This year Holy Week fell at the end of April. The lunar calendar that shapes the religious year meant Sant Jordi coincided with Holy Saturday in the Easter holidays, to the despair of publishers, booksellers and purveyors of roses, so everyone was sure, in a year of economic crisis, that Sant Jordi would be a flop. To cap it all, the weather forecasters, those birds of ill omen, had predicted rain; despondency was widespread and nobody knew how the day would end. In actuality it wasn’t such a disaster: the sun came out mid-morning and, like every year, the centre of Barcelona was full of its citizenry strolling up and down with books and roses. Pure torture for those who don’t like crowds.
Montse and Lola were curious to meet Teresa Solana and, at around eleven, Borja dropped by, waving five red roses: one for Lola, and the others for Montse, Joana, Laia and Aina, who, along with Arnau, had signed up for the excursion to the centre and the lunch we’d booked at the Set Portes. The idea was that we’d all walk down the Rambla de Catalunya to the stalls on the Passeig de Gràcia, where Teresa Solana had said she’d be signing books.
“Good heavens!” chirped Joana, after thanking Borja for the rose and looking him up and down. “Why on earth are you wearing a winter jacket on such a hot day?”
“My summer jacket’s at the cleaners,” said Borja.
“Come on, take it off and leave it at home, or you’ll sweat to death!” Joana exclaimed in her best sergeant major’s voice.
“Yes, it is hot,” Borja agreed with a smile.
“Yes, and today is the day of Sant Jordi and we are all family. No need to dress posh!” Montse chimed in. “What’s more, with so many people in the street, they’ll rough up your jacket.”
“All right, if you insist…”
Borja obediently took his jacket off and gave it to Joana.
“You could also take your tie off, while you’re at it,” suggested Joana.
In his short-sleeved shirt and tie, Borja now looked like a Jehovah’s Witness, so he had no choice but to follow my mother-in-law’s suggestion.
“Give that to me.” Joana folded his tie and put it on one of his jacket pockets. Then all of a sudden she exclaimed, “What the hell is this lump? What have you got here that’s so heavy?” she cried, extracting an object wrapped in a handkerchief.
“Careful! It’s very fragile!” erupted Borja when he saw my mother-in-law unwrapping the small stone statue.
“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Joana, gazing at the tiny object.
“Yes, it’s very nice. Now give it back to me before it gets broken,” said Borja, taking the piece and wrapping it up again.
“Is that a present for Lola?” whispered Joana. “She adores antiques. She will be delighted.”
“Not really… In fact, it belongs to a friend who…”
“And where did you get this copy from? It’s an expensive imitation,” said Joana. And she then added, “Obviously I’ve only ever seen it in photos, but you know, it looks like the genuine article!”
Borja and I glanced at each other in amazement.
“In what photos?” I asked her. “You mean you recognize the statue?”
“Of course, it is very famous. They told us about it in the short art course I went on at La Caixa last year. We pensioners get a special rate. I don’t know if you remember, but I went with a friend, Roser, who couldn’t go to all the lectures because she had an attack of sciatica and —”
“So, according to you,” I cut her off before she recounted her friend’s entire medical history, “what is this exactly?” Borja had unwrapped the statue again to show it to my mother-in-law.
“You really don’t know?” Joana asked, looking very surprised. “It’s the Baghdad Lioness. I don’t remember exactly how old it is, but it is a museum piece. Archaeologists found it in Baghdad, and that’s how it got that name.”
“So the original must be really valuable…” said Borja matter-of-factly.
“Oh, absolutely! It is quite unique,” said Joana, as if she were an expert. “There’s not another one like it.”
“You wouldn’t remember by any chance in which museum the original could – can – be found?” my brother asked.
“It’s not in any museum, my dear. Unfortunately, it belongs to a private collector who has only allowed it to be exhibited a couple of times. And that was only because the Queen of England used her influence!”
“Do you know the owner’s name?” I asked.
“What do you think I am? A walking encyclopedia?” she grumbled, not understanding why she was being interrogated. “If you’re that interested, you’re sure to find it on the Internet!” And, still muttering, she went into the lobby with Borja’s jacket.
My brother and I were devastated. The fact that Joana had recognized the sculpture meant it was a famous piece, and, though there had been no reports of the theft in the papers, everything pointed to the statue being a very valuable, antique item that had been stolen.
“How come you had it on you?” I whispered to Borja. “Didn’t you hide it among all that stuff you bought at the Chinese bazaar?”
“I’m not happy leaving it at home. The other day Merche saw what was in that drawer and said we were hoarding lots of junk and it was time to have a clear-out. And as she has keys to the flat and sometimes turns up without prior warning…”
“Good God!” I mumbled.
“But I don’t understand what Joana was saying about the Internet. What did she mean when she said it could help us find out who the owner was?”
“You only have to key in the item’s name on Google,” said Aina, who was stretched out on the sofa waiting for her mother and aunt to finish getting ready. “Twenty euros and I’ll take a look for you right now.”
“Right now?” repeated Borja.
“Yes, while Mum gets ready,” said Aina, getting up off the sofa and looking at Borja as if he’d just come from planet Mars. “It will only take a few seconds.”
“Ten euros,” haggled Borja.
“Fifteen,” my daughter countered defiantly. Borja nodded.
“Grandma! What was the name of that statue?” shouted Aina.
“The Baghdad Lioness!” Joana shouted back from her bedroom. Her window must have been open, because their shouts echoed round the patio.
“I’ll be with you in a minute!” said Aina, smiling as she went into her bedroom.
Borja and I waited for Aina in the dining room. My daughter reappeared a few minutes later clutching a sheaf of printouts. Lola and Montse were still in the bathroom.
“Here you are: all you ever wanted to know about this lion,” she said, handing us the sheets of paper. “Fifteen euros please.”
Borja took the money from his pocket and Aina handed them over. Joana was quite right. To judge by the photos, the statue Borja was holding was a sculpture known as the Baghdad Lioness, an item that was thought to be unique and contemporary with cuneiform writing and the invention of the wheel. According to Wikipedia, it belonged to the Elamite empire, a civilization that had occupied the area to the west of ancient Sumeria and north-west of present-day Iran, in the territory of Kurdistan, five thousand years ago, and it was carved from limestone. When it was discovered in the 1920s during an excavation near Baghdad, it was already missing its hind legs that, according to experts, were originally made of silver or gold. Its present owner was an English collector by the name of Thomas Marlowe, a distant relative of the much-lamented poet, Christopher. What’s more, the little item Borja was fingering in his pocket was worth a fortune, at least fifty million dollars.
“Not exactly small change,” whistled Borja. “Now I see why they are paying me twenty thousand.”
“So Brian’s friend was right. If this little statue is worth what these papers say, then we’ve got embroiled in one hell of a mess!”
“I have, you mean,” whined Borja sorrowfully. “Whatever happens, you are well out of it. From now on, I promise I won’t involve you.”
“Kid brother,” I whispered so the girls couldn’t hear, “I may have many defects, but acting like a rat that jumps ship when it’s about to go under is not one of them.”
Teresa Solana was sitting behind a stall with other writers, looking bored out of her mind. Neither she nor her colleagues had queues of readers waiting to sign their books. A few metres away, an individual by the name of Risto Mejide who was always acting the fool on TV, swearing and creating a furore, could hardly cope with his thronging fans.
Borja went over to the novelist, pecked her twice on the cheeks and did the introductions. Joana, Montse and Lola also kissed her and said they’d been so much looking forward to meeting her.
“He’s the guy who’s always on TV!” said Borja smiling, nodding towards that ghastly fellow who kept endlessly signing copies and letting his fans snap him on their mobiles. “People like to have books by the famous, but they don’t read them.”
“Oh, don’t suffer on my behalf,” said Teresa Solana, returning Borja’s smile. “Sant Jordi is the day of the book, not the day of literature. No need to wear sackcloth and ashes!”
“But aren’t you annoyed when the people who are not real writers get all the attention?” I asked. “It’s encroaching on your professional territory.”
“It’s inevitable,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “Luckily this isn’t a profession where you need a membership card – or at least not yet. It has its drawbacks, but lots of advantages as well.”
“Yes, but people are made to think the real writers are those that sell the most.”
“No way! People aren’t that stupid!” she replied.
Teresa Solana seemed resigned to sitting there doing nothing and being observed as if she was an animal in the zoo. Very occasionally someone approached her with a copy of a novel of hers and asked for a signature. Once again, I observed that there were no half measures on the day of Sant Jordi: writers behind the stalls either signed a pile of books or signed next to none.
Montse and Lola felt sorry for her and both bought a book. Montse’s was called A Not So Perfect Crime and Lola chose A Shortcut to Paradise, in the hope that the title was a good omen. Lola asked her to dedicate the book to Borja and then gave it to him.
“I can’t wait to hear how it all went,” said Teresa Solana, referring to the assignment she’d given us. “I hope you’ve got some interesting anecdotes I can use in my novel…”
“Oh, lots! I think you’ll have no reason to complain,” said Borja, smiling. “Why don’t you drop by the office on Wednesday and we will give you a full report. I am sure you won’t be disappointed.”
“When the book comes out, I’ll send you a couple of copies. I’ve already got my title: The Sound of One Hand Killing. And thanks again for your help. I don’t know what I’d have done to finish it on time without your help!”
Just then, some women friends came over to say hello to the novelist and we took our leave. We walked down in the direction of La Rambla, prepared to continue our pilgrimage as far as the statue of Christopher Columbus. However, when we saw crowds surpassing our worst expectations, we decided to turn tail and head straight to the Set Portes for our paella.
“This afternoon we’ll go and see Pilar Rahola, and I’ll ask her to sign her last book for me,” said Joana, as we strolled down Via Laietana. And then she added: “Now she is what I call a famous writer!”
I winced at her awe before the raucous star of Catalan chat shows.