The Art Restorer
Contents
Author’s Note
Part One: San Sebastián
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Two: New York
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Part Three: San Sebastián
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part Four: New York
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Part Five: San Sebastián–Barcelona
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Part Six: New York
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Part Seven: Paris
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Part Eight: San Sebastián
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Part Nine: San Telmo
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Part Ten: San Sebastián–Paris
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Appendices
1. San Sebastián
2. Reality and fantasy
3. Structure of the novel
4. Acknowledgments
About the Author
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Original Title: El restaurador de arte
Copyright © 2012 by Julián Sánchez
Translation: The Art Restorer
Copyright © 2014 by Patrick Bones
ISBN: 978-1-4804-7698-1
This 2014 e-book published by:
Barcelona Digital Editions, S.L.
Av. Marquès de l’Argentera, 17 pral.
08003 Barcelona
www.barcelonaebooks.com
This 2014 edition distributed by:
Open Road Integrated Media
345 Hudson Street, Suite 6C
New York, NY 10014
www.openroadmedia.com
In keeping with the custom of all my novels, part of the events described are based on a true story. I leave it to the reader’s imagination and investigative ability to discover which are real, and which are fictitious.
For you, my love: as yesterday, today and forever
PART ONE
San Sebastián
1
“There it is.”
Enrique murmured these three simple words. He did it in a voice so low that the stranger in the seat next to his on the Barcelona–San Sebastián flight probably failed to hear them. The tiny Fokker 49 was approaching the airport runway from the south, affording him a chance to view the astounding beauty of La Concha, San Sebastián’s bay, out his port window.
“Perfect as ever,” he thought to himself, as he had a thousand times before, on any occasion he had to look on it from above. In truth, what lay below exemplified perfection—an amazing whim of nature that humanity had made its own by erecting the city of San Sebastián around it, from Mount Urgull to Mount Igueldo.
His gaze glided over the bay, delighting in the details. With the plane’s low altitude, he could even spot his own apartment, on the slopes of Igueldo, an apartment he had not set foot in for three years.
“I’ve been away too long.”
And in this new thought, he realized how much he missed home.
“My home. Not in Barcelona, not in New York. Imagine that!”
The bay was left behind as the Fokker neared the runway. It wasn’t long before it landed on the concrete strip laid beside the mouth of the Bidasoa River, practically on the very border dividing Spain and France. He disembarked with the other fifty-four passengers; his trip coincided with the San Sebastián International Film Festival, where he was to participate as a guest speaker.
After picking up his luggage, he exited into the lobby, where a small legion of chauffeurs were holding poster board signs blazoned with names, many of them foreign—guests invited by the film festival organizers. His name was on one of them: Enrique Alonso. He introduced himself, and the driver took one of his suitcases, walking him to an impressive-looking Mercedes-Benz. He took his seat, gave the address to his apartment, and the car took off. His cell phone began to vibrate, but Enrique ignored it, determined to enjoy the scenery so familiar to him. The taxi reached La Concha after a twenty-minute drive down the expressway.
Home.
Three years away. Years so restless and surprising that he never could have imagined what they would hold, even deploying all his author’s acumen.
The novel based on the events he survived during his search for the Stone of God had become a best seller, in Spain and every other country where it had been published. It had also become his pass to America, when a major film studio bought the rights to produce the movie. Enrique had been called on to help write the screenplay at a perfect time for him personally; he had wanted to get away from San Sebastián. No, it wasn’t San Sebastián he’d wanted to get away from, but what San Sebastián meant. What he’d really wanted to get away from was his ex-wife, Bety Dale.
After that he had decided to stay on awhile—just a month or two—in New York, the city that never sleeps. One month slipped into another, and as his next novel enjoyed the same success as the previous effort, a film version was once again in the works. Three years went by this way, only interrupted by a business trip to Barcelona to see his publisher. Three years that he hoped would establish distances and temper emotions. And memories.
It had not been easy.
Bety had sent him e-mails just often enough to keep the line from snapping. The messages were affectionate—like her, of course—but never misleading. She wrote about her work at the university, and she asked him about his novels, always keeping the right distance, like a master funambulist walking the tightrope of emotion. And Enrique always replied in kind, deftly controlling the language he used—pleasant, but distant; sensitive, but not overly so; a friend, not a lover. Then he received her last missive, in which she told him that she had applied for a leave of absence from the University of the Basque Country, to take on a new professional challenge, as public relations director of the San Telmo Museum, San Sebastián’s most prominent, shortly after its renovation was completed. In her message, Bety invited Enrique to the grand reopening of the museum. Enrique accepted the invitation. First he spent a few days in Barcelona, visiting his house in Vallvidrera, with the city of Barcelona at his feet. He met up with old friends and dropped by his Spanish publisher. Then he boarded the plane for San Sebastián.
The taxi began the ascent to Paseo del Faro, where Enrique’s apartment was. He said good-bye to the driver and entered the building. Two stories up, he stopped in front of the door to his apartment, key in hand. The feeling of nostalgia, which he was always so prone to, was overwhelming. “Three years!” He put the key in the lock and opened the door. Tiny slants of light filtered through the blinds. The place did not smell musty; a maid had continued cleaning on a weekly basis, as if it was still occupied. Enrique had never completely shuttered it, as he’d clung to the idea that he could come back, even though life’s most recent turns had pointed in the opposite direction. He crossed the spacious living room to the picture windows. There, he raised the blinds, letting the light of the bay flood the interior.
“Amazing,” he said aloud. Years of living alone had accustomed him to expressing ideas and feelings out loud to himself. But the view more than deserved it. La Concha offered itself to him. He opened the windows, walked out onto the balcony, and filled his lungs with salty air.
“Now I know why I didn’t want to come back.”
It was clear. The view of the bay had always triggered a similar effect in him: a desire to drop everything and let himself be rocked by the motion of the sea, accompanying the waves on their way to the beaches, crowded even now despite it being the last week of September.
“It was hard for me to come home, and I’m sure it’ll be just as hard for me to leave.”
His return trip was booked for three days later. But as he sat there on the terrace, Enrique knew that those days would not be enough to cure his homesickness. There were a few yachts sailing around La Concha. His, the Hispaniola, was now moored in the North Cove Marina, in Manhattan, thousands of miles away.
“How many times must I have ploughed through those waters…?”
He got up suddenly, spurred by a certainty born of his own knowledge: melancholy is a bad traveling companion, more so for personalities like his. Almost without thinking, he decided to unpack and open up the apartment, determined not to give in to himself. Time had passed, and for the better. Maturity is more a matter of experiences than just the passing of time, and he’d had a wealth of them in recent years.
Once the apartment was aired out and his clothes put away, he looked at his watch: he had six hours to go before the opening of the San Telmo Museum, the true purpose of his trip. How could he not be by Bety’s side on such a special occasion? Plus, a healthy representation of civil society from San Sebastián and the Basque Country would be there. And after all, though he now lived in New York, he had forged much of his writing career here in San Sebastián. His commitment was to Bety, but he was also going to pay his respects to all those from the powers that be who had helped him get his start. There was also a third reason for coming to San Sebastián: as it coincided with his visit to attend the opening, he was going to give a presentation at the film festival on the adaptation of literary works to screenplays.
He glanced at his cell phone: the last calls had been from Bety. Aware of how busy she would be in the hours prior to the opening, he sent a brief message: “I’m in Igueldo. See you there. X”. He then decided to go out for a run, a recently acquired New York habit that had become part of his life. Doing, and not thinking, busying his body and vacating his mind, had become his best way to avoid sinking into the blues.
2
Enrique’s true reencounter with the city occurred on his way to the old quarter, where the San Telmo Museum was, on the exact opposite side of La Concha. He went at an easy pace, enjoying the stroll. On the Boulevard, near the museum, he began to spot other guests. They were easy to pick out; the men wore suits, the ladies, evening gowns. No one but him was walking alone. Such events are usually attended with a date or in a group.
Once at Plaza Zuloaga, he took a look at the building, a former sixteenth-century Dominican convent, famous for its Neo-Renaissance façade. Next to the old, perfectly preserved building, a new one had been built, nestled into the slope of Mount Urgull. For once, old and new had come together in a tasteful architectural symbiosis free from gaudiness. Enrique had seen photos of the renovation, but it was clearly more impactful in person.
He waited in line to enter, identifying himself at the door. Once inside, he soon ran into a number of acquaintances from the cultural scene at the cocktail reception in the church cloister. Among them, Bety, conversing with some of the guests, jovially greeting everyone. “She looks beautiful,” he thought. He separated himself from the people he had been chatting with to blend into the multitude where, anonymous among the crowd, he was able to watch her at will.
Her whole being radiated joy. She seemed to shine, dressed in a long, green, strapped gown that matched her look and highlighted her blond hair, done in a simple style, with a ponytail bunched to the right, her hair falling over her shoulder. She was tall, and must have been wearing ultra-high heels, as she stood eye-to-eye with most of the male guests. “She seems so self-assured and natural…” This did strike Enrique as strange, though there was nothing surprising about her obvious beauty. Despite being a university professor, Bety had always been somewhat insecure before large groups. She was, however, skillful at hiding it. “She doesn’t look like the Bety that I remembered. But that Bety never would have taken a job like this, and this Bety seems to enjoy doing it. But… why shouldn’t she? Haven’t I changed? Why wouldn’t she do the same?”
He was enjoying observing her like that, from a distance, until their gazes met in the midst of a forest of people in movement. They smiled and walked toward each other, meeting near the center of the cloister. Bety spoke first.
“Enrique! Finally! I’m so happy to see you!”
“And I you, Bety.” He gave her a hug as warm as it was brief, and a kiss on each cheek. Afterwards they kept their arms on each other’s shoulders as they talked.
“For a while there I thought you weren’t coming.”
“I never would have forgiven myself. This is a big night for you, and I had to be here.”
“You’ll never believe all the things I have to tell you. But I have no time right now!”
“I know. Don’t worry. Do your thing. We’ll talk later. Remember, I’m used to book parties; I know you have to deal with all the guests.”
“Thank you, Enrique! We’ll catch up later. When the reception’s over and everybody’s gone, wait for me right here in the cloister. Will you?”
“Count on it. Off you go! Your guests are waiting.”
Bety went back to work while Enrique sought out some more acquaintances to talk with. Later, along with the others, he listened to the speeches by local politicians and the museum’s cultural leadership, given in the sublime San Telmo Church. The church’s stonework, restored and skillfully lit, shined, while the canvases painted by Sert, which had always made such an impression on him, made up the perfect frame. Later they went back to the cloister, where the warm evening weather set the ideal temperature for the catered dinner. Enrique kept up conversations with his fellow party attendees, but didn’t let Bety out of his sight, confirming the display of confidence he had first noticed.
The opening played out pleasantly, and Enrique even had a few hearty laughs with some old acquaintances. He hadn’t drunk enough to even be tipsy, and so he knew that his mood had definitely improved for the better. He felt truly glad to see Bety again, and he’d left his doldrums behind. The atmosphere also did its part; after all, he was surrounded by any number of intelligent individuals with whom he could have the kind of conversations he liked. On one occasion, finding himself momentarily alone in a transition between groups, he spotted a peculiar man about seventy years old, wearing an impeccable cream-colored suit, bow tie, and hat. He was sitting, cane in hand, on the cloister’s stone parapet. He lifted his hat, greeting Enrique from afar. Then he got up and walked toward him, displaying a remarkably upright posture. He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders and a slender frame.
“I beg your pardon, but aren’t you Enrique Alonso, the writer?”
He spoke in Spanish with an accent that could only be from the United States. Enrique scrutinized his face. Anyone would have defined him as interesting. His appearance was that of a man who had lived in style and sport. He was tan, with the kind of wrinkles that come from prolonged exposure to the sun. But the most engaging part of his appearance was his eyes, intensely blue, that seemed to project a notable curiosity.
“Yes, I am. And you…”
“Bruckner, Craig Bruckner. I’ve had the pleasure of reading a few of your novels. But I only wanted to say hello because I know Bety personally, and she’s told me a great deal about you.”
“From your accent, I’d say you’re from the United States.”
“I’m from Philadelphia, but I’ve been in Europe a long time. I am—or rather, was—an art restorer and curator for a number of museums.”
“Are you working with the San Telmo Museum now?”
“Officially, I’m retired. But I devote my free time, which is actually all my time, to personal research projects. I’m writing a paper on the work of Sert, so I had to come to San Sebastián to study the paintings in the church. Plus, the San Telmo has plans to restore them, and I’m the closest thing there is to an expert in that field.”
“I would have thought that a museum of its category would have its own staff of restorers.”
“They do. And they’re first-rate. But Sert used some unusual painting techniques in his work—in this specific case, glazes over a metal backing, and that’s where I can offer my experience on his work. Museum management has given me access to study the paintings, and in exchange, I advise them when they need me to. So, everybody gets what they want! How about you? I hear you’re living in New York.”
“That’s right. I live in Midtown East. I moved there thinking it would be temporary, but…”
“. . . one thing leads to another and you stayed. It tends to happen! Especially in New York City—it’s bursting with creativity. So how’s your American adventure going? They tell me you’re making your way on the literary scene in my country.”
“Trying to make your way among all the American writers is an adventure in itself. Just three percent of the novels published in your country are by foreign authors.”
“So you decided to make a go of it from there.”
“Right. When The Antiquarian took off in the States, the door unexpectedly opened by just a crack. I stuck my foot in far enough to keep it from closing, and now I’m trying to get the rest of my work through the doorway. The translation of my last novel was published there before the Spanish version was released here, and sales have been pretty good. And working on the screenplays of both the films has opened up another little place for me in Hollywood.”
“You have no idea how happy I am for you. I know a thing or two about the literary world—the Sert monograph isn’t the first thing I’ll have published. And I know it’s tough to get anything published there without an agent.”
“My Spanish editor put me in touch with Gabriel Goldstein.”
“I don’t know him personally, but I do know he’s one of the best.” Something drew Bruckner’s attention elsewhere. The charming smile that had adorned their conversation was replaced by a more austere expression. “I hope you’ll excuse me. I have to say hello to someone else. Enrique, I’d love to get together and talk sometime. I can get your number from Bety. Would you mind if I called you?”
“Not at all. I’ll be in the city a few more days. Call whenever you like.”
“I will! Talk to you soon, then.”
They shook hands and parted ways. It was close to eleven, and some of the people were beginning to head home. Enrique, with no friends left to talk to, and no desire to look for any, retired to one side of the cloister, to let time pass as the party died down. Just before twelve, with hardly any guests left, the catering crews started to break down the tables. It was then that Bety approached him.
3
“Finally! I’m dead tired!”
“Dead tired, yet smashing.”
“Everything went as planned—the opening came off without a hitch. My first trial by fire in this job.”
“A complete success. I watched you handling the whole thing effortlessly. You were everywhere at once, making all the guests feel welcome. Everyone will agree that the San Telmo Museum’s new PR director is as efficient as she is charming.”
“Always the flatterer.”
A waiter passed them carrying a bottle of champagne. Bety stopped him, taking the bottle and two flutes in a single movement.
“My first of the night. You’ll toast with me, won’t you?”
“Of course! Only remember that it’s not my first.”
“And theoretically it shouldn’t be my last. The whole staff is supposed to go out and celebrate, but I’ve been working like a dog for days. No one will mind if I run off with you.”
“I’d be thrilled to run off with you.”
“Give me a few minutes to say good-bye to everyone. Wait for me outside in the square.”
“All right.”
Enrique left the museum. Plaza Zuloaga was practically deserted at that hour. Above the museum, at the summit of Mount Urgull, the statue of the Sacred Heart, brightly lit, seemed to float above the city, holding command over it. Bety took longer than ten minutes. Enrique understood that saying good-bye to her colleagues was more work than she had imagined.
“Where are we going, Bety?”
“You’re the one who hasn’t been to San Sebastián in ages, Enrique. You pick.”
He thought before answering. All of San Sebastián was packed with fantastic spots, and he had a long list of favorites.
“Let’s take a little walk. It’s late, and the path up to Urgull will be closed, so I say we head to the jetty, next to the Yacht Club.”
Enrique offered Bety his arm, and she didn’t refuse it. They strolled toward the port, navigating through the streets of the old quarter. Even this, the city’s liveliest district, was battening down for the night. All they saw were street cleaners, a patrolman or two, and late-summer tourists, most young and foreign, squeezing what was left out of their last days of vacation. The temperature was perfect, and a lovely mild breeze stirred the air. They reached the jetty at the Yacht Club, alongside the bay. About 65 feet long, the jetty extended over the sea like a planked tongue. It ended in stairs that descended to the water. Urgull, Santa Clara Island and Mount Igueldo, lit like beacons, framed La Concha, creating a sublime setting. The jetty was for pedestrians only and so completely free from traffic noise, the only sound was the voices of passers-by. The two of them walked along it and stopped at the end, next to the stairs. Bety did so cautiously, raising her dress to pick her way with her heels. They leaned on the handrail, facing the beach.
“We still look at it each with different eyes, don’t we?”
“Yes, Bety. San Sebastián natives like you have grown accustomed to the exceptional. You see it as beautiful, but never so much as those of us who come from other places.”
“You always had a keen eye for beauty.”
“That’s true, but not just landscapes, Bety. I’m sure you’ve already been told countless times tonight, but you look stunning!”
It was true. She was wearing very little makeup—a stroke of blush, a touch of red lipstick, a little mascara—she didn’t need more. Her face still preserved the vivaciousness of the past, especially her smile. She had always been athletic; she enjoyed running and gym workouts, and her body had the muscular tautness typical of an athlete. She had hardly changed in the three years since he had last seen her; perhaps Enrique discerned the earliest trace of wrinkles—they were impossible to hide at close range—around the corners of her mouth and eyes. But it was not her outer beauty that he was trying to fathom. His eyes strove to go deeper, to reach her inner self, to understand the reasons behind her clear change of attitude. Bety spoke to him, but this time her voice sounded different, stripped of its relaxed tone.
“It’s been a long time since anyone looked at me the way you are now. Tell me, Enrique. What do you see?”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t settle for what’s on the outside. You’re trying to look in. Women can see that look because you men don’t know how to hide it like we do. So answer my question, please.”
“I see… a woman who looks like the one I remember, but who’s also different. I watched you at the opening. The whole time you gave off a self-confidence you didn’t use to have. I see you bubbling over with strength and energy. You’ve really come into your own, Bety—absolutely radiant.”
“Yes. Maybe.”
“Bety?”
“Yes?”
“You still haven’t told me how you came to be the new director of public relations at the museum. Why did you leave the university?”
Bety’s smile vanished as soon as she heard the question. She cast her gaze over the bay, and Enrique got the feeling that she wanted to avoid this issue in particular. When she spoke, she did so in a tone that Enrique knew to be falsely at ease.
“I was tired of teaching. What future is there for a classical philologist in a world like this? There are fewer and fewer students enrolled at our university. Latin and Greek are dead languages, and studying them becomes less important with every round of educational reform. A day will come when universities stop teaching those languages, because they aren’t profitable. Just a handful of researchers—an ever-shrinking handful—take an interest in antiquity. You know something else, Enrique? I lost the thrill. And in life, when you lose the thrill, it’s best to take a new path. Who knows that better than you?”
This surprised Enrique. He remembered a Bety enthralled with the past she now seemed to renounce. Though she had found teaching bittersweet at times, research, on the other hand, had been a true passion for her. Now when she mentioned researchers, she spoke of them without including herself in the group.
“But what about the museum? There couldn’t be anything more different from your old job. How did you end up there?”
“Probably because of what you just said—it’s diametrically opposed to what I was doing before. I used to do mostly research, which means getting wrapped up in yourself. This job involves exactly the opposite: constantly engaging with others.”
Bety finished her explanation and remained quiet. Enrique, shocked by what he was hearing, did the same. He had detected something that didn’t quite fit in Bety’s attitude, at least not in that of the Bety who had been his wife years before, and who he thought he knew. He had the feeling that she wanted to tell him something specific but couldn’t find the right way to do it, as if the whole conversation they were having was just a pantomime, a mask behind which she could disguise her true interest. Enrique weighed the possibility of giving her the chance, but he knew he would be at pains not to cause a quarrel like the hundreds they’d had as a couple. A few minutes later, Bety picked up the conversation again.
“Do you remember the last time we saw each other in person, Enrique?”
“Of course. It was right over there.”
Three years ago, Bety had come to him to find out the truth about what had happened in Barcelona—not the version described in his novel, but the truth that only he could know. Not far from where they were, by the breakwater of San Sebastián’s small port, they had parted in the rain, without even saying good-bye.
“I remember what you said that day,” said Bety. “Do you still feel alone?”
“No. I don’t know. Yes. Do you?”
“Now that’s a vague answer. Are you seeing anyone?”
“There is someone, yes. But no one as important as you were, Bety—at least, not yet.”
“What about the future?”
Enrique turned his palms up and shrugged.
“Who knows? We see each other now and then. New York is completely different from San Sebastián—it’s impersonal but at the same time stimulating, and personal relationships aren’t easy. What about you, Bety? Do you feel alone? You still haven’t answered me.”
Bety knitted her brow before answering, as she usually did when something made her uncomfortable. Contrary to what Enrique was expecting, she answered almost immediately.
“There was someone in my life, yes, but it’s over now. And I feel alone, too. You said so earlier: I’ve come into my own—matured, really. Things have happened in my life that have changed me. It’s true. Some of them, recently. You don’t know anything about them because I haven’t told you anything. Our e-mails were never about anything personal, not yours or mine. Just ambiguities. We never told each other anything important: a bit about work, some gossip about friends… and not much else.”
In the past, Enrique would have rushed headlong into this conversation, but he had also changed over the past three years, and he was certain that he shouldn’t force her to talk under any circumstances. He kept quiet, waiting with a patience that was new to him. It was Bety who spoke first.
“How long will you be in San Sebastián?”
Enrique remembered the date on his return ticket: three days from now. But in that instant he knew that, just as he had imagined in his apartment a few hours earlier, he would be staying longer. His nostalgia was now joined by a new variable that he hadn’t been counting on, at least not like this: he knew that somehow, Bety needed him, and he couldn’t ignore her plea, even though she hadn’t asked him for anything. He improvised.
“I don’t have a set date. A while. Two weeks, maybe a month. I don’t know.”
“Good. That way we’ll have some time to see each other. I’m going home, Enrique. I hadn’t realized it, but I’m exhausted. I’ve hardly slept the past two days. I’ve burnt up all the opening-night adrenaline and now I need to rest. Call me. Not tomorrow. The day after.”
“I will.”
Bety gave him a light kiss on the cheek and walked down the jetty toward the Boulevard. Enrique stayed put, looking out to sea, just as he had done three years earlier on the jetty. Bety had suggested something, without saying much, and Enrique understood that something had changed between them—something very deep and as yet impossible to define.
He decided to stay. The reason was another matter. He could cloak his decision in the guise of support and help for Bety. And perhaps he wouldn’t be wrong in doing so. But he didn’t mislead himself. Inside he knew there was more to it: a desire, a promise, a mystery.
4
Seven days later, Enrique still hadn’t seen Bety again. Two brief telephone conversations had been all the contact between them. On both occasions, she had referred to the mountain of work awaiting her in the initial days of the reopened museum, and begged him to be patient. Though Enrique’s personality had improved in this area, he was beginning to find the situation excessive. He wanted to convince himself that if he stayed on, enjoying San Sebastián, it was because of his own will. But the truth was altogether different. He had a real desire to help her, if it was within his reach. He didn’t think there was any motive other than friendship—the possibility of returning to their old relationship seemed enticing, but unthinkable given everything they had been through together. Did he really want to help her as a friend or was he harboring a remote hope of returning to the past?
Enrique wasted no time during the week he waited. First he met his obligations by taking part in the screenplay conference at the film festival. Later he looked up some old friends and had dinner with them in a few gastronomical societies. And he went on outings to spots around the province that he hadn’t visited for so long, places steeped in a hidden charm. There were a number of them, those known by all the tourists—Fuenterrabía, Pasajes, Guetaria—but also many others, more discreet, that he had discovered on his own, with names unknown to most.
This made for reasonable entertainment. But like any pastime, these activities eventually came to an end, and his situation continued unchanged. On the morning of the eighth day, Enrique decided not to wait anymore. He had made up his mind to go to San Telmo in person when, at twelve o’clock, he got a message on his cell phone: “Come see me at the museum, please.” Enrique attributed the apparent coincidence to one of those hidden connections that exist between some people, the kind that could lead them both into certain situations.
It took him no more than half an hour to reach Plaza Zuloaga on foot. The day was overcast and a fine drizzle was falling, but the temperature was still pleasant. With the tide out, he took the beach route, walking barefoot, letting the waves lap at his feet. If there were few pedestrians above the beach on the La Concha Esplanade, there below, on the sand, he encountered no one.
He asked for Bety at the museum reception desk, and she appeared a moment later. As she approached, one look was all Enrique needed to know right away that something was wrong: everything about her projected tension.
“Thanks for coming, Enrique.”
“What’s going on?”
“Come with me to my office.”
Without speaking a word, they walked together to the museum administration department. Bety’s office was spacious, and despite the recent reopening of the museum, her desk was already stacked high with every kind of paperwork. Enrique took a seat at an adjoining table that she gestured toward with her hand. Bety remained standing, and held out an open newspaper to show him.
“Read this, please.”
Enrique read the story carefully. On the surface, it looked like another of many that ran in the Metro section. It wasn’t unusual for there to be a couple of unfortunate accidents like this every year at La Concha, despite its being a usually calm beach. And yet, the mere fact that he was sitting there in the museum offices with Bety made it plain that this time, there was something special about it.
“What do you think of that story?”
“Nothing extraordinary, other than the fact that you’ve called me in here to talk about it.”
“The drowned man is… was Craig Bruckner. It took them a week to identify the body because, in fact, he did live alone in a rented apartment next to the Boulevard. He has no family and no one reported him missing. I thought I remembered you two talking during the museum reopening party.”
“Yes, we chatted for a couple of minutes. He’d read a few of my novels. But if he approached me it was only because he knew that you and I were close.”
“Craig was an outstanding person. He had been in San Sebastián for three months, researching the Sert paintings. In that time, he had come to be like another member of the staff, though he didn’t officially belong to it, and some of us had forged a more personal relationship with him. He was very polite and discreet, an incomparable professional, with a well-deserved international reputation. He had worked in some of the world’s top museums: the Prado, the Louvre, the Brera, the Uffizi, the Vatican Museums, the Capodimonte, the National Gallery, the Tate Britain and the Tate Modern… the very best!
“Craig had asked the director for permission to study the museum’s bibliographic collection on the Sert paintings. He was writing a monograph on them. We were right in the middle of the remodeling works and our director wasn’t thrilled by the idea of a stranger wandering back and forth between the library and the church. We were getting close to the deadline for the reopening and we were working twenty-four-hour shifts. They were absolutely crazy days; the director suggested to Craig that he wait until after the opening, and he didn’t refuse.
“Right after that meeting, as luck would have it, one of our curators, Jon Lopetegi, ran into him. He knew Bruckner personally. They talked for a few minutes about what Bruckner wanted to do, and after that chance encounter, he convinced the director to let him work with them. You know the Sert paintings. They’re hanging in San Telmo Church, and they’ve become an intrinsic part of the museum’s heritage—a magnum opus, spectacular in every way. They’re priceless: they already were back in 1932 when they were hung in the church after Sert had painted them in his home studio in Paris. Sert was one of the top international artists back then, and his paintings cost good money. Nowadays, even though Sert’s work isn’t among the most renowned on a popular level, every art expert agrees on what he was: the undisputed world master of decorative art. A number of multimillionaires of the day commissioned work from him. And interestingly enough, he was from an affluent family himself, so he fit right into that world.
“Anyway, the church paintings were in fragile condition. They had been through a couple of restorations already, sporadic attempts to protect them from the damp in the church walls. But they were all limited in depth due to the materials used and Sert’s special pictorial technique. Craig Bruckner’s presence in San Sebastián was like a gift fallen from the sky for the restorers, an opportunity they could not pass up. His work, when he was an active professional, would have been unaffordable to our museum. But as a retiree devoted to research it wasn’t hard to reach a verbal agreement that both parties could be happy with.”
“I’m sorry, Bety, but I don’t understand why you’re telling me all this.”
“Just wait. Pay attention a few more minutes, it won’t take you long to understand. I was telling you that Bruckner began to work in the library right away. Since he was an incredibly friendly person, it didn’t take him long to befriend everyone who had contact with him. Many of us did: he was constantly going from the library to the church, where he might spend hours staring at Sert’s paintings. Enrique, you know how much I love art, especially painting, and that I can spend a long time looking at a painting that I like. You and I have been to the Prado and many other museums. But when you saw Craig sitting there, alone in the nave of the church, staring at one of those paintings for hours, you understood that he was on a different plane altogether. I don’t know what he saw there, but it was clear that he was taking in something out of most mortals’ reach. Sometimes he would get close, as if he were trying to prove a theory. Other times he used tools to check the condition of the canvas for its restoration. And he was constantly writing in a little spiral notebook. When he was sitting there he looked like… a priest.
“When Craig was sitting like that in the church none of us dared speak a word to him. His concentration was so obvious that even the idea of it seemed offensive. But later, when he would take a break, he would always chat with whoever was around. I usually have a coffee mid-morning in the cloister. You know that our cloister is the only one of its kind in the world; it’s built in front of its portico, not off an aisle of the church. Mount Urgull is the reason for this unusual layout; since the mountain was so close and the buildings of the old quarter stand on the other side, it was the only place where it could be built without trouble. But, aside from its peculiarities, I find our cloister to be so peaceful, it’s the perfect place to get away for a few minutes and sit on one of the benches or take a walk through the gardens. Craig got into the habit of walking with me during my breaks. Over those conversations, we began to develop a friendship. I imagine it was a combination of different circumstances: first, here was this man who was a lot older than me, so probably had no feelings of love or sexual interest toward me; second, as a newcomer to San Sebastián he was completely alien to my personal world; third, his life experiences had given him this incredible clear-headedness and empathy. I can’t tell you how we went from talking about professional to personal matters, but it happened. It didn’t take long for Craig to find out about certain parts of my life. We talked, probably more than I would have imagined, and that’s how he found out about our relationship, and how he got to know your work. He was more than fluent in Spanish, so it didn’t surprise me to see a couple of your novels mixed with his technical papers in the library. And if I told him a thing or two about my life, then he did the same about his. You see, he was an expert in art, but also much more than that. Craig Bruckner had been a top-notch athlete in his youth.”
“Now that you mention it, he did seem to be in great shape.”
“Great shape, you say? Listen to this. He was on the US swimming team for the Rome and Tokyo Olympics. He had four Olympic gold medals at his house. And for the rest of his life, he always swam, every day, for at least an hour. Here in San Sebastián, with his rented apartment on the Boulevard, just 200 yards from La Concha and about the same from Gros Beach, he kept it up: he was up at seven and could swim across the bay and reach Gros; other times he went in the opposite direction. Then he would have breakfast and come to the museum to work the rest of the day like that was nothing.”
“I think I’m starting to understand why you asked me to come.”
“Craig Bruckner could never have died by drowning. He wouldn’t have had a heart attack or a stomach cramp. There’s something strange about his death, Enrique. And I want you to help me find out what happened.”
5
“Bety, are you implying that Bruckner was murdered?”
Bety had taken a seat in front of him. Enrique couldn’t have said at what point in her explanation she’d sat down, but there she was, looking him intently in the eyes, thinking through the response she was about to give. All of the energy she gave off during her passionate speech was now latent, though still perceptible.
“I don’t know. I’m not a police inspector. They’re going to do an autopsy. That may help clarify things. But…”
“But what? You wouldn’t have told me about your suspicions if there weren’t a specific reason for them. It’s not that strange for a swimmer, no matter how experienced, to die in the sea. Just like it isn’t strange for an expert mountain climber to die falling down a slope, or for a professional pilot to have a bad landing and die in the crash. These are activities that always entail a certain risk. And Bruckner wasn’t young.”
“There’s more.”
“What is it?”
“I was the one who alerted the police as to the identity of the unknown drowning victim. Here at the museum we were worried about his going missing, and I knew he swam. No matter how I tried to get ahold of him, his cell phone was always off or had no signal, so, fearing the worst, I called the Guardia Urbana. The police accepted the possibility cautiously, and I’d even say hopefully: they didn’t have the slightest clue to go on to identify the body, and the fingerprints hadn’t been any help. They thought he might have been someone from an inland town here in the province who had lived alone, come to spend the day at the beach, and then had this terrible accident. That actually happened, years ago. They asked me to come to the medical examiner’s office to identify the body.”
“Oh, Bety. How awful.”
“I’m the museum’s head of public relations, but even if my job title were different, I’m still the person who was closest to Craig in San Sebastián. So of course I agreed.”
“And it was him.”
“Yes, it was. Seeing him was… overwhelming. And painful. We’re not used to seeing death face to face. It was just like in the movies, just like you’ve described it in some of your novels. A room tiled in blue, the temperature near freezing, the lights on the ceiling giving off this milky glow. On one side, the metal refrigerator, the doors all closed. On the other, the autopsy tables, with those drains for the fluids to go down. A police inspector, a court clerk, and an orderly were there with me. We stood in front of one of the doors and the orderly pulled out the tray. The body was in a zippered bag, and the orderly unzipped it, pushing the bag to one side. It was Craig. His eyes were open, and because it was so cold in the refrigerator, there were frost crystals on his skin, which was slightly bluish. I nodded, and despite the cold, or maybe because of it, my eyes filled with tears. Later, in an office at the courthouse, I had to sign all the identification papers. The inspector asked me for his home address. I gave it to him, and that was it. When I was about to leave, I remembered that his desk at the museum was covered with papers from his research, and so I told the inspector. He told me not to touch anything until he had a chance to look at it. All of this happened yesterday afternoon.”
“Did anything else happen?”
“I went to look at his desk, and there were his papers: some notes written in English on the Sert paintings for his report, and others on specific details of their restoration. It was all with a bunch of support materials: charts, sketches, old papers on previous restoration work. Like any good researcher, Craig was methodical. Listen, Enrique, I have to ask you something. Did you have any contact with him after your conversation opening night?”
“No. He said he wanted to get together and talk, and that you could give him my cell phone number. I told him to call me whenever he liked. Bety, come on, what are you after with this whole interrogation?”
“Just hear me out! You ought to know that I got a call this morning from the inspector handling the case, the same one who came to the morgue with me. His name is Germán Cea. He asked me to come by the apartment Craig was renting. I asked him why and he said he would tell me when I got there.
“I had no choice but to go. I imagined he would ask me to gather Craig’s belongings, clothes… things like that. The apartment is nearby, right off the Boulevard, so I got there in no time. There was a police officer guarding the door. I saw that the lock had been forced. Cea came out from inside the apartment as soon as he heard my voice. I went in. Everything seemed normal, until Cea asked me to look around and tell him if anything was missing.
“I pointed out the forced lock, and asked him if it had been a burglary. He said no, that since the owner was out of town on vacation, they’d had to force it to get inside. I told him I had never been inside the apartment, and so I wouldn’t know if anything was missing. He said I should do it anyway, so I did what he said. It’s a small ground floor apartment that opens onto an inner courtyard. There’s barely enough room for a little living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. I walked through the rooms. The entire place was neat as a pin. Cea asked me to open the drawers: all that was in them were Craig’s clothes, folded. There was a desk with books and more papers in the living room. I looked it over: it was all about his research on Sert. I told Cea that, as far as I was concerned, I couldn’t be of much help to him. The inspector thanked me and asked me to stay reachable in case he had any other questions.”
“I’m understanding less and less about this story. Would you mind telling me what the hell is going on?”
“You may remember that I mentioned a small spiral notebook he always kept with him while he worked at the museum.”
“Yes. You said he sat down to look at the paintings with it, and that it was full of notes.”
“That notebook wasn’t in the museum or his apartment. And your novel, The Antiquarian, was on his desk in the museum library, with lots of handwritten notes on the pages.”
Enrique looked carefully at Bety. Her lips were pursed and her brow furrowed. She was wholly focused on studying his reactions. Enrique didn’t like the implications of what he was hearing. If this conversation had taken place in years past, it would have gone quite differently. He decided to stay calm, without showing a single sign of the anger he was feeling.
“Lots of people like to take notes in the margins: information that catches their eye, curiosities about the story, possible plot errors…”
“No, that’s not it. Craig had taken note of the steps that you and I took during the investigation into the Casadevall manuscript. He was only interested in that part.”
“That’s easy to understand. Not only is it the best part of the novel, it also outlines a historical research process probably similar to others he had conducted himself.”
“Really? Easy to understand? In that case, Enrique, maybe you can tell me why on the last page there was a note that said: ‘Alonso. It could be him.’”
6
“What!?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t know what to say…”
“Enrique, answer me, please: you really didn’t see Craig again after the party? You don’t have his notebook?”
“No.”
“Then if you don’t have it, what does that sentence he wrote in your book mean? And who has his notebook?”
“That’s enough, Bety! You ask me to come see you after avoiding me for days, and when we finally talk, all of a sudden I find myself mixed up in some murder allegations? I don’t have the slightest idea why he wrote that in my novel, and I have no idea who might have his notebook. Plus, who says it’s lost? Couldn’t one of the other museum curators have it? You said Bruckner took notes in it. Maybe some of his notes were relevant to your colleagues, and he lent it to them from time to time.”
“No. He was already sharing the material necessary to get started with the restoration with his colleagues. I checked this morning. I talked to Jon Lopetegi, the chief curator. I confirmed it indirectly, without openly asking him about the notebook. Craig and Jon sent notes to each other about the condition of the paintings on a near-daily basis.”
“Bety, that’s police work. Do you mind telling me what it is you want with all of this?”
Bety paused, and looked away before answering.
“To protect you.”
“What?”