Read an Excerpt
The Art Restorer
By Julián Sánchez Barcelona Digital Editions, S.L.
Copyright © 2014 Patrick Bones
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4804-7698-1
CHAPTER 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.
CHAPTER 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.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Art Restorer by Julián Sánchez. Copyright © 2014 Patrick Bones. Excerpted by permission of Barcelona Digital Editions, S.L..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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