The Antiquarian (2 page)

“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.”