by Unknown
#
They waited under a threatening sky for over half an hour to buy their tickets to enter Sagrada Família. Perhaps it was the impending rain that made so many tourists flock to the cathedral so late in the day. They finally passed through the turnstiles at 6:30 P.M. Closing time was at 8. Arthur was carrying a small backpack. Even if there had been heavier security—metal detectors, bag searches—his belongings wouldn’t have attracted attention. Two small flashlights, a multitool, a couple of bottles of water, a few chocolate bars.
On entering the interior of the church, both of them were transfixed by its expansiveness and nearly insane complexity. There was such a density of detail that it was impossible to focus on one piece without being drawn to another. It was laid out, as most Christian cathedrals, in the form of a Latin cross representing a human figure with legs together and arms extended as crucified. Gaudí had said he wanted the interior of the temple to be like a forest and he had achieved that vision. Peering upward in the main nave was akin to looking through the canopy of a mature forest to the heavens.
The columns of the nave resembled massive palm trees soaring forty-five meters high but rather than forming any kind of expected ceiling they branched into a kaleidoscopic array of twisting geometric forms. Nothing was flat. There were no right angles or even conventional arches. Everything was a dizzying array of soft and hard shapes and angles no less complicated than the stalks of a plant or the longitudinal section of a seashell.
It was almost possible to ignore that the church was also an active construction site. While tremendous progress had been made in recent years with the interior structures, still there was much to be done: scaffolding and interior lifts abounded, cordoned off with yellow tape.
Their first destination was the apse and they wandered in that direction with necks craned and eyes open in awe. To get there they passed under the vault of the crossing, which was higher than the nave, rising sixty meters. The vault above the apse was the highest at seventy-five meters. It had been Gaudí’s intent for a visitor entering through the main entrance to see the vaults of the nave, crossing and apse rising in graduated grandeur.
As dazzling as the vault of the apse was, Arthur and Claire looked downward because the central area of the apse incorporated the ceiling of the crypt. And here Gaudi’s genius shined as profoundly as anywhere in the basilica. The vault of the crypt was surrounded by glassed and arched windows that penetrated the floor of the apse rising within the presbytery to the height of a man. The design allowed worshipers to gaze heavenward to the light-filled vault, the place where God resided, but also to gaze down into the crypt, the place of death and human repose.
Arthur spoke for the first time since entering. “There it is. Let’s go down.”
Searching for access to the crypt, they passed a guided tour in English and slowed to a crawl to soak up snippets.
“Although it is designed as a cathedral and most call it a cathedral, it is not actually one as far as the Church is concerned since it is not the seat of a bishop. That honor belongs to Barcelona’s Cathedral of the Holy Cross.
“The basilica was consecrated in 2010 by Pope Benedict before a congregation of 6,500, including the king and queen of Spain. That allowed it to be used to conduct religious services, which continue to this day principally in the Chapel of the Assumption of Mary within the crypt.
“Follow me to the workshop area now where we will see how Gaudí used lattices of hanging strings and wires to conceive of his geometric forms and how the craftsmen of today use computer-aided design and manufacture to continue his legacy in the twenty-first century.”
They peeled off from the tour. A broad spiral stone stairway led down to the crypt. Here were far fewer tourists than on the ground level and no attendants.
Arthur was almost lightheaded with excitement. Gaudí’s tomb was tucked away in a nook but they resisted the temptation to go there directly. Instead they walked the perimeter of the crypt in the opposite direction, saving his tomb for last.
The central space of the crypt is dominated by the Church of the Assumption with a beautiful altarpiece sculpted by Josep Llimona. Flanking the altar are four chapels: one—housing Gaudí’s tomb—dedicated to Our Lady of Carmen; one dedicated to Jesus Christ; one to Our Lady of Montserrat; and one to the Holy Christ. The latter chapel houses Josep Maria Bocabella's tomb. Three other chapels ring the perimeter, bringing the total to seven.
They came upon a nook bearing a wall plaque to mark the resting place of the martyred priest Gil Parès; then completing the circle, they were back to the chapel housing Gaudí’s tomb.
It is, perhaps, the simplest, least adorned space within the crypt or indeed the entire church. A raised white marble platform, ankle-high, on which lies a slab of gray granite with a surround of rose-colored marble. The granite is engraved with Gaudí’s epitaph. The slab lies perpendicular to a wall of large limestone blocks. On each side of the wall are two similar walls joined at oblique angles, drawing the eye to the grave. Low to the ground is a ribbonlike surround of wrought iron rails designed to hold votive candles, now bare. Instead, a single row of red candles burn brightly at the foot of the tomb. Above it, on a small pedestal, is a graceful statue of the Virgin Mary, holding the infant Jesus. Against the limestone walls, four pedestaled columns rise to the apex of the crypt, framing three tall arches that poke into the apse above.
The granite tombstone is garlanded with bouquets of fresh flowers carefully placed so as not to obscure the inscription, which reads in part, HINC CINERES TANTI HOMINIS RESURRECTIONEM MORTUORUM EXPECTANT RIP.
Arthur heard Claire reading the dedication aloud then translating, “From the ashes of so great a man look for the resurrection of the dead. Rest in peace.”
A tear ran down her cheek.
He touched her hand then began to study every inch of the simple tomb, his thoughts in overdrive, but became distracted by a group of Japanese tourists who encircled them, talking loudly and flashing photographs. He nudged Claire and they withdrew.
It was 7 P.M., an hour until closing.
They needed a place to hide, ideally within the crypt itself since he had no idea whether the entrances leading to it were locked at night.
Yet the crypt was wide open with few points of concealment. There was only one door within it, a large gilded portal that led to the sacristy. While Claire watched for prying eyes, Arthur tried the door but it was locked.
They walked the perimeter again. The only possible place for concealment was one of the seven chapels: the Chapel of Saint Joseph.
Its design was identical to the one with Gaudí’s tomb: a three-walled nook, a stone platform, and, best of all, a copious altar made of solid marble that offered them clear access. Again with Claire as lookout, Arthur quietly hopped onto the platform and snuck a peek behind. Here, between altar and wall, was just enough space for two people to hide. Now they had a plan.
With an hour to kill they returned to ground level and blended with the tourists, strolling through the workshop space and museum displays, and used the lavatories for the last time perhaps until morning. At 7:45 they returned to the crypt, milled around until they were the very last two, then slid their bodies behind the altar of Saint Joseph, Bocabella’s inspiration for the stunning cathedral that soared magnificently over their heads.
29
Hengst felt his chest fluttering.
His targets had disappeared.
He’d been following at a perfect distance, not too close, not too far, dressed in a camouflage of sorts: blue jeans, polo shirt, sunglasses, and an American baseball cap. He was certain he hadn’t been made.
When Malory and Pontier went back down to the crypt he had waited a couple of minutes before following, out of concern the thinning crowds would be a problem. But when he did go downstairs the crypt was empty, so he assumed they had ascended the other stairway.
Yet there was no sign of them on the ground level and he was forced to retrace his ste
ps over and over without regaining eyes on them. Finally, back in the crypt just before closing time, he tried the sacristy door in the event they had gone inside but it was locked. A guard making his last sweep of the crypt pointed to his watch. He had to leave.
On the plaza, Hengst watched the last of the tourists depart and the entry gates close for the night. He made a circuit around the cathedral and placed a difficult call, with no small anxiety.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Harp.”
Harp recognized the pinch to his voice. “What’s the matter?”
“I lost them. It’s closing time at the Sagrada Família. They went into the crypt, I followed them after a minute or two and they were gone.”
Harp felt his skin get warm. “You lost them?”
“Yes, sir.”
Harp’s tone was of thinly veiled derision. “Do you think they’re still in the crypt?”
“It’s possible but I don’t know where they could have hidden. There weren’t any points of concealment.”
“Could they have returned to their hotel?”
“It’s possible.”
“Possible, possible, I see. Do you think you could possibly find them, Mr. Hengst? And perhaps when you do, could you possibly ring me back?”
#
First the lights went out in the crypt, then throughout the basilica. Claire and Arthur weren’t entirely in the dark because the emergency exit signs glowed red. Their legs were cramped from crouching in the space behind the altar but for a full hour they dared not move until they were confident they were indeed alone. Claire trembled in the subterranean chill and Arthur held her until the shivering stopped.
Arthur rose and peered over the altar. He tapped on Claire’s head to let her know it was safe.
“Do you think there’s a night guard?” Claire whispered.
“No idea,” Arthur said. “Hopefully not, but we shouldn’t assume anything.”
They crept past one of the stairways between their hiding place and Gaudí’s tomb, listening hard for any footsteps. The crypt was dead silent.
Arthur passed Claire a flashlight and they began a visual dissection of the tomb, keeping their beams narrowly aimed. Stray light from the crypt shining through the arched windows would be visible to anyone patrolling the grounds.
“If it’s here,” Arthur finally said, his voice low, “it’s got to be either under the floor or in the walls.”
Claire pointed her beam fleetingly on the statue of Mary. “Or behind the statue?”
“It’s flush to the wall.”
Claire aimed her light at the tomb. “The crypt was finished in 1891. He died in 1926. He would have had to have hidden the Grail long before his coffin was lowered into place. So it can’t be above the coffin. And besides, we know that the tomb was desecrated in 1936 during the Spanish Civil War and that the mob may have even gotten to his bones. Obviously the Grail wasn’t found.”
“If it’s buried under whatever structure the casket is lying on,” Arthur said, “we’re out of luck. We’d need heavy equipment to get to it.”
Nevertheless he tried sliding the granite slab and its marble surround with curled fingers but the effort was ridiculously futile.
Claire didn’t bother to help. “If you’re right, the only place which could be accessible to us is the walls.”
He picked himself up and massaged his tender fingertips.
“I agree.”
“Think about it,” she continued. “He hides it, maybe in the 1890s when the crypt is being built, but how does he know he won’t have to move it? Maybe the project collapses from lack of funding. Maybe there’s a fire. He’d want a way to save it.”
The limestone blocks that formed the walls of the chapel were rectangular but not uniform. The largest were the size of microwave ovens, the smallest, half as long. All of them were perfectly flush with one another and the joins were tight with the thinnest of mortar lines.
Arthur used the butt of his multitool to tap each block, starting low to the floor and moving as high as he could reach. As well as he could hear, the timbre of each rap was the same as the next, although tapping the blocks, which had iron candleholders affixed, caused faint metallic vibrations.
He stepped back and again beamed his flashlight. Each of the three converging walls that defined the chapel nook was about five feet wide, and each row of masonry comprised of two, three, or four limestone blocks.
“I’m trying to see if there’s a pattern,” he said.
“You mean of the blocks?”
“Yeah. When you step back can you see any pattern emerging?”
She shook her head. “It seems random.”
“To me as well. All right, what about these iron candleholders? They’re unique.”
“Well, I agree they’re very nice, the way they’re made to look like ribbons. I haven’t seen anything quite like them before; but there are a million things around the Sagrada Família I’ve never seen before. Gaudí’s tomb isn’t the only one with these candleholders. The tomb we were hiding behind has them too.”
Arthur grimaced. “Too bad. I hadn’t noticed. Probably not the answer then.” He shined a light on the iron fittings pinning the candleholders into the limestone. “Unless …”
30
The candle rack on the oblique walls to either side of the granite slab of Gaudí’s tomb was a double row of ribbons with evenly spaced cups for candles. The rack on the middle wall perpendicular to the slab was a single ribbon pinned to the wall by a thick rod at each end.
Arthur finally said, “Look at this row of blocks behind the ironwork. It’s made of three blocks rather than two or four. The largest one is in the middle, and see here and here? The spikes are pinned to the smaller ones flanking it.”
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Can you move the flowers?”
With the flowers set aside, Arthur was able to stand between the granite slab and the wall and firmly plant his feet. He wrapped his hands around the right side of the candle rack nearest the anchoring rod and pulled against it.
Nothing moved.
“You’re going to have to do better than that,” she said, eliciting a frown.
He grunted and pulled again, without effect.
“I thought you said you played rugby?”
“All right, now you’ve got me mad.”
He braced his feet against the wall and with a fresh new grip he pushed off with his hips, straining so hard he could hear blood pulsing in his ears.
Again nothing happened except for his beet-red hands going into spasm. He peeled off his jacket and wrapped the iron in cloth before trying again, groaning mightily at the exertion.
Something gave, accompanied by the small but satisfying sound of stone scraping upon stone.
He released his grip and stood back.
“Look,” she said in a whispering shout. “The block moved a little!”
He bent over to look closer. She was right: a fraction of an inch.
“It’s clean. There isn’t any mortar,” he said. “It’s just stone on stone. Let me try the other side.”
The left side of the candle rack was anchored to a smaller block and when he wrapped his hands and put his back and hips into it that one slid even more than the other.
With mounting anticipation he concentrated his effort on the right anchor and when that had moved a bit more Claire stepped in and gripped the left with his jacket. He clenched and unclenched his cramped hands then again grabbed hold of the right.
With a coordinated one-two-three they pulled together with all their might.
The candle rack moved dramatically, a good four inches, carrying the right and left blocks with it.
“Jesus,” Arthur said when they stopped to inspect their effort.
“This has to be intentional,” Claire said. “It has to be.”
“Okay,” he said, breathing hard. “If we pull it out all the way, it’s going to be really heavy. If we can�
��t control the weight, the blocks are going to fall and chip or maybe shatter. So the next pull has to be toward us then up as soon as they’re free.”
“Ready?”
“I’m ready.”
They coordinated one great heave and the blocks came away, still firmly attached to the rack, but the construction of iron and stone was surprisingly light. They were able to lift it easily away and gently place it down on the marble platform.
“They’re half blocks!” Arthur exclaimed. “They’re only about five inches deep. The whole contraption was designed to be pulled out relatively easily.”
“I don’t think it was so easy.”
Arthur pointed up toward the nave and spires. “There’s a lot of weight above us. A lot more than when the crypt was first built.”
The wall now had two voids on either side of the third and largest block in the row. Claire put her hand into the left void at the same time Arthur probed the right.
They both felt an angular iron strut pinned to the back of the large block and realized simultaneously that it wasn’t a block at all but a slab, only two inches thick.
The voids were too small to poke in one’s head or to shine a light at a useful angle so they kept feeling with hands and fingers.
“It’s a false front, Claire. I think these struts are hinged. There’s definitely something that feels like a hinge.”
“I feel one too.”
“The top of the slab doesn’t have any fittings.”
“So we should pull from the top and it should drop down.”
“Exactly. All set?”
With a good bit of pressure the top of the slab moved forward, exposing its upper surface. It was ingeniously constructed, designed with a sharp, chiseled angulation so that it would clear the block above it yet still appear flush when in place. It was indeed hinged and lowered like a drop-leaf table, exposing a long black rectangular void in the wall.
“Do you think it’s there?” Claire whispered.
“Only one way to find out.”
