. The manuscript belonged to the lot sold by the Bergués family, and that meant that it had come into Artur’s hands a few days prior to his death. Just as Fornells had said, his three antiquarian colleagues were the last people in his circle to see Artur alive, save for the owner of the Bar del Pi and the parking attendants who he had barely spoken to. Was it plausible that one of them had found out how important the manuscript was and, under the cover of the weekend, murdered him to steal the book and eliminate a possible competitor? Or maybe they only meant to steal the book and were surprised by Artur.

It all seemed to fit. One of the three antiques dealers could be the killer, but which one? He would have to rule out Samuel. After all, how could a man kill his best friend of twenty years? No, it couldn’t have been Samuel. And if he was off the list of suspects, only two names were left: Guillem and Enric, who had already made their first move. He would have to find the way to unmask the killer, tell the police, and ask if they wanted him to find out what they were after.

Tell the police … What was he thinking? In seconds, he had gone from considering Fornells’s theory ridiculous to thinking about telling it all to him. Of course, if he did that he would never be able to discover the mystery hidden in the manuscript, or at least not exclusively, but he could not withhold information from the police that might help them solve the case. And anyway, wasn’t it a little absurd to consider Guillem and Enric suspects? Two antiquarians and good friends of his father’s, despite the generation gap, about whom Artur had only the nicest things to say in his letters, and even in person and in front of Guillem, as had occurred four years earlier?

It couldn’t be. It would be best to forget about it all for a while and focus on the translation. Once he finished it would be time to rethink the whole affair. And so, like so many times before, Enrique drove dark thoughts from his head by simply burying it in the sand. He switched off his cell phone, disconnected the line in Artur’s living room, and went back to work.

Two days later, he had a fairly clear idea of what had transpired in the early fifteenth century which, to his surprise, was merely an extension of previous events. The manuscript allowed Enrique to infer that the architect had been but a small piece in the overall workings of the story, which dated back to a distant past.

The manuscript made it clear that Casadevall had contacted a group of Jewish converts. Although the Jews had publicly repudiated their religion, in private they kept up their precepts and principles. Rabbis, as the only valid interpreters of the law, were the figures of greatest relevance among their people. S. had a notable moral aura about him, leading Enrique to deduce he was the group’s spiritual leader. His being named in the manuscript by his initial could have been a simple measure of caution: it would be better if no one could connect the initial with a specific person, and for this to be possible, all specific mentions of him in a written document were to be avoided.

It was also plain that their meetings, which were sporadic at first, became more regular over time. Enrique interpreted this as the consolidation of a fluid relationship, once the initial reluctance had been overcome. There was not much said about the reasons for the meetings: brief references to places and people, simple dashes of information that contrasted with the meticulously detailed entries found at the beginning of the text. The architect did not want to risk forgetting the information about the meetings, but he could not afford to explicitly record them either. Extreme discretion seemed to guide it all.

A specific date: May 12, 1401. That day marked an end to the sparse monotony of the entries. With a surge of enthusiasm, Casadevall had written the following words:

We’re in the middle of May, the month Hebrews call Shevat and the Muslims Jumada. A miracle has occurred this month: today they are going to show it to me for the first time! S. told me that today I will attend a different sort of gahal from the others. I have asked them so many times I still can’t believe they have decided to do it. May God help and enlighten me.

There it was! For the first time he seemed close to his target. Enrique did not stop to wonder about the meaning of the comment, and kept analyzing the text, hoping to find a clue that would take him to the solution of the ever-growing list of enigmas. The next page was rife with odd observations leading up to a categorical, near-dramatic conclusion. Once he had completed the tedious translation of these pages, which he considered key, he carefully reread his work; although he was sure it would be pocked with errors, he thought they could be minimized considering that there was continuity to the overall meaning. As he went over his work again, his tolerance for surprise increased, to the point that the text seemed unable to shock him anymore. What did it all mean—that whole story and, especially, those lines that were etched in his memory?

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 down on part of the molding that encircled the altar. The place where the seal was 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 in these pages. Everything S. had said was true. The only proof needed was that his name was there, and S. dared pronounce it.

Then came a void, a pause. It seemed as if the architect had thought back on what had happened, or been frightened on reading what he had written. In any event, a space of several lines was left blank, a space that would have corresponded to the end of the story, which, for some reason, had been cut off.

They were right. It is my duty as a Christian, and a man, 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. 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 humankind. Fully knowing, I damn myself. May the Lord have mercy on my soul.

Thus ended that part of the text, on which Enrique had focused his efforts over the pervious two days. What could it be? What was Casadevall talking about? “May God forgive me,” he had written. What had he seen and touched with his hands to commit such a horrible sin? It was more than clear that it was an object of great import, but the text did not seem to clarify why. Religious significance? Probably so, but that need to hide it from the view of others “forever” was so strange. And the reference to “his name” did not in itself clarify anything either.

Moved by a growing passion, Enrique continued the partial translation of the text hoping to find a clue that would clarify what it was about, but the next pages only contained notes about the construction process on several buildings. Several master builders active at the time were listed, giving insight into the construction projects underway. The long, detailed list made for a break from the high tension that had emanated from the previous entries. Enrique pondered the reason why the architect would make such an exhaustive list, and settled for the only conclusion possible: he was looking for a place to keep—and more than that, permanently hide—the object in question. The list contained the different possibilities before him. Several of them were marked with numbers following no apparent order. It appeared as if, once he had completed the list, he had randomly chosen the best-suited buildings before coming to a final decision. Enrique pored over the list in the hopes of finding a note, number, or signal of any kind that would allow him to identify the site chosen; but he had to give in to the evidence: nothing seemed to indicate that any one of them had prevailed over the others. The note that concluded the diary offered nothing in the way of clarification, although it did reflect a certainty that was evident to Casadevall, and exasperating to Enrique.

I’ve 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.

Confounding matters, most of the buildings listed were at least five hundred years old, and the city, though its historical center was more or less intact, had changed enough to make the diary’s references to streets and buildings useless to locate many of them. Nowadays, five-hundred-year-old buildings were in the minority, as much in Barcelona as in any other city in the world. That made the few that persisted in their fight against time easy to find, and Enrique knew where nearly all of them were. But that wasn’t enough. Enrique had come to a dead end. He had a vast knowledge of the city—Artur had seen to that ever since he was a boy—but it was not unlimited knowledge. Without help, it would be impossible not only to find the object, but even to identify the sites where it could have been hidden. Only the combination of his encyclopedic knowledge, his deep love for his city, and his unmatched acumen as a historian had allowed Artur to determine where “it” must have been hidden, and Enrique simply didn’t know enough to crack the code.

For the third time in his life, he felt defeated. The first was when he’d been told of his parents’ death; he was old enough to fully understand it, but too young to soon forget it. The second time was when Bety had announced—with the stark absence of emotion that comes from an irrevocable decision—that she was leaving him. Even the knowledge that it was the only possible ending to their relationship did not ready him for such news, and he couldn’t help feeling devastated. It took him time to accept the new situation, but his personality, then outgoing and jovial, saw him through. And now, still reeling from the murder of the person he loved the most, sitting before the clue that would tell why he had been killed, he felt incapable of solving the puzzle. Beyond that, he felt he was close to, but had no idea how to unmask, his father’s killer.

He rallied his energies to eliminate the rage and powerlessness, and to empty his mind and think more clearly. Blinded by frustration at his inability to make progress, he would not have been capable of reaching the only possible conclusion: he needed help, and he knew who could give it to him. He took his phone book out of the duffel bag and looked up some numbers. He dialed the number for Carlos Hidalgo’s home phone, but got no answer. He tried his work number. After the fourth ring, an answering machine came on. The same thing happened with his cell phone. He didn’t leave any messages; if Carlos was not at home or in his office, Enrique knew just where to find him. He left the house after collecting The Practice of Christian Perfection and all of his notes. After nestling it all in a broad jacket pocket, he got into the car.

He descended the winding Vallvidrera Highway slowly, delighting in the views of Barcelona—his Barcelona—and was beset by an overpowering wave of nostalgia. Lost in the evocations of a time that now seemed distant to him, it was not long before he found himself in the midst of the city’s dense traffic. His thoughts meandered down strange, uncontrollable tracks as he drove. Artur should not have died; he was a good, noble, and honest man. All he had wanted was to live surrounded by his antiques, and he had taken in a poor orphan as if he were his own son. He could have lived on a desert island, been a new Robinson Crusoe, never needing anyone around him, because no one was as self-sufficient as he. And Artur had taken time to give love, friendship, tenderness, and anything else that was needed to a lonely child. Now he was dead, sealed away in a cold vault. Why did he have to die?

He began to drive aggressively, in true reflection of his mood. He accelerated down Balmes Street, weaving in and out of the many vehicles traveling it at that hour. He had to brake hard when a traffic light suddenly changed color. Surrounded by several astonished drivers, he became aware of how they were staring at him: in confusion, anger, even fear. But he paid no mind. He couldn’t have cared less about what they thought. He took a deep breath and tried to calm down, acknowledging that he was out of control, possessed by an aggressive version of himself that reared its head from time to time, taking over everything. It was the distorted version of his personality that he hated so much. He needed to calm down.

A honk let him know that the light had turned green. He drove on, his mind blank, trying not to think about anything. Ten minutes later, he parked his car in the Olympic Harbor. The cool evening breeze made him realize how wet his cheeks were. He took some tissues out of the glove compartment and wiped off his face. Once he settled down, he walked toward the berthing area. A small light mounted on the deck of one the boats confirmed his intuition.

“Excuse me sir, this area’s off-limits,” said a security guard standing under a palm tree. “Boat owners only.”

“I was heading to pontoon five, to El Corsario. I’m a friend of the owner.”

The guard took his time appraising him. Enrique looked normal enough, and it was true that a yacht under that name was berthed on pontoon five, but something about Enrique’s face must have struck him wrong; he still had doubts about letting him past. Enrique stared back at him and the guard soon looked away. Though it was obvious that he was not yet over the aggressiveness that had possessed him, the guard, perhaps with the experience of similar binds, decided to avoid a conflict they didn’t pay him enough to engage in.

“Okay, go ahead.” He unhooked the chain that blocked the pedestrian access.

Enrique didn’t bother to thank him. To him, the watchman was nothing but an insect of the kind he despised, and with whom he was at war that night; a minute bug unworthy of his attention unless it got in the way of his duties. He walked along the pier, leaving the first four pontoons behind. When he reached the fifth, he walked down the steps, and the gentle sway of the sea beneath the floating wood immediately, as if by magic, soothed his mood. The sea—his only companion in the worst of times—had that power over him. Almost at the end of the pontoon, a thirty-three-foot boat rocked on the water. It was berthed with the stern to the pontoon. Enrique put one foot on the mooring bollard and was on the deck with an agile jump. A head poked out of the gangway: the weight of Enrique’s body on the deck had moved the boat, alerting its owner to his presence. Momentarily blinded by the difference of light, the boat’s captain couldn’t make out his visitor. He was about to ask who it was, but stopped just before the words escaped. A smile lit up his suntanned face. He pushed the bangs of his long, thick hair away from his piercing green eyes and slowly came up on deck. He wore sun-bleached clothing, like any true boater who loved the sea beyond fads and social grandstanding. He wasn’t tall, perhaps five feet seven, but his limbs were sinewy and strong, tempered by hard sea life.

“Surprised to see you here,” said the yachtsman, “It’s been so long I’d almost forgotten what you looked like.”

Enrique approached the gangway, and his host’s smile slowly faded. He sat down in the cockpit and stared out toward the mouth of the port, not bothering to answer.

“What’s going on?” his old friend Carlos asked, picking up Enrique’s inner turmoil in one glance.

He got no answer. Carlos remained cautious, and added nothing else. If Enrique was there it must have been because he needed his help. After so many years of friendship, and living through so much together, he knew just how his friend acted and felt. They had been buddies since they were teenagers. He waited patiently for Enrique to gather the strength to break his silence and tell him what was bothering him. Finally, after several minutes, Enrique spoke up.

“I’d like to sail a while,” he murmured, his voice cracking and hoarse, a voice that got caught in his throat, as if resisting disclosure of his fears and anxieties.

“Not a bad idea,” answered Carlos in a conciliatory tone, eager to make things easy for him, “It’s a beautiful night and a soft west wind is blowing. We’ll sail, just like old times. You get the lines, I’ll take the wheel.”

Enrique undid the knot that bound the Corsario to the small bollard on the pontoon while Carlos turned on the running lights and started the motor. The purr of the diesel engine was barely audible over the din of the numerous bars and restaurants flanking the piers of a marina that had become a hot nightspot. With the ease that comes from experience, Carlos maneuvered the Corsario, turning toward the open sea. They passed the mouth of the port. Carlos turned the stern into the wind so that, without a single order given, Enrique could hoist the mainsail. Then he turned off the deck light, cut the motor, and set the jib. The wind, soft but constant, blew the little sailboat with blithe lightness. Having completed the operations necessary for the Corsario to sail for hours without further attention, Enrique sat back in the cockpit next to Carlos, who steered nonchalantly with one hand, more intent on his friend’s mood than the sailing itself.

“The sea jackets are down below, in the cabinet next to the galley. Put one on and bring the other one up for me. And something to drink.”

Enrique obediently peeled off his coat and was soon back on deck with heavy sea jackets and two cans of beer. Carlos put his on, more to ward off the inevitable night dew than any real cold, and then opened the cans. They drank in silence. The wind, much cooler at sea than on land, delicately caressed their faces.

“I needed this,” said Enrique. “Thanks, Carlos.”

“Don’t thank me. This way, if I’m ever in San Sebastián and I ask you to take me out, you can’t say no,” Carlos smiled. He took a deep breath and kept speaking. “Feel any better?”

“Yes.” It was true. Enrique’s face had released the tension accumulated over days of piling concentration upon grief. He left it behind as soon as he boarded the Corsario.

Carlos knew that Enrique was relaxing, little by little. Sailing had always done wonders for the cranky, volatile character that had dictated most of his friend’s actions since those distant days when they were just getting started in their seagoing adventures. Whenever he had spent a few days sailing, the naturally aggressive reactions inherent to his friend’s personality tended to fade, diluted by the sea’s immensity and the obligatory teamwork that sailors’ lives depend on. Sailing was like a remedy that could transform him.

Carlos couldn’t help but think back to a trip they had made together in similar circumstances; if he was remembering it purely by association of ideas, he was sure his friend would be too. And what better than a nostalgia-laden memory of youth to break, once and for all, the chains of preoccupation that kept Enrique from expressing himself?

“Seeing you now, at night, here on the deck, reminds me of our teenage craziness that Easter vacation. Remember? Remember how ballsy that was?”

Enrique covered his face with both hands, leaving only his eyes visible. Carlos couldn’t tell if he was smiling, but a sparkle shined in his eyes on remembering their first big adventure. Of course he remembered it. How could he ever forget something like that?

Things had been different then. In those days, Carlos and Enrique, fourth-year sailing students at the Real Club Naútico de Barcelona sailing school, had struck up a fast friendship they assumed would last forever. Inseparable buddies, they spent every free moment at the yacht club, where they were known to everyone. Their sole aim was to get on board any boat from the port that was seabound and might need an extra hand. Usually they were just day trips, and both friends were in the habit of phoning their families before embarking, to let them know where they were. But the trip Carlos was talking about was altogether different. Ángel Llompart, an heir from a well-moneyed family, had planned to sail to Minorca for the weekend. His parents had been kind enough to give him a beautiful, completely outfitted thirty-three-footer that probably cost them a small fortune. Ángel enjoyed sailing, but he tended to sail with smaller boats, and never unaccompanied. For the trip to Minorca, his first with the new boat, he decided to enlist the help of the two friends. With a bigger crew, the voyage would be safer. But Carlos and Enrique knew for certain that their parents would never let them embark on a trip that was sixteen hours in total, and much less with a beginner—his first time out in a new boat. And so, by mutual agreement, and fascinated at age sixteen by the magnitude of their boldness, they decided to lie to their parents and say that each was spending the weekend at the other’s house.

Around ten o’clock Sunday evening, they put into the port of Barcelona. To their surprise, Artur and Carlos’s parents were waiting for them on the dock, with less-than-friendly looks on their faces. By sheer chance, they had run into each other while out for a morning walk along the Ramblas, so the boys’ little conspiracy was found out. Though they were worried at first, the parents found that their children’s sea jackets were missing from each house, so it didn’t take them long to deduce that they were at sea. They went to the club, where several members claimed to have seen them leaving in Ángel Llompart’s sailboat. The route sheet Ángel had left in the offices clearly indicated the destination and hours planned for arrival in Mahon and Barcelona. Thus, when Carlos and Enrique tossed a line onto the pontoon and saw their parents, their hearts sank as their world collapsed around them. Two instant and powerful slaps did away with their desire for adventure for some time.

Carlos had chosen just the right memory. Enrique seemed to have dispelled his melancholy completely, and had gotten into a more comfortable, approachable mood, just enough to discover what the real problem that had brought him there was.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Carlos asked, without beating around the bush.

“Artur’s dead. Murdered.” Saying it out loud took a heavy burden off Enrique.

“Oh, God. When?”

“A week ago. They found him dead in his shop the Monday after Sant Jordi’s Day. Someone beat him over the head with a marble paperweight. You know the shop: one of the blows knocked him over the rail of his study down to the shop floor. As if that wasn’t enough, his killer wanted to make sure he got the job done, so he finished him off with an antique letter opener. Then he turned the shop inside out, took Artur’s keys, went to his house, and did the same thing.”

“Jesus.” Things were becoming clearer. He now knew not only why Enrique was upset, but also that he had nowhere else to go but to him. Carlos Hidalgo, private investigator. And not just any private investigator, no amateur gumshoe, but one of the best in the city with a reputation respected nationwide. “Who’s on the case?”

“Captain Fornells. Know him?”

“Yeah, of course. He’s a veteran, an expert. And absolutely old-school. Fornells is a leftover from the Franco days, probably pushing retirement now, but he’s still got a nose for the work and gets results. If he’s in charge, then you stand a real chance of catching the killer, as long as he’s got reasonable evidence and clues.”

“The police have a few clues, but they won’t find the killer,” answered Enrique.

“Why do you say that?”

“Fornells gave me a rundown of the possibilities. It could have been a local stickup job.”

“Not likely,” answered Carlos, “Even the pettiest criminal would know that antiquarians don’t handle cash, that it’s a credit card business.”

“That’s exactly what Fornells said, and he’s right. But on the other hand, Artur had instigated a police investigation about all of these strange new antiques shops in Barcelona. He thought they might have been something of a money-laundering ring.”

“That sounds more plausible, even though people in rings like that tend not to get their hands dirty. Killings, beatings—all that stuff’s pure Hollywood. It has nothing to do with real life, much less as we know it here, at least for now. Have they made any progress?”

“Not yet. They’re waiting to see what the Financial Crimes Unit gives them.”

“Right. What else?”

“They’re not going to find the killer because they’re following the wrong clues,” Enrique answered somberly.

“What do you mean?” Carlos tossed a rope, and waited for his friend to answer. He was good at his trade. No hurry.

“Artur was doing research on an old manuscript from the early fifteenth century. He had found something, I don’t know what, but it was important. Look at this.” He dug into the inner pocket of the sea jacket and took out the letter his father wrote the day before he died. “Here, in the postscript.”

Carlos turned on the deck light and read the postscript twice with his full attention.

“You think they could’ve killed him over that discovery?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“You said the killer went through Artur’s house. If he did, either the manuscript he wanted wasn’t in the shop, or he couldn’t find it.”

“That’s right.”

“Did he find it at his house in Vallvidrera?”

“No.”

“Then you must have it,” concluded Carlos.

Enrique said nothing.

“How could it be that, if the killer knew the manuscript, he didn’t find it in Artur’s shop or house?”

“You read the postscript. Artur had a strange feeling about it, so he swapped the book’s covers with another one from his collection. Since it looked like any other book and was surrounded by five hundred others, no one could have found it—unless they knew the secret.”

“If you think the police can’t find the killer it’s because they’re looking in the wrong place,” Carlos continued his reasoning, “and if you think that, it means, first off, that they don’t know about the manuscript, and second, that you have an idea as to who did it.”

“Yeah, that’s right. There were three men who could have seen the manuscript that contained the discovery. It was when Artur was sorting out the books from the last lot he’d acquired. One of them, Samuel Horowitz, I’d rule out. He was, and is, a lifelong family friend, and there’s no way he could be mixed up in something like this.”

“That name sounds familiar. I must’ve come across it sometime. But you’re wrong to think like that. It’s been proven that in ninety percent of all murder cases, the killer is someone close, a relative or friend of the victim,” he added, unruffled, speaking more out of his profession than his friendship.

“That’s impossible. I’d never believe something like that could happen. They’d been friends since they were kids! Growing up I spent almost as much time at his house as I did my own!”

“Okay,” Carlos interrupted. “Go on.”

“The other two are Guillem Cardús and Enric Torner, these two younger antiques dealers. I think one of them, if not both of them working together, caused my father’s death.”

“Do you know them personally?”

“Not that well. It’s been years since they got into the antiques business, but by the time they bought their own shops I’d already moved to San Sebastián. What I know about them is from the times Artur would talk shop to me. They’re competent professionals. Guillem’s a people person, outgoing. Enric’s more reserved. You could even say shy. But both are brilliant, with a real knack for the business. Their shops make money, and Artur had told me about them, praising their skill, and especially their style.”

“Then they’d also be among Artur’s friends.”

“Yes. They had this little coffee gathering once a week.”

“Listen, Enrique, are you sure of what you’re saying?”

“Absolutely.”

Carlos slowly nodded, as if letting Enrique’s story ripen inside his mind. The wind backed from the north; with one succinct movement he ordered Enrique to change over the foresail and tacked the boat back toward the Olympic Harbor.

“Tell me what else you know,” he ordered. “With the information you’ve given me so far, there’s no way to consider them suspects. You’ve got to know more than you’re telling.”

“I do know more. In just three days, I’ve had two offers to purchase Artur’s shop. Both of them are from the last three people to see my father alive, and the last ones to have a conversation with him. The first was from Samuel, and the second from Guillem and Enric, who are willing to set up a partnership to be able to pay for it. It’s too much to be a coincidence.”

“I see. But be careful, because it could be. If they were the people who had the most contact with Artur in the antiques world, it’s only reasonable that they offer to work with you or even buy the shop. But you’re right: thirteen years in this business has made me suspicious of coincidences.” Carlos finished off his beer. “I assume you’ve told me the whole story because you need my help.”

“You’re right.”

“Enrique, I need to know something important. How come you haven’t told any of this to Fornells? I’d say the information you’ve withheld from him could be fundamental to solving the case. Why do it?”

Enrique thought before answering. Not even he had a logical explanation, other than his desire to find out what had been discovered that could drive a man to kill.

“I don’t know. I had the impression that his death was linked to the manuscript, and when I found it and held it in my hands, I was sure of it,” Enrique said, going off on a tangent. “And then I—”

“Answer the question.”

Enrique responded with a prolonged silence.

“Tell me, now. What is in that manuscript that would make people willing to kill to get it?”

“I don’t know,” Enrique answered curtly. Carlos fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it with a windproof lighter.

“There’s too much you don’t know.” He looked at his friend gravely. “I don’t like that. You should have gone to the police, and told them what you found instead of coming to me. Let me remind you that holding back information that could lead to a case being closed is a crime in itself, not to mention morally wrong.”

“They clubbed Artur with a paperweight three times, until he fell out of his study down to the showroom. Then they stabbed him with a letter opener through the ribs all the way to his heart. That swine showed no compassion. Help me hunt down the son of a bitch who killed my father,” Enrique said softly, with utter calm.

Carlos took a long, deep drag on his cigarette and nodded his head slightly. The story made no sense whatsoever, but Enrique was his friend, and there was no going against that.

“I’ll try.”

5

Over the next few days, Enrique found himself forced to do one of the things he most hated in life: wait. There was an entire universe of activities awaiting him, all of them having to do with the manuscript, although his true interest didn’t lie in the archives and libraries he visited in the hopes of finding a clue that could lead him to the spot where the architect had hidden the object; he was more interested in the news that Carlos could give him on his father’s murderer. With concern weighing on him, the delayed wait put him through an unbearable suffering that nearly made him lose his composure more than once. The only undertaking he considered worthwhile was arranging the relocation of Artur’s book collection from the shop to his house. The specialized company he had commissioned treated the books gently, with every precaution imaginable, and the staff’s competency was duly reflected on the bottom line of the bill.

But on another front, the combination of Enrique’s meager patience and the lack of progress in the investigation made for an explosive mix, an indigestible cocktail that very few would have been able to withstand.

At last, Carlos got back in touch. One day on returning to Artur’s house, Enrique found, among others, a brief message on his cell phone voice mail; his interest was inversely proportionate to its duration: “This is Carlos. Call me as soon as you can.”

Enrique didn’t ignore the other calls. Bety insisted on keeping up constant communication with him, even though he was frankly uninterested. Her intuition told her he was keeping something from her. Enrique avoided talking to his ex-wife, because he was sure of one thing: he had never been able to hide anything from her, and he would not be able to now. Knowing this, he only called her when he was sure she would be at the university. He left her messages contrived to give her peace of mind, but he wouldn’t be able to keep it up much longer without fueling her suspicion.

Another of the messages was from Samuel. He asked how Enrique was doing and urged him to call. The old man’s concern touched a soft spot in Enrique. So many years of friendship … no doubt Samuel felt a certain responsibility for his friend’s adopted son.

The fourth, and no less interesting, call was from Fornells. The captain asked Enrique to come see him at the Raval Precinct during business hours.

He decided to call Carlos. Of all the messages, his was the most important. He dialed the number; a sweet-sounding female voice unfamiliar to Enrique answered.

“Hello?”

“Good evening. Is Carlos there?”

“Yes, he is. Just a minute. Who’s calling?”

“Enrique Alonso.”

Carlos came on the line half a minute later. “Sorry, I was in the shower.”

“I didn’t know you had company. I can call you back later.”

“No, I was just getting out. I left you a message; we need to talk.”

“Have you found anything?” Enrique’s voice gave away his impatience.

“No. That’s exactly why we need to talk.”

“When?” he asked, hiding his disappointment.

“Tomorrow afternoon. Come by my office around six. It’ll be quiet around then. See you tomorrow.” He hung up without giving Enrique a chance to say good-bye.

Disappointed and upset by the lack of results, Enrique passed on calling Bety or Samuel. He ate the first thing he found for dinner and fell into bed hoping to doze off as soon as possible. As on the previous days, sleep did not come until nearly daybreak.

Enrique planned his morning during breakfast: he hoped that the archbishopric’s archive could somehow help him; then, first thing in the afternoon he would visit Fornells, from whom he expected little news; after that he would stop by Carlos’s office in Plaça Reial.

That morning, like all the others, did little to improve his mood. He had the historical context for his investigation perfectly mapped out, but that was no guarantee of success. As on previous days, he randomly dug through countless deteriorating old writs, extracting nothing but a long list of events unrelated to what he was looking for. At midday, tired of wasting time, he abandoned the mute documents for a later date. He ate a quiet lunch and had coffee in the courtyard of the Ateneu, the cultural association where, though not a member, he was well-known for having given several lectures, which opened doors usually restricted to an elite few. When it was time, he took the Ramblas down toward the seafront. As usual, the pedestrian avenue was jammed with people of every kind, a kaleidoscopic parade of confused strangers wandering in search of who-knew-what. Out of pure habit he stopped at a newsstand to buy the Diario Vasco newspaper; in San Sebastián he only bought the Barcelona standard La Vanguardia, but while married he had read the Diario, Bety’s newspaper. Now, without knowing why, he walked toward Plaça Reial leafing casually through the pages of a paper that evoked in him confusing and distorted, albeit sweet, thoughts of his adopted hometown. Enrique folded up the newspaper. He lodged it under his arm and turned, taken by a sudden hunch. He thought he had seen someone he knew among the bewildering swirl of people walking in every direction, but the indecipherable movement of the crowd kept him from recognizing anyone. If his instinct was right it had been Rodríguez, the young detective helping Fornells with the case, but he could not be sure. It was not unusual to see someone dressed in a suit and tie in that area, though most people preferred a more casual and carefree style. Still, Enrique was somehow sure it was not an employee from one of the nearby banks. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see Rodríguez either, though, as the Raval Precinct was close by, and there was nothing odd about running into the captain’s right-hand man out on the Ramblas. He tried to appear nonchalant, but he could not avoid a certain unease, which he feared would be plain to see.

Soon afterwards, Enrique was standing in front of the Raval Precinct station. A noisy commotion spiked by three or four earsplitting sirens had served as beacons to help him locate it. Three plainclothes police officers got out of a squad car leading a handcuffed and altogether nondescript individual with a gaze that was lost, as if detached from the surrounding reality. They treated him with the abruptness employed by people when something repels or frightens them. Enrique watched them walk the man through a door at the back of the entry hall, which most probably led to the holding cells. Among the bustle of fifteen or twenty people heading in different directions, Enrique managed to find Fornells, who greeted him with a gesture indicating for him to come up the stairs. Fornells seemed as tired and vacant as the detainee. Enrique saw in Fornells’s face the bitter taste of an infinite fatigue, the belief that, no matter what he did, he would never break the natural order of undesired yet inevitable events. Fornells entered through the same door as the cuffed man, first barking a few orders at the convoluted gaggle milling around the entry hall. As if by consensus decision, the crowd quickly dissolved. In a second they went from wandering aimlessly, imprisoned by the confusion and overcome by some unexpected event, to discovering in the voice of the captain a handhold to bring them back to their usual duties.

Enrique also awoke from the collective daydream and walked into the station building. One of the officers told him he would have to wait. Enrique asked what had happened, but no one bothered to answer him, possibly because no one had realized he was there. It took Fornells nearly half an hour to come out. Without saying a word, he invited Enrique into his office.

“What took you so long to come? Well, it doesn’t matter,” he said with a wave of his hand. “Sorry, but we have a little situation here.” He still had the distracted air Enrique had noticed in the entry hall. “Some asshole just killed one of our squad on a routine search. The killer’s neighbors heard a ruckus in his apartment and called us half an hour ago. We sent a squad car to see what was going on. Our guys knock on the noisy neighbor’s door and as soon as they ask him to identify himself he takes a pistol out of his jacket and shoots our officer right in the head. Turns out he had walked in on his wife in bed with his best friend, and the son of a bitch couldn’t kill them; he had to go and kill one of my boys.”

“I’m sorry,” said Enrique, after mulling over the most appropriate response for the circumstances and coming up with nothing better.

“Poor kid,” said Fornells, shaking his head.

“If you’d like, I can come back later, or tomorrow—”

“No, no.” He was cut off by the captain, who appeared to have recovered his usual pace with Enrique’s gesture.

“I’ve made you come down here, so I won’t let you go until I tell you the news.”

“Have you made any progress?” Enrique asked hopefully.

“On the contrary. I got the report from the Financial Crimes Unit. Artur was right: the new shops do appear to be a front for laundering money from illegal activities, but the legal aspects are, for the moment, so well-covered that I would rule them out as having anything to do with the murder. The findings conclude, Enrique, that not only do we have no evidence to build a case against them for money laundering, although it’s obvious that’s the real reason for opening these shops, but the report adds the following point: their only desire is to keep a low profile, and a murder is the surest way to draw unwanted attention. Unfortunately, their analysis matches ours exactly.”

“Fornells, if they didn’t do it, who the hell did?”

The detective inhaled noisily before answering. “I don’t know, kid. I don’t know, I thought Financial Crimes would clear some things up, but they’ve done just the opposite. We’ll just have to take a new tack on the whole thing.”

“Damn.” Enrique’s response was more a confirmation of an irreversible fact than a true display of disappointment. It sounded false to him, although he was sure Fornells hadn’t noticed. He didn’t know whether to be happy or sad at the news.

“I’m sorry,” the captain said, more out of social convention than true regret. “Enrique, let me ask you again: are you sure you’re not aware of any detail, no matter how trivial, that might point us in the right direction? I’m thinking … something you might not think of as a clue, something Artur could have said to you that seemed out of the ordinary, something he was worried about. I don’t know—anything unusual.”

Enrique felt as if Fornells could look through him, seeing everything he was hiding with absolute transparency. He was trapped in the center of the spiderweb, paralyzed, his heart racing and his stomach churning as he became enveloped in a wave of shame that swelled from within. Was Fornells insisting because he suspected something? Was it sheer chance that Enrique had seen—or thought he had seen—Fornells’s lieutenant following him? His hands began to sweat; as if he was back in his childhood, like a boy caught in a lie, Enrique got ready to talk, to let it all go, to tell the truth and apologize to Fornells for all his mistakes. The words were on the verge of spilling out of his mouth when he saw Fornells’s expression: he was not looking at him. His thoughts were elsewhere, preoccupied by something else, probably the young officer who had just lost his life. Enrique understood then that he had nothing to fear. Fornells’s question was purely rhetorical, an exercise in personal style by an old cop who repeated his routine, necessary and boring, expecting nothing, but unable to do it any other way.

“No.” No further elaboration was necessary.

“Are you going to stay in the city?”

“For now, yes, but I can’t stay in Barcelona too much longer. I guess I’ll go back home in a few days.”

“Let me know if you decide to return to San Sebastián.”

“I will. Good-bye.”

It didn’t take him long to cover the distance to Plaça Reial on foot. At that time of the evening, the arcaded square offered a peculiar appearance. Its apparent calm could fool no one: its balconies, walls, and still-closed nightclubs radiated an uncontainable energy that threatened to spill over as soon as the sun went down. By day, the square was not dead, but it stayed hidden under a subtle disguise that made it palatable to passers-by who trusted in the proper order of things. At night, with a simple change of lighting, it shed its costume to become a world that was bizarre, unconventional, and offbeat, but no less beautiful.

At doorway 18, next door to the bar Ambos Mundos—whose inspired name, meaning “both worlds,” was a perfect reflection of the ambivalent reality surrounding it—was the office of Hidalgo Investigations. The door was open. An old superintendent watched him with curiosity tainted by boredom. In an instant, he had Enrique correctly pegged as someone whose only interest could be in the investigator’s office. Without adding anything, displaying that admirable economy of resources that comes with age, he uttered “third floor” in a barely decipherable grunt.

A sign hung on the elevator door: “Out of Order.” The stairwell, only painted on the ground floor, plainly reflected the downtrodden reality of the entire district: paint so faded by time that no one could have imagined its original color, peeling plaster, and every species of graffiti. On the second-floor landing, he heard a woman’s voice shrieking out a string of obscenities, punctuated by the sound of breaking glass. Someone was in the thick of it, no doubt.

He pressed the doorbell on the third-floor landing. No one answered. He gave the door a push; it was open. A spacious, high-ceilinged sitting room, commonly found in what, in a now-distant time, was a home of certain standing, had been converted into a business premises. The decor consisted of several desks laden with papers, documents, and computer monitors, and, in a corner, a small table and several armchairs next to a coffee machine. In the back, next to a picture window, was Carlos’s office.

He sat with his back to the window, with several reports on his lap, not even pretending to read them. He didn’t know why, but Enrique got the impression that Carlos was waiting for him to enter at that very moment; he even thought he could sense the coming conversation and the news it would bring. Or did he know why? Maybe it was the hint of wisdom that Carlos’s blank stare betrayed, or the cigarette that smoldered lazily in the ashtray, oblivious to its owner. After bringing him up to date, he would show neither surprise nor indifference. Once they were comfortably seated at the desk, Enrique began the conversation.

“So then …”

Carlos puckered his lips and stroked his chin.

“It’s like I told you on the phone. Nothing.”

“What do you mean?” Enrique asked, alarmed.

“I mean that I’ve gathered what I could on your two suspects, and nothing seems to indicate that they could be called that.”

“Walk me through it.”

“Well, let’s see …” He rummaged through a pile of folders, extracting two. “Guillem Cardús Solans. Youngest son of the Cardús family, well-heeled people from Sant Cugat. Made their fortune in real estate. Before devoting himself fully to antiques, he studied history, with an emphasis on classical history. Took several postgraduate courses. Always got good grades, but partied as hard as he studied all through college. Well-known on the upscale nightlife circuit. Doesn’t do any drugs, though he’s been known to hit the bottle a little too hard. Likeable, outgoing, a born charmer. He matches the profile of the suspect that never raises any suspicion, then turns out to be guilty. The night of the crime, he was seen in several nightspots, like Otto Zutz and Up&Down. He was there at approximately the same time as the murder, as per Dr. Santiago’s autopsy. The witnesses seemed reliable—they weren’t just friends of his. And so, theoretically, he’s automatically ruled out as your possible killer.

“The other is Enric Torner i Pons. Philologist, expert in Latin, classical Greek … This is interesting; he’s published three articles on bibliophilia. He’s well-respected in the academic world, from which he’s never strayed. He was awarded an assistant lecturer’s post in the College of Philology at the University of Barcelona, but he never took it, officially for professional reasons; he inherited his father’s antiques shop when he died. But unofficially, they say he passed on the university position because there’s no way he could do the job, shy as he is. Doesn’t smoke, drink, take drugs, go clubbing, or sleep around. And his alibi isn’t of the airtight variety, but it’s pretty good. The night of the crime he was in Santa Cristina de Aro, at a friend’s beach house. The friend in question, Anabel Garrido, backed him up in her statement to the investigator. She’s the sole witness, but her word seems above any doubt. There are some receipts from toll roads, which is how he got there. The police have ruled him out, although again, unofficially, I can tell you they share my opinion: this guy is one of those really suspicious suspects. The weirdoes, the recluses—no one ever likes them. And that’s what Enric is. So, there you have it. The alibis are solid—especially Guillem’s. Your suspects will never be seen that way in the police’s eyes.”

“I can’t believe it! It could only have been them!”

“I told you that a string of coincidences can make anyone in this game suspicious. But with alibis like that—”

“There’s got to be something that incriminates them, however small!”

“Calm down. Getting excited like that gets you nowhere. An alibi doesn’t prove their innocence, though it does complicate the investigation in a big way. There are ways to kill a man that don’t require the direct participation of the person who instigates it. They could have hired a contract killer. But to be honest, I doubt it. And if you rule out them and Samuel Horowitz, there’s no one left to blame, at least in relation to Artur’s letter.”

“This is incredible.” Enrique did nothing to hide his disappointment.

“I know how you feel. You thought you’d found the killers, and finding out they’re not is a letdown. But that’s the way it is.”

“It had to be them,” Enrique insisted. “Only they knew the contents of the manuscript.”

“That’s not true. Samuel knew it too.” He left the sentence hanging in the air.

“No, that’s impossible. Samuel would never be able to do something like this to anyone, much less my father. For Christ’s sake, Carlos! They’d been friends for twenty years!”

“There’s no such thing as friends for life when money, power, or a woman gets in the way. I learned that years ago. And I’m surprised a man like you who writes for a living doesn’t know it.”

“What happens in novels isn’t the real world.”

“Listen to me, and listen closely. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is so sacred it can’t be bought. That’s life. Friendship, love, even salvation if you believe in religion—everything has a price. You can make a man do things he’d never imagined. All you have to do is push the right button. I could give you more than enough proof, just by opening that filing cabinet over there.” He pointed to an ancient hulk sitting with its back against a wall. “I hope the surprise of the whole thing is what’s made you talk without thinking it through. If not, I’d have a different opinion of you, although it would never change our friendship, rest assured.”

Enrique leaned out the window, and distracted himself by observing the odd menagerie of pedestrians in Plaça Reial: wandering tourists, small-time delinquents, dope peddlers in the guise of illegal immigrants sunning themselves, residents on the way home from the market.

“Well?” asked Carlos.

“Well, what?” answered Enrique.

“Wake up, my friend. You asked for help, and I gave it to you. You don’t like the answers, but maybe you didn’t ask the right questions. So answer me this: do I investigate Samuel?”

Enrique hesitated. All his old certainty had cracked under his friend’s eloquent exposé. He knew Carlos was right, but it was hard for him to accept it. Samuel, a suspect?

“Fine.” Enrique gave in to logic. “Do it.”

“I already did,” his friend said, leaning toward him and squinting.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. I already did. A detective can’t rest on his laurels. And before you go off on one of your tantrums, be quiet and listen to the reasons why.”

Indeed, Enrique felt the rage building up inside him, that detestable ire that he could not often control. But Carlos was not some stranger he had just crossed paths with; after all, they had known each other since they were children. That he had investigated Samuel was not what bothered him. What peeved Enrique was that Carlos had made an important call without checking with him.

“How could you—!”

“Shut up!” Carlos cut him off. “There’s a body on the table. This is no game. For starters, you can’t expect to run this investigation like one of your novels. I’m behind the wheel here. I agreed to help you, and I’m happy to, but remember that you’re completely unaware of the ground you’re treading on.

“Samuel’s a classic suspect, like it or not. And the problem is, I don’t think that about Samuel from what you’ve told me, but because Fornells, who’s old and therefore wise, also thinks he is. All I’ve done is look at the findings from the investigation that point in that direction, along with a couple other things. I’ll tell you, just so you know, that he doesn’t have a decent alibi. And another thing: just forty hours before your father’s murder they were seen in public, arguing. And it got a little loud, with fists slamming down on the table to boot. When asked about it, Samuel admitted they had had a difference of opinion on a professional matter they were both involved in. I know Fornells is considering it, officially speaking, although he’s ruling it out in private. He knows Samuel as well as you, if not better, and thinks he couldn’t hurt a fly. So for now, as far as Samuel’s concerned, the investigation is about finding evidence that clears him rather than the other way around.”

“What can I do now?”

“Wait. Fornells has already done everything he can, and remember, he has a lot more resources than I do. But let me finish looking into Samuel and the others through a couple of trusted informants. Once you’ve talked to Fornells and you get the report from Financial Crimes, we’ll have new information to work with.”

Enrique began an utterance that never left his mouth. Carlos, in control of the situation, spurred him on.

“You’ve already talked to Fornells,” he deduced easily.

“Yeah, I’ve just come from the station.”

“And you didn’t like what he told you. Not only that, you think I won’t like it either.”

Enrique nodded. “He has the Financial Crimes report. There is a money-laundering ring using these new shops as a front, but they’re ruling out any possible connection with Artur’s death.”

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “We should’ve expected that. That leaves us few options.” His voice suddenly caught, sounding more like that of a heavy drinker. “The idea of the mafia taking your father out just seemed too dirty. People who launder money would never get blood on their hands. The possibility of a chance holdup by a random small-time criminal isn’t likely, either. If anyone had wanted to hit the shop, we’d probably already know through the neighborhood informants. And if we rule out these three options, all we have left to go on is what we’ve already investigated.”

“You still think they’re suspects.”

“Rather than suspects, let’s say they’re possibly but improbably guilty.”

“You said they had good alibis. How can we catch them?”

“Investigating them more than we already have might scare them, and they could even go to the police. We don’t want that—or rather, you don’t.”

“So then?”

“So then we’ll have to set a trap for them. Lay out some nice bait they can’t resist, something that brings them right into our hands.”

“What bait?”

“Come on! A guy with your imagination can’t figure it out? I’m going to start thinking you have ghostwriters working for you!” Carlos said in mock indignation.

Enrique’s eyes flashed as soon as he understood Carlos’s intentions.

“It’s risky.”

“All traps are. But you use them when there’s no other way.”

“How would you do it?”

“Well, I seem to remember they made you an offer to buy Artur’s shop. Have you come to a decision?”

“No, to tell you the truth I haven’t. Puigventós, the president of the Antiquarians’ Association, told me that if I wanted to liquidate the shop and its contents the best thing would be to set up an auction. The money’s better and it could be arranged directly for the people in the antiques community, without the general public finding out. He said it was an effective, quiet way to keep it ‘all in the family.’”

“That may be just the thing to set up the trap.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Listen, they don’t necessarily know that you suspect them. That works to our advantage. Call them to a meeting at Artur’s shop. That won’t be hard to do. There you tell them you appreciate their offers, but, on this Puigventós’s advice, you’ve decided to hold an auction, and you need their help to set the starting prices for the pieces in the shop and the warehouse. Or better still, offer them a personal gift while turning down their offer. That makes it more plausible. Oh, don’t forget, Samuel needs to be there. He also made an offer, so it could be suspicious to the guilty party, or parties, if he’s not there.”

“But I—”

“Hang on, let me finish! The shop has a study, right?”

“Yes.”

“The manuscript needs to be lying out on top of the table, in plain sight, surrounded by a bunch of notes in your handwriting. Make it clear you’ve been working on it.”

“That won’t be hard.”

“I imagine it won’t,” Carlos added severely. “Leave it out where they can all see it. It has to be the centerpiece of a nonexistent liturgy. But it shouldn’t be obvious what it’s really there for. If the killer’s there, he’ll have no choice but to try and take it as soon as possible. He got rid of Artur because he was on the way to unraveling the mystery, and as soon as he sees your work, he’ll know that you are too.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It is. You know more or less how they killed your father, but you haven’t read the medical examiner’s report. I have. The killer acted in cold blood, and the brutality of the attack is a sign of total premeditation. Now you’ll be in his way. You might be in danger. But you also have another option. Go to the police and show Fornells the letter Artur sent you before he died. With that in his hand, Fornells can take over this case and save us a lot of trouble.”

“No.”

“You’re taking a big risk. But then, you’re a big boy.”

“I’ll play the game. I’ll get the bait ready as soon as possible.”

Once the door to the offices had closed, Carlos picked up the phone and dialed. After several calls, a woman’s voice, gentle yet firm, finally answered.

“Ana?”

“Yeah, Carlos, what’s up?”

“Contact Pedro and have him take over your tail. I’ll need you for another job. Just hang tight until I call you.”

“Okay, boss. See you later.”

“Bye.”

He idly typed on his computer keyboard, and was not surprised to read on the screen the phrase he had unconsciously written as he talked with his employee: “There’s no such thing as coincidence.”

* * *

Enrique left the office adrift on a sea of doubt. Though he had not completely removed them from the list of suspects, Carlos had doubts about the participation of Enric and Guillem in the murder, as did Fornells about the alleged money launderers. Samuel? Absolutely absurd. A desperate stickup man? No, it couldn’t be. The manuscript had to be the key. He was absolutely sure that they had killed him for it. Guillem had a good alibi, but Enric’s depended on a third party. That person could be protecting him. That had to be it.

He headed to Vallvidrera. He had weighed the possibility of boring back into a mountain of old documents in the archbishopric’s archive, in which he was sure he would find what he needed to solve the mystery. However, convinced of his inability to find a solution that he thought would be simple but now seemed impossible, he decided to return to the relative tranquility of home. A tranquility that was relative because Artur’s memory was always lying in wait, ready to leap out of any corner by surprise, under the innocent guise of the simple yet unyielding aspects of daily life.

It took him a while to get home. Once he had made it through the traffic jam in Plaça Sarrià, he drove to Vallvidrera Highway relatively easily. It took no more than five minutes to reach his house. He parked the car in front of the door, picked up the satchel containing the manuscript and notes that for days had been his inseparable companions, and was moving to open the door when a woman’s voice took him completely by surprise.

“I thought you’d never come.”

That voice? Could it be true? Enrique felt the inevitable combination of joy and irrational anger that always found him whenever he took in Bety’s lustrous beauty.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted, completely thrown.

“Quite a warm welcome—though, to tell you the truth, I expected as much.” Her voice gave off that distant, hurtful chilliness. “I imagine you’ll at least invite me in.”

“Yeah, of course.” Enrique’s response was not much kinder. As always, he hadn’t wanted to answer that way. As always, he had.

He opened the door. Bety was using both hands to carry a heavy travel bag that Enrique tried to take for her. She refused his help. They entered the house without a word between them. Enrique was perplexed. He had tried to keep her out of it all, aware of how meddlesome his ex was and the danger surrounding the whole affair. Apparently, his efforts had been in vain.

As usual, her rousing presence immediately captured Enrique’s imagination, and he couldn’t avoid not-too-distant memories of the times they had shared a bed in the next room, when Enrique came to Barcelona to visit his adoptive father. Bety moved with purpose to open the bedroom door and, with a final extra effort, dropped the bag on the bed. The squeaky retort of the mattress springs made it clear that no one had used it since they last had. Enrique waited patiently for her to finish emptying the bag and come talk to him.

Bety took her time sorting the contents of her bag. Her visit had been a surprise, but Enrique’s icy welcome … Annoyed, she lost the desire to tell Enrique that she was in Barcelona to help him. His silence had worried her sick, and she didn’t deserve such a rude greeting. Enrique eventually understood—after the fact, as usual—that his reaction to seeing Bety had been less than polite. He stood in the doorway and made an attempt to resolve the situation.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Don’t make it any worse. You said it, and you don’t say things you don’t feel or think,” answered Bety with false serenity.

“Don’t be angry with me, Bety. You know how I am.”

“Yes, unfortunately I do. Even if I discovered it too late.”

“Come on, let’s go sit out on the terrace.”

She didn’t bother to answer, but simply followed him outside. They sat in two comfortable, bamboo deck chairs.

“Why did you come?”

“I was worried about you.” Enrique thought he detected a slight wavering in her rigidity. “For six days you’ve been avoiding me. I can’t reach you at home or on your cell phone, and I thought you might need someone … someone to be by your side.”

“It’s not that I didn’t want to talk to you. But everything just feels so strange to me, being here without Artur. I don’t know. It’s like I want to isolate myself from the rest of the world.”

“That’s the same thing: you didn’t want to talk to me.” The conviction behind her words was so complete that nothing, and no one, could alter it. “Listen, at our last faculty meeting they set up the exam schedule, so until it’s time to grade them, I’m free. The assistant professors can manage everything until then. That gives me a ten-day break. I decided to come see you because I don’t think you’re acting normally. I’m very worried about you.”

“You have no reason to be.” Enrique smiled to put her at ease. “Everything’s fine. You know I like my solitude, and there’s no better time to be alone than when a loved one dies and leaves us.”

“Liar,” Bety blurted mercilessly. “You can try that line elsewhere. You might fool somebody else, but not me. Not by this stage.”

“It bothers me—really bothers me—that you think I’m lying.” Enrique answered too emphatically.

A smile slowly grew across Bety’s lips until it became an uncontrollable laugh, so contagious that Enrique ended up smiling, despite a concerted effort not to. Seeing the contortions of Enrique’s face as he tried to restrain his untamable laughter, Bety’s peals became more intense, until they were probably audible within a hundred-yard radius. Enrique’s anger slowly faded under the balm of Bety’s mirth. It took them several minutes to regain their breath and composure, still beset by jags of sudden euphoria that came out as nervous giggles and short bursts of laughter, the final throes of an unexpected explosion of joy.

“I don’t think it was that funny,” said Enrique, once he had recovered.

“I do! Not lying? As if we didn’t know each other.”

“You’re right,” conceded Enrique. “We lived together too long for us to think we could fool each other. The truth is, that’s just what I was trying to do. But now—”

“Now you need to tell me why you didn’t want to talk to me.”

Enrique looked into Bety’s face, so expectant, so intense, so lucid. A feeling of admiration came over him: with her usual shrewdness, she had detected that something was amiss, and her only clue—a couple of messages left on her voice mail—had made her drop everything to come help him. Nearly four hundred miles, and who knew how long she had been waiting in front of the house. He couldn’t help it.

Over the next two hours, Enrique told her everything that had happened since the nefarious night of Artur’s death. He had decided to tell her in a collected, relaxed narrative, omitting no detail. Bety listened to him as she had before, suddenly immersed in a well-structured, though dark, tale, with a loved one’s death at its core. Enrique noted her mood changing as the story progressed: uneasiness, rage, disbelief, shock, fear. She had never hidden her emotions before, and was not about to now.

When he finished, Bety took a deep breath, clear evidence of the impact that the tension in Enrique’s story had had on her. She hadn’t interrupted him once. Enrique watched her closely; he wanted an opinion, a response.

“I’d like to see the letter and the manuscript,” she said.

In no time, Enrique had placed the leather satchel on the terrace table and taken out Artur’s letter and the antique manuscript. Bety read the letter’s postscript closely. She then slowly leafed through the manuscript, owing more to her curiosity at holding the cause of a murder in her hands than any historical interest.

“He died for this?” she asked, seeking confirmation.

“Yes. They killed him so he wouldn’t find whatever that book is hiding.”

“Whatever the book is hiding, and whatever you don’t want the police or any other expert to find—at least not until you do.”

She had hit the bull’s-eye. That was the clincher, what Carlos had not said out loud out of pure courtesy, a consideration of little importance to Bety.

“That’s right,” he admitted, and in doing so, felt somewhat relieved.

Bety didn’t say a word or make a single move—not even a simple raising of the eyebrows or movement of her lips. But Enrique knew right then that she didn’t share his point of view.

“I have a reason for doing it,” he argued. “In addition to the killer, I want to find what Artur gave his life for.”

“Carlos told you it was dangerous to use bait.”

Enrique thought he heard more in her words—a veiled plea.

“There’s no danger if we’re careful.”

“I wish I could help you.”

“You already have. You’re here.”

Their eyes met; the old complicity between them had dwindled but not disappeared completely. The passion and the love had tapered to the point of vanishing, but something remained that kept their bond unbreakable: admiration and respect. Enrique extended his hand toward hers, knowing she would not reject it. They sat together a good while, fingers interlocked, with the city at their feet.

6

When he awoke the next day, Enrique found a big breakfast laid out on the dining room table. Bety, an early riser accustomed to the university’s strict timetable, could never sleep past eight o’clock. She had risen with clocklike precision, partly out of habit, partly because she was one of those people with an intrinsic familiarity with time, with no distinction made between working days and holidays. She was not in the house, but the still-hot milk indicated that she could not have been gone long. For the first time in a week, Enrique ate breakfast in an excellent mood. Bety’s presence in the house was reason enough to adjust his deteriorated humor and soothe his jangled nerves. The inevitable memory of better times brought with it a gentle yearning. The night before they had slept in separate rooms; for the first time, they had shared the house without sleeping in the same bed. Enrique had been tempted more than once to knock on her bedroom door. In fact, he had even stood several minutes outside her room, his knuckles poised in front of the wood, lost in doubt, debating whether to finally break with the past or prolong the agony of a separation that seemed final but could have been avoided. He didn’t find the courage to knock, more out of the fear of rejection than any other theoretical consideration. Bety was unwavering in her decisions, logical in her actions, and infinitely responsible. But the night before, Enrique believed he picked up something else in her behavior that could have been an invitation to take that kind of action. Yet he dared not try. Fear of failure—or perhaps success—became an insurmountable barrier, and now he would never know what could have been.

He was finishing breakfast when Bety came in from outside wearing a light tracksuit, damp with sweat. Every day, she ran half an hour before she did anything else, and traveling did not justify an exception. She waved at Enrique and then dipped into the bathroom. As Enrique cleared the table, Bety treated herself to a quick shower. Once finished, she came into the dining room wrapped in an oversized towel, her wet hair hanging down around her shoulders.

“Good morning!” she cried in a bright mood.

“Let’s hope it is.”

“Get ready soon as you can. We have a lot of work to do.”

Enrique hated working in the morning, and she knew it. His schedule had been another kink in their cohabitation. Bety taught mornings, but Enrique did not feel inspired until after a late lunch, when she was just getting home and wanting to go out for a walk, meet friends, or go see a movie. She could never understand how creativity could be so adhered to a set timetable, and so never comprehended Enrique’s insistence on working in the afternoon. “If you can create, if you have that God-given gift, I can’t believe that gift is only available at certain hours of the day. Write in the morning, so we can spend the afternoon together,” she would tell him. Enrique answered that working in the morning would affect his quality and volume, and that it was impossible for him. This, like so many other subjects, did nothing to favor their life as a couple.

“Come on, wipe that look off your face! If you haven’t been able to find ‘it,’ and Artur could, you’re failing somewhere in your understanding of the whole thing, or … I don’t know, maybe it’s your translation.”

“Has it occurred to you that his knowledge could have given him clues that I can’t or don’t know how to find?”

“I didn’t mean to wound your manly ego. Yes, it has occurred to me. It just seems to me that the former is more probable than the latter. Anyway, we’ll be able to discard one of the two possibilities, which will allow us to focus more on other areas. Come on, get dressed. We’ll go to one of those peaceful old archives where you’ve been working, and we won’t be distracted.” She pushed him toward his room.

“Okay, okay! I give up. I’ll take you. Just don’t push me.”

“Good decision. Better to give in to logic in the beginning than at the end: it saves time, and time is money,” Bety stated.

“Either way I can’t spend all morning with you,” Enrique added. “I have to go see Puigventós about the auction.”

“As long as you have enough time to get me started on the text and decode your hieroglyphic notes, I’ll be fine. Once you’ve done that, you’re free to go,” said Bety, winking at him.

“Fine. Let’s get dressed.”

* * *

An hour later, they settled into the cavernous reading room of Casa de l’Ardiaca, a library and archive housed in the archdeacon’s residence, which was nearly empty at that hour. Only a few academics getting on in years observed them with the curiosity of those who detect an invasion of what they consider their private territory. Once they had finished their reconnaissance and expressed their disapproval, they returned to their tasks. Enrique explained the overall content and keys to his translation. He gave Bety an overview of the text in its three parts: first, more a list of activities in a log book than anything else; the second, made up of the annotations that comprised the actual mystery, marked by the beginning of the lateral sidenotes; and third, the detailed list of buildings.

Believing it the most important, Enrique told Bety to begin with the translation of the second part, but she refuted his argument.

“That’s the problem: you lack the soul of a researcher. You’re just a second-rate amateur. Your notes are sketchy, and the key to solving the puzzle could be in there, though it’s unlikely. We shouldn’t overlook that part, and again, I don’t think it contains the solution, so we ought to look at the manuscript as a whole. Haste makes waste.”

An hour later, with Enrique’s translation properly organized and the code to his abbreviations and scribbles broken, Bety dismissed him.

“Now I can start work. You may leave.”

“Great. When should I come back for you?”

“Come this afternoon, late. I’ll only leave to grab a bite.”

“Bety—”

“I’ll be careful with the manuscript, don’t worry,” she said, perfectly interpreting Enrique’s unspoken suggestion. “I won’t leave it alone even one second.”

“Bye, then.”

“Go, and don’t worry.”

Enrique left Bety at work in the archive. A certain unease pursued him for leaving her alone with the manuscript. He walked toward Boulevard dels Antiquaris to meet old Puigventós, president of the professional Antiquarian’s Association. He crossed Portal del Ángel, lined with fast-fashion megastores and packed with young shoppers intent on emptying them of their contents. Once in Plaça de Catalunya, he began the ascent up the stately Rambla de Catalunya. Taking the Rambla instead of Passeig de Gràcia meant straying slightly off course, as the entrance to the Boulevard was on the latter thoroughfare. But Enrique had always been inclined to what seemed to him like the French touch of that charming avenue lined with fragile lime trees. Its buildings, elegant and harmonious, showed few scars from metropolitan Barcelona’s unbridled urban expansion. Here and there, an isolated hotel or an office building was reminiscent of the city of today, which had not yet managed to penetrate that hallowed sanctuary of light and beauty. He walked down the broad central median, where pedestrians held priority over cars, a unique oasis from another time that topped off the charm of the Ramblas, submerged in memories of his childhood. He had lived there as a boy. He felt drawn to that peaceful avenue where he had spent so many afternoons with his mother, so quiet compared to its surroundings, so dignified, with the imaginative modernista buildings that gave it magic and color. Enrique had dreamed of living in one of those buildings with their magnificent bay windows, from which he could watch the promenade, carpeted in the green of its lime trees. Dreams from the past, intrinsically wrapped up with the memory of his parents, and the mother he had worshipped.

Crossing the six lanes of Aragon Street dispersed his recollections. The places one has lived cherished experiences have the capacity to amplify the emotions they stir up. They can bring memories into focus as if an unexpected spotlight was shone on them, bringing them back from the near-infinite sea of experiences to be relived with painful clarity. He crossed from Rambla de Catalunya to Passeig de Gràcia through a popular shopping mall that played out along a twisting maze of corridors occupying a block that lay between the two streets. In front of one of its shops, he felt a sudden urge to buy Bety a gift, as he had so many times before. But he thought better of it and decided not to. Enrique was easy prey to the nostalgia of an idealized past, and it was hard for him to return to the reality of the present. It seemed that memories embedded themselves in his head to distort reality. Banishing them required enormous effort; he didn’t want to cast them aside.

He walked up the stairs that led to the permanent exhibition of Boulevard dels Antiquaris. Puigventós had a large shop there, to the rear of the showrooms. He was an elderly man of nearly eighty, the doyen of the antiques community, which he had served as president for the past twenty years. His was a family business: his ancestors had been renowned wood carvers, and in time, his father had established an antiques trade that did well enough to become one of the city’s most prominent. Following his father’s death, he inherited a large shop, and when the Boulevard opened, he relocated there.

Enrique crossed the gallery, surrounded by the precious heritage of the past, until reaching the old man’s place of business. An attractive woman not yet forty suddenly emerged from behind a Chinese folding screen. She was tall, nearly six feet. Clearly aware of her beauty, she wore a snug-fitting black dress that showcased her shapely figure. Her very dark brown, nearly black, hair was pulled back in a chignon, and her face was composed of the classic features typical of the most attractive Catalan women: broad bone structure, somewhat round, prominent cheekbones, and full lips. She wore little makeup, just a brush of color on her cheeks, and a soft line beneath her blue eyes. Her lips were painted in a discreet russet wine tone. She approached him and spoke with the confidence intrinsic to the expert-seller/ignorant-buyer relationship. There could be no doubt: she was a woman of class and character.

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Good morning. I’m Enrique Alonso. I’d like to see Mr. Puigventós.”

Enrique’s answer seemed to take her by surprise.

“Enrique Alonso? Artur’s adopted son?”

“That’s me.”

“You don’t remember me?” She smiled. “I’m Mariola Puigventós.”

Enrique reached to shake her hand and was received with a firm squeeze, nearly masculine in its intensity. The old man’s daughter; he had not seen her in at least fifteen years.

“My father’s downstairs, in the association office. Give me just a minute, I’ll call him.”

“Maybe it’d be better for me to go down—” Enrique started.

“No, no. He likes receiving visitors up here, in what he calls his ‘dominions.’ He feels more comfortable. Please, have a seat.” She dialed as Enrique took a seat in a modernista-style chair.

While Mariola spoke on the telephone, Enrique cast his eyes around the shop. Puigventós specialized in the modernista and later styles; none of the furniture displayed predated 1870. There were even some avant-garde pieces that perfectly matched their surroundings, as difficult as that was to achieve. “Style.” Enrique remembered Artur’s words. “Style is what makes the greats great. Style makes the difference.”

“He’ll be right up,” said Mariola.

“Thank you.”

“No thanks are necessary.” She paused. “I wanted to tell you how sorry we all are for your loss, especially the way it happened. It’s been a huge blow to the community in general, and to us especially. Artur was such a good man. My father considered him practically family.”

“I appreciate that.”

She seemed to Enrique like a woman who was educated, cultivated—or rather, refined—and competent. A woman with experience, striking looks, and the beauty of well-carried maturity, the kind that age only enhances.

“Pardon me if this is indiscreet, but … are you all right?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry, but you seem distracted, as if your mind were elsewhere.”

Her powers of observation took Enrique by surprise.

“You’re an observant woman. Yes, I am feeling a bit distracted. It’s hard for me to be here, in Barcelona, under the circumstances.”

“That makes sense. Artur always talked about how close you two were. He also said how proud he was of you.”

“Again, I have to thank you, Mariola. You’re too kind.”

An awkward silence ensued, although Mariola seemed not to notice.

“Mariola, my father talked about you from time to time, several years ago now. Weren’t you living overseas?”

“I moved to New York after I married. My husband was an art dealer and critic, and his office was in Manhattan. We separated four years ago, and I came back to Barcelona, to my family and friends.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, no. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t have told you if I didn’t want to. Now then,” she remembered aloud, “I seem to recall that you too were married.”

Enrique was taken aback. Without intending to, he had asked about her private life, and she, instead of dodging the issue, had responded to him on equal terms. The game had begun. She returned the ball to him without hesitation, probably even knowing what his answer would be.

“I was. Now I’m not.”

“I see.” Her smile lit up the entire shop. “You know what? Even though I was living in the States for so long, I read all your books.”

“Which was your favorite?” he asked, almost sure he knew the answer. He was slightly unsettled at the change in conversation, but also flattered.

“Eulogy for Impossible Love. It’s a beautiful story, and you wrote it with such feeling. It’s one of my favorite books.”

“We writers love to hear things like that.” In Enrique’s case it was all too true.

“I’m not saying it to flatter you.” Her gaze acquired an intensity that was difficult to bear.

“I didn’t say you were.” His eyes also shone forcefully.

It was at this instant that Puigventós made his appearance. He entered the shop with a briskness unusual for his years, despite the fatigued appearance of his wrinkled face, on which one feature stood out above them all: his eyes, as attractive as his daughter’s. Enrique looked at the old man, and immediately turned his gaze back on Mariola.

“You’re looking at our eyes, aren’t you?” she asked soberly.

Enrique nodded. They were identical.

“Father, let me help you.” Mariola approached the old man and took his arm. “Look, Enrique’s here.”

“It’s my pleasure, young man. I’m sorry I was unable to attend Artur’s funeral service, but at my age, our bodies betray us and we cease to be the masters of our own actions.”

“Please, don’t worry, sir. I know you were friends, and that even though you were unable to come, you were there in spirit.”

“Indeed, I was. But please, don’t call me ‘sir’! Don’t make me feel any older than I already am!”

“Whatever you prefer.”

“Walk us to the study, dear.”

They walked to the far end of the shop, where Mariola opened a door next to a mirror. It revealed a small, cozy office. Puigventós settled into a comfortable armchair, and Mariola invited Enrique to do the same.

“Do you need anything, father?”

“No, my dear. Thank you.”

“I’ll leave you alone, then,” she said, and left without looking at them. Enrique’s eyes followed her out. He was surprised to see that the mirror next to the entry door was a one-way glass, offering to anyone inside the office a perfect vantage point over part of the shop and the corridor leading to it. Puigventós chuckled, content to see that Enrique had noticed it.

“A very useful instrument,” he mused. “It belonged to a respected upper-class family, whose name I won’t reveal. They had it installed on one of their bedroom walls. They surely used it in ways much less mundane than ours.”

“I think I can get the idea.”

“You know, in public you have one image, in private, another very different one. It’s always been like that, and always will be. But don’t let me occupy your time with the digressions of a senior citizen. Now, then, what brings you here?”

“I’ve decided to take you up on your offer. Artur’s will designates me as general heir, and I plan to liquidate his business. Like you told me, I think the best way to proceed is an auction of the antiques for professionals only.”

In the part of the shop visible from the office, the elegant Mariola made dry flower arrangements with an expert hand. Enrique asked himself how much of her acts were being done out of necessity, and how much out of unconscious—or perhaps conscious—exhibitionism. He made a huge effort to divert his attention from the delight of unseen observation and focus on the words of the old man.

“… you’re right to accept,” Puigventós was saying when Enrique tuned back into the conversation. “You’ll make more money, and the respect for Artur’s memory will keep them from trying to pull too many fast ones. We’re all very community-minded that way. How do you want to set the auction up?”

“To tell you the truth, sir, I thought you could—”

“Don’t ‘sir’ me, remember?”

“Sorry. I thought you could help me put it together. There’s only one part I’d like to handle on my own: setting the starting price for a couple of items.”

“I was going to suggest that Mariola help you. She has a good eye for these things. She got it from her mother, God rest her soul.”

The offer threw Enrique off. He looked at Mariola again through the one-way glass. Gorgeous. He had planned to lay the trap for the suspects by asking them to help him set the prices, but the possibility of spending a few afternoons in the company of Mariola was so attractive to him that, in a burst of inspiration, he changed his mind.

“I’d be thrilled, provided she wants to.”

“Of course she’ll want to!” Puigventós answered with unbridled enthusiasm. “She liked Artur too much to deny his adopted son a favor. So, let’s find a day,” he said as he opened his datebook. “You could do the appraisals over the weekend, or even on Friday afternoon; as many pieces as the shop has, and as I understand it, there are many, you won’t need more than two days’ work. So the auction could be on, say, next Wednesday morning, the antiques dealers’ day off. Yes, that would work. Does that sound all right to you?”

“If it’s all right with Mariola, it’s all right with me.”

“Perfect, then! I’ll coordinate the whole affair. It will be just the thing for me to get away from the dull responsibilities that come with being president of this association. Help me up, son.”

Enrique offered an arm and walked him out. Mariola came to meet them.

“So, have you settled your business?”

“Yes, dear, but I’m afraid I’ve taken the liberty of pledging your time to help someone other than me.”

“Time spent helping our friends is never wasted,” she answered, glancing momentarily at Enrique.

“Enrique’s going to liquidate stocks in Artur’s shop by auction. He needs an expert to appraise all the furniture and pieces.”

“I see. I’ll be happy to help you, Enrique,” she said to him directly. “When should we begin?”

“Your father plans to hold the auction next Wednesday.”

“We could do the appraisal over the weekend,” Mariola offered. “It won’t take long if you help me.”

“Okay.”

“Call me at this number—no, it’s better if I call you. Give me your cell phone number.”

Enrique gave her his cell and home phone numbers, and Mariola wrote them down in a small notebook she had taken from her purse.

“When is a good time to reach you?”

“At home, around eleven at night. I’m usually there by then, and I mostly leave my cell phone turned off.”

“Okay, talk to you soon then,” she said, offering her hand.

“I hope so.” His brief phrase was charged with meaning. “Thanks to you both.”

“It’s our pleasure, son. Remember: you have friends in us.”

Enrique left the shop tangled up in a habitual feeling of déjà vu. The certainty of having already lived a similar situation permeated all his thoughts, and once again he was forced to ask himself what it could all mean, and why it happened to him so often.

Despite not knowing what his conversation with Puigventós would lead to, he had a feeling that things were not going to go according to plan. Mariola had surfaced from behind the screen like an apparition, and Enrique had been instantly captivated. Things had happened with the naturalness of predestination, and if fate had changed his plan of bringing the suspects in to help with the appraisal, it was not a concern; he had immediately thought of another way to lay the bait. All he had to do was call a meeting on Friday and make them a special proposal: invite them to coffee and take the opportunity to give them something from the shop that might please them, in memory of Artur. They would come to the gathering thinking he was going to answer their offers. It would be the perfect time to dangle the irresistible bait before their eyes. Then all he would have to do is wait for the fish to bite.

And he was sure it would.

7

Enrique spent the afternoon making bittersweet rounds through the places that had marked his childhood. He could not help Bety, who wanted to translate free from the influence of the manuscript’s first decoder, and he could not find the right mindset to delve back into any new investigations on the location of the unknown object. It was more comfortable to wait for Bety to finish. Her sharp wit, so often suffered by Enrique firsthand, would breathe new life into the project and give it a greater chance of success.

His upcoming entrapment effort concerned him to a certain degree. He had no doubt he could pull it off. He knew he was a good actor, and he had new resources to make his performance even more compelling: hate, a thirst for justice, and revenge. Yet none of those would justify him taking a slack approach to it. One of his guests had killed in cold blood, unscrupulously. He trusted Carlos. Carlos meant safety. The idea pacified his imagination as it grappled with sporadic thoughts of ambush and death.

Resolutely decided to get his mind off things, he began walking toward the neighborhood where he had grown up. After Enrique’s parents’ death in the harrowing accident, Artur decided that he should stay in the same school, the Salesianos de Rocafort. It was a denominational school that had seemed enormous to him back then: an entire city block of Barcelona’s Eixample district, occupied by a three-story building, with high doorways, and the finishing touch of a sinister-looking church that always appeared in his worst nightmares. He arrived around five o’clock, just as the children were getting out and releasing their pent-up energies. Mothers and children mingled before the great gate that led to the inner courtyard. He passed through the crowd unnoticed, looking like just another parent, and stepped into the vast patio, which no longer seemed so vast. Its appearance had changed enough to confuse him for a few seconds. Behind the wall that marked the school boundary there was now a new building with balconies overlooking the yard. The construction of a parking garage and underground sports complex had also altered it; the sidelines of the courts were not as Enrique remembered. He easily located the classrooms of his childhood through the large windows, and his mind was flooded with memories. There could be no doubt: he was having a nostalgic day. Teachers, classmates, stories … everything came forth in a confusing jumble. Most of his recollections were happy, some were sad, but they all formed part of his past, and had let him build his present: tiny pieces of the puzzle that was him.

The courtyard emptied out, and the watchman, a young seminarist of the order that ran the school, politely invited him to leave. Enrique left the place with the imprint of the past on his heart, and a certain worry: since Bety’s arrival, he had only been looking back, never ahead. He was distracted, self-absorbed, and he couldn’t afford to be in such a state. Enrique sauntered through the neighborhood in the direction of Casa de l’Ardiaca, reaching the outer edge of the Gothic Quarter by the highway. He deliberately skirted the area around the police station, eventually reached Ferran Street, and kept on, down to Plaça Sant Jaume, heart of the city’s political and government activity. Enrique strolled through the Jewish Quarter, amid different buildings, but on the same alleyways that Master Casadevall and the mysterious S. had walked, alleys that may have known their secrets.

Casa de l’Ardiaca was next to the cathedral. It housed one of Barcelona’s most exquisite libraries, both for its content and the uniqueness of the site. Bety was translating the manuscript on the upper floor of the library. He took the stairs two by two. Bety was sitting by one of the building’s picture windows, immersed in her work.

The librarian recognized Enrique with a distracted glance, and moved to allow him in; after all, he had been coming several days in a row attempting to solve the enigma of the manuscript. He approached in silence. Absorbed in her work, Bety did not notice his presence until he was right beside her. She wasted no time in useless greetings, and, motioning for him to sit down, began speaking enthusiastically.

“This is an incredible document! Its intrinsic value well surpasses its possible material worth, not to mention the mystery it’s hiding. Anyone studying the ways of life in the Late Middle Ages would let themselves be flayed to get their hands on it.”

“How far did you get?”

“I’m still working on the first part of the manuscript, the part that you, blinded by your issues, thought insignificant, you short-sighted hack.”

“I have more than enough reason to have a lack of interest in anything unrelated to the object,” Enrique snapped.

Her researcher’s enthusiasm cut off, Bety suddenly realized Enrique’s only goal.

“Forgive me.” Her voice froze the air. “I got carried away. It won’t happen again.”

“It doesn’t matter. Go on.”

“Okay,” continued Bety, “Your translation is, generally, fine, but too … liberal. You’ve made a lot of syntactic mistakes and they’ve distorted the manuscript’s meaning. I’m worried about that; if you’ve made them in the first part, the second will be no different. Your Latin’s not rusty—it’s beyond corroded, and for a translation of this level, something that can reveal a hidden clue at any time, it’s no good,” she admonished him. “Just look at these examples: look here, and here, you’re confusing genitives and datives, nominatives and vocatives. Here’s another one, look.” She showed him notes with the examples she had found. “And then, though it’s not as serious, you’ve made morphologic mistakes, and you’ve mixed up certain meanings. I think they distort the translation quite a bit, but I won’t know how much until I’m done.”

“You’re right,” conceded Enrique in a conciliatory tone. “It’s been too long since I’ve faced a translation this challenging, and it’s clearly beyond my ability. But I had no one to turn to.”

“It’s always positive to admit our limitations,” Bety interrupted. “You didn’t use to. You just might be maturing.”

“Right.” Enrique quickly stanched the discussion. “When do you think you’ll be done with the translation?”

“I can’t say for sure. It’s intricate work, and you’ve seen that for yourself, as the manuscript transforms from its initial form—a log book—into something of a diary. I stopped and looked ahead to the part that we should really focus on, and the structure gets more complex. It’s almost architectural. Master builders were not as fluent in Latin as the ecclesiastical hierarchy of the day, but Casadevall had language skills that were superior to those of most of his peers. I’ll need at least three or four days for this first draft.”

Enrique sighed on hearing Bety’s assessment.

“Just be patient and wait,” Bety recommended.

“Patient,” Enrique answered, more for himself than her. “I’ll have to be.”

“Should we go home or do you want to eat something around here?” asked Bety.

“Sure, let’s grab a bite. I don’t feel like cooking.”

They shared a light dinner on one of the terraces in Plaça del Pi. Enrique had walked there unconsciously, purely from the habit of directing his steps toward the place in Barcelona he most dearly loved. Bety talked and talked about countless topics, fueled by the ease with which she could carry on a conversation, putting aside any personal or work-related concerns. Distracted, Enrique barely paid attention. When he did say something, he spoke in monosyllables. But that didn’t seem to deter Bety, who was capable of keeping herself entertained. Not even the bohemian atmosphere of the square, so reminiscent of the Parisian Latin Quarter, could hold his attention. Artur’s memory hovered over Enrique, and that place only made it more poignant. The memory of Mariola seemed to accompany Artur’s, though he couldn’t explain why.

Bety suggested they return to Vallvidrera. Enrique agreed, eager to seek the false tranquility of sleep. It didn’t take them long to get there. Once home, Enrique had just gotten out of the shower when the phone rang. Bety answered as Enrique toweled off his hair.

“It’s for you, a Mariola,” she said from behind the door.

“Tell her I’m coming.”

“I already have.”

Enrique wrapped a towel around his waist and walked out into the dining room. Bety was sitting on the terrace, apparently distracted.

“Good evening,” he said, with such warmth that he surprised himself.

“Hi. Did you have a nice afternoon?”

“Yeah, it wasn’t bad. It’s nice to take a trip down memory lane every once in a while.”

“You’re so right. Listen, Enrique, I won’t be able to come to the shop tomorrow afternoon, but I’ve arranged my weekend to be available to you.”

“Great. But I don’t want you to go out of your way,” Enrique lied. “Tomorrow I was planning to go meet up at the shop with some of Artur’s friends to give them a present.”

“It’s no trouble at all.”

“Your father said the appraisals would take a couple of hours.”

“Don’t worry about it. Should we meet on Saturday at, say, ten?”

“Saturday? Sure.”

“See you then.”

“Thank you very much, Mariola.”

“No thanks necessary,” she said, and hung up.

Enrique went back to the bathroom and finished drying off. He put on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, and took a seat next to Bety on the terrace. She didn’t say a single word. Her mood seemed to have changed inexplicably, and Enrique couldn’t understand why. As for him, he felt extremely communicative, even cheerful. Despite his usual dimness, it didn’t take long for him to understand that something was wrong.

“What’s going on?”

Stony silence was her only answer.

“Bety, tell me what’s wrong,” he insisted.

“I find it incredible that you can’t figure it out.”

“Well, no, the truth is, I don’t know what’s bothering you.”

“That shouldn’t surprise me. You’re so indulgent with your own mistakes, provided you realize you’ve made them, but you have such little understanding for those of others.”

“What are you talking about?” Anger was taking the place of surprise.

“At the library, I told you that you’d changed; I was wrong,” she stated, almost placidly. “You’re still the same irresponsible child you were years ago.”

“Tell me what’s wrong with you now, and quit talking in circles. One reason we broke up was to keep from constantly being accused of something.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you!” she shouted. “You had a plan ready to catch the killer—a trap, you called it. I didn’t agree with you on that because it could have put you in danger, but you didn’t listen.”

“It wouldn’t have been smart to talk to the police.”

“Shut up and listen!” So much concentrated rage wrought a silencing effect on Enrique. “I’ve come to help you, sure that I could. I find myself enmeshed in a murder, and your stupid idea of solving it behind the backs of the police, either for revenge, or for your ambition of exclusively solving a mystery from the past. I’m helping you as much as I can, neglecting my personal obligations. And you, you incompetent fool, have no qualms about changing your plans without even bothering to let me know. I found out when I overheard you talking to that Mariona, or whatever her name is! I’m sure you’ll understand, after spending four hours trying to entertain you with international current events and the sleaziest San Sebastián gossip, and getting in response the most diverse repertoire of grunts ever known since humankind acquired intelligence, I feel somewhat less than flattered.”

As always, Bety was right. He should have told her.

“Who is this Mariona?”

“Her name is Mariola.”

“I don’t give a damn what her name is! Why aren’t you doing the appraisal with Samuel and the other two?” It was absurd, but Bety’s words were not being guided by reason.

“Remember, Puigventós offered to do it first, and Carlos himself advised against involving them in the appraisal.”

“So you accepted out of good manners. Is that it? Because I’m sure this Mariola isn’t a wrinkled, sixty-year-old hunchback!”

Enrique didn’t answer.

“Answer me! She’s an elderly hunchback, isn’t she?” she asked sarcastically.

“No, she’s not,” answered Enrique, “but I don’t see how that matters to what we’re doing.”

“You’d have to be blind not to see it. I help you, and in return I get no thanks, but instead, you keep me in the dark about anything that develops.”

“I was planning to tell you, but I was distracted.”

“If you were planning on telling me, why didn’t you? No, don’t say anything,” she cut him off as he prepared to answer. “I’ll tell you myself: you were thinking about her, and don’t you dare deny it.”

“Bety, I—”

“I don’t know why I’m surprised,” she said. “Any one of my twenty-year-old students is more mature than you.”

“That’s enough! It’s my turn to talk now. If I’ve been distracted all afternoon it’s because tomorrow I’m meeting my father’s murderer. How do you expect me to ignore that? Fine, I haven’t told you about the change in plans, but I wasn’t trying to hide it from you, and it has nothing to do with Mariola. It just didn’t seem that important.”

Bety got up without looking at him and walked to her bedroom. Enrique, somewhere between angry and preoccupied with a new idea that had just occurred to him, followed her to the door.

“Don’t say anything else, or you’ll make me lose what little faith I have in you. I’ll stay long enough to finish the translation, and then I’m going back home,” she said, closing the door behind her and leaving Enrique standing mute.

He was surprised, and an idea popped into his head like a sudden flash of lightning; it was at once flattering and blissfully unexpected. Was she jealous? She was angry because he hadn’t informed her of his change in plans, but her attitude regarding Mariola was one of outright hostility.

When they separated, Enrique thought there was much more between them than they let show. The looks, the gestures … he never quite understood women, but he did consider himself capable of knowing when there was chemistry between two people. That may have been why he had been in more relationships than most people he knew. He clearly remembered the day they had signed the divorce papers: Bety, seemingly cloaked in a chill aura, had used a pen that was different from her usual one, which she’d clipped in the outer pocket of her blazer and forgotten. Such an apparently trivial detail would hold little importance for anyone else, but not someone who lived in a paradigm of meticulousness like that of his ex-wife, so attached in her daily life to near-obsessive behavior. That seemingly meaningless detail turned her attitude into a perfect pose that was marred by a fissure visible to the one person who really knew her.

Another thing he had to figure out was her surprise trip to Barcelona, brought about, as she herself had said, because she was the only person capable of helping him at that time. After a period of almost radically imposed distance, which was hard to manage in a city as small as San Sebastián, especially sharing friends as they did, she had appeared out of thin air to be at his side, eager and willing to share his pain. How was he to interpret her attitude? If she hadn’t mentioned Mariola, Enrique would have never imagined it: she was jealous; and if she was, that meant she was thinking of him in a way that was deeper than just the residual friendship following a few years of life shared together.

Happier than he’d been in months, Enrique had a final glass of juice and went to bed. For the first time since Artur’s death, he had no trouble getting to sleep.

* * *

Friday morning went by in a fast-paced succession of events that lacked the intensity and liveliness of improvising, and not necessarily because they had been mapped out previously. He dropped Bety off at Casa de l’Ardiaca following a tense commute. After leaving her in the library, Enrique spent the first hours of the day at his publisher’s office, ready for the awkward shower of sincere condolences he had no desire to hear, to turn in his latest work to Juan Vidal, his editor. The staff received him with the kindness he had expected. Juan, with whom he had a friendship forged over years of constant battles between his desire to leave an original text untouched and Juan’s to change it to improve its quality, wasted little time on social graces. He was a good friend and a solid professional, but he was absolutely incompetent when it came to expressing feelings. After receiving Juan’s sympathies, Enrique guided their conversation to strictly literary matters. Juan took the memory stick containing Enrique’s files with visible relief. They spoke for much of the morning on the changes Enrique had made to the plot over the final chapters. Juan was less than taken by them at first, but promised to get right to them to give Enrique an informed opinion. As they said their good-byes, Juan invited Enrique to a dinner with other authors, but he declined, saying it was for personal reasons. The time was not right.

Having attended to his professional affairs, he headed for La Palla Street. As he had during the meeting with Juan, he felt that things were happening differently than usual. Around him, time seemed to have changed its course. He could only manage to focus on the meeting he was to have with Artur’s supposed killer. Everything else—the streets, the other pedestrians—had lost its force, as if it was all made up of barely visible clandestine spirits skittering here and there. First he talked to the two suspects; later, with Samuel. Everything was tinged with the unreal feeling of a dream. He went from entering Guillem’s shop one minute to leaving Samuel’s the next, having completed the mission of inviting the three to Artur’s shop at eight thirty, after they had closed for the day. He had not given them any pretext; they would assume he was going to respond to their offers, which he was—though not in the way they expected.

With the groundwork laid, he returned to the library to pick up the manuscript. Bety gave it to him with a certain reluctance, well aware of the danger it meant for Enrique. She didn’t go into detail on her progress, which was excellent, and reminded him to be as careful as he could once his little act was over. Enrique offered her the car keys, but she refused, replying that she wasn’t going to Vallvidrera without him.

“It wouldn’t be good for you to be at the meeting.”

“And I won’t be. I’ll meet you at nine thirty, an hour after you’ve met with them. I’ll be waiting in a bar in the square. And that’s final,” Bety stated emphatically.

He left Bety in Plaça del Pi, with worry written all over her face. She was still mad at him, but concern outweighed her anger. Enrique entered the shop through the front door. He turned on the showroom lights, left the door ajar, and walked to the stairway. Once there, he could not help but look at the antique altar where an expert hand had removed any trace of Artur’s death—any trace except for the broken railing and an indelible reminder: a reddish stain on the old marble of the altar.

In the study, he arranged the trap with rich detail: he pulled one of the comfortable armchairs up to the broad table and placed the manuscript on top of the table, opened to its final pages and surrounded by sheaves of notes. He tested the impression it would make on anyone coming up the stairs, and reached an unquestionable conclusion: it looked absolutely real.

As he wondered how the killer would react upon returning to the shop, he smiled, realizing that the old murder mystery cliché was going to come true: the murderer always returns to the scene of the crime. Enrique was sure the killer wouldn’t feel anything, but what would he think? What thoughts would be concealed behind the mask of grief on his face? The hypocrisy of the guilty party incensed him, but he made an effort to ignore this train of thought. He had a role to play, and he had to play it perfectly.

Five minutes after the scheduled time, the three antiquarians knocked on the shop door. Enrique leaned out from the study and made a gesture to invite them in. He went down to meet them as they made their way into the showroom.

“Come in, my friends,” he greeted them.

They greeted him in turn. Samuel, with an absent air about him, allowed his eyes to wander to the altar, and shook his head. A tear came to his eye.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Seeing you come down the stairs like that, I couldn’t help but think back to the last time we were here, with Artur. He came down to greet us, like you just did …” His voice cracked, and he couldn’t go on.

Enrique firmly grasped his shoulders.

“Courage, Samuel, don’t worry. Don’t think about it.”

“I try, son, I really do. And I did get it out of my head, but coming back here, and seeing you come down the stairs, I couldn’t help it.”

“Well, let’s discuss other matters. Let me tell you why I’ve invited you here.” They all looked at him expectantly. “The three of you have made offers to buy the furniture and pieces in the shop in the event I liquidated Artur’s business. Well, I’ve decided to sell it, but I won’t accept your generous bids, or any other,” he added, on purpose, after a studied pause. “Puigventós suggested that the best system to wind up the business would be to hold a private auction for members of the antiques community and a few people connected to it, and I’ve decided to accept. His daughter Mariola will help me with the appraisal of the entire inventory over the weekend.”

None of the three antiquarians showed any emotion after hearing Enrique, who continued his speech.

“But, I feel somehow indebted to you, not just for your friendship with Artur, but also for the help you’ve been so willing to give from the very beginning. So to show my appreciation for that, and in Artur’s memory, I hope you’ll accept a gift from me. I know that, in the shop or warehouse, there must be—I’m sure of it—a piece of furniture or other item you’re particularly fond of. And I hope you’ll do me the honor of choosing one and taking it.”

Samuel, Enric, and Guillem all spoke at once. They insisted on how unnecessary the gesture was, but Enrique was inflexible.

“My mind won’t rest, and I won’t be at peace with myself, if you walk out of here empty-handed. You must take something, even if it’s just to give me that pleasure.”

Guillem was the first to react. After looking at his colleagues, he spoke up.

“I think I’m speaking on behalf of the three of us when I say how much we appreciate the gesture. I repeat, I find it unnecessary, but I won’t argue with you. We accept the offer for what it’s worth—which is a great deal—and I want you to know that I, personally, will never forget it.”

“I’m a discreet person by nature,” Enric said, with unusual decisiveness. “I only speak when I have to, or rather, very rarely. You all know that. But now I’m going to talk. Artur was an exceptional man in many ways: his encyclopedic, tireless desire for knowledge was combined with an unmatched talent for antiques, but those weren’t the traits that shone most in his character. If anything made him stand out, it was his humanity, an essential quality among all good men. This combination of virtues was what gave him that exceptional charisma that he had among the entire antiquarian community.

“If Guillem and I had the privilege to call ourselves his friends, it was because he was willing to share the magic of our funny little world with anyone who felt it. There’s not much else I can say, except for this: it’s clear he raised you, because you have so many of his virtues—most of all, friendship and generosity.”

Samuel was the next to take the floor.

“I won’t say anything. You know how I feel. Thank you.”

Enrique thanked them effusively, and a feeling of doubt sprang up inside him. How could anyone who said such things be capable of killing Artur? Either he was mistaken or they were the world’s slickest liars.

He pushed aside these concerns. The three antiquarians seemed unable to react, rendered immobile by surprise, and waiting for an order to move. Enrique encouraged them to take whatever they liked, regardless of the value, except for the books, which, he explained, he planned to add to his own collection.

Guillem and Enric ambled through the shop, looking around, not knowing what to choose. Guillem chose a collection of fans displayed in a cabinet, and Enric, a tiny Parisian automaton from the turn of the twentieth century. A hesitant Samuel decided after his colleagues had made their choice.

“Artur kept a deck of antique French cards from the eighteenth century in one of his desk drawers. A real collector’s item, in excellent condition, and consequently, priceless.”

“It’s yours.” Enrique smiled. “Come upstairs with me. I’ll give Samuel his gift, and make you all a cup of coffee while we’re up there. It won’t be as tasty as his, but it’s the thought that counts.”

They walked up the stairs behind him. With reverent delicacy, an original Tiffany lamp filtered the light that fell on the working table where the Casadevall manuscript lay, ignorant of its role in the scene. It was tucked among the ream of notes that Enrique had taken trying to crack its secrets. Enrique stood aside on the landing to let them pass; a deferential gesture actually meant to watch for any reactions to the manuscript. If anyone had one, it went unseen. He turned the overhead light on while, following the custom imposed by his father over so many afternoons, his guests took their seats. It didn’t take him long to prepare the thick and steamy coffee, which he served in the same set Artur used. Samuel himself then took the deck from the desk drawer.

Their conversation covered several different topics. Enrique was surprised by how indifferently they treated the bait. He felt his confidence in rapidly finding Artur’s murderer crumbling. Could he have been wrong? It may have been, after all, that Artur had died at the hands of a burglar from a rough neighborhood suffering from withdrawals. And yet it was also possible that the killer was right there sitting next to him, still as a rock to dodge any suspicion.

Their talk eventually died down. The setting didn’t lend itself to expressions of happiness; the wounds from Artur’s death were still fresh, and Enrique had offered them an exact replica of the Friday afternoon ritual that his guests and adoptive father had shared for years. Guillem brought them out of the lull with a new and opportune topic.

“Are you working on a new novel?” he asked Enrique.

The question was a godsend. “I finished my last book right before I came to Barcelona, but by chance I’ve found another idea I like that I’m thinking about using.”

“What idea is that?” Samuel asked.

“The story’s still a work in progress. But here, in the shop, I found an old manuscript in a place where my father wouldn’t normally keep a book. I was so intrigued by it that now, when I need something to take my mind off things, I’ve been translating it, and the results are amazing.”

Enrique himself was the first to be surprised by the ease with which he improvised a lie that couldn’t have sounded truer even if he’d deliberately prepared it.

“What do you mean?” asked Guillem.

His three guests showed a sudden attention that confounded Enrique, incapable of telling whether their faces expressed mere interest or something more.

“I’m not very sure,” improvised Enrique, still inspired. “My Latin’s not what it used to be, and I’ve just looked through it, but I’ve come to the conclusion that it tells the story of a secret society in fifteenth-century Barcelona. It has to do with the church and the Jews of back then, and it refers to some mysterious object. But that’s not the important part. It’s going to be my guide, a reference work, for what I hope will be my first historical novel. I’m not yet sure what it will be about, except that it has to follow the conventional structure of a mystery novel.”

“Historical fiction is highly complex; you need to be well-documented to avoid any incongruities,” Samuel said. “If you go ahead with it, I could help you. You know I’m an expert in everything that has to do with my people. And now that you mention it, Artur was also working on a document he called ‘the Casadevall manuscript.’ He showed it to us the weekend … he died.”

“That’s the one. I’ve been taking notes on it for days. And I appreciate your offer, Samuel. I suppose I’ll eventually take you up on it, although for now, I’ll have enough work, planning the plot up here.” He pointed to his head. “Well, gentlemen, the company is pleasant, but if you don’t mind, I’m getting picked up in a few minutes—”

“—and you’d like to be alone.” Guillem finished his sentence for him. “Very well. Friends, let’s take the gifts that Enrique has been kind enough to give us in Artur’s memory, and be on our way.”

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.

8

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.”

Mariola said nothing. She just watched him, smiling. Not even those who knew her best could have said what was hiding behind her enigmatic expression. Enrique, still shocked at the discovery of an unknown facet of his father’s life, hidden over the years like a private vice, and destined to remain that way so that nothing and no one could share it, didn’t stop to look at Mariola. He felt moved, and his eyes welled up, though he did all he could to hold back the tears. Enrique didn’t like to show his feelings, and strangely, thinking that Mariola could see him helped push his pain down to the deepest part of his inner self. The reason for his attitude immediately dawned on him: women were attracted to the alpha male, the one that lets nothing get to him. He couldn’t keep from smiling as he realized that he liked Mariola enough to activate his subconscious.

A momentary calm seemed to settle between them. They both kept still, though for different reasons. Mariola broke the serene spell that had silenced them.

“Ready to work?” she asked softly.

“Whenever you say so.”

“We’ll start over here. Make a list like this: number the pieces starting from one; I’ll tell you the type of furniture, its condition, the period, and approximate starting price. I’ll take a photo of each one, and that way we won’t have to move the bigger ones.”

And so they whiled away the hours, with the ease of a river flowing into lazy pools where the waters stop to recover from the fatigue of their never-ending journey. Mariola, thrilled to find herself among the objects of her world, dictated an endless list of the most diverse objects, from large Regency-style desks to a collection of small turn-of-the-century lighters arranged in a tabletop display case. Enrique listened carefully to Mariola’s explanations, and was enjoying being close to her, the halo of her discreet perfume, and the silhouette of her beautiful, full lips. The atmosphere was imbued with the radiant happiness Mariola felt inside. Incapable of keeping it to herself, she passed it on to her perplexed makeshift secretary.

They stopped for barely half an hour for a bite to eat before continuing their work. Enrique felt transported to a world of bliss he had given up for lost years ago. This reencounter with the magic of childhood, when Artur had told him the wondrous stories he’d made up about the history of the antiques on display in the shop, together with the warm feeling he felt as an adult male spending time with a beautiful woman made him forget that days before in that same place, his adoptive father had been killed. That night, with much of the shop inventory down on the list, Mariola decided it was time to quit.

“That’s enough for today. We’ve done a lot, and we can finish tomorrow morning. What time is it?”

“The cathedral bells struck nine a few minutes ago.”

“Well, I think I’ve earned a reward. Treat me to dinner?” she asked, gazing at him with her intense blue eyes.

“Seems like a small reward for all you’ve done for me.”

On a whim, Mariola insisted on having dinner nearby in Plaça de Sant Josep Oriol.

“I haven’t had dinner down here in a long time,” she said.

All of the tables were taken by groups of students, savvy tourists, and the eclectic blend of locals: painters, poets, musicians, intellectuals, and their ilk. His father’s friendship with the owner of Bar del Pi secured them a table well ahead of a long waiting list. It was set up on the edge of the terrace, toward the center of the square, away from the din of conversations, which, with the typically Spanish lack of discretion, overlapped each other in an orchestrated ceremony of confusion. The waiter took their order right away, and soon their table was laid with a large salad and a pair of stuffed omelets.

“This square has a special charm I haven’t found anywhere else in Barcelona,” Mariola said. “It’s a little corner of Paris transplanted to Barcelona that, strangely, has somehow managed to adapt to its environment and people.”

“Do you know Paris?”

“Très bien.” She showed off a perfect French accent. “I studied fine arts there. My father is very conservative, one of those who only believes in religious education. And seeing that the priests back then were somewhat Frenchified, and that the École des Beaux-Arts is known all over the world, showing an utter lack of imagination, he sent me to Paris, where I spent five years of my life in a Montmartre apartment with two girlfriends. Dad never imagined that I’d learn much more than my professors taught in class!” She laughed again, content at the evocation of her past, enveloped in the nostalgic notes that the restaurant pianist seemed to be playing just for her. “His naïve little girl was gone by year one. She gave way to the woman that he never thought he’d find in me.”

“Not many parents know how to let their kids grow up without getting stuck at some point along the way.”

“Did the same thing happen to you?” Mariola asked.

“No, I don’t think so. Maybe, because I was adopted, Artur kept a certain distance between us. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean that he didn’t love me, but that he tried, out of the responsibility that he had taken and respect for the memory of my parents, to be as professional as possible in my upbringing. In hindsight, I see that he acted like a strict guardian who was also my father. But, under that mask of strictness, there was a very lovable person who was always struggling to get out. He was a man of such character.”

“I agree—maybe even too much character.”

“What makes you say that?”

“When I proposed that Samuel and I partner up, he was radically opposed to it. The business situation wasn’t good, I’m sure you know all about that. Religious art is a complex market, and it went through a dire period. He thought of it as the passing whim of a poor little rich girl, recently divorced, bored, and looking for a way to keep from being alone. He didn’t think I would get involved in the business like I did, and he let me know directly, without pulling punches. He was polite—I mean, that was Artur—but he wasn’t pleasant about it. It took me several years to earn his respect with regard to my work. And Artur’s respect, in a world as given to hearsay as ours, could even outweigh the influence of someone like my father, who didn’t want to intervene on my behalf so that people wouldn’t accuse him of favoritism toward me.”

“I had no idea.” Enrique was crestfallen. Artur had never told him anything about this. He felt, perhaps irrationally, that this development could put a barrier between Mariola and him.

“It doesn’t matter. I mean, it did then, but it all worked out in the end. We were always on friendly terms after that. There wasn’t a friendship per se, because he thought that I would be offended by his initial reaction. I wasn’t, but he kept his distance just the same. He went several years without attending any of the parties my father threw. Lately, fortunately, things were becoming more normal, and he would grace us with his presence at our get-togethers. But we were talking about your family. Didn’t you have any other relatives on your mother’s or father’s side?”

“Yes, I did, but it was as if they didn’t exist. My father’s family went into exile in Russia after the Civil War, except for Artur. And my mother was an only child, the last of her lineage. There were some cousins, uncles, and aunts, but the relationship with them just withered after my parents died. They never got along with Artur.”

“It must have been so hard for you.” She took his hand.

“Yes, yes it was,” Enrique concurred, not withdrawing from that initial contact. “An eleven-year-old boy, suddenly left without parents. You just can’t imagine. No one can.”

Mariola’s only response was to squeeze his hand even tighter.

“Luckily, Artur put every effort into raising me, like the son he had decided not to have.”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s pretty simple,” he laughed. “I wouldn’t say that Artur was a misogynist, but he always said that all women did was distract men. I know,” Enrique said, leaning in, “that he had several affairs when I was little. He must have thought I never realized, but I was pretty clever for my age.”

“What about you? Do you share his opinion?” Mariola, with her left elbow resting on the arm of the chair, her chin in her hand, looked at him intently with a smile Enrique found mischievous.

“No.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she answered in all seriousness.

The dinner had been so pleasant that the minutes turned to hours without either of them realizing it. Enrique was surprised to hear the eleven o’clock bells. He had forgotten that Bety would be waiting for him.

“It’s really late. I need to get home,” he said suddenly.

“I understand,” Mariola replied, evoking the feminine voice that had answered his first phone call. “Someone’s waiting for you.”

“But not like you’re thinking. It’s Bety, my ex-wife. She was close to Artur, and couldn’t make it to the funeral. So she came a few days later to see if she could help me with anything.”

“I see.”

“Can I give you a ride home?” offered Enrique.

“No, don’t worry about it. I’d rather stay down here and go for a walk. I’ll take a taxi later.”

“Okay. Tomorrow—”

“At ten, just like today. We’ll be done by midday.” Enrique leaned in and they kissed each other on each cheek, without the slightest hint of complicity. He walked away, and from the tiny passage that connected the two squares, Enrique looked back. Mariola was no longer there.

* * *

Bety was waiting for him on the terrace, in the dark, cloaked in the night. The burning tip of a cigarette was the clue that led Enrique to her, as she didn’t answer any of his calls, and he didn’t find her when he looked in the rooms. He sat down next to her. At their feet, Barcelona, lit by the shine of a million lightbulbs, submerged in the twinkle of the fluctuating sparkles, put on a magical show.

“How did you make out with the manuscript?” Enrique asked, knowing that it would be the only topic she would be willing to talk about.

“Fine.”

“Have you made any headway?”

“A bit. But I need to feel comfortable in order to work. And I don’t.”

“How far did you get?”

“I’m about to start the list.”

“That part’s fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Desperate with Bety’s terseness, Enrique had no clue as to how to continue, until a sudden, providential inspiration was kind enough to enlighten his thoughts.

“Are you still finding mistakes in my translation?”

“Enough to write a handbook for students of Introduction to Classical Philology. There are so many, and of so many kinds, that they actually surprise me, and I’ve often stopped to ask: Could this be? As I said the other day, it’s the translation of an amateur, and I’m constantly reminded that that’s what you are.”

Hearing her tirade made Enrique think he had overcome Bety’s initial reluctance to talk, and he strove to continue on this path. He preferred her this way; angry was better than silent.

“Now that you’ve found the mistakes in the main part of the text, you may be able to make a new interpretation of it. That might lead us to the solution.”

“Unfortunately, that’s not the case,” she said, taking a deep drag on the cigarette. “At first I thought that, if we sift through your syntax errors, we could decode, or at least clarify, the text, but aside from surprising me with its content, the manuscript is still a mystery to me. I don’t have a single new clue. It’s interesting on its own, as it tells of Casadevall’s thoughts, worries, and problems, but for now, that’s all.”

“Everything remains the same.”

“So it does. And on a different topic, how did the appraisal go? You two must have worked hard, you coming home so late.” She didn’t repress a certain reproachfulness.

Enrique used the cover of darkness to bite his lower lip and think out a cautious response.

“Yes, that’s right. We only stopped long enough to have a little lunch and a little dinner.” Bety’s silence forced him on. “We appraised what was in the warehouse and much of the store. Mariola thinks we’ll be finished by tomorrow midday.”

“What’s she like?” Bety suddenly asked. Enrique was taken aback, but took no time in sensing the question’s significance. The atonal register of her voice, deliberately devoid of all feeling, made it essential for him to answer honestly.

“She’s marvelous,” Enrique said.

“Just as I thought.” She crushed her cigarette out in the ashtray, and stood to position herself behind Enrique. She gripped his shoulders. “I wish you luck.”

Bety went inside. Enrique got up wanting to talk to her, but an instinct held him at the terrace threshold. He didn’t ponder the meaning of their conversation. To do so would have led to a conflict he preferred not to face.

Twenty-four hours later, Bety’s mood had changed radically. If she had been ill-tempered enough on Saturday to almost completely ignore Enrique, on Sunday, surely thanks to the previous night’s conversation, she was back to her normal behavior, as if she had expunged all her troubles and worries. Enrique heard her getting up for her morning run, and later they had breakfast together. They talked about Casadevall’s odd behavior, and the outlandish mysteries described in the text. Bety thought they were an author’s license, an essay in fantasy. Enrique, perhaps due to a professional bias, thought that everything the manuscript detailed could and must be true. They didn’t speak of the appraisal. When breakfast was over, Bety told him she would return to San Sebastián when she was definitively done with the translation, probably Tuesday or Wednesday. Saddened, Enrique nodded. It was true that her being there had helped him not just in the investigation, but also on the personal side. Her warmth and her usually cheerful mood had had something of a soothing effect on the wounds opened by Artur’s death, alleviating his grief.

As he drove to Barcelona, he was accompanied by the impression that Bety had decided to clear the way for the possible relationship that seemed to be budding between Mariola and him. He had to hand it to her: she could develop the most detailed behavioral analyses with minimal available information. She had seen, even before he had, that her presence was no longer appropriate in the current circumstances. So she had decided to leave; she didn’t want to be a bother. Or maybe she was doing it to keep from meddling. Or perhaps it was both. Enrique struggled against the illusory male vanity that came from feeling wanted by the opposite sex. Even though it took great effort, he repressed feelings that seemed vile to him but that were difficult for men to avoid.

What remained of the appraisal evolved into a dialectic game between Mariola and Enrique. There was little left to do, allowing them to turn their attention more to enjoying the experience of taking the inventory together than the actual content of the list. Shortly after one, Mariola declared the task finished. Everything was put into a folder.

“My father’s secretary will take care of calling anyone who’s interested in the auction. Give me the list. We’ll include it with the call to the auction so everyone will know what’s on it.” Enrique handed her his notes. “Enrique, is there any piece you’d like to keep?”

“Yes, several, actually. The problem is, there are too many to be able to take them home.”

“It’s as good an excuse as any to redecorate your house.”

“It hasn’t even been a year since I bought my flat, and I like the decor: it’s practical and contemporary. I admire the beauty of a lot of this furniture, but I couldn’t put it anywhere at home without distorting the atmosphere. Besides, I prefer to make a clean break with the past,” he added. “I’d have too many memories of events I’d rather forget.”

“And another thing: we should move all of this to the association premises as soon as we can—first thing Monday if possible. Emptying this warehouse,” she looked around to estimate how much time it would take, “with the proper care so as to not damage any of the furniture will take hours, maybe even a few days.”

“I can’t come to the shop on Monday. I have some business to take care of with Bety. How can we handle it?”

“Do you trust me?”

Enrique let himself be taken in by her blue eyes, and was completely entranced. Her eyes had the color of youth, the flavor of innocence, the aroma of a first time, and along with all that, above all, the promise of possibility.

“Yes,” he answered without reservation.

“Give me the keys. I have complete confidence in the movers I’ll hire for the job, but even so, I’ll oversee it personally.”

Enrique handed her the keys in response. Then they turned out the lights and prepared to close the shop. In the doorway, Enrique caught Mariola’s arm to stop her.

“Wait, I want to tell you something,” he said, suddenly inspired.

“I’m listening.” Once again, he felt pierced by her eyes.

“I want to give you a gift. I want you to have a memento of Artur, and me, in appreciation for all the help you’ve given me. There must be some piece of art or furniture in there that you’d like, I’m sure of it. If so, I want you to have it.”

Repeating the offer he had made two days prior helped calm his spirit. He thought that Friday’s gesture had been contaminated by his ulterior motive, and the people to whom it was directed, except for Samuel. If Enrique had made the offer, it was because the circumstances had required it. So now, making it to Mariola somehow restored the purity of the proposal. Mariola smiled, charmed by the idea.

“There’s a lot to choose from, but there is one special thing.”

“Do you accept then?”

“Yes,” she giggled with pleasure, “but I won’t tell you what it is. I’ll let you guess, if you can.”

Enrique lowered the blind.

“And now?” Mariola asked, while placing the keys into her purse.

“And now, what?” Enrique asked in turn.

“I thought you might like to come have lunch at my house.”

Enrique drowned out a mental image of Bety before answering. “I’d love to.”

He didn’t know where Mariola lived. She directed him to El Putxet, a hill located near Doctor Andreu Avenue—better known as Tibidabo Avenue. El Putxet rose up like a freak microcosm of greenery and silence amid the urban monotony of gray and incessant noise.

There, in the heights over Barcelona, on the hill where the bourgeoisie had built lavish summer homes at the turn of the twentieth century, now engulfed by the dizzying growth of the city, Mariola had her refuge.

“The house is built over the foundation of an old mansion that belonged to the Bisbal family, turn-of-the-century industrialists who fell into decline,” she explained, “My father bought the plot fifteen years ago to build what he planned to be his home, but he changed his mind. He gave it to me when I returned from the States. I resisted at first, because I would have preferred an apartment downtown. But now I’m so happy with it you can’t even imagine. Living in that area is such a privilege.”

Enrique drove up Balmes Street, and after crossing the highway, turned right, following Mariola’s directions.

“The entrance into El Putxet is so well-hidden that it’s almost inaccessible to anyone who doesn’t know it. And its streets are so narrow and winding, the buses stay out; they can’t turn on them. The only mass transit is right there, on the right—a stop where the metro just passes by the lower part of the neighborhood. That’s why my father decided he didn’t want to live up here. He doesn’t drive, and without a car you’d have to walk a long way—that intersection there, to the left. And as you can see, it’s all uphill.”

As they climbed higher, the small three- or four-story apartment blocks gave way to freestanding buildings with private gardens, the remnants of past bourgeois glory. Mariola directed him even farther up. Enrique passed a well-known private hospital, where the street forked into two. They went left. After a curve, Mariola pointed out her house.

“There it is. Stop in front of the gate. I’ll open it.”

Enrique stopped his car alongside the high wall, which was covered by a thick layer of lush ivy that fell almost to the ground. Mariola opened the gate for him and showed him where to park. Passing through to the other side of the wall was like entering a fantasy world. The structure of Mariola’s house was integrated into the slope of the plot, like a set of three steps. What impressed Enrique, however, wasn’t the architecture but the sophisticated access and the garden that surrounded the entire house, rising up toward the peak of the hill. In front of the house, protected from inquisitive eyes by an intelligent arrangement of different-sized trees and a number of parterres, there was a neoclassic-style swimming pool with a mosaic bottom, surrounded by columns.

“Wow!” Enrique managed to say, frankly surprised.

“It’s one of the original parts of the old estate that I decided to keep. The Bisbals loved luxury, and although it is somewhat over the top, I can’t help but find it beautiful. But if the pool seems sumptuous to you, I don’t want to imagine what you’d have thought about the original ensemble.”

“You mean it was more luxurious than the pool?”

“It was. The carriage entrance went around the right side of the pool, and led to a coach house that was back there. Next to the coach house was the servants’ entrance and the private elevator that led to the villa, a massive neoclassical mansion that had over fifty rooms, a wine cellar carved out of rock, two tennis courts, and a lit garden watered by dozens of waterfalls that went all the way up to the peak of the hill, where there was a gazebo so they could take in the city off in the distance. The second thing I decided to conserve was part of the garden.”

“They must have been loaded,” Enrique commented with admiration.

“By saying that, you must think that I am too.”

“No. Well, actually, yes,” he rectified honestly. “Just the upkeep on a place like this must cost a fortune.”

“We sold part of the land to the city for the expansion of a public park that adjoins the property. That was a windfall that, along with nearly all my father’s money, made it possible to build this house. As for the upkeep of the grounds, by the agreement that we drew up to transfer the land, the city handles it in exchange for a future option to buy the house. Come on, let’s go up.”

She guided Enrique up a marble staircase to the second floor.

“Here’s where I put the living room, spacious, just as I like it. On the third floor I have two bathrooms and the bedrooms, and the study’s on the fourth. All of the bedrooms face outward and get natural light all day thanks to the house’s southern orientation,” she said as she slid the glass door that separated the living room from a small terrace.

Enrique was overwhelmed by the display of luxury. He thought that he was privileged to live, first in Vallvidrera, later on the slopes of Mount Igueldo, but Mariola’s house seemed like the stuff of fairy tales. She had practically the same view of Barcelona that Artur’s house did, and the comforts of a Roman emperor. And yet, he couldn’t help but think it was all somewhat excessive.

“It isn’t too big? Too much land for just one person?”

“It’s my private world,” Mariola answered. “Living here, you don’t need anything from the outside world. You have what little good it can offer within reach, but you’re protected from all its evil by those sturdy old walls.”

“You don’t get scared? I mean, living here alone, with all the lunatics out there these days.”

“No,” she said. “After living in New York for four years, Barcelona seems like a small city. That’s what happened when I came back. Over there everything—and I mean everything—is so huge, so out of proportion, that Barcelona seems like a toy in comparison. Plus, the house has an alarm system, and I keep a gun in my nightstand. If anyone did break in, I imagine the alarm would be deterrent enough, but I can assure you I’d have no qualms about using that pistol for protection.”

“I’m shocked. I can’t imagine you, gun in hand, facing down a burglar,” Enrique admitted.

Mariola laughed.

“You’d be surprised at how many of your habits could change if you lived over there awhile. You can’t imagine how many armed people there are walking around New York.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think I’d be able to do it,” he answered. “Guns really make me edgy.”

“Come on! If you ever found yourself in a situation where you were forced to, you wouldn’t hesitate to use one, I can promise you that. We all have our ideas, but reality rules.”

Enrique shook his head. Perhaps she was right.

“Can I fix you a drink?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I’ll take a tonic water.”

“Straight or mixed with something?”

“Straight. I hardly ever drink.”

“Well, I guess you had to have a defect after all.”

“Just one?”

“I don’t know of any other.” She smiled sweetly.

“You don’t even have the one.”

Mariola passed Enrique the glass, and their fingers brushed against each other as he took it. A shiver ran through him. He followed her out onto the terrace.

“This is a fantastic place, a storybook setting,” he said. “If it weren’t so solitary, it would be perfect.”

“Don’t think I’m always alone. Dad holds all his antiquarian parties here, and you wouldn’t believe how much work they are, and sometimes friends from the States come visit and—”

“And sometimes you have someone over for dinner,” Enrique finished her sentence.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Sometimes I meet someone who’s able to understand certain things, things that aren’t within everyone’s reach.”

“If that someone understands those things, why aren’t they here, with you?”

“Someone understanding certain things doesn’t mean someone understanding everything. It’s more complex than you imagine.”

“I’d rather not imagine anything. Just take things as they come.”

Enrique approached her. She was leaning against the rail, looking out into the garden. He stood next to her, facing the living room. Then he slid his hand up her neck, into her hair. He found the clip that was holding it up, and gently undid it. Her black hair fell and draped her shoulders.

“That wasn’t easy to find. You must have some experience.”

“Some,” Enrique conceded before he kissed her.

Long after night had fallen, Enrique said good-bye to Mariola.

“I need to get home. Bety’s there and I don’t want to leave her alone.”

“I don’t want you to leave me now,” Mariola meekly protested, “but I understand that you feel indebted to her for coming here with you. Because that’s all it is, right?”

“That’s right,” Enrique nodded, “and nothing else.”

Mariola put on a robe and walked him to his car. Once Enrique was inside, with the window down, she grabbed his arm with an intensity similar to that she’d shown all afternoon. She said nothing, only looked into his eyes with an inscrutable expression he was incapable of deciphering. Then she opened the gate for him. Once outside the wall, Enrique waved good-bye. But she didn’t respond.

9

He was happy. He didn’t stop to analyze his feelings; he settled for reveling in them. Enrique was steeped in the sense of fulfillment experienced by someone hot off a conquest. He would have sworn that he could evoke not only the feelings he had felt during their encounter, but those prior to it too, the slightest details that made up their surroundings from the exact moment they had met.

He drove lost in thought, wrapped in a dreamlike air, slowly, trying to focus on a highway that was taking him away from the object of his desire. He arrived home still in the midst of his fantasies. It was late, but Bety was waiting for him in the living room. She jumped up to greet him as soon as she heard keys in the lock.

“Finally! I thought you’d never get here, and I didn’t know where to reach you. You’ve had your phone off all afternoon.”

“What’s going on?”

“They caught him.”

The news shocked Enrique.

“How? When?”

“Fornells called you around ten thirty. They were following someone, and they caught him early yesterday afternoon in Sitges.”

“Who? Which of the two did it?”

Bety smiled, amused at Enrique’s question.

“Neither,” she responded bluntly. “You were wrong.”

“You’ve got to be kidding!”

“I’m not. They haven’t arrested Guillem, Enric, or Samuel. It was another man I don’t know anything about.”

Enrique abruptly left Bety in midconversation. He dialed the Raval Precinct number, but Fornells couldn’t come to the phone. They put him through to Rodríguez, his assistant.

“Hello?”

“This is Enrique Alonso.”

“Right. I can’t tell you much right now. We’ve brought a suspect in, your father’s alleged killer. Fornells is interrogating him right now, but it looks like we’re in for a long night. He’s a tough guy, one of those who won’t talk much.”

“Who the hell is he?”

“A guy we’ve suspected from the beginning: Phillipe Brésard, better known by his alias, the Frenchman. He’s an international art smuggler, wanted everywhere.”

“Unbelievable!” Enrique shouted, stunned at the sudden turn of events. His suspect had disappeared, vanished like a dream on waking. All of the intricate imaginings he had construed over the previous days were now meaningless. He felt like a bona fide idiot, receiver in hand without the slightest idea what to say.

“Excuse me? What’d you say?” Rodríguez asked, equally perplexed.

“Sorry, it’s just, the news has really hit me hard,” Enrique lied, reacting only to Rodríguez’s surprise. “When do you think I can talk to Fornells?”

“Did you know him?”

“Excuse me?”

“I asked you if you knew the Frenchman.”

“No, I have no idea who he could be.”

“All right,” Rodríguez answered after a pause. “I think you can talk to Fornells tomorrow morning, but I can’t give you a time. Stay reachable. He’ll call your cell as soon as he can.”

After hanging up, Enrique felt disoriented, and didn’t know what to do. Standing next to the table where the telephone sat, with his mind elsewhere and his eyes casting a faraway gaze, it must have been Bety who took him by the hand and led him to the sofa. The two of them sat there, and she patiently waited for him to talk.

“It can’t be,” Enrique finally said. “It can’t be.”

“Well, it is.” Bety wore the soft smile so characteristic of her, conveying a message of calm.

“Everything … everything fit perfectly. It couldn’t have been any other way!”

“It was.”

Their eyes met and Enrique felt his conviction waver.

“Yes, it was,” he responded.

“You shouldn’t worry. Maybe you were a little affected and obsessed by it all—enough to come up with a coherent story that you could tell me, and that I participated in. Either way, we’ll know more tomorrow.”

“You’re right.”

“Go to bed. It’ll do you good.”

“Okay.”

Enrique obeyed Bety. But once in bed, he managed only to drowse throughout the night, needled by a tiny voice from the depths of his conscience that seemingly wanted to warn him of something, a warning he couldn’t quite make out.

Early the next morning, the telephone rang. Enrique, who hadn’t slept well at all, was already up, waiting in the living room for Fornells’s call. And that’s just who was calling.

“Enrique,” he stated, more than asked.

“I’m here.”

“We need to talk.”

“Whenever you want.”

“Come down to the station, but don’t come in. Wait for me outside. We’ll go for breakfast. Can you be here within forty-five minutes?”

“I’ll be there.”

“Good, see you then.”

Bety craned her head through the doorway as soon as he hung up.

“Was that Fornells?”

“Yes. He wants to talk to me.”

“Why are you so touchy? You haven’t been yourself since last night.”

“I don’t know. I have the feeling that something isn’t quite right.”

“Don’t you think it could be the explosive cocktail of big-time-writer ego plus failed theory?”

“Let’s hope that’s all it is,” he muttered.

Ten minutes later he was ready to descend from his private haven. Bety walked him to the gate and said good-bye after a kiss on both cheeks.

“Good luck.”

Enrique was standing on a corner near the station at the prearranged time. Leaning against a battered wall that he imagined had been deformed under the backs of thousands of unknown snitches on countless nights of uncertain endings, he saw Fornells emerge from the station. Not yet spotting him, the veteran detective looked down both directions of the deserted street. Enrique made his presence known with a wave. Fornells, walking with a tired gait, approached him. Standing before him, he blinked several times; his tired eyes, shot through with red thread veins, told the story of a very long night.

“I need a drink.”

“From the looks of you, I don’t doubt it.”

“London Bar will be opening now. Let’s go there.” They walked in silence. Fornells seemed to have aged several years in very little time. He walked slowly, with small steps that exasperated Enrique. At the café, the morning shift was preparing to open. Fornells lifted the half-open blind and hailed one of the waiters.

“Hey, Andreu. Do you mind?”

“No problem, my friend. Come on in. That corner table’s quiet. What can I bring you?”

“Enrique?” Fornells offered.

“Warm milk and some toast with butter.”

“An espresso with a healthy shot of Soberano cognac for me.” He sighed. “Enrique, we have to talk.”

“That’s why I’ve come.”

“It’s not going to be pretty.”

“I imagine it’s not.”

“Okay, okay.” Fornells rubbed his temples, tousling his sparse hair. “Where to begin? Let’s see … What I’m going to tell you is not what you’re expecting to hear. But before I tell you what you really want to know, I have to tell you a few things that I don’t think you know yet. And to do that, I’m going to go back many years, not just before you were born, but before your parents even knew each other. I’ll go back to a distant, and rather dark, time, even though young people today don’t really know the meaning of those words.

“The story begins in the mid-1950s. The fifties were not the best of years, though they couldn’t compare to the forties. Now those were horrible times! Don’t look at me like that, son. You’re not sitting with some rambling old fart. Be patient and listen. Back then, this country’s economy was on what you could call an upswing, an upswing that meant that we could get rid of the ration cards. Society, economically polarized between the elite, who had won the Civil War, and everyone else, expanded and normalized its activities, so that general welfare increased enough to get over the most dire shortcomings.

“You can well imagine that a private little world sprang up around that elite I just mentioned, one that had nothing to do with most people’s problems. In Barcelona, that little world was made up of the new de facto powers who came from outside Catalonia—a handful of them anyway—and a large part of the Catalan bourgeoisie, who had no trouble warming up to the new bosses for the sake of preserving their status and privileges, in most cases. So here—well, I don’t want to generalize, they would have done the same thing anywhere—those who were well-off welcomed with open arms the conquerors with whom, by strange coincidence, they shared a great deal.

“They lived in an odd environment. While everyone else faced shortages of everything, showing off either more or less depending on how discreet the family was, they had everything: plenty of food, financial means …

“Your father—I mean your real one, Lluís, not Artur—because of his social standing, belonged to that world, and he must have grown up in it, but he was caught between two opposing forces. Much of his family had made heavy political commitments to the Republic, and had to go into exile after the war. There were very few who stayed on the sidelines, among them your father, Lluís.

What happened to the Aiguaders was worse. All of them had strongly supported the Republic, which meant serious reprisals for the family. Most of the Aiguaders’ wealth was used, first off, to help those in exile. They may have had a different ideology, but they were still cousins, uncles, and brothers. Then, the new regime expropriated much of the family’s property and left your relatives, who had once had it all, on the brink of abject poverty.

“They had some tough times. Pere, Artur’s father, did some time in a work camp, and when he was released, he was pretty sick. The family depended on other people’s charity to get by. A couple of years later, the stigma of being ‘reds’ started to wear off, and the family’s situation improved quite a bit.

“You may wonder why I’m telling you all this, but I think it’s necessary to get an idea for who Artur was. The environment we grow up in marks us deeply for the rest of our lives, and Artur was no exception to that rule.”

Fornells took a little break in his stream of recollections to sip down the last of his carajillo, though the coffee-with-brandy was now cold. Enrique, who had finished his breakfast some time before, made use of the lapse to interrupt Fornells’s monologue.

“You’re right. Sorry, but I don’t quite understand.”

“Don’t worry about it, just listen,” Fornells cut him off softly, without paying him the slightest attention. “Did you ever find out why, after your parents’ death, Artur adopted you? Or let me put it another way: do you know the fundamental reason why they forged such a great friendship?”

“Well, I …” Enrique strived to remember any conversation he had had with Artur in which this was explained to him, to no avail. “I know they had been friends since they were young. See, on winter nights, when it was cold, we would sit by the fireplace, and I would ask him to tell me things about my parents. I would have him do it time and again, so many times that I think I can repeat all the stories as he did, word for word. He never said no: he thought it was necessary for me to have a clear memory of them, and not forget them as the years went by and his figure took their place. He told stories about things all three of them had done, or stories about my father when he was young, but I don’t remember him saying anything about what brought them together.”

“That makes sense. But I can tell you the reason, I can tell you why. And once I have, you’ll understand what I’ll tell you next. Remember that Artur and I went to the same high school at the same time.

“Look, I’ve told you that Artur spent his early years in an upper-class setting. In that world he met the children of many other respectable, well-established people in society, among them your mother, Núria Pujolrás, and your father, Lluís Alonso. For years, they played their children’s games, oblivious to what was going on around them for one fundamental reason: they spent the war isolated in their private world, defended by an environment that filtered everything that happened on the outside before it reached them.

“Once the war was over, the losers—as it always has been and always will be—got screwed by the winners. That meant that Artur’s family had to move to a lower-class neighborhood, where they lived surrounded by poor people whose only goal, just like the Aiguaders’ from that time on, was to not go hungry. That’s how we met: in poverty. But, what for my family had been a way of life we were more or less accustomed to, for him and his family was a terrible blow that took them a long time to get over.

“We met at school, where Artur had lots of trouble. He was out of his element and it showed. He had this well-defined class arrogance, not of his own, personally, but acquired by the upbringing he was given and the environment he grew up in. He lost that haughtiness soon enough, and in the hardest way: they beat it out of him. We neighborhood kids were never great believers in class.” Fornells smiled. “After a while, he was accepted into the group: he was clever, intelligent, and he helped others whenever they asked him to. That trait alone let him make many friends who would later prove to be very useful.

“He was a bit older than me, but we got to be friends. We weren’t like inseparable bosom buddies, but we both knew we could trust the other completely. There’s a thin line between trusting and confiding in someone, and it wasn’t long before I knew his most secret, cherished dream: to no longer be poor. He remembered his childhood, so far from the poorness of our neighborhood. His one desire was to return to those lost origins.

“We grew up and went our separate ways. I managed to join the force, which at that time was a substitute for the priesthood, and to put food on the table, while Artur temporarily left the academic world. He began to move around in some shady areas, and a few years later, he had put some money together. His mother, Ana, died, and then his father, Pere. Free from family ties, he stepped up his activities. The black market was risky and dangerous, but also profitable.

“It was in those years that he reunited with Núria and Lluís. The recipients of the contraband could only be those well-off, old-money families. Artur, whose name meant something in that world, became a key contact for the hypocrites who in public rejected what he represented, along with Artur himself, and in private welcomed him in—though not without reservations—to their high-walled mansions.

“I don’t know the details of how he rekindled his friendship with Núria. I do know that Artur cut a fine figure and had that roguish air that came from his illegal undertakings. They saw each other several times in public, and finally, alone. As a result of that meeting, something changed radically in Artur’s behavior: he quit the black market, wanting to redeem himself in the proper society that Núria belonged to, that he had been so distanced from. Love and hate are the only feelings that can really transform a person, and Artur was in love.

“It was a radical change. He opened what would later develop into his business, a small antiques shop, and went back to school. His exceptional intelligence made it easier for him, and after seven years he had earned his high school diploma and two university degrees, in history and classical philology. He had an education and a business that, though it had its ups and downs, was respectable; he thought he could seek Núria’s hand in marriage, but her parents rejected him outright. They didn’t want to tarnish the family’s good name with what they considered an uneven match. Núria was desperate. Her parents, who never imagined the magnitude of their relationship, forbade her from ever seeing him again. And, in that class, in that day and age, an order like that from your parents could never be disobeyed, not even questioned. Artur, crushed by a reaction he never expected, licked his wounds and considered what route to take next, because he was sure he would eventually achieve his goal.

“Now I’ll tell you about Lluís. Artur had a funny relationship with him. Though at first Artur had approached him as a way in to the restricted circle of upper-class youth, they ended up becoming true friends. Lluís wasn’t like most people in that group. He was aware of the privilege of his social status, but didn’t have the class consciousness that his friends seemed so proud of. To him, Artur was an example of struggle and tenacity; a role model to be followed, not shunned. Like everyone else, he knew the rumors about Artur, but he preferred not to put stock in them. He was a good man even in that. He always said that he was no one to judge the lives of others.

“And so, in that chance way, their friendship grew. They had similar points of view and hobbies, and they became nearly inseparable. They knew everything about each other, except for one thing: they were both in love with the same woman. That’s the way it was. Lluís wanted to marry Núria too, and I think any man in his right mind would have: she was like a fairy-tale princess.”

“She was,” Enrique concurred, remembering the old photos kept in the family albums.

“I only saw her once, but I did get that impression. She had something unearthly about her: those big eyes, the delicate features. She looked like she was not of this world. But I’m getting off the subject,” Fornells said, returning to his story. “I also don’t know why they, knowing each other as well as they did, kept their love for Núria secret. Maybe because, no matter how close you are to someone, there’s always something you can’t share; or maybe they just each suspected it about the other and didn’t want to bring it up.

“Whatever the reason, one day Lluís decided to ask Núria to marry him, even though she had no idea how he felt. He knew that without her father’s permission, there would be no wedding, which is why he had to get it before moving on to the next step. The conversation with Núria’s parents was long and fruitful, and it ended with the two parties sealing the deal. Lluís was the ideal candidate: nice, upstanding family, with money, that he would have coming to him as hereu—you know, the Catalan tradition of the first-born son being the general heir. Their marriage would benefit both families, and although her consent was the last thing her parents were worried about, Lluís chose to talk to her.

“When Lluís popped the question, Núria didn’t know what hit her. After all those years of friendship, finding out that Lluís had been secretly in love with her was a total shock. She let him down easy. Even if she didn’t love him, she thought the world of the man, and never would have hurt him. She didn’t say anything about there being someone else, and her refusal was as nice as it could be.

“But Lluís didn’t give up. Without his knowing, Artur languished in love while Lluís began to call regularly on the object of his desire. It was a strategy of attrition, and it eventually worked: one day, Núria finally said yes. I don’t know why she did it; maybe she didn’t love Artur anymore, maybe she had fallen in love with your father. She was young, and young people can be inconsistent in their desires. But we’ll never know.

“What I do know is that, after the wedding, Artur put some distance between himself and them. At first, Lluís thought it was Artur playing it safe; two’s company, three’s a crowd. But after a while, it became clear that there was more to it. So, at Lluís’s request, Artur ended up revealing his love for Núria. Instead of making him angry, it had the opposite effect. They became the best of friends, and though Artur tried to avoid them at first, their insistence ended up bringing him into the fold.

“You’re probably wondering how I know all this. Artur and I saw each other now and then in those years. I was based at the Vía Layetana station, and Artur’s first shop was nearby at the top of La Palla Street, so we’d run into each other every so often on the street or at breakfast. We didn’t hang out like we once had, but that trust was still there. He told me a lot of this stuff himself. Other things I figured out on my own.”

Fornells stopped talking. An hour and a half had passed, and his throat was sore from narrating the story. He ordered a bottle of sparkling water. Fornells and Enrique saw that London Bar, which had been open awhile, had a large and varied clientele. Andreu brought the sparkling water in an old-time, half-liter bottle, a format no longer on the market that was probably only available in a few places.

“I’m parched. It’s been a long night, but there are memories that can bring anyone back to life.” He poured himself a glass, drank, and let the liquid rest in his mouth, as if savoring a fine wine. He took a long look at Enrique’s face. “There’s so much you didn’t know about them!”

Enrique, who had followed the long explanation immersed in a strange trance brought on by unexpected revelations on an unknown past, nodded faintly. The reason they were having this conversation was still beyond him, but he was fascinated, captivated by the story of his people. Fornells failed to repress a long yawn, and then he continued.

“The years went by, and the three of them kept up their friendship. That put the rumor mill into action, but they couldn’t have cared less. They even said that you weren’t Lluís’s son, but Artur’s.” Enrique was beyond flabbergasted. “And they may have been right.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Believe it. There’s no point stirring up the past, especially if the people in it aren’t with us anymore, but you can’t close your eyes to certain things. When you were little, you didn’t look much like Lluís. Now that you’re older, grown up, don’t you think you look a little like Artur? The chin, the cheeks, you have the same hair—not the style, but the hairline’s the same—even your bearing. You look so much like him when he was your age that when you came into the station for the first time I couldn’t help but remember Artur, the way he was years ago. We could find out if you want. The lab could work up a DNA analysis no problem, but I don’t think it’s worth doing—or at least, I wouldn’t. In a way, whoever your father was, you ended up being raised and loved by both of them.”

“So that’s why Artur adopted me.”

“There was no other way. Even if he wasn’t your real father, the bond between Lluís, Núria, and him was too strong. Obviously, the families opposed the adoption, but Lluís’s will was crystal clear. They took the whole thing to court, but there was no way to change anything. Artur fought for you like a wounded wolf protecting its cub, and he won. That’s why the only family you had was Artur. The others ceased to exist.”

“I remember my relatives, vaguely: my grandfather, my cousins. But from the time I went to live with Artur I never heard from them again.”

“He didn’t want you to become one of them. That’s why he kept you away from their influence. He brought you up like a normal kid, with one single privilege: Vallvidrera. You don’t realize how special it is to live in that eagle’s nest until you’re old enough to appreciate the beauty of the simple, the fragile, the gift of just looking at something. Take away Vallvidrera and you were just another boy playing in the streets of a normal neighborhood, with no old-money privileges. They’ve already read you the will, right?”

Enrique nodded.

“Weren’t you surprised to see the fortune Artur had made?”

“The truth is, yes, I was,” Enrique admitted.

“The shop made money, but not that much. I assume you realize that.”

“Are you insinuating there was something dirty behind Artur’s fortune?” Enrique asked hotly.

“I’m not insinuating, I’m stating the facts. I’m a cop, remember? And I’ve worn out many a shoe sole walking the streets. These hands are calloused from turning the pages of case files. I have a copy of the will, and all the paperwork from the banks. Artur couldn’t have had as much as he did without something a bit off in his accounts. But he was always smart, and he covered his tracks well. The money vanished into a web that not even Financial Crimes could untangle. There were as many as five companies tied to Artur, all dissolved now. Allegedly, they laundered money, but there’s no evidence—not a shred—just a fortune. Of unknown origin.”

“Did you know?”

“I always knew. Years ago, I advised him to get out of it. Unfortunately, he didn’t listen.”

“I never would have thought that Artur was capable of being mixed up in anything illegal.”

“For a writer, you don’t have much of an imagination.”

“That’s the second time I’ve been told that in a week.”

“But in this case, it’s understandable. You really never imagined anything? Suspected anything?”

“No. And it’s hard for me to believe that Artur was a common criminal.”

“So you never suspected anything. Okay, that’s possible,” Fornells conceded. “It doesn’t matter much anyway. But don’t get to thinking it was all as dirty as that. The way you define ‘criminal’ depends, like any other word, on a thousand nuances. Is a serial killer the same as a guy who cheats on his taxes? They’ve both broken the basic laws of society. So they’re both criminals.

“All Artur did was deal in stolen art. Now that might seem despicable to some people, but to me, a guy who’s spent the last forty years surrounded by hookers and pimps, dealers and addicts, small-time crooks and kingpins, up to my neck in all the shit society excretes and would rather forget, it doesn’t seem all that bad. He never hurt anyone, that’s for sure. And that, believe it or not, matters to me.”

“I don’t know if you’re just saying that to cheer me up or you really believe it, but I doubt you can imagine how difficult it is for me to take in what you’re saying. Criminal or not, he was deep into something illegal. Art trafficking! This is incredible!”

“Do you really think so? I’d bet my pension that more than one or two ranking Barcelona antiquarians have, have had, or will have a sideline like that, be it occasional or ongoing. When your business becomes your passion, you kind of change, and all of a sudden you can justify the unjustifiable.

“But I have solid proof of what I’m telling you. There’s a warehouse in the name of a front man, but it really belonged to Artur. We went up there. Found a Romanesque altarpiece, complete and in perfect condition, wrapped in pieces. We’re working out the origin now. And that’s what got him killed.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Look, Enrique, I’m not supposed to tell you certain things about the investigation, so I’ll have to give you a quick rundown of how this ring worked. First off, most art is stolen to be put up for sale among the usual buyers later on. But Artur only worked to order for certain clients, whose identity, obviously, we don’t know. Whenever a client found out about an interesting piece, they would contact Artur. He would take the order, travel to wherever the piece was, and make an initial appraisal, and then he’d meet with a specialist. They’d draw up a proposal that Artur would take back to his client; if the client said yes, they gave Artur ten percent. That got the operation underway. As of the time the money changed hands, all responsibility went to the specialist. He would set up the infrastructure necessary to cover and move pieces of a size that would make such a thing seem impossible. Once the job was done, Artur’s duty was to collect the rest of the money and transport the piece to its destination. The specialist and buyer could never, ever meet. All contacts were exclusively through Artur. He was the middleman to guarantee the identity of both parties was kept secret. A well-run racket, that’s for sure.

“The specialist was none other than Phillipe Brésard, one of the most successful international art thieves in the world. The story of Brésard, aka the Frenchman, goes back thirty years. He started off small, but it didn’t take him long to rise in his odd little trade. His first years in the business were total progression, constantly climbing. They busted him in Italy, his favorite hunting ground, early in his career, but he got off with a suspended sentence, never spent a day in jail. From then on, he became one of the best. He was behind those famous hits on the Mausoleum of Verona and the Uffizi Gallery paintings. Everyone knew it was him; his signature technique was identifiable to the extent that, even though they had no evidence, Interpol put out an international search warrant on him.

“But after the gallery job, the Frenchman vanished off the face of the earth. There would be other heists in several countries, but never any evidence. He was simply untraceable. They did get close once. The Frenchman is the temperamental type, and he’s got a mean streak. When he works, he turns into this infallible machine. That explains how, after thirty years of nonstop work, he’s only ever been caught red-handed once, at the beginning of his career. There was a second time, a few years later, but it had nothing to do with his ‘work.’ That time, he got thrown in the slammer on the Costa del Sol after a barroom brawl. Story goes he was bombed and picked one hell of a fight. He spent the night in jail, and only three days after being released on bail was it discovered, through photos and prints, that this hothead was actually a wanted art thief using a false identity. I’m not criticizing the police chief; it wasn’t a big town, and they usually have too much work to stop and think that some guy with a foreign accent might actually be on the wanted lists of half the police forces in Europe. Back then, no one looked at foreigners as potential illegal immigrants. Actually, as tourists, they were the country’s main source of income.

“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.

10

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.”

“With a résumé like that, he’s clearly competent. Why haven’t I ever heard of him? Anyone with such a gift must be a genius!”

“If the United Nations could only hire one translator, he’d send the rest to the unemployment line. The job would be his, hands down.”

“Great. How do I reach him?”

“Wait, wait, not so fast.” Quim implored Bety to be patient. “He’s the best, but—”

“What’s the matter?” Bety interrupted him. “He’s not in Barcelona?”

“Oh, he’s here. The thing is … I don’t really know how to explain it to you. He works here, in the library. He has a research grant financed by the Generalitat, the Catalan government. Manolo occasionally travels to other cities—Bologna, Rome, Florence, Narbonne, or Paris—hunting down information. Right now he happens to be here. But, the thing is, Manolo’s a little … quirky. What I mean is that he might not say no, but he might not say yes either.”

“So what is it that you’re trying to tell me about this Manolo character?”

“Just what I said. He has his quirks. For him, the only thing that matters is his world. He doesn’t give a damn about other people’s affairs. He’s with us, here in the department, because he’s passionate about his work. But it’s not the same kind of passion a normal person might have. It’s different. As soon as he begins something he’s interested in, and he only begins things that really interest him, everything else ceases to exist. He sleeps and eats because the body requires it. If he could, he’d go without.”

“The truth is, I’m a little confused by all this. I’ve known academics who were hooked on the vice of research, but even so, you’re making him out to be a weirdo, like he was off his rocker. How does he get along with all of you?”

“He has no choice but to live with the full professors, and he’s not distant, but I would say superficial. If we ask him for help, he doesn’t refuse, because he knows it would be impossible for him to work in the university without good relationships with the professors. And you should realize he doesn’t act like that because he feels superior, which he definitely is, or because he looks down on us—it’s not that. He’s not a bad guy; he’s simply not interested in anything from outside his world. That’s it.”

Bety sighed audibly before giving her opinion.

“Some guy.”

“That’s right. Some guy. The best. But don’t worry. If you take him something interesting, he’ll get right on it. If not, he might turn in the translation tomorrow, and he might turn it in three months or a year from now. Or maybe never.”

“You’re not encouraging me. I’d almost rather someone else did it.”

“Don’t worry. Listen, I insist, Manolo’s the very best,” Quim countered. “If he doesn’t come through, we’ll go to someone else. It so happens that here in our university, there’s no shortage of specialists in Old Catalan. But let’s try him first. And, a word of advice: when you talk to him, try to act discreet about your document and sources. It helps if you’re cagey about the translation.”

Bety thought that acting cagey would be no problem. She had faithfully transcribed all of the notes, because, though she had the book with her, she preferred not to show it to anyone. And though the whole affair of the manuscript was not as dramatic since Artur’s killer had been caught, there was still a mystery to solve. The fewer people who knew about it, the better.

“Okay, let’s go,” Bety decided.

“Let’s go, then,” Quim agreed.

They headed out through the empty corridors to the old university library.

“What did you say he was working on?”

“He’s researching the influence of mercantile Catalan in the realm of Mediterranean languages from the eleventh to the seventeenth centuries, based on the development of Catalan Trade Law, and the new trade routes opened up following the Crusades.”

“Thrilling,” Bety deadpanned.

“It’s his world. With this one, he’s received nine consecutive grants. He won the first tender against three or four other researchers. His conclusions happened to support the opinions of the members of the jury responsible for awarding the grants. And if you’re not only the best but you reach conclusions similar to those of your bosses, there’s little the competition can do. All right, here we are. You’ve never been here before, have you?”

“No, never.”

“You’re going to like it.”

They entered the library through a revolving door at one of its ends. It took them into a cavernous room some forty yards long and twenty wide. The height of the ceiling was equivalent to a building of three floors of ten feet each. On the first floor were rows of study lecterns for the general student population, the ends of which were supervised by librarians. The second floor, with restricted access, was made up of galleries fronted by a balustrade from which the first floor could be observed. The equivalent to the third floor housed a high, apparently endless row of old volumes that could only be reached by use of a very tall ladder. Sparse lighting, which made it possible to see only the desks with clarity and cast a dim halo over the stacks, gave a decidedly sinister air to the library, where everything seemed arranged to discourage the noncommittal student. Its gloomy light reminded Bety of an old Romanesque church—a place of withdrawal, completely removed from the modern concept of a library, where users and readers could take refuge from the real world and create their own, isolated from all other fellow scholars under a single and individual point of light.

They ascended to the second floor by a narrow, precipitous stairway. At the far end of the floor stood an old desk completely covered by mountains of books. In the midst of them, they could just make out a figure that appeared immersed in a fit of feverish activity.

“That’s him,” Quim whispered. “What do you think?”

“He looks like a classic library rat. And it looks like he’s in his element.”

“Take him out of here, it’s like taking a fish out of water. You can’t imagine what he’s like at faculty parties.”

They walked toward the table until they had a clear view of the figure surrounded by books. A tangle of hair that appeared to have forgotten what a comb felt like years before topped a face that, aside from the air of a crazed academic from a B-movie, had nothing especially distinct about it. His nondescript appearance was offset by a pair of fiery eyes that shone with particular force. His face was comprised of a thin chin and aquiline nose, sculpted more by skipped meals than any natural slimness. They stood before Manolo, who didn’t detect their presence until Quim spoke.

“Good morning, Manolo.”

He squinted his eyes in an effort to see beyond the light of a lamp shining directly on his desk. He responded, Bety thought, more to the voice than to any actual vision of the person speaking.

“Quim,” he asked more than stated.

“Manolo, I’ve come to introduce someone to you.”

“Ah, okay.” He didn’t bother to get up.

“This is Béatrice Dale, professor of classical philology from the University of the Basque Country. Bety, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón.”

“Very well.”

Bety thought that the irony of Quim reducing her formal academic title to a two-syllable nickname to break the ice meant little to Manolo. Either that or he didn’t even catch it.

A silence ensued. Manolo was clearly waiting for them to leave him alone to go back to his papers but didn’t know if the conversation was over or not.

“Manolo, Bety needs help that only an expert like you can give,” Quim said, taking control of the direction of the conversation.

“Good.” His tone of voice didn’t convey irritation; indifference would more closely describe it. “Let’s see what you need.”

He got up for the first time. Bety would have suffered a fit of laughter had it not been for her natural discretion and the importance she attached to the translation of the notes. He wore dated clothes that were as badly matched as they were ironed.

She took out her transcript of the side notes. Numbered, they took up fifteen pages. She handed them to Manolo. He took them without a word, pushed some books back from the edge of the table to clear a space to lean on, and took an unhurried look at all of the pages. After a few minutes, he said, “Interesting. They’re in learned Catalan, second third of the sixteenth century. Lots of abbreviations. As a text, it’s apparently simple, but it has no meaning without a frame of reference with which to establish a cause-and-effect relationship.” Here he took a long, deep breath. “When I say ‘simple’ I mean that it wouldn’t be hard to translate your notes. Whether they make sense is another matter. Could I see the original you got them from?”

Bety vacillated. It was clear that Manolo wasn’t willing to involve himself without some greater motivation.

“They’re notes from an early-fifteenth-century manuscript. It fell into my hands by chance and I’m studying its content.”

“Do you have it with you?” Manolo asked bluntly.

“Y-yes,” Bety nearly whispered, trapped between her desire to know and the need to keep the secret.

“Let me have it,” Manolo openly ordered her. Bety took the manuscript from her purse and handed it to the translator, who took it with more interest than he had shown up to then.

“Well, well. What have we here?” Manolo mused, savoring the words.

He placed it on his desk, further clearing the space he had been leaning on moments before. Carelessly stacking pile upon pile of books, he built two or three shaky columns. He leafed through several pages with curiosity, with Bety and Quim at either side. Finally, he turned back to his interpellators.

“Where’d it come from?”

“It was … a gift,” Bety improvised.

“No, no. I don’t mean how it came into your hands,” he said impatiently. “I mean, what’s the origin, the place it came from.”

“It turned up in the library of an old masia farmhouse.”

“Funny place for a bibliographic gem,” Quim interrupted.

“Yeah, it is,” added Manolo without taking his eyes off Bety’s. “I’ll help you,” he suddenly decided.

“When do you think we could begin?”

“Immediately. Right now, of course.”

“Seeing as you two have reached an agreement, I’ll leave you to it,” Quim quickly broke in. “I’ve got work waiting. Remember, Bety, you owe me a favor. Do you think dinner would be fair payment?”

“Sounds about right. I’ll call you before I go back to San Sebastián.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” She smiled.

“Great. You know where to find me. See you around, Manolo. Thanks for helping our colleague.”

Manolo made a sound akin to a grunt in response. As Quim walked away down the corridor, Manolo left Bety speechless with a question asked in the most natural way: “Now tell me: how did you get this manuscript from the Master Casadevall?”

Bety’s jaw dropped. She had never been so surprised in all her life, she was sure of it, and doubted she would ever be so taken aback by any question in the future. Manolo Álvarez Pinzón had been aware that the Casadevall manuscript existed. He was waiting for an answer that Bety couldn’t give him.

“Forgive me. I didn’t expect my question to have such an effect.”

He seemed to want to clear the way for their conversation. Bety was aware of it, just as she was that the question lacked any malice. Manolo knew no other way to state things than the most direct, just as he felt them.

“How did you know it existed?”

Manolo collected his thoughts before he answered. “Quid pro quo. All right, I call that an exchange of information. We could reach an agreement: you tell me how you got the manuscript and what you’ve gleaned from its content, and I’ll tell you what I know about it.”

Weighing up the pros and cons, Bety had nothing to lose and a lot to gain. They had spoken of an information exchange, not a handover of the manuscript for its study. From that standpoint, she could be confident, as she was at liberty to tell Manolo only what he was interested in. If he expressed a desire to study it in private, Bety could delay the delivery until the most opportune moment. All she would have to do is tell him that the manuscript wasn’t hers, but Enrique’s.

“All right,” she agreed, “I’ll tell you as long as you agree to translate the notes I’ve brought you.”

Manolo nodded and sat down to begin his story. Bety took one of the two free chairs. She was eager, and on realizing it, forced herself to tone her interest down.

“Before anything else, tell me exactly where they found it. You mentioned a masia.”

“Yes, somewhere near Ripoll. It belonged to the Bergués family.”

“Very, very interesting. Now then, before we begin, I need to know what you know about the Inquisition,” Manolo said.

“Well, the basics, more or less. I’m no expert. I know there was a poorly organized Medieval Inquisition, until the Catholic Monarchs’ petition to establish one was accepted by Pope Sixtus IV at the end of the fifteenth century. After that, all I know are the same old stories everyone knows,” Bety admitted, “burnings at the stake, torture, autos-da-fé, the secular arm, the sanbenitos, the stories of Poe—you know, that sort of thing.”

“That’s not much more than I knew when I was looking for an interesting topic to prepare my doctorate. One of my favorite professors suggested I study Inquisitorial texts. The idea seemed appealing. I did some research, and in a week’s time I had enough information to see that it could be an exciting field of study. We chose a title for the thesis: ‘Evolution of Ecclesiastic Latin from the Fifteenth to the Nineteenth Century in Internal Legislative Frameworks.’

“With some letters of recommendation from my professors, who could see my true potential, I got authorization to research the Annals of the Inquisition in Toledo, which are now in Madrid—the most complete archive that still exists in Spain after they were all burned following the abolition in 1834. That license was a true privilege; they only grant it to the most prominent researchers. I had just one limitation: I had full access to any documents I wanted, but I couldn’t mention anything specific about their content in my work, only the linguistic details that were relevant to my research.”

Manolo was gathering steam as he thought back to his early research. He loosened up, and his words, which at first were spoken with measured caution, now flowed like a rushing stream.

“At first, it was what I’d call normal work, with more tedious tasks than attractive ones. To reach the conclusions I was after, I had to study an inordinate number of documents in depth. But then, by sheer chance, and barely even realizing it, I fell under the spell of the deeds of the inquisitors—so incredibly evil, yet at the same time fascinating. I had considered focusing my comparative analysis on the directives and reports of the Council of the Supreme and General Inquisition, the central body known as La Suprema, but … One day I read just one of their dusty reports. It wasn’t necessary for my work, but I did it. And from then on, I couldn’t keep from the documented reading of hundreds of Inquisitorial sentences, always after finishing the work I allotted myself in order to stay on schedule and progress in what I was really meant to be studying. I spent whole nights reading those old sheaves. Many of them were similar, but every now and then one would appear that was different, that could hold the attention of anyone with even minimal imagination. I still have them etched in my memory.

“See, in those reports you found every misery, all the defects, fears, and horrors, the pain, the torture, the unjustified persecution, the indiscriminate punishments. The Inquisition was an organization created to persecute: first, the purity of the race, which had to be cleansed of the deformities that the Jews and Moors represented for the kingdom; then, old Christians themselves, whose spiritual purity the Inquisition saw to incessantly, accusing them of absurd religious deviations that ended up with the plundering of their property, and, oftentimes, their being burned at the stake; last, as a tool for the state as well as the church, to do away in one fell swoop with the bothersome internal interferences that the authorities in either structure suffered from time to time.

“I was completely caught under the spell of the research. Its strange allure had a hold on every fiber of my body. The sentences were bleak in their descriptions. They just told of certain sections: genealogy and sentence, formal abjuration, instrument of secret, instrument of penance, and annexed documents. The first was usually the most complex, and the documents, when any existed, consisted of the strangest compilation of odd observations.

“And so, as I bored through file after ancient file, incomplete remnants of fearsome dramas, I came upon a different sort of case. Dated February 29, 1612: that’s what I see when I bring to mind its content. From the very moment I laid my eyes on it, I knew I had found something special, because it violated the usual procedure followed by the Inquisition. The law dictated that the cases be heard by different courts around Spain, each one with a specific territory of influence. Their sentences had to be validated by the Council of the Supreme and General Inquisition, which normally confirmed them. But that time, it didn’t happen.

“Diego de Siurana was the victim chosen by the Inquisition. He’d been born in the tiny village of Siurana, which still exists, in the Tarragona province. A beautiful place that I eventually got to know, with scarcely more than five houses, a church, and the ruins of a castle all nestled along the very edge of a steep cliff. When he was still a child, the parish priest observed in him a curiosity uncommon in a farm boy; that’s what the sentence says. A few years later, Diego took the vows in Tortosa. His brilliant career in the ecclesiastic world, and as secretary of the archbishopric’s archive, according to the Inquisitorial sentences, was cut off, probably because of an anonymous denunciation by some envious colleague. He was investigated by the Barcelona Inquisitorial court for observing infrequent practices: he cleaned himself excessively, and—a heinous crime—never ate pork. The inquisitors investigated his family tree until they found a branch from two hundred years prior that was related to a marrano, as they called Jews back then. That on its own was equivalent to a sentence. The first session had consisted of a simple interrogation. Diego admitted his ‘guilt.’ But that wasn’t enough to satisfy on that occasion. They were looking for something more. Diego pleaded ignorance; big mistake, as nothing could infuriate the inquisitors more than contradicting them. They gave him two more chances, and on the third, he was tortured. About to faint, mad with pain, he surprised his torturers by mentioning an object to which there is no reference in the sentence. The inquisitor called a private consultation with the secretary, who corroborated Diego’s words, whatever they were. With the physician’s consent, they renewed the torture until he passed out. It was obvious that Diego was hiding something, but what? A Talmud? A Koran? As he was tried as a potential heretic, those were the most probable alternatives. An in-depth investigation was launched on the goods seized, and through it, several conclusions were reached which, unfortunately, have been partially lost, as certain parts of the Inquisitorial sentence—the final pages—are missing. Whatever they were, they must have been important if the Suprema, after being informed, decided to intervene in the case and write an annexed report considered secret, and that I’ve only been able to read a part of. The annex to the sentence—a report sent to Rome, no less—is in poor condition, corroded by damp, and lacking at least another few pages. I gathered some information from it that I’ve tried to complete through other sources. And so, I discovered what the object was.”

He paused for air. Bety was captivated by the story. She was going to know definitively what it was about, what it was that had so impressed Casadevall and caused the torture and death of Diego de Siurana.

“What little was left of the annexed report was none too explicit. It referred to the Stone of God, and how its existence had been made known by Diego. Only one name is mentioned: Magister Operis Ecclesiae Casadevall.”

“Now I see why the notes interested you as soon as you read them!” Bety cut in.

“Anything having to do with what caused Diego’s death is of utmost interest to me. You appearing in this library with the manuscript that could help solve the mystery is a godsend.”

“What is the Stone of God?”

“The Stone of God. Oh, it’s no big deal.” Manolo smiled. “It took me nearly two years to figure out what it was. And for me, two years is a long time, let me assure you.

“See, once I found myself hooked on this mystery, I was torn between two fronts. Time was passing, and all I could do was investigate in a piecemeal way, far from my true interest and usual work method. Finally, two years on, I found enough time to immerse myself fully in the affair, and the deeper I went, the more fascinating the results were. At first I gathered a lot of information from different libraries here in Spain, but it wasn’t enough. And so, before long I was on a plane to Israel. Some friends from my university had given me a contact there. It’s to him, and no one else, that I owe the true cracking of that part of the enigma.”

“Wait, wait a minute. You say you had to travel to Israel to discover what it was. Why not Rome, where you probably would have found a copy of the report sent by the Inquisition?”

“There’s no way to access those documents. No one can study them, except for extremely rare exceptions. And a philologist, no matter how good he is, isn’t a member of that elite club, unless he belongs to one of those ultra-orthodox Catholic groups that are so fondly looked upon in Rome. I’m sure that only the highest offices of the Vatican curia are allowed to read them.”

“So access to them is restricted.”

“That’s right. They’re under a documentary seal that even today applies to much of the Vatican’s archive. It seems incredible that so many years later we can’t study them, but that’s the case.”

“So you went to Israel …”

“In Spain I had several people assisting me in my search. But not one of them could tell me what the hell the Stone of God was. They ended up referring me to one of the greatest specialists in Hebraic tradition, Isaac Shackermann. I wrote a report on the content of my research and sent it to him. That was the key that got me in to see him. Shackermann is a Sephardic Jew, a descendant from an old family that had been established in Toledo. An exceptional man, loved and respected by all. Sephardim are usually proud of their ancestors and of who they are, and Shackermann was no exception. That pride in his heritage was present and very strong. Like all Sephardim, he respected the traditions of his ancestors; the key to the old family home in Toledo hangs on the wall in the most important room in his house: the study.

“Just picture it: this little old harmless-looking man, protected from the outside world by thick eyeglasses. Snow-white hair that fell on either side of his head, forming long side curls. Always dressed in black, except for his shirt, which was as white as his hair. His small, wrinkled, frail-looking body couldn’t disguise the fact that it had once belonged to a fine figure of a man.

“Shackermann lived in a beautiful house in the old city, near the Armenian convent of Saint Jacques. It stood a ways apart from the other buildings, so the sunlight poured in through the windows. A charming place, far from the hustle and bustle of the big city that is Jerusalem. You can’t reach his house by car. The neighborhood is made up of very narrow, pedestrianized streets. It’s a way to isolate himself from a world that’s now out of his reach, because his legs are weak and he can only walk short distances. He lives under the care of two black servants, Ethiopian Jews. One of them led me to him, in the incredible study where his brilliant mind, oblivious to the limitations of a decrepit body, keeps churning out thousands of ideas.

“His man introduced me. Shackermann was waiting patiently for me, seated in a nice armchair, with some tea and pastries on hand for my reception. On the other side of the study, a state-of-the-art PC told me that he might have been old, but his work method wasn’t. He was genuinely kind. He praised the recommendations that had gotten me in to see him, admitting that it was a difficult thing to achieve. Then he complimented me on my mastery of his language, which he considered excellent. And then we talked about all manner of things, except the real reason for my trip. He wanted to know everything about my life, practically from my childhood. And after talking about my modest self, we spoke of his world and his people. He was clearly testing my character and my reasons. I have the impression that if he hadn’t liked me he wouldn’t have hesitated to show me out, with all due politeness, of course.

“The next day went by in more or less the same way. We kept talking, and, finally, he proposed an intellectual game: he had my résumé, so he knew of my fluency in ancient languages. He looked at me and said, of a sudden: ‘Pere nost, che t’ies n ciel, siba sanctificá ti inuem, vënie ti rëni, sibe fata ti voluntà coche n ciel nsci n tiëra.’ Could you follow this prayer in that ancient language?

“He was speaking to me in Ladino! I answered him, facing what I considered, perhaps, the final test. ‘My knowledge of Ladino is purely theoretical. I’ve never spoken it. You’re saying an Our Father. I could give it a try. It must go like this: Da-nes nauri nose pam d’unidi y lasce-nes dó nose debit, coche neüs biscion dó a nosc debitëures, y no nes nemé tla tentación, ma libre-nes del mal.’

“He asked me if I had really never said it before. ‘No,’ I said, ‘I haven’t.’ ‘Well, you should know that your pronunciation is very close to perfect. Let’s keep talking in that old, now-forgotten tongue,’ he said.

“It was a wonderful experience, because it took me straight back to a past that is only alive in the memory of men like him. It may have formed part of a test he was putting me through.

“Fortunately, he must have seen in me what I really am, a simple philologist in love with the history of languages, absolutely harmless, incapable of thinking of research as a means to personal gain. The fruits of our labor aren’t ours. They’re for all of humankind. Shackermann picked that up over those two days of long conversations we had by the window, bathed in the warm sunbeams, and only interrupted by mealtimes and the e-mails he was constantly getting. By the end of the second day, I knew that being with that man was a true privilege. And he had spent two days of his precious time talking to me, a total stranger. I drew a conclusion from that: if he was devoting so much time to me it was because he was more than interested in what I could tell him.

“On the third day we changed the focus of our conversation. We went straight to religion. He asked me what my beliefs were, how I expressed my spirituality, what I thought about the meaning of religion, and a lot of other things like that. I hesitated: I’m not especially religious, and I was afraid that fact might put distance between us. But, I decided to tell the truth, because I was sure he knew it anyway after all of our conversations. Christened at birth—who wasn’t back then?—I abandoned religious observance as I grew up. The truth is, I’ve never taken a hard look at my feelings on life’s more transcendent issues. I never had time to. What for many is just an excuse is really true in my case. But it was no impediment. Shackermann delved into my inner self, searching for the real me, and he definitely found it. His verdict was positive, and at the end of the third day of talks he announced that he would answer my questions the next morning. It wasn’t late, right around five, and I asked him if we couldn’t start then and there. His answer left me perplexed: ‘Some things can only be discussed in broad daylight. You’ll have to be patient and put up with this poor old man’s idiosyncrasies. Come back tomorrow.’

“I’d been in Jerusalem four days, so another day’s wait wasn’t going to matter. I remember that morning clearly: I went to Shackermann’s house on a gray, rainy morning, not at all like the previous ones. A surprise squall was hovering over the place. The old city, darkened by the rain, had lost part of its charm, and the atmosphere, contrary to what I expected, was as leaden and heavy as the day itself. Shackermann’s neighborhood, fairly empty most days, was even emptier that morning. As I went farther along the wall road, I came across fewer and fewer people on the streets, until I found myself walking completely alone down the old and narrow alleyways. The truth was, the usually bright appearance of those old palaces had been given over to a ghostly air, accentuated by how deserted the streets were.

“I arrived at the house. The butler led me to the study, where Shackermann was waiting for me in his usual armchair, cup of tea in hand. It wasn’t cold, but a fire was lit in the fireplace. It crackled noisily and the sparks jumped in a lively dance. I sat down before the old scholar. The ash-gray day seemed to have sapped some of his usual vivacity. ‘What a nasty day,’ he said simply, in Hebrew, forgoing the Ladino. ‘It looks heavy with foreboding.’ His expression surprised me, although I took it to be purely rhetorical, not literal. I kept quiet, not really knowing how to answer. Shackermann sipped at his teacup until it was empty. Then he handed it to me to place it on the table. He looked at me long and hard, in a final study of my character, meant to corroborate his decision to tell me all about the Stone of God.

“He nodded, probably for his own benefit, and began his story. ‘Your presence here is one of those surprising things that sometimes marks a person’s life,’ he began. ‘That a gentile has come to know hidden aspects of our remote past is unto itself a phenomenon worth studying with the necessary perspective. And that he has discovered the existence of an object such as the Stone of God, restricted to a relative minority of my people, is very surprising. But, now is not the time for such digressions. Yesterday I decided to tell you what I know about what you’re looking for, and that is what I plan to do. It is a story that is simple in itself, but complex in its development. I will try to be brief and not speak at length, though I will face various obstacles. The principal one is this: you are a layman in religious matters, and that means you have a lack of knowledge that will limit my discursive capacity and cause us certain challenges in comprehension.’

“I was eager, you could even say excited. I felt that rush you always get at the big moments, when the imagined theory is corroborated, when acts that you have only imagined are found recorded in a written document. Shackermann began his story: ‘It’s difficult to give you the exact information. I’ve been thinking all night about how to direct my narrative, and I haven’t reached a definite conclusion. Everything blends together, overlaps, forms part of a single thing. I can tell you that you’ve found one of the greatest, and most secret, mysteries of our history, the history of the Jewish people. They have—or rather, we, many men, have—studied and investigated it. Some pious and faithful, others ambitious and wicked. Therefore, before arriving at this moment, we’ve spoken for three days, for me to discern the reason behind your desire to know. If I had pegged you as ambitious, you would not be here now. And yet, you are but a scholar, and my life experience is seldom wrong. You want to know merely for the sake of knowing. Your curiosity is salutary, constructive. So, I will try to satisfy it to the extent that I can. And in doing so, I will satisfy my own desire to know. Let’s begin, then.

“‘The study on the name of God has been constant throughout the history of Judaism. You must know that the Hebraic concept of God doesn’t allow His physical portrayal, and His name, in the strict sense of a name, cannot be spoken out loud by the faithful. In fact, His name is in reality unknown to us, and has been the subject of research since time began. His known names are mere approximations, flawed in their attempt: we know how He told us to call Him, but we don’t know how He is really called. Everything is centered on Him, as He is referred to in the holy books. You can also call him Yahweh, as a simplified pronunciation of the Hebrew consonants YHVH, which is an abbreviation of Yod Heh Vav Heh. But this name must only be used in sanctuaries, holy places. Outside the temple, he can be called Adonai—master—or Elohim, the royal plural of Him. YHVH. The four consonants make up the Greek word called the tetragrammaton, known in Hebrew as Shem ha Meforash.

“‘As you can see, He can be called in many ways, and there are many more, which have been developed over the centuries. The Kabbalah saw to that. It was born out of the tradition received from the Old Testament, but it ended up becoming pure esoteric knowledge. It arose as such at the dawn of the second century, and reached its peak at the turn of the thirteenth. Those who cultivated it became a small group who knew and handed down certain mysteries. They believed that the holy texts could transfer a knowledge that had been deliberately hidden. They used numerology to assign a given number to each letter of the Hebrew alphabet, and their combination provided access to that knowledge, releasing the enormous creative powers secreted away in its pages.

“‘One of the greatest kabbalists, Isaac the Blind, found a new name for God using numerology. The name was Ein Sof, in Himself, in reference to the impossibility of understanding His true dimension outside Him. Later, Moses de León took this concept further by demonstrating that God created from within Himself through the sephirot, which are attributes or manifestations of Him.’

“At this point,” Manolo said, “I must have looked so confused that Shackermann smiled, taking mercy on me and giving me a knowing wink, saying, ‘Don’t worry, these aren’t the ravings of some elderly nut. If I’m telling you this it’s because you need to understand the importance of the context before you dive into the heart of the enigma. And the enigma is this: the Stone of God, which only a few know to exist, is a special stone, possibly an emerald, but its real significance lies in the fact that it conceals a key mystery, a fundamental one. On one of its facets is written His true name. And therefore, it is animated by the presence of a sephirah, a direct emanation from Him.’

“Outside, the storm picked back up. Bolts of lightning crossed the sky with a furious intensity, and the peals of thunder, barely muted by the thickness of the walls, rolled one after another. And I know this may sound absurd, like something out of a bad mystery movie, but I promise you that it was the most impressive electrical storm I’d ever seen or heard in my life. Something so extraordinary that even I, skeptical as I am, was thinking it was a paranormal experience. I would have sworn that someone or something was furious at the revelations being made, and that fury was perceived as a storm, because it was the only way our brains could comprehend it. Shackermann saw how shaken I was, and tried to calm me down.”

Manolo stopped his monologue momentarily.

“He said I looked like I was nervous. I admitted that I did feel something very strange was going on. ‘It’s the power of Yahweh. He’s always around us, although we’re usually too blind to see, until He makes Himself known, like now. Stay calm. It’s true that talking about some things is against the rules. But it’s also true that this isn’t the first time that I, or others, have done it. Why do you think we’ve been talking so much about religion these past few days? I needed to know if it was possible to show you the truth, with no fear of possible problems. Don’t worry. You’re safe.’

“I nodded, accepting his reassurance. ‘Well then, let’s get back to the story. Are you telling me that God is present in that stone?’ ‘That’s right. Though He is omnipresent, it could be said that there are places where He’s more present than others. He is in the Stone because His name is there. Some say that sephirot are not parts of God Himself, but manifestations of God, but that’s just a rhetorical discussion that doesn’t change the fact.’ I couldn’t understand it. If God never told his name to the children of Israel, how could it be written on that stone? ‘The history of the Stone of God has more legend than reality to it. And the legend says that at the dawn of our civilization, after the death of Saul, David became the second king of Israel. In those years, perhaps the brightest in our history, David faced many challenges. One of them was the constant harassment of the Philistines, whose attacks stopped when Goliath, their champion, was killed in the remarkable duel in which he and David fought, and the fate of the people of Israel was decided. Goliath was a virtually invincible giant, an expert in the arts of war. In a normal fight, David never would have been able to best him. It would have been impossible. But he did it. Not by his own merits, but more thanks to God’s help. The night before they fought, David prayed, imploring God for help. He feared not for his life, but for the destiny of his people. And God wanted to help him, so he sent him a dream, or a vision. According to that vision, David was to go to a nearby stream, and, after he had cleansed himself, put his hand into it until he touched the bottom. There he would find a stone. That stone, launched with a sling, would let him win the fight, but he was not to look at it under any circumstances, because on it was written His name, and no one could ever see it. Just by the power that animated it, that stone would hit its target and destroy the enemy. Once its purpose was fulfilled, he was to hide it forever. It was too powerful to be left within reach of mere mortals. The stone was created to bring down a hero seen by his own people as undefeatable, and equipped, to put it in modern terms, with the most devastating, unspeakable powers that the Lord possessed.

“‘David obeyed. He took a stone that gave off a greenish glow from a sand bank. Thanks to that Stone of God, as it was called from then on, Goliath bit the dust.’ I told him that this story was nowhere to be found in the scriptures. ‘That’s right, it’s not in there. It’s not there because the very existence of the Stone is a secret that only very few of us initiates know. Do you believe that the entire legacy of a people can be taken up in scriptures that even in the beginning were within reach of everyone, not just the holy men, and scribes of the Temple? Doesn’t the Catholic Church keep an archive in Rome only accessible to an elite few? And isn’t it true that in all religions, only a few are allowed to know the deepest and most transcendental mysteries, where the vast majority of the faithful cannot enter because of their ignorance? Be realistic: something like this could never be left in the record of David’s accomplishments, for reasons as simple as political ones. Only those with the deepest knowledge of Hebraic tradition, and kabbalists, may possess the knowledge.’

“I had to admit it was a plausible hypothesis,” Manolo said under Bety’s rapt gaze. “‘Assuming the story is true, how can you explain the Stone’s probable presence in Spain? How was it related to Master Casadevall?’ Shackermann looked at me: ‘I can answer the first question, but not the second. David hid the Stone, the secret of which was passed on to his son, Solomon, and a restricted circle of holy men. When construction of Solomon’s Temple was complete, the Stone was placed in the sanctum sanctorum, with the Ark of the Covenant and the tablets of the Ten Commandments. And nothing disrupted its rest until the Babylonian invaders destroyed the temple four hundred years later. From then on, its whereabouts were unknown. Until today. Considering that its existence was only known to a privileged handful, and that most of them were murdered by the Babylonians, knowledge of the Stone’s existence became even more restricted. As for your second question, what can I say? One of the rabbis probably managed to flee with it. The first Diaspora began after the fall of Jerusalem—exile for thousands of our ancestors, obliged to disperse themselves around the world. And the Stone must have traveled with one of those rabbis. As for its tie to Casadevall, I know nothing more than what your report says. In fact, there has been no news of the Stone of God since the first destruction of the temple, two thousand five hundred years ago! Do you see it now? Two thousand five hundred years! That’s why I was so insistent at the beginning of our chat today; how strange it was to get information from your hands on a subject as peculiar as this one. And that’s why I believe that God’s destiny for me has given one final gift before my time comes. It’s a sign, a heavenly sign, as clear as the storm now raging around us. My time is ending. I’ve been dodging death for years, but now I know I’m close.’”

“He was right. That’s an astounding story,” Bety finally said.

“Yes, he was right,” Manolo agreed. “The way the past can regenerate itself, project itself into the future, is incredible. For Shackermann, the surprise was even greater than it might be to you or me. He was professionally and culturally bound to the Stone of God. Knowing that it definitely existed, since that’s the conclusion we drew, was a high point of a life that was nearing its end.”

“What happened to Shackermann?”

“He died three years ago. He was very old, and he didn’t make it through one particularly nasty winter. We stayed in touch until he died, each always waiting for the other to discover something that could lead us to the Stone. Sad to say, but your arrival here has come too late.”

“You say he was an internationally renowned academic. Did he try to gain access to the Inquisition’s report?”

“His prestige in the realm of Hebraic culture was unquestionable. There, he could get anything he wanted. But his influence didn’t extend to the Vatican. He tried, but was denied permission to see the documents.”

“This is all so fascinating.”

“More than you can imagine.”

“What do you mean?” Bety asked, anxious to know more.

“The history of the Stone of God doesn’t end there.” Manolo relished in a long pause. “There’s still much more.”

“Tell me!” begged Bety, unable to mask her thirst for more.

“The Stone of God is a mystical object with magical properties.”

Bety smiled openly, not disguising her skepticism. True, everything about the Stone was fascinating, but making it into something magical was too much for her rationalism.

“I can see in your face that you don’t believe me.”

“I didn’t mean to offend you,” Bety quickly rectified.

“You haven’t. My face must not have been too different from yours when Shackermann told me about the Stone’s properties. Just imagine! This erudite scholar, the leading authority on the most ancient traditions of Judaic culture believing in something like that—hook, line, and sinker! But he did believe it.” Manolo’s face took on a grave expression as he raised and clenched his fists for emphasis. “Listen: he believed! He truly believed in the properties of the Stone! According to him, the kabbalists could extract the power of the sephirot and use it for their own purposes; they could be positive or negative. He told me that, just by being kabbalists, they were capable of doing magic. If they had the Stone, their powers would reach unprecedented heights.”

“You do understand that this is hard for me to believe.”

“Of course! On the contrary! How could anyone believe this nonsense? But listen, and listen closely: he did believe. Do you see? Shackermann really believed it!” Manolo insisted. “Do you realize what that means?”

“I think I do,” Bety said, after pausing to think a few seconds. “You mean that, aside from the possible and debatable magical properties of the Stone, there are people like Shackermann who really believe in it, and that means—”

“That’s it!” Manolo anticipated Bety’s utterance of the conclusion. “The Stone is a coveted object. Not by many, because I don’t think that many know of its existence. Shackermann didn’t say, but it seemed like information restricted to a very specific, limited group of scholars: experts in tradition like him, kabbalists—people like that. But for those few who do know what it is, it is, without a doubt, an object that is truly priceless.” He pronounced the last word slowly, hanging on each syllable. “The fact that it could be an emerald the size of your fist is beside the point. If Shackermann gave me the privilege of telling me about the Stone, it wasn’t just to sate the curiosity of a young philologist, but to know for a fact that when I continued with the investigation, I would inform him of any discoveries I made. He used me, like I did him. That man wanted the Stone. I don’t mean he would have sold his soul for it, because he was a religious, God-fearing man. But he did want it, with all the force of his reasoning. In his entire life, no one had ever tantalized him like I did.”

“So when you got back to Spain, you kept investigating.”

“Sporadically. My regular work took up a lot of time. I spent what would have been my vacation time on it, between projects. I studied a lot of Jewish mysticism in depth, in books like the Babylonian or Palestinian Talmuds, the aegis of Maraba, others such as Yetzirah, Bahir, Shoshan Edouth, Sefer ha-Rimon, and especially Sefer ha-Zohar, but it did nothing to help, other than to increase my already enormous and useless cultural baggage. I wrote down everything I found that I considered relevant in a field notes book. Then, I homed in on the only clue within reach: Casadevall. I gathered information on him from all the historic archives from that period, until I had drawn up a rough biography of his time in this world, but I didn’t reach any useful conclusions. He lived a normal life, devoted to his work. He occasionally traveled around Europe, to the most prominent works of the day, especially Narbonne, which was completely normal among architects of that century. Now you tell me: What do you know about Casadevall?”

“Not much. He was a magister principalis operis ecclesiae who worked at the end of the fifteenth century on the works of the cathedral under the orders of other architects—”

“Like Jaumé Solà or Arnau Bargués,” interrupted Manolo, unable to contain himself. “What else?”

“Not that much. He didn’t work as one of the main architects, but rather for them in administrative matters and supervision of the works.”

“Good. Casadevall held onto his post while other master builders came and went over thirty-six years. He hardly worked outside Barcelona, except for a time that he spent in Narbonne, which has a cathedral coeval with ours, with a similar construction style. Thirty-six years, a long time back then. Like many in his profession, he split his efforts between religious and civil building projects. Several specific parts of the cathedral are his, along with a number of civil buildings that no longer stand. His legacy is small, especially considering that his capacity, judging from what little has been conserved, was superior to that of many of his contemporaries. Do you know his work?”

“No, not at all.”

“In the books of works of the cathedral archive, he is listed as responsible for the works on the original choir, the elevation of the cloister, and the seal of the fourth vault. The vault is a complex but mundane work, just another piece of the overall design of the project and it’s not important for what I’m going to tell you now. But after it was erected in 1384, it required a seal in 1410, which Casadevall undertook.”

“So, in short: Casadevall was just another man in the history of cathedrals, an obscure figure, without much significance, if any.”

“An obscure figure? Do you really think so? He may have been; thirty-six years in the background, at the orders of different master builders, and never stepping into the limelight do hint at that. But an obscure man is not one who causes the death of another two hundred years later. Casadevall did or knew something special, something different, that triggered the rage, and judging from the measures taken, even the fear, of the most powerful body of repression that had ever existed.”

“He wasn’t just another architect then,” Bety conceded.

“No, no he wasn’t,” Manolo confirmed. “He was only what he wanted to be, that’s my conclusion. Had he wanted it, the title of magister principalis would have gone to him, if only because of his seniority. He kept a low profile because he wanted to, until the day of his death.”

“His death,” repeated Bety, in something of a daze.

“You know what happened,” Manolo stated.

“Yes. One morning in June, he was found dead on a cathedral pew. The years always take their toll, and the living conditions back then were terrible. For a man of his day, he lived many years, and died in the place to which he devoted all his life’s efforts. A curious end for a mysterious man.”

“A beautiful death. Anyone would wish to die where they had spent so many years.”

“That’s your opinion, like any other. To me, he lived, got old, and true to the absurdity of our existence, he finally died, as we all will one day.”

Their eyes met. Manolo kept quiet, and waited for Bety to speak.

“What about Diego de Siurana? What happened to him?”

“After his arrest in Barcelona and his first round of torture, Diego was taken to Toledo, where he was tortured again. They tortured him by strappado, which dislocated his bones. They used the toca, where they forced water down him, damaging his organs. Then they used fire to burn his limbs. Only the presence of a physician prevented the excesses from causing his death. They wanted him to speak by any means necessary. He received a heinous, inhumane punishment. But he didn’t say a word. Throughout it all he claimed not to know what they were talking about.

“Diego’s torture was no less barbaric than that of other Inquisition victims, but it did differ from the rest in its duration. He was tortured once every two weeks over a span of about ten years. What usually happened was that after three or four sessions, the heretic was sentenced to burn at the stake, jailed for life, or penanced following participation in an auto-da-fé. Diego was the only victim whose torment was so prolonged, at least to my knowledge, and I’ve read about many, many sentences, so many that not even I can remember them all.”

“Ten years of torture,” Bety murmured.

“Ten years. It’s unbelievable that he could have survived as long as he did. In the end, his mutilated body gave up. He may have been stubborn, but he had probably lost his mind long before he died. Even the application of the torture violated the procedure, because torturing a person more than once wasn’t allowed, although they tended to resort to the legal term of ‘suspending’ the torture only to start over again a few days later. The accused could go back into the torture chamber only if new evidence appeared. And obviously, that wasn’t the case for Diego. Once he was dead, the tribunal found him guilty of heresy and his remains were burned during the great auto-da-fé held in Toledo in early July 1627. And the irregularities present in the actions of the Inquisition throughout the process appeared again: his name wasn’t on the public list of participants in the auto-da-fé, and is mentioned only in the sentence.”

Manolo’s hands, which throughout his story had rested quietly on the table beside Bety’s notes, suddenly sprang back to life. They moved with a unique grace difficult to imagine in their owner, and finally ended up open, with palms upward. With that simple gesture, he seemed to confirm the truths revealed.

“I see.”

“You see?”

“It’s not that difficult. They wanted to leave no trace of him behind.”

“A good, albeit incomplete, assessment,” he said with his peculiar brand of candidness. “The Inquisition worked in a perfectly regulated way. No one broke the rules. One of the most important was the publication of the list of names before each auto-da-fé. The objective was to make the sins of the participants known to the spectators present, to remind them not only of what they mustn’t do, but that the sins purged by those wearing sanbenitos had been committed by their neighbors, friends, brothers, and sisters, and that it could most definitely happen to any of them.”

“Not only did they want to keep any trace of him from being preserved, they wanted to make even the memory of his existence disappear.”

“Exactly.” Manolo then took on a confidential air. “The birth certificates of Siurana are supposed to be in Prades, the town with the parish it belongs to. Well, I visited the archives and his name isn’t there, anywhere. It wasn’t crossed out; it simply wasn’t there. And another thing, the archbishopric’s archive in Barcelona should have his name in many documents by virtue of his office, and none of them do, despite it being one of the best historic archives on the church in our country. Diego de Siurana ceased to exist, as if he had never been born, until a curious researcher sifting through the dirty laundry of the past found him in the present.”

“You raised a man from the dead.”

“That’s right!” corroborated Manolo, taken by a certain excitement. “That unmatched power that research has over scholars, whatever their specialty, has to do with discovering its secrets. It doesn’t matter what secrets. The important thing is to find them, confront the mystery dangling from them.” Manolo nodded. “I found one without realizing it. I conveyed it to the person who could get the most out of it, Shackermann, and when that secret was about to play out on its own, when the final revelation appeared so near, it disappeared, it vanished before my eyes, it laughed like a flighty courtesan at my abilities, saying, ‘That’s your lot! So close, yet so far!’”

Bety could scarcely believe what Manolo was telling her. It was well beyond anything she or Enrique had imagined, on their own or together. In exchange for it, there wasn’t much she could tell the man, who appeared to have offered in good faith all of his knowledge on the manuscript and its mysteries. Certain it was impossible for her information to match up to Manolo’s, Bety began her story.

“Now it’s my turn. My story will be much shorter than yours. I have relatives in Barcelona who are book collectors. One of them recently acquired an entire library from an old masia, a family estate. The manuscript was mixed in with other documents. These relatives called on me to help translate the text. I was only too happy to oblige; it’s not every day you get an opportunity like that. The translation was tedious, complex at times, above all because of the master’s strange handwriting, but I got through it without too much difficulty. There was only one part I couldn’t quite translate: the side notes. As you’ve seen, they’re there in part of the text. I deduced that someone worked with the manuscript years after it was written, and wrote their impressions down in those side notes. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. If the Inquisition meant to make everything about Diego de Siurana disappear, how is it that the Casadevall manuscript, with all its side notes that prove Diego’s work, wasn’t found and destroyed as well? How could the inquisitors have missed it and allowed it to reach our hands? It makes no sense!”

“One idea does occur to me. Remember at first when I asked you where you’d found it?”

“Yes. And I told you it was in the old Bergués mansion, in Vic.”

“Right. And you don’t remember that surname coming up in our conversation?”

“Well, now that you mention it, yes. When we were talking about the life of Casadevall, you mentioned the names of the magister principalis, and one of them was Bergués!”

“The name of the architect was Bargués, with an a, but it’s possible that with the passage of time one of the letters got changed into an e, making it into Bergués. Which would make sense: for generations, as was common in those times, the members of that family were builders and architects. It’s more than plausible that Diego de Siurana could have been connected to any of them, working as he did in the archbishopric. I find it a possibility that is beautiful in its rationality. I can’t tell you how it got passed off to Bargués, but it seems obvious that it was. Friendship? Maybe he knew the secret? He tried to carry on with Diego’s investigation and had to back off for fear of the Inquisition? Who knows.”

“Now I understand why you reacted the way you did when I told you it was the Bergués family from Vic.”

“Everything has fit from the very beginning.” Manolo watched her in silence, a blank expression on his face. But Bety felt uneasy, as if he might know that, without lying, she wasn’t telling the whole truth. “And now that you’ve translated the Latin text, you need an expert to help you with the Old Catalan used by Diego de Siurana, as it was clearly him,” Manolo asserted. “Don’t worry. Quim brought you to the best.”

Bety nodded, faking serenity. There was no doubt in her mind: Manolo was the best.

And that was exactly what she was afraid of.

11

“So this is where it all began.”

Enrique was studying the slender arches that sustained the vaults of the cathedral. In the zenith of the vault, the distant crests that sealed the work seemed to float in space, put there by the hand of an unknown giant. Carlos followed his gaze over the surface of the light-hued stone, which had been restored in the early 1970s to recover its original color after six hundred years of progressive blackening.

“So it is.”

“And it was a mere five hundred years ago.”

“That’s right,” Enrique said.

The cathedral was curiously free from the usual throngs of visitors that tend to turn it into anything but a place of worship. Though it was just five in the afternoon, only a few—mostly elderly worshippers, veteran and inveterate believers—were praying in front of the chapels that lined the aisles or were seated in the pews before the high altar. Neither the stampedes of Japanese tourists on a quest for the perfect photo, surely distracted by the Gaudí craze rampant in their country, nor domestic visitors, incapable of keeping the silence the place deserved, disturbed the conversation between Enrique and Carlos. The peculiar peacefulness of the moment, and the building’s excellent acoustics—perhaps the best of any Gothic structure for organ concerts—forced them to speak in very low tones, as befitted the prevailing silence. Using the pews to sit and discuss the developments of a murky case from the past was perfectly legitimate, just as disrupting proper order and propriety—as a sign on the wall near the entrance indicated—was not. “It must be three or four years since I’ve been here,” Carlos commented. “Funny about things like this; I had forgotten how beautiful it is.”

“Me too,” Enrique admitted, letting himself smile. “But the truth is, this whole thing is over my head. I don’t know where I am, what I’m doing, and, if you really want to know, what my part in it is. At first it all seemed simple: I was going to trap a killer, avenge Artur’s death, and find some mysterious treasure from the past. But now, a stranger has snitched on the murderer, I’ve had my revenge but it’s been no good to me, and the treasure is elusive and out of reach, assuming it even exists. And the most incredible thing: my entire past has suddenly been turned upside down.”

Carlos chuckled softly, restraining himself out of consideration for the ambience.

“My God, Enrique. If you put a mystery reader in your place, I bet they’d be as confused as you. Look, things in life aren’t linear. They’re an association of a thousand different events. Seeing those associations is a very complex business. So much so that only a few manage to get there. And that’s what detectives and police do. The good ones have … we have—modesty aside—an innate knack for it. They’re—how shall I put it?—able to see a whole network of things, for lack of a better way to explain it.”

“Give me an example,” Enrique asked.

“Imagine a net, hung out in front of you. Something happens on the upper left-hand corner of the net, and it moves horizontally across it. Every time it reaches the other side, it moves down a row and goes back in the other direction, until it reaches the bottom right-hand corner, which is where the end is. Add to that the vertical strands of the net, which are the concurrent events. When I investigate a case I try to spread the information out, like a net, to get a grip on the connections between the events. That way, you can get to the other side of the net without needing to have all the information, which is the usual way to work, following a lead, in a manner of speaking.”

“Great explanation.”

“Yeah, well, too bad that a job well done doesn’t guarantee success, like this time. The investigation also ruled Samuel out as a suspect. He had a good alibi, like I told you over lunch. So your three suspects went up in smoke. And, without giving me time to tell you about it, you show up at my office, pull me away from my obligations—which I’m actually grateful for because I’m feeling pretty lazy and by this point in my career, my team is working for me so I can live off them—and take me to lunch in Plaça Reial to tell me they’ve caught Artur’s killer. And not only that, you lay down some wild story that dates back five hundred years about a hidden treasure, and, to my surprise, now it turns out Artur was a black market art dealer.”

“Give me a break. My writer’s psyche might have had something to do with creating a work of fiction complex enough to fool not only Bety but even a pro like you, but the pieces fit perfectly. That much you have to admit. What was it you said? ‘There’s no such thing as coincidence,’ or something like that.”

“Yeah, I said that,” Carlos agreed. “I said it because it’s true. But whether or not it was a believable story, the truth is you hid information from me. It was clear as day from the very moment we talked on my boat, and I told you so. It didn’t bother me, but I’d appreciate it if you told me why you did it.”

Enrique moved his hands and head in an attempt to express his mystification at his own motives.

“Oh, please! If a pimply twenty-year-old claimed not to know why he did things, it would seem reasonable. But you! All grown-up, and my friend, to boot!”

“It’s true, I don’t know what to say. I don’t mean to justify it, but maybe it was the excitement of hunting a treasure, like when my real dad read me Treasure Island, and then we would play pirates in our apartment, stashing something somewhere and getting my mother to hunt for it. The only thing missing was the ghost of Flint appearing to me in dreams, and a parrot singing ‘yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.’ Christ, Carlos. I’m sorry, really. I didn’t mean to mislead you.”

“If you’d been any other client, I would’ve cut you off cold. But you always were somewhat inconsistent and twisted. Don’t laugh! Always trying to be the center of the world’s attention, never realizing that the world could do just fine without you.”

“I deserve that,” Enrique acknowledged.

“Yes, you do. But you’re my friend,” Carlos nodded, “so this time, I’ll let it go.”

They were silent. The strength of their old bond warmed them, muting their voices. They sat with the intense feeling of brotherhood, so rarely felt in full. To speak would have only ruined the moment.

A little old woman lit a votive candle before the statue of Saint Pancras. The blend of incense and burning wax floated in the air, and anyone there, in their state of mind, would have thought they were living in a dream world.

“How are you coping with this whole Artur ordeal?” Carlos asked with a soft, cautious smile.

It was like pouring salt into a wound. Enrique leaned his head against the metal railing that separated the choir enclosure from the sanctuary before he spoke.

“Badly,” he said, and leaned his head forward until he held it in his hands.

The question was painful. Enrique’s mood plummeted, and he made no attempt to hide it. Carlos thought he knew the effect his question would have even before he asked it. But even though he thought it necessary to ask, he never imagined an impact so deep. Enrique hadn’t spoken about Artur since he outlined his activities over lunch, which showed how much it was affecting him. Carlos didn’t want to leave him with that pain inside. When shared, the intensity of pain is lessened. It was no consolation, but it was the first step toward acceptance.

“Let’s get out of here,” Carlos suggested. Enrique got up alongside his friend. They left the cathedral through the cloister doorway. The spring sun still managed to illuminate with filtered beams a part of that courtyard originally meant for the priests’ meditation, now a rapid thoroughfare for many, and a place of contemplation for few. They walked over the floor, clad with the tombs that belonged to the highest officials of the bygone guilds of Barcelona, toward Bisbe Irurita Street. There, Enrique said good-bye to his friend.

“I’d rather not talk about it. I really appreciate it, Carlos, but I want to walk alone awhile.”

Carlos didn’t mention it again. He had given Enrique the chance to express his feelings, to ease his pain, like the good friend that he was. Enrique choosing not to was his business; it was beyond Carlos’s reach.

“All right.” He extended his hand. “I’ll head back to the office. When are you leaving?

“I don’t know. I really don’t know. Soon.”

“Call me before you do. It’s tramontana season so there’s a strong north wind. We could go out sailing any morning.”

“Yeah, maybe I will. Thanks for everything, my friend.” He waved as he made his way down Baixada de Santa Eulàlia.

Enrique walked slowly down the slope where, more than one thousand five hundred years before, the adolescent virgin who became the Patron Saint of Barcelona was martyred—put into a barrel with a nail-studded interior, and rolled down from the hill the Romans called Mons Taber. He too felt martyred, though his cross was not physical, but spiritual. When Fornells had finished telling him about the developments in the case and walked out of London Bar, Enrique felt agitated, as if the weight of Artur’s deceit fell on his shoulders all of a sudden, crushing him, smothering him. He wandered slowly around the wharf, trying to sort out his ideas, until he realized that Carlos’s security detail was no longer necessary. In fact, the investigation itself had lost its purpose, its very reason for existence. He had gone to his friend’s office hours earlier to tell him about the surprising developments in the case and to seek a consolation he was sure his pride wouldn’t let him ask for.

He walked toward La Palla Street. He was right in the hub of Barcelona’s antiques district, and he soon saw what had been Artur’s shop in the distance. A few minutes later, he rested his forehead on the cool glass of a shop window, where under a sign that read “S. HOROWITZ, ANTIQUARIAN,” the shop run by his father’s best friend was located. It looked contemporary, completely different from Artur’s. They had used the low bearing arches of the building, some four hundred years old, to create a tasteful contrast with the light color of the walls. The lighting, warm and bright, aided in highlighting the quality of the objects on display, most of a religious nature. Samuel ran a specialized business where quality came before quantity. Inside, situated between two arches, a slender figure was perusing several documents arranged on a seventeenth-century baroque desk. Her long black hair hung loose over bare shoulders. She was wearing a light sleeveless burgundy dress, which brought out her clear eyes. Enrique stood and watched her for several minutes. Mariola handled the documents with what seemed to him like infinite grace. Her style and elegance came through even in insignificant everyday tasks.

Mariola finally detected his presence, more out of that hidden instinct that alerts someone when they’re being watched than from raising her gaze. Her expression of restrained surprise gave way to a soft, captivating smile. She waved him in with a hand that held a fountain pen, but Enrique shook his head no. Then, as if by magic, she crossed the shop threshold and was standing at his side.

“Hello.” She welcomed him with a gorgeous smile.

“Hello.”

“I thought you’d call this morning.”

“I wanted to, but I didn’t have time. The police have arrested Artur’s killer.”

Mariola knit her brow. It was the first time Enrique had seen that expression on her face and he didn’t know how to interpret it.

“Wouldn’t you rather come in? It’s best we talk about it.”

“I don’t feel like going in. I’d rather you come out.”

“I’m alone,” Mariola objected. “Samuel had some errands and can’t come all afternoon. If I come out, I’ll have to close the shop.”

“So do it,” Enrique said.

Mariola said nothing, but went back into the shop, turned out the lights, and set the alarm. When she came out, a sheer silk scarf covered her throat, and she wore a snug-fitting long jacket the color of pale wine. It reached her knees and had a generous neckline. The cuffs and lower hem were lined in angora wool.

“Where should we go?”

“I don’t know. I’d been wandering around until I wound up with my head leaning against the glass of your shop. Let’s just walk.”

“Okay.”

Mariola took his arm and they walked leisurely toward Plaça de la Catedral.

“Who did it?”

“Well, the truth is, I’m not supposed to say.”

“Come on!” she spurred him. “Do you think I’ll blab it everywhere?”

“Apparently, a man named Phillipe Brésard,” offered Enrique, who had actually been yearning to share the story.

“The Frenchman,” Mariola added.

Enrique stopped short in front of her.

“You know him?”

“Who doesn’t?”

A devious idea was spawned in Enrique’s mind.

“So you’ve worked with him too.”

“You don’t have to ‘work’ with someone, as you say, to know him. I also know cases of corruption that plague our country, and I’m in no way associated with those involved in them,” she answered without any trace of irritation or anger.

“So then … ?”

“I’ve lived in the world of antiquarians and art since I was a little girl. Brésard may not be known to everyday people, but he is a living part of antiquarian ‘mythology.’ How could the members of our profession not know the biggest art thief in Europe—and maybe the entire world? What’s odd isn’t that I know him but that you don’t.”

Though her voice didn’t so much as hint at offense being taken, Enrique couldn’t help feeling he’d made a mistake.

“I didn’t mean that you knew him personally. Fornells, the police captain, told me that, in his view, the majority of antiquarians as of a certain level deal in stolen art. There’s even a special National Police unit exclusively devoted to these things,” he justified himself.

“I know that too, and I don’t belong to it.”

For the first time, Enrique felt he didn’t know Mariola. Up to now, he had only shared brief experiences with her that had been barely enough to reveal a small part of her personality. He knew she was cultured, passionate, and somewhat aloof. He hadn’t known that she could cloak herself in such indifference. Her words showed no irritation at Enrique’s veiled accusation, but her astonished expression did.

“I’ve only heard of Brésard, and I’ve never ‘worked’ with him in my life,” Mariola concluded.

Enrique understood that this was exactly what he wanted to hear. To him it was more important to ascertain that she not have any ties to the art smuggling world than a minor argument in public. Soothed by her response, Enrique didn’t know how to continue the conversation. He watched her. Mariola didn’t speak, but she didn’t seem hurt, either. She guided the couple’s steps toward Bisbe Irurita Street. They walked past the high watchtowers of the Roman city, and turned right at almost the exact spot where he had parted with Carlos an hour earlier. Evening was falling, and cottony clouds darkened the streets. Swallows stopping over in Barcelona on their migration glided joyfully through the sky, on impossible courses the human eye could barely make out, preceded by their unmistakable shrill calls.

They reached Plaça Sant Felip Neri through a narrow alley capped off with an archway. In the solitary square, the soft gurgle of its octagonal fountain was perfectly audible. Four leafy trees, encouraged by the springtime splendor, darkened the square to such extent that the pair could barely make out each other’s faces.

Mariola sat on the edge of the fountain. Enrique stood before her, caressing her hair with his hands. He leaned down to kiss her lips, but she dodged him, turning to one side. Enrique made a second attempt, but she put her hand firmly on his chest to keep him from it.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” said Enrique, with sincerity in his voice.

“I know.” She brought him closer to her. “But you did.”

A few dim lights meagerly lit the square, incapable of penetrating the veil of darkness that had settled there. Enrique stroked Mariola’s silky hair again. She relaxed at his touch. She took Enrique’s hands and raised her head to look at him.

“Let’s forget about it,” she murmured.

Enrique kissed her. It was no more than a light contact, more a caress than a kiss. She made a gesture with her arms that invited him to sit next to her. Enrique wanted to break the silence but didn’t know how.

“What a beautiful place.” It was a truly sublime square, a special corner of a special city.

“It is.” She looked around Enrique.

Evening yielded to night, and the weak lights in the square gained intensity.

“This corner of Barcelona reminds me of the most beautiful city in the world.”

“Which?”

Enrique felt that she had understood his intentions perfectly and given him permission to continue their conversation.

“Venice. That’s the only place with nooks like this one.”

“A melancholic city, like your mood,” Mariola observed shrewdly. “How was Artur involved with Brésard?”

Mariola’s question caught him off guard.

“Business,” he confessed gloomily. “Artur apparently dealt in pieces that Brésard stole.”

“And finding out has upset you, hasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“We never truly know the people around us, not even the most cherished. Anyone who claims to know another person is a liar. After all, is there even anyone who can truthfully say they know themselves?”

“I think there is.”

“I see that up here,” she said, stroking his head, “you’re still an inexperienced kid. Listen to me: we never know what people are really like until it’s too late. I’ll break one of my cardinal rules for being happy in a relationship; I’ll give you some advice,” she continued. “Never, ever judge anyone, under any circumstances. Don’t assess, judge, criticize, or give your opinion. Each person is a universe in themselves, unrepeatable, motivated by things that no one around them could understand. And that goes for us, too. It’s not a matter of keeping our opinions of others to ourselves; it’s more about not having them, because who are we to judge? We all have our mistakes, our sins, our dilemmas.”

“Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

“Exactly. Who knows the reasons for Artur’s relationship with the Frenchman?”

“According to Fornells, Brésard must be tied to many other antiquarians in this city.”

“It’s likely,” Mariola admitted. “Some live above their means, and their financial picture would be hard to manage otherwise.”

Inevitably, Enrique’s mind flashed back to Mariola’s house. So colossal and luxurious, it dwarfed his apartment on the slopes of Mount Igueldo. But she was partnered with Samuel and was the sole heiress of an old-money family with a massive fortune. And she had given him her word. That was enough.

“The truth of the matter is, only a few people would have the contacts necessary to work with Brésard,” she continued. “It would take many years of regular jobs to build trust in business like that, not to mention having a foot in circles that are quite select, to say the least. Prices on the black market cannot be low; no one would take such risks were it not for a healthy profit.”

“So with Brésard in jail, some of your ‘honorable’ colleagues may be going down, too. If he talks, they’ll probably go easier on him than if he keeps quiet.”

“It’s possible. We’ll know more over the next few days. The Frenchman’s arrest is going to give heartburn to more than a few of them!” Mariola laughed. “But that’s not what matters. They caught Artur’s murderer. I hope he spends the rest of his life in jail.”

“Well, he hasn’t been found guilty yet. They think it’s him, but there are more hypotheses than facts at this point.”

“If it wasn’t him, who could it have been? No, it had to be Brésard. Artur was a good man no one could ever want to harm.”

Enrique wondered whether he should tell her about the manuscript. Now, with the new perspective, keeping the secret seemed less important. Brésard’s guilt changed things. And how could he keep anything from her after what had happened between them not even twenty-four hours before? He thought about it. In truth, he felt very close to her. Perhaps too close given the short period of time that had passed. She was so magnificent, so perfect, so sublime. He had not found a single fault in her, except her slight haughtiness that only made her that much more attractive. What would have been an argument against anyone else actually worked in her favor. Her beauty was beyond question, regardless of the beholder’s taste; her mind, razor sharp; her personality, magnetic. Mariola was different from any woman he had ever met. More precisely, she was the diametric opposite of Bety, the only one he had ever really known.

Mariola had swept him away, out of this world. Now it hit him: he thought about her constantly. Even when he was preoccupied with other things—Artur, Carlos, the manuscript, Bety—she was there before him, present in his mind, floating amid his ideas.

“What are you thinking about?” Mariola asked.

“Nothing in particular, just letting my mind wander over this whole damned story.”

“Come on, tell me, whatever it was. I know it was something specific. I could see it in your face.”

Bety’s right. I’m so easy to read! Enrique thought, and the idea bothered him.

“Actually, I was thinking about you.”

“You’re a flatterer, and I don’t believe you.”

“I swear.” It was true, but not in the way he had said it. His daydreams were centered on Mariola, but what was really under consideration was whether he should tell her about the manuscript. He didn’t mind sharing the secret; he was certain of her discretion, maybe even her help. But he remembered Bety’s reaction a few days before all too well, and he didn’t want to cause a rift with her. She had come through for him, given him help and consolation, and he felt more confident checking with her before he made any moves, as she had asked, even knowing what her answer would be.

On another note, confessing that he had suspected Samuel, Artur’s dearest friend and Mariola’s partner, and that he had even authorized an investigation into him, now seemed nothing short of ridiculous. If Samuel found out, it could offend him. Enrique knew that if the shoe were on the other foot, he would definitely be offended, and in the extreme. No, it would be best to keep her out of it, at least for now.

“I don’t know if I believe you,” Mariola said after a few seconds’ thought.

“Are you sure I’m not telling the truth?”

“No.”

“Then give me the benefit of the doubt,” Enrique said.

Gusts of cool air blew into the square. Mariola shivered, and her eyes sought Enrique’s.

“I think it’s too late to be out without a wrap,” she said, “and I should get back to the shop.”

“Okay.”

They left the square by the side street that took them back to Baixada de Santa Eulàlia. Mariola kept her body close to his, and Enrique draped his arm around her shoulders in an attempt to keep her warm.

“I’d like to ask you for something,” she said.

“Anything you want.”

“You mentioned Venice earlier.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You may not believe it, but I’ve never been. I’d like for us to go.”

“We will, if you want. We’ll go whenever you want. My editor has the draft of my next novel, and it doesn’t need a single touch-up. I have all the time in the world.”

“Soon. We’ll do it soon,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. After leaving Mariola in her shop, Enrique had the unbearable feeling of emptiness caused by separation from the person he wanted to be with. He wanted to be with her so badly, he would have even been willing to leave Bety alone at Artur’s house. The only reason he didn’t was his sense of feeling indebted to his ex-wife. Though she had expressly condoned his new relationship, leaving her alone would have been an affront that no one deserved, especially not her. And so, with contradictory feelings at battle inside him—the sadness of an ugly, painful truth against the happiness of spending time with his love—he headed back to Vallvidrera.

12

Enrique drove toward the small town. With nightfall, the shoulders of the roads became populated with the parked cars of Barcelona youths, more appreciative of the wonders nature had provided in their companions’ bodies than the spectacle of twilight on the mountainside. Enrique felt hurt, sad, and somewhat vulnerable; he was not with Mariola, and Artur’s house was not the place to rest with so many mixed emotions churning inside him. But they weren’t really emotions, just ghosts, nothing but ghosts. For the first time in his life, he understood the oft-employed literary device: specters of the past. They exist, stalking us, ready to remind us of the inevitable miseries that make up part of our lives, our pasts, our futures. And when they appear, we have to know how to push them aside to keep moving ahead, seeking out the future.

He parked in front of Artur’s house. He was in Vallvidrera, embedded on the slopes of Tibidabo, a mountain whose history he knew perfectly thanks to his past as a student of a Salesian school. The entire mountain had belonged to a single family, whose last descendant, Dorotea de Chopitea, donated it to the Salesians on the celebrated occasion of Saint John Bosco’s visit to Barcelona. From that point on, the Salesians sold it off in ever-larger lots, almost to its very summit, the order’s last redoubt, where an expiatory church commands breathtaking views. It didn’t take long for development of the mountain to begin, driven by a powerful bourgeoisie with designs on spending the money they had made from the sweat of thousands of laborers.

A light was on inside; Bety was already home. Sitting in the car, Enrique took a long look at the house. The architecture appeared light, even frail, far from the heavy-looking piles it had for neighbors; it was wedged between three imposing summer houses built at a time when Tibidabo was a paradise isolated from the city. Artur had commissioned the refurbishment of a discreet structure, of simple but elegant form, with a roomy design based on a single story with an attic apartment on top. The terrace was the centerpiece around which the house was arrayed: spacious and comfortable, built in a curved plan to afford a greater angle of vision. Enrique had to conclude that the plot must have cost Artur a fortune, and the construction, another. And that was money that he could only have come by through illegal means. Enrique had lived there happily for fifteen years, unaware of its story, ignoring reality. He had even been so accustomed to the vast view of his immediate surroundings that he had been unable to elude its influence when he relocated, substituting San Sebastián for Barcelona, and Igueldo for Tibidabo. Because what many dream of, knowing it’s impossible, others, driven by experience, fight tirelessly until they achieve. That was what he had done, though he had not realized it until just then. As soon as he got to San Sebastián, he had wanted to soar over the bay, let his imagination go in La Concha’s immense perfection, suspended between sky, earth, and sea. And he had done it, thanks to his effort and imagination.

That thought betrayed him. Artur had gone through something similar when he had been banished from his world by the vagaries of history and struggled to survive in a hostile environment. He had fought, and he had won. The house itself was irrefutable proof. For Artur, rising from the ashes came with a price: he broke the law, he smuggled art, the heritage of humankind, with works that, in most cases, would have been left to rot, prey to either the elements or the monetary shortcomings of a church suffering constant financial strife. Enrique, on the other hand, had every advantage. He grew up in the right atmosphere, feeling loved first by his parents, then by Artur. He had never been cold or hungry. There were always arms to comfort him when tears streamed down his face. He was brought up scrupulously, even beyond what was necessary, with learning made into an entertaining game. The way Artur nurtured him had forged a creative soul.

Had it not been for Artur, he would never have been able to write. Artur encouraged him and supported him financially when, after college, he had declared his interest in literature and worked as a consultant and proofreader, first reader and critic. He owed everything that he was to his adoptive father. Did it make sense to condemn him? More than that: who was he to do it? Mariola had been right: we are no one to criticize, and people are all united in their error-prone ways.

Comforted by these meditations, Enrique got out of the car. He felt strong enough—though just barely—to give Bety the explanations she was bound to demand. He opened the door. A light was on in the kitchen, and he made his way toward it. An eccentrically dressed man emerged suddenly from the kitchen. Enrique, taken aback by the abrupt appearance, backed up to the wall behind him, gripped by a harrowing thought: it was Artur’s killer. They looked at one another. The visitor, carrying a glass of juice in his right hand, observed him with a curious and somewhat patronizing look before extending his hand.

“Hello. You must be Alonso, the writer.”

Bety took the awkward moment to make her appearance in the entry hall. She took charge of the situation. Enrique remained with his back against the wall, distant from the stranger.

“Who is this guy?”

“I think you’ve frightened Enrique,” observed Bety, who could hardly suppress a smile. “Manolo, meet Enrique Alonso, my ex-husband. Enrique, this is Manolo Álvarez, a philologist from the University of Barcelona who’s helping with the Casadevall translation.”

Still wary, Enrique extended his hand. Manolo gripped it firmly, if somewhat reluctantly. Manolo’s sweat-damp hand reminded the host of being fleetingly touched by a fish. Bety, who was getting to know her new collaborator, understood exactly what the gesture meant: he was yielding to social convention for purely practical reasons. Keeping to what was established as correct, though he did not believe in it, meant savings in time and explanations.

“Sorry about before.” Enrique justified himself. “I was surprised to see you like that in my house.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. I assume that anyone who saw me pop out of a doorway in their house would be startled to death.”

Enrique looked at the stranger, taking him in. He couldn’t understand what such a character was doing in his house.

“Excuse me,” he said to Manolo, “I’d like to talk to Bety alone for a minute.”

“Of course! I’ll wait out on the terrace.”

Enrique looked at Bety and pointed to the kitchen door, and they went in. Thinking ahead, Bety closed the door. She knew her ex-husband well.

“Would you mind telling me what that guy is doing in my house?”

“When you told me that Artur’s murderer had been arrested this morning, I decided to consult an expert in Catalan philology on the translation of the side notes. I couldn’t figure them out without help from a specialist. A contact of mine in the department of Romance languages put me in touch with Manolo, the best translator I’ve ever met.”

“Translator? He’s a translator?”

“Correction: he’s not just the best translator, he is the most brilliant philologist I’ve ever seen.”

“Now all that’s missing is for you to say he’s a linguistic wizard and throw yourself at his feet to worship him,” Enrique crowed with sarcasm.

“He is a linguistic wizard and I do throw myself at his feet for that and other reasons you’ll soon understand. I promise you that there is no one better-prepared than him in all of Spain. He has one of those rare privileged minds for languages that only comes along once every hundred years. He’s like a modern-day Burton or Von Humboldt,” Bety explained patiently.

Enrique looked like he could lose his temper any minute.

“I couldn’t care less how competent he is! Just four days ago you were all over me for making a unilateral decision, and now you greet me with this! I can’t believe it!” Enrique paced around the kitchen as he always did when his mood was sour. “How could you have possibly considered telling the story of the manuscript to a stranger without checking with me first? Jesus Christ! I just cannot believe it!”

“Shut your mouth and listen, you fool!” Bety ordered. “I finished the translation, but could find nothing whatsoever to tell me where ‘it’ was. The last chance we had was the side notes, and only an expert could have been reliable to—”

“That gives you no right to—”

“Shut up already!”

Enrique looked at her, utterly perplexed. Never, not even the worst of their time together, had Bety raised her voice that way. She even ignored the fact that Manolo was there, and he was bound to have heard. Panting, maybe surprised at her own reaction, Bety leveled an index finger at him.

“Would you mind telling me what you’re up to? Could you tell me why you’re so bent on keeping a secret when it no longer makes any sense? All I’m trying to do is resolve what you and I can’t do on our own! Or has the memory of Artur made you incompetent?”

Without moving, Enrique clenched his fists. His countenance made Bety back up, spooked by the aggressiveness in his look. Like any time they argued, the final volley was deadly if Bety fired it.

“That hurt, bad. You don’t know how much, you can’t even imagine. You shouldn’t have said that.” His rage had passed; in its place only disappointment remained.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say it.”

“I’m sure. But in San Sebastián, when you came to my house to tell me about Artur’s death, something like this happened, remember? And you were right. In the end, you always say what you think, even if it hurts the other person. Look, just forget it. Now tell me whatever story you have.”

He showed no more emotion. Enrique’s apparent calm could not fool Bety, who was contrite. It would be best to let time heal the wound, and change the subject to Manolo’s conclusions.

“It’s too strange a story; I’d rather he tell it.”

“Fine. But first tell me what he knows.”

“Strictly things related to the manuscript.”

“Good, then let’s go hear him out.”

Manolo was waiting for them on the terrace.

“Have you finished your business?”

“Yes, we’re done with our ‘business.’ Let’s go to the study. We can talk in there.”

“Okay.”

Once they were comfortably settled into three cozy armchairs, Manolo retold the story he had regaled Bety with earlier that day. Like her, Enrique took some time to comprehend that Manolo could know the existence of the manuscript without having had real contact with it until that day. Skeptical by nature, even more so in light of the uncomfortable situation he found himself in—his secret disclosed, seated in front of an erudite dressed like a bum, Artur’s inner sanctum violated, laid low by Bety’s surprise attack—he put up every possible resistance and then some to this story of Manolo’s, who was long on detail and chose his words carefully.

“I’m having a hard time believing all this,” Enrique said when Manolo had finished. “Why would a master builder enter the dangerous game of hiding an object like the Stone of God? The contact between Jews and Christians was limited to business activities. Christian society had stripped itself of the atmosphere of relative coexistence that had prevailed between the two religions until the end of the twelfth century. Why couldn’t they hide it themselves?”

“As for your first question, Bety’s translation, which I consider to be excellent, offers some insight. She told me that you skimmed through the pages of the manuscript, that you focused on the key part of the enigma. But that’s all explained in the first part. Casadevall owed them a favor, and hiding the Stone was part of the payment. And as for them hiding it, well no, they couldn’t. One can only imagine that the social persecution they suffered after the pogroms of 1391 meant that they wouldn’t be free to do so. They were confined to the Call, walled in at that time, and were not allowed to leave the city without permission. They were only allowed to travel east, but if they chose to go into exile, they were required to leave behind any valuables they had.”

“That was probably decisive when it came to contacting Casadevall,” Bety added. “They thought it would be impossible to hide the Stone, so they had to hide it in a place that was absolutely safe.”

“His daughter fell ill, and that made it possible to contact Casadevall. His position had allowed Casadevall to travel around Europe, and he had been acquainted with many Jewish artisans, experts in a number of architecture-related arts, especially glasswork. The Jews were looked on much more kindly in other countries than in Spain. They had suffered only a handful of xenophobic attacks, and enjoyed relative freedom. This must have expanded Casadevall’s outlook on the Jewish people, in such a way that associating with them did not seem strange to him.”

“That’s hard to believe,” Enrique insisted.

“The information we have is conclusive, although my part of it can’t be proven immediately,” Manolo answered patiently. “You can’t go to Toledo and study the archives just like that. You need time and certain academic influences. You could probably get them; you’re a writer of recognized standing and responsibility. But it would take you days, even weeks, to do the paperwork. Until then, my word will have to suffice. The only proof I can offer is this.” He took out a small notebook with battered and worn covers. “It contains all the notes I’ve taken over years of research on things I thought could have to do with the Stone. It even has dates: I’m methodic like that. As for the manuscript, Bety has the complete translation; it’s yours to read.”

Enrique leafed through the notebook. It was one of those with unruled sheets sold for the owner to fill them with whatever they wanted. Enrique knew a few writers who used them to condense the information necessary for their books, thus making them tiny reference works vital for avoiding mistakes.

“Keep it, if you want, and have a look. I won’t need it. I always have a copy of all my important papers.”

Enrique nodded. “I will.”

“There can be no other conclusion,” Bety continued. “Casadevall discovered in the Stone of God an object he preferred to keep hidden forever. Or rather, they showed him that object with the intention of hiding it—it doesn’t matter. And two hundred years later, Diego de Siurana had the luck to find a manuscript that concealed a mystery that must have seemed as fascinating to him as it does to us.”

“Terrible luck.”

“Okay.” Enrique finally gave in to Bety and Manolo’s merciless tenacity. “I can accept that the whole thing is true, but what does that change? The truth is, we still don’t know anything. What really matters is where he hid it. To me, it doesn’t even matter what it is. We’re not in an action movie, or at least, I don’t think we are. It’s more than likely that the Stone has already been lost over the passage of the years, decades, and centuries. Wherever it was originally is probably now the site of a bank, post office, or fast-food place.”

His rant helped him blow off steam. Without being fully aware of what he was saying, the words came to his mind on their own, laden with reason, or rather, tedium. While just one day earlier Enrique would have been capable of doing almost anything to unravel the manuscript mystery, Fornells’s revelations completely modified his outlook on the subject. He had not been aware of it until the very moment he faced Bety and Manolo. They were bent on finding a resolution now untranscendental, lacking all meaning to him.

“It may not matter to you, but for me it’s a puzzle from the past that I want to resolve,” Manolo said. “I think that Casadevall hid it in a special place that would withstand the passage of time, and if we decipher it with the clues hidden in the manuscript, we’ll be able to find it. And so—”

“And so it’s a puzzle from the past, huh?” Enrique interrupted him. “You want to try to crack a mystery, maybe the greatest enigma in your life. Fine. But for me it’s much more—or much less—than all that. Let me tell you what it is for me: it’s the last memento from my dead father. I wanted to solve the enigma as a tribute to his memory, a final send-off, a farewell. It’s taken me a while to realize it; he knew where to find it, and he figured it out exclusively thanks to his intelligence and experience. If I tried to follow his footsteps it was just to pay homage to his memory.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Manolo answered, shocked.

“Remember that Manolo knows nothing about Artur,” Bety said in an attempt to put on the brakes.

But Enrique was too wound-up. The news about Artur had affected him too much.

“My father died a few days ago. He was working on the manuscript, and he thought he was close to the solution. He said so in a letter he sent a few hours before his death.”

Manolo looked at Bety with an indefinable look recriminating her for not disclosing this information. Now he understood Enrique’s aggressiveness. He looked like the typical famous author, known for his serenity and stability, traits far from the barely-contained rage that sprang to the surface at the slightest opportunity.

“I’m sorry, really. I understand your attitude now. But you should listen to me: we’re not enemies, nor do I mean to upset you. I haven’t come to impinge on your memories, and I assure you that I fully comprehend your situation, better than lots of other acquaintances who may have given you their phony condolences. If digging into your past means disrupting your memories, I won’t do it, no matter how curious I am. I live in my own world, so private that I haven’t ever found anyone capable of sharing it. I’m only interested in what I study; it keeps me entertained, and from time to time, it fascinates me, like this case.”

Bety was impressed at Manolo’s perfectly measured diction, a quality kept hidden until now.

Enrique looked at him closely. His expression was blank. He either had no feelings whatsoever or the most absolute self-control. He spoke dispassionately, stripping his words of everything but their most essential meaning, their truest content. And he waited. More than anything else, he waited. Enrique could not put his finger on how Manolo conveyed it, as there was no indication, no eagerness, no anxiety, no desire, or even the slightest gesture. But he waited.

“I see,” said Enrique.

“Are you sure?”

Bety watched them looking at each other in silence, each lost in their own cryptic thoughts. Her presence seemed to have faded, lost in the midst of a contest of unknown motives. She didn’t know Manolo well enough, and she didn’t understand Enrique’s resolution. It made her feel alien to the conversation, a spectator physically present but intellectually absent, incapable of intervening in an incomprehensible duel.

“Yes,” Enrique answered. “How long will it take you to translate the notes?”

“A couple of days at the most, I suppose.”

Bety handed him several sheets of paper that made up a list of the notes.

“The translation itself won’t be difficult. It’s made up of two clearly distinct parts: one contains the observations on certain paragraphs, the other lists the abbreviations. I can translate them partially, but I can only be sure once I’ve studied the original text in depth.”

“Why only partially?”

“Because they’re not the typical abbreviations you’d use to write faster. They’re deliberately cryptic. Even more than Casadevall, Diego de Siurana didn’t want to disclose what he knew about whatever it was.”

“The mystery lives on,” Bety said. “The clues reveal parts, without showing its entirety. But I think that Manolo’s translation can help us locate the object, whatever it is.”

How odd, thought Enrique. He was watching her with a skeptical grin that she chose to ignore. Days before, she had wanted to take the story of the manuscript to the police. Now that Artur’s killer was in jail and the Casadevall manuscript had lost its aura of danger, she too had given in to the ambition to know, or possess … or both. And it had happened now, when he had lost interest not only in the manuscript but in anything related to the past. Amazed, he observed in himself the estrangement caused by disappointment. How distant were the affections and desires that had been cardinal until now. In the meantime, Bety kept on with enthusiasm that was restrained but impossible to conceal. Fine. He would carry on, even though he had gotten out from under the spell of the mystery itself.

“… in fact, the rest is of little interest,” Bety was saying. “The main part could lead us to the object itself, but personally I think the key is in the final list of the manuscript. That’s where we find the most interesting notes.”

“I want to read them, and in fact, I will later—the whole manuscript. But tell me what conclusions you’ve reached on both parts.”

Bety and Manolo looked at each other doubtfully. He took the initiative.

“What conclusions we have aren’t relevant. We don’t know, and in fact I doubt we’ll ever know, how the manuscript fell into Diego’s hands. Nor do we know how it reached the Bergués family. Sheer chance put it in ours.”

“The notes on the first part of the manuscript are the ones that Manolo has been able to transcribe with the most accuracy.” Bety took over. “They’re clear. They begin on an indeterminate date, but definitely before February 1612, the date when the Inquisition began its case against Diego. We drew the following conclusions: first, Diego was only interested in matters related with S.; second, starting from the pages that reveal the enigma, the ones with the most notes, Diego began an encrypted sort of writing meant to hide information; and third, Diego checked the final list building by building. Next to the buildings on the list are what we believe to be the initials of the dates when he made his rounds. The final note of the manuscript is ‘LLO. SI. D.,’ which according to Manolo is Lloat Sigui Déu, or ‘Praise Be to God’ in Catalan. We think the praise reveals his happiness at having found the site. And fourth, the site must be marked by a symbol we’re unaware of, as can be deduced from this note,” she said, showing it to Enrique.

“Sounds reasonable,” conceded Enrique. “What about the rest of the notes?”

“As I’ve said, and despite Bety’s groundwork, I’d rather study the original to be able to associate them with it. Bety has—correctly, I might add—been unwilling to let me take it without your permission. But if you let me keep it over a few days, I’ll be able to figure out everything the notes are hiding.”

Enrique nodded. He was curious as to whether Manolo would be able to properly interpret the meaning of the abbreviations. Manolo perfectly gauged another train of thought behind Enrique’s offering.

“And don’t worry about the manuscript. I spend my life surrounded by others just like it. I know their intrinsic value, and I know how to give them the care they deserve. It will come back to you without the slightest damage, I promise.”

“Okay, you can take it.”

“You don’t know how much I appreciate it,” Manolo said, with veiled excitement.

His mission was accomplished. It was unnecessary to stay any longer at Enrique’s. Manolo got up.

“Time I was leaving.”

“Can I give you a lift?” Bety offered.

“No, that’s all right. If you don’t mind, I’ll call a taxi.”

“You don’t need to,” Enrique said without getting up from his chair. “The Vallvidrera taxi stand is just a couple hundred yards down the street, in the square.”

“Great. All right then. I’ll call you as soon as I have any news.”

Enrique waved good-bye. Bety walked him to the door. Enrique heard them talking in the entry hall. Their voices were faint, muffled by the distance. If he concentrated on them, he could have discerned what they were saying, but he wasn’t interested. The front door closed. Manolo left the house carrying with him a chapter of Enrique’s life that he felt had now been closed. Bety came back to Enrique. She spoke again, and he pretended to listen, but he was lost in thought and unable to concentrate on the conversation. Bety, usually so observant, didn’t detect his mood. Or perhaps she did, and, feeling guilty, pretended not to, in order to cautiously skirt her earlier slip of the tongue.

“I’m just picturing Diego with the manuscript in his hands,” she said. “It may have come to him in a stack of papers having to do with the building of the cathedral, to be stored in its archive. He probably spent days with it at hand, but not even opening it for a skim. One day, his eyes fell on the then-old spine of the manuscript. Curious, probably familiar with its author’s character, he decides to take a peek. He starts off: nothing catches his eye. It’s just another text, full of information that may or may not seem interesting. He could have stopped there, but to his misfortune, he didn’t. A quirk of fate makes him turn another page, just one, and suddenly his curiosity soars. The manuscript changes its style and its look, and its objective transforms. He turns a few more pages and bears witness to the birth of a passion that will cause him a future tragedy. Unaware of what awaits him, he nurtures it every waking moment.

“The text gives information, names, lists. Diego starts to investigate. Everything seems right. The events that have to do with building are true, he’s checked them against other sources. The buildings exist, or have existed. Everything looks right, on the surface. Captivated by the mystery, he succumbs to the excitement of discovering something special. He starts to investigate. His job gives him access to papers of all kinds, without arousing any suspicion. He finally discovers something, but we don’t know what. In the meantime, the inquisitors have their eye on him. Someone anonymously reports him; probably a rival in the stark power struggles to rise in the ecclesiastic hierarchy who decided to put a quick end to his career, or maybe someone who spied something odd in his behavior. He might have been caught looking at the forbidden texts present in the index, or its Spanish annex, the Catalogus librorum reprobatorum, beyond the reach of a lowly secretary, however promising. For whatever reason, he’s arrested. But it’s likely that he was warned in advance so as to have time to hide or protect the manuscript. That was common back then.

“As for hiding the manuscript, it could be due to two reasons: aware of his Jewish ancestry, being caught with a dangerous document like that would be equivalent to a guilty sentence; it is also possible that, aware of the mystery we’re now trying to solve, he tried to keep it secret from the inquisitors. And so, he managed to hide it in time by sending it to the Bargués family. He was caught and taken to a dungeon. After a while, he was put on trial. Diego probably hoped for a quick end to the proceedings. He would have known how the Inquisition worked, and that his presence in an auto-da-fé wearing a sanbenito would have been enough to satisfy the inquisitors’ appetite for victims, and provide proof that their presence was vital to the survival of a kingdom of Spain infested with heretics.

“And yet, something goes wrong. There’s an unpredictable turn of events. Maybe the person who reported him has a lot of pull, or maybe his fate was already sealed even if he did confess. Or perhaps the suspicion against him wasn’t only due to the Jewish blood in his veins. He may have been accused of Judaising. Whatever the reason, they torture him. During the torture, he talks. He says something, but we don’t know what. The inquisitors speak among themselves, what they say is off the record. Then they inform La Suprema and move Diego to Toledo. There the torture continues, incredibly, for ten years, until he dies.”

The story was not uninteresting and Enrique knew it. Imagining was a creative exercise he knew well, just as he knew the level of freedom that a narrator can reach when enlightened by muses who show the way down the broad path that a story takes. Bety was not given to imaginative excesses, but she was clearly under the spell of the connection between Casadevall and Diego de Siurana, telling the story as if she held a personal stake in it. He got up and made a beeline to Artur’s wet bar. Without ever overindulging, Artur appreciated fine spirits and was likely to treat himself to an occasional glass of well-aged brandy or sipping whiskey. He poured himself a drink in a large glass and went back to his chair in the study. Surprised, Bety stopped talking. After so many years of living together, she had never seen Enrique do anything of the kind. He made a half-hearted attempt to play normal, and she went back into her story with her earlier enthusiasm. She spoke on and on, but the sounds still seemed distant, empty. He nodded whenever they made eye contact, as if he were following what she said with interest, but his soul was absent, far from that place, fighting a battle lost before it began against an invincible enemy: oblivion.

PART TWO

The Casadevall Manuscript

The time had come. Bety’s translation rested against his knees. He was lying in bed, under a sheet and bedspread. Perhaps reading would help him get to sleep. But that initial idea, intended to convince himself for the umpteenth time of his lack of interest in the enigma, proved to be wrong. Casadevall’s notes turned out to be a book he couldn’t put down.

True, the first pages were little more than an account of the tasks, errands, and reminders typical of a master builder’s work. But fifteen pages on, quite abruptly, the diary began. In the original manuscript, the writer’s pen had shot upward in midsentence, leaving an ink stain on the page, most likely where the nib had broken. A long blank space followed the stain. And then the Casadevall manuscript began.

I am exhausted … Life, which I once so loved, life that generously surrounds me with its gifts, struggles untiringly in this vibrant city, and imbues us all with that zeal, that yearning, that desire, now seems destined to spurn me, ignore me, removing me from the bedazzling whirl of a boundless world in constant expansion, where the work of our Lord is manifested at every instant, in every place, in every intention. Yes, this wondrous life, the life that the Creator of us all breathed into every body and gave judgment and soul, now, when I thought I had suffered everything a man could suffer, having reached, if not peace, at least a certain harmony, has chastised me yet again. Eulàlia, my daughter, has fallen ill, and my experience tells me that perhaps in her I see anew the signs that once chastised my wife, Leonor, and our children Josep and Lluisa.

It all began this morning. Today has been a most difficult day: the raig triat stones from the Montjuïc quarry on which we were to seat the second bearing arcade of the fourth rib of the fourth vault, where the Annunciation is represented, did not arrive in time to be laid early in the morning, due, it would seem, to a conflict of competencies, for the construction and reinforcement of a new wooden watchtower, set just in from the beach. As certain pirate ships have of late become a presence all too real and the bonfires of the Montgat watchtower have been lit twice in the past months to alert us to the approach of these seaborne scavengers, priority has been given to the completion of a sort of wall meant to seal off the seafront, to ensure proper defense of the city.

And if that were not enough, on this day we were preparing to raise the Honorata, a bell famous in this city even before ringing a single peal, as the funds needed to cast it were raised through a collection among the citizens.

November 27, 1393. Today is a holy day. The day after tomorrow, our dear bishop will bless the bell, which is to be hung under the roof of Sant Iu tower, and from there it will eternally remind the Barcelonese of the time of day, as it marks the hours and quarters. Thus, they will never forget that worldly matters are begat by the Divine, and nothing has any meaning without the latter.

But it is yet another riddle of arrangements for me to make: and while the magister operis principalis is away, it is my responsibility to ensure the works underway continue according to plan. My labors have but multiplied on ten different fronts! Because to the problem of the quarry and the raising of Honorata, I must add those of the polychromy of the crypt of Saint Eulàlia, blessed be her name, and the constant discussions that we are in with the bishop on account of it. And let us not forget the problems in the supply of timber for the choir loft. Mysteriously, the oak seems insufficient and has become more expensive, reaching prices so high that the supply has been stopped. Master Jordi Johan y Anglada is exasperated; he has wood-carvers with their chisels and burins ready, but no wood to sink them into.

All is chaos, and on a grand scale; the irony of being in such disorder when the aim of our project is to erect the edifice which must necessarily praise the order of Creation worries me, and can sometimes even make me doubt my own capacity.

All of it, a host of woes that should trouble me, and which I should be taking special measures to solve, has been relegated to a lesser station, and now appears unsubstantial.

I was returning from work when Anna, the governess, told me of my daughter’s condition. She had a fever: not much at first, more in the evening, and a great deal by nightfall. I went to see her in her chamber and asked about her day. She had little to say, as she had spent most of the day in bed and did not feel well at all. I begged her to rest as I examined her. There were no marks or wounds on her body, but when I felt her neck, I found the outlines of inflammations on either side of her throat. God forbid it be that disease so hated, but above all, so feared by all! I could not bear the loss of Eulàlia. I could not stand to see her pass, as I have her mother and siblings. I am worried in the extreme, and I cannot imagine what it would be for our Barcelona to find itself scourged by another Black Death. I do not even think of my obligations to the Cathedral of the Holy Cross and Eulàlia, whose martyrdom my daughter was christened after. My daughter, the last of my lineage.

Tonight I will keep vigil. I will pray the Memorare and ask the Blessed Virgin Mary for her intercession.

Day of our Lord November 29, 1393

Yesterday, at six in the evening, Honorata was raised to the cheers of a great multitude.

Our beloved bishop Ramon D’Escaldes blessed the bell before the enraptured assemblage; how adroitly he employs that deep, ponderous voice! The procession left the bishop’s palace flanked by palm bearers and in a much-festive atmosphere that the bishop soon tempered with his oratorical gifts, so that such jubilant spirit was replaced by sincere devotion; so great is his influence on those persons over whom he wields a severe but loving command. I was unable to elude the maneuvers to raise Honorata up to the tower, technically no more difficult than those of any other components of the cathedral; the only difference is that in the latter, only the laborers of the works are present, and on this occasion, the maneuver was done from the outside, surrounded by a crowd that numbered at least two or three thousand onlookers, with all of the risks and dangers that this entailed. I will not describe the difficulties of the raising, as it neither pleases nor preoccupies me, though I will say that, though my body was present and I did give the necessary orders, my mind was absent; it was home with my daughter.

The day before, I scarcely left her side. Her fever had gone down, enough to be considered a good sign, perhaps a grace of Our Lady, who, having heard the Memorare I devoted to her over the long vigil, was gentle and merciful enough to relieve her condition. I have sent for a physician—a real one, not one of those second-rate barbers who the monks taught only to cut and bleed the ill with their razors, and are more impostors than anything else. Old Aimeric is a man of experience. After all, he was a barber in his youth, a rasor et minutor who went from convent to convent shaving the friars’ tonsures and bleeding them when necessary. By the whims of destiny, he ended up becoming one of the few surgeons who entered the College of Saint Cosmas to study medicine in Paris. We have known each other for many years, from before the time his good fortune allowed him to rise and provide services to nobles. Although now his skills are dispensed among the nobility and “honorable citizens” of Barcelona, by virtue of my association with the archbishopric, but especially thanks to the modest friendship that existed between us years ago, I have been able to reach him and he has honored us by coming to see Eulàlia in our home. After listening to her breathe by placing his ear over my daughter’s girlish chest, Aimeric recommended I remain calm, and rest. He does not favor, for now, bleedings or purgatives. He insists that she remain wrapped up, protected from air currents, to avoid any worsening. I could hardly stand to speak to him of my fears, but he must have read them on my countenance, when with a simple gesture I motioned to the lumps on her throat and whispered, “Could it be—”

“It is early yet,” he interrupted. “That the malady affects the lungs is obvious. Inflammation is not extraordinary in such cases. And lastly, have you confessed of late? Remember many ailments befall us because of sins, and once we have cleansed the stains with tears of remorse, they are cured by the Supreme Physician, so says the Gospel.”

“Eulàlia goes to mass every Sunday and holy day, and fulfills her every obligation with the Church, as could be no other way.”

“Then do as I say: send for me if her condition worsens.”

I put my hand in my purse, but Aimeric refused again. “Pere, you are a man of the Church. Pray for her. That is enough for me. If she requires any medicines in the future, then we can speak of money.”

A man such as I has frugal needs. I have nothing to spend on, and few debts: the house has been ours for years, and except for the governess and food we eat, I tend not to squander. I always saw to it that Eulàlia wanted for nothing. Such were Leonor’s wishes. And so I have been able to save part of my wages as master builder, and I know I can cover any expense Aimeric demands, up to a certain limit. He is the physician of the nobles, and his treatments are dear. But I would give anything for my daughter to be well!

One week. It has been one week since my last entry into this makeshift diary, where I can vent my conscience and relieve my torment. Eulàlia has worsened. Aimeric’s visits are daily, and I cannot conceal my concern with his observant care. He says, on arriving, that I have nothing to fear, that the humors are evolving normally, but I observe his face and see concentration, and worse, I perceive doubt behind the mask of calm beatitude with which he tries to soothe my fears. The girl coughs frequently, and her sputum is a dark color which ceased to be yellow and turned to green several days ago. It is so thick she cannot expel it and throttles herself when she tries to do so. She sleeps fitfully and eats little, as the inflammation in her throat is now so large it prevents her from taking any sustenance but for thin soup, and even that she eats reluctantly and with great difficulty.

I remember thirteen years ago, in Narbonne, where we had traveled after receiving a petition to collaborate in the works of the cloister, Leonor was the first to feel symptoms much like those of Eulàlia. In those days we lived near the district of the Canons, a short walk from the cathedral, in a small, simple wooden house, with a garden behind it, furnished to us by the Cathedral Chapter. The Saints Justus and Pastor Cathedral was in the middle of bitter contention between the civil and ecclesiastic forces of the city. The former wished to conserve the Visigothic wall that crossed partly in front of the cathedral to better the wall’s defenses; to the contrary, the latter chiefly sought to demolish the walls and complete the project of Master D’Arrás. While deliberations were ongoing, which as such degenerated into fierce dispute, the works of the cloister continued their normal course. It was there that my art began to fully develop and my joy at adorning the house of our Lord rivaled that of the joy of seeing my loved ones, my family, growing in number. To see them grow up healthy and happy was my sole recompense, received each evening on returning home to find in its inner order the perfect balance for my mind.

But all was changed that spring night. Leonor lay in the bed, covered with blankets, feverish. Josep, who was seven years old, had given his sister Lluisa her supper. The children appeared in good health in every way, except for Eulàlia, our six-month-old baby, who cried inconsolably. Leonor was too weak to nurse her, and after some brief words, I brought the baby near for her to be nourished with her mother’s milk. Once the babe was asleep, I took her to her crib, and later, put the other two children to bed. Early the next morning, I went to ask an old neighbor woman, Marie, for help, imploring her to care for my family until Leonor recovered from her ailment, to which I attached no special significance then.

I returned from work as always, fatigued but pleased. The works progressed on schedule, there was no scarcity of materials, and payments were timely: everything was functioning with precision. But at the threshold of our house, the worst surprise imaginable awaited. Now, not only Leonor but the little ones Josep and Lluisa were feverish, and they were lying as they customarily slept, together in the same bed. Marie had prepared me a light repast, and proposed I take Eulàlia to a wet nurse who could suckle her regularly. I could care for the other two at night, and she would during the day. I acquiesced, and Marie took Eulàlia to the house of the nurse, a young woman named Anne whose one-year-old daughter had died days before.

And so we continued for several days. The fever had gone down. It was less during the day, but by nightfall it drove them to delirium. On that fourth day, while washing their bodies with water to relieve their heat, I found boils around their throats and other parts of the body. The three looked the same, not very large the first night; but then they gradually increased in size. Anxious, I went for help at first light: the Chapter recommended a competent surgeon; I returned home with him to see my indisposed family. The surgeon’s name was Jacques. Once he had examined them after donning a pair of strange fiber gloves, he confirmed my worst fears. The boils were clear symptoms of the Black Death, the very one that seventeen years before had claimed so many lives not only in Narbonne, but in all of France.

“How do you feel?” he asked, looking me in the eyes, next to the door, as he had left the beds, truly hasting away from them.

“I have no symptoms, neither fever nor pain,” I answered.

“You must leave the house at once. You are not safe here. No one is. And I must obey the prince’s orders and alert to any possibly infected place.”

“But, how do you expect me to leave my family here? Who will care for them? Who will feed them? And most important, are you sure of what you say? The Black Death?”

“The Black Death, in effect. Those boils fraught with pus are irrefutable proof.”

“But then … is there no hope?”

“We can only cut open the buboes, drain the humors, and wait. In some very rare cases the patients have survived. I myself, when the Black Death laid waste to Narbonne in 1365, suffered the furuncles.” And as he said it he pulled up his sleeve to reveal a number of scars on his arms. “And I survived. I cared for all those I could before I finally fell ill. But, Master Casadevall, I must tell you that very few of us continued alive after that time. There were many more who died. Now you should leave. The patients must be left alone.”

From the threshold I made a movement as to enter and remain close to my family, but Jacques’s hand restrained me forcefully.

“Think before you enter. I am going to inform the authorities. If the prince’s men find you here, they will not let you out. And you feel well as yet. You are healthy. And remember, you have another daughter. Think! Think well, man!”

I vividly recall the anguish his words caused me. Should I go in? Should I not? My Leonor, Josep, and Lluisa, wasting away inside, dying little by little, and I, safely outside, far from their bodies.

“And will you let them die in this manner? Can you not save them?”

“I will do my duty. The prince allows the sick to be attended, but they must be isolated. As for treating them, it can be done from afar. We have special knives that allow us to cut the boils open from a distance. This I can and will do.”

“But they suffer so! There must be something to relieve their pain!”

Jacques looked at me gravely before answering. “I can make them sleep, but that has a price. There is a medicine that will give them rest, but the cost of its components is high: red bryony, mandrake, opium, and resin spurge are not easily attained.”

“I will pay anything!”

“I will only charge you its fair price. And now, go. Go before I return with the soldiers!”

Jacques departed for Narbonne to report the sick to the prince’s constable. I had but an hour before he returned with the drug. There I stood, at the threshold, unable to decide whether to enter, with the convulsed bodies of the children writhing in their bed, while Leonor, agitated, tightened and loosed her fists in a feverish delirium. For an hour I stood, weeping before the house, immersed in despair, not daring to enter to console my loved ones. An hour of doubt, and worse, an hour of cowardice. For truly, is not the husband charged to care for his wife, as he vows in the nuptial rites? Yes, cowardice! I conducted myself as a coward! I was unable to enter my own house, for fear. The boils of the Black Death on my family’s clammy bodies confirmed with all clarity the most terrible ailment known to man, the most mortal malady ever in history.

And so was I meditating when Jacques returned, and not alone. Six guards marched with him, and an assistant carrying a long leather-bound parcel. The physician beheld me with an expression of understanding, and, with a simple order, had the guards move me away from the door.

“You have been wise not to enter. If you had, these men would not have let you leave the house. Now you must go. Go back with your other daughter, or go to the cathedral to pray.”

“I would like to watch the remedies.”

“It is a morbid request. Only an experienced person could witness them.”

“I beg you allow it. One never knows what could happen, and thus, I could also tend to them should I revoke my decision.”

The soldiers held me, perhaps in foresight of an impetuous action on my part. Jacques shook his head, but his voice contradicted the refusal.

“Go no further than the doorway. I will but barely cross the threshold.”

I obeyed. The soldiers loosened their hold and let me observe the physician’s progress.

The assistant unsheathed a knife some six feet long from the leather casing. Along with it, he assembled a tripod on which to rest the end, for greater ease of maneuvering and more exactitude so as to not excessively tax the muscles of the arm. Jacques and his assistant entered the house with faces covered, muttering a psalm that, more than Christian prayer, seemed a warlock’s spell, with words distorted through the cloth covering their faces. Once inside, the assistant lifted the bedclothes off the children with a staff. Then, the two of them prepared a vessel in which they placed the content of a great flask, and mixed it with water. Once satisfied with the dissolution, they placed a sponge inside which, once soaked, they brought near the children’s faces. The effect was nearly immediate. The children were at first agitated, but they then calmed, put to sleep by the drug. Then they proceeded to lance the boils one by one, from a distance. A foul odor filled the chambers as the pus from inside the buboes spilled forth, and was absorbed by the blankets. The cut flesh, dead as it was, issued no blood. After tending to the children, they did the same with their mother. The remedy completed, they covered them anew with fresh blankets, taking the soiled ones to a fire set by the soldiers outside. There they burned them. The soldiers stood on the windward side, where the rotten breath of the Black Death would not reach them. Then, Jacques fixed me with a grave look as he spoke to me.

“This remedy is to be done every day. We will do it every morning, early. You may only approach the house then, while we are inside. If you do so at any other time, the soldiers are under orders to employ their arms, or oblige you to remain inside. Be cautious, be patient, and pray to our Lord. We are all in His hands from the day of our birth.”

The soldiers closed the door and bolted it with a heavy beam. Devastated, I left the place for the cathedral, where I fell on my knees before the high altar. I prayed for hours, until exhaustion overtook me. Prostrated by fatigue, it was my fellow overseer of the works, Master D’Arimon, who undertook to allay my sadness and lead me away.

All Narbonne seemed to know the bad news. As D’Arimon walked with me back to the wet nurse’s house, I felt the eyes of the citizens stab my back like the sharpest daggers. Fear and disdain were clear on every face, and several even avoided us as if we were plague-stricken, instead of healthy, such was the primal fear of the Black Death. We could not forget that only years before, the plague had taken over half the people of the city, and on a nearby hill was a potter’s field filled with the remains of countless relatives and friends. I understood their horror. I myself had felt it seated before my own door. But now that fear was of little import.

Once in the open field, upon entering the district of the Canons, I saw several bonfires burning on what had been my rented lands: the fields and granary were also ablaze. The rings of smoke billowed upward, blackening the blue sky with the color of Death itself, which marked the site of its new prey thus. D’Arimon prevailed on me to drink several cups of strong wine, and I did not refuse, as I longed for the oblivion it could give me.

I awoke in the wee hours, dulled by the drink that had at least let me rest and forget. I attended the physician’s remedies, as new boils had formed on the chastised flesh of my family. Exonerated from the cathedral works by the intercession of my fellow D’Arimon, I spent the next four days watching as my family, who could hardly feed themselves, wasted away. At last, one morning, the little ones passed, immediately following the remedy. Their bodies were burnt on a pyre that the soldiers, with foresight, had readied for this purpose. That same morning, when the bodies of the children were cast into the flames, I nearly lost my judgment, as I attempted to take and embrace them. A soldier interposed to keep me from it: he smote my head with a well-aimed blow from the handle of a battle dagger. In the afternoon, while I was still overcome and numb, Leonor passed. There was no funeral for her: as they were to burn the house, they decided to spare themselves the task by setting it afire with her body still inside. When I came to myself, on a pile of fresh hay, I received the news. D’Arimon was at my side, awaiting the fateful instant. I cried and cried for hours, until my eyes were dry. My companion made me drink. The sadness and pain, so great, so cursed, were again mitigated by the satisfaction of the oblivion provided by wine.

I awoke two days later. Other cases of Black Death had been reported, on the outskirts of the other side of the city: dwellings of needy peasants who survive only with great difficulty. The prince’s response was drastic: he dislodged the houses and burned them. The stricken were taken to a makeshift lazar house at the bottom of an abandoned quarry and unscrupulously left there. There was no physician for them. Poles and ropes were used to furnish them with meager foodstuffs. A curfew was declared, and any contact with the outside was forbidden for thirty days, the time for which the city had sufficient provisions. After that, a decision would be made.

Little Eulàlia, my baby, showed no sign of the sickness. My decision was immediate; nothing was holding me in Narbonne. I wanted only to leave that cursed place as soon as possible, not so much for the presence of the plague as the omnipresent memory of my loved ones. I hoped it would be tempered when the distance separating me from their remains was greater. How naive I was! As if presence or absence could have any influence on the purest sentiments! In any event, the decision had been made. Only Eulàlia’s nursing hindered my desire for leaving, which was truly little more than fleeing. It took all my savings to convince the wet nurse. The journey to Barcelona was long, with safe stretches in Perpignan, Girona, and Vic, and some nights spent at inns along the road. Moreover, I had to secure her return voyage. Fortunately, the possibility to leave the city was incentive enough for Anne to decide. She said farewell to her husband, a brute her parents had married her to, with the promise to return in three weeks at most. I gave the husband the agreed—more than generous—amount, and we began our voyage. Three weeks! Three weeks for her husband, thirteen years for Eulàlia. Anne had no intention of returning to Narbonne. She was not happy with her life, her husband abused her, and, with her daughter gone, she found in Eulàlia a substitute. Eulàlia depended on her for everything, not only nourishment. I knew not how to care for a baby, such work belonged to the world of women. Thus, little by little, an unbreakable bond grew between them.

Once in Barcelona, I rented a dwelling by the shore, near Plaça de la Trinitat. It was small, but it had an inner courtyard with a tiny garden, and had plenty of sunlight in the mornings. When we had settled, Anne asked for a word with me.

“Sir, I wish to tell you that I have decided not to return to Narbonne. If you like, I can continue serving as Eulàlia’s wet nurse. That way, you will not have to find another, especially now that she is accustomed to my milk.”

“But by the accord with your husband you must return in three weeks, and that time will be reached within five days.”

“I want nothing more to do with my husband. If you allow it, I will stay with you and continue raising the baby. And if you do not wish for me to nurse her, I will stay in the city and find the means to make an honest living.”

“You do not even know the tongue! What will become of you, alone in Barcelona?”

“The Lord will guide my path. Although I would rather be guided by you. Under your protection I will feel safe, and I promise you will have nothing to fear from me, only to receive my eternal gratitude.”

And thus, Anne became Anna. She was quick to learn Catalan, and so began a new life far from a past that I supposed much more brutal than her neighbors in Narbonne ever knew.

Thirteen years later, Anna herself gave me the bad news about the last of my lineage, the morning of November 27.

It appears that the shadow of the past never pardons, never forgets, and Eulàlia’s childhood had only been a flight from a cruel adversary who had marked her name—an enemy that, in oversight, had allowed her to escape. But this time, merciless Death, if you take her, I will not let it be in my absence, as occurred with her mother and siblings. I will fight to save her any way I can. I will do all I can. And if there is no other way, and it be God’s will, she will die. But she will die with me at her side.

Another day. Today I have prayed for hours, and realized that it serves no purpose. Does the Lord hear my pleas? Does He hear the prayers and pleas of man? Have I not faithfully served the Church? Given my life wholeheartedly to manifesting and erecting the splendor and glory of our Father? My knees are skinned from the stone and sand of Eulàlia’s chamber. My back aches from praying with arms outstretched. All compassion and love for Christ and the Church have been spilled from my soul. Monsignor Custodi, from the parish near Sant Just, has tried to console me. It is no good: I am beyond consolation, and I am so sure of it that I have said so. Alarmed, Monsignor Custodi urged me to reflect on what he believes to be my intemperance. I decided to act as if heeding him in order to avoid suspicion of my latest intentions: my existential doubts as little more than a passing exaltation. But they are not: they are deep and firmly rooted, and are ever more so every instant as I watch my daughter’s clammy face, and her body, as it becomes covered with the incipient boils that mark her fate.

I have tied this book to a leather strap, and will hang it always from my neck. There is too much of me in it, I must not risk it falling into the wrong hands.

Yet another day, and Aimeric’s diagnosis reveals the truth we hoped to dispel with our desires and hopes. It is a case of Black Death. The boils have been long in appearing, but now they cover her body. Aimeric is to report the case to the king’s representative, the batlle; the city must prepare for a visitation of plague, as it already suffered thirteen years ago, and more recently, eight years ago, though with lesser effect. The measures will be similar: the girl is to be isolated, either at home or in a lazar house. If she remains at home, those who stay with her will not be allowed to leave the building.

Hers is not the only case. It has been secret up to now, but the malady is known to have struck along the shoreline, and in L’hort de Sant Pau.

I am grateful to Aimeric for his aid. He is a good man, and he has not abused his current position of privilege. Perhaps I remind him that, not too long ago, his position was no higher than mine. Perhaps he looks kindly on me, as we have been friends for years, though our lives have followed separate paths. As he was leaving he stopped, turned, and said:

“Pere, perhaps I should not give you this counsel, but I will.”

“Please, speak.”

“For Eulàlia, I will apply all that I know of my art. But it may not be enough. Pere, you know this pestilence has slain people by the thousands. Only a handful have been saved. Yet …”

“Go on!” I urged him.

“What we Christian doctors can do is very little. But perhaps others may help you where we fail.”

“What do you mean? Speak clearly!”

Aimeric entered the house anew, closed the door behind him, and asked me to lower my voice.

“No one can hear what I will now tell you. I only do this out of the affection I have for you. If it were known, we could both be in terrible danger.”

“I swear on my honor that no one will ever know it.”

“Very well. Now listen. In the plague of ’65, there was a rumor about the Jews of the Call. The talebearers accused them of spreading the Black Death, just as was done during the previous plague, in ’48. I was little more than a young barber’s apprentice, and I hardly remember those days of confusion and disaster in ’65. All I remember is the sight of the carts that collected the corpses, stacked full day and night, rolling down Barcelona’s deserted streets, with their burden of foul-smelling bodies, on their way to Porta Ferrissa or Portal Nou, to be burned and buried in mass graves. Not only did those backbiters accuse them, they claimed the Jews did not die, that the plague did not affect them. That was not true, because I myself saw their bodies taken from the Call. I walked the streets with my master barber; we practiced bleedings and lanced the boils of those who could not afford a physician or surgeon. And so I saw that the lies wickedly told always have foreseeable results for the people who are their object. At that time the city was broken asunder, and no one had the desire or will to attempt anything against the Jews of the Call. But the seed had been planted and was awaiting its time to sprout, which would arrive, as you know, two years ago, on August 3. One of the reasons espoused by those who attacked the Call was the alleged grievance that made those people guilty, guilty of anything that could justify the assailants’ appetite for plunder. It was a slaughter, Pere. You saw it too, and, like me and so many others, did not dare try to stop it. Only the authority of the bishop, who courageously interceded on behalf of the Jews, prevented their extermination by going personally to the gates of the Call with fifty soldiers from the veguer, the authority of the Crown. There had been attacks before: in ’67 three men were executed. But that was little compared to what we lived through little more than two years ago.”

“What does this have to do with Eulàlia’s sickness?”

“Be patient and listen. After the Great Plague of ’65 there was a second one, though not as bad, eight years ago.”

“I remember it well. Once it was declared, we left the city for three months. We did not want to expose ourselves to contagion.”

“Yes. I had returned from Paris by that time. I was no longer that young boy fighting the pestilence and its consequences. As an adult, I could see that the rumors about the Jews’ supposed immunity, while not completely true, were not completely false, either. Jews did die, as they always had, but they died in numbers lower than could be expected.”

“I do not understand. What do you mean?”

“We know that in 1348 more than fifteen thousand people died. In 1365, it was seven thousand. And in 1385, the number was barely three thousand. I do not know how many Jews died in the first or the second plague, but I do know that eight years ago, thirty-five thousand people were living in Barcelona, and of them, more than four thousand were Jews. This means that, for every nine Christians, one Jew should have died, if the laws of logic are true, and my studies tell me they are. But it was not so. There was scarcely one Jewish death for every eighteen Christian deaths! The census ordered by the batlle after the plague so confirmed it.”

“Do you mean that they may have had a remedy against the Black Death?”

“Indeed. I firmly believe it. Perhaps a lesser number of them could have died—coincidences are possible, but never in such disproportion. It was not by chance. I believe that the Jewish physicians possess a secret that helped them mitigate the epidemic.”

“But, then, we must go at once the Call and try to find the remedy!” I said, rising, and ready to turn words to action.

“No! You cannot do that!” Aimeric restrained me hard by the arm. “If you rush into the Call with such a demand, openly, you will put the small Jewish community still dwelling there in danger of a new massacre, as much as they now enjoy King Joan’s protection, and have become conversos.”

“But my daughter’s life is at stake!”

“And could you live in peace knowing it cost three hundred deaths to save? I know you, Pere Casadevall, and you are an honorable man. I know you would regret it once it happened.”

I wrung my hands feverishly, wracked by doubt. What could I do? Aimeric was right. Entering the Call through either of its two gates was forbidden for old Christians, even in times of royal protection. But doing so in search of an unknown medicine that could cure the plague would stir up a mob thirsty for mass murder, especially as the number of Black Death cases rose in Barcelona. Moreover, I knew several conversos, there were several among the glass workers who prepared the panes of the cathedral, and I had known others in Narbonne and other places. No, I could not sacrifice those people for the sake of a vague hope. But how to reach them? And if I did encounter the right person, one of their physicians, how could I convince him to share his secret with me? Would he not, in revealing the cure to an old Christian, expose himself and hand me the key to his future? Were I a converso keeping such a secret, I would never dare share it with one of those who, just two years ago, entered the Call through Portal de Sanahuja to kill me and my people.

“What can I do, Aimeric? What can I do?”

Aimeric had no answer, either. But, if neither he nor I had one, a voice sounding from the darkness offered a possibility. Anna came into the light from the pantry, from whence she had overheard our conversation. I felt as if a ray of hope were illuminating her lovely face when she spoke to offer us the solution.

“Mr. Aimeric, my lord Casadevall, I am but a governess, but you know well of the affection I have for Eulàlia in my heart, and I do not wish to let her die.”

“But what can you do?” Aimeric asked.

“Women may reach places men cannot. I know several women who are now Christians but were once Jews. We draw water from the same well, in Plaça Nova. After so many years it is normal for us to talk, for us to know things about each other. I could speak with them and tell them of the problem.”

“Could you enter the Call without drawing attention to yourself?”

“Who would look twice at a governess wrapped in her shawl carrying a jug of water?”

“If you do it, I could wait to report to the batlle, perhaps until late afternoon.”

“I will have spoken to the right people by then. After that, all that is left is to hope. And as for the quarantine, I will be the one to stay with Eulàlia.”

“No!” I immediately responded. “I will not remain away from her.”

“Anna is right. If you both stay in the house, who will contact the conversos? For now, it is necessary for you to be outside, not locked in here.”

They were right. Anna could provide the contact, but it was my responsibility to see that it bore fruit. Locked inside my house, I could do very little. With great pain in my heart, I let Aimeric and Anna leave. Seated next to Eulàlia’s bed, I awaited their return with my daughter’s tiny hands clasped in mine.

Six hours have passed. Honorata stays true to her vocation, and her peals are strong and clear throughout the city. All of the goldsmiths and craftsmen who work in the streets, who once used the sun to determine when to open or close their shops, now do so guided by her sound. As I write, it is seven in the evening, and the sky begins to darken. The city’s narrow streets, now teeming with activity, will soon empty. The craftsmen will furl the canopies hung to protect their goods, and bring them inside their storehouses. The coopers and carpenters will leave a clear path to the well in Pla de l’Estany once they abandon the square. Along the shoreline, landlocked sailors waiting for hire on a ship will spend their last coins on wine and women, and will be lucky to eat a plate of malcuinat, that crude but cheap, giblet stew. The city will be reborn at night, the night most do not know or pretend not to know—that night that lives behind our backs, and now hovers over ignorant Barcelona. The seny del lladre curfew bells have rung: the city gates will close until tomorrow. Thus we believe ourselves safe, as if all evil came from the outside, when in fact, the evil and horror are so close that we bear them inside ourselves; we, the poor living dead, ignorant of this cruel truth. What will happen when the plague sweeps the city? What will become of the joy, the games, the festive mood? What good will supplications and devotions do? How many of us will die? How many of us will live? And Anna has not yet arrived.

Eulàlia has improved somewhat. I fed her fish broth; she took a few spoonfuls. I was at this task when Anna returned. I left the girl covered up and ran to meet her.

“What news? Have you met your friends?”

“Yes. In the home of Ángel Martín, a converso who was formerly called Mossed Cayim. She was once called Miriam, but now her name is Marta. She is the niece of Martín, married to one of his nephews. I spoke with her. And though it was hard for me to overcome her first reluctance, for which I do not blame her, as they have little reason to trust us, she promised to speak with a person able to study our petition. She left me abiding in her house three hours while she went to report the situation.”

“But time is passing, and the sickness worsening! Many have died in less time than Eulàlia has been ill! They must not tarry or her body will not resist!”

“That is not in our hands. In this I did not force her at all, as she must be aware that the mere knowledge of a possible cure could be used as blackmail against her. She must also know the consequences that information could bring, as we well imagine.”

“So then?”

“We will have news from them tomorrow. They will come for you at the Blat Inn early in the morning. And now, go. Go before the soldiers of the veguer come to seal this house! We need you to be outside, to buy food and attend the conversos.”

I nodded, and left, first kissing my daughter on her forehead. A whim of the malady: her face is yet untouched by boils, and is still beautiful. My kiss was given in a moment of peace, and if one did not know the reality hidden by the sheets, they would never dispute that Eulàlia still had many years to live. I have one more night to abide. This time, I will not even be with her.

Day of our Lord December 8, 1393

Night has fallen. Everything that has happened to me has been so strange and peculiar that I cannot resist the temptation of writing it in this makeshift diary. Though it will be a long explanation, it can be concluded thusly: there is still hope! But I must order my ideas, and to do so, it is best to start from the beginning.

After another sleepless night, the day dawned with rain. I could hardly restrain my desire to go home and verify Eulàlia’s state, but, truly, I could not without the risk of my awaited visitor arriving at Blat Inn and not finding me there. And thus I remained until nine, when—at last!—into the hall of the inn walked a tall elder, of some sixty years, dressed in common craftsman’s garb. And yet, he was unmistakably a Jew; he had the aquiline nose and undulating hair characteristic of his people. At that hour, the inn was empty, and so he walked toward me, greeting me with a nod of his head. As I was waiting for him seated at a table away from the others, there was nothing to disturb us.

“My name is Ángel Martín, and you must be Pere Casadevall.”

“That is right.”

“I must be certain. Who has sent for me?”

“Anna. You have nothing to fear from me.”

“The day we conversos have nothing to fear from old Christians will be the day of our downfall, which is not far off, I venture. But I digress. What do you want from me?”

“Master Martín, you well know my situation. Anna told you what was happening in my house, which I will not repeat here. I need help that only you and yours can provide.”

“And do you truly believe that that ‘help,’ as you call it, exists?”

“How else to explain the scarce deaths among your people years ago, when the pestilence scourged Barcelona?”

“Let us imagine, for a moment, that such a thing existed. Are you aware of what such knowledge would mean for my people?”

“If my aim had been to harm you, I could have done so already. It would not be necessary for there to be cure for the malady. I would need only to go out on the Pla d’en Llalla or Plaça del Borne and speak of it there. No, I wish no harm to the conversos, nor to the Jews. I only wish to see my daughter better. I only want my daughter to live!”

“I know you speak sincerely. Anyone can see the heaviness of your heart. I know you do not lie; since Anna spoke to my niece yesterday we have learned a great deal about you, Master Casadevall.”

“Will you help me then?”

“Keep your voice low. We would be wise not to speak here. I trust you, but not this place. Accompany me to a safer one.”

I paid the innkeeper fifteen shillings for a miserable dinner I did not even taste, and the room where I spent the night. We walked toward the Call. Despite the destruction suffered, it still maintains part of its closed structure, though there are plans to demolish the tower of the Call gate and prepare some streets for Christian settlement. Moreover, several converso families had moved outside the walls, settling along Tres Llits Street, near the Trinitarian convent, perhaps seeking the protection of nearby ecclesiastics in their condition as new Christians. We crossed Sanahuja Gate; where once stood the synagogue known as the Escuela Mayor, the synagogue of men, a small chapel in the honor of San Cristófol has been erected. Martín entered the chapel, crossing himself, and I followed his example. We walked toward a bench to one side of the small altar, from which we could view the entire chapel.

“No one comes to this church, except the priest to offer mass, and that is only at twelve noon and again at five. The old Christians still remember that, despite its destruction, a synagogue stood here not long ago. Here we can speak alone, and no one will overhear us.”

“Let us speak clearly, then. As I said, I mean no harm to the conversos. I only desire medicine to save my daughter!”

“Were I to admit such medicine existed, I would be putting the lives of many into the hands of others, and my responsibility for doing so would be great. What security would I have that the knowledge will remain between us? Would you, in my place, be capable of doing the same? Do you understand the weight of responsibility upon my shoulders?”

I thought carefully before I answered. Martín was right. What security could I offer him? How to secure his essential trust? Suddenly, an intuition: his very presence there, speaking with me, allowed me to think that Martín, too, had an unspoken motive. I could have reported him and caused another massacre, or blackmailed him to my own benefit. In either case, it would not be necessary for Martín to speak long with me. Only in the event that he wanted something more would it make sense to prolong our meeting.

“I am willing to do whatever you wish to prove my trustworthiness.”

“You are in a chapel, before an altar. Would you swear before your Lord to keep the secret?”

I had to offer him my deepest trust. I have bared my soul before him.

“Had you asked for this very oath eight days ago, I would have taken it without hesitation, even risking my soul. But today, with Eulàlia ill and my wife and two other children having died years ago from the same plague, I have nothing but doubts and uncertainties with respect to my faith. If I swore before that altar, my soul would not be in the oath. Though I regret it, as I would wish to believe as I once did, today I feel no affinity toward Him to whom I have so pleaded and who has so chastised me, and so taken little heed of my plight.”

Martín remained silent, thinking over my words. If they surprised him, he did not show it. He remained deep in thought before answering.

“Those are grave words. If the inquisitors knew them, and of your contact with us, your fate would be sealed. Your station as master builder of the cathedral would serve you little. You would be stripped of your property and tortured, perhaps even until death.”

“I know.”

“Could you put your discontent into writing? Would you write a document incriminating yourself so?”

“Give me quill and paper and you shall have your security in writing.”

Martín clapped twice, loudly. From the door entered two men I had not seen before. One of them approached Martín and, bowing his head, murmured one word: “Rabbi.”

Martín whispered in his ear and the two left the church. Minutes later they returned with a writing tablet, an inkhorn, and the necessary scribe’s paper. Martín handed it to me without a word. I added nothing, but merely wrote what I had said before. Then I gave it to Martín.

“You know what this document means.”

“It means trust.”

“Life or death could depend on it.”

“Indeed, but not only mine, that of my daughter as well.”

“This is security. Henceforth, we may begin to speak.”

“Is there such medicine, then?”

“There is a drug, a formula that, in many cases, is successful and prevents the patient’s death. But it only does so half of the time. Its components are rare, very rare. They come from the Far East, and even beyond, and we have but little stock of them. If the plague spreads throughout the city, we will need that drug. Still, we could give you enough for Eulàlia. But not for you.”

“Bring the drug as soon as you can! My daughter has been ill for a week. She needs the medicine immediately.”

“Not yet. The document is security, but it alone is not enough.”

“What else can I do?”

“You will help us, but one time. And before that time, we will have to speak on other occasions, because to help us you must understand things now beyond your reach, and which are essential to be able to do so.”

“I want my daughter to live, and I am willing to accept that condition. But for the same reason you gave before, I could not stand others suffering for Eulàlia to live.”

“No one will have to suffer or die, nor will you have to betray the Crown of Aragon. It is something simpler, and yet, more complex, than that. If you swear to do it, we will give you the medicine.”

“You know I cannot swear for my religion.”

“Then swear for whom you know.”

Before speaking, I stood, looking earnestly on Martín.

“I swear on the life of my daughter, Eulàlia, that if she recovers from her disease, I will provide whatever help is asked of me, as long as it harms no one else, nor causes me to betray my own.”

“It is all said, then. Here.” He took from within his tunic a bottle full of reddish powder. “This is the formula. You need only dissolve it in a small amount of water and have her drink it three times a day for a week. And above all, do not lance her boils any longer. For this causes new ones to form, and speeds the development of the disease. It can only be fought from inside the body. And remember this, Pere Casadevall, we cannot assure you it will work. Many of our own took it, and it did not save them from the grave. Do not blame us if it does not succeed.”

“I will not. At least you have given me hope, and that is enough.”

“Take leave, then. We will not see each other until the occasion arises, should it arrive because Adonai wills it. If all goes well, be discreet and quietly abide. And remember that no one, absolutely no one, must know the existence of the formula. Our lives, and those of our loved ones, hang in the balance.”

“Then I will say, ‘until we meet again’ instead of ‘farewell,’ as my heart tells me that it will be so.”

I left San Cristófol Chapel holding the bottle in my hand, inside my doublet. At first I walked slowly, but the possibility of holding my daughter’s salvation in my hand caused me to quicken my steps as I left the Call behind. Soon I found myself running, hurling in a precipitate, chaotic dash to my own abode. I collided with the stall of a basket-weaver, and amid his and a customer’s protests, I regained my wits as I mumbled an embarrassed apology. The bottle had to reach its destination intact, as there would be no more formula for us. I found no guards stationed outside my home. They must have detected other cases of plague, or perhaps old Aimeric had not reported our case. Whatever the reason, the path to our house was clear. I crossed the inner courtyard, strangely empty at those hours. Anna came to meet me with haste.

“Did you get the remedy?”

I remembered the promise I had made to Martín: no one could know. I had to keep it. Despite my fullest trust in Anna, I had but one alternative.

“There is no such remedy. And now, Anna, you must leave. We cannot both risk our lives staying at Eulàlia’s side.”

“I will not leave her! She is a daughter to me!”

“Anna, there is no other way. You will do as I say, and you will do it now. Leave this house and go to Sant Gervasi. You can lodge in the house of Monsignor Enric Sabaté; tell him I sent you. Stay away as long as the plague endures, as we did eight years ago.”

“I do not want to leave the two of you!”

Leave the two of us: not only Eulàlia; she was including me as well. Never, in all these years, have I considered my relations with Anna growing beyond her being my daughter’s governess. It was true that, had I wished it, our situation could perhaps be different than it now is. But in the manner in which we lived from our arrival in Barcelona, everything was plain even to the neighbors, whose gossip ended before it began, cut off at the root by my explanations and my post in the construction of the cathedral, which lent credibility to anything I declared about this or any other matter. In any event, there has never been, in public or private, even the most minimal approach or the slightest insinuation. Untroubled by slanderous whisperings, our bond has strengthened. Now, for the first time, Anna had expressed, subtly yet clearly, her true sentiment.

“If you truly love us, you must leave this house at once,” I said severely. “And if that is not reason enough, do it for the love we feel for you. Heed my words, as there is a powerful reason to do it thusly.”

Anna held her tears and prepared a bundle of clothing. With a wave, she bade us farewell from the threshold and departed for Sant Gervasi. When she had left I ran to the kitchen. There I examined the flask. The colored powder had a characteristic vegetable odor, but unlike any I know. I prepared a proper dose and, next to my daughter’s bed, aroused her just enough so she could drink it.

Waiting. Waiting day after day, hour after hour, second after second, waiting for the smallest sign, a breath of life, a simple gesture, for her to open her eyes. Barely do I do anything other than give her the medicine and nourish her with a bit of soup. She has grown thin, and seems more consumed each day. I am overtaken by despair, and on occasion I find myself praying and am surprised by it. My decision to renounce my faith, once so firm, loses meaning as I lose my grip on the reality around me. I have been enclosed here for five days, and in this courtyard, it is now rare to hear the murmur of the city living, thriving, awaking in the morning and battening down at night. I imagine the plague has spread, causing everyone to flee, to hide.

And yet she lives! I have never known anyone to survive the Black Death so long. The buboes have grown smaller and are fewer in number since I stopped counting them. Her fever has abated. There is hope!

Eulàlia opened her eyes! Two more days and I have received the first sign of her improvement. It was in the afternoon when, as I drowsed at her side, seated in a chair, I noted her observing me. I opened my eyes and saw hers looking; languid, it is true, but open at last. She wanted to speak but could not. I held her and cried for a long time. When I released her, she was sleeping again, but peacefully, and without fever.

There can be no doubt. Eulàlia has been cured.

My daughter can sit up in bed and speak a few words. She has inquired about Anna; I told her that I sent her to Sant Gervasi. She misses her, of course, but is aware of my loving care over all these days. I myself have managed to sleep several hours at once for the first time in twelve days. The fatigue of my body slowly fades as my daughter’s strength grows, as if there were an invisible connection that joined us, each feeding the other. All is well, except that our provisions are exhausted. I must go into the city for wares.

I have just returned from my search for food. Barcelona is in silence; the only sound is of bells pealing the death knell. The streets are nearly empty. Here and there are fires burning the belongings of the dead. But at least this plague is not as bad as that of eight years ago, and of course it is much less severe than the previous one, which, though cruel, was lesser than that of 1348. In that day, the corpses were piled high in the streets and the batlle and veguer were powerless to check the reigning tumult and chaos. This time, there must be fewer deaths, as if the divine chastening of the plague, which as any monsignor would say, could be the fair chastisement for the sins of the Barcelonese, were lessening with the passage of years. Could we Barcelonese have sinned less as these decades have passed? I believe that perhaps those who survived the plagues have become more resistant, or perhaps the weakest have died. Who knows? What is true is that, owing to it, I have acquired without much difficulty vegetables and some meat, scarcely fresh, but better than nothing.

We ate hungrily. Eulàlia is stronger now, and she has risen to take a few steps around her chamber. She will live. Martín’s remedy has proven effective. But she has no recollection of her febrile days, and so the secret is safe. Only I know it.

All that remains is to wait.

Thirty days later, a peace has returned to Barcelona. Scarcely one thousand dead have been counted, and though a high number, the impulse to live is greater than that to die, and everything has returned to normal. Life hums around us again. I sent for Anna and she returned from Sant Gervasi. So content, so happy! Only a glow hidden behind her countenance appears to hint of a private reckoning she will never express in public.

The works on the cathedral have resumed. I am at my task again, like yesterday, like tomorrow. But, something is forever changed inside me. I no longer praise the Lord. Now I only construct a grand and complex edifice. My soul no longer dwells in those stones from Montjuïc quarry. And sadly, I know not to where it is destined.

Enrique left the translation on his night table and got up for a glass of water, still in awe of Casadevall’s account. At first he hadn’t understood the reasons that had driven him to the unusual decision of helping the Jews, but now everything was perfectly clear. More than the oath itself, the significant part was the existential crisis that made him doubt and opened the possibility to approach them. Enrique didn’t believe that Casadevall would have been bold enough to try it in other circumstances, with his daughter ill but without the doubts. But the punishment of so many deaths in his family was excessive. There had to be many who lost their entire families in those years, and certainly not all of them renounced Christianity. He nestled back under the sheets to continue with the next part of the translation.

Today, June 13, 1400, has been a day laden with joy. We celebrated the wedding of my daughter Eulàlia. Following a courtship of six months in keeping with proper custom, she contracted holy matrimony with Felip Bonastruc. He is the second son of Andreu Bonastruc, a merchant devoted to the trade in wool and linen fabrics. This man began as a simple artificer, but risked his savings on a voyage to Valencia, where he acquired a great amount of wool selling French fabrics, there difficult to attain. Owing to this, his family occupies a position of certain comfort, which is why I gave my consent to the wedding. Moreover, a refusal would have saddened my daughter immensely, as it is plain that there is much harmony between the two. The wedding was held, of course, in the cathedral itself, although Bonastruc would have preferred to have it in the seafront quarter, la Ribera, at Santa María del Mar. But although the works on our cathedral continue, and will continue for years yet, a greater social prestige is given by the bishop’s sealing the matrimony, as has been done. There followed a long afternoon of celebration and festivities—even dancing—from which I retired at a prudent hour, not without first bidding my little girl farewell … My little girl, who is hardly little any longer. She has grown and is lovely in her twentieth year. There is no blemish from the Black Death on her body, just faint traces on her skin where the boils were lanced. When the time comes, she will bear her children, and shall live a full life. Looking at her, I regret nothing of what I have done or said. I can only express joy, and a grief I do not forget, that Anna, our faithful Anna, died some months ago. How we miss her! And how happy she would have been!

If I write this today, after the last entry into the ledger, it is because, on returning home, a visitor awaited me inside my house. I was not alarmed, as I soon reckoned who it was.

“Good evening, and congratulations, Pere Casadevall, on the day of your daughter’s wedding.”

“Welcome, Ángel Martín. Please feel at home in my house.”

“I thank you. Do you know why I am here?”

“I can imagine. But I was surprised that the day took so long to come.”

“Indeed, it has come too late, much more than you can imagine. But we needed to be alone, and after Anna’s death and your daughter’s wedding, the time has come. We never lost sight of you, watching Eulàlia grow up healthy and strong. The formula served its purpose.”

“Indeed. And I shall do my part, faithfully.”

“Of that I wish to speak to you. I will say it clearly, Casadevall: your daughter surviving was a providential sign from Adonai. We still have the document you wrote in the day. You do understand that, beyond your own safety, there is that of your daughter. And if that document saw light, your life would crumble completely.”

“You need not remind me. Even before the safety of my daughter is my own oath, to which I will hold.”

“Then you are a man of your word.”

“I consider myself one.”

“I must tell you that some of the things you are going to know will greatly affect you.”

“As long as my vows are kept unbroken, I will do as you say.”

“Then I will tell you this: over the next year, you will receive several discreet visits by night. I will accompany a man to your house, Pere Casadevall, and this man will instruct you in what you are to know. That man has no name. You shall call him S. There will pass intervals of time between the visits. We may come two days in a row, but weeks may pass between one and the next visit. Be patient and abide. Be patient and learn part of the science they are going to show you.”

“I will.”

“I can take my leave, then.”

I reflected on the conversation after Martín left. In truth, I had nearly forgotten our agreement, as the years pass and the dark memories fade, allowing us to continue with our lives. In fact, today was the first day in years I had remembered it, precisely during the wedding. And so it had to be. As for this mysterious S.: Who could it be? Martín, as I heard long ago, is a rabbi, a master among his people; the figure of highest importance in their community. But when he spoke of S., he did so with a tone of special admiration, even pride, though I thought I also detected a certain inferiority, as if that man were beyond his own social influence.

What must pass shall pass.

It has been one month since S. called for the first time. Martín accompanies him to the door, and then leaves. Other times I find them inside, awaiting me. But we are always left alone. And then, S. speaks. His voice is soft, almost feminine. He is neither old, nor young. He demands we remain in darkness, and I can scarcely make out his features. I know I have seen them before; not on the city streets, but I would swear I remember them from some other time. But once he exits, slipping out the door with short steps, those peculiar features disappear, and try as I may, they are erased from my memory. Only his eyes appear to shine in the darkness, especially when I comprehend an idea. Then they sparkle intensely, like jewels, and I feel as if they give an intense light that only I can see. There is something strange in him! But whatever it may be, it does not cause fear or repulsion, only a feeling of affinity, of closeness.

S. speaks and speaks, and I listen and listen. He tells countless stories, in no apparent order, without much logic. He speaks on occasion of the Old Testament, also a sacred book for the Jews. Other times he tells short tales with strange morals. And still other times he talks of things I do not understand, ideas that, once explained, vanish like his features, as if out of my reach, or spoken by him in a different language. Yet I know he speaks vulgar Catalan, and other times even expresses himself in Latin. So then, why do those stories disappear from my memory as soon as he leaves my residence? What peculiar magic is there in his voice or his person? I only know that, as the days pass, I am ever more desirous for S. to return, as he is a challenge that has come to me in the autumn of my life, when there is little that the few remaining years can offer us.

Who is S.? We see one another often, but I know not how many times he has visited. We speak of many things, but few are those I retain and can remember. He looks on me and enlightens me, but there is no light burning in the chamber. Anyone in my place would speak of witchcraft, of damnation, of Hell. And yet I only seem to find elevation, salvation, and glory. What dwells inside him? What wisdom does he hide? There is no trouble of mind, only serene calm. There is no ruin, only a path! But everything he offers me seems unreachable, ineffable, and completely out of my grasp. Things too great for words have become hard but fleeting realities that seem to play innocently with me. There is no derision in the feeling I get, only, only … a promise! I know not what it is.

It is December. S. has been visiting me for six months and I am learning to listen. I now understand many stories, and his eyes now shine brightly on many occasions with unusual intensity. Just as I thought, only I can see that shine. Once, a light surrounded me, and I looked around and everything was dark. But when my eyes returned to S., the light shone on me again. When on occasion he speaks the incomprehensible language that I should understand by now, he seems to smile indulgently, like a kind master who encourages a student who is distracted, or slow-witted, but for whom he has true affection. And those enigmatic stories are repeated: I do not understand them, but I grasp the euphonic sonority that musicians speak of and I know they are the same, that he repeats them time and again hoping they will pass through my hard skull.

I grasp only vague ideas, but not the story as such, as if what he told me were so far beyond my reality that there could be no possibility for me to know it, this being the true reason for my inability to understand. My desire to know is such that, in one of these situations I wept, as I sincerely desired that his efforts be good, and not just for the ultimate purpose that Martín has designed. I wept for him, for his fruitless labor. Then, for the first time, S. approached me, put his hand on my head as I bowed it over my knees, and spoke of infinite gratitude and thankfulness with his captivating voice. I felt wonderfully comforted. As if there were in his touch a healing, mystic quality. Since that time, all of my understanding has grown in manifold ways. So much has it grown, that for the first time, S. told me that he must show me a precious object; that it, and nothing else, was the primary purpose of our meetings. He told me that this must happen in the Call, as there was no other way to reach it.

We no longer meet in my home. Now, when night falls, and with no need for anyone to come for me, or any signal telling me that it is the right day, I leave my dwelling and go to the Call, to the house of Ángel Martín. I walk the streets in near darkness, but I err not on my path, nor does anyone disturb me. There are no guards making the nighttime rounds or drunkards seeking brothels in my way. There are no thieves hunting easy prey to rob. My path is ever open and clear. There, S. is always waiting for me, and the talks we once had on my terrain we now have on his. I understand everything, and only await the time when I will be able to finally contemplate the object. I feel impatient, and S. says that my impatience is not good and that it must be expurgated. He says that the object must be approached with reverence. He is familiar with its significance. He says that it is a treasure, but not one in the usual worldly sense, of material value; it is a thing of infinite spiritual value. Although the treasure cannot truly be possessed by men, who may only be its temporary depositaries, it could be that it ends up possessing its depositary, and not the other way around.

We descended into the abyss through a basement door, whose opening mechanism I will not mention here. We went down worn and shapeless stairs, mere stumps of stone, witnesses to ancient times. We came to a circular chamber where seven corridors converged or were born. We took one of them. Now we began a true descent, always downward, an endless path on which we seemed to spend hours and of which I remembered very little once we returned to the light. When we were nearly at the place—as I have said, I do not remember how or when I arrived there—S. looked at me gravely.

“We must return. It cannot be today. You feel the desire. I was wrong, it is still too early.”

We returned in a dream state to the guest chamber of Martín’s house. I felt sad.

“We shall have to work more.” His soft voice was more harmonious than ever, touching every sensitive nerve in my being. “You have the power, it is a sign from Adonai that you have come to us. Do not weep, for you will achieve it. But you will be able to see it only when it cannot harm you.”

When he had said that, for the second and last time, his hand caressed my head.

I returned to my house, I know not how. I slept soundly, and the impression that nighttime adventure had made on me seemed to disappear with the arrival of day.

Another night. There has been no visit from S. But Martín has come.

“I come only to give you this letter. Do you recognize it?” He handed me an old parchment, rolled and tied with a ribbon. I did not need to open it to know what it was.

“The years have passed, but I still remember the day I wrote it. Why do you return it to me?”

“We do so because it is no longer necessary. We know you will not betray us and it is more just that it return to your hands than for it to remain in ours. Destroy it in your hearth, Pere Casadevall.”

I cast the letter onto the embers of the fire, where it burned by and by until it was consumed.

“Indeed, I would not betray you. But the existence of the letter could only harm my daughter, and I do not want that to happen.”

“It will not pass. We know that the solution to our trouble is in your hands. It is the will of Adonai.”

“You trust me too much.”

“As I told you before, we have been waiting a long time. S. says the time has come. And he cannot be wrong. I am but a humble rabbi who, forced by the circumstances that persecute my people, must now bear in private that which I was always publicly proud of. But not him; he can make no mistake.”

“But who is S.? Who is he who cannot err as the rest of us do? Is he not like us? I have felt the touch of his flesh! And you, you are a rabbi. You are the most prominent public figure among your people. How does he outdo you?”

“Master Casadevall, doesn’t the beauty of the day outdo that of the night? You have spoken with him, and so should understand the difference. Of course he is of flesh and blood, like all of us, although there are also other beings who are not, and those we cannot see! But it so happens that among wise men there are even wiser men, and these mark the paths of the former: such is the station of men like S., the last of the kabbalists on this peninsula, abiding the completion of his mission.”

“It is all too much for me.”

“In truth, you have already done everything, Casadevall; and yet, you still do not understand. And the moment is very near. Abide only a little more.”

After this, Martín left, leaving me before the fire, lost in thought.

Enrique knew the rest by heart. Bety had only changed a few words, and the odd phrase, of his translation. But he reread it enthralled, as the text now took on a new life following Manolo’s story.

We are in the middle of May, the month Hebrews call Shevat and the Muslims Jumada. A miracle has occurred this month: today they are most probably going to show it to me for the first time! S. told me that today I will attend a different sort of gahal from the others. I have asked them so many times I still cannot believe they have decided to do it. May God, the God of us all, not only certain of us or that of others, help and enlighten me.

What I have seen today cannot be named, what I have seen today cannot be spoken of.

They led me from the house of S. to an unknown place, through the passageways. We did not use the same routes we had before; I could not find the path again. Under our feet wind dark labyrinths that we, prisoners of our happy ignorance, know not of. And they lead to forbidden places. There, where impatience once kept me from fixing the memory, today, with the clarity of my mind restored, I remembered the gloomy path well. First we descended at length. Then we walked in a circle for many minutes; perhaps it is the only path, perhaps it was to confuse me, so I could not memorize the path even if I wanted to. I believe that they trust me, but our differences are as obvious as the existence of these tunnels that would let them escape if persecuted. If they have shown it to me, then they do trust me. But no one in their right mind would expose the object, the relic, or whatever it be called, to the eyes of a stranger without taking certain precautions. What am I before their eyes, but an infidel? And not only an infidel, not only to the degree that our religions are different; no, I am also from among those infidels who, every few years, persecutes, robs, and kills them. But whether I be an infidel, or if they be such before me and my God, the truth is they asked for my help and I promised to give it.

We reached a circular chamber decorated with thick scarlet curtains, tattered and darkened by the dust of countless decades of solitude. The chamber, which had seven doors, had in its center a bare altar, upon which stood a menorah, the seven-branched candelabrum. Engraved in the floor, before each door, was the name of the seven demons of the shedim caste: Na’Amah, Kardeyakos, Ruah, Sam Ha, Mawet, Shibbetta, and Ashmodai.

S. made a sign to his companions, who, as if performing a ritual done time after time since the dawn of the ages, stepped at the same time with the same foot, the left, on the names of the seven demons. I then thought I heard a soft murmuring, so light it was almost inaudible, that seemed to come from nowhere. I wish to believe it was a figment of an imagination formed in a profane, strange upbringing, capable of suggesting things that do not truly exist, and that trick the mind. I wish to believe that the excitement of seeing a much longed-for wish come true could have altered my perception of things. I wish to believe it. However …

His companions remained near the seals, unmoving. S. entered the room with an air of restrained prudence, an inner reluctance he could not completely conceal. He lit the menorah with a resin stick he touched to the torch of one of our companions, beginning with the candle on the left, and not allowing me to approach until all seven candles burned with the pale light that distinguishes old tallow.

I observed that a symbol was engraved below the menorah. S. told me to do or say nothing without his instructing it, but I, possessed by an unexplainable impulse, felt impelled to touch the inscription. When my fingertips were about to brush the surface of the Stone, S. stopped my hand. He looked at me with great seriousness, though not without compassion, and muttered some incomprehensible words.

“Abreq ad Habra.”

Later he told me that it was the name of a powerful demon, capable of hurling a deadly bolt, and that the unwary or ignorant soul who touched the Stone would die soon thereafter amid great torment. The demon had power enough to trap the unwary and thus punish them for their bond to such a dark place. Had anyone told me such a story before that experience and knowing what came after, I would have thought them mad, infidel or no, but when one’s eyes have seen what reason denies, one must believe in anything, no matter how strange it seems.

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.

PART THREE

The Fall of the Butterfly

13

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!”

It looked as if Artur’s death was about to go unpunished, but it didn’t bother him all that much; if anything he was slightly peeved, mildly indignant, nothing more.

“Let’s not lose hope. Oftentimes the good evidence turns up when everything’s said and done, with the investigation all but over, and us at our wits’ end.”

Enrique silenced him with a thoughtful stare. Rodríguez’s reasoning reminded him of those white lies that doctors tell patients with incurable diseases to keep their morale up. But he wasn’t ill. The hatred he had been afflicted with at first had disappeared on its own. Artur was dead, and locking his murderer up for life would change nothing. Yet the thought of the Frenchman walking away stung the deepest part of his soul.

“I think I know why you’re calling on the Santfelius.”

Rodríguez looked at him with curiosity.

“If Fornells told you about your father, it shouldn’t surprise you that I’ve had an interview scheduled with them for several days now,” the police officer answered.

“Is there any connection between them and Artur’s money laundering?”

“There could be,” admitted Rodríguez. “The Santfelius handled his financial portfolio, and it’s not likely that they’d be unaware of it, either by taking an active part in the scheme or knowing the existence of funds whose origin was unaccounted for. If they didn’t know, they wouldn’t be the excellent money managers they claim to be. And that brings up a whole new set of problems: among their clientele are well-known businessmen and people from all walks of life who, of course, just by an association of ideas, maybe—who knows?—it could be that they’re also running their little, or not so little, games on the taxman.”

“And so the web becomes more tangled.”

“When stuff like that surfaces, more than one guy usually gets dirty.”

“I imagine you’ll look into their books.”

“Of course. But it’s a family law firm with a father who’s a notary and children specialized in corporate law. So it won’t be easy. It’s better to negotiate before we go charging in; remember, we’re working on mere presumptions, and no judge would ever authorize an audit with what we have. We can’t subpoena their books without some evidence that a crime has been committed. Things aren’t as simple as they usually seem.”

Enrique asked for the check and paid it.

“That’s often the way. Well, thanks for everything.”

“Don’t mention it. I’m taking it for granted that no one will find out we had this conversation.”

“Don’t worry.”

Outside the café, they shook hands again.

“We’ll call you if anything new comes up,” Rodríguez said. “And remember, if you want to go back to San Sebastián, you need to get in touch with us first.”

“They’re auctioning off the furniture from Artur’s shop tomorrow. And I’ll still be here this week to do family paperwork. Thanks.”

Enrique watched him walk away; he crossed Ronda Sant Pere at a trot and headed for the Santfelius’ front door. Enrique felt his mood dropping. Without some stroke of wild luck, there was every indication Brésard would beat the murder charge. Despite it all, he was still shielded by that hard mantle of skepticism or fatalism that forced him to take things as they came, luckily, without letting them affect him too much. He called Mariola. Samuel answered the phone; Mariola wasn’t in, but she’d left a message for Enrique. She would be waiting for him in the middle of Plaça de la Catedral between one and one thirty. It was one o’clock sharp; he had time to make it on foot, but he didn’t feel like walking. He hailed a cab. As luck would have it, the driver was one of those garrulous types constantly tuned into talk radio, who aim to change the status quo through the irritating habit of nonstop criticism. A passenger who kept quiet meant nothing to the man, other than the perfect excuse to hold forth to his heart’s content. Fortunately, the ride was short. Despite the trip’s brevity, Enrique had time to hear his driver’s ideas to combat the terrorism of ETA, ways to solve the country’s economic woes, how to regenerate a political class suspected of corruption, details on the man’s family, and even a home remedy for cold sores, all of it adorned with the peculiar accent of a Spanish emigrant who lived on the outskirts of Barcelona and bore the identity of a charnego, as such Catalans with roots in the rest of Spain were called. He was from neither here nor there, a strange hybrid converted into an unmatched example of uprootedness. As he said good-bye to Enrique, he managed to wedge in one final bit of irony: “Have a good day! Nice talking to you!”

It didn’t take Enrique long to spot Mariola. Her figure stood out in the middle of the square, which was nearly empty at that hour. A few solitary, idle retirees sat in the sun on the new individual benches that the city had installed, bent on imposing an architectural style in disaccord with popular tastes. She was standing near the center of the square: elegant, wearing a pantsuit as dark as the rest of her accessories, a leather purse and sunglasses that covered her inquisitive eyes. As he advanced, he noticed the few pedestrians in the square looking at her, some out of curiosity, others attracted by her smart stylishness. For others, she was simply a beautiful object, pure sexual attraction, the kind of woman ordinary men dream about and will never have, except in their dreams or in exchange for a hefty fee. Mariola saw him from a distance, but allowed him to approach. Enrique was still unsure as to how to greet her. She dispelled any possible doubts with a casual kiss on the lips.

“I thought you’d never come,” she whispered into his ear. “I’ve been calling you all morning and all I got was your voice mail. You’ve got a real problem with cell phones.”

“You’re right, but here I am,” said Enrique, comforted by her presence.

“Better than yesterday?”

“Yes.”

“I know a spot around here with great food. The menu’s simple and not too varied, but the chef is a genius, and the service is wonderful. We could go if you like.”

“Let’s go then,” agreed Enrique. Mariola locked her arm in his and they walked down the street toward the restaurant.

“So tell me what you’ve done today,” she inquired.

Enrique sighed before answering. “Nothing special. I spent the morning doing some paperwork on Artur’s affairs—changing names on accounts and all that. You know.”

“Do you really feel all right?” Mariola asked again.

“Yeah, really. I don’t know why, but I feel much better than I thought I would. The truth is, over this past week, so many things have changed in my life that I can’t even believe it. Fortunately, in the midst of so much tragedy, I’ve found you. That not only evens the scales between good and bad, it tips them in favor of good.”

A clear and sincere smile lit up her face.

“You’re such a gentleman. Even when we’re talking about you I wind up getting the praise. I’d say you think about me quite a bit.”

“More than you’ll ever know.”

“Men today aren’t like you. Maybe that’s why I like you so much,” she answered.

“Women today aren’t like you. Maybe that’s why I like you so much,” he countered.

It wasn’t long before they were seated in a small, three-story restaurant, decorated in rustic style, surrounded by old farming implements, diverse antiques, and original paintings by artists who were unknown but of unquestionable talent and taste. The building, as old as the street it stood on, afforded access to the various levels through a steep, winding stairway. The third floor was obviously the most seldom visited, and Mariola clearly knew it. The lower floors were nicer to look at, but also more crowded.

The waiter suggested a tasting menu as a first course. Mariola, a frequent patron, proposed the vegetables sautéed with egg as the main course. A bottle of good wine accompanied the meal. They talked about a whole range of topics: music, film, and of course, literature. To his surprise, Mariola’s tastes partially coincided with his, which was odd to him, as he thought himself an eclectic, attracted by disparate authors of apparently irreconcilable topics and styles. At last, as was inevitable, they talked about themselves, their pasts, and their relationships.

“Why did it end?” Mariola asked.

“There was no other way. Everything just led us to it.”

“But you loved each other.”

“Yeah, we loved each other. Well, at least I loved her. And I think she loved me, but I can’t say for sure. When she told me she was leaving it was in no uncertain terms: there was no turning back, there was nothing to talk about, nothing to argue about. She left without looking back, and she did it right. She was right.”

“We’re always right,” Mariola added sweetly. “But men usually don’t see that until it’s too late. I’d bet she warned you a thousand times about the road to nowhere you were both on.”

“You’re right. She did. And not just with words, in lots of other ways. But I didn’t realize it until later, when it was too late.”

“Don’t be angry at me for what I’m going to say: you men lack sensitivity. There are very few exceptions to the rule. You’re just different. You live things differently. That the family is the accepted form of social cohabitation never ceases to amaze me. Ninety-nine percent of all couples don’t love each other. At first they feel attraction, passion, lust; everything works as long as the passion lasts, because problems get minimized, enveloped by the flames burning inside us. Later, the passion dies out and the problems loom larger due to the twisted egotism you all have inside you that—and I’m certain of what I’m about to say—that you transmit to your partners.”

“A feminist stance, though not completely off the mark. People fake happiness, even though their relationships are so broken that they live in different realities.”

“And separation is still taboo to most women. They’re hopeful about it, but also scared and unsure.”

“That wasn’t Bety’s case.”

“She has character. She made a break with the past … permanently, I hope.” She looked him firmly in the eyes.

“Permanently,” he confirmed.

A somewhat uneasy silence settled over the dining room. The other customers had left, and only a light hum of activity from the other floors accompanied them. Enrique undid the tension with a move that smacked of cliché, which made it no less effective.

“Cheers!” He raised his glass.

Smiling, Mariola raised hers. There was a shadow of doubt in her expression, only making her that much more attractive. The glasses clinked: the clear, sparkling noise sounded throughout the room. Enrique stopped Mariola’s glass with his free hand, savoring the sensation that plainly revealed his lover’s feelings.

“You’re waiting for my turn, aren’t you?” she asked.

“No, not really. But I wouldn’t mind listening to your story, finding out about you, getting to know you in every way: the past, the present, the good, the bad.”

“Okay then. At my father’s shop I told you I was married to an art critic and dealer. His name was Eric Keitel, and I met him in Paris while I was in my final year of studying fine arts. That year, the students put together a group exhibition where we showcased our finest creations. Eric spent a lot of time in Paris on the hunt for new talent. He played Pygmalion to a lot of artists who were just starting out; a Pygmalion with his own best interest at heart, obviously, because once the agency contract was signed, he got a share of whatever those artists made. The first time I saw him he didn’t catch my eye. He was too old for my taste; later, I found out he was sixteen years older than me. Still, he wasn’t unattractive. He looked like a man from a bygone time: elegant, polite, formal, and every inch a gentleman. You can imagine that someone like that would easily attract the attention of any woman.

“I was young, good-looking, financially well-off, and for the first time since my birth, able to do whatever I wanted. That independence, which I wasn’t used to, was intoxicating. But, fortunately, it didn’t take me long to regain control. I had several affairs, and even my first romantic relationship, which, like all first loves, ended very badly. Then I grew more cautious, or maybe more selfish—same thing.

“In those days, I had no significant other and I felt really happy, maybe happier than I’ve ever been since. I had so much to discover, and the world was just so big and beautiful! I’m telling you all this so you’ll understand my mood. I was … I don’t know, radiant, magnificent, fulfilled—that’s the word.”

“You are now, too.” Enrique flattered her.

Mariola took his hands and flashed him a smile.

“No, it’s not the same. I feel happy, but it’s not the same,” she insisted. “Back then it was an awakening to a life I now know. So when Eric struck up a conversation with me on the day of the exhibition, I was slightly intrigued. It was no normal conversation, I could see that right away. He liked me, I knew it from the start. What could a man like him see in me? It couldn’t be just sexual attraction; a man like that, attractive and wealthy, could definitely take his pick. And, even as I believed that, I went on the defensive because I didn’t want another relationship. He came around to see me a few times, and was always very gentle. He was clever, courteous, and interesting. He was never boorish, never made me uncomfortable, and I ended up feeling flattered by his obvious interest. The third time we saw each other, we were discussing the virtues of a painting together. I remember it well: it was a composition of red roses on a black canvas background. For some reason I remarked that it was my favorite flower, and he committed the detail to memory. He culminated his pursuit by sending a dozen red roses to my apartment every day for a week. I don’t know how he got my address, I certainly never gave it to him, and he never told me. All the flowers came with was a card with his name and a phone number. I called to thank him, and before I knew it, I ended up having dinner with him in Montmartre, at one of those spots so like Plaça del Pi.

“Everything else was just a matter of time. Eric prolonged his stay in Paris, and a few months later, our relationship was what could be considered stable. But we had to make a decision; his office was in Manhattan, and he couldn’t neglect it any longer. It was sad, but he went back, although as soon as the school year ended I moved in with him with the excuse of perfecting my English over the summer. We made the decision in a matter of months: we would get married as soon as possible and I would go to work in his office.

“I came back from New York with Eric. At home the news went over like a lead balloon, as you can imagine. What I know now is how much it hurt my parents, especially my mother. But in this life we make lots of decisions that hurt our loved ones; this was one of them.

“We got married in a small ceremony, practically eloping, I guess you’d say. And then a new life began in New York. A good job that I was qualified for, and a husband who traveled the world, who I could only accompany on rare occasions. At first, like always, everything went wonderfully. But the chemistry between us broke down over time; I got to a point where I felt that this man I occasionally made love to was really a stranger I pretended to love. I needed more—not money or pleasure, but to identify myself with him, share with him, be him. And Eric couldn’t give me any of that. He tried, but he didn’t know how. We were finished. When I explained how I felt, he understood. Fortunately, there were no kids. We got a divorce with mutual consent, no bitterness, no fighting. He took it worse, because in his way, he still loved me. I came back to Barcelona with a heavy heart: sad for Eric, sad for my parents, and sad for myself. I was alone and didn’t want to be. But obviously, I got over it and here I am.”

“Do you stay in touch?”

“In the ordinary ways: Christmas cards, New Years wishes. If I’m ever in New York we meet for lunch. Not much else.”

“It’s not good to keep up contact. The past is the past.”

“You’re not exactly in a position to say that.”

Enrique picked up Mariola’s insinuation.

“Bety only came to help me. There’s nothing between us. And do you honestly think I could be with both of you at once?”

Mariola thought before she answered.

“No, not you. But men are perverse. And most wouldn’t have had any qualms about doing it, or at least trying.”

“Well, thanks for the trust.”

“You’re welcome. Anyway, I wanted to … well, I don’t want you to get angry, but you should understand that …”

It was obvious that Mariola knew how to say what she meant but didn’t trust the reaction it would cause in Enrique.

“I get it. You want Bety to go back to San Sebastián.”

“Yes,” she assented, relieved. “You should understand; even if there’s nothing between you two, you’re living under the same roof, and you were together for years. It’s hard for me to say it, but that’s how I feel.”

Enrique could see she felt truly uncomfortable, and more than that, perhaps hurt by the situation. Although she wasn’t blaming him, it didn’t change how she felt.

“Don’t worry. She’s leaving soon.”

Mariola nodded. Her eyes were moist.

“I just can’t understand it,” she whispered, her voice failing. “I can see her coming to help you when you were alone, but now it just doesn’t make sense. I don’t understand why she’s still here, unless she wants to get back together with you.”

From her standpoint, Mariola was right. It may have been that, at some point, the magic that once united them had resurfaced, but that had long since passed. If Bety was still in Barcelona, it was to unravel the mystery of the manuscript. There was no other solution than to tell her everything—or nearly everything, since the details were not that important.

“Look, Bety hasn’t left Barcelona because she’s working on an important translation. You know she’s a university professor of classical philology. Artur was working on the translation of an old manuscript, whose author we’ve identified as a man named Casadevall, a master builder from the late fourteenth century. It appeared to contain the keys to a strange mystery that Artur had apparently solved: a letter he sent me the very weekend of his death said as much. It looks like it’s some kind of object that we know nothing about. And for now, after an initial translation, we haven’t made any progress. There’s a list of possible hiding places of whatever it is: they’re buildings from that period, of which, naturally, very few are still standing. Many have been rebuilt or drastically altered; others, torn down. But we’re still at it, hoping to find the solution, though I’m afraid it’s very difficult. Most likely, the object is gone forever.”

“I’m speechless.” She partially recovered her smile. “Do you mean to say that if Bety’s still in your house it’s because of an investigation you’re working on? Just that? You don’t think she has any ulterior motive?”

“Just that. But even so, I’ll tell her what’s going on, and that way we’ll set everything straight. Or if you’d rather,” Enrique offered enthusiastically, “I could stay with you, at your house. That way we’d avoid the whole problem.”

Mariola didn’t answer right away. She seemed to weigh Enrique’s proposal.

“Not yet,” she answered. She looked him straight in the eyes, her head slightly tilted and a captivating, cryptic smile on her lips. “Not yet. It’s too soon.”

“Okay. Then in that case, she’ll have to go.”

“I wouldn’t want to disrupt your—”

“No, it’s not a problem,” Enrique cut her off. “She was planning to return to San Sebastián around Wednesday. Does that sound all right?”

Mariola nodded, satisfied.

“Yes, it does.” She sent him an air kiss over the table. “I’d rather she did it today, tonight even, but I understand the situation. I’ll wait until Wednesday. Well then, I have to go. It’s late, and I’ve been out of the shop all day.”

They gathered their things and went down to the ground floor, where Enrique paid the check. They parted ways on the Ramblas: Mariola was headed to the shop, while Enrique had to stop by his publisher’s office.

“Enrique, I want you to know how much I appreciate your understanding, that you listen to me.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

“I think I do,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek. “And one more thing: Are you upset that I didn’t let you come stay with me?”

“I would’ve liked to be with you, but I understand that maybe I’m moving too fast.”

“No you’re not; it’ll be soon, sooner than you think,” said Mariola, and kissed him on the lips. “Come over this evening, around eight. I’d rather you didn’t stay, but that doesn’t mean we can’t spend some time together.”

“I will.” Enrique smiled happily.

Mariola walked away among the multitude of pedestrians streaming through the neighborhood. As she did, Enrique congratulated himself on such a woman being a part of his life.

14

The Scholar rummaged around a table so cluttered with hundreds of books it looked as if it would collapse at any minute. The librarian, an older woman with a demeanor that was serious and so strict it made her seem snooty, took occasional glances at him with a mix of curiosity and something like worry, mainly owing to the chaotic mess occupying the worktable. This outlandish character, in a fit of fertile creativity, took incessant notes, without ever stopping his activity, except to request new and extremely rare documents not once taken out in the past thirty years, the time in which she had been working in that oasis of peace that was the library of the Crown of Aragon’s archive. She wasn’t the only one disconcerted by the invasion of a preestablished, rarely disturbed order: the other researchers honoring the world of the past with their presence also watched the disheveled young man rifling through the papers and books at a frantic pace. The proof was to be found in their surreptitious glances, or trips to the restroom with detours made to walk behind the researcher and see what books the strange intruder was consulting.

The librarian remembered him from other visits: they hadn’t been too frequent, as it was easy to identify such a peculiar subject from among the rest of his fellow researchers. The majority were men getting on in years, old retired professors or professional researchers. Among that community, the Scholar, as she called him, broke the archive’s usual working paradigm. The first time she saw him, years ago, she had even been indignant at what she considered an offensive presence: a youngster in blue jeans so tight they left nothing to the imagination, and a shirt so overprinted with flowers it hurt to look at, in the company of one of the most venerable philologists of the Barcelonese academic community, who introduced him as his brightest student. It had been a less than positive impression against which she could do little, as the letters of recommendation from that professor were enough to open the doors of any private library in the country to him. Yet after watching him at work, overflowing with enthusiasm and faith, she ended up changing her opinion of him: he may have had a sloppy appearance, but the way his eyes shone as he studied the old sheaves was truly special. That’s why she had christened him “the Scholar.” The others were scholarly as well, there could be no question, but this young man whose name she didn’t know reflected a true joy, a rare happiness at being surrounded by the past in its purest form. Moreover, he was polite to a fault, and always sincerely thanked her for the efforts she devoted to him.

Still, acknowledging his professional capabilities was not equivalent to tolerating the mess he made when he worked. It was always the same: it began with an endless string of requests that always ended up overwhelming the expert, normally sedate librarian: titles that hadn’t been taken off the shelf since 1950. Dossiers in places she barely remembered, that she had almost forgotten existed, were stacked in a mingled heap on the table, making her yearn for the order with which the rest of the researchers did their work: methodically organized, document by document, never fourteen at a time. On his lectern were the Chronicle of the Rationale of the City, the Book of the Solemnities of Barcelona, the Diary of the General Council, the Private Diary of Jaume Safont, Boscà’s Memorial, and many others, all jumbled about.

In any event, the librarian had grown accustomed to his presence, and to tolerating his confused work system based on comparative analysis. It was nothing new to her to see him rushing through document after document with a storm of energy while around him, the Scholar’s whirlwind activity made the rest of researchers seem to work in slow motion. What was truly extraordinary and disrupting was the sudden word that resounded throughout the reading room, raising the incredulous faces of the other researchers:

“Fuck!”

It was an abrupt, categorical “fuck.” It bore the unmistakable aura of final conclusion, of discovered evidence, of victory achieved, but most of all, it was a “fuck” of genuine surprise. With the echo of the word still indolently bouncing off the walls of the library, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón hurriedly gathered up his notes and the manuscript; he stacked all his working documents into a single pile and ran to the entrance, stopping only briefly to justify his departure.

“Excuse me, ma’am, I won’t be able to pick up all the books; I’m in too big a hurry,” he said, and left the archive with a dumbfounded librarian in his wake.

Still stunned by the evidence, his slender body nearly lost its balance on his way down the dark stairway as he tried to take the steps two by two. The sun was shining bright, forcing him to squint as he left the building. Temporarily blinded, he cut a pathetic figure, and again tripped and nearly fell down the steps that led from the archive to the street. The stumble made him regain his senses, and despite his anxiety, he calmed his gait as much as possible. He had to walk only fifteen yards before finding the majestic building he sought: he raised his gaze to view it in its fullness and smiled to himself. The truth was, it hadn’t taken that much effort to discover the building where Casadevall had hidden the Stone of God: all he had to do was apply pure logic. Could it be anywhere but that place? He checked the time: it was ten minutes to one. There was no need to hurry. He had enough time to put his contacts into motion before they closed the building to the public. With his work notes in hand he entered through a side door, fully convinced he would find the wondrous object. He hadn’t noticed the figure following him at a distance. After all, why would he have to worry about such a thing?

And that’s what sealed his fate.

* * *

After finding the manuscript’s hidden key, he had cast himself into a frenzy of activity. He needed authorization to move around the parts of the building that were off limits to normal citizens, because not just anyone could visit certain areas of the Cathedral of Barcelona, where Casadevall had concealed the Stone of God. There was no more logical place: the master builder knew it perfectly, like the back of his hand. After all, he had spent thirty years working on its construction. And not only that, in Christian societies, cathedrals became imperishable symbols, above and beyond the infighting that rattled a world in constant evolution. No one dared desecrate them, unless the world order changed to such a degree that the planet ceased to exist. If there was any sacred symbol accepted by Christian civilization, it had to be a cathedral. That’s why he’d hidden the Stone there. Such bitter irony, thought Manolo: hiding one of the most important symbols of Judaism in the very heart of Barcelonese Christianity. He imagined Casadevall with the Stone in his power. Just possessing it must have been a shock difficult to overcome. He had accepted the mission to hide it, something unusual in itself, and he was aware of its value, as S. had shown it to him in the gahal. What happened when its secret name was pronounced wasn’t reported in the manuscript, but it must have been truly overpowering to steel his resolve as it had. And now he, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón, scholar, researcher, so often vilified by peers and professors, was literally on the path to unraveling an enviable mystery.

It didn’t take him long to contact certain high-ranking church officials influential enough to keep anyone from denying him the possibility of studying the various engravings and inscriptions that decorated the stones of the building’s walls. After his lauded doctoral work on the evolution of ecclesiastic Latin, he was sure he could pull such a favor, as in reality it didn’t seem like anything out of the ordinary. Alleging he was at work on a study of the cathedral building would serve as the perfect excuse to access any part of it without arousing any suspicion at all. The secretary of the archbishop of Barcelona told him that his authorization would be ready first thing in the afternoon, when he could address the dean of the cathedral. He had plenty of time to prepare the tools necessary for the investigation: pencils and pens, the Casadevall manuscript, a camera, a flashlight, sandpaper of various grains to clean the stones from the layer of filth deposited over six centuries exposed to the elements, a spray he could use to clean and bring out inscriptions that burins engraved centuries ago, an awl, and a hammer. He would have liked to have included the notebook where he kept his notes on the Stone of God, but Bety had it now. It wasn’t that great a loss, as he knew its entire content by heart. But not having it with him disrupted his usual meticulousness.

Fully equipped, he made a timely appearance at the cathedral sacristy at four in the afternoon. He spoke to the dean, outlining his imaginary work plan. Manolo told him he was researching the various architects who had erected the building over the years. He needed, first off, to consult the books of works that detailed the incidents occurring in and around the building from its earliest days to the present. The archive was located over the cloister, and although he had rough ideas of things, he had to contrast them with the most authorized existing document. Later, he would have to check in situ the different seals that the master builders used to mark the stones of their contributions to the works, in order to clarify some of the documentation he was studying. His work would not interfere in any way with services, nor would temple worshippers or visitors notice him, as it would be done mostly in the galleries, in the triforium, and on the roof of the building. The dean didn’t offer much resistance: despite his appearance, Manolo’s recommendations were unparalleled. He’d even heard the Bishop himself speak of him, though he hadn’t read any of the research the man was so famous for. After just half an hour in the archive, the dean walked Manolo to the stairs that led to the tribunes. There were two: one next to the Sant Iu Portal and another next to the cloister doorway. They began their ascent to the roof of the cathedral through the access near the Sant Iu Portal: it was a narrow, winding stairway with little lighting, with steps worn down from the passage of time. The dean walked with care; he was an elderly man, and apparently not too accustomed to going up and down stairs, as he was unable to hide his labored breathing. He stopped to catch his breath several times, once upon reaching the tribunes, and again at the triforium. Finally, on the roof, and satisfied with the thoroughness of his visitor’s cathedral knowledge, he asked Manolo to excuse him. Keeping a complex temple running properly required a great deal of work and dedication, and he was unable to give him all of the necessary attention. If Manolo needed to ask him anything he could find him in the sacristy, where he should check back in when he was finished. Manolo thanked the dean for his assistance and walked him back down to the tribunes where they bid each other good-bye for the time being. The man could never imagine the favor he was doing him! With such freedom of movement, he could do as he pleased without having to justify anything.

Once alone, Manolo sat on one of the benches and took out the plan from a complete tourist guide to the cathedral that he had bought in one of the shops in the cloister. It showed the structure of the temple, from the twenty-eight side chapels to a projection of the vaults, with their keystones, and the arch spans of the vaults of the main nave and aisles. He looked through a small blank notebook he had brought to jot things down, and made a peculiar diagram with several circles interconnected by arrows. Under it, he wrote the following caption: “The Tree of Life, a kabbalistic illustration reflecting the connections among the different sephirot.” Excited, he smiled and ran his fingers through his hair. He had always dreamed of finding the place, and without the Casadevall manuscript it would have been impossible. And without all those studies of the Jewish religion and Kabbalah, he wouldn’t have been able to find it in a building as big and impressive as this. But now he knew he would find it in the Kingdom of God, and when his eyes saw the mark corresponding to the Kingdom, he would have found it. And with this as his goal, he got to work.

Three hours later, Manolo returned to his starting point. In his study of the cathedral, he had been through all of the areas where he thought his destiny might be found, to no avail. The floors of the tribunes, as well as their roofs, which corresponded to the floors of the triforium, gave negative results. He studied them carefully; even though he didn’t expect to find it there, he couldn’t rule anything out, even if it was irrational. He found nothing. The roof of the cathedral, on which so many of his hopes were riding, rendered the same results. The old stones of the cathedral were marked with the seals of several masters of works, but none matched what he needed to find to confirm his hypothesis. Bewildered, as he had thought his reasoning foolproof, he felt hopeless. Something was wrong, that much was clear; it had to be a triviality, a meaningless detail, something obvious, so much so that he could have overlooked it, the typical trifle that would cause hilarity and amazement in equal doses once he discovered it. It was frustrating. He had always stood out for his analytical capability, and he was sure there was a mistake in some part of his reasoning.

He tried to refocus his thoughts, start the information collection and structuring process anew, but he came to the same conclusions. “That’s logical. The error can’t be there. But if it isn’t there, where the hell is it?”

He took out the master builder’s manuscript and thumbed through its pages until finding the spot he was looking for. He read the key passage, the one that concealed the complex structure in which he, Manolo Álvarez Pinzón, had found the key to locating the Stone of God, hidden for two thousand five hundred years. It was crystal clear. There could be no other interpretation: there had to be a sign, a distinctive mark, an imprint, a symbol that confirmed it. He put the manuscript into his satchel, with the rest of the papers and materials, and went back up to the roof of the cathedral. There he wandered aimlessly, his mind emptied, in the attempt for his subconscience to solve the puzzle. His steps guided him over the roof deliberately domed to accommodate the pressure of the arches and the shape of the vaults to the point where he thought the solution should reside: the vault closed by the fourth keystone, situated above the choir, the seal and closure of which would have been the work of Casadevall himself. Nothing. There was nothing there. He meticulously went back over each stone, one by one, letting his fingertips graze along them in search of any indentation that could conceal even the slightest sign of the desired mark covered by the filth of six centuries. He came up empty-handed. He walked to the cross, set atop the fourth keystone, that of the presbytery, and sat down on the ancient stone. His determination was sunk and he’d lost faith in soon finding a solution to the enigma.

The twilight, red and gold in its entirety thanks to several elongated and furtive clouds in the blue Barcelona sky, populated the roof of the cathedral with sharp shadows. With nightfall, he would be forced to come down from the heights, to postpone his search for at least a few hours. It may have been best: the night can be a good adviser, able to reactivate and energize a mind exhausted by the efforts of constant concentration. Several minutes went by: the starlings, as on every spring evening, frolicked through the air, excited by an irrepressible impulse, brimming with energy. Manolo watched the black shapes gliding through space, fantastic and astonishing as they darted and dodged. The formation spread out behind its leader: up, down, forward, back. Thousands of birds followed a single tiny spot whose banking maneuvers tested its flock’s reflexes. With his back resting against the cross, Manolo’s eyes relaxed with the graceful flight of the birds. He felt his mind drift off, in time to the rhythmic movement. Completely disengaged, far from this world, a sudden sharp turn caused the enormous flock to completely change its direction. The lead starling had made a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn, and the rest of the murmuration was slow to react; even though it took less than a split second, it would have been plain to anyone bird-watching. One second this way, another way the next, a difference insignificant to the rest of the world—except Manolo. Intuition struck his mind with unprecedented force. He got up and walked to the fourth vault, where he stopped to snatch out his notebook in a single move. He raced through the pages, tempering his excitement as best he could, until he came to the diagram of the Tree of Life. The idea was as absurd as he had imagined, so much so that it was logical to ignore it, to overlook it even as a possibility. Up to then, he had acted according to logical reasoning: Casadevall had rebuilt the fourth vault, and it seemed reasonable that it be there, exactly there, where the Stone would be hidden, in the Kingdom of God, as the manuscript said. The keystone of the arch had the same position as was occupied by the Kingdom of God in the kabbalistic figure known as the Tree of Life. If that were not coincidence enough, the language used by Casadevall in the manuscript, at first glance banal, clearly pointed in that direction. That was the theory Manolo had been forced to reconsider, without discovering any new alternative. Until now.

Manolo remembered the words of his old professor: “Simplicity is the researcher’s first rule. Never look for complex or involved structures, no matter how attractive they may seem, unless you’ve already discarded the simpler options. Complexity is to be avoided, because it distracts the researcher’s spirit and numbs their imagination.” In this case, the solution to the mystery of the site was the right one. It had to be. There was no other plausible explanation. It was the only one the manuscript pointed to. The error was only due to his own perception, distracted as he had been by a factor outside the solution to the problem that seemed to coincide with it: no, Casadevall had not hidden the Stone over the fourth vault of the cathedral’s nave. The Stone was up there, and its place was as had been imagined, but as had been imagined by Casadevall, not the pathetic, confused and absent-minded Manolo. It was all so simple! All he had to do was mentally enlarge the kabbalistic figure, and then …

He calmly walked to the right place: he had dreamt of this moment a thousand and one nights, and now, he was sure of it, he had at last cracked the enigma. The shadows, darker now, kept Manolo from seeing little more than the outlines of shapes. He shone his flashlight into the space, and didn’t take long to spot the symbol he was looking for. Eyes closed, he ran his fingers over the old sign, over the past itself, over the mark that Casadevall had cut with his own hands, as he could trust no one else, so many years ago. The symbol—the letter, for that’s what it was—was still perfectly distinguishable to anyone who knew its meaning.

He shouted victoriously to the open sky and thousands of starlings, with his fists clenched and his face turned toward the stars. The birds sounded their call. A smile of joy spread across his face. He took the hammer and awl from his bag, ready to chisel out the Stone, despite the growing darkness. He examined the site: a compact block, affixed to its neighbors with mortar. A tactile inspection of the Stone revealed a tiny groove running all the way across its face, something the surrounding stones lacked. He was not sure where to begin, or whether to separate the Stone from the place where it lay or penetrate the odd groove, which he was sure had much to do with the mystery. He placed the awl over the mortar between the stones and tapped it with the hammer. The traffic on Via Layetana did more than its share to drown what little noise he made. He put his tools aside to shine the flashlight on the groove and examine his progress. A whitish nick told him that the task would not be overly difficult, but it would not be a matter of minutes, either. To top it off, it was impossible to hold the flashlight and tools at the same time, and the irregular surface of the roof didn’t allow him to set the light down anywhere it would be stable. This was unfortunate, because the late hour would keep his activity from drawing attention. He couldn’t work on the Stone in broad daylight; he would be forced bide his time until the next evening, when the lengthening shadows of a new twilight would conceal his activity. Given the late hour, the dean could come for him at any minute and catch him red-handed. Disappointed, he gathered up his papers and tools, and made his way toward the stairs to the ground floor of the cathedral.

On his descent, Manolo went to the triforium and looked down. The temple was empty. It closed its doors to the public promptly at nine o’clock, and it was now twenty minutes past. Most of the lights in the nave were off, and the magnificent Catalan Gothic rose up before him—partly sober, partly somber—starkly different from what visitors to the cathedral saw. The only lights on were those of the stained glass windows, oriented outward, and others in the various chapels. The entire ensemble, viewed from Manolo’s privileged perch, had taken on peculiar nuances that awoke in him a vague stirring. He had never imagined how solitary and impressive the temple could appear, completely vacant, stripped of its purpose, emptied of the souls it was meant to save. It had been transformed, the veils that once concealed it, and what it had been in the fourteenth century, were removed: the house of an inflexible, rigid god, who condemned anyone who ventured from the straight and narrow path to eternal damnation. A dark temple for a dark time and yet, perfect and sublime.

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.

15

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.”

“I don’t get you. It’s strange.”

“No stranger than your new involvement with the Stone seems to me. We’ve swapped places: we’ve gone from me thinking it was something important and you thinking it was silly, to me finding it silly and you, important.”

Bety looked at him, disoriented, like a fish that has swallowed the whole hook.

“Touché, mon ami. You’re right,” she acknowledged.

“Why has the ever-pragmatic and aloof Bety become so involved in something that has nothing at all to do with her?” he asked ironically.

“Because it’s a wonderful story,” she answered immediately, without doubt or hesitation. “It’s a wonderful story that’s unique, an adventure impossible to live, if not by chance. And chance has taken us to a place where, without seeking it, the story has offered us a prize that we can’t ignore. That’s why it surprises me that you, of all people, as much as it hurt to learn the truth about Artur, are passing up the chance to continue the chase we’re on. You, of all people, creator of fantasy worlds, the adventure lover, the greatest storyteller I’ve had the pleasure to read or listen to—you give up on this fabulous story that destiny has offered you.”

Enrique shook his head. Bety didn’t understand that he’d changed since their separation. He was no longer the same, that much was clear. Bety still saw him as the cantankerous savant of the written word, of whimsical conduct and high returns, though they were insufficient to keep her at his side; her or any other woman.

“What the hell is wrong with you? The Enrique I knew would never act like you have!” Bety insisted.

“The Enrique you knew no longer exists,” he explained, with more patience than exasperation.

Bety took her the hair out of the ponytail it was in, and mussed it out with both hands. The right straps of her bra and tank top fell as she did so, hanging comically inert below her shoulder. Her breast, bared to the top of the nipple, showed the hearty firmness that Enrique’s hands had once known. A few strands of hair spilled over her forehead; through them, Enrique could see the intense shine of her pupils. He remembered times that he once thought happier, and whose value was now fading before the elusive curves of a brunette beauty always on his mind.

“You were with her, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Enrique admitted.

“What does she have that I can’t give you?” Bety was shocked to hear her own question.

Enrique reached out a hand to stroke her cheek. He felt her warm breath on his palm and a familiar tremor of pleasure ran throughout his body.

“Nothing. And everything,” he finally answered. “It’s her time now.”

Bety, unaware of her actions, possessed by a desire beyond her will, took Enrique’s hand in hers and slid it down her long throat with purposeful slowness. Enrique’s knuckles meandered downward along her soft torso toward her taut breasts for what seemed like endless seconds, at once sweet and bitter, that knew no real time. He knew the way all too well. Years before, he had taken it countless times. He closed his eyes; he didn’t need them to know the terrain he was exploring. His imagination went back to past encounters, happy times, hovering over the memory of intense and fleeting pleasures that he had almost forgotten. No, we never forget the past: it can only be stored away in the remote nooks and crannies of the mind, where it can’t get in the way, where it can’t alter the present. He remembered her body nude, glistening with sweat, tense with pleasure. He remembered his hands full with the flesh of her firm breasts, improvised goblets of smoked glass full of an unexpectedly robust wine. He remembered her pointed nipples, erect and hard, twisting under the irresistible impulse of his fingertips. He remembered his fingers tracing the curve of her hips, her strong, muscular thighs, and her legs, longer than a moonless night. He remembered endlessly the mutual pleasure, the joyful abandon, the playful struggle, the thrill of the chase, the pride of achievement for the other and not for oneself. When he opened his eyes, his hand was still in the same place where he remembered leaving it when he closed them. The memories flowed like a river bursting its banks in a mere instant, the same time it took him to free his hand. The vision of Mariola, surrendered in his arms, brought his hand back. Bety looked at him sadly, her lips parted, her eyes moist.

“Forgive me,” she said before turning away and leaving for her room.

Enrique started to get up, but some inner force stopped him. He was weighed down, completely unable to move, in body and mind. His mind castrated the desire felt by his body. Mariola had been right, even without knowing her rival. Perhaps her intuition told her so because women share a common substrate that drives them to act in similar ways. Perhaps she did it because knowing him told her how Bety would react. He would never know. In any case, Bety would have to leave as soon as possible.

* * *

Wednesday dawned cool and cloudy. The northern air brought with it an invigorating chill from the mountains, and the temperature in Barcelona, despite its special microclimate, dropped considerably. When he awoke, Enrique thought he heard the sound of the front door closing. Bety was in no mood to face her ex-husband after last night’s incident. She left, or rather fled, Artur’s house as soon as she heard his alarm go off. Enrique preferred it that way: to see her would have been to relive an experience that was negative for both of them. They could never hide what had happened, so it was better to avoid each other as much as possible. He went to her room to see if she had gone out for a run or left for Barcelona. Her running clothes hung over a chair. For once she had broken her custom.

After quickly freshening up and having an equally hurried breakfast, Enrique drove into Barcelona. The auction was to begin at twelve noon in the hall at Boulevard dels Antiquaris. He had spoken with Mariola. He told her nothing about Bety, there was no need. Had he wanted to, he could have moved from his memories and a caress onto much more serious things. That much was clear. The temptation had been there, it was true, because the memory of the past weighs on people, and even more so when the past has been yearned for over such a long time. Now, with the need overcome, a mere memory wasn’t enough for him to break a commitment that was present, if not formal. He wouldn’t hurt Mariola. That’s why they spoke about the auction. She told him that everything was ready, as planned. At twelve noon, the crème de la crème of the Barcelona antiques community would meet in the auction hall to bid on objects from Artur’s shop at bargain prices. Not all of the pieces would go on the block. Mariola had decided to purchase for herself five pieces of furniture of different styles from the group that Artur set aside for his personal enjoyment. As she said, the temptation had been too great. They wouldn’t be in the auction catalog; in fact, they were already in her house in Putxet. This wasn’t a problem for Enrique. He didn’t care who had them. If Mariola was happy with them, then so be it. After disagreeing over whether to settle up at the asking price—she wanted to pay for them, which was absurd to him—Enrique put the matter on hold until the next day. He would see to taking the idea out of her head. They had arranged to meet at ten in the Passeig de Gràcia office, leaving enough time to discuss the final details of the auction.

He had arrived and with freakish luck, found parking right in front of the building, which seemed to him a good omen for the day that was beginning. Passeig de Gràcia, Barcelona’s shopping district par excellence, was teeming with shoppers laden with bags, pedestrians and executives with the latest in suits and cell phones strutting about between the shops, banks, and other financial entities. He dodged the tides of humanity that ran between him and the Boulevard and went up the steps. Mariola, then even prettier if such a feat was possible, and dressed with the simple elegance that was typical of her, was talking on the phone in the purest New York accent. She directed him to a chair with her thumb. He refused, preferring instead to amble around old Puigventós’s shop. When she hung up, he approached to kiss her.

“How are you?” she asked with a sweet smile.

“Fine. Though I’d be better if I’d spent the night with you.”

“I’m sure you would be,” she giggled. “Come on, walk with me to the auction room.”

She took his hand and led him to a roomy elevator. They went down one floor. The doors opened onto a corridor, at the end of which was the auction room.

“We’ve come through the back. This is the service corridor. There’s the entrance where the furniture is brought in from the garage.”

The room was large, contemporary, and above all functional. The decor was minimal, and the chairs—numbering around one hundred—looked comfortable. It was made up of a small stage with a podium for the auctioneer, and a conveyor belt stretching back into a large rear storage room, on which the furniture and diverse objects would be successively rolled out. Some of the heavier yet still transportable pieces of furniture were placed behind the auctioneer’s podium, displayed in all their splendor to the covetousness and desire of the buyers. A projector would be used to show photos of those oversized pieces impossible to bring into the room. A couple of technicians tested the public address system with the typical “testing, one, two” routine. At the other end of the room, two porters adjusted the slightly crooked corridor rug. Enrique was reminded of the intense preparatory activity in the paddock before the start of a Formula One race. There was an ongoing buzz of activity; not frantic, but constant. They walked over the rug to the entrance.

“Everything’s ready. I’ve prepared a little cocktail reception, as is customary. Buyers tend to be more generous when they feel good. The reception will be in a little while, at eleven, in the annex.”

She pulled a curtain back with her hand. Three waiters were putting the finishing touches on tables replete with various hors d’oeuvres; behind them, a table with beverages awaited anyone wishing to quench their thirst.

“I never knew setting up an auction was so involved,” Enrique said in admiration. “It looks just like one from the movies.”

“Remember that today it’s for a very specialized public, the antiquarians’ guild, and a few very knowledgeable outsiders. They deserve more pampering than usual if only for a matter of prestige. My father is a stickler about these things and has insisted on personally overseeing every last detail. Look, here he comes now.”

Pere Puigventós was making his way down the broad staircase, his left hand on the rail and a cane in his right. He descended tediously, his back bent from the passage of the years, with a tottering, unsteady gait. Mariola approached him, openly irate.

“Father, you know you’re not supposed to go down stairs alone. You could fall.”

“Leave me be!” the old man protested, though not rejecting the arm his daughter offered.

“Hello there, Enrique! Look at this: you can’t even go down stairs without assistance nowadays.”

“Good morning. You shouldn’t complain: walking arm in arm with Mariola is quite an honor.”

“Let me tell you, dear friend, that she’s the only person in the world I let take such liberties. Only her departed mother and she have had the privilege of pestering me whenever they liked.”

“I’m not pestering you,” his daughter reprimanded him. “Two years ago you fell down the stairs at home. And I don’t want history to repeat itself,” she explained to Enrique.

Touched, Puigventós stroked his daughter’s dark hair.

“You complain out of habit. You’d miss it if I didn’t spoil you.”

“You’re right, you’re right,” he admitted, “but it’s a special day, and I want everything to turn out perfectly. That’s why I’ve been running around, doing my best to avoid you. Don’t forget that today’s is a gathering under the name of our dear Artur.”

“I know that, Father. And that’s exactly why I can promise you that everything, absolutely everything, is in perfect order. Actually, it already was last night, except for the catalogs. The printer promised to bring them first thing this morning, and they’re now in the lobby.”

“That’s good, good. Well then, with your assurance that the auction is in perfect order, I’ll go back to the office to get dressed. Come get me a bit before it begins, when the members start arriving.”

“I will,” she promised. “But remember, they won’t be long. In the meantime, get your rest. It will be a long morning, and you’ll need your strength.”

Mariola walked him to the elevator, where her father waved good-bye as the doors closed.

“He’s a stubborn old man. His mind is too energetic for his body. The years have taken their toll on him, and after my mother’s death, he went downhill fast. He’s usually more careful, but he’s been a little edgy these days ever since Artur’s death. I don’t know why. I’d say he feels a kind of regret: yesterday he told me that it wasn’t logical for young people to die and old men like him to survive.”

“He shouldn’t feel that way. Artur’s death was a tragedy. But there’s nothing anyone can do, and he had nothing to do with it.”

“Old people see things differently. He thinks he’s at the end of his life’s path. He wants to meet up with Elisa, my mother, as soon as he can. Sometimes he worries me, a lot.”

“In cases like that, reasons and opinions do little good. Our perception of life changes over the years, and the elderly see nuances that seem illogical to us, but that aren’t irrational. Your father feels that he’s come to end of the road. He’s still getting a lot out of life, seizing the day and all that, but he’s cognizant of a reality that he has transformed in his own mind. And if, on top of it, he’s living with the memory of your mother …”

Mariola looked at him admiringly.

“You understand things that others just don’t get. Now I get it: the characters speak with their creator’s words. Félix says something similar in Eulogy for Impossible Love.”

Enrique couldn’t keep from smiling.

“So you have read them!”

“Silly!” Mariola chided him with mock indignation. “Of course I read them! There isn’t one of your books that I haven’t read and loved.”

“Just kidding, just kidding,” he said with his hands open, palms up. “Why don’t you show me the catalog?”

“Okay, let’s go up to the lobby.” They climbed the stairs arm in arm, without hiding their recently formed bond. Mariola’s attitude surprised Enrique: she wasn’t ostentatious with her feelings, but she didn’t hide them either. Any observer could see it plainly. He watched her, mesmerized by her beauty. They reached the lobby, and Mariola handed him a catalog.

“Well, there you have it.” She handed him a booklet of several pages. “It’s actually the list of pieces and furniture that we made over the weekend, revised and enhanced with more summarized descriptions. Nothing more is needed: the people who will be coming knew Artur well, and they know that any goods from his shop are of high quality.”

“Do you think you’ll sell it all?”

“Most likely. Unless there are any surprises, Samuel and I will keep the altar, which is the most complicated piece in the lot because it’s too big, heavy, and eccentric. It fits right in with the style of our shop. If you take that off the list, the rest of the pieces won’t be too difficult. I think we’ll sell it all.”

“Or at least we hope to,” interjected Samuel as he extended his hand to Enrique.

Mariola’s partner, and the man who had been Artur’s best friend, came up behind the couple. Impeccably dressed, he was carrying one of the catalogs in his hand, with a profusion of notes written throughout its pages.

“Ever been to an auction?” he asked Enrique.

“This will be his first,” answered Mariola.

“It’s something to see. For old-timers like us, it’s like a game, but no matter how many times you’ve been, it never loses its charm. You’ll see it all, especially the friendly rivalries inherent to this profession.”

“What have you marked there?” asked Mariola, pointing to the program,

“You already know,” Samuel smiled. Enrique looked at the catalog as Mariola leafed through its pages. Almost all of the pieces had names written next to them, in some cases two or even three. Mariola clarified their meaning before Enrique could ask.

“It’s a game Samuel and I play,” she explained. “At every auction, we bet on who of our colleagues will bid on certain items.”

“A harmless pastime in which surprise and imagination come into play. But I don’t think I’ll have an opponent this time. Mariola has been too busy getting the auction ready to waste time on such idle conjecturing, haven’t you?”

“Yes. Usually the person offering the wares acts as the organizer; the association lets them use the premises in exchange for a small commission. But you don’t have the experience, and Artur was who he was.”

“Preparing an auction isn’t difficult, but it does require certain knowledge of the field,” Samuel added. “Though she’s only been part of our world for a few years, Mariola is already quite an expert in it. Let me assure you that getting everything ready in five days isn’t something that just anyone can do. Now then, she has almost completely neglected her obligations at the shop, forcing me to hold down the fort all alone. But, since it’s a matter of helping a friend, I won’t hold it against her. Believe me, she’s done a great job.”

Enrique looked at Mariola.

“I know.” Those two simple words expressed his entire appreciation.

“Well, well: I saw the Massachses and the Ribós arriving as I was leaving the garage. The room will be packed to the rafters in twenty minutes’ time. Where’s Pere?” he asked Mariola.

“He went up to his office to change. I’ll go get him.” Mariola left for the showroom on the upper floor, where she would find her father in his office. Enrique watched her walk away, still partly stricken by the rapture he’d felt on the stairs that the conversation had not put an end to.

“She’s a fine woman,” remarked Samuel. “If I were thirty years younger, and I didn’t love her like a daughter, I would take a different approach to our relationship. Though it seems she’s already made her choice,” he said, winking at Enrique.

“So you’ve noticed.”

“How could I not? All those phone calls and messages could be on account of the auction, but I knew there was something more than that moment I saw you together. The way you look at her gives you away.”

“You’re right, I think there is something more to it,” conceded Enrique.

“And I’m happy for you, son, I really am.” Samuel placed his hands on Enrique’s shoulders. “She’s a strong-willed woman with a lot of character.”

“Thank you.”

Just as Samuel had predicted, the first auction participants soon arrived. There was still plenty of time before the scheduled beginning, but the auction was a special event in a community with such strong social bonds. For the guests, attending it meant paying tribute to Artur’s memory while also having the chance to benefit from the excellent antiques that his shop always boasted. Slightly more than twenty minutes later, the room had filled with a who’s who of the Antiquarians’ Association members, dressed in appropriate attire and exhibiting the manners typical of the good families they belonged to. Fortunately for Enrique, Mariola and, even more so Samuel, took turns protecting him from the excessively good intentions of the antiquarians, keen to pay him their respects, give them their condolences, express their appreciation, and regale him with stories of experiences shared with the man who had been his father for twenty years. Against her wishes, but bound by her condition as hostess, Mariola was unable to pay him much attention. She was busy keeping everyone happy, making them believe she thought them necessary, and that they were the key figures at this gathering. And despite being taken under Samuel’s friendly wing, Enrique soon felt out of place in that atmosphere.

Only Guillem and Enric stayed longer with Enrique than the rest of the guests, being allowed to do so by his father’s old friend. Once they had drifted back into the crowd, Enrique surprised himself thinking about how those two men, so harmless in appearance, had aroused several people’s suspicions as the possible murderers of Artur. He watched them surreptitiously: Guillem, with his usual blend of energy and courtesy, was surrounded by the largest circle of people in the room. Enrique did not miss any of his moves. In a social group with its own character, where elegance, charm, and savoir faire were the predominant values, he was the king. Everyone followed in the wake of his attractiveness, and chuckled at his stories, with all due politeness. He wasn’t just a buffoon who cheered up the gathering; he was the very soul of it, the axis on which the life of the group revolved. A man with a special gift, the gift to be admired and loved by others. As for Enric, he was off in a corner, speaking in measured tones with three or four elderly people, displaying his usual seriousness. It would be hard to find a pair of friends more different physically and socially, though not intellectually.

From the rest of the guests he drew one conclusion: it was true that they formed a true group in which family tradition had a lot to do with their unity. He, Enrique Alonso, despite being the son of Artur Aiguader, didn’t feel integrated among the auction’s friendly attendees. He’d never felt attracted to the world of antiques, and Artur had never made him feel as if he had to continue what had been his life’s work. The atmosphere was too exclusive. The guests enjoyed being who they were, without hypocrisy or false appearances of any kind. They didn’t think themselves different, they really were different.

When the bell rang to mark the beginning of the auction, Enrique was surprised to find himself drinking a glass of juice that he hadn’t even remembered ordering. Mariola came to him with a decided air and Samuel slipped away into the crowd. They walked between the rows of chairs to the front of the room, where some seats had been reserved along the wall. As they went, Enrique could hear, among different remarks on the catalog, gossipy whispers about them. Mariola left Enrique seated next to Samuel and went back down the aisle to help her father—laboriously advancing down the corridor—and walk him to the auctioneer’s podium. There, Puigventós picked up the microphone and took the floor to address his attentive and suddenly hushed listeners.

“Dear colleagues and lovers of art, I bid you good day. It’s not often that the Association president speaks to the audience before the auction begins, but today is a special day and I have been given the opportunity to pay final homage to the memory of an old friend who is no longer with us. I will not try to give a eulogy, just a brief word or two about his character, so please bear with this poor old man. You all knew him very well: naturally, I’m referring to Artur Aiguader.

“Forty years ago, an intelligent young man was bold enough to acquire, also at an auction, the shop of an old association member who the more elder among us will still remember, Lluís Foxà. For political reasons, Lluís was forced to emigrate to keep from ending up in jail, or worse. The shop, one of the most emblematic on La Palla Street, cost Artur next to nothing on account of its origin. Those were bad times, the market was almost nonexistent, and Artur took a great risk. That’s why, when Artur continued with Lluís’s business, more than a few of us, myself included, criticized him openly or behind his back. Who was this young upstart who dared set foot in our world, where he did not belong? As always, and as is still true today, we were too self-centered: we criticized him with zeal without knowing that he had managed to send a considerable amount of money, corresponding more or less to the real value of the shop and its content, to its legitimate owner, then in Mexico City. Artur was patient: the Association’s condescending attitude never bothered him, and little by little, he won the personal—though not collective—affections of many of us. Years later, when Lluís got back in touch with my father, then president of the Association, in his letter he asked him to thank Artur for not taking advantage of him and his situation, and sending them the money necessary to begin a new life in Mexico. As you can imagine, the news caused quite a stir in the Association, and it forced the total acceptance of that young man as an equal among our ranks.

“That was Artur: discreet and generous, a true gentleman in the classic sense of the word, always willing to help others and asking for nothing in return. A man from another time.

“Unfortunately, Artur has left us. A heartless, unscrupulous person has taken from us a good man, a good friend. Because, above all his many other virtues, Artur was, as Machado said of himself: ‘a good man.’”

Puigventós stopped to catch his breath. Enrique, taken aback by this tribute to his deceased father, observed the rapt attention of the audience, Association members and outsiders alike, who knew and were fond of Artur for so many years. From the seat next to his, Mariola openly took his hand, and smiled at him.

“Today his son, Enrique, is here with us. I’ve also known him for many years, since, if memory serves, he came up to about here.” Puigventós touched a hand to his hip. “Enrique grew up surrounded by antiques, by old dusty furniture, dark paintings in need of cleaning, and hundreds of the old books that were Artur’s passion.

“Today, Enrique, general heir to his father’s estate, has decided to untie himself from the world of antiquarians. In one way, it’s something I regret, as it will mean the disappearance of a historic shop, and a bond that should also be considered historic. But it also makes me happy because I know that he has a rare and special talent, and this way he’ll be able to devote his full attention to it. I’d rather him spend his time writing the wonderful books he has us accustomed to than see him locked inside a tiny shop for which he doesn’t feel the love that the rest of us do. And so, to Enrique, as the heir of Artur, who was our friend, colleague, and Association vice president, in that order, as the chief representative of the guild, I present this plaque, in his honor and memory.”

From under the podium, Puigventós took out a case that he opened to the sound of the refined applause of the audience. The silver plaque sparkled under the reflection of the fluorescent lights. Mariola spurred a startled Enrique out of his seat to accept the gift. With tears in his eyes, the Association president stepped down from the podium and hugged the guest of honor, who didn’t bother to disguise his emotion either. After the embrace, Enrique murmured and inaudible “thank you” as he held up the plaque. Then he took his seat again next to a smiling Mariola.

“I bet this was all your doing,” he whispered into her ear. “You organized this whole thing, so you must’ve known. You could’ve warned me!”

“It wasn’t my idea, it was my father’s,” she answered him in equal terms. “He wanted to do something like this, and now was the time. And of course, there was no way I could spoil the surprise. And there’s another reason …”

“What?”

“I’m sure that any temptation to underbid will have disappeared after that touching scene. I know my colleagues well; that’s the way we are.”

A deep voice sounded out over all others in the auction room. Its owner was a man some forty years old, slim, with aristocratic bearing, wearing a dour black suit, the epitome of seriousness. He presented the lot they were about to auction off as “a fantastic collection of diverse pieces, all of the highest quality,” and immediately proceeded to present them in the order in which they were listed in the catalog. After praising the properties of each piece, he announced its asking price, previously stipulated by Mariola, who had wisely set them somewhat lower than would be expected, to encourage bidding among the attendees. During the auction, the audience members conducted themselves with a cultivated demeanor, and in no case did anyone get swept away in an absurd bidding war over any piece. Whenever the amount rose by approximately one third of the asking price, one of the bidders always ended up withdrawing. Enrique was surprised to see that the participants enjoyed a relaxed, even jovial, atmosphere where chatting and running commentary were predominant. Samuel himself, after bidding on a few items, began moving around the room to discuss different developments with other people, and even went to the adjoining room where the waiters and bartenders continued working for anyone in need of refreshment. Samuel was there on behalf of Samuel Horowitz, Antiquarian, since Mariola, as the organizer of the event, preferred to stay out of the bidding and discuss the auction’s evolution with Enrique. When the bidding came to the altar that Samuel and Mariola had identified as their preferred piece, they had to bid against an apparently well-funded man. Mariola whispered into his ear that it must have been a personal matter, a whim of the other bidder that they hadn’t counted on. The altar couldn’t be easily marketed since it could only be used as Artur had used it: the focal point in the decor of a large showroom or terrace. They had planned to put it in their showroom—not for sale—and use it to redistribute all of the interior space in their shop. Enrique protested the altar being put on auction in the first place, but Mariola assured him that it was just a way of getting the most profit for him; losing the bidding was not all that important. In the end, the man was sold the altar, although at a price much higher than initially set.

“I’m sure he had no intention of buying it, but was only bidding to bug us,” protested Samuel, who appeared to have lost the good mood he had been in up until then.

Mariola told Enrique about the origin of the hostilities, based on a long-running dispute whose cause was so absurd that not even the parties involved remembered what it was. Only the insistence of the two sides, unwilling to budge an inch to prevent any possible satisfaction for the other, kept their rivalry alive.

“These kinds of things are common in the world of antiquarians,” she explained. “For the most part, the members of this community have strong personalities and more than a few quirks. There are all kinds of little battles being waged among them that are unimportant, or so they claim; they justify them as healthy rivalries, but any seasoned observer within our trade would call it a desire to screw thy neighbor.”

“Is that why you and Samuel play at betting on who will bid on what piece?”

“That’s at the heart of it. The owners of the shops reflect their personal tastes in their activity. More often than not, those tastes aren’t shared by the majority of antiques dealers, usually just by another two or three at the most. That’s why, knowing the tastes and styles of the majority of the buyers, we can have fun speculating on the bidding.”

“I get the feeling that this game is less straightforward than it seems at first sight.”

“We don’t do it in bad faith … usually.” Mariola laughed. “The truth is, it can be fun to watch the efforts of someone trying to hide the long face they get after stumbling in public in front of their colleagues.”

“Until it happens to you, of course.” He pointed toward the bristling Samuel.

“That doesn’t affect me. Samuel is angry because this spat they’re in goes back many years. I’ve only been in the business for four years, and I still haven’t made any enemies. And I won’t make any, because I think it’s silly to waste time on such foolishness. C’est ne pas vrai?” Mariola asked in a sugary voice.

“Oui, ma chérie.”

The auction played out relatively quickly, despite the many objects that Artur had exhibited for sale or stored in his private museum. The last piece was auctioned around three in the afternoon: an ancient Chinese porcelain vase that brought in the respectable figure of seven thousand euros. Once the proceedings were over, the antiques dealers began to leave among new expressions of condolence and affection. Enrique, shielded by Mariola this time, was forced to repeat the cycle of shaking countless hands, giving and receiving hundreds of kisses, and thanking them all for attending the auction. The great room, packed just moments before, was now empty except for Mariola Puigventós, her father, Pere, Samuel, and Enrique.

“Well, that does it!” said Puigventós with a vitality unbecoming of his years. “And I must say that, judging from my calculations, it went quite well,” he said, rubbing his thumb and index finger together.

“Have you tallied up the proceeds?” Samuel asked.

“I’d wager they’re over one hundred twenty thousand euros,” Mariola interjected. “Three of the nicest pieces of furniture brought in around twelve thousand euros, and the rest could add up to a figure of around one hundred and eight thousand.”

“That’s more or less what I had calculated,” confirmed Puigventós. “If you take away what you’ll owe in taxes, and the auction room commission, you’ll net around ninety thousand euros. But we’ll confirm that sometime during the week, once the secretary collects all of the purchase money, and we settle up the accounts.”

“That’s quite a bundle,” Samuel commented.

“I don’t even know what I’ll spend it on. The truth is, I’d rather do without the money and have Artur still here with us. But I’m afraid nothing can be done on that front.”

“Enrique.” It was a new voice coming from the other end of the room.

They all turned at once. Standing in the doorway was Captain Fornells, looking fatigued, even despondent. His face showed the lack of sleep and a vague, barely perceptible sadness. He walked toward the group but stopped halfway, apparently uncomfortable, perhaps feeling like a stranger in a setting he was completely unaccustomed to. With a worn-down gesture, he motioned for Enrique to approach. Enrique excused himself and obeyed.

“Fornells, what’s happened to you? You look terrible.”

The bags under his eyes hung like flaccid half-empty sachets, his nose reddened, his face flushed like an alcoholic’s, all swollen, the result of countless hours of work, no sleep, and a healthy brace of carajillos to stay on the go.

The captain simply looked at him long and hard with his weary eyes, crisscrossed by an infinite mesh of reddish thread veins.

“We need to talk,” he finally said.

“Okay. If you want we can talk in an office here. I’m sure Mr. Puigventós can arrange it.”

Fornells, impassive, shook his head.

“No, no. We need to talk at the station. I have a squad car waiting for us outside.”

Enrique felt unnerved by Fornells’s request. He had always thought that law enforcement agencies were there to protect and serve citizens, not punish them. That was why he’d never had the uneasy feeling that runs down some people’s spines whenever they pass a police officer. But this time, despite his clear conscience, he detected that something was definitely wrong. This having to go to the station … and Fornells’s tone, so distant, so unfriendly compared to previous conversations, told him as much.

“All right. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just say good-bye to my friends.”

“Sure,” agreed Fornells, with a gesture of his hand. “I’ll be waiting outside on the sidewalk, by the steps. Don’t be long.”

“Don’t worry. Just time enough to say good-bye and get my jacket from the office.”

Fornells headed out the door without another word. Enrique went back to the group who, watching from a distance, had remained in expectant silence during the conversation.

“What’s happening? Any news?” Samuel asked. “Have they found anything?”

“I don’t know. He just told me we have to talk at the police station, but he didn’t add anything else.”

“They’ve probably discovered something,” Puigventós contributed.

“I don’t think so. You know that Fornells was an old friend of my father’s, and he’d taken the case like it was something personal. He seemed too upset to be bearing any good news. I’ll just go up to the office to fetch my jacket. Come with me?” he asked Mariola.

“Sure.”

“I’ll let you know if there’ve been any developments. See you soon, and thanks for all your help.”

Puigventós and Samuel bid him farewell. Then, Mariola led him to the service elevator. Rendered mute, Enrique was unable to hide his concern.

“Hopefully he’ll have some good news,” Mariola said.

“Yeah, I hope so,” Enrique answered vacantly. Mariola decided it best to keep quiet. They came to the office. There, Enrique gathered his jacket, and they began walking toward the exit in silence. From the top of the Boulevard dels Antiquaris stairs, he could see Fornells leaning on a corner of the wall outside, waiting, a cigarette dangling lazily from his lips.

“Seeing you worried makes me worry too. Call me as soon as you finish down there. I’ll be at home.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Please don’t forget.” Enrique thought her voice concealed a small plea.

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he said, and he gave her a soft kiss as if to confirm his intentions.

Seeing him approach, Fornells tossed his cigarette to the ground and crushed it with a nonchalant stomp of his foot.

“Car’s over there. Let’s go.” He pointed to a vehicle double-parked along the Passeig de Gràcia service lane.

Alongside the vehicle, Fornells silently directed Enrique to the backseat door. He opened it; Detective Rodríguez, who greeted him with a nod, was waiting inside. He sat down and closed the door, which gave off an ominous clang. The squad car started up and made its arduous way into the ever-dense Barcelona traffic. Impatient, Fornells uttered a single word.

“Go.”

The driver, a uniformed patrolman, switched on the siren. The car picked up speed. All the other traffic made way for it as if it was a leper, making it possible for them to pull up to the Raval Precinct station just five minutes later. They had to open Enrique’s door from the outside, as it was permanently locked from within. With Fornells on one side, Rodríguez on the other, and the patrolman behind him, for the first time since they had left the Boulevard, Enrique became fully aware of his situation: he was, plainly and simply, under arrest.

16

Inside Captain Fornells’s office, seated before an incredibly untidy desk awash with odd scraps of paper, folders, and other documents, Enrique waited patiently for someone to tell him what the hell was going on. He’d been sitting there for nearly an hour, alone. Once they’d arrived at the station, the patrolman had disappeared, and Fornells and Rodríguez had taken him into the office without a single word. Time crept by, and the uncertainty was wreaking havoc on Enrique.

Something was definitely amiss, but what? Had they found out about the manuscript being hidden? He was fully aware of having hidden potential evidence related to Artur’s murder; Carlos had told him so. But the killer was behind bars; given that, withholding the manuscript now seemed trivial. If they had figured it out, he could understand that they were miffed, but there was no need to put on this whole show. In any case, he doubted that was why they’d brought him there. It seemed too insubstantial.

Rodríguez opened the office door, but halted before entering.

“It’s Fornells. Says he won’t be long,” he heard someone say.

Then the captain’s deputy closed the door and took a seat next to Enrique before his boss’s desk.

“Please excuse the delay. Just as we were getting here the medical examiner called and we had to leave you to look into other matters. Fornells is on his way. He’ll be here within ten minutes. In the meantime, if you like, we can get started.”

“Started with what?” Enrique asked, confused.

Rodríguez took a photograph from a folder and handed it to him.

“Know him?”

“Yeah, I know him.”

The large-format photograph was a shot of Manolo’s face. It must have been taken on a solemn occasion: Manolo, dressed in coat and tie, had carefully combed his hair and otherwise gave off a dapper appearance that was far from his usual dishevelment.

“Do you know his name and what he does for a living?”

“His name is Manuel Álvarez. He’s a philologist.”

“When did you meet him?”

“Excuse me, but before we continue, if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a question. Is this an interrogation?”

The detective meditated on his answer.

“Not officially, but you could call it that.”

“I don’t understand what’s going on. Maybe you could enlighten me.”

“It’s pretty simple. Let me give you a rundown. At about twenty to one this morning we got a call alerting us to some kind of disturbance in an uptown Barcelona building. The call was from a retiree who lives alone. He’d heard some moaning, and then, silence. Our retiree doesn’t think much of it; it could be anything—a couple making love, that dog on the fourth floor with a discipline problem that gets beaten more than it gets petted. But when he goes to take out the trash, he notices that the door to the second-floor apartment is ajar. He thinks the owner, who he’s known for years and describes as extremely absentminded, has unwittingly left it open. He raps on the door with his knuckles but gets no response. Then he rings the doorbell. Same thing. He decides to close the door, but curiosity gets the better of him and he takes a look inside. Smack in the middle of the entry hall is his neighbor, or rather, his neighbor’s corpse.”

“Manolo? Dead?”

“Yes. Dead. Absolutely dead.”

At that point, Rodríguez stopped talking, and in his silence he brazenly studied Enrique’s reactions.

“Look, there’s Fornells. He’s back from the morgue, where they just finished the autopsy. He’ll have the medical examiner’s report with all the details.”

“Murdered.” Enrique whispered, devastated.

“Yes, murdered,” Fornells answered after opening the office door and closing it behind him. “You brief him?”

“Just on the neighbor’s testimony.”

“Funny. How’d you know he’d been murdered if no one told you?”

“Intuition,” Enrique allowed.

“Nice intuition. So nice, in fact, that you’ll have to tell us about it in greater detail. Look, Mr. Manuel Álvarez Pinzón, born on the curious date of February 29, taken out just last night, not even seventeen hours ago, for reasons completely unbeknownst to us. No signs of force around the door, and from the way the body was lying in the entry hall, we gather he was murdered at the very moment, or a few seconds after, he opened the door. The killer used a sharp metal object, like scissors, a letter opener, or a screwdriver. He stabbed him through his right eye socket all the way back to his brain; it took him about a minute to die. In that time, the killer tried to silence his victim’s cries with a white handkerchief, but he didn’t quite manage to, judging from the neighbor’s report.

“The murderer’s identity as well as the motive are unknown. Nonetheless, we do have some information we think useful to get the investigation kicked off, some of which is quite revealing: the apartment was thoroughly ransacked, until whoever it was found whatever they were looking for. The other evidence doesn’t clarify much, but we were hoping your contribution would help us tie up some loose ends: Béatrice Dale, your ex-wife, currently residing in what was once Artur’s—now your—residence, went last Monday morning to the University of Barcelona, where she met with Joaquim Pagés, professor of classical philology. Béatrice needed help with a translation, and Mr. Pagés introduced her to his department’s leading expert, Mr. Álvarez. You take it from here, Juan.”

Rodríguez, lost in thought, took a second to respond to his superior’s entreaty.

“Sorry, Fornells, my mind was somewhere else. Look, today’s Wednesday; just two weeks ago, at almost the same time, Enrique came into this station to get information on his adoptive father’s murder. I even seem to remember that it was me who ran down our main theories, and you, just like today, came in a little later.”

“You’re right. Life is full of those little coincidences,” Fornells conceded. “But today’s meeting is different from the one we had fourteen days ago, in so many ways. Back then, it was us trying to tell Enrique about one murder.”

“And today it’s Enrique who’s going to tell us about another. Isn’t that right?”

Both policemen fixed Enrique with their stares, awaiting the only answer possible.

“Yes.” He rubbed his eyes before answering. “I’ll tell you everything I know.”

Over the next three hours, while the two policemen took page after page of notes, Enrique gave a detailed account of everything that had occurred since Bety had told him of his father’s death. He began with the letter Artur sent him before he died, in which he told of his discovery and the fears it made him feel. He placed special emphasis on his initial suspicious, in which Guillem and Enric, and on a different level, Samuel, could be considered suspects of the crime, as they had learned of the discovery during their last get-together on Friday, April 22. Those suspicions grew when he received firm offers for Artur’s shop and antiques from all three of them. He told how his friend Carlos Hidalgo had helped investigate them—the good alibis that seemed to rule them out as suspects—in addition to the idea of the trap, a last resort to unmask the possible killer. When Bety told him of the Frenchman’s arrest on Sunday, May 8, any theory of the three suspects being linked to the killing was debunked. Brésard seemed to meet all the criteria to be the murderer everyone was looking for, so Carlos dismantled the undercover surveillance he had working for Enrique, considering the matter closed. In the meantime, Bety began investigating the manuscript at the root of the whole affair on her own. In so doing, she met Manolo, as they had correctly said, through Quim Pagés. Manolo, by unimaginable coincidence, also knew of the existence of the object described in the manuscript, and was happy to help. He told them about the nature of the object, the Stone of God. Then, Enrique gave him the manuscript to study in detail, an essential requirement to solve the case, as Manolo himself had said. From then on, he didn’t know what had happened.

After he finished his account, Fornells and Rodríguez exchanged doubtful looks. The veteran captain yielded to his subordinate with a weary wave of his hand, meaning for him to continue the questioning. Rodríguez made known his intention to get the whole truth from Enrique’s statement.

“You should know that there are several points you’ll have to clarify for us. But before starting with the questions I want to know why you didn’t tell us about the manuscript before. I perfectly recall it: you were sitting right there in that chair when Fornells asked you to think back to anything that could be related to Artur’s murder.”

“Before I answer, I want to apologize to you. I think I’ve acted irresponsibly—”

“Don’t worry about us,” Fornells cut him off. “Think about poor dead Álvarez. If you’d spoken up when you should have, maybe he’d be alive now, and not cold, dead flesh, recently gutted and resting in the refrigerator of the medical examiner’s office.”

Enrique was left speechless. Fornells had just hit him where it hurt: what responsibility did he have in poor Manolo’s death? Clearly, much more than he could imagine.

“Fornells is right, but only partly so. If you had spoken up when you should have we may not have caught the killer, but we might have been able to prevent this tragedy. So answer my question.”

“I … When Fornells asked me for more information I didn’t want to say anything so I could figure out the mystery in the manuscript myself. I thought that if I told you about it, you’d seize it as evidence. That was at first; later, when I got those offers to buy Artur’s business, I realized what an odd coincidence it was. My friend Carlos agreed: he said, literally, that there’s no such thing as coincidence. That’s why he investigated the three suspects, though he didn’t find anything that incriminated them.”

“So in a word, you kept quiet so it would be you who solved the mystery of the manuscript,” Fornells cut in once again. “Your motive was ambition. Isn’t that right? You wanted all the glory, all the accolades, for yourself: cracking the manuscript and solving the mystery, catching the killer with your own two hands.” He was losing control as he spoke, his hostility rising. “Why the hell couldn’t you trust us? That, by far, is what pisses me off the most! You came in here with your tail between your legs! We looked after you like we don’t look after anybody, and this is how you pay us back!”

“Fornells,” Rodríguez piped up, trying to soothe his nerves, “let’s step outside a minute.”

The two policemen convened briefly outside the office. Aside from feeling partly responsible for Manolo’s death, Enrique deeply regretted having lied to Fornells. The captain was right: thanks to his longstanding friendship with Artur, he had informed Enrique of investigation details that victims’ family members rarely learn about. He also remembered that Monday morning in London Bar, when Fornells had told him the story of the young Artur, things that Enrique would never have known if it hadn’t been for Fornells’s kindness. He had every right to feel let down, professionally as well as personally.

After the few minutes the policemen had spent arguing, Rodríguez came back into the office.

“He’s really offended. He’s also pissed off, but what bugs him the most is that you didn’t tell him, and the mistrust that signifies.”

“I wish I could tell you how sorry I am.”

“Too late,” Rodríguez spat mercilessly. “There’s no helping Álvarez now, and Fornells will get over it sooner or later. Now then, if you’re feeling so repentant, and I don’t doubt your honesty, forget about how bad you feel and concentrate on answering my questions.”

“Okay.”

“Is the letter Artur sent you here in Barcelona?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll need it. What did Hidalgo think about your theory?”

“He thought all three suspects had good alibis. He didn’t think any of them did it, but he was willing to indulge me with the trap we set for them. I want you to know that he thought we should share the information with the police. Keeping you in the dark seemed outrageous to him, and he told me it could even be a felony.”

“He was right to inform you and wrong not to notify us of your theories,” Rodríguez mused. “But his prerogative as a private investigator includes keeping information like that to himself. Tell me something: do you realize what could have happened to you using yourself as bait?”

“Yes. But I trust Carlos with my life: we’ve been friends since childhood, and I know he’s a competent professional. He organized surveillance that we canceled Sunday night, as soon as I got home and Bety told me the Frenchman had been arrested.”

“I remember that, when we were talking on the phone, you swore when you found out it was Brésard.”

“It seemed incredible to me that it wasn’t Guillem or Enric. Everything pointed to their being guilty!”

“I notice you leave out Samuel Horowitz.”

“No, it couldn’t have been him. I never thought he could be involved. He’d been friends with my father since the fifties—and not just any friend, but one of the best.”

“Samuel Horowitz is Jewish, just like this stone you’ve been telling us about.”

“He never would’ve done anything like that,” Enrique insisted. “Plus, he had an alibi.”

“Just like your other two suspects. Try to understand that, as the last people to see Artur alive, we need to know all their movements over the entire weekend. And like Carlos told you, the alibis are good. Tell me about the manuscript.”

“It’s a very old log book, large for that sort of thing, about two hand spans high, and one wide. The binding is calfskin, almost black, darkened by the passage of so many years. The cover is decorated with low-relief gold embossing on the leather, a foliate design.”

“Hold on, you’re getting too technical. Could you sketch it?” He slid him a pen and paper.

“Sure.”

Enrique began to draw the likeness of the cover he had used to house the Casadevall manuscript.

Once he had finished the sketch, he handed it to Rodríguez, who went out into the corridor, and gave it, along with some instructions, to one of the investigators.

“He’s going to see if it’s in the victim’s home. I’m absolutely positive they’re not going to find it, but I have to try anyway. Do you have a copy of its content?”

“A bunch of notes, and an incomplete, flawed translation. Bety may have a transcript that would make up for what mine lacks.”

“How much is the manuscript worth?”

“I’m no expert, but probably quite a bit.”

“Is the Stone of God some kind of precious stone?”

“It could be a large emerald.”

“Somebody’s going to too much trouble for it to be a nonexistent or worthless object. Next question: what’s Bety doing still in Barcelona?”

Enrique sighed.

“She came to help me. I was very close to Artur, more than most people are to their parents. Maybe because he adopted me. Anyway, Bety was worried, so she arranged it with her university and showed up by surprise last Wednesday.”

“You two are divorced, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And your relationship is strictly platonic?”

“There’s no sex,” Enrique clarified bluntly. “In fact, we hadn’t seen each other in months.”

“Where were you yesterday afternoon and last night?”

Enrique caught on to the intention behind Rodríguez’s questions. He was checking out his alibi for the time of Manolo’s death, nothing more, nothing less.

“At Mariola Puigventós’s house.”

“Until what time?”

“I think I left around twelve thirty.”

“Give me Ms. Puigventós’s address and phone.”

Enrique dictated the information.

“Now, tell me about her.”

“She’s the daughter of Pere Puigventós, president of the Antiquarians’ Association of Catalonia.”

“How would you describe your relationship?”

Enrique vacillated. He wasn’t sure how to answer that one.

“Well, I guess you could say we’re a couple.”

Rodríguez raised his eyes from his folder to gaze at Enrique with a smile laced with sarcasm.

“Are you telling me that you’re living in Barcelona with your ex-wife, but that you have another stable partner here in this Mariola Puigventós?”

“Yes, that’s right,” he answered uncomfortably. “I can explain that, I suppose.”

“I’m dying to hear it.” Rodríguez cut him off with a mischievous smile.

“When Bety came last Wednesday, Mariola and I still hadn’t … The truth is, we hadn’t seen each other for at least twelve years or more. She was living in New York. She was married to an American, but they separated four years ago and she decided to come back to Spain.” Enrique paused. The situation was getting out of his hands, and having to make such disclosures seemed sordid. “Listen, do I really have to tell you all this?”

“If you’re asking me that, you’re still not too aware of your situation.” Rodríguez’s face had lost any trace of playfulness and taken on a veneer of uncharacteristic severity.

“Maybe you should tell me just what that situation is,” Enrique implored.

“It’s straightforward enough. Fornells doesn’t think you’re a suspect in Artur’s or Manolo’s killings. I agree with him on the first case; Mikel Garaikoetxea has confirmed you went out sailing the morning of Sunday, April 24. Your boat, the Hispaniola, isn’t registered as having docked at any of the nearby ports, and anchoring it, according to the experts consulted, would’ve been impossible in that weather. They told us that even the best anchors would’ve broken out and your boat would’ve been smashed on the rocks so you must have been out at sea. As for the second murder, if you don’t mind, I’ll reserve my opinion until we’re done with the questioning. In any event, I recommend you don’t take offense at the questions I have to ask you. I’m asking them because the investigation calls for them. I’m not Dear Abby, so cut the crap and answer me!”

Discovering that he was being investigated in relation to Artur’s murder terrified Enrique, and he finally understood how deeply vulnerable he was. Rodríguez was analyzing each of his answers with the clear intent of discovering his true role in the story. Yet, before he could continue, he had to ask the inevitable question.

“Do you really think I could have had anything to do with my father’s death?” he asked in disbelief.

“Oh, come on! Just because you’re some kind of celebrity doesn’t make you immune to the temptation of windfall wealth!” Rodríguez smiled. “It’s obvious that our job is to investigate family members and friends. Statistics show that between ninety and ninety-five percent of all murders are committed by a relative or acquaintance of the victim. And if to that little rule you add the existence of an estate like the one Artur left to you, you’ll agree that looking into you is nothing less than obligatory. So anyway, you were sailing. You couldn’t have murdered Artur. But let’s not get offtrack. You were trying to explain the relationship between Mariola Puigventós and Béatrice Dale.”

“Puigventós, Mariola’s father, offered to hold an auction to liquidate Artur’s business,” Enrique continued. “Mariola took charge of preparing the auction, where Fornells picked me up this afternoon. As it happens, Sunday afternoon, after working all weekend in Artur’s shop, she invited me to dinner at her house, and … For now, I’m living at Artur’s house, where Bety’s also staying until she leaves, but Mariola and I are, well, a couple. I think.”

“Now was that so difficult? Does Ms. Puigventós know of the existence of the Casadevall manuscript and the Stone of God?”

“Partly.”

“Couples don’t usually keep secrets from each other.”

“I told her a part of the mystery so she’d understand why Bety was still in Barcelona.”

“I don’t get it. Do you mean she was jealous of Ms. Dale?”

“No. Well … yes. I mean, she knows I’m faithful, but she doesn’t approve of our situation.”

“How much of the Stone of God story does she know?”

“She thinks that Bety’s trying to translate an old manuscript that could possibly help us with an unsolved mystery. She doesn’t know more than that.”

“Why are you hiding it from her?”

“I’m not hiding anything from her. The thing is, by the time we talked about the translation, I wasn’t interested in the mystery anymore. That’s why I only told her the basics, the part that explained what Bety, Ms. Dale, was still doing in Barcelona.”

“That’s hard, very hard, to believe.” He pointed a pen at Enrique. “Convince me I’m wrong.”

“You’ll be surprised, but it’s partly Fornells’s fault.” Enrique delivered a quick summary of Monday morning, when Fornells had revealed the truth about Artur’s past, and how it had influenced his state of mind. Rodríguez took careful note of the story in his notebook.

“Okay. Let’s go on. You left Ms. Puigventós’s house at twelve thirty. What did you do then?”

“I went back to Vallvidrera. I got there around one.” Enrique anticipated Rodríguez’s question.

“Interesting. Very interesting. Do you know where our victim Manuel Álvarez lived?”

“No. Bety offered to drive him home Monday night, but I wasn’t paying attention.”

“He lived on Muntaner Street, near the highway.”

Enrique comprehended the rock-hard reality that Rodríguez was angling at with that statement. Manolo’s apartment was on the way from Mariola’s to Artur’s. So close that it could be reached with a ten-minute walk, if that. Anyone leaving Mariola’s at twelve thirty could have committed the crime and made it to Vallvidrera twenty minutes later.

“You got home around one, and Ms. Dale was there.”

“Yes.”

“Does Ms. Dale have a date set to return to San Sebastián?”

“The initial idea was for her to go back today or tomorrow. But I don’t think Bety’s going to do it until she’s solved the manuscript mystery.”

“Whether or not she was planning on going back, she should postpone it until she’s spoken with us. Would you happen to know where we could find her?”

“No. Last night we had … I guess you could call it an argument; and this morning, when I woke up, she was already gone. I suppose you could find her at the archbishopric’s archive, or in Casa de l’Ardiaca.”

“Mind telling me what the argument was about?”

Enrique felt like a boxer hammered by his opponent, seeking refuge in the corners of the ring. Of the entire interrogation, this was the part that hurt the worst; he felt like a neighborhood tough, being forced to own up.

“I think she was jealous of Mariola,” he said, sighing.

“Let’s see: you said your relationship was purely platonic. Your girlfriend is Mariola, not Bety. Am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong. I suppose that Bety still has some of the old passion that she once felt for me.”

“And the feeling isn’t mutual?”

“Before I met Mariola it was. It’s not anymore.”

“I see. Well, well. That’s some story,” he said, as if to himself, as he went over his copious notes. “Some story. All right. I guess that’ll do.”

“So am I free to go then?”

Rodríguez deliberately made Enrique squirm by thinking his response through with utter calm.

“Yes. But before you do I want you to know two things. First, your story matches that of Ms. Dale, who we had already questioned in another room of the station and is now waiting for you in the lobby.”

Blindsided, Enrique felt his strength bleeding out. Bety questioned as well! Thank God he had told the whole truth!

“That’s good news for you. Second, you can’t consider yourselves free from all suspicion—especially not you, for reasons not too hard to imagine—at least until we’ve spoken with Ms. Puigventós. I recommend you be cautious. Stay reachable, as much as you can, with your cell phones on. The department has several investigations underway that may require your collaboration. Is that all clear? Any questions?”

Enrique shook his head.

“Fornells—” he started.

“Forget it. It would be counterproductive.”

When Enrique opened the office door, Rodríguez stopped him with a new remark.

“One more thing,” he said without raising his eyes from his notes, “I said I was reserving my opinion about your guilt until after the interrogation. There’s a lot of information that could incriminate or at least relate you to Álvarez’s death. But I don’t think you’re the killer. It’s all too obvious, excessively evident. No, if you were guilty, you’d be the most idiotic killer in the history of criminology. Although, that’s exactly how I think you’ve acted throughout this entire thing: like an idiot.”

Leaving the office with his tail between his legs, Enrique went down the dark stairwell to the lobby following Rodríguez’s instructions. And there was Bety, sitting in an armchair as old and dilapidated as the rest of the police station, next to a low table covered with the much-handled remnants of what had been gossip magazines. She was gazing absently at the pockmarked ceiling. The rings under her eyes clearly showed that she had been crying a lot. Seeing Enrique, she jumped up and ran to meet him. She hugged him in the middle of the lobby. The two officers standing guard at the door watched them coldly, hardened by years of experience observing human misery. Ill at ease, Enrique kept walking through the lobby until they had left the building. They went slowly down the stairs, in a silence broken only by Bety’s muffled sobs.

They went out onto the street. It was drizzling. They walked toward the Ramblas under a gray sky tinged with a slight pinkish glow from the reflection of Barcelona’s lights. A few people looked at them with curiosity, although the majority, residents of a poor and marginalized neighborhood and preoccupied enough with their own problems, didn’t pay them the slightest attention. A couple leaving the police station in their state wasn’t all that uncommon.

They reached the Ramblas. There would have been more pedestrians had it not been for the light rain. Without realizing it, Enrique ambled toward the sea, but he stopped in front of Santa Mónica church. Bety was too upset to keep walking. There, under the cover of an immense plane tree whose leaves barely afforded them shelter from the rain’s quickening intensity, they embraced again until at last she stopped shaking and calmed down.

17

Bety and Enrique arrived at the Vallvidrera house an hour later. She’d been quiet the entire trip, still rattled by the course of events, so far from what she’d expected. The vision of Manolo seemed to float over the windshield, in time to the wipers, fading out again in the rainwater that momentarily settled on the glass. Enrique drove by inertia, his mind a blank, devoid of all thought.

He would have liked to have said many things, but he didn’t know how, nor did he think it would be worthwhile. The trip to Passeig de Gràcia, where he’d parked his car in the morning, proved that any attempt to reason about the situation would be as vain as it was impossible. His feeling of guilt had grown incessantly, flogging his mind, churning inside him; it even affected him physically. His initial unease had ended up as a desire to fall into bed and sleep, to sleep and forget the whole world, to lose himself in dreams for time unending, until he could awake and remember nothing.

Once inside the house, he ran a bath with abundant, near-scalding water. He helped Bety get undressed with complete naturalness. She seemed calm, too calm, her face relaxed but her vacant gaze lingering. He wrapped her in a bathrobe and walked her to the tub. She was so fragile, so vulnerable, with that look typical of children attacked by the world’s cruelty. He took her hand in his. Somewhat later, the shine in her eyes subtly changed: her pupils had contracted. Bety was returning to reality, soothed by the gentle rocking movements Enrique made with the sponge he was using to bathe her body.

“What have I done? What have I done?”

“You haven’t done anything. In any case, it’s both our fault.”

Bety shook in the bathtub.

“That’s not true, that’s not true,” she whispered gloomily. “I wanted to find the Stone when you’d already given up. I found a translator capable of cracking the enigma. I’m responsible for his death.”

“Don’t say that, it’s not true. This whole mess began when I hid the manuscript from the police. That’s the only truth. Or maybe it began even before that, when Casadevall himself accepted the mysterious assignment from S. and decided to write his damned manuscript. Why did he have to leave clues to the mystery within everyone’s reach? Why couldn’t he have kept the enigma to himself, silencing it forever with his death?”

“It doesn’t matter what you say. Nothing can change what’s happened. Nothing can keep me from feeling guilty.”

Bety wasn’t willing to let any reason disrupt the nefarious role that she’d chosen for herself. Worried, Enrique watched her: there she was before him, nude, sitting in a full bathtub, her legs drawn up to her body, her torso hunched over them, embracing them with her arms. Her chin rested on her knees, keeping her head up. Her eyes, skittish, darting, were lost in the infinity that lay beyond the bathroom wall. She needed to face the problem without dodging her part of the responsibility—which could not be denied—but without irrationally adding to it, either. He needed her near him. He needed her insightful intelligence, her pragmatic rationalism. He had to break up her state however he could; he needed her help. And the easiest way to get her to react would be to make her angry.

“Insisting on your blame won’t get us anywhere,” he reflected, suddenly inspired. “Destiny plays its hand as it pleases. Its dice are loaded, and they tumble according to its will. Do you think Manolo’s death was your fault? Don’t be stupid! He was as blinded by the light of knowledge, or rather, ambition, as you might have been. Or did he not spend years researching everything he could on the Stone of God? It could be that at first, taken in by a mystery from the past, he was guided by curiosity, the desire to know, as he himself told us in the study. But he couldn’t fool me.” Bety abandoned her lax posture, readying to speak her mind, but Enrique continued his tirade. “And he couldn’t fool me, because I myself could see, perfectly, in his face, as I saw in yours, and as I had seen in mine, the symptoms of a mad thirst for knowledge. All three of us were possessed by the demon of ambition: the ambition to discover, to possess, to reveal. Or did you not dream about the prestige you would get from the Stone? Did you not dream about the fame, the interviews, the glory? The Stone itself, aside from all these fantasies that Shackermann told Manolo, was a priceless object! Answer me! Did you not dream about that?”

“Yes! Of course I dreamed about it!” she answered, choking the beginning of a sob. “Why are you blaming me for that? You did too!”

“That’s true,” he answered as coldly as possible, “and now I curse myself for it. I wanted to go beyond what was reasonable, and the consequences were completely unpredictable. My recklessness led us to this.”

“Nothing will bring Manolo back,” Bety said remorsefully.

“You’re getting so bogged down in that that you’re overlooking the details.”

“Then tell me about them, please.” Anger began to take the place of sadness.

“I will, but the truth isn’t pretty.”

Bety impatiently awaited the great revelation, ready to refute it tooth and nail, already prey to Enrique’s trap.

“Have you ever stopped to think about yourself instead of others? Because that’s the first thing you should do when your life could be in danger. Or do you think that the murderer, who has successively eliminated all of his competitors, systematically and in cold blood, isn’t aware of our relationship with Manolo? They could only have known what he was doing by watching us. I’m sure the police have come to the same conclusion.”

Bety felt defenseless. There was no other explanation. Immersed in her grief, she’d been unable to think about the causes of Manolo’s murder.

“According to Rodríguez, in the police’s eyes, we’re not suspects. We can believe that or not. He may have said it to make us overconfident and then see how we react. It may well be true, but as I was leaving he told me something I’ll never forget: without even bothering to look up from the file he was reading, he told me that throughout this whole affair, I’d acted like an idiot. And he was absolutely right. But what about the killer? Have you stopped to think about him?”

“No.”

“Well the time has come,” Enrique said. “And not to solve the mystery, but for many other things. First of all, to prove our innocence. It infuriates me to think of them linking me to Artur’s death! Second, for our own safety: two people tied to the manuscript have died, and I don’t want either you or me to be added to the list. And third, to unmask the son of a bitch who’s out on the streets killing anyone he likes. Are you going to just sit there in the bathtub all day or are you going to help me?” She got up, and Enrique handed her the bathrobe.

“I’ll help you.”

An hour later, sitting in the kitchen, surrounded by the remnants of dinner of which Bety had scarcely eaten a bite, Enrique went back over everything that had happened in the past three weeks. He drew up an outline on a sheet of paper detailing the main events, in much the same way he prepared his novels. On this sheet, a jumble of lines and circles of different sizes crisscrossed in every direction, a faithful portrayal of the wild search for a nonexistent murderer who had proven to be real, and a fabled stone with the name of God written on it. Bety, nestled in her robe, slowly sipped a cup of coffee as she listened attentively to Enrique’s explanations.

“So then, what do you think?” asked Enrique once he had finished.

“Have you considered the possibility that the notebook Manolo gave you could contain anything helpful?”

“Yes. I’ve read through it line by line. It’s full of notes and sketches. But if it contains the key, it’s beyond my grasp.”

“Carlos,” she finally said. “You’ve got to go to Carlos. Everything you’ve said is right, but I can’t find the common link to all of it, the key to the murders. Carlos could help us.”

Enrique thought over her words. Bety’s keen wit, which had so often helped him when he was blocked on the plots of his novels, seemed all but present. But he wasn’t one to criticize her; he was waiting for an unseen stroke of genius to serve up a solution on a silver platter. The typical clue hidden in plain sight, a triviality previously overlooked precisely due to its seeming insignificance. He was sure he had sense enough to solve the mystery, but he couldn’t quite fit the pieces together. Even so, Bety was offering a reasonable solution: going to Carlos would bolster their safety. His insight would help them.

“You need to tell him the whole story,” she said. “First of all, because you involved him in this and now the police could give him trouble. And second, because he’s the only person capable of helping us.”

“All right.”

He called his old friend. The same woman’s voice that had answered two weeks ago now picked up the receiver and answered in a weary tone. Enrique asked for Carlos, who came on the line right away. Informed of the stunning developments in a case that had seemed closed, he promised to do some fact-finding over the next few hours. He advised them to stay together and reachable, if possible, in the Vallvidrera house, until he got back in touch with them.

Enrique then called Mariola. She was worried and angry in equal measure; when Enrique was late phoning her, she had called the Raval station herself and asked for him. They told her that he’d left the station around eight thirty. Mariola imagined that whatever it was had to be important if Enrique hadn’t called, but she was also hurt, for precisely the same reason. She correctly deduced that he wasn’t alone, that he was with Bety. On that score, her anger outweighed her concern. The presence of her lover’s ex-wife fueled her jealousy. It took Enrique a long time to put everything right; the mention of the danger they were in was reason enough to overcome the trouble of him spending another night with his ex-wife. When Enrique hung up half an hour later, he felt even more worn-out than when he’d left the police station. Between one thing and another, he was exhausted. In order to think clearly, he needed to fall into bed and sleep for twelve hours straight.

Dark circles under her eyes and an air of distraction told him that the same was true for Bety, yet her mind was working overtime.

“Wait a minute. While you were talking to Mariola, I was thinking about Manolo’s murder—” Bety stopped herself when she saw Enrique’s mask of exhaustion. “Do me a favor and concentrate a minute. I feel no better than you, and I wouldn’t stand between you and bed if it weren’t important.”

“Fine,” Enrique conceded with a gesture of exasperation. “Go on.”

“I’m not all that sure why they killed Artur. I think that whoever did it knew about the manuscript and wanted it for themselves. Artur may have been aware of the value that the Stone had. We’ll never know. You thought that only one of the three suspects, Samuel, Enric, or Guillem, could be guilty. But what if there was someone else? Someone we don’t know? Someone who spoke to Artur after the gathering on Friday?

“Let’s go back a few days before Manolo’s death. The killer knew we had the manuscript. They were following us. It’s the only possible explanation; they could kill Manolo because they knew he had the manuscript, and not only that, they were sure that right then he was leading the investigation on where to find the Stone of God. In fact, they could have killed us. Is there anyone who could’ve stopped them? I mean, after the police arrested the Frenchman, the alleged suspect, and Carlos took down the surveillance detail he set up after the trap? The killer could have acted at will. And you know what? I’ve been going over that part of the problem and I keep coming to the same conclusion: he didn’t, because he had no idea where to find the Stone. He didn’t have the manuscript. That’s why he followed Manolo, to take advantage of his work, and if he killed him it was because he’d figured out where to find it. I’m sure of it. Poor Manolo had discovered it, if he didn’t already have it with him.”

Bety ratified her own conviction as she spoke, the emphasis on her words increasing. The theory seemed to have fully woken her back up.

“So what do we do now?” asked Enrique.

“We have to figure out whether Manolo had found the Stone. He may have done. In that case, the killer took the Stone and took the manuscript to get rid of any possible clues that would lead us to it, and of course, if that’s true, we no longer matter to him. It’s also possible that he knows where Casadevall hid the Stone and still hasn’t been able to get it. Finally, if he doesn’t have it, he may think we know where to find it. In that case, we’re still in danger; we’re still his rivals.”

“Why wouldn’t he have it already, if he knew the hiding place?”

“How do I know? I think that if the killer took the manuscript, he did it because Manolo didn’t have the Stone yet, and he doesn’t know where it’s hidden.”

“He might have taken it to cover his path, destroy the evidence. If we reconstruct Manolo’s final hours we’ll know—”

Bety finished his train of thought. “Where he was, or probably, where the Stone his hidden. The police must know. They’ll know everything Manolo did in his last hours alive, just like they found out about our ties with him through Quim.”

“And not only that, if we find the Stone, we’ll smoke out the killer.”

“If we did, he’d come at it like a moth to a flame. Or maybe it’d be enough to wait and stake out its hiding place. Carlos can probably figure it out. If he got the information on Artur’s murder, he’ll be able to get whatever there is on Manolo. But we won’t know that until tomorrow,” Bety said. “In the meantime, let’s get some sleep.”

Their eyes met. Bety gave him a weak smile whose brevity detracted nothing from its beauty. Her instincts were working again.

Enrique spent the night in a dreamless sleep. He was overwhelmed by a rare drowsiness that he’d felt only on a few specific occasions, like his long solo sailing trips that lasted a week or more. Once back in port, at home, or even locked in the cabin itself, he could sleep twenty-four hours straight.

He would have done the same thing that day had it not been for a playful sunbeam shining through his window and dappling his face. He got out of bed with a gaping yawn. He raised the blinds and pulled back the curtains. Outside it was partly cloudy, but the sun fought persistently against the tall and cottony clouds scudding across the sky. The storm that had doused the city the night before was drifting away over the Mediterranean, seemingly taking all the bad omens of the previous afternoon with it.

Snug in his robe, Enrique looked around the house for Bety. He found a note: she had gone for a run. ‘We all fight our problems as we like. I sleep, she runs,” he said to himself. He checked the time: half past noon. He had slept twelve hours straight and still his body begged for more. He made breakfast and settled in on the terrace. After a while, Bety returned, slick with sweat and a towel draped over her shoulders.

“Good morning,” she said in a neutral tone that revealed nothing about her mood.

“Hi,” he answered. “How was your workout?”

“Tiring,” she admitted. “I didn’t sleep well at all. Well, the truth is I didn’t get more than a few hours’ sleep. But a couple of miles always do a body good.”

The wind, constant yet mild, had completely cleared the sky over the city, which was usually cloaked in grayish smog. Barcelona lay in absolute splendor at their feet. Somewhere in the great city, someone was poring over the Casadevall manuscript, striving to find where the Stone of God was hidden.

And all he could do was sit there and wait.

The telephone startled him out of his daydream. He and Bety jumped up at once, as if wired to the ring. Enrique gave her a look to make it clear he would answer. Bety expectantly followed him to the living room.

“Hello?”

“This is Carlos. Enrique, we have to talk. Can you guys come by the office?”

“Sure, of course. We’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be waiting for you,” he said, and hung up.

“Carlos wants to talk to us. He wants us to come to his office in Plaça Reial in a little while.”

“I’ll just jump in the shower. Give me fifteen minutes.”

* * *

Enrique drove into Barcelona slowly but steadily. Thirty minutes later, they had parked the car in the Hospital Street garage, and after a brief walk down the Ramblas, reached Plaça Reial. They rang the office bell from the street; the only response they got was the door being buzzed open. They went up in the elevator, which was working by then. There were several people in the office. A young man some twenty years old listened carefully to a couple’s statement. In the background, two investigators seemed to discuss the details of a case. Enrique made his way among the desks until coming to Carlos’s office; he was talking on the phone. He waved them to some chairs as he said good-bye to whoever was on the other end of the line.

“What a morning,” he said. “It’s as if every cuckold in Barcelona got together and agreed to hire us today. I’ve got my whole crew running around the city watching every Mr. and Mrs. Unfaithful. Even my wife had to come down here to pitch in. And as if that weren’t enough, here’s this.” He handed them several faxed pages stapled together.

Enrique leafed through them.

“Is that what I think it is?” Bety asked in a soft voice.

“It is,” said Carlos.

Enrique handed the pages back; a sudden chill ran down his back.

“I’m going to use all my credit with my contact in the police station; the investigation’s still open, and this document should never have found its way into my hands. If he didn’t owe me a ton of favors, he would’ve told me to take a hike the minute I asked for it. Actually, he almost did. Let’s see. Bety, this won’t be nice, but I think you should hear it.”

She nodded.

“Your friend Manolo was killed in a way not all that different from the way they murdered Artur,” Carlos said. “They used a letter opener, or a stiletto knife, with a thick but sharp blade. The medical examiner can tell from the diameter and length of the stab wounds. From the position of the body, they think he died just moments after he opened the door; a few seconds was all they needed. Whoever it was took him totally by surprise. There are no defensive wounds; he didn’t even have time to dodge the blow. The police have deduced that the killer could’ve known the victim; it’s just a hypothesis, they’re not sure,” he clarified, raising his eyes from the medical examiner’s report. “It was late, after twelve, not the most likely time for a social call. The approximate time of death is twelve thirty. They actually stabbed him with the murder weapon through the right eye socket all the way back to his brain. The wound was lethal; you could say it took him as long to die as the time it took his brain to realize the damage done.”

Carlos raised his eyes to check on Bety’s reaction. She was pale, her lips pressed together and brow furrowed, but she said nothing and showed no intention of getting up.

“The killer effectively hit the only area where such a wound would be lethal. I assure you that’s no coincidence. I’ve seen my share of murders, and hundreds of reports like this. Usually, to knife someone to death, the killer has to stab them from twenty to thirty times. That kind of viciousness is more a result of an ignorance of anatomy than any real malice, as it’s defined in the penal code: they stab their victim, and when they can’t find that deadly spot that will finish them off, they keep stabbing again and again. The victim’s in pain, they partially lose consciousness because of the pain of the stabs, but they’re still alive, and above all, they move. They move every which way, uncontrollably. The killer loses what little control they had over the situation, and keeps stabbing at a moving body that’s trying to escape from them as fast as if it was fully alive. In truth, most stabbing deaths occur as a consequence of what’s called hypovolemic shock: the victim loses a lot of blood and that causes a rapid drop in their body temperature, which leads to cardiorespiratory arrest. Manolo’s death was unusually fast: a single stab was all it took to send him to wherever it is we go after this life.”

“Excuse me,” Bety murmured, “I’m not feeling too well.”

Her initial paleness had become a milky whiteness, lending proof to her words. She was about to faint. Enrique held her up in her chair while Carlos opened a window and brought her a cup of strong coffee. The brew, potent and thick, together with the cool breeze that came in through the window, helped bring her back around. Carlos continued his explanation.

“There’s not too much else to add on the medical examiner’s report. In the minute after the stabbing, the killer moves Manolo’s legs, closes the door, and stuffs a handkerchief into his mouth to drown out any yelling. He manages to do it, partially. The neighbor who found the body must’ve heard Manolo’s gurgling—just three or four seconds, until the murderer closed the door and stuffed that hankie in his mouth. Once he’s sure that Manolo’s dead he starts searching the apartment. None of the police reports say the motive for the murder or the ransacking, but I have a hunch that you can confirm whether my intuition is right: he was after the manuscript.”

Enrique nodded.

“You say the killer closed the door,” interjected Bety. “But when they were questioning me, they said the old man found the body when he was taking the trash down, and saw the door open.”

“The door to that apartment doesn’t close well; it says so in the police report. It takes a good push to close it all the way. The murderer thought he was closing the door, but it was actually just pulled closed, without the latch of the knob sliding home. A few seconds later, it opened again and stayed slightly ajar. It’s likely that, right after he killed Manolo, he leaned on the door with all his weight, which would have contributed to pushing it closed at that time. In any case, when he fled the scene, he probably tried to close it carefully so as to not make any noise. It must’ve opened when he was already a floor down. He wouldn’t have realized it.”

Carlos served himself another cup of coffee, loading it heavily with sugar.

“Well, the police report tells how they send a bunch of samples—hair, dust, and other fibers—to the lab. Since the death occurred after twelve, and the neighbor found the body before one, the police machinery—which, contrary to popular belief, is highly effective—springs into action. They establish the identity of the victim, his occupation, and a nice big telephone number written on a scrap of paper on his desk, which they find out is your Vallvidrera home phone number. The detective in charge of the case isn’t Fornells, but the phone number matches up with that of a person who was killed three weeks ago. The police computer sounds the alarm; they’re programmed to cross-reference data from different investigations, and when they find the odd coincidence, the detective contacts Fornells, who then takes over the case, with the okay of the other officer. Fornells does the necessary research at the university and discovers Manolo’s connection with Bety. And that’s when they track you two down and take you to the station, where they illegally question you.”

“Rodríguez said it wasn’t an official interrogation.”

“He didn’t want the presence of an attorney to clip his wings.”

“There was no need for an attorney. We’re innocent,” Bety clarified.

“You know that, but the police don’t,” Carlos answered. “I imagine they figured you were innocent, which makes the interrogation doubly diabolical. Someone who’s innocent never thinks to ask for an attorney. There’s an aggravating factor in this case: they know you, and you trust them, so you’d never think they could do you any harm. You were lucky enough to give the same story; a single mistake between either version and you would’ve spent the night behind bars. Bety has no alibi, and you, looking at the times, would have had no problem committing the murder.”

“But it would’ve been ridiculous! I’d had the manuscript! Why kill Manolo?”

“Because maybe you couldn’t find the Stone, and he could.”

“And all this isn’t enough for them to arrest us?” Bety cut in.

“The fact they know you plays in your favor. I get the impression that Fornells, despite it all, believes you’re completely innocent. But he’s furious, especially with you, Enrique, for hiding key evidence. I’d say that your ‘interrogation’ had more to do with a fact-finding mission than any real belief in you as possible suspects.”

Enrique let out a long sigh.

“Do they have alibis?”

“Your three suspects? Yes, they do. And they’re airtight. Samuel had dinner in a crowded restaurant with some old Israeli friends traveling through Spain. Guillem went to see a movie with a woman and another couple. Enric spent the night at his girlfriend’s house in Girona. Everything’s solid and checks out. They’re not, nor will they ever be, suspects,” he stated categorically. “Forget about them.”

“So what happens now?”

“First I’ll outline Manolo’s last movements, according to the police report. After that, we’ll see. He spent Tuesday morning in the Crown of Aragon’s archive. At noon he secured permission from the archbishopric for access to parts of the cathedral that are off-limits to the general public. His application said something about a research project on the evolution of Latin in the ecclesiastic realm. According to the dean’s statement, he wanted to check out the inscriptions that the different master builders of the works left on the walls and floors of the building. He was there all afternoon, until nightfall, in the triforium—what that is I haven’t the foggiest idea—and on the roof. And that’s it.”

Bety and Enrique exchanged a look. The cathedral! There could be no doubt: Manolo had found where the Stone was hidden. Only that would explain why he’d requested clearance from the archbishopric. They nearly spoke at once. Bety ended up taking the initiative.

“He’d found it! We didn’t manage to figure out where Casadevall had hidden it, and just assumed that the key was in the side notes. That’s why we went to him in the first place.”

“Then the killer must have the Stone,” Carlos said.

“We can’t say for sure,” Enrique replied. “It could be that Manolo found the building where Casadevall hid it, but not the exact place. Or maybe he found the place, but couldn’t get the Stone out because he didn’t have the materials or the time.”

“Or maybe he did find it and, as Carlos said, right now it’s in the killer’s hands,” Bety added. “Three options.”

“Casadevall was an architect, wasn’t he?” asked Carlos.

“Master builder,” Bety answered. “More or less the same thing.”

“His hiding the Stone in the cathedral seems so patently obvious that I’m surprised you didn’t think of it before. After all, the cathedral was his life’s great work.”

“What do you mean?”

“That if he hid the Stone somewhere in the cathedral, as it seems he did, I doubt it would be somewhere a person could easily reach. If his intention was to hide the Stone, he wouldn’t have left it someplace in the open, with easy access. I’d say that, if Manolo did find the exact place, given the time and the equipment in his backpack, he wouldn’t have been able to get to it.”

“Sounds plausible,” Enrique admitted, “though we can’t be positive.”

“We have to find where Casadevall hid it,” Bety joined in. “It all depends on that.”

“Yeah, I agree. But how? If we didn’t manage to find the site before, what makes you think we’ll be able to now?”

“You two didn’t have that information before. The search is limited to the cathedral, not twenty-something buildings. And Casadevall worked on that cathedral. Doesn’t it seem logical that he would hide it someplace where he directed the works?”

“Enrique knows those places like he lived in them.” Bety could not repress her excitement. “I remember how you told me about it when I came from San Sebastián.”

“I do know them. And I can even imagine where he hid it. If Manolo was looking in the triforium, which by the way, is the upper gallery that runs above the aisles of the cathedral, or on the roof, that means he had completely ruled out Casadevall’s contribution to the works in the cloister and the original choir. That way, I think he only could have hidden it in the fourth keystone in the nave, which was restored in 1413.”

“Sounds logical,” Carlos agreed. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Enrique admitted, smiling. “There could be other solutions, but I think this one’s the most probable. We can check it out once we’re there.”

“I knew you could find it,” Bety purred sweetly. “I was sure you could!”

“Don’t count your chickens. Even in the hypothetical case it was there, how can we get up on the roof to look for the Stone? I don’t think the dean’s going to let us, just like that! And of course, we can’t just waltz up there and start hammering away like it’s all in a good day’s work.”

“He’s right,” admitted Carlos. “I’m not familiar with ecclesiastic procedure, but I do know they’re usually cautious. After a murder like this, they may not want to grant us permission. Sneaking in might be possible, but I don’t think that in your situation, with the police hovering over you, it’d be the smartest idea. The best way would be to file an application that didn’t arouse any suspicion. Does anything occur to you?”

“Seems to me you’re overanalyzing the whole thing; the murder wasn’t committed in the cathedral, but in a private residence. Manolo’s death doesn’t necessarily have to do with what he was doing in the cathedral. The police may make the connection, but not necessarily the dean. The authorization could be handled through Enrique’s publisher under any excuse. Or, you could just apply for it yourself,” she said to Carlos, “individually, as a private investigator hired by us. Why would they turn you down?”

“The voice of reason.” Enrique acknowledged her merits. “As always, a beeline to the solution.”

“I’ll write up a letter and take it personally to the archbishopric secretary. From there on, we’ll see. And now,” he said, reaching into one of the drawers, “take this.”

In Carlos’s left hand was a revolver. Its chrome plating shone brightly, seeming to hypnotize Enrique.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Bety said. “Do you even know how to use it?”

“Oh, he knows,” Carlos answered. “I taught him everything he needed to know about calibers and sidearms when he was writing Death, Cruel Lover, to make it all sound more plausible. We even took target practice. But let’s not get off the subject. I couldn’t care less what you think is a good idea,” he continued harshly. “From this point on, you’ll do just as I say. So far we’ve got a death toll of two, so a gun is fundamental. Do you remember what I read from the medical examiner’s report on Manolo’s death?” the investigator continued. “I said the murders were in cold blood. If you have any doubt as to its usefulness,” he said, laying the gun on the table, “then you still haven’t realized the magnitude of the problem. Enrique, three weeks ago they killed your father. The killer improvised, I’m sure of it, because he used a paperweight he found on the desk. Yesterday they killed Manolo. This time, there was no room for improvisation. His death was planned in advance. Meticulously. And done by someone extraordinarily cold-blooded and rational. They didn’t find the murder weapon. The murderer brought it with him, used it, and then, most definitely got rid of it. Everything was so well-planned it’s going to take a miracle for Fornells to put the pieces back together.

“Now, just for a second, imagine the killer. Imagine him as he is, a faceless, shapeless shadow. Imagine, and think: he’s killed two people, simply because they were in his way. He’s already murdered. Think he’ll have any qualms about doing it again?”

Without a word, Enrique reached out for the revolver. Mariola was right: with the proper motivation, anyone could accept situations, or act in ways outside their character.

“That’s better,” said the investigator in approval of Enrique’s initiative. “Life’s too short not to live it to the end.”

18

They had been sitting for some time on a battered, graffiti-ridden bench facing the marina of Barcelona’s old port. They didn’t speak. Something appeared to have twisted inside Enrique as soon as he picked up the revolver. All of his senses had seemed to mysteriously grow more acute, to perceive that yes, it was there, in his left jacket pocket. Neither big nor heavy, no burden at all: a discreet weapon that no one would imagine in the hands of a left-wing, environmentally conscious, openly pacifist author. But it was there, and they both knew it. Bety hadn’t said a word to him all the way from Plaça Reial to the Moll de la Fusta wharf. She merely accompanied him, lost in her own shrouded thoughts. Enrique knew she was taking furtive glances at his jacket pocket, uneasy about the lurking presence of that strange object, so foreign to them.

Adding to that, Enrique felt pinned down in a different sort of crossfire. He was trying to decide whether to tell Bety of the need to reveal the latest developments to Mariola. But Carlos had emphasized the need for them to stay together above all else. In their current situation, talking to Mariola would mean an awkward clash, and no one wanted that. In his mind’s eye, it wouldn’t end in open confrontation, but it wouldn’t be comfortable, either. Too many factors were against it: Mariola, despite her reserved nature, had already made her jealousy of Bety’s presence known. On the other hand, he had been flirting with Bety, though Mariola knew nothing of that. No, the situation would not be comfortable in the least, but it was as inevitable and worrisome as the presence of the revolver in his pocket. And yet, he didn’t dare propose it. He was surprised at how absurd the situation was: in the midst of a mystery stained with the blood of two murders, he lacked the courage to speak to his ex-wife about something so petty.

A magnificent schooner patiently awaited the drawbridge of the Rambla de Mar to let it pass into waters that, though still in the port, were free of any obstacle to sailing. On deck, a crew of five made all the necessary preparations: they removed the covers from the sails and brought in the lines and fenders. He envied the harmony that seemed to pervade onboard, and the unmatched joy that the gusty wind would give them as soon as the vessel left the port’s mouth. For a second, he envisioned himself taking refuge in the personal privacy of his world—sail and pen—far from the strange tragedy being played out around him, which had proven impassive to all of his attempts to forget it. The feeling of hurtling headlong into the unknown exasperated him: three weeks of uncertainty and confusion, his strings pulled by everything and everyone, stripped of his liberty. Not even Mariola was worth his well-ordered world being savagely torn asunder.

Now that was a lie. Only the frustration of the entire matter could make him think something so outlandish. Of course she was worth it. Of everything that had happened, the only good had come from finding her. Though he barely knew her, and he hadn’t thought of what their future would be, if one even existed, he was sure she was worth it. How could he forget those two nights? They had transcended mere sex and become the promise of something special that people always yearn for, even when they are unaware of it. It was more than just passion that blinded him and rendered him mindless. It was much more than that. So much passion and abandon deserved an attempt to develop their as-yet-unspoken commitment.

“I need to see Mariola,” he suddenly said to Bety.

“What?” It wasn’t that she was shocked, but rather she’d simply been too distracted to hear him.

“I need to see Mariola,” he repeated cautiously.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Enrique couldn’t believe Bety had answered as she had. He would have expected any reaction but her indifference and that plural ‘let’s go.’ But was it real indifference?

“She must be worried, and I think I need to tell her what’s going on,” he explained needlessly. “Last night I promised her I’d come by the shop today. And I’m sure Fornells will want to talk to her.”

“It’s not a problem for me. Where’s the shop?”

“A ways past Artur’s, closer to the cathedral.”

“Let’s go.” She stood up.

Bety’s decision stunned him. It was the diametric opposite of apathy. That was it: Bety wanted to satisfy her curiosity and meet her substitute, and he’d given her the perfect opportunity to do it.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to meet her,” he offered meekly.

“Well, you were wrong,” she replied. If she’d been quiet and withdrawn on the way to the port, on the way back to the city she was self-assured and chatty. She bought the Diario Vasco at the first newsstand on the Ramblas, and busied herself giving commentary on the news items from Gipuzkoa with an intensity that told Enrique of her true lack of interest in them. Neither the jocular tone she used to review the latest local gossip or the political jokes so easy to make up about a place as tragically blighted as the Basque Country could hide her anxiety over meeting Mariola. Following in her wake, Enrique couldn’t disguise his concern.

“Do you really think this is all right?”

“I don’t get you. If you proposed it, you must’ve already decided that it is.”

He didn’t answer. He knew she would rebuke any objection he could offer with the utmost simplicity and offhandedness. Enrique’s memory of past experiences was too clear to consider wasting time with arguments that were lost before they began. What he was really worried about was a different matter. How would Mariola react when she saw the two of them walk into the shop? He chose to ignore the uncomfortable question, putting off its resolution until the inevitable clash of the two women.

“I’d like to ask you something.” Bety kept up her chatter.

“Go ahead.”

“It’s just that, you told me that Mariola came back to Barcelona after her divorce. Why did she partner up with Samuel?”

Enrique was relieved. The question lacked the anticipated malice.

“I don’t really know their whole story. Artur told me once, when I was visiting, but I didn’t pay much attention. If I remember it right, she was looking for a job, and she got here right as Samuel was starting up an old project to expand his shop. Mr. Puigventós made the proposition and they both agreed to team up. That must’ve been about four years ago.”

“I see. And one other thing: if we run into Samuel, which is likely, do you know what you’re going to tell him about the questioning?”

“No,” he answered after thinking a moment. “But I’ll think of something.”

They walked up the Ramblas to Pla de la Boqueria; there they entered the city’s old quarter on Cardenal Casañas Street. In Plaça del Pi they came across the small sampling of antiques exhibited each Thursday for pedestrians to feast their eyes on the mementoes of yesterday, to the delight of lovers of the past. People from all walks of life strolled along browsing the tables; further on, a saxophonist accompanied by background music playing from a CD concentrated all his efforts on the performance of a jazz piece vaguely familiar, but whose title Enrique could not recall, unless it was Miles Davis’s “All Blues.”

On La Palla Street they passed all the old shops, one by one. Nearly all of them were empty, though they did spot a customer who had wandered into Guillem’s. On reaching Artur’s, Enrique couldn’t help but cast a glance inside. It was empty, except for a thin film of dust that, from out of nowhere, had begun to settle on the floor. The walls, painted in their bold greens and blues, with no pieces to highlight, seemed faded, more becoming of a suddenly enlarged dollhouse momentarily emptied by its whimsical owner than of a real, life-sized building. In the loft, the splintered railing stood in mute testimony to the tragedy that took place three weeks prior. Seeing it, a lump formed in Enrique’s throat and he struggled to swallow.

“Come on.” Bety urged him on, softly tugging his arm. “This place belongs to a past you need to leave behind.”

“It’s not that easy,” he answered, with his hand in his left pocket, “when the past refuses to leave your present.”

S. HOROWITZ. ANTIQUARIAN. The old sign, with its gothic lettering, was weathered, lending it an appearance of plausibility for an antiques shop. The establishment was striking, with the arcade that was hidden under stone, brought to light by Samuel and Mariola’s renovation. Seated at the old baroque desk, Samuel was skimming through a newspaper. He raised his head as soon as they opened the door; a broad smile lit up his wrinkled face.

“Kids! What a nice surprise!” He gave Bety a kiss on each cheek and shook Enrique’s hand. “Please, sit down, sit down,” he insisted courteously. “You look great, Bety. I’d been looking forward to seeing you. Enrique told me you’d been in Barcelona several days, but between one thing and another I haven’t found the time to get in touch.”

“Thank you so much.” Bety acknowledged his kindness sincerely. “I’ve been looking forward to it, too. It’s been a long time …”

“So it has. That’s life, huh? So. Well, well.” Samuel smiled again. “You left us pretty worried yesterday, Enrique. Fornells seemed so upset when you two went downtown. And Mariola didn’t tell me much of anything this morning: that they had to check out some information with you, but it was all classified and you couldn’t tell her anything.”

“The investigation seems to be getting more complex than anyone thought,” Enrique admitted. “Unfortunately, Mariola’s right. Fornells asked me to keep everything absolutely confidential,” he lied on the fly.

“Well, I’m sure it’ll work out soon.”

“Is Mariola around?” Enrique asked. “Last night she told me I’d find her here.”

“That’s right; she’s down in the basement. Excuse me, I’ll call her.” He took an intercom from a drawer and switched it on. An unseemly squawk flooded the shop; and a distorted voice answered.

“Mariola, Enrique and … Bety are here.”

“I’ll be right up,” Mariola answered.

A couple of minutes later, from a spiral staircase set at the end of the showroom that connected the two floors, Mariola emerged, looking as sharp as ever. She was wearing a pistachio-green skirt with a white blazer that was tapered at the waist, simple but elegant, and white mid-heeled shoes. Her dark hair, loose and carefully styled, seemed to float as she walked toward the desk. Enrique stood up, as did Bety and Samuel. On reaching them she greeted the group with soft “hello,” and gave Enrique a polite kiss on the lips.

“Mariola, this is Bety.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

They both reached out to take the other’s hand, as if by mutual agreement.

Enrique became aware of how odd the situation was when he saw the stealthy but extremely inquisitive look on Samuel’s face. He was studying the women and their reactions.

In a way, the scene looked like a photograph next to its negative. Mariola, with her flowing brunette mane, smartly attired, before Bety, blond hair in a ponytail, olive complexion, dressed casually in pleated slacks, flower-print blouse, and suede ankle boots. Two opposing forms of beauty: one classic, the other, contemporary. Mariola evoked the image of a woman from a century ago, with subtle, well-defined features: the thin-bladed nose, delicate lips, large and elongated eyes. While Bety was more from the present, with more familiar features, not as distant as those of her rival: fleshy lips, roundish cheeks, and almond-shaped eyes. Mariola’s beauty was more distant, less frequently encountered, exceedingly perfect. Bety, while far from common, personified the opposite style, closer to the tastes of the present.

It wasn’t only the two men who observed the scene with curiosity. Bety and Mariola, the players on center stage, appraised each other with concealed interest. Mariola was facing the woman who had been Enrique’s wife for years, who she had felt jealous of just days before. It was different for Bety; not even she understood the overpowering impulse that made her offer herself to her ex. Because that was what she had done, beyond any doubt: offer herself to him, the man she had shunned forever just years before. She didn’t know what had made her do it, but whatever it was, she was certain it deeply disgusted her. She’d felt humiliated when he rejected her, not so much for the rejection as the offering itself. In the end, though he’d changed drastically, Enrique was still who he was, or rather, he couldn’t stop being who he was. And being aware that the attraction—perhaps even love—that Enrique still felt for her, despite the years that had passed, had disappeared with the arrival of Mariola was something she didn’t like one bit. Her reaction, she’d known it then and there, before Mariola—beautiful, serene, distant—had come about on realizing she was losing her eternal admirer. She’d acted not because she was losing him, but rather, in equal measure, he was losing her. She’d done it not on her own initiative, but on one outside herself. Knowing the reason made her feel better, but she still noticed something wrong in her reasoning. After all, if everything was as she imagined, why was she still looking at Mariola with envy?

“We need to talk.” Enrique broke the little spell that had been cast on the situation. They had only taken a few seconds longer than normal to begin talking, nothing especially noticeable. As he said it he looked as Samuel, who understood his request immediately.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it and go grab a bite to eat.” He got up and took his jacket from a nearby coatrack. “I’ll be back in about twenty minutes. Does that sound okay?”

“Whenever you want,” Enrique said.

“Fine. See you, then.” He looked at all three of them consecutively before bidding them good-bye. They watched Samuel as he exited out the door, first hanging the “Closed” sign on it. Then Mariola took the initiative.

“Please, sit down. I could fix some coffee if you like. Artur spread the custom among the other antiques dealers,” she explained. “The truth is, good customers love those kinds of perks.”

“Don’t bother on my account,” he said.

Bety shook her head in refusal, without taking her eyes off Mariola for one second. She seemed fascinated by her hostess.

“In that case …” She left the sentence hanging on purpose. Bety’s presence seemed odd to her too. She wanted an explanation.

“Samuel said you hadn’t told him anything. Yesterday I didn’t even realize that he might be worried and want to ask you about the situation.”

“I didn’t know how much of it I could tell him. I thought it would be better to say nothing until I talked to you. But along with his concern there is worry, which is no less important. Lately, we’ve been getting a lot of calls from Association members asking for Samuel, much more than usual. I get the feeling there’s some unspoken interest in finding out more about the Frenchman’s arrest. As I told you when it happened, more than a handful would be linked to his activities. And since Samuel was very close to you and Artur, well, they think he may know something. What I never could’ve imagined is what you told me last night.”

“Neither could we,” Bety interjected. It was now Mariola’s turn to study her. “But unfortunately, it did.”

“We’ve come to tell you, with a bit less pressure, what the situation is, and what we’ve come up with.” Enrique told her about the most important conclusion they’d reached after meeting with Carlos: someone had been watching them from the beginning. Manolo, who Bety had asked for help, had managed to find the Stone’s hiding place, in the cathedral. Their intention was to determine whether the Stone was still there or whether it was in fact in the hands of the killer.

“Then you know where Casadevall hid it.”

“We’re not at all sure of it, just a few ideas,” Enrique answered.

“I get the feeling you don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s more pragmatic than that,” he said. “I think that telling you could put you at risk. We don’t know what the killer knows, but he probably thinks we know. And it’s not worth it. It’s enough that the two of us know.”

“Enrique’s right,” Bety cut in. “It’s not worth it to share the risks when there could be such a high price to pay. Manolo’s and Artur’s deaths prove as much.”

“I see. Well, the truth is, I don’t like it. I’d rather be with Enrique, sharing his burden with him.” She treated Bety to a meaningful look as she said it. “But I guess that decision’s already been made.”

“Yes,” Enrique said. “I’m not going to put you in danger. It’s hard enough for me to think that Bety is exposed for what she knows about this whole stupid thing.”

“You share a lot, the two of you,” Mariola insinuated.

“Less than you think,” Bety retorted. “And I’d like for it to be even less.”

Each gave the other a lengthy stare. There was neither hostility nor aggressiveness in their looks, but the mental duel they were engaged in was obvious to Enrique. Mariola wanted to know the true nature of the relationship between Bety and him; and on her own behalf, Bety felt the irresistible desire to delve deeper, to know the true woman under the placid mask of self-control that Mariola wore. Having partly imagined the conversation would go that way, Enrique felt powerless to change the course of events. But it was Mariola who put the matter to rest, changing the subject with a new question.

“When are you planning on investigating the cathedral?”

“Carlos thinks he’ll be able to get authorization this afternoon or tomorrow morning. As soon as he does we’ll go up and see what the hell happened Tuesday afternoon.”

“Say you find the Stone,” Mariola said. “Wouldn’t that only put you in more danger? If the killer is watching, it might make him come after you. He wouldn’t let anyone get away with the object he’s fought so much for.”

“You’re right,” Enrique said. “But if we do find it, it’s clear that the investigative part of the game will be over. We’d go straight from the cathedral to the police to turn it over to Captain Fornells. I guess that way it would be over, once and for all.”

“Plus we have Carlos working with us,” Bety added. “He wouldn’t let anything happen to us. In fact, the only reason we’re here together now is because he told us not to split up at any time, under any circumstances.”

“Well, that puts me somewhat at ease. You say Carlos is a competent professional?”

“He’s an expert private investigator who’s solved some big cases. There’s nothing to fear with him at our side.”

“Good. Looks like you’ve made everything crystal clear. Bety, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Enrique alone.”

“Of course, be my guest.”

Mariola and Enrique went to the other end of the showroom, far enough for Bety not to hear them. From where she was sitting, Bety could see their profiles and, though she hated herself for it, she surreptitiously studied their movements and expressions to guess what they were saying.

“Enrique, there’s one thing I can’t understand about this whole thing. It’s not about the Stone, Artur’s or that other man, Manolo’s, murder. It’s about you, me, and above all, Bety.”

Enrique feared the worst.

“What is it?”

“Do you even have to ask?” she exclaimed.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you don’t want to know.” She paused, waiting for an answer that didn’t come. “Fine, I’ll tell you. I want to know why you haven’t been capable of telling me the whole story about the Stone of God from the time we decided to share everything. I want to know why you told me that half-truth last Tuesday afternoon.”

“I didn’t mean to hide anything from you,” he tried to explain.

“Well then! That’s a relief! Because there seems to be a gaping chasm between action and intent.”

Enrique told himself to be patient. In the end, Mariola was partly right, though not in the way she imagined. He hadn’t kept things from her to keep her sidelined, but because as the story developed he’d lost interest in it.

“Listen, please, and don’t interrupt me,” he pleaded. “If I didn’t tell you anything it’s because the one who was really interested was Bety. I mean, before I met you, I also felt involved in solving the whole mystery, but my interest faded as our relationship got stronger. For Bety it was exactly the opposite: like I told you, she came to Barcelona to help me after Artur’s death, but when she got to know the story, she went from calling me a fool for not going to the police with it to being the first to want to reveal its secret.”

“You don’t get it.” She shook her head. “That’s exactly why I’m angry, or rather, hurt—deeply wounded. I feel as if she’s taken my rightful place, even if she admits it’s partly due to circumstance. But it’s clear that you’ve kept me in the dark, and I don’t believe it’s a coincidence.”

Enrique weathered the storm with pursed lips. He felt unfairly treated, and worse, misunderstood. It seemed that this was his fate whenever there was a woman in the mix: involuntarily putting his foot in it and sending the whole thing rolling down a long, steep slope, like the tiny snowball that ends up triggering an unstoppable avalanche.

“I promise you that the last thing I wanted to do was hurt you.”

“But don’t you see? Can you really be so blind? If you hadn’t told me anything, or if you’d told me everything, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. But no, you had to tell me part of the truth to justify Bety’s being in Barcelona, with you. Because that’s it, isn’t it?” Her eyes twinkled, lit by the sudden force of a revealing conviction. “You want to be with Bety. I’m sure of it.”

“You’re wrong,” he said soothingly, understanding the extent of her jealousy. Getting nervous would only lead to new mistakes, just as prolonging the conversation would. “I don’t want to be with her. It’s you I want to be with. Every minute I spend away from you makes me want to be with you that much more. But I can’t leave her side until the danger’s passed. You’ve got to understand that!”

“And you’ve got to understand me. I want you to quit the whole thing. Forget everything that’s happened. You don’t want to see me in danger, that’s what you said. Well, I don’t want to see you in danger either. Let’s go to away Venice. Let’s go now. Samuel won’t mind taking over the business. Let some time pass and everything will work itself out.”

“Maybe I could get away, but what about Bety? It’s too late and we’re too deep into this. The only solution is to go all the way and find out the whole truth. Plus, the police have asked us to stay reachable. I couldn’t leave Barcelona even if I wanted to.”

“Actually, I shouldn’t be surprised,” Mariola replied, pessimistically shaking her head. “You’d best be leaving now. No, you’d both best be leaving now,” she rectified her own sentence, turning her back on him to face the shop window.

Unseen to her, Enrique nodded.

“Say good-bye to Samuel for me.”

Mariola didn’t answer. Enrique hesitated for a moment: he was going to try to explain himself, but realized how useless it would be. He shut his mouth before he spoke, aware of Mariola’s unwillingness to listen. She had ruled against him. Appeal would only be possible with time and the final unraveling of the mystery. Until then it would be pointless to waste his efforts. He walked toward the desk, where Bety waited, already standing. She assumed, correctly, that it hadn’t gone well.

“Trouble?” she ventured.

“Trouble,” he confirmed.

Enrique picked up his jacket and they went out onto the street.

“If you want, I could try to talk to her,” Bety offered. “I know it’s a cliché, but the truth is we women understand each other better than men do, and in her place, I might have reacted the same way.”

“Even knowing the whole truth?”

“Even knowing the whole truth,” Bety admitted.

“No, I don’t think it’ll help much. It would only complicate things, not fix them.” He took a deep breath and exhaled forcefully. “I thought I’d begun to understand women over the years. Now I see how wrong I was.”

They walked toward the Ramblas, retracing the path they’d taken to Samuel’s shop. “What do we do now?” asked Bety.

“Wait,” Enrique answered after another sigh. “Wait.”

Enrique felt pummeled. He knew going to see Mariola would only add to his woes, but still … As for Bety, she thought she understood Mariola: it didn’t take a genius to see her position in the couple’s eyes, distorting it into a triangle. She didn’t wish anything bad on them. But that tiny, wicked part of her, the one she always tried but rarely managed to suppress, that little part that felt offended, uncomfortable, and foreign to her, at times vexing and always evil, was overjoyed and brimming with happiness.

19

“I got it.” Carlos showed them a letter on the archbishopric’s letterhead, computer-printed, and adorned with a signature as overwrought and complex as the flourish. “They took their time deciding. Maybe they were checking me out, but they ended up granting me the authorization.”

“Without any objections?” Bety asked.

“Well, I don’t think they were thrilled to see a private investigator hanging around the archbishopric. And you can get very persuasive when people don’t pay attention to the needs dictated by reason. And let’s not forget that Manolo’s death, though it hasn’t hit them directly, did happen right after his investigations in the cathedral. But they couldn’t deny me the same permission they’d already given the police.”

“Fornells,” Enrique commented.

“That’s it. They were at the cathedral this morning. But of course, they didn’t find a trace of what they were looking for. In fact, I don’t think they even knew what they were looking for. They don’t know what we do.”

“So when can we go to the cathedral?” Bety wanted to know.

“Now. Right now.”

“The sooner we go, the sooner this whole thing will be over,” mumbled Enrique morosely.

Carlos picked up a backpack and emptied its contents out onto the desk: flashlight, hammer, chisel, sandpaper of different grains, and a spray can whose purpose was unknown.

“What’s that for?” Bety asked.

“I told you yesterday that Manolo had taken equipment with him. I looked at the police report. They found his kit at his apartment, in an old satchel. I think he had planned for the possibility of using all these tools in his search, so I made up my own set in case we need them. There was also a camera, but I don’t think it’d be appropriate to take one.”

“What’s that can for?”

“It’s compressed air. It sprays out pressurized air. They showed it to me in the specialty shop where I found it. Archeologists use them to clean away dirt and reveal worn-down inscriptions in stone. That way they can study them without damaging the original materials. It’s likely that Manolo was looking for a special inscription that would indicate the exact site where the Stone is hidden, although you told me that he’d investigated lots of other things, and it might have been part of his usual kit, not necessary for this case.”

“Looks like he was fully prepared,” Enrique said. “I don’t think he would’ve taken all that gear if he didn’t have a clear idea of what he was looking for. The hammer and chisel speak for themselves.”

“We’ll know soon enough.” Carlos stood up. “It’s time to find out.”

There are several ways to go from Plaça Reial to the cathedral. None of them is more direct or convenient than the others; the streets must be walked to get there, no matter which route is taken. On top of that, each has something attractive, something that sets it apart. You can walk up the Ramblas to Portaferrisa Street, so called because of an iron gate embedded in the second wall of Barcelona. Or, without going that far up the Ramblas, you can turn right at Pla de la Boqueria. From there, you can take Cardenal Casañas, crossing Plaça del Pi and Plaça de San Josep Oriol, and finally going down La Palla Street to reach the cathedral. The third way is to go up the slope along Ferran Street to Mons Taber itself, the hilltop at the heart of the ancient Roman city. There, you can either turn into the old narrow streets of Barcelona’s Call, or walk to the cathedral up Bisbe Irurita Street. Carlos chose the third option. They left Plaça Reial through a double arcade that emptied onto Ferran Street. The group turned right on Ferran and walked all the way to Plaça Sant Jaume. There, among politicians’ limousines and groups of tourists, several municipal foot patrolmen and Mossos d’Esquadra meandered about, mixed with the odd pickpocket, watchfully awaiting the perfect opportunity. They dodged a pod of Japanese tourists who, fascinated by the carving of a knife-skewered skull visible in the archway that crossed the street of the storied bishop, blocked the other pedestrians’ free movement. They entered the cathedral though the Pietat Street entrance. For no particular reason, Enrique checked the time: it was six thirty.

They found the sacristy, as Enrique instructed, to the right of the high altar. They asked to see the dean. He wasn’t there yet but appeared before long with two laymen carrying stacks of papers and files. Carlos introduced himself with exquisite manners and told him their business. The dean examined the archbishopric’s letter with close attention and obvious signs of annoyance.

“It looks like this week they have nothing better to do than grant authorizations like this. It’s the third one in three days, and the more I see, the less I like them. The first one, from that poor odd-looking young man, may have been justified. But the police, and on their heels, you, coming here, to my cathedral, in search of I don’t know what … I don’t like it, truthfully. I don’t like it at all. We’re up to our necks in work. Plus, today, as if all this wasn’t enough,” he said, pointing to the profusion of paperwork on the sacristy desk, “we have an organ concert of sacred music, with accompaniment by a choir, which will turn the whole cathedral on its ear.”

“We don’t want to disturb you; quite the contrary,” Carlos said. “We understand how busy you are, and we only have to retrace the final steps of your first visitor in the triforium and on the roof.”

“That’s exactly what the police asked me for. Except that I had to tell them where poor Mr. Álvarez, may he rest in peace, was investigating. You, I do not have to tell,” the dean observed keenly. “Let’s suppose I was beset by the very human defect of curiosity, and I asked you what in the hell, may the Lord have mercy and pardon my French, you’re after in my cathedral.” He looked at them with such absolute naïveté that it caught his three guests off guard.

“I’m afraid not even we know the answer to that.” Carlos was quick to answer to avert any participation in the conversation on the part of Bety or Enrique. “It’s exactly what we’ve come to find out.”

“Interesting. The police gave me that very answer this morning. Well then, it’s impolite to stick one’s nose into others’ affairs, especially when one’s superior is giving authorization. Come with me.”

They left the sacristy. The choir that was to accompany the organ had arrived. There were forty or fifty people of all ages, dressed in the uniforms of their respective choral groups. Their director busied himself seating them in the chairs arrayed around the high altar. Several choristers tried to calm the excitement that the proximity of the concert aroused in the youngest members, no more than ten or twelve years old. Members of the large audience milled about looking for a free space on the pews or the many chairs set up for the concert, all of them occupied by music aficionados.

“Quite a mess they’ve made here,” said Bety out loud to no one in particular.

“You said it,” the attentive dean replied. “There are many days when you’d think yourself on the Ramblas instead of in a true church, but this today looks like a school, or day care, playground. Thank goodness it’s the last concert of the season.”

“Do you hold many concerts here?” Bety asked.

“If it’s still as it was a few years ago, there are six every season,” Enrique commented.

Surprised, the dean looked at him.

“There are still six. The number has not risen, thanks be to God. Do you like sacred music?”

“I used to come, whenever I could get away. It’s beautiful music. Perfect to relax and meditate. And the setting is exceptional, without a doubt.”

“Then there is one thing we agree on,” answered the dean. “When the voices of the choir begin to sing, it’s as if the Lord himself was their conductor. Shame that concerts are always preceded by these ceremonies of confusion,” he said, motioning at the apparently futile attempts of the choir director to organize the singers.

They came to the opposite side of the cathedral, next to the Sant Iu Portal, which exited onto the street of the same name. There he said his good-byes.

“Miss, gentlemen, I’ll now leave you to your business,” he said after opening the door with a heavy key. “This stairway will take you to the tribunes, then the triforium, and ultimately, the roof. It’s steep and narrow, just right for a little old man like myself to fall and break a leg, or crack his head open, so I’d just as soon avoid it. There’s an iron door on the roof. To open it, just push hard. One final bit of advice: be careful with the pavement of the roof. Some parts of it are raised, to accommodate the ribs of the pillars.”

“Will you leave this door unlocked?” Carlos gestured at the door to the stairway.

“Yes, I have to. The organist is about to arrive, and this is the only way to the instrument. I can’t be waiting on him, and remember that the concert begins in a little less than an hour. And so, that does it. Oh, by the way, I’d like to ask, if you don’t mind, that when you’re finished investigating, or at nine at the latest when we close, you come by the sacristy and let me know. That way I’ll know I can lock the door.”

“No problem.”

Left alone in front of the door, they looked into each other’s faces. Carlos took the initiative, opening the door and beginning the climb to the heights of the cathedral. Bety and Enrique, in that order, followed him, first pulling the door closed.

The spiral staircase was tightly twisted, dimly lit by what little light could penetrate from the nave through tiny arrow slits. It didn’t take them long to reach the floor of the tribunes, around thirty feet from the ground floor. A small rectangular door communicated the stairs with the Royal Tribune and organ. They continued their ascent without pausing. Farther up, at some 115 feet from the ground floor, was the access to the triforium, a dark and narrow passageway, conceived for the height of Barcelonese of the past, much shorter than today’s. Enrique, the tallest of the three, had to duck his head to avoid a collision.

As they advanced, the light from the nave lit the hallway. They reached the edge of the triforium, where simple bars suspended from column to column made up the only safety device to prevent a person’s long and final fall from a height of well over a hundred feet. They stood there, astonished, gazing at the cathedral from a vantage point none of them had ever enjoyed. Before them, the nave and the epistle side of the church, prolonged up to the dome. Practically under their feet yawned the crypt of Santa Eulàlia, and the pews before it were crowded with concertgoers anxious for the unique sensations of peace that sacred music would give them. The indefinite murmur typical of any concert hall was audible, though somewhat quieter perhaps because of the concert being held in a cathedral, or perhaps the height muted its intensity. The choir, properly assembled in the presbytery surrounding the altar, patiently waited for their performance to begin. Waiting for a signal from their conductor, the choristers warmed up their exceptional vocal chords in a flurried cacophony.

A few practice notes came from the immense organ pipes, a brief check of the instrument’s capacity. The organist had arrived right after them. The choirmaster, his gazed fixed on the organ, waited for the organist’s signal to begin. Once the fine-tuning was done, the soloist must have made a sign to the conductor, who turned to face his choir, arms raised. It was five minutes past seven when from the organ sounded the powerful overture of the oratorio St. Matthew Passion, by Johann Sebastian Bach. Carlos whispered to his friends, “Let’s get to work.”

With the harmonious notes in the background, omnipresent in every part of the building thanks to the might of its wondrous organ and the exceptional acoustics of the cathedral, Carlos once again took up the route toward the roof. They retraced their steps down the corridor until arriving at the staircase and, little more than one turn higher, they came to the iron door. With one strong push it opened, making an ominous creak as it did. They were on the roof.

“What now?” the private eye asked his fellow investigators.

Bety shrugged: it was obvious that this time she wasn’t in the driver’s seat. Enrique was the one who’d spoken of the fourth keystone.

“Look at this drawing. I got it from an old English traveler’s guide to Spain, by a man named Richard Ford. It’s the elevation of the cathedral. Each of the nave’s vaults is covered in its center point by what architects call a keystone,” Enrique explained without moving from the spot. “Like the dean said, the roof is partly flat, but there are other areas where it accommodates the tension of the vaults—which is why he asked us to be careful. So, the keystones are the exact point where the different ribs of the vaults come together, which makes them fundamental pieces of the building. The nave of the cathedral has six keystones. They were built spanning from the presbytery to the dome. As I said in your office, and as it says in the book of works, Casadevall was responsible for sealing the fourth keystone. It had originally been set nineteen years prior, but a fault in its placement made a renovation of the vault necessary. Casadevall took charge of that too. That’s why I think it would have been the perfect place to hide the Stone. Within the building, it’s an out-of-the-way place that would probably never require any renovation. Moving such a monster, once in place, would have been slightly less than impossible with the technology of the day. Even today it would be a major architectural feat.”

“An ideal place,” Carlos agreed, “but if those keystones are the huge pieces of stone that we see from the cathedral floor, how will we reach them?”

“You can’t miss them. The roof is peaked where the keystones are. You’ll understand as soon as you see them.”

“Then let’s go see them.”

Enrique stopped when they reached the site occupied by the fourth keystone.

“There it is.” He pointed to the spot.

Nothing indicated that there was anything there other than a pile of stone meant to cover the roof of the cathedral. Discouraged, Bety studied it.

“We can’t start hammering away on the stone and not expect anyone to hear us. Just think if pieces of stone or dust fell on the choir down in the cathedral. They’d catch on right away.”

“The roof is extremely thick,” Enrique observed. “I don’t think anything like that would happen. But I do think we need to find some kind of special sign, a symbol that points us to the exact site. If we don’t …”

He left the phrase unfinished and sat down on the roof. There was not a single symbol on any of the stones covering the fourth keystone.

“Inside the cathedral, and here on the roof, too, I’ve seen a lot of different symbols engraved in the stone. Look at this.” Carlos hopefully pointed out one close at hand. “And that other one. Could they be related?”

“No. They’re the marks of architects or stonecutters: compasses, scales, triangles … They belong to the language of their guilds,” Enrique explained. “They were used to show the parts of the building they’d worked on beyond a shadow of any doubt. And the only use they had was for making the payments later on. You can find them on any church from the time.”

“So why do we have to look for a mark? Couldn’t he have just hidden the Stone and been done with it?” asked Carlos.

“Manolo deduced, from the notes in the manuscript, that Casadevall marked the site with a symbol,” said Enrique. “The problem is, we don’t know what symbol.”

“And that’s not the only problem,” Bety added. “Think back to that spray can Manolo was carrying. Its only purpose is to bring out old, barely legible inscriptions, right?”

“That’s what I said,” Carlos assented.

“The vaults were sealed seven hundred years ago. And many of the marks are so blurred they’re barely visible.”

“I see.”

“But Manolo found it!” Bety exclaimed. “And if he found it, so can we!”

“You’re too convinced he found it.” Enrique shook his head. “That’s just a hunch on our part.”

“People murder out of necessity, and in this case, necessity translates into discovery of the Stone. I think Manolo did find the hiding place,” said Bety. “Listen, the only difference between him and us is—or rather, was—his superior religious and kabbalistic knowledge. And he wrote down everything of importance in the notebook he gave you that you’re now carrying.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It doesn’t?”

“He had the information in the notebook and it wasn’t enough. He found the hiding place once he had the manuscript in his possession. We had the manuscript, and now we have his notebook. The solution involves combining both pieces. I’m sure of it!”

Enrique handed Bety the notebook without a word. She began to leaf through it with Carlos, and immediately understood the pessimism of her ex. Much of the fifty pages of notes were actually sketches. Some were of buildings or scenes. Most of them were strange and incomprehensible for anyone not initiated in their secrets. The circle of Tzeruf, the sign of Tzimtzum, the aleph from the Pardes Rimonim, a kabbalistic diagram, the Tree of Life and others, drawn with a firm, unwavering hand, demonstrated that the notebook had belonged to Manolo. The illustrations, like the text, were rife with letters from the Hebrew alphabet, with Spanish translations alongside them.

“Do you see now?” Enrique asked after his friends leafed through the pages. “I don’t mean to doubt your reasoning: the solution to the riddle, if what Manolo said was true, and there’s no reason for it not to be, must be in there. But—”

“Yesterday you said there could be another possibility,” Carlos said. “Tell us what it is.”

“Well, some time back I was thinking about it. Look: Carlos, you don’t know this, but Bety does. It’s what could be the key paragraph of the Casadevall manuscript. After a long list of buildings, the master wrote this: ‘In the end, assisted and guided by love and judgment, I have found in the Kingdom of God the only logical place that our Lord has deemed fit to show me.’ We struggled with that one for hours. There were two possibilities: first, that Casadevall was expressing his gratefulness to God because he found a solution to the problem, a place to hide the Stone. Second, that that sentence in itself was a clue that would reveal that place.

“Both options had us racking our brains. For me, the first option was more probable. For Bety, it was the second. If Casadevall meant to hide the Stone in a place where it would never be found, it wouldn’t have made sense to write down a clue, no matter how minimal, as to its hiding place. But Bety took a different angle on it. Anyone subjected to the pressure that Casadevall was under would have needed an outlet. Obviously, he couldn’t go around telling everyone about his situation, so he used his log book as a diary to write down everything that worried him. The story of his daughter’s illness proves it. Seen in that light, the sentence takes on a new interest—an interest for which we’d found no solution. Until yesterday.”

“Are you saying that you understand what it means now?” Bety blurted.

“I think so, but it seems so sublimely coincidental that I decided, in keeping with the logic, to investigate the fourth keystone first. Seeing how that didn’t pan out, there was no other alternative.”

“Come on, tell us what you mean,” she insisted.

“Give me the notebook.”

Bety gave it back to him as Enrique rose to his feet. He skimmed through it until he found the page he was looking for.

“Look at this.”

Above the caption “The Tree of Life,” a diagram showed the relationships among kabbalistic concepts. Three vertical columns of ten circles. Each of them contained a Hebrew word in the original tongue and its adaptation into Spanish. The left and right columns were formed by three circles each; the middle one by four. The connections among the circles took place in many diverse ways: horizontally, vertically, and by diagonal lines.

“Have you ever heard of the Tree of Life?” Enrique asked.

They both shook their heads.

“It's the diagram of the relationships existing among the sephirot. A complex structure conceived by the kabbalists of the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries. See? And the Stone of God, since the true name of the Hebrew God is written on it, is the manifestation of a sephirah. Look at the names in the side columns.”

Bety and Carlos read Manolo’s cramped, tiny handwriting. One of the columns was called the Pillar of Judgment; the other, the Pillar of Love.

“‘Assisted and guided by love and judgment,’” repeated Bety as if it were a litany.

“That’s it!” Enrique exclaimed.

“But what’s the relationship between all this and the manuscript?” asked Carlos, feeling a little lost.

“Each sephirah had a name,” Enrique answered. “You’ll find them written there, in the circles. Sephirah is the singular form of sephirot,” he explained before Carlos could ask.

“But they’re in Hebrew!”

“To find the solution all you have to know is where to look.”

Enrique’s self-assurance grew proportionally as he explained his discoveries. If at first he’d seemed reluctant, it was due to a lack of confidence and the complexity of the structure that surrounded the entire mystery. Nonetheless, telling his friends of the connections among the facts only strengthened his belief in their veracity.

“Where’d you find the references to translate them?” asked Bety, who wanted to confirm the idea running through her mind.

“They were as close as you imagine: in the book collection Artur had in his shop, which I had moved to Vallvidrera last week, before you got here.”

“So … ?”

“Artur was a die-hard antique book lover; he had an extraordinary collection. But it wasn’t just about having books: what he really loved was reading them, and then researching and expanding his newfound knowledge through the purchase of new, more modern volumes. He got a kick out of research.

“One of the books he had in his library at the shop was the Zohar, in its first version, printed in Mantua in 1559. It was way over my head, but along with it I found more modern books with interpretations of the original text. Obviously, I didn’t think they had anything to do with the Stone until I had Manolo’s notebook in my hands. Then I decided to study them until I could tie up the loose ends. Manolo told us that it was an occult object, and the books in the shop were about the Kabbalah. I finally connected enough information to induce that the kabbalistic figure known as the Tree of Life was related to the Casadevall manuscript. Only someone as incredibly cultivated as Artur would have been able to unravel the mystery of the manuscript without knowing what the hidden object was. Of course, I can’t even begin to compare myself with my father; without Manolo’s help I never would’ve figured it out.

“The problem was defining the relationship between the manuscript and the sephirot. Just because there were common elements between them didn’t mean the enigma had been cracked. But once I knew that Manolo was investigating here, on the roof of the cathedral, where Casadevall sealed the fourth vault the same year that, according to his manuscript, he decided to help the mysterious S., the pieces started to fall into place. He hid the Stone here, but not where I thought.”

“But why were you looking for a symbol over the keystone?” Carlos was making every effort to follow the plot of a story whose details were unknown to him.

“As I was telling you, the Tree of Life is like a chart of the sephirot. Well, one of them, on the lower part of the diagram, is the one called ‘the Kingdom.’ The manuscript spoke of the Kingdom of God, and then said ‘that our Lord has deemed fit to show me.’ I’m looking for the symbol of the kingdom according to the Hebrew word, because wherever we find it is where Casadevall hid the Stone.”

“And you think you’ll find it over the fourth keystone,” Carlos said, understanding. “But, it’s not here. And if it’s not here, where the hell is it?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Enrique admitted sadly. “Look, knowing the connection between all these things doesn’t mean solving the riddle. I was expecting to find it here, on top of the fourth keystone, following Manolo’s footsteps. It seemed like the logical place.”

“Wait,” interrupted Bety. “The manuscript said ‘that our Lord has deemed fit to show me.’ And you think that Casadevall was referring to a symbol representing the Hebrew word for ‘kingdom.’ But wouldn’t it be more reasonable for the sign to refer to a specific site? The phrase points us to a place, the Kingdom of God, where he hid the Stone. And I think that the last part of the sentence, ‘has deemed fit to show me,’ contains another clue, indicating the exact spot where he hid it.”

“It’s possible,” Enrique admitted.

Bety’s gaze took on a special shine; evening was falling, and her green eyes sparkled intensely.

“Look over there,” Bety pointed to the end of the cathedral that was behind them.

Across the entire bare roof there was no signal clearer and more evident than the cross that marked the closure of the vaults. Their eyes met with expectation; Enrique’s entire body broke out in goose bumps with a sudden shiver. Small passing clouds darkened the vault of the cathedral and a cool wind suddenly picked up.

“The Kingdom of God. The Tree of Life. Check the elevation against the diagram. Each vault of the cathedral coincides with one of the sephirot. The sephirah of the kingdom. There it is,” Bety pointed.

“Yes,” Enrique confidently agreed. “It has to be there.”

They walked toward the cross. From where they stood, and owing to the height of the cathedral over the old buildings of the Gothic Quarter, the sky seemed to frame the cross as if it were a cartouche. At that moment they knew that Bety had been right, that there was no other possibility. On reaching the cross, they looked at it closely. It was a simple work, like the entire roof of the cathedral, barely six feet high counting the base on which it was erected, made up of two circular steps and a pedestal. The top of the cross, as well as the horizontal arms, were gently crowned with fleur-de-lis motifs. The work seemed unaltered by the passage of centuries, though the same couldn’t be said for its immediate surroundings, where recently installed pipes and reinforcements were clearly visible.

“You have to look for that symbol.” Enrique showed them the symbol of the kingdom according to the Tree of Life diagram. “I don’t think he would’ve engraved it completely. It’s more likely that he only engraved the initial.”

They knelt down around the cross, half crawling, in false reverence to a sacred symbol under which they hoped to find something altogether different. It was Carlos who cried out that he had found it. The other two rushed to his side and recognized in the stone, just as Enrique had thought, the first letter of the word ‘kingdom.’

They had found it.

It was on the side of one of the stones that formed part of the second step. Bety gently ran her fingertips over its face until she found the tiny slot that divided it in two. There, in final confirmation of his intuition, chisel marks proved Manolo’s presence on the site. She showed the incision to the others. Carlos took the hammer and chisel out of his backpack. He set the chisel over the slot and looked at Enrique as if seeking confirmation.

“Go ahead,” Enrique said, and the hammer, muffled by the distant sound of the organ and the voices of the choir, began its monotonous song over the stone.

Five minutes later, and sweating profusely, Carlos showed them the fruits of his labor. The chisel had penetrated to a point where it no longer met resistance. There was an empty space inside the rock; it was hollow. He handed the tools to Enrique, who concentrated his efforts on the sides of the stone. Another five minutes passed, until he decided to check if the stone had come loose. He handed the chisel to Carlos, who positioned himself next to Enrique, and inserted the hammer into the slot. They levered with both tools until, with a loud crack, part of the stone suddenly flew off the base of the cross and landed at Bety’s feet. The detached stone, in the shape of an L, had been covering a fist-sized hollow. Inside was a bag of thick leather, sealed shut with heavy stitches, now covered by the dust their hammering had made. In reverent silence, Carlos was about to pick up the bag when Enrique stopped him.

“Wait. A moment like this deserves to be savored. These things don’t happen more than once in a lifetime; it’s best to stop and enjoy them.”

“You’re so right,” Carlos admitted, gracefully bowing to his friend. “Enrique the writer is back. And I’m happy to see him!”

They remained in silence for a few minutes, all three of them lost in their thoughts, relishing the moment. For Enrique, it was time to pay special tribute to those who had died for the content of that tiny leather sack. Carlos was pleased to momentarily satisfy the sense of adventure that had driven him to become a private investigator. More pragmatic, Bety found this reverent waiting unnecessary, but she was too cautious to make any objection. Enrique and Carlos were two old friends with a lot common, and she didn’t mind them playing the movie hero for a few minutes. Finally, Enrique knelt to pick up the leather bag. He weighed it in his hand. It didn’t seem heavy at all. His attempts to open it failed.

“Congratulations, Bety. You were right. But I’m afraid we won’t be able to open it without using a knife, scissors, or something like that. It looks like the leather is welded shut. We’ll have to go home, or to Carlos’s office.”

“That won’t be necessary. I have some folding scissors in my purse that will do the trick.” She dug through the clutter of objects in her tiny purse until she found the tool. “Here you go.”

Enrique unfolded the scissors; they were small, but strong, with broad, sharp blades. The sack was sewn with what looked like a long, thin strip of leather. He inserted the tip of the scissors into one of the stitches and, for the sake of caution, pushed outward with force. After so many years, the cord was welded to the bag, and required several minutes of diligent effort. In the end, it gave with a dry pop that sent a shiver down his spine. A powerful feeling of déjà vu, the most intense he’d ever felt, made the hairs all over his body stand up. This scene seemed hauntingly familiar to him. He would’ve sworn that he’d opened the bag at some other time. The power of the impression was such that he was completely dumbstruck. He tried to grasp the fleeting images racing through his imagination—or was it his memory?—but they all slipped away. He only recovered when Bety, familiar with those spells that would have seemed strange to anyone else, put her hand on his shoulder.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s nothing, I just felt like I’d been through all this before,” he explained.

“Well, now that you’re back, let’s see the Stone,” Carlos interjected.

Enrique nodded and placed his hand inside the bag as carefully as a snake charmer removing his animals from the basket where they were kept. The Stone was oval shaped, the size of a fist, with softly rounded edges. It was cold to the touch. He grasped it tightly and brought it out into the light. With his palm up, he opened his hand without realizing how slowly he did it. There, in his palm, before their eyes, was—at last!—the Stone of God, the mystic and mythical object for which two people had lost their lives in the final link of its story.

It was a mild green, pleasing to the eye, between opaque and translucent. Its color, chameleonic, seemed to fluctuate depending on the angle from which it was viewed. None of them would have believed that it could have been used as ammunition for a catapult. It seemed fragile, more a beautiful object of decoration than the messenger of death it had become. The facet visible to them bore no inscription. Enrique turned it over and they saw several thin letters engraved on its surface.

“Can you translate them?” asked Carlos.

“I don’t know the first thing about Hebrew. But I know who could help us: Samuel.”

“Well, what do you know?” Carlos replied. “From suspect to necessary collaborator to solve the mystery. Because, Bety, you wouldn’t know—?”

“Me neither,” added Bety. “I’m afraid that’ll have to wait until tomorrow, if you really want to read it.”

“Well, well! I wasn’t expecting that from you!” Enrique taunted. “Are you really afraid of a four-thousand-year-old legend?”

“I am when for that tradition someone can infest their mind until they’re driven to murder. Do you remember the words Manolo quoted Shackermann as saying? He said: ‘He believed.’”

“Well, we’ll discuss that somewhere else.” Enrique was starting to feel uncomfortable.

“Are you completely sure that this is the Stone?” Carlos pointed to the leather bag.

“What else could it be?” Bety retorted condescendingly. “Everything has led us to it. In that tiny leather bag is one of the most important historical objects discovered in this century. We’re making history.”

“Let’s not waste time. Carlos, help me put the base of the cross back the way it was.”

It didn’t take that much effort to put it back; the block weighed no more than thirty or forty pounds. There was no mortar for the joints, but they didn’t have to worry, as its weight kept it fixed in place. At first glance, no one would have imagined that under that particular stone, something had been hidden for over six hundred years.

“Let’s get out of here,” Carlos ordered. “We have the Stone; neither Manolo nor the killer ever got their hands on it.”

“Manolo got close. It must’ve been him who made that chisel mark,” Bety sighed. “Why didn’t he take it out?”

“According to the report you read us, he left the cathedral late. Maybe he didn’t find it until it was time to leave, or he was afraid of being caught making noise with the hammer,” Enrique conjectured. “A concert being scheduled for today is a stroke of good luck we weren’t counting on.”

“Luck? If I believed in such things, I’d say this is all part of a preordained plan,” Carlos answered. “So many coincidences seem to indicate that you, and no one else, were destined to find it. But let’s get out of here now; I want to take a nice long look at that damned rock.”

They walked over the roof toward the stairway. After pulling closed the heavy grate, they began their descent toward the cathedral down the steep stairs, which had now become a sound box for the powerful organ. On reaching the triforium, just one turn down, Carlos, who was going first, thought he saw a figure. He stopped short, alarmed by the fugitive shadow awaiting the trio’s descent. His hand went inside his jacket. With the other, he stopped Enrique, coming down behind him.

“Who’s there?” he firmly inquired.

“Enrique? Enrique? Are you there?” a woman’s voice anxiously asked. “Answer me, please!”

“It’s Mariola,” he whispered, surprised by her presence. “Don’t worry, Mariola, I’m over here. Let me by, it’s no problem, it’s Mariola,” Enrique told his friend, as if this succinct explanation could dispel all doubt.

Carlos went down to the landing that joined the access gallery to the triforium and the stairway. There, after looking around and confirming that the woman was alone, he allowed Enrique to move toward her. Mariola stood in the triforium with open arms, waiting to be embraced. The other two stayed in the background, a few yards behind the couple.

“What’s going on?” Carlos whispered to Bety.

“They fought this morning, while we were updating her on the case.”

“Did you two tell her that we would be here?”

“Yes.”

“I think there’s something that doesn’t quite fit.”

Descending a bit more, they were able to hear part of the couple’s conversation.

“I’m sorry! I couldn’t wait for you to call. I’ve been thinking all day about what I said to you. Since you said you’d be coming here, I left Samuel alone at the shop to come see you and apologize.”

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” he responded between the organ’s arpeggios, “nothing at all.”

Enrique turned back to his friends. He could see how Carlos knitted his brow and kept his hand inside his jacket, as well as the expression of utter surprise on Bety’s face. Enrique tried to turn toward Mariola to see what could cause such a reaction, but was unable to. He was aware of a sudden, barely perceptible movement, and then taking a blow between his ear and neck that knocked him sideways to the floor, where he lay curled. It didn’t knock him out, but left him unable to react; his muscles felt like melted butter. Bright twinkles filled his field of vision, forcing him to blink compulsively. He had no time to think about what was happening, he couldn’t consider what had made Mariola do something so rash, he couldn’t, or didn’t know how to, understand that she could be responsible for the two crimes. Mariola ignored her lover’s body and continued her advance. She raised her gun, with him powerless to do anything, and fired. In that narrow corridor, and at such short distance, she didn’t have to be an expert marksman to hit the bull’s-eye. He saw Carlos flying backward like a marionette whose puppeteer takes him out of the scene with a brusque, savage yank. The force of the blow thrust him back over Bety, who lost her footing and was trapped under the detective’s small but solid body. Curiously, he heard no sound whatsoever; he only saw a small cloud of smoke floating between Mariola and Carlos. The gun must have been fitted with a silencer. Rallying all his forces, Enrique managed to put his hand far enough forward to grasp Mariola’s ankle, just as she’d begun to take a step after stopping, as if she hadn’t known what to do next. Or maybe he saw it from another angle, his reactions slowed, and everything was happening at lightning speed. He couldn’t know. His hand accomplished its mission; he tripped her up. Her body, with nothing to support it, also toppled after colliding with the wall.

Mariola fell to the floor with a dull thud. Stunned, Enrique tried to get up. He was on his hands and knees. Enrique saw Mariola’s pistol sliding across the floor with incredible slowness toward Carlos, and stop halfway between them. He saw his friend, whose face was clenched in pain, his jaw hanging open, both hands over his chest, as Bety struggled to unpin herself from under the detective’s body and be able to move again. He couldn’t see the ample blood flowing out of his friend’s body, or the bleeding scrape across Mariola’s face, which, strangely, was now positioned before his, and then immediately moved further back, as if he were riding a conveyor belt, leaving her behind. Nor could he see the expression of pure terror on Bety’s face, and even less the visible incredulity written there as she tried to grab the gun that Mariola had dropped. She was just about to reach it, she saw her fingers next to the metal. More than that, she thought she’d already made contact and that, due to the blow she suffered, she’d lost her sense of touch. But although reason told her that she could take it, her hand was unable to obey the orders of her mind. An instant more was all it took for Mariola to reach out her hand and fall back with the weapon in her possession again.

With superhuman effort, Bety managed to get up one second after Mariola had. There they were, in the narrow corridor, face-to-face. Their breathing came faster, almost a pant that Enrique, far away, heard muffled. Mariola looked undecided; by the time Enrique was up she had her gun trained on Bety, but then she seemed to withdraw it.

“Get out of there.” He heard Mariola’s voice in the distance. “Get out of the way!”

“It was you,” he heard himself saying. “It was you who killed them.”

He was able to think clearly for the first time since the blow.

“Give me the Stone,” she ordered. Enrique hesitated. Mariola stretched out her hand, encouraging him to give up the Stone. “Give it to me and I’ll go back the way I came, and nothing else will happen, I promise you.”

“She’ll kill us if you give it to her!” shouted Bety.

“Tell that bitch she’d better shut up and stay that way.”

“Why’d you have to kill them?” Enrique asked, still shaken by the sight of her with a pistol in her hand, completely ignoring her command. “Why’d you have to kill Artur? Why’d you have to kill my father?”

“Give me the Stone,” she demanded again.

“Why?”

“Because the Stone was supposed to be mine.”

“I trusted you. You took advantage of me. Everything that happened between us was fake. You did it just to find out about the Stone. You tricked me! You manipulated me like a fool!”

“That’s not true,” she denied. “I never meant to use you. What happened between us would have happened anyway, even without the Stone.”

“How do you expect me to believe you after what you’ve done?”

“I don’t expect you to believe me. But it’s the truth.”

“Nothing’s stopping you from shooting. If you do, you can take it, no problem.”

“Don’t make me do it.” Her icy voice was tinged by a hint of worry. “Don’t make me do it, because that, I really would regret.”

Enrique thought for several lengthy seconds. She could have easily killed him. If she’d plotted to draw him to her to be able to knock him out, it was because she didn’t want him dead. That much was clear. And yet, she’d shown no reservations about shooting Carlos, and she probably wouldn’t mind doing the same to Bety. He didn’t know what to do. The revolver was in his jacket pocket, next to the Stone, the leather bag, and the keys to Artur’s car and house. He thought of drawing the gun; she would never expect anything like that. All he would have to do was pull the trigger to catch her off guard, but he was surprised to find that, beyond all the fear, the hate, and the pain, he didn’t wish for her death. A stabbing premonition told him that if he tried it, in the end, Mariola would be forced to shoot. What to do? A sudden inspiration motivated him to rummage through his pocket a few seconds until he found the bag that held the Stone; next, he laid his hand on the railing, seventy-five feet above the cathedral floor, now packed with concertgoers enthralled by sacred music.

“Shoot me, and I’ll open my hand, and you’ll lose the Stone forever.”

“If you don’t hand it over to me now, I’ll shoot Bety without a second thought.” She changed the angle of the gun barrel and pointed at Bety. “As much as you try, you won’t be able to save her. Plus, your friend is bleeding to death. Look at him; his only chance depends on you giving me the Stone. Then you could get him to a hospital.”

Enrique shot a quick glance over his shoulder. Mariola was right: laid out on the floor and unconscious, Carlos was losing a lot of blood, more than Enrique had ever seen in his life. It was spreading out in a huge puddle that threatened to brim over the edge of the triforium and spill into the presbytery. Bety had gotten out from under his friend’s body, and squatting next to him, she fought to stop the bleeding with both hands.

“I can’t trust you after everything you’ve done.”

“Don’t test me! Everything I’ve done to get the Stone, I’d do for you.”

“Then leave! If you do, I’ll try to forget you, and the pain you’ve caused me.”

“Forget me? You couldn’t. It’s too late. We’ve been joined forever. For better and for worse. So I’ll say it one more time: give me the Stone.”

“Fine, take it.” He held his arm out toward her. Mariola approached cautiously, taking tiny steps, her right hand holding the pointed pistol and her left out toward Enrique’s, where he held the bag. She had one eye on Bety’s movements and the other on Enrique’s. Her fingers brushed against her lover’s. Enrique felt them as if all his senses were concentrated in his fingertips and nothing else existed. And then the bag was flying toward Mariola’s face. She was taken by surprise, and it hit her right between the eyes. She backed up at the same time she instinctively pulled the trigger of the pistol.

The bag flew between the bars of the safety railing that formed a parapet along the triforium, and fell down into the concert audience. Enrique thrust his entire body forward, with eyes closed. The blow to her face from the Stone caused Mariola to lose her aim, changing the trajectory of the bullet, which grazed his arm. He clearly felt the nick of the steel, but not the pain. Mere yards separated him from Mariola, and their bodies clashed with extreme force. They fell to the floor in a tangle of torsos and limbs. Mariola had managed to partly dodge Enrique’s blind rush. The gun was still in her hand, but her lover powerfully grasped her arm: not enough to force her to drop it, nor so little that she could escape his oppressive grip. They twisted around, half crawling, half dragging themselves. Mariola contorted her body to one side. Enrique’s wounded arm took an impossible angle, causing the strength to drain out of him. A victorious smile crossed Mariola’s face, but vanished as soon as she heard an ominous metallic snap behind her. The safety railing had given way under the weight of her body. She was slipping into the void. Her hands grasped at space, imploring, searching for any handhold, any support, but the inexorable force of gravity was pulling her inevitably toward the distant floor of the presbytery.

Enrique threw himself over the falling body with a desperate cry, and just managed to stop her deadly fall by grabbing hold of her by the waist. The momentum of his body and the inertia of the drop were about to include him in Mariola’s fatal fall, but he stopped himself at the very edge, half of his body hanging in the void. Below, the crowd dispersed like tiny ants surprised by a rainstorm. A mortal silence fell, punctuated only by isolated screams of hysteria. The organ had stopped playing.

“Hold on! For the love of God, hold on!” Enrique kicked desperately, until his foot found a column on which he levered his leg into an impossible contortion that stopped the slow but definite advance, inch by inch, of his body into the abyss.

“Bety! Help me!”

“Enrique!” begged Mariola. “Enrique!”

“Bety!” he roared, desperate.

His wounded arm partly gave way. Now he was only holding onto Mariola by her underarm. “Bety!”

He felt a hand feeling its way across his straining back muscles until it stopped at the belt of his pants. Bety grasped it to keep Enrique from falling.

“Enrique! I can’t hold you!” Bety cried. “If you don’t drop her we’ll all fall!”

Mariola turned her face up to Enrique’s. It showed neither fear nor despair, simply an indescribable feeling that he could see in all its magnitude.

“Good-bye, my love,” she said, and let go.

“No!”

Enrique closed his eyes and put his entire soul into his hand, Mariola’s only remaining support. There he concentrated all his energies and desires, all his hopes and dreams, all his prayers and supplications. It was in vain. His hand, coated in sweat, slipped over the bare skin of her arm. It was at her elbow now, now higher, and now her hand, completely lax. He struggled to clasp her fingers, he clenched them in his with a strength born out of the most complete desperation.

Suddenly, his hand was free.

He opened his eyes. Mariola was falling, her skirt billowing around her, tracing a path through the air like a butterfly with quivering wings, her arms upraised imploringly toward him. He managed to home in on the shine in her eyes until she was far below, until they became undistinguishable, eventually melting into the oval of her face. At last, her fall came to an end. A crowd more morbidly curious than concerned converged in a circle around the body. Enrique closed his eyes.

“No,” he softly said to himself. “No.”

Bety helped him up. She begged him not to, but he rushed downstairs anyway in a wild, headlong descent that caused him to slam into the stone walls more than once. At the end of the staircase, he violently kicked open the door to come out into the presbytery. When they saw him and his ashen face, trailing blood from the wound on his arm, the crowd parted; they feared what he might do next, and they didn’t know he hadn’t caused Mariola’s death intentionally. Enrique flung the disordered chairs aside until he reached Mariola. She had fallen over one of them, which was made into a splintered wreck by the force of her impact. Her green skirt and white blazer were covered in blood. Sobbing, Enrique cast himself over her body and embraced it. Pulling her bloody face to his, he was shocked to hear a tiny rattle of air: she was still breathing.

“Mariola, Mariola, it’s me, Enrique.”

“Enrique,” she whispered with a voice so weak he thought he was imagining it. “Enrique, I didn’t trick you, I swear.” A bloody froth suddenly erupted from her mouth, making her cough. “Enrique, can you hear me?”

“Yes my love, I’m here.”

“I love you, Enrique. You must believe me …”

“I believe you,” he answered.

“You could be saying it out of pity.”

“Do you know for a fact it’s untrue?”

“No.”

“Then give me the benefit of the doubt,” he whispered in her ear, just for her.

Mariola’s breathing grew weaker, lighter, less detectable. Enrique held her in his arms, her body broken by the brutal fall, her limbs lifeless. He wasn’t cognizant of the moment she stopped breathing. Someone’s hands tried to separate him from her, but he resisted with all his waning might, clutching the remains that were Mariola. When, after a time so eternal it ceased to exist, he felt his forces fail and fell completely into gloom, those same hands lifted him onto a gurney and took him to the hospital.

Hours later, Bety and Enrique, his arm in a sling, appeared before Rodríguez and Fornells in a room of the Hospital Clínic. Fornells informed them that Carlos had undergone successful surgery and was in serious but stable condition; he would make it. Enrique’s silence spurred Bety to tell the part of the story that was of interest to the policemen, who gave her their undivided attention. They took several pages of notes, though they didn’t doubt Bety’s word; hundreds of witnesses had seen Enrique trying to hold onto Mariola, putting his own life at risk in the process. Once they had the facts, the policemen departed and left them alone.

20

Six months later, Enrique was busying himself with several lines on the deck of the Hispaniola when he saw Bety approaching down the brand-new pontoon, recently installed by the San Sebastián Port Authority. She’s so beautiful, he thought, watching her walk toward him.

“Hi!” she said, leaping onto the deck.

“Hi,” Enrique greeted her. “You look beautiful.”

A courteous smile was all the response he got.

“How’d you know I was down here?” he asked.

“I imagined you would be since I’ve been calling all morning and yesterday afternoon and there was no way to reach you on the phone. I had some errands to do around here so I thought I’d come down.”

“I’m going over all the gear,” he explained unnecessarily. “I’m planning a long trip and I want to have everything ready.”

Bety sat across from Enrique in the cockpit, facing him as he coiled a couple of lines. “Where are you planning on going?”

“For now, Galicia. From there, wherever the wind blows me. I might point my bow southward and head for the Mediterranean or, if the wind is really blowing, I’ll try to make my first Atlantic crossing. Carlos proposed we sail to Greece together, but we’ll see about that.”

“How is he?”

“Better than ever. He has a nice scar on his chest. I was in Barcelona a few months ago to finish up some corrections on the final draft and we had dinner together. He feels a little out of it, but he hopes to get back into shape with a couple weeks’ sailing. He’s the only one who has a souvenir from this whole adventure—a lead one.”

“Your publisher sent me this.” She took a thick book from her purse and handed it to him.

“The Secret of the Antiquarian. So, Juan decided on that title in the end,” Enrique mused. “Well, I don’t blame him. It really does sound better than the others we were considering.”

Enrique perceived what else had brought her there, but he resisted Bety’s unspoken desires. If what she wanted was to talk, she’d have to take the initiative.

“It’s a great book, one of the best you’ve written. It draws you right in from the beginning.”

“I don’t deserve any credit for writing it,” he confessed. “It was all in my head; it didn’t take me more than four months to finish. The printing proofs took another month. Everything else was pure publishing routine.”

“It’s on its fourth edition in just two weeks. It’s the best seller of the season—no,” she corrected herself, “of the year. It’ll be a blockbuster.”

“It’s an absurd way to join the club of the majors. If the readers didn’t know that it’s partly based on a true story it would’ve sold a lot less. Only my most loyal readers would’ve bought it then.”

“I liked the dedication. It’s the first one you’ve ever done.”

“‘To Artur,’” Enrique recited. “It was about time. He deserved it. A tribute that came too late to the man who made me what I am.”

Bety put the book back in her purse. She looked at Enrique. He continued, absorbed in his task.

“Feel like going out?” he suddenly improvised. “We could take a little sail around the bay. There’s a bit more wind than you like, but I promise to be careful.”

Bety wasn’t sure; she had absolutely no desire to go out to sea, but Enrique would feel more comfortable in his element. And that could make it easier to achieve her real goal.

“Okay. But don’t leave the bay.”

“I promise. Get the stern mooring.”

She moved over the deck with certain unsteadiness. She hadn’t been sailing since they divorced; she’d never really cared for it. It wasn’t that she didn’t appreciate the beauty and the freedom that came with leaving land and steering a sailboat, but because of the sense of fragile insecurity that sailboats gave her. Those thin walls holding back an entire ocean inspired little trust in her, even with a sailor as experienced as Enrique. And she never lost the fear of capsizing, despite Enrique’s explanations on how unlikely such a thing was. After all, fears are irrational things, and seldom mastered.

She pulled in the line once Enrique had untied the knot. She coiled it while he started the engine and released the bow mooring. She felt rusty, unpracticed; years back, it wouldn’t have taken her so long to do something so simple.

A minute later they were crossing the mouth of the port of San Sebastián. Enrique turned the boat into the wind and first hoisted the mainsail and later, with the starboard side windward, raised the jib. With a graceful tack, the Hispaniola glided toward the center of the bay. They were sitting to the left of the helm, which Enrique steered with his right hand. At sea, the wind is never as mild as it seems on land. It blew hard in gusts from the southeast that caused the sailboat to pitch lightly despite Enrique’s efforts to avoid it.

“We can turn around for home if you want,” he said, seeing that the movement of the boat was more than Bety seemed willing to take.

“No.”

She was enjoying the sail more than she dared admit. It was the end of October, probably the best season to be on the Cantabrian Sea: constant wind that swept the air clean and, contrary to what the uninitiated thought, weather with little rain or clouds, meteorologically stable. The sun was shining bright, magically sharpening the outlines of the objects that its warm rays fell upon, bringing out that inner quality so rarely seen. The bay sparkled with the brilliance of a gigantic gem.

“It’s beautiful, don’t you think?” Enrique asked with the complicity that comes from already knowing the answer.

Suddenly, Bety knew that he too had something to say; that was why he’d suggested they sail.

“Our ‘unparalleled scenery.’ I’d never seen it like this.”

They skirted the island, distancing themselves from it, tacking toward the beach, to avoid the surrounding sandbanks. Behind them, Mount Urgull, with most of its trees bare, and its summit capped by the castle. Before them, Mount Igueldo sat baking in the sun, and beyond them, further inland, they could see other hills and mountains, covered by the inevitable green of the Basque Country.

“Neither had I. And sailing around this bay is like taking a walk down La Concha Esplanade to me.”

They kept silent. Bety tried to order her thoughts. Enrique … Who could have known? She gathered all her courage and was the first to speak. She needed to know all those things that, at the time, out of caution or respect for Enrique’s feelings, she hadn’t dared to ask.

“Why did she do it?” She decided to begin with the most difficult question. “You didn’t make it all that clear in the book.”

“I didn’t need to. Like always, let each reader think whatever they want.”

“The Stone could give its holder enormous power. That’s what Manolo told us. Do you think that’s what made her do it? Ambition?”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think, Enrique. I don’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t have come to ask.”

He smiled, amused by some private thought he didn’t share.

“Do you think the Stone’s magic powers were real?”

“Before, when we were in the thick of the investigation, I thought they were, that anything was possible,” she replied. “Now … I guess … no, I don’t believe in it. It’s … too irrational, too strange. Magic doesn’t form part of our times. But what about you? What do you think?”

“Me? The Stone disappeared as soon as I threw it at Mariola and it fell to the presbytery. As much as Fornells’s men looked for it, it never appeared. We’ll never know if its supposed power was anything but a legend. They think someone in the audience took a souvenir home from the concert. Who knows?”

“What do you mean they ‘think’ someone took it? What other explanation could there be?”

“I’d rather think that God, seeing that humankind was incapable of using it correctly, took it back for Himself. I know that’s an old-fashioned, romantic interpretation, out of step with the times, but it’s nicer to explain its disappearance that way than chalking it up to pure and simple greed.”

“You still haven’t answered my first question.”

“Let’s come about,” he said, momentarily dodging the matter.

They were about to reach the other side of the bay, near Ondarreta Beach. The maneuver was necessary to keep from running aground on any of the sandbars in the area. With one hand still on the helm, Enrique used the other to trim the jib. The boat responded to his orders with a docility that proved how deep his knowledge of the Hispaniola was.

“You won’t be able to handle my explanation. It’s too … ,” he searched for the word, “strange, to put it one way.”

“Try me.”

“I think she did it … for the Stone.” He gauged Bety’s reaction. If she was surprised she didn’t show it. “It’s a very complex matter that I’ve thought long and hard about, without much of a conclusion. Don’t get me wrong, but when I think about it, the ideas seem to fly around my head, without giving me time to pin them down. See, I don’t think it was ambition, lust for power, or greed. Once she found out about the Stone’s true meaning from Samuel, she decided to get it, at any cost.”

“Why?”

“Because she had no other choice.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand you.”

Enrique flashed another, not quite as natural, smile.

“The Stone was invested with magical powers. That magic is what made Mariola act like she did. Manolo knew, through Shackermann, that the Stone had to be hidden to keep it out of ‘simple mortal hands.’ Remember it was meant for a deadly purpose. It was so loaded with negative energy that even the Jews, led by the mysterious S., kept it concealed, protected by a secret ritual, and whoever violated it would meet instant death at the hands of a powerful demon. The Stone, to put it in comprehensible terms, was alive—not alive like you and me, but possessed by the presence of a sephirah. The Stone was conscious of itself and longed to see the light. And Mariola was the channel it chose to do it.”

Dazed, Bety looked at him uncertain of how to react. She didn’t know whether to laugh or try to refute the whole outrageous bundle of bullshit justifications. He decided for her.

“You don’t believe me, do you? I can see it in your face. You think I’ve gone nuts. That the pain has gotten to me. That the books I was reading every day after I finished working on the computer have dulled my wits. Well, you’re wrong. And I’m going to try to show you why, though I don’t feel obligated to, by you or anybody else.

“Think back to the very beginning. The Stone was hidden next to the Ark so that no one could fall under its spell unawares. Only the highest priests, as they could resist its powers, had access to it. With the fall of Jerusalem, the Stone traveled into bitter exile with one of those priests, a responsible man, as he knew that leaving it there would mean giving whoever found it a power that shouldn’t fall into human hands. And also responsible, because the temptation to use it for his private purposes must have been very great. Years, perhaps centuries, later the holder of the Stone, a descendant of that original priest, settled in Barcelona with others of his people and prospered with time. Only the envy of the resentful—and as always there were many of them—incapable of rising in society on their own, brought on the ruin of the Jews. The atmosphere became unbearable, and robbing and killing soon followed. S., probably a rabbi with kabbalistic knowledge, knew that his days in Barcelona were numbered. Sooner or later, they would be stripped of their possessions and expelled. That meant that the Stone was in danger. If they took it with them it would be confiscated; if they left it behind it would be discovered. Casadevall was the answer. In him, S. found someone he could entrust the secret to. Casadevall believed him and became the next depositary of the Stone. But he couldn’t resist the powerful magic the Stone had over him either. If his mission was to hide it forever, why do you think he wrote the stupid manuscript we named after him, and that partly caused my father’s death? Why would he do it? I’ll say it loud and clear: he had no reason to! The Stone made him do it.”

He finished off his sentence, out of breath. The ideas that had been flitting around his head for months seemed to be taking shape, and he wasn’t about to waste the chance to share them with someone else. Bety couldn’t believe what she was hearing. It seemed plausible. But no! It was idiotic to think in such terms! Enrique didn’t give her any more time to think. Once he had caught his breath, he dove back into his wild tale.

“The power, the magic, whatever you want to call it, is undeniable. Diego de Siurana was the next to fall under its spell, and he paid for it dearly. He came close to discovering it, but by sheer chance, the Inquisition kept him from reaching his goal. And yet, he stoically withstood the longest torture session on Inquisitorial record. How can you explain that? No one could survive the barbarity they put him through. How can you explain his not talking? One word and his suffering would’ve been over. Sure they would’ve executed him, but they’d have done a clean job, and no more torture. Do you know why he didn’t talk? Because the Stone sealed his lips. The Stone knew what would happen to it if it fell into the hands of the Inquisition: they would’ve destroyed it. And remember what I first said: it’s not alive, but it knows what’s good for it. That’s why S. and his brethren had it hidden in a secret place, with knowledge of it restricted to a handful of initiates.

“When Artur found out it existed, even though it was indirectly, the Stone awoke from the lethargy it had been isolated in for centuries. At first, Artur didn’t know what the mysterious thing was. By intuition he knew it had to be important, because the ritual used by S. to protect it was even described in one of his old books on the occult. Up to then, neither Artur nor I, nor anyone, would ever have given credit to ancient spells and remedies from dusty, half-forgotten books and manuscripts in his library. He himself kept them only for their historic value; to suggest anything else would have been absurd. But he’d read them and vaguely remembered that formula. That very Saturday morning he called Samuel to ask him about the object. His friend couldn’t give him a solution; the magic from the past gets forgotten and tainted with time and is kept only in the memory of old, wise men. He said that it might have been the Stone, but he wasn’t sure; his knowledge of it was limited, and it was little more than an old legend to him.

“That sealed his fate. Samuel, by pure chance, or maybe it wasn’t chance at all, talked to Mariola that very afternoon in the shop. The next day, Artur died.”

“Do you really mean to let her off the hook with that pack of lies?” Bety exploded. “She was sick, Enrique. Someone who kills someone else as a means to an end is suffering a severe mental disorder; they can’t distinguish between right and wrong. She deliberately killed Artur because, even before he knew the magnitude of his discovery, he had found Casadevall’s hiding place. She killed Manolo in cold blood for the exact same reason. And she was about to do the same to us. Enrique, hard as it may be for you to accept, Mariola was a merciless killer. A psychopath, in fact.”

“A psychopath?”

“I haven’t been able to get her death out of my mind for the past six months, either. I’ve also done some investigating on my own, though not in the same direction. I’ve read psychiatry and psychology books until my eyes stung. And Mariola, by the universally accepted definition, was a full-blown psychopath. Only the brilliance that comes with insanity could have allowed her to commit such a masterful crime: to use her knowledge on where the Frenchman was hiding to report him and tie him to Artur’s death. That cleared her path.”

“I can’t accept that. I know Mariola killed my father. But I also know that she let herself fall down to the cathedral floor to keep from dragging me to my death.”

“That doesn’t exactly redeem her of her guilt.”

“There is no guilt. She was acting under the influence of the Stone, beyond her will.”

“I can’t believe this!”

“See? I told you it would be pointless. To you she was a psychopath. For me she’ll always be a hapless woman who fell under an irresistible spell, the legacy of a distant past, when the world, and people, were different from today. Listen to me! What happened to her could’ve happened to you, or to me, if the Stone had appeared in our lives. And by the way, have you bothered to stop and look at yourself? At first, the Stone was nothing to you. It was me who was acting funny and hiding things from the police. But then it was you who fell under its spell, possessed by the desire to have it. That’s how it happened! The Stone influenced us all! And you know it! But what does it matter?” His resignation was obvious. “You’ll never believe because you don’t want to question the values of the world that today’s society has built. To do so would be to ask yourself too many uncomfortable questions, questions that you’re better off stowing away in some corner of your little blond head.”

Bety thought about Enrique’s behavior over the past months. After Mariola’s death, the conclusion of the police business, and the hardest part of Carlos’s postsurgical recovery, he had returned to San Sebastián. She had called him at least twenty times before he deigned to answer. He asked to be left alone; he had a lot of work and he needed as much quiet as possible. With all possible goodwill, she’d wanted to help him forget. But it was obvious that Enrique wanted to withdraw into his world, and leave her out; her and all his San Sebastián friends that she spoke to. She deduced that it was to finish his new book. But after some time she reached the conclusion that there was more to it than that.

The conclusion she reached after weighing the appropriateness of deciphering his cryptic words was negative: she had nothing to gain, and the real reason for her visit was another. She’d wanted to talk about Mariola, and that subject was now cleared up. But there was a second topic that had haunted her night after sleepless night: the Stone. And part of what she meant to say was closely related to Enrique’s theories.

“Imagine I accept your story, and believed in the Stone’s capability to influence its own fate. If that’s so, the person who picked it up couldn’t have turned it in to the police; they’d keep it for themselves.”

“It’s likely. There’s no way to know.”

“But that person wouldn’t know anything about it. They wouldn’t know what it was, or what it was for. If they didn’t know its shape, they could even confuse it with something decorative, like a paperweight, for example.”

“So?”

“There’s something that doesn’t quite match up between your theories and what happened. You say that the Stone is potentially dangerous, and that there are certain rituals to keep just anyone from having access to it. Supposedly, if a person didn’t know its properties, they wouldn’t be inclined to use it in any way, as they’d be unaware of the properties. Right?”

Enrique nodded.

“So how can you explain it falling into the presbytery, and into the hands of some random person?”

Enrique was silent.

“When I go back over what happened that day, there’s one vision I can’t get out of my mind. So many things happened, it’s silly to remember this and nothing else, but … I remember Mariola pointing her gun at you. She told you to hand over the Stone and you rummaged around in your pocket until you found the leather bag. Then, when you threw it in her face, I watched it fall with absolute clarity. And then … well, you know the rest.

“On its own, it’s unimportant. It seems ridiculous for something like that to keep running through my mind, but it happens to me when the pieces of a puzzle don’t fit correctly. That scene is the first piece of the puzzle.

“The second is when you got out of the hospital. Once your arm was set, and after that never-ending interrogation early the next morning, Fornells told us to go home. We did, and when you were about to open the door you couldn’t find your keys. It didn’t surprise you that they weren’t in the right place. It seemed absolutely natural. You muttered that you must’ve lost them and we got the spare from the neighbor across the street, an old friend of Artur’s.

“I didn’t think anything of it. Between the showdown in the triforium and that horrible night in the hospital, losing them didn’t seem odd at all. But as time’s gone by, the picture of you fumbling through your jacket pocket just seemed stranger and stranger to me. There weren’t that many things in there. You had the revolver, the house keys, and the Stone with its leather bag. There was nothing else. That was it.

“There’s nothing strange in joining the two pieces of the puzzle. You were nervous, as anyone in your situation would be. You put your hand in your pocket and touched the gun. Mariola had hers pointed at you, though she didn’t know you were armed. Maybe the unusual slowness I noticed in your actions was because you didn’t know what to do. Maybe. Or maybe not. Maybe as she was pointing the gun at you, you slipped the Stone out of the bag, and the keys into it, to give the impression, with the weight, that the Stone was in it. No one would have thought you’d ever risk such a precious object in the trap you’d dreamed up to surprise Mariola, which allowed you to come up with the clever deception in just a few seconds. And when everything was over, you found the Stone in your possession, without anyone suspecting anything. That’s what happened. And my theory, as ridiculous as it sounds to me, fits perfectly with yours: the Stone couldn’t let itself fall into the hands of an unsuitable person. That’s why your keys turned up the next day next to the empty leather bag.”

“A nice theory,” Enrique said, in a barely suppressed mocking tone. “Simply overflowing with logic.”

“So, is it true that you have it?”

Enrique smiled timidly at first, then more openly, and finally regaled Bety with a spontaneous and sincere belly laugh. He appreciated the frankness with which she assumed the Stone’s final destination.

“What do you think?” Enrique asked once he had recovered.

“You have it. I’m sure of it,” she said with conviction. “It’s obvious. It’s more than just my intuition telling me.”

“And why is the final destiny of the Stone so important? After everything we’ve been through, is it worth devoting even one more second of our lives to it? I think it isn’t.”

“You’re a little inconsistent. You said you’d researched it through every source possible. If you did that, it’s because you thought it was worthwhile, and if you did it, it’s because you had it.”

Enrique abandoned all signs of happiness or pleasure and took on the semblance of absolute concentration. He seemed to be calibrating how good an idea it was to continue with the conversation. On a few occasions, he managed to open his mouth, but the words died before they could be pronounced. Bety saw his inner struggle; part of him wanted to share, the other thought it better to forget.

“We’re going to come about. Let’s go back to the port,” he said at last, eluding resolution of the conflict.

For the first time in the last half hour, Bety took her eyes off Enrique’s face. They had left the bay without her realizing it, so absorbed had she been in the conversation. The mouth of Pasajes Port yawned not far from their position. The sky had clouded over completely. The clouds were dark as coal, heavy with water, and looking to burst open any second. In the distance, twenty to thirty miles out, a dark veil on the horizon—easily recognized by sailors—indicated that it had begun to rain. She felt the chill in her bones; the northern breeze blew with increasing intensity. After a day of southerly winds, a strong northwest wind known as a galerna was forming. Seeing her shiver, Enrique fixed the helm and went below decks. A minute later, they both had on foul-weather suits that would help them withstand even the worst sea storm without any variation in body temperature.

“Aren’t you going to answer me?” Bety asked once she had warmed back up.

“While we were in Barcelona, I discovered that it’s pointless to know the truth if it doesn’t match with our desires,” Enrique mused. “Sometimes, ignorance is bliss.”

“I want to know, Enrique.”

“Fine. It happened just like you said.”

“So you do have it!”

“No. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Stone was too dangerous to remain in human hands. I didn’t want to join the list of people who’ve died for it one way or another.”

“What’d you do with it?”

“What Casadevall should have done. You might remember a conversation we had back in Barcelona. We were talking about why Casadevall had hidden it instead of getting rid of it.”

“I vaguely remember that, yes.”

“You mentioned a place where no one would find it, a place where it would always be out of the reach of human ambition, a place where it could rest until all record of its existence was lost.”

“So you … the sea. For you that place is the sea.”

“Yes, the sea. The Stone is resting on the floor of the Atlantic trench, thirty thousand feet down, surrounded by total darkness, and beyond anybody’s reach. I dropped it at a site far from the usual sea routes, and no one, except you, knows where I went the day I did it.”

“You dropped it,” Bety murmured, perplexed. “That may have been best.”

“It was best,” he confirmed. “It doesn’t matter whether or not it had magical powers, or that it was a sublime emerald carved with the burin of an unknown or divine craftsman. What matters, as Manolo once said, is that there have always been gullible people willing to do anything to get it, with or without reason. Now, no one on the planet, not even me, could ever find it.”

“You’re right,” admitted Bety. “I may not be able to believe in your theories, but ambition is a trait of human beings, and our inclination toward evil is an indissociable part of our selves. You did right.”

He smiled, happy that she understood. The decision he’d made months ago on finding the Stone in his pocket when he’d thought it lost, had been the right one. They sailed toward the bay, each wrapped up in their own thoughts. The wind continued to build. The galerna, which hadn’t been in that day’s weather forecast, had begun to batter the coast. Enrique made the port just as the waves, driven by the strength of the wind, had begun to wet the deck of the Hispaniola. They quickly moored the boat. Enrique furled the sails, shut down the equipment onboard, and locked the gangway. After giving the deck a final once-over, they walked toward the pier.

“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.

APPENDIX

The Barcelona of 1390

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.

The Cathedral of Barcelona

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.

The Kabbalistic Tradition

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 conversoÁngel 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.

Donostia–San Sebastián, European Capital of Culture 2016

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

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

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.

Sánchez’s first novel, El Anticuario (The Antiquarian), has been translated into thirteen languages thus far. His two subsequent books, La voz de los muertos (The voice of the dead) and El rostro de la maldad (The face of evil), have also begun their international trajectories. His fourth novel, the long-awaited sequel to The Antiquarian, will be published in April 2013.

Sánchez is married and has two children. He and his family reside in the wonderful city of San Sebastián, Spain.

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