The Antiquarian
Authors: Julián Sánchez
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.
Part One: The Antiquarian and the Writer
Part Two: The Casadevall Manuscript
Part Three: The Fall of the Butterfly
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 Catedralâthe traditional hub of antiques dealersâa 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 Slim, and of medium height, he wore a simple, dark blue suit that was slightly outdated and showing wear.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 ringâan 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 courseâinteresting 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 allâ”
“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 âpiece' 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: âDo 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 operationânot to mention the complexity of the placeâdifficult 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 pesetasâ”
“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.”