The Master of the Prado

by Javier Sierra

  But as the first image appeared on the smooth surface of the Teepee’s screen, I felt a small pang of disappointment. In front of me was an unremarkable-looking copy of a sheet from a ledger, yellowed with time, its type and letterhead faded, bearing a date just before the Spanish Civil War, with the heading, “Library of the Royal Monastery of San Lorenzo del Escorial. Reading Room—Books Borrowed.”

  “Now, memorize that signature there,” the monk instructed me, pointing to the bottom of the page. We went through the same exercise three more times, and he pointed out signatures on several other sheets, dating from the beginning of the century to the later years of the Franco era. By the time he had finished his little demonstration, my original disappointment had turned to a kind of vertigo.

  “Well?” he said quietly, bringing his finger up to his lips at the same time to remind me of the need to keep my reactions discreet.

  As quietly as I could, I said, “You were right, Father. I see the problem.” I wanted to curse or yell, but I contained myself. If those documents were authentic, which I didn’t doubt for a second, then Father Castresana had made a sensational discovery. It was strikingly obvious that we were looking at a series of library requests separated by over seventy years and all bearing the identical signature. There was no room for error—each “Fovel” was enormous, clear, beginning with a large, stylized uppercase F and ending with the tail of the final l seeming to crack like a whip beside the last name. All exactly the same.

  How was this possible?

  I spent a while going back over each signature again, comparing them, changing the microfilm spools myself. As I confirmed each one, I dared do no more than just incline my head slightly so that our neighbors would be none the wiser about what we were up to. When I was done, far from easing my doubts, my initial feelings of surprise and astonishment had given way to more doubt—and to fear.

  With a brusque “Very well,” Father Juan Luis brought the Teepee session to a close, replacing the rolls of microfilm in their boxes and leaving them stacked casually next to the machine. He turned to me. “Why don’t we go down to the basilica? I think in the house of God we should be able to relax a little more, and talk.” I nodded.

  Father Juan Luis and I found a discreet spot on a bench in the back of the great church of the El Escorial monastery, and were there for the better part of two hours. At first, our whispered discussion wandered as we tried to understand what on earth all this could mean. We posited various mistakes, jokes, and plots, none of which led anywhere. It was all very frustrating, and after a long time talking the one thing we could agree on was that each of us, as if guided by fate, had stumbled upon something that was far greater than us. Something beyond logic.

  It was then, as we were both deciding just how much more to reveal to the other, that, almost without meaning to, I took the first step. I badly needed to confide in someone, and so I talked—I talked and I talked until I had told him everything. It was the closest thing to a confession that I ever remember having made.

  I told him all that I knew about Fovel. I went patiently and meticulously through everything I have written here in these pages, as well as some of the Master’s explanations about the influence of The New Apocalypse on Spanish and Italian artists. Most of all, I made sure to emphasize Fovel’s last lesson, where he talked about Bosch, Brueghel, El Greco, the Adamites, and Niclaes’s Familia Caritatis.

  I even told him, with some hesitation and at the risk of sounding far-fetched, that according to Fovel, one of the principal members of those sects was El Escorial’s first librarian, Benito Arias Montano.

  “Does that name mean anything to you?” I asked him.

  The old Augustinian seemed completely unmoved. For him, none of what I’d told him really helped to explain the unbelievable sequence of requests for The New Apocalypse that had come from Fovel, and to a lesser extent, Julian de Prada. Realizing he was essentially at a dead end, the old monk was silent for a while. When he finally spoke again, it was to ask me for my personal interpretation of the whole affair. “And don’t tell me that you think it’s ghosts!” he warned. “Ghosts don’t borrow books from libraries!”

  I couldn’t do his question justice. As it was, I didn’t know what to say to him. And just as it seemed that the road had ended for this young apprentice journalist, the old man pulled an ace from his sleeve.

  “There’s one thing that we have not yet talked about,” he said, crossing his hands in his lap and gazing up fixedly at the imposing altarpiece that presided over the basilica.

  “What is it?” I sighed wearily. I had spilled everything to this man and wasn’t sure I had the strength to handle one more thing.

  “Do you remember when I told you I had searched our digital archives for all of Luis Fovel’s library requests?”

  I lifted my eyes to his worn face, waiting for him to go on.

  “Well, when I went through all of his and de Prada’s entries, I saw that it wasn’t just The New Apocalypse that they were requesting. There were other books, too. And always the same ones each time.”

  I blinked, rocked by this new revelation.

  “It’s quite a varied group of books,” he continued, anticipating the obvious question. “From Matías Haco Sumbergense’s Prognosticon, which contains Philip’s astrological chart and some predictions for his reign, to works on alchemy, books on natural magic, notebooks of Arias Montano’s, and texts from earlier eras, like the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Judging from the list of requests, it seems as if the two of them were on the trail of something. Circling around the same set of themes. Not only that—I’m fairly sure that both of them got involved in some kind of race, and I have a feeling I know what kind.”

  “Really?”

  “You’ve been honest with me, and now it’s my turn,” he said.

  I felt a wave of relief. “I have all these papers set aside up in my office,” he continued. “Without exception, they all have one thing in common. They were all requested within a short time of each other. First Fovel, then de Prada, and so on, always alternating, beginning and ending with The New Apocalypse. When I first went through them I thought I had stumbled upon a pair of alchemy nuts on the hunt for the philosopher’s stone who might have managed to distill an elixir for extending life.”

  “And you don’t think so now?” I asked.

  “No, that’s not it. Their interest in alchemy is a given, but to judge by the texts they’ve requested, it seems like they’re also trying to cultivate certain metaphysical visions to use in their experiments. It came to me when I saw that their requests included the work of our own ‘Doctor Illuminatus,’ Ramon Llull, the great physician and alchemist from the thirteenth century. Llull started with those kinds of visions in developing his formulas and recorded all of it in his writings, which are only to be found within these walls here. My guess is that, like him, Fovel and de Prada have been trying to discover their own formula for transiting through the portal between this world and the next, and you know what? I think Fovel has done it, and that de Prada is stalking him trying to learn the secret so that he can get that access, that key.”

  I tried to take this all in, too tired to offer any argument. When I could muster the energy to reply, I said, “But, Father, what role do the paintings play in this race? Why do you think they’re so important?”

  “Oh, The New Apocalypse explains all that, Javier. And I went through this with you when we first met. Amadeo wrote that in times of great trouble, certain paintings would be able to perform miracles, and could act as doorways between this world and the next. And if the old hermetic texts are to be believed, whoever manages to get hold of the alchemical masterwork will not only possess the elixir of life, but will also enjoy the power of invisibility, how to communicate with the other world, and will never stay long in the same place.”

  “But . . .” I began. He went on unheeding.

  “Whether or not we believe in these kinds of things makes absolutely n
o difference. What matters is that they do.”

  “Okay, Father,” I said. “But that still leaves another question unanswered. If Fovel really is in possession of a secret like that, then why has he been spending the last few weeks giving me these lectures in the Prado and showing me all these special paintings? Why me? Why would he risk his anonymity?”

  The monk shifted on the wooden bench and rubbed his forehead. Then his face lit up.

  “To understand that, I have to appeal to the ‘Rosicrucian factor’!”

  I made a face, uncomprehending. He began to explain.

  “The Rosicrucians were a society of initiates that emerged in the seventeenth century and that attracted intellectuals and liberal thinkers of all stripes. Today they are mostly thought to be extinct, and anyone claiming to be one now is usually given the same consideration as Neotemplars or Neo-Cathars, which is to say none. But interestingly, in the beginning, their members used to claim that the brotherhood had been started by a group of teachers or ‘mysterious supermen,’ led by a certain Christian Rosenkreutz. Rosenkreutz was said to have achieved an extraordinarily long life for his time, though not the kind of immortality that the Taoists speak of, or the Himalayan yogis or classical heroes of the Holy Grail, or that magical imam from twelfth-century Iraq who the Shiites believe will reappear to do battle with the Antichrist. No, Rosenkreutz—or whatever his real name was—lived for over a hundred years and carefully guarded the supreme medicine or ‘total science’ that allowed him to break all the known biological barriers. Apparently, once he reached the age of one hundred, he devoted himself to training disciples who would pass on the formula for extending life from generation to generation. They are the real Rosicrucians, and Fovel and de Prada are very likely two of them. Alchemy aficionados always refer to these people as ‘invisibles,’ and one of their main objectives is supposed to be to foment a social and scientific revolution in the West that will allow the acceptance of the long-life elixir without causing chaos.”

  “Do you really believe . . . ?”

  But Father Juan Luis was not done.

  “What’s strange is that these kinds of teachers seem to emerge every hundred years or so, sow their intellectual seed in a handful of chosen followers in the hope that they will help advance the development of the world, and then disappear until the next historical cycle. If you go back and track these appearances, you can see their influence among the first Christian Gnostics, the Arian heretics, the Cathars, and the Family of Love. So why wouldn’t we think that your Fovel, who knows so much about these ancient sects, could be one of these mysterious teachers, back from the shadows to recruit more custodians for his secret?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “I’m an old man, Javier. I’ve read a great deal about this in the books of this sacred building, and it seems obvious to me what’s going on. One of these secret teachers has chosen you to be the custodian of his teachings. Or at least you’re a candidate. Like a good guide, he is not showing you everything at once, but instead teaching you how to look, providing you with the tools and then letting you decode the messages left by other unknown supermen—in this case painters. Once he thinks you’ve mastered this sufficiently, he will disappear—probably for quite a while—and leave you to complete your training at your own pace. Then at some point he will reappear and reveal your role and obligation, letting you know that you are part of a long chain of transmission for this secret knowledge.

  “This is how these people have done this for centuries. They always disappear just before their pupils discover who they really are. They look like regular people, but they occasionally make predictions, they know what others say about them, they disappear without any notice, and as I’ve told you, they never stay long in the same place.”

  “But that’s absurd,” I objected, while at the same time recognizing many of those things in Fovel. “Why would someone like that choose me, Father? I’m no art expert, I don’t really know the Prado well, or its world. If Fovel is what you’re insinuating, then he’s made a mistake in picking me.”

  The old man shook his head. “Come, Javier. How many times have you two met? Three? Four?”

  “Five.”

  “In that case we have no time to lose, believe me!” he said, his eyes suddenly burning with impatience. “These teachers appear only occasionally. If we really want to confirm his identity, you need to go find him as soon as you can, look him in the face, and demand that he reveal who he is and whom or what he serves. He will tell you if you corner him.”

  I was suddenly anxious. “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “Tell him you found this.”

  Father Castresana took a folded piece of discolored but exquisitely fine paper from under his habit and handed it to me.

  “What is it?” I asked him.

  “A puzzle. A clue written in Fovel’s own hand.”

  I unfolded the paper carefully. In the same neat handwriting that I’d seen on the microfiche in the Teepee, it had been written on a sheet of Bible paper that smelled musty.

  “How . . . how did you get this?” I asked.

  “Fovel and de Prada used the books in our library as mailboxes to pass messages to each other. That’s why their requests always specified only a small number of volumes, or even a single book. For whatever reason, this one message never got to its intended recipient, and lay forgotten in the pages of a treatise on astrology. I came across it this morning quite by accident as I was going back over all the books they’d requested, page by page.”

  I looked at the sheet of paper without knowing what to say.

  He smiled. “It’s quite a piece of luck.”

  “Is there any more?”

  “Not for the moment. Why do you think I had all the books that they consulted sent up to my office? That piece of paper was in a book that Fovel requested in 1970 and that de Prada never got to. It seems to me like a warning, as if your Master meant to stop his rival in his tracks, at the same time challenging him to learn his identity.”

  Then Father Juan Luis leaned forward. Seizing my shoulders, and with excitement in his voice, he added, “When he sees that you have this message and that you’ve managed to interrupt his game, you’ll be in a position to ask him what we need to know.”

  “You really think he’ll tell me?”

  “Of course! Read this when you’re calm and you’ll be convinced as well. I’m sure that when you confront him with this and show him that you’re about to uncover his true nature, he will be honest with you. At that point, he’ll want to give you his version of things.”

  “You’re a real optimist, Father.”

  “Not optimistic, Javier, just thorough. This is what I would do in your place. Do you realize that no outsider for centuries has gotten as close as you to the secret of the Rosicrucians!”

  Epilogue

  * * *

  THE LAST PUZZLE?

  These are the last few lines of my Prado diary, much to my regret.

  After the visit to El Escorial and my talk with Father Juan Luis, there was barely enough time for me to get back to the Prado and confront Fovel with the monk’s piece of paper. Could Fovel, my “ghost,” be a Rosicrucian? An immortal? Or would he have some explanation that even an imagination as active as mine could not have anticipated? I was just one step away from solving the great puzzle of my Prado Master, or so I thought.

  As it happened, by the time I found myself back in those galleries, I had learned the text by heart. It consisted of a handful of simple but ambiguous verses which, through several readings, and without my meaning to, had turned themselves into a song that I now could not get out of my head, and I repeated it silently like a spell that could somehow be used against the man in the black coat.

  All in vain.

  To my despair, that Sunday, January 13, Luis Fovel did not appear in the Prado’s galleries, and so I was unable to present him with my gift. Nor did he appear the next Tuesday. Or Thursday, when I went
back for a third time. Despondent, I spent Friday wandering from gallery to gallery until closing time, but still no Fovel. After all my waiting, I found myself imploring the heavens to let either Fovel or even de Prada find me once more, as they had before, so that I could have the chance to ask them at least one last question.

  But nothing happened.

  During those frustrating days, I kept in touch only with Father Juan Luis, who continued to encourage me not to give up.

  “Something’s happened,” I complained. “It’s never taken him so long to appear!”

  “Never mind; he’ll come. Keep at it! Find him!”

  But it turned out the old monk was wrong, too.

  I spent the rest of the month going to the museum each day. I went after class, bringing each day’s assignments and working on them, sitting on a bench in Gallery A and keeping a lookout from the corner of my eye for whoever should pass by in a black coat. It was a complete waste of time.

  Finally, on Thursday, the last day of the month, when I called El Escorial to give an account of my predictably fruitless week, a stranger’s voice answered, bringing my Alice in Wonderland existence to an abrupt end. It was as if the floor had just disappeared from under my feet, taking with it everything that had happened in the last two months.

  “I’m afraid Father Castresana passed away early this morning,” said the voice, sounding genuinely sorry. “Were you a student of his?”

  I hung up without saying anything.

  I had never felt so helpless. Seemingly overnight, I had lost not only my Master of the Prado but also the one person to whom I’d divulged the whole of my own story of these events. And the pain I felt over the death of the good Father Castresana lodged itself in my soul like an enormous splinter.

  In the midst of all this, and to add to my sense of solitude, Marina and I had spoken no more about the matter; in fact, we hadn’t seen each other again. Her father had gotten his way, ending our relationship practically before it had begun. After a while I heard that she had started seeing a guy who was four years older, and I . . . The truth is that, sad and disoriented, I tended to my other needs and devoted myself to my studies and to my assignments for the magazine.