Read Online The Antiquarian by Julián Sánchez - Free Book Online Page A

over if you want.”
    â€œIt’s number 36, right?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI’ll be there in, say, twenty minutes. Hang in there. I’ll be right over.”
    Enrique did not respond. A few seconds passed. The busy signal on the phone brought him back to earth. He finished drying off and put on clean, casual clothes. He couldn’t think clearly. A thousand thoughts ran through his mind in a burst of wild hypotheses that he tried to debunk, only to see them immediately replaced by others. He opened a bottle of chocolate milk and sat sipping it on the balcony, wishing this would all turn out to be a bad dream, a stupid nightmare brought on by lack of sleep and his fertile imagination—just a dream that gave life to his most deeply hidden fears. But he had not been asleep. The sun, now shrouded by a thin sea mist, did little to warm the air. But Enrique could not even feel the chilly touch of the northern wind.
    The doorbell brought him out of his bitter daydreams. He opened the door: Bety stood there, beautiful as ever. The same long golden hair, the same little bangs on herforehead; her big, green eyes barely made up save for a dash of eyeliner to highlight them; her full lips; the elegant oval of her face; her soft, olive skin. She was dressed as smartly as ever, in a designer pantsuit. She was wearing heels, which was very unusual for her, so she looked taller. Whatever the circumstances, as Enrique already knew, she always shone.
    â€œHello, Enrique.” Her voice caressed her host as she hugged him.
    â€œHi,” he managed, distracted, effortlessly enveloping the body that had always fanned his desire, but toward which today he was indifferent.
    â€œAren’t you going to let me in?” Spoken in another tone, it would have been an invitation to do battle. But the way she said it, it was a warm and sincere peace offering.
    â€œOf course, excuse me. I’m a little … I don’t know … out of it, disoriented.”
    â€œHere, dry your tears.” She handed him a handkerchief.
    â€œWhat tears?” asked Enrique, bewildered, until he realized that he had been crying. Bety took charge immediately. She closed the door and walked Enrique to the living room, where they sat.
    â€œThis is a beautiful apartment,” she remarked with admiration. “You must be doing well to afford it.”
    â€œWell, I can’t complain. The last book sold pretty well, you know about that—a critically acclaimed bestseller.”
    â€œDid you decorate it yourself?” she asked, looking at the accumulation of fine old wooden furniture matched in perfect harmony with other newer pieces.
    â€œYes. It took me a while to find what I wanted, but I did it myself.”
    â€œDelicate and exquisite. Do you have anything to drink?” Bety wanted to get to the real conversation instead of wasting time with small talk, but she didn’t know how.
    â€œYes. Well, no. You know, there are some bottles of juice and some milk in the fridge, but that’s it.”
    â€œThat’s good enough for me. It’s too early for anything else. Where … ?”
    â€œThat door there,” instructed Enrique. “You relax. I’ll get it.”
    â€œNo, you won’t,” she ordered with authority. “You stay sitting right there. I’ll be right back.”
    True to her word, Bety was back in seconds with a glass of pineapple juice. While she was poking around in the refrigerator for a juice she liked, she had tried in vain to figure out how to let him know she wanted to help him. She wasn’t surprised; on the drive from her house she hadn’t been able to come up with anything either. She came back to the living room, took a seat next to Enrique, and waited patiently for him to take the initiative.
    â€œTell me how it happened,” he said at last.
    Bety took a breath. She had imagined this scene several times, but it was hard for her to