Confessions (59 page)

‘From someone named Falegnami.’

‘Who was a fugitive. And his name was surely not Falegnami.’

‘That I don’t know.’ I think you could see a mile off that I was lying.

‘I
do
know.’ With her hands on her hips, leaning towards me: ‘He was a Bavarian Nazi who had to flee and thanks to your father’s money he was able to disappear.’

A lie, or a half-truth, or a few lies cobbled together for the coherence that transforms them into something believable, can hold up for a while. Even for a long while. But they can never last an entire lifetime because there is an unwritten law that speaks of the hour of truth of all things.

‘How do you know all that?’ trying to seem surprised and not defeated.

Silence. She, like a statue, icy, authoritarian, imposing. Since she was silent, I kept talking, a bit desperately: ‘A Nazi? Well, it’s better that we have it than some Nazi, right?’

‘This Nazi had confiscated it from a Belgian or Dutch family that had the poor taste to show up in Auschwitz-Birkenau.’

‘How do you know?’

How did you know, Sara … How did you know that, which I only knew because my father had left it written in Aramaic on a piece of paper that surely only I had read.

‘You have to give it back.’

‘To who?’

‘To its owners.’

‘I am its owner. We are.’

‘Don’t involve me in this. You have to return it to its real owners.’

‘I don’t know who they are. Dutch, you say?’

‘Or Belgian.’

‘That’s not much to go on. Should I just go to Amsterdam and stand in the middle of the street with the violin in my hand saying, is this yours, dames en heren?’

‘Don’t play the cynic.’

He didn’t know how to answer. What could he say when he always feared that day would come? Without knowing the details, but that what he was going through would someday happen: I, seated, with my glasses in one hand, my Storioni on the table and Sara with her hands on her hips and saying well, research it. There are detectives in the world. Or we can go to a centre for the recovery of stolen assets. Surely there are a dozen Jewish organisations that could help us.

‘At the first step you take, the house would fill with people trying to take advantage.’

‘Or maybe the owners would show up.’

‘We are talking about fifty years ago, you realise that?’

‘The owners of the instrument have direct or indirect descendants.’

‘Who probably couldn’t care less about the violin.’

‘Have you asked them that?’

Little by little, the tone of your voice grew harsher and I was feeling attacked and offended because the harshness in your voice was accusing me of something I hadn’t felt guilty of until then: the horrible crime of being my father’s son. And,
what’s more, your voice was changing, the timbre sharpening, as it always did when you talked about your family or when you talked about the Shoah, or when Uncle Haïm came up.

‘I’m not lifting a finger until I know that what you are saying is true. Where did you get all this from?’

Tito Carbonell had been sitting at the steering wheel of his car on the corner for half an hour. He saw his uncle come out, with his diminishing hair, his briefcase in one hand, heading up València Street towards the university. Tito stopped drumming his fingers on the wheel. The voice from the back seat said Ardèvol’s balder every day. Tito didn’t think he needed to add any comment; he just checked his watch. The voice from the back seat was going to say I don’t think it’ll be long, relax, when a policeman put his hand to his cap in greeting, leaned over to talk to the driver and said gentleman, you can’t be here.

‘We’re waiting for someone who … Here she is,’ he improvised.

Tito got out of the car and the policeman was distracted by a Coca-Cola lorry trying to unload, invading Llúria Street by a good half metre. Tito got back inside the car and when he saw that Caterina was coming through the doorway, he said in a cheery voice that is the famous Caterina Fargues. The voice from the back seat didn’t respond. They waited four more minutes until Sara stepped out on the street and looked both ways. She glanced at the opposite corner and, with quick, decisive steps, went towards the car.

‘Get in, they won’t let us stay here,’ said Tito, pointing to the back door of the car with his head. She hesitated for a few seconds and got in the car, in the back, as if it were a taxi.

‘Good day,’ said the voice.

Sara saw an older man, very thin, hidden behind a dark mackintosh, who looked at her with interest. With a flat palm, he patted the empty part of the seat between them, to invite her to sit beside him.

‘So you are the famous Sara Voltes-Epstein.’

Sara sat down just as Tito started the car. When they passed the policeman, he thanked him with a nod and entered the traffic that was heading up Llúria.

‘Where are we going?’ she said with a slightly scared voice.

‘Relax: somewhere where we can speak comfortably.’

The place where they could speak comfortably was a luxurious bar on the Diagonal. They had reserved a table in an isolated corner. They sat down and for a few seconds they all three looked at each other in silence.

‘This is Mr Berenguer,’ said Tito, pointing to the thin older man. He nodded his head slightly in greeting. And then Tito explained that he personally, some time ago, had checked that in her house they had a Storioni violin named Vial –

‘And would you mind telling me how you checked that?’

– that was very valuable and that, unfortunately, had been stolen more than fifty years ago from its legitimate owners –

‘The owner is Mr Adrià Ardèvol.’

– and it turns out that its legitimate owner has been looking for it for ten years and it seems we’ve finally found it –

‘And why am I supposed to believe you?’

– and we already know that the instrument was acquired by its legitimate owner on the fifteenth of February of nineteen thirty-eight in the city of Antwerp. Then it was appraised at far below its true value. Then it was stolen. Confiscated. The legitimate owner has moved heaven and earth to find it and, when he finally did, he took a few years to reflect and now it seems that he’s decided to reclaim it.

‘Well, then let him reclaim it legally. And prove this strange tale.’

‘There are legal problems. It’s a very long story.’

‘I’ve got time.’

‘I don’t want to bore you.’

‘Aha. And how did the violin come into my husband’s hands?’

‘Mr Adrià Ardèvol is not your husband. But if you’d like, I can explain how it came into Mr Adrià Ardèvol’s hands.’

‘My husband has an ownership certificate for the instrument.’

‘Have you seen it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it’s a fake.’

‘And why should I believe that?’

‘Who was the owner according to that certificate?’

‘How do you expect me to remember that? He showed it to me a long time ago.’

‘None of this makes any sense,’ said Adrià without looking at Sara. He stroked the violin instinctively, but pulled away his hand as though he’d received a shock.

I was too young, but Father had me enter the study as if to tell me a secret, even though there was no one else at home. And he told me have a good look at this violin. Vial was resting on the table. He brought over the loupe and had me look through it. I stuck my hand in my pocket and Sheriff Carson said pay attention, boy, this must be important. I pulled my hand away as if I’d been burned and I contemplated the violin through the magnifying glass. The violin, the scratches, the fine lines. And the ribs, with little varnish left on them …

‘Everything you see is its history.’

I remembered that at other times he had explained similar things about the violin. That was why I wasn’t at all surprised to hear: how, this rings a bell. And so I responded to Father, yes, its history. And what do you mean by that?

‘That its history has travelled through many homes and touched many people whom we will never meet. Imagine, from millesettecentosessantaquattro to today, that’s …!

‘Mmmm … Vediamo … Centonovantatrè anni.’

‘That’s right. I see that you’ve understood me.’

‘No, Father.’

It had been eight months since I’d begun to learn

‘Uno.’

‘Uno.’

‘Due.’

‘Due.’

‘Tre.’

‘Tre.’

‘Quattro.’

‘Quattro.’

‘Cinque.’

‘Cinque.’

‘Sei.’

‘Sei.’

‘Sette.’

‘Sette.’

‘Otto.’

‘Octo.’

‘Otttto!’

‘Otttto!’

‘Bravissimo!’

because you can learn Italian easily, in just four classes, trust me.

‘But Fèlix … The boy is already studying French, German, English …’

‘Signor Simone is a great teacher. In a year my son will be able to read Petrarch and that’s that.’

And he pointed to me, so there was no doubt: ‘You’ve been warned: tomorrow you start Italian.’

Now, before the violin, hearing me say centonovantatrè anni, Father couldn’t repress a proud expression that, I confess, made me feel utterly satisfied and self-important. Pointing with one hand to the instrument and putting the other on my shoulder, he said now it is mine. It has been many places, but now it’s mine. And it will be yours. And it will be your children’s. My grandchildren. And it will belong to our great grandchildren because it will never leave our family. Swear that to me.

I wonder how I can swear in the name of those who have yet to be born. But I know that I also swore in my own name. And every time I pick up Vial I remember that vow. And a few months later they killed my father, and it was my fault. I came to the conclusion that it was also the violin’s fault.

‘Mr Berenguer,’ said Adrià giving her an accusatory look, ‘is a former employee of the shop. He fought with Father and with Mother. And with me. He is a con man, did you know that?’

‘I am quite sure that he is an undesirable who wants to hurt you. But he knows exactly how your father bought the violin: he was there.’

‘And this Albert Carbonell is a half-relative who goes by the name of Tito and now runs the shop. Doesn’t that seem like a plot?’

‘If what they say is true, I don’t care about the plot. Here you have the owner’s address. All you have to do is get in touch with him and then you and I won’t have to wonder any more.’

‘It’s a trap! Any owner those two give us is an accomplice. What they want is to get their hands on the violin, can’t you see?’

‘No.’

‘How can you be so blind?’

I think that comment hurt you; but I was convinced that there was nothing innocent behind Mr Berenguer’s movements.

She handed him a folded piece of paper. Adrià took it but didn’t unfold it. He held it for quite some time before putting it down on the table.

‘Matthias Alpaerts,’ she said.

‘Huh?’

‘The name you didn’t read.’

‘It’s not true. The owner’s name is Netje de Boeck,’ I said angrily.

Thus, as if I were a five-year-old boy, you unmasked me. I looked at the piece of paper that read Matthias Alpaerts and I put it down on the table again.

‘This is all ridiculous,’ said Adrià after a long silence.

‘You are in a position to right a wrong and you refuse to do it.’

Sara left the study and I never heard her laugh again.

S
ilence reigned in the house for three or four days. It is horrible when two people who live together stay silent because they don’t want to say or they don’t dare to say things that could hurt. Sara focused on her exhibition and I wasn’t good for anything. I’m convinced that if your self-portrait has a slightly sad gaze, it’s because there was that silence in the house as you were making it. But I couldn’t give in. So Adrià Ardèvol made up his mind and went to the Law Faculty to consult Doctor Grau i Bordas about the problem a friend of mine had with a valuable object acquired by his family many years ago that presumably had been pillaged during the war, and Doctor Grau i Bordas stroked his chin and listened to what was happening to my friend and then he began to digress about generalisations regarding international law and Nazi pillaging and after five minutes Adrià Ardèvol understood that the man didn’t have a clue.

In the university’s department of musicology, Doctor Casals gave him a lot of information about the various families of luthiers in Cremona and recommended an authority on historic violins. And you can trust him, Ardèvol. And the question that he wanted to ask him from the moment they’d opened the case: ‘Can I try it?’

‘You play the violin too?’

In the hallway of Musicology, four students stopped to hear the enigmatic, sweet music that emerged from one of the offices. Until Doctor Casals put the violin in its case and said it is extraordinary; like a Gesù, truly.

He left the violin in his departmental office, in one corner. And he saw two students who wanted to improve their grades. And another student who wanted to know why did you only just pass me when I came to every class. You? Well,
to a lot of classes. Ah, yes? To some, yeah. When the young lady left, Laura came in and sat at the desk in front of his. She was simply lovely and he said hello, without looking her in the eyes. She made a distracted wave and opened up a folder filled with notes or exams to correct or one of those things that make her sigh. They were alone for quite a while, each with their own work. Twice, no, three times, they both looked up at the same time and their gazes played timidly for a few moments. Until the fourth time, when she said how are you. Was it the first time she took the initiative? I don’t remember. But I know that she accompanied the question with a slight smile. That was an obvious declaration of armistice.

‘Well, all right.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all.’

‘But you’re a celebrity.’

‘Now you’re having a laugh.’

‘No: I envy you. Like half of the department.’

‘Now you’re really having a laugh. And how are you?’

‘Well, all right.’

They were quiet and smiled, each with their own thoughts.

‘Are you writing?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you mind telling me what you’re working on?’

‘I am rewriting three conferences.’

She, with a smile, invited me to continue, and I, obedient, said Llull, Vico and Berlin.

‘Wow.’

‘Yes. But you know what? I am rewriting everything so it will be a new book, you know? Not three conferences, but …’

Adrià made a vague gesture, as if he were in the middle of the problem: ‘There has to be something that ties them all together.’

‘And have you found it?’

‘Maybe. The historical narrative. But I don’t know.’

Laura rearranged the papers, which is what she always did when she was thinking.

‘Is that the famous violin?’ she said pointing with a pencil to the corner.

‘Famous?’

‘Famous.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘Gosh: don’t leave it there.’

‘Don’t worry: I’ll take it to class with me.’

‘Don’t tell me that you are planning on playing it in front of …’ she said, tickled.

‘No, no.’

Or yes. Why not? He decided suddenly. Like when he asked Laura to come with him to Rome to play his lawyer. Laura inspired him to rash decisions.

Adrià Ardèvol, in the History of Aesthetic Ideas class, second quarter, at the University of Barcelona, had the nerve to start the class with the partita number one played on his Storioni. Surely none of the thirty-five students noticed the five unjustifiable errors nor the moment when he got lost and even had to improvise the Tempo di Borea. And when he finished he carefully stored the violin in its case, placed it on the desk and said what relationship do you think there is between artistic manifestation and thought. And no one dared to say anything because gosh, I don’t know.

‘Now imagine that we are in the year seventeen twenty.’

‘Why?’ said a boy with a beard sitting at the back, isolated from the rest, perhaps to avoid contamination.

‘The year when Bach composed what I just played so badly.’

‘And our thinking has to change?’

‘At the very least you and I would be wearing wigs.’

‘But that doesn’t change our thinking.’

‘It doesn’t? Men and women in wigs, stockings and high heels.’

‘It’s just that the aesthetic idea of the eighteenth century is different from ours today.’

‘Just the aesthetic? In the eighteenth century, if you weren’t wearing a wig, makeup, stockings and heels, they wouldn’t let you into the salons. Today, a man wearing makeup, a wig, stockings and heels would be locked up in prison without any questions being asked.’

‘We have to take morality into account?’

It was the timid voice of a lanky girl from the front row. Adrià, who was between desks, turned around.

‘That’s what I like to hear,’ he said. And the girl turned red, which wasn’t my intention. ‘Aesthetics, as hard as we try to separate it, is never alone.’

‘No?’

‘No. It has a great capacity to drag other forms of thought with it.’

‘I don’t understand.’

Anyway, it was a class that worked very well to establish the bases of what I had to explain for the next few weeks. And, for a few moments, I even forgot that at home we were living in silence, Sara and I. And Adrià was very sorry not to find Laura in the office when he went there to pick up his things because he would have liked to explain to her how well her idea had worked.

A
s soon as I opened the case inside the workshop of Pau Ullastres, the luthier told me it’s an authentic Cremona. Just by its scent and its outward mien. Even so, Pau Ullastres didn’t know Vial’s specific history; he had heard some vague talk about it, but he thought a Storioni could be worth a serious pile of dough and you should have brought it in to be appraised earlier. For insurance purposes, you know? It took me a few seconds to understand, because I had been captivated by the still atmosphere of his workshop. A warm, reddish light the colour of violin wood, made that unexpected silence, right in the heart of Gràcia, more solid. The window overlooked an interior courtyard at the back of which was a wood drying shed with its door open. There the wood aged unhurriedly while the world, now round, spun like a compulsive spinning top.

I looked at the luthier, frightened: I didn’t know what he had said to me. He smiled and repeated it.

‘I never thought to have it appraised,’ I responded. ‘It was like another piece of furniture in the house, just always there. And we’ve never wanted to sell it.’

‘What a lucky family.’

I didn’t tell him I disagreed because it wasn’t any of Pau Ullastres’s business and there was no way I could have read these lines that weren’t yet written. The luthier asked for permission before playing it. He played better than Doctor Casals. It almost sounded as if Bernat were playing.

‘It’s marvellous,’ he said. ‘Like a Gesù: it’s on the same level.’

‘Are all the Storionis as good as this one?’

‘Not all of them; but this one is.’ He smelled it with his eyes closed. ‘You’ve kept it locked up?’

‘Not for some time now. There was a period where …’

‘Violins are alive. The wood of a violin is like wine. It needs to age slowly over time and it enjoys the pressure of the strings; it likes to be played, it likes to live at a comfortable temperature, to be able to breathe, not be banged, always be clean … Only lock it up when you go on a trip.’

‘I would like to get in touch with the former owners.’

‘Do you have an ownership title?’

‘Yes.’

I showed him Father’s contract of sale from Signor Saverio Falegnami.

‘The certificate of authenticity?’

‘Yes.’

I showed him the certificate cooked up by Grandfather Adrià and the luthier Carlos Carmona in a period when for a few grand you could have even counterfeit banknotes authenticated. Pau Ullastres looked at it curiously. He gave it back to me without comment. He thought it over: ‘Do you want to get it appraised now?’

‘No. In fact, what I want is to be sure of who its previous owners were. I want to meet with them.’

Ullastres looked at the ownership certificate: ‘Saverio Falegnami, it says here.’

‘The ones prior to that man.’

‘You mind telling me why you want to get in touch with them?’

‘I don’t even know myself. For me it’s as if this violin had always belonged to my family. I’ve never worried about its genealogy. But now …’

‘You are concerned about its authenticity?’

‘Yes,’ I lied.

‘If it helps you at all, I would swear on all that is holy that this is an instrument from Lorenzo Storioni’s finest period. And not because of the certificate, but because of what I can see, hear and feel.’

‘I’ve been told it is the first violin he ever made.’

‘The best Storionis were the first twenty. They say it’s because of the wood he used.’

‘The wood?’

‘Yes. It was exceptional.’

‘Why?’

But the luthier was stroking my violin and didn’t answer. All those caresses were making me feel jealous. Then Ullastres looked at me: ‘What exactly do you want to do? Why exactly have you come?’

It is hard to make enquiries without being entirely truthful with those who could help you.

‘I would like to make a family tree of its owners since the beginning.’

‘That’s a good idea … But it’ll cost you an arm and a leg.’

I didn’t know how to tell him that what I wanted was to work out if Mr Berenguer and Tito had made up the name Alpaerts. And to know whether the name that Father had given me, Netje de Boeck, was the correct one. Or maybe find out that neither of those names were authentic and that the violin had always been mine. Because I was seeing that yes, that if there had been a legal owner prior to the Nazi, that it was in my best interests for me to get in touch with them, whoever they were, to get down on my knees and beg them to let me have it until my death; just thinking about Vial leaving my home forever gave me chills. And I had made up my mind to do whatever it took to keep that from happening.

‘Did you hear me, Mr Ardèvol? An arm and a leg.’

If I’d had any doubt, Vial was authentic. Perhaps I went to see Ullastres just for that: to be hear it for myself; to make sure that I had fought with Sara over a valuable violin; not over some pieces of wood in the shape of an instrument. No, deep
down I don’t know why I went there to see him. But I believe it was since my visit to Ullastres’s workshop that I began to muse on that fine wood and on Jachiam Mureda.