The Immortal Collection (A Saga of the Ancient Family Book 1)

  I didn’t mention Nagorno’s warning. I preferred to keep that to myself for now. Instead, I asked him to tell me about the past few months at the museum, because I urgently needed to recover that part of my life in particular. As he talked, I fitted together odd bits and pieces until I had more or less the whole picture.

  “In any event, you can’t go back to the museum yet. You could destroy all our work over the past four years. I’ll take you to your place, and I want you to get up-to-date and stay away from the museum. I’m hoping that you’ll be fully recovered within a few days.”

  I concurred, although I knew that I was going to do whatever I thought best.

  “As far as Adriana is concerned, I’d avoid her these first few days. She’s very perceptive and may notice that you’re behaving strangely.”

  He stopped, but there was more to come, so I signaled for him to continue.

  “You see, there are people who inspire emotions in us. I’ve always considered Adriana to be a very special person. I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but were we back in Monte Castillo ten thousand years ago, I would have told you she has a very powerful totem. It could well be that these words mean nothing to you right now, but I ask you to remember them. She’s not a woman to use and then throw away. I don’t usually get involved in your love life, but I wouldn’t like to see her get hurt in all of this. You’re going to disappear in a few years’ time, and she’ll be left behind.”

  He concentrated on the road as we passed through an industrial zone. I knew he was still turning things over in his mind, so I waited for him to speak again.

  “In a way, Adriana reminds me of the Atalanta myth. Has your memory reached Ancient Greece yet?” The look I gave him was not very convincing. “Atalanta was the unwanted daughter of the king of Arcadia. When she was left to die on the side of a mountain, a she-bear suckled her until some hunters found her and raised her. She in turn became an expert hunter and was famous because of the many obstacles she put in place when it came time for her to marry. Anyone interested in becoming her husband had to beat her in a footrace, and if they lost, they paid with their life. Despite the risk, there were always suitors willing to try, even though they had to run naked while she was fully clothed or, in terms of Adriana, protected by her armor plating, as you’ll realize when you have dealings with her again.

  “Anyway, a man called Melanion appeared and asked the goddess Aphrodite for help. She placed three golden apples along the course. Atalanta couldn’t overcome her curiosity and stopped to pick up each of the apples. In this way, Melanion won both the race and Atalanta as his bride. But, blinded by passion, he forgot to consummate his marriage in a sacred place, as he had promised Aphrodite he would do, so Melanion and Aphrodite were turned into lions, doomed never to mate.”

  I remained silent because I still didn’t understand the matter too clearly. I preferred to concentrate on the city that was emerging in front of us. My father understood and didn’t insist further.

  When I walked into my apartment, I instinctively took off my shoes. The floor had some type of artificial grass on it—“carpet,” according to my father. It was the same color as the grass in the woods, but it lacked its dampness and freshness. In any event, it felt wonderful under my feet.

  The furniture was made of white wood. Stained, I assumed, since white was not a natural color for wood, apart from the bark of the birch tree, but birchwood was always too soft to carve. It was remarkable that the skills I hadn’t forgotten were those associated with my first habitat. The whiteness of the apartment did nevertheless soothe my spirit. I imagined I had chosen it for that reason, but I now found it somewhat impersonal. There was hardly anything there that might reveal something of me, or of Iago del Castillo, and I admit that I was somewhat disappointed.

  When Héctor finally left me on my own and I unpacked my bags, I found a notebook in a small side pocket I had overlooked. I leafed through it. There seemed to be some notes written in my hand. I grabbed a pen and wrote down the first sentence that occurred to me. Yes, it was definitely my handwriting.

  “It’s four years to the day since we returned . . .” This was recent. I’d written it just a few days earlier. I sat down on the first item of furniture I came across and continued to read. “Suppose she loves me. Suppose that what I sense in her eyes, that wildfire, matches what’s consuming me. Would I give her a few good years, only to destroy the rest of her life?”

  I was writing about Adriana. It had to be the same woman I’d seen in the airport. I knew it: something powerful was flowing between us. I made an effort to remember. We’d coincided at various celebrations with lots of noise. I remembered there’d been a walk one night, and the university kids had drooled at the sight of her as we went by. I also recalled a visit to my childhood cave—with her. I reached the conclusion that we were on the point of starting something inevitable. What a bad moment to have a blackout.

  I stood up and started to explore the main room of my dwelling. The walls were lined with white cupboards without any handles to disrupt their smooth surface. It occurred to me to push on one of them, and with a click a treasure trove appeared: hundreds of books covering every epoch and topic; ancient maps of forgotten routes; an exhaustive collection of all the classics, many times reread.

  The good Homer—or Joseph Cartapilus, as Borges later called him in his short story “The Immortal.” The nine books of Histories by Herodotus, a man obsessed with the need to compare sources, asking every tribe, every town, for all the versions of every battle. Tacitus’s Annalium ab excessu divi Augusti, subsequently erroneously christened the Annals, with its cold, objective descriptions of the peoples the Romans referred to as barbarians. Pliny’s Natural History, with the original full-size illustrations, thirty-seven volumes with their monstrous fetuses and systems of plant classification that anticipated Carl Linnaeus by almost two thousand years. The 1751 edition of the Encyclopedia of Diderot, whom I had assisted before the Jesuits launched their attack against the work. The obsessive letters Flaubert used to send me while he was refining his character Madame Bovary . . .

  After a few hours of reading, I couldn’t ignore the pangs of hunger, so I headed to the kitchen and sated myself. Fortunately, the fridge was full of fruit that tasted like fruit, unlike the strange food they had given me on the plane. I stretched out on my bed, and a short time later I was startled by the sound of my cell phone. I looked at the screen and saw Adriana’s name. I ignored the call initially. I remembered Héctor’s warning. I wasn’t feeling self-confident.

  But the phone rang again, and it was Adriana again. Héctor wouldn’t understand.

  “Can we get together?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course. You pick the location.” What else could I say? This type of conversation required a delicate touch that I still hadn’t mastered. I didn’t want to ruin everything again.

  “Do you mind if I come to your place? I live nearby.”

  “No, I guess I don’t mind.”

  Was it proper for her to come to my house? Did it represent some sort of commitment? She noticed my hesitation.

  “You guess?”

  “What I mean is . . . no, I don’t mind. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  “Okay. Which building and which apartment?”

  “I’ll meet you beside the Palacete Embarcadero if you like. I have to run an errand first,” I replied, looking out through my window. I couldn’t recall the details she was asking for, so I had to improvise.

  A short time later we met across the road from my building. Again, she gave me a lavender-scented kiss on each cheek. It was a delightful custom. I had showered and shaved, and the Iago who emerged was somewhat younger than Winston Zeidan, although I didn’t quite know what do with my hair.

  “You got rid of that horrible goatee,” she said with an air of relief.

  “Come on, let’s cross the street,” I
replied, pointing toward my entrance.

  We walked up the stairs to my apartment, and when I opened the door, she let out a “Wow.” I assumed it was a way of expressing that she liked it. I watched her walk in, with her high boots, a loose dress that came to just above her knees, and an inexplicably long scarf. Despite my amnesia, I could safely say that she was the most beautiful thing ever to have entered my house. The small flowers on her dress went perfectly with my carpet.

  “May I take off my boots?”

  “Yes. In fact, I’d prefer it. I had the floor done especially to be walked on barefoot.”

  She removed her strange boots, and I suggested she sit on the couch. I preferred to remain standing. I wasn’t sure how I should behave.

  “So why did you call me?” I asked.

  “I thought you’d be sleeping because of the jet lag.”

  “I’m wide awake. I haven’t been able to sleep. Now, Adriana, stop beating around the bush.”

  “All right,” she said, leaning back. “It’s just that you seemed very strange this morning. I wanted to know if you were okay.”

  “I was feeling a bit disoriented. My apologies if my remark about your mother was hurtful.”

  “Forget it,” she said dismissively. “That’s not why I’m here. It’s just that you don’t seem to be Iago today.”

  “Why exactly do you say that?”

  “Iago doesn’t behave like this.”

  “And how does Iago behave?”

  “The Iago I knew until last week was very self-confident. You hesitate over every question. The Iago I knew had a computer for a brain and knew all the answers. Whenever we spoke, he would analyze each of my sentences, looking for all the implications and every shade of meaning. He would think quickly, his ideas were clear, and he spoke with such assurance that nobody would question him. He’s known as the Iagopedia.”

  “The Iagopedia?” I repeated, her meaning unclear to me.

  “It’s a way of saying that you’re brilliant, but the level of your knowledge verges on offensive.”

  Well, now I feel like a small child.

  “It sounds like you knew me well,” I said, gazing out beyond the enclosed balcony.

  She was thoughtful for a moment, and her expression clouded over. “No, not really. We’ve only been working together for a couple of months, so I guess it’s not all that unusual that we know nothing about each other apart from museum matters.”

  “Well, that’s a pity,” I said spontaneously, desire edging my words. Is that level of intimacy appropriate?

  “I might be to blame for that, too,” she admitted with some reluctance. “I don’t like to mix business with other relationships.”

  Adriana got up from the couch and began to wander around the apartment. I followed her with my eyes.

  “Iago, you once told me that you had a problem sleeping, that you sometimes woke up confused. I saw the models you make as a form of therapy—like this one,” she said, pointing to the doctor making an incision in one side of a patient.

  The models, I suddenly remembered. There were more models in my brother’s villa. I had to get them back. I saw her glancing sideways at me and gave her my complete attention again.

  “That’s what’s happened to you, isn’t it?” came her cautious question. “No matter how hard Héctor might try to hide it, what you have isn’t just jet lag.”

  Why deny it? I thought. If I had mentioned the models to her at some stage in the past, it was because I had trusted her, at least enough to tell her that part of the story.

  “Exactly right. Yes, it’s true. I’m trying to recover my day-to-day routine, but there are still a lot of gaps. I think the loss has been more profound this time.”

  “Are you seeing a doctor?”

  “I’m not sure at this stage, but I assume my brother will update me on that. In any event, thank you for your concern.”

  I had hesitated up to that point about whether to ask her, but I didn’t see any danger in confronting the doubt that was consuming me. “Adriana, what’s with Jairo?”

  “Jairo?” The surprise in her voice was genuine. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Now I really am lost.”

  “Wasn’t there something going on between the two of you?” I persisted.

  “Yes, a never-ending offering of gifts on his part and polite rejections on mine. Why?”

  “He gave me to understand that the two of you were about to start something.”

  “My God, your brother really is a determined player. Okay, just so you’re absolutely clear about this both before and after you recover your memory: you and I were the story, not me and Jairo—he and I never were. No way.”

  “Calm down. I believe you. But that leads me to my next question: Were you and I lovers?”

  She lowered her head with a smile and shook it from side to side as if she was laughing at a private joke. She flashed a bright, bemused glance at me.

  “What?” I didn’t understand her reaction.

  “It’s just odd that you should ask me, because last week I asked you exactly the same thing.”

  “You couldn’t remember?” I was still puzzled, but I couldn’t help but enjoy the incredulous lilt to her voice.

  “No. We went out for a meal with some of our work colleagues, and let’s just say that the wine didn’t sit too well with me. The next morning I woke up in my bed with your scarf around my neck.”

  “You became inebriated?”

  She looked at me in the same way that I would have looked at a cyclops.

  “You really aren’t Iago,” she murmured.

  “I don’t believe anything happened back then. I’m not in the habit of exploiting situations like that. Although I think I remember leaving you in your bed.”

  “You came up to my apartment?”

  “I think so. I remember some sprigs of lavender on your bedside table.”

  “You’re a liar,” she said angrily. “You denied it when I asked you originally.”

  “I would have had my reasons,” I said with a shrug.

  “There! That’s definitely what Iago would have said.”

  “Give me time to recover the Iago I was,” I requested.

  “I don’t know if I want to,” she murmured to herself, looking over toward the picture window. Then she walked over to the door and put on her boots. “Now I know you’re well, I guess I’ll see you around the museum in a few days’ time. We have some meetings about the Interpretive Center coming up, but I’ll take care of that. You try to recover.”

  “Adriana,” I called out to her before she closed the door.

  “What?” she asked coolly, looking back over her shoulder at me without turning around.

  “Please be discreet.”

  “Don’t worry. I can’t stand gossip.”

  And she left.

  I wasn’t entirely sure what had bothered her, but the longer we spoke, the more shared moments I was recovering. I remembered the first day in the Prehistory Hall, I remembered her hetaira costume and how it had become my favorite fantasy since that night, and I remembered that I had to fight hard to prevent myself from behaving like a barbarian in the cave of Monte Castillo. But I had also started to remember why I had to lie to her: my secrets and the real motive for setting up the museum. That all took me back to my last night in San Francisco and the research I had absorbed, to the point of total exhaustion. It was important that Kyra not read the report Pilkington had given me.

  That night in California I had put together my own theory about the link between telomeres and my family. I rushed over to my briefcase, realizing that if Kyra arrived right now I was lost. I’d quickly have to invent some feeble excuse, and she was always on the lookout for my lies.

  Well, well, Iago, I thought
when I discovered that there were two versions of the Kronon Corporation report. One was the original paper copy from Pilkington. The other one, which I’d written on my laptop during that last lucid night, had eliminated anything that might lead Kyra to a successful conclusion and replaced it with dead ends. I went into the kitchen with the wad of papers and set fire to them in the sink. Finally, when I’d gotten rid of all traces of the report, I allowed myself to fall asleep.

  24

  IAGO

  Mars Day, the twenty-fifth day of the month of Nion

  Tuesday, March 13, 2012

  Several days later I made my way to Jairo’s villa. I wanted to examine all my models. I had left traces of other identities in them that I alone could interpret. They were like an external hard drive—a backup memory that I could turn to in situations like the current one and which enabled me to free up some space in my brain.

  I went down the staircase and found my brother in his workshop, engraving small pieces of gold he would then link together into a necklace identical to the one his mother used to wear. This was the space in which Jairo worked on his most prized pieces. Not his war models, but objects made with precious metals, and sculptures from different materials: bronze, clay, and occasionally marble. Some of the pieces were covered with a cloth, because Jairo was a perfectionist and didn’t allow them to be seen until they were finished. I walked past, ignoring them.

  “Have you remembered our first years together yet?” Jairo asked without looking up at me. He was concentrating on giving the perfect curve to the back of a puma devouring an eagle.

  Which role will each of us interpret this time—puma or eagle?

  “I remember you were a bastard, and Lür had to donate his seed because your putative father was as sterile as you’ve turned out to be.”

  He didn’t even let me finish the sentence. His hand curled into a claw, which was crushing my windpipe. “Let’s make a few things clear, Urko—”

  I grabbed his testicles and twisted them hard until he let go of my throat.