THE ROAD TO SAN SEBASTIAN WAS A fast autopista and Madrid’s international airport was soon behind him as he headed north towards the Pais Vasco under a luminous sky. Three and a half hours later the road descended from the dry plateau to the greenery of the Atlantic coast. Skirting Bilbao he continued north to San Sebastian and less than half an hour later he pulled up outside the Hotel de Londres, a fine 19th century edifice that overlooked la Concha, the magnificent beach and bay that was the splendour of Donostia, as the Basques called their city.
The Hotel de Londres y de Inglaterra was a landmark that dated back to the latter half of the 19th century when the railways opened up the Basque Country to tourism after the Spanish king, Alfonso XII, chose the city as his summer residence and set up court. His queen, Maria Christina of Austria, then built the Palacio de Miramar overlooking la Concha.
The arrival of the court soon attracted Europe’s nobility and upper classes and a new form of elite tourism developed as in Biarritz which lay 40 kilometres to the north where the French Emperor Napoleon III built a palace for his Spanish wife Eugénie de Montijo.
The city became a pole of attraction during the Belle Époque making San Sebastian one of the most cosmopolitan city in Europe, visited by Queen Victoria in 1889 during her sojourn in Biarritz. Other visitors included the Prince of Wales, artists like Toulouse-Lautrec, and actors such as Orson Welles.
San Sebastian continued to prosper during World War I whilst the rest of Europe fought in the trenches. One of the victims of that terrible conflict was a well-known visitor to the city, Margaretha Geertruida Zelle, also know as Mata Hari, who was executed in Paris in 1917 by a firing squad for allegedly spying for the Central Powers.
Less spoken about today was Generalísimo Franco, El Caudillo, who until his death in 1975 had his summer home in the city.
After checking in, Simmo called Scott Fitznorman, who invited him over to the Kursaal Congress Centre, which he explained was a short taxi ride or a 15 minutes walk away.
Simmo opted for the walk, it would clear his head after almost a full day of travelling. With a city plan in his hand to guide him, he left the hotel on the seafront promenade side. The temperature was in the mid-twenties, mild and refreshing compared to the sticky Caribbean climate he was more used to. It was relatively calm for early summer, the tourists were not in a hurry to venture too far with the Covid-19 pandemic hanging over them as the virus had almost certainly not said its last word.
Sporting his toquilla straw Panama and a brightly coloured short sleeved shirt he set off. It wasn’t Simmo’s first visit to Spain though he had never visited the Pais Vasco. He enjoyed his stroll, admiring the fine 19th architecture of the city, though he firmly held his briefcase under his arm, having lived in the Caribbean most of his life he was taking no chances, even if the Basque Country was considered a very law abiding region of Spain.
He couldn’t miss the Kursaal, a modern glass and concrete convention centre on the other side of the Urumea, the river that runs through the centre of the city. He called Fitznorman who told him to wait at the main entrance. Five minutes later Scott appeared, a little different to Simmo’s mind, perhaps it was the well cut suit he wore with a scarlet silk tie and matching shirt, dressed as a well-known art dealer should be.
Fitznorman spotted Simmonds, it wasn’t too difficult, with his Panama and bright shirt, he looked more like a Central American than an Englishman, and the briefcase tightly under one arm confirmed his impression.
‘Nice to see you again Barry,’ he said with a broad smile as though they were old friends. ‘How was the journey?’
‘Fine.’
‘No problem with the hotel?’
‘None.’
‘Excellent. Perhaps we should find a quiet spot to talk. Inside?’
‘I’d prefer not to,’ Simmo replied with a furtive glance at what he supposed were the congressistes entering and leaving the Kursaal. ‘Too many art dealers,’ he said with a weak smile, knowingly tapping the brief case with a nicotine stained finger.
‘I understand. Let’s walk across the bridge to the Parte Vieja, there’s a small bar I know, it should be quiet at this time of the day.’
They headed across the bridge, retracing Simmo’s step as he spoke of his business in Belize and Panama, without alluding to the manuscript.
Fitznorman guided him past the fine food market—its neoclassical facade and elaborate corniche built in cream coloured sandstone which was common to many of the city’s buildings, then turning into the Parte Vieja. The crowd was rather sparse and after a couple of minutes he led Simmonds into a narrow bar. The lighting was low, and the bar stretched deep into the shadows, on one side was a series of booths set against the wall facing the bar, there the tables were separated by shoulder height partitions.
Fitznorman pointed to the bar top which was loaded with a spectacular display of tapas set out on trays and invited his guest to select a few which they carried to a booth with a couple of glasses of deep red Rioja wine.
‘It’s quiet here, mostly local people during the day, they’re a bit wary of mixing together at the moment, you know, the Covid.’
‘It’s perfect.’
‘So Barry, how can I help you?’ Fitznorman asked, thinking of pre-Columbian antiquities and certain Simmonds was not wasting his time after having travelled so far.
Simmo placed his briefcase on the table and opened it so that the flap hid its contents from the open side of the booth.
‘I’d like to know what you think of this,’ he said carefully moving the glasses and plates well to one side, then placing the manuscript on one of the paper napkins he’d spread out on the table.
Fitznorman opened the cover with great care and proceeded to turn the pages very slowly.
‘Well it’s not an incunabula,’ he said softly.
Simmo frowned.
‘That means printed before the start of the 16th century, which doesn’t mean it’s not valuable,’ he continued as though he was talking to himself. ‘Neither is it post-incunable, that is printed after 1500 and before 1520 or 1540.’
Fitznorman was suddenly aware he was talking in riddles. ‘I’m sorry Barry. It’s quite extraordinary, a codex,’ he said, ‘to be precise a manuscript, written by hand, before the introduction of the printing press.’
‘A codex.’
‘Correct, a wonderful work, priceless. Can you tell me something more about it, where it came from?’
Simmo told him it had been handed down over generations, from father to son, by an old Belize family. It had come into his hands just before the last remaining member of the family passed away, in gratitude for the help he had provided for the old man. There was little else to add, apart from his own very brief internet search.
‘Yes, the Florentine Codex, that’s it, the same thing,’ announced Fitznorman. ‘If I remember rightly there are three original books, all in the Laurentian Library in Florence.’
‘That’s right, the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana,’ murmured Simmo knowledgeable.
‘The work of Friar Bernardino, The General History of New Spain.’
‘Yes, I visited the Museum’s internet site and was redirected to the World Digital Library where a scanned copy was available, all 3,000 pages. I could only look at a few of then, but it's true the resemblance is remarkable.
Fitznorman confirmed the General History had been executed in black ink and coloured paints on folios of paper, measuring 20 by 28 centimetres, paper that had been made and imported to Mexico from Europe. According to specialists the texts and images had been certainly carried out under the supervision of Bernardino by a number of different writers and artists.
In addition some believed the work had been hastely completed in 1580, probably so as not to miss the Flota de Indias, the annual convoy that carried goods and treasure from the New World across the Atlantic to Spain.
‘What is it worth?’ asked Simmonds not wanting to beat about the bush.
‘Worth? That’s a tough question Barry. Assuming it’s genuine, from the time of Bernardino, it’s priceless. But from a strictly financial point of view, I’d say it’s worth millions.’
Simmond’s pulse quickened.
‘Just to give you an idea, in 1994, Bill Gates bid 33 million dollars for a 72 page manuscript at a Christie’s sale in New York, the Codex Leicester. At the time it was one of the highest prices ever paid for a book. Today that would be worth more than double that price.’
Simmo emptied his glass of wine in one gulp.
‘Of course the Codex Leicester was written by Leonardo da Vinci, in the early 1500s, but in this case,’ he said laying his hand almost reverently on the manuscript, ‘with so few works dating from the early years of the Conquista, it makes this a very unique historical document.’
Simmo tried to say something, but he’d lost his voice.
‘So what's your plan Barry?’
‘I suppose a more more detailed examination would be the next logical step,’ he croaked, ‘authentification.’
'Yes dating, identification and description, that is of the contents.’
‘Of course,’ Simmo concurred. ‘But I have to insist, as I mentioned when I called you, this is totally confidential. You can imagine the claims that could be made by the Mexican or even the Spanish governments.’
‘Of course. So how can I help?’ asked Fitznorman batting the ball back in Simmo’s court.
‘Can we find an expert?’
‘As a matter of fact we can, right here in San Sebastian, a good friend of Sir Patrick’s by the way. She’s an historian.’
‘She?’
‘Yes, Anna Basurko.’
Simmonds face lit up. ‘Yes, I remember her,’ he said, how could he forget the attractive archaeologist, ‘she was with Sir Patrick in Belize.’
Scott Fitznorman called his assistant at the Kursaal to announce he would not be back and cancelled his evening appointment, called a taxi and accompanied Simmo back to the Hotel de Londres. It wasn’t worth taking the least risk with Simmo and his precious charge, especially as he was very visible, a tourist wearing his Panama and flowered shirt.