Confessions (24 page)

Still standing, in the square, Daniela stood in front of him and put on dark glasses that gave her a modern and inevitably foreign air. As if they shared a private secret, she came over to him and undid the top button on his shirt.

‘Scusa,’ she said.

And Tori thought bloody hell, how did that punk kid get a French lady like that. And he shook his head, astonished that the world moved so fast, as Daniela’s gaze fell on the little chain with the medallion.

‘I didn’t know you were religious.’

‘This isn’t religious.’

‘The Madonna of Pardàc is a Virgin Mary.’

‘It’s a keepsake.’

‘From who?’

‘I don’t rightly know.’

Daniela stifled a smile, rubbed the medallion with her fingers and let it drop onto Adrià’s chest. He hid it, angered by that invasion of his privacy. So he added it’s none of your business.

‘That depends.’

He didn’t understand her. They walked in silence.

‘It’s a lovely medallion.’

Jachiam pulled it out, showed it to the jeweller and said it’s gold. And the chain is too.

‘You haven’t stolen it?’

‘No! Little Bettina, my blind sister, gave it to me so I would never feel lonely.’

‘And so why do you want to sell it?’

‘That surprises you?’

‘Well … a family heirloom …’

‘My family … Oh, how I miss the living and the dead. My mother, my father and all the Muredas: Agno, Jenn, Max, Hermes, Josef, Theodor, Micurà, Ilse, Erica, Katharina, Matilde, Gretchen and little blind Bettina … I miss the landscape of Pardàc too.’

‘Why don’t you go back?’

‘Because there are still people there who want to hurt me and my family has let me know that it wouldn’t be prudent to …’

‘Yeah …’ said the goldsmith, lowering his head to get a better look at the medallion, not even slightly interested in the problems of the Muredas of Pardàc.

‘I sent my siblings a lot of money, to help them.’

‘Aha.’

He continued to examine it before giving it back to its owner.

‘Pardàc is Predazzo?’ he said, looking him in the eye, as if he had just thought of something.

‘The people of the plains call it Predazzo, yes. But it’s Pardàc … Don’t you want to buy it?’

The jeweller shook his head.

‘If you spend the winter with me, I’ll teach you my trade and when the snows melt you can go wherever you like. But don’t sell the medallion.’

And Jachiam learned the trade of smelting metals to turn them into rings, medallions and earrings and for a few months he buried his longing at that good man’s house until one day, shaking his head, he said, as if picking up the thread of their first conversation: ‘Whom did you entrust the money to?’

‘What money?’

‘The money you sent to your family.’

‘A trustworthy man.’

‘From Occitania?’

‘Yes, why?’

‘No, nothing, nothing …’

‘What have you heard?’

‘What was the man’s name?’

‘I called him Blond. His name was Blond of Cazilhac. He was very blond.’

‘I don’t think he got past …’

‘What?’

‘They killed him. And robbed him.’

‘Who?’

‘Mountain people.’

‘From Moena?’

‘I believe so.’

That morning, with the winter’s wages in his pocket, Jachiam asked for the jeweller’s blessing and rushed northward to find out what had happened to the Muredas’s money and poor Blond. He walked rapidly, spurred on by rage and throwing all caution to the wind. On the fifth day he reached Moena and began bellowing in the main square. Come out, Brocias, he said, and a Brocia who heard him warned his cousin, and that cousin told another, and when they were ten men they went down to the square, snatched up Jachiam and brought him to the river. His panicked screams didn’t reach Pardàc. The medallion of the Madonna dai Ciüf was kept, as a reward, by the Brocia who had seen him.

‘Pardàc is in Trento,’ said Adrià.

‘But in my house,’ replied Daniela, pensively, ‘they always said that a sailor uncle I’d never met brought it back from Africa.’

They strolled to the cemetery and the chapel of Lourdes without saying anything, and it was a lovely day for walking. After half an hour of silence, sitting on the stone benches in the chapel’s garden, Adrià, who now trusted her more, pointed to his chest and said do you want it?

‘No. It’s yours. Don’t ever lose it.’

The sun’s trajectory had shifted the shadows in the garden, and Adrià again asked what do you mean about Father’s mysterious trips.

He had checked into a little hotel in the Borgo, five minutes from St. Peter’s in the Vatican, on the edge of the Passetto. It was a discreet, modest and inexpensive hostel called Bramante that was run by a Roman matron who had spent many years rearing geese with an iron hand and who looked like a page pulled from the transition between Julius and Augustus. The first person he visited once he was set up in the narrow, damp room overlooking the Vicolo delle Palline was Father Morlin, whose initial reaction was to stand staring in the door to the cloister of the Santa Sabina monastery, struggling to remember who that man was who … no!

‘Fèlix Ardevole!’ he shouted. ‘Il mio omonimo! Vero?’

Fèlix Ardèvol nodded and submissively kissed the friar’s hand, who was sweating beneath his heavy habit. Morlin, after looking him in the eyes, hesitated for a moment and instead of having him enter one of the visiting rooms, or stroll in the cloister, he sent him down an empty corridor, with the occasional worthless painting on its white walls. A very long corridor with few doors. Instinctively lowering his tone of voice, like in the old days, he said what do you want, and Fèlix Ardèvol replied I want contacts, only contacts. I want to establish a shop and I think you can help me to find top quality material.

They walked a few steps in silence. It was strange because despite the barrenness of the location, neither their footsteps nor their words echoed. Father Morlin must have known it was a discreet spot. When they had passed two paintings, he stopped in front of a very modest Annunciation, wiped his brow and looked him in the eye: ‘While you are at war? How were you able to get out?’

‘I can come and go pretty easily. I have my system. And I have contacts.’

Father Morlin’s expression seemed to indicate that he didn’t want to know any more details.

They talked for a long time. Fèlix Ardèvol’s idea was crystal clear: in the last few years, many Germans, Austrians and Poles began to feel uncomfortable with Hitler’s plans and searched for a change of scenery.

‘You are looking for rich Jews.’

‘People on the run always have great bargains for an antiquarian. Take me to those wanting to move to America. I’ll take care of the rest.’

They reached the end of the corridor. A window overlooked a small austere cloister, decorated only with geraniums the colour of blood in some pots on the ground. Fèlix had trouble imagining a Dominican friar watering a row of geraniums. On the other side of the small cloister a similar window perfectly framed, as if on purpose, the distant dome of Saint Peter’s. For a few seconds, Fèlix Ardèvol thought that he’d like to take the window and its view along with him. He returned to reality, convinced that Morlin had brought him there to show him the window.

‘I need three or four addresses, of people in such circumstances.’

‘And how do you know, dear Ardevole, that I could help you with this?’

‘I have my sources: I devote many hours to my work and I know that you’ve been constantly widening your circle of contacts.’

Father Morlin took the blow but showed no outward reaction.

‘And where does this sudden interest in others’ objects come from?’

He was about to say because my work fascinates me; because when I find an object that I’m interested in, the world reduces to that object, whether it’s a statuette, a painting, a document or a fabric. And the world is filled with objects that need no justification. There are objects that …

‘I’ve become a collector.’ He specified: ‘I am a collector.’

‘A collector of what?’

‘A collector.’ He opened his arms, like Saint Dominic preaching from the throne. ‘I’m looking for beautiful things.’

And heavens did Father Morlin have information. If there was one person in the world able to know everything while barely ever leaving Santa Sabina, it was Father Fèlix Morlin, a friend to his friends and, according to what they say, a danger
to his enemies. Ardevole was a friend and, therefore, they soon came to an agreement. First, Fèlix Ardèvol had to put up with a sermon about the frenzied times that were their lot and no one wants, and to make a good impression he added a you can say that again, you can say that again, and if you were watching from a distance, you’d think they were reciting the litanies of the rosary. And the frenzied times that Europe was experiencing were starting to force a lot of people to look towards America and, thanks to Father Morlin, Fèlix Ardèvol spent a few months travelling through Europe before the fire, trying to save the furniture from any likely earthquake. His first contact was Tiefer Graben, in Vienna’s Innere Stadt district. It was a very nice house, not very wide but surely quite deep. He rang the bell and smiled sympathetically at the woman who had opened the door to him somewhat reluctantly. With that first contact he was able to buy all of the house’s furnishings, which, after setting aside the five most valuable objects, he resold for twice the price without leaving Vienna, almost without crossing the Ring. Such a spectacular success that it could have given him a swelled head, but Fèlix Ardèvol was an astute man, as well as intelligent. And so he proceeded with caution. In Nuremberg he bought a collection of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century painting: two Fragonards, an evanescent Watteau and three Rigauds. And the Mignon with the yellow gardenias, I imagine, which he saved for himself. Pontegradella, near Ferrara, was where he first held a valuable musical instrument in his hands. It was a viola made by Nicola Galliano of Naples. As he considered buying it, he even lamented not having learned to play that type of instrument. He knew enough to stay silent until the seller, a viola player named Davide Fiordaliso who, according to what his sources had informed him, had been forced out of the Vienna Philharmonic because of the new race laws and was reduced to earning a living playing in a café in Ferrara, anxiously told him due milioni in a very soft voice. He looked at Signor Arrau, who’d spent an hour examining the viola with a magnifying glass, and Arrau gave him the sign with his eyes that meant yes. Fèlix Ardèvol knew that what he had to do
then was give the object back to its owner with an offended expression on his face and offer some absurdly low figure. He did it, but he was so reluctant to endanger his chances of possessing that viola, that afterwards he had to sit down and rethink his strategy. One thing was buying and selling with a cool head and the other was setting up the shop, if he ever did. He bought the viola for duecentomila lire. And he refused to have a coffee with the seller whose hands trembled violently, because in war they teach you not to look your victim in the eye. A Galliano. Signor Arrau told him that, although instruments weren’t his strong suit, he’d venture that he could get three times that if he discreetly spread the word and wasn’t in a rush to sell. And if he wished, he would introduce him to another Catalan, Signor Berenguer, a promising young man who had learned to appraise things with extraordinary precision and who, when the war ended in Spain, which had to happen someday, planned to return home.

On the advice of Father Morlin, who seemed to know it all, he rented a storage space in a village near Zurich and stockpiled the sofas, canapes, console tables, Fragonards, Chippendale chairs and Watteaus there. And the Galliano viola. He still couldn’t even imagine that one day a string instrument, similar on the face of it, would be his end. But he had already made a clear distinction between the shop and his private collection comprised of the most select objects in his catalogue.

Every once in a while he returned to Rome, to the Bramante hostel, and met with Morlin. They talked about possible clients, they talked about the future, and Morlin let on that the war in Spain would never end because Europe was now undergoing a convulsive period and that meant things would be very uncomfortable. The world map had to be reworked and the fastest way to do that was with bombs and trenches, he said with a touch of nonchalant resignation.

‘And how do you know all this?’

I was unable to ask any other question. Daniela and I had gone up the Barri path to the castle, as if we were walking with someone elderly who didn’t want to tackle the other, much steeper, one.

‘What a marvellous view,’ she said.

In front of the castle’s chapel, they looked out at the Plana, and Adrià thought about his Arcadia, but only fleetingly. ‘How do you know so much about my father?’

‘Because he’s my father. What’s the name of that mountain in the distance?’

‘The Montseny.’

‘Doesn’t it all look like a nativity scene?’

What do you know about my crèches, the ones we never set up at home, I thought. But Daniela was right, Tona looked more like a nativity scene than ever and Adrià couldn’t help but point downhill, ‘Can Ges.’

‘Yes. And Can Casic.’

They walked to the Torre dels Moros. Inside it was filled with piss and shit. Outside, there was the wind and the landscape. Adrià sat beside the precipice to get a good view of his landscape. Until then he hadn’t formulated the right question: ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

She sat beside him and without looking at him said that they were brother and sister, that they had to understand each other, that she was the owner of Can Casic.

‘I already know that. My mother told me.’

‘I’m planning on demolishing the house, the filth, the pond, the manure and the stench of rotten hay. And put up new houses there.’

‘Don’t even think it.’

‘You’ll get used to the idea.’

‘Viola died of grief.’

‘Who is Viola?’

‘The bitch of Can Casic. Dark beige with a black snout and droopy ears.’

Surely Daniela didn’t understand him, but she didn’t say anything. Adrià stared at her for a few seconds in silence.