The Antiquarian (22 page)

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.

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.