Read Online The Antiquarian by Julián Sánchez - Free Book Online
Authors: Julián Sánchez
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voiceâloved, loathed, and, despite himself, missedâspoke immediately.
âEnrique? Are you there? I finally caught you!â
âHi, Bety.â His fatigue from sailing was compounded by the tedium of having to talk to her. âWhatâs going on?â
âWhere were you?â The female voice did not disguise a nasty mood. âIâve been trying to reach you for two days!â
âWhat does it matter where Iâve been?â answered Enrique. He barely had any contact with his ex. There were no children to warrant them keeping up any sort of bond, and although they still said hello and good-bye when they happened to meet in public, to the extent that it was possible, each tried to do without the other.
âDonât give me that. If Iâm calling you itâs not to relive one of those mindless conversations we were so good at when we lived together.â
âI donât know what you could say that might possibly interest me,â Enrique began, helpless against starting down the runaway track to another fight.
There was nothing in the world he wanted less than to argue with Bety, but since their separation it had been impossible for him to control himself. The bitterness accumulated by a separation rooted in his inability to understand her was greater than his desire to want her for a friend, not to mention a partner.
âListen, Enrique, I was going to break this to you gently, but I see youâre still at war with yourself and everyone else, so Iâll get to the point. Arturâs dead.â
Betyâs newsâhard, dry, and finalâstunned Enrique, who, his mouth open in surprise, was unable to answer. A long silence ensued, until she broke it.
âEnrique? Are you okay?â
Enrique did not answer. He was standing next to the picture window, facing the bay, his gaze cast somewhere over the distant mountains. He was unable to find the words; in fact, he doubted they even existed.
âEnrique? Enrique?â Bety insisted, worried.
âYes â¦â He left the word hanging there, incapable of adding anything else.
âI ⦠Forgive me; it didnât come out like I had planned, but you know there are things I canât stand. Iâm sorry, truly sorry.â
âDonât worry, I understand. I ⦠The thing is â¦â He could not concentrate. His mind was on the postscript he had read not even ten minutes ago. Artur, dead! How? When? He thought back to the letter and shuddered to think of his fatherâs clairvoyance; that âif anything should happen to me.â How many times had they both laughed at the world of premonitions, the supernatural, the occult!
âEnrique, I know how you feel. I know what your love and your friendship with Artur meant to you. If you want, call me later. Iâll be at home.â
âNo, no, tell me how it happened.â
âTheyâre not sure. They saw the shop closed in the morning, but they didnât think anything of it. But seeing it still closed in the afternoon seemed odd. Samuel Horowitz looked in through the window and saw his body lying dead on that old altar. He apparently fell from the loft. They called the police, and opened the shop, but didnât let anyone in. But Enrique, thatâs not the worst part.â
Bety stopped, unsure of how to keep telling Enrique what had happened.
âItâs not?â
âNo. Artur was murdered.â
âGood god,â murmured Enrique, his mind reeling.
Bety felt bad about giving him the news the way she had. She knew that, however she told him, the end result would be exactly the same, because Enrique loved his adoptive father more than most people loved their birth parents. She wished she could have told him in a way that was less traumatic, less painful.
âMaybe itâs better if I tell you in person,â offered Bety with the hope of somehow being useful.
âYeah, fine. Come
âEnrique? Are you there? I finally caught you!â
âHi, Bety.â His fatigue from sailing was compounded by the tedium of having to talk to her. âWhatâs going on?â
âWhere were you?â The female voice did not disguise a nasty mood. âIâve been trying to reach you for two days!â
âWhat does it matter where Iâve been?â answered Enrique. He barely had any contact with his ex. There were no children to warrant them keeping up any sort of bond, and although they still said hello and good-bye when they happened to meet in public, to the extent that it was possible, each tried to do without the other.
âDonât give me that. If Iâm calling you itâs not to relive one of those mindless conversations we were so good at when we lived together.â
âI donât know what you could say that might possibly interest me,â Enrique began, helpless against starting down the runaway track to another fight.
There was nothing in the world he wanted less than to argue with Bety, but since their separation it had been impossible for him to control himself. The bitterness accumulated by a separation rooted in his inability to understand her was greater than his desire to want her for a friend, not to mention a partner.
âListen, Enrique, I was going to break this to you gently, but I see youâre still at war with yourself and everyone else, so Iâll get to the point. Arturâs dead.â
Betyâs newsâhard, dry, and finalâstunned Enrique, who, his mouth open in surprise, was unable to answer. A long silence ensued, until she broke it.
âEnrique? Are you okay?â
Enrique did not answer. He was standing next to the picture window, facing the bay, his gaze cast somewhere over the distant mountains. He was unable to find the words; in fact, he doubted they even existed.
âEnrique? Enrique?â Bety insisted, worried.
âYes â¦â He left the word hanging there, incapable of adding anything else.
âI ⦠Forgive me; it didnât come out like I had planned, but you know there are things I canât stand. Iâm sorry, truly sorry.â
âDonât worry, I understand. I ⦠The thing is â¦â He could not concentrate. His mind was on the postscript he had read not even ten minutes ago. Artur, dead! How? When? He thought back to the letter and shuddered to think of his fatherâs clairvoyance; that âif anything should happen to me.â How many times had they both laughed at the world of premonitions, the supernatural, the occult!
âEnrique, I know how you feel. I know what your love and your friendship with Artur meant to you. If you want, call me later. Iâll be at home.â
âNo, no, tell me how it happened.â
âTheyâre not sure. They saw the shop closed in the morning, but they didnât think anything of it. But seeing it still closed in the afternoon seemed odd. Samuel Horowitz looked in through the window and saw his body lying dead on that old altar. He apparently fell from the loft. They called the police, and opened the shop, but didnât let anyone in. But Enrique, thatâs not the worst part.â
Bety stopped, unsure of how to keep telling Enrique what had happened.
âItâs not?â
âNo. Artur was murdered.â
âGood god,â murmured Enrique, his mind reeling.
Bety felt bad about giving him the news the way she had. She knew that, however she told him, the end result would be exactly the same, because Enrique loved his adoptive father more than most people loved their birth parents. She wished she could have told him in a way that was less traumatic, less painful.
âMaybe itâs better if I tell you in person,â offered Bety with the hope of somehow being useful.
âYeah, fine. Come
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