The Antiquarian (44 page)

“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
.”