The Antiquarian Read Free

owner’s wish to go unnoticed than anything else.
    The second visitor appeared to be Artur’s age. Completely bald, his face, furrowed by countless wrinkles, was reminiscent of a topographic map. He had one of those identifying features that marked a person for life: one of his eyes was dark, nearly black, and the other a pale yellowish-green, an almost honey-like color. He was wearing a dour gray, flannel suit that matched the severity of his appearance. He carried an ivory walking stick with a bronze handle in the form of a dragon’s head. He used the cane more to consummate his image as a dandy than out of any real necessity.
    The last of the group was middle-aged, in his early forties, and dressed with sublime exquisiteness. He was tall, with jet-black hair that he wore combed back with gel. His lips were thin but endowed with a refined sensuality. He had green eyes and a nose of perfect dimensions. Dressed in an immaculate blue wool suit and a stylish white shirt, he wore a garnet ascot under his chin and black, monk-strap shoes. He was a man fully cognizant of how attractive he was, inside and out: a seducer. His voice carried the three men’s conversation, and of course, he was the first to speak.
    â€œArtur, old friend, always so wrapped up in your business! Or should I say pleasure?”
    â€œYou’re right. To me, and I’d say to you too, all this is not just business, but genuine pleasure,” answered the shop owner with a smile. “Come on up, my friends. Today, I’ll show you a blend I think you’ll find extraordinary: equal parts of mocha, Colombian and Turkish coffees, with just a splash of well-aged cognac.”
    â€œPerhaps we should postpone until you’ve had something to eat,” the youngest of the three timidly offered.
    â€œI won’t hear of it, Enric. Old men like Samuel,” he started, pointing to the second visitor, “and I don’t need to eat as much as you youngsters. Come on up, and get ready to discover something new.”
    The three men settled in around the small study table while Artur opened the door of a confessional that took up an entire wall of the ancient building. A result of an old inside joke, it had been outfitted with a complete set of kitchenware, china, and a liquor cabinet featuring bottles of the finest and most renowned liqueurs. Once a week, each taking turns in their own shop, the four antiquarians treated each other to an after-lunch blend of select coffees and liqueurs, in something of an unspoken competition meant to discover the most savory combination possible. The contest, such as it was, was merely a pretext to gather and enjoy each other’s company. The coffee did not take long to brew. Its conspicuous aroma floated into the study and melded with the scent of the incense, which, though it had gone out hours earlier, still lingered and formed part of the shop’s trademark ambience. Artur served his blend in a seventeenth-century coffee set, invaluable pieces of Sèvres porcelain, adorned with bucolic motifs. He placed the tray on the table and pulled up his chair, with the aid—despite his repeated protests—ofthe ever-accommodating Enric. Artur served several drops of cognac from an old decanter of Venetian cut glass. They sipped their coffee in silence.
    â€œSo, what do you think?” asked Artur.
    â€œSuperb,” answered Guillem. “I can honestly say I’ve never tasted better.”
    â€œFor once, and without wishing to set a precedent, I agree with our usually overstated friend: this blend is truly exceptional,” added Samuel. “Artur, my dear friend, today you’ve outdone yourself. And lest we forget, last week Enric’s blend was among the best I’ve ever had.”
    â€œHow about you, Enric? What do you think?” Artur asked expectantly.
    â€œDelicious,” he answered, pouring himself another cup. “It looks as if you’re a