Hacienda Vidal

One benefit—and risk—to knowing the world's most proficient artifact authenticators is knowing the world's most artful forgers. It's a fine line between them that can easily be crossed with enough money. Until now, I never needed a forger but I knew where the best of them was. Near Costa Brava, Spain—my old friend Señor Rafael Vidal. He consulted with us on Spanish and Mexican artifacts a few times but, because Miriam and I loved this man as profoundly as she distrusted Baaleth, I made sure the two never met. Miriam's love for him and the fact that he and Siméon never crossed paths assured me that he could be trusted with my next project.

I arrived in Spain with the morion a week after the helicopter attack in New Mexico. After renting a Renault I headed to the outskirts north of the city toward Costa Brava. To maintain the utmost secrecy, I didn't call ahead to announce my visit but I didn't worry whether or not Rafael would be there or still sharp enough to do the task, just whether he would be willing.

The drive along the Mediterranean coast was both beautiful and painful. This is where Miriam and I fell in love. Although from the moment I saw her in the Museum at UNM, I knew she would one day love me, it was here, in this place that the stars and histories aligned to make us forever fused unconditionally. When I saw the turnoff for the Gulf of Roses my eyes welled up uncontrollably and I could see her in that linen dress, sand on her legs and the scent of salt water on her skin rushed through me like a gale.

Soon I was driving up the tree-lined road to Hacienda Vidal. The ivy on the gate looked unkempt which made me worry that Rafael might indeed, not be there. When I got out and looked through the iron bars though, I saw his characteristic wide brimmed hat swaying back and forth as he watered the branches of his mandarins. I stood there for a minute admiring the scene like an al fresco painting. This place was not touched by the 20th century, or, for that matter, the 19th.

"Rafael!" I shouted. He stopped, looked up for a moment as if making sure it wasn't Angel de Muerte calling him home then he continued his watering. "Señor Vidal!" I shouted a bit louder. He turned toward the gate, bent forward and squinted. He dropped the hose and he began hobbling toward me.

"Emit? ¿Es usted? ¿Es usted?" he said. His smile growing with every step. He grabbed the iron bars and gazed at me as if looking right through my head and into his own past. He glanced to my right and left as if Miriam might be with me but he knew well that she was gone. "Dios estimado. ¡Es usted!"

He jimmied open the latch and hugged me around my arms. As he rocked me slowly back and forth I knew he was embracing Miriam too and I was happy to be the proxy. Grabbing my hands he led me into the house through the arched columns and enormous wooden doors. This place hadn't changed since Miriam and I last came for our wedding and probably not since it was built. I was overwhelmed by the Spanish Lavender — this was the source — this is where Miriam's body was first steeped in this scent. I was home.

After hours of trading remembrances of Miriam and telling him stories of our precocious Jack in equally broken Spanish and English one of his pretty but too young for him helpers brought in the Piaya and pitcher of Sangria. He never once asked why I was there. 
It wasn't until we retired to the courtyard, lit two fat home-rolled cigars and refilled our Gaudi-inspired glass goblets that the conversation turned to the purpose of my visit.

I smiled at him almost mischievously then pulled the morion from my pack and placed it on the cushioned footstool before him. His demeanor immediately shifted from charming old Spaniard to deliberative expert authenticator. Holding the helmet up at various angles, looking hard at the welded seams and the subtle pound marks that flattened the surfaces 500 years ago. The last place he looked was the first place most curators would have looked. The comb or crest at the top.

"Dios mío... Dios mío" he repeated. Had he looked at the embossed crest of Cortés first, he would not have been so impressed assuming it was a replica. But, because he first authenticated its age by the welded seams and hammering technique meant that this embossed crest was real. "Emit, ¿qué has hecho?" he said in a scolding tone.

"What have I done?" I repeated. At first I assumed he was asking if I had stolen the thing but when his finger pierced the freshly punctured bullet hole in this priceless artifact I knew he thought I had damaged it and had come here for him to fix it. I laughed, "I didn't do that!"

"¿Desea solucionarlo?" he said.

"No, no. I don't want you to fix it" I replied. I looked over his shoulder at the little workshop in the back of the courtyard. The small window glowed with the green phosphorescence of a magnifying lamp so I knew it was still in use by Rafael. "Quiero que ustedes replicarlo." To back up my feeble Spanish, in English I repeated, "I want you to replicate it."