Confessions (51 page)

‘That much?’

‘Yes. Are you interested, Doctor?’

‘If it were this much, yes.’

‘That’s a leap! This much.’

‘This much.’

‘All right, fine: this much.’

That time it was the hand-written score of
Allegro de concert
by Granados. For a few days, I avoided the gazes of Sheriff Carson and the valiant Arapaho Chief Black Eagle.

F
ranz-Paul Decker announced a ten-minute break because it seems that management was calling him in over something very urgent, because management was always more urgent than anything else, even the second rehearsal of Bruckner’s fourth. Bernat began speaking with that quiet, shy French horn, whom Decker had made repeat the awakening of the first day in the Bewegt, nicht zu schnell, to show the entire orchestra how good a good French horn sounds. And he, the third time the director was having him display his talents, hit a false note that the French horn fears worse than death. And everyone laughed a bit. Decker and the French horn did as well, but Bernat felt a little anxious. That boy had joined the orchestra recently, and always kept to his corner, timid, eyes down, short and blond, a bit plump. It seemed his name was Romain Gunzbourg.

‘Bernat Plensa.’

‘Enchanté. First violins, right?’

‘Yes. So? How’s it going for you, in the orchestra? Besides the fancy stuff the maestro’s been making you do.’

It was going well for him. He was Parisian, he was enjoying getting to know Barcelona, but he was anxious to visit the Chopin route in Majorca.

‘I’ll take you,’ offered Bernat, the way he always did, almost without thinking. I had told him a thousand times, bloody hell, Bernat, think before you speak. Or just say it disingenuously, but don’t commit yourself to …

‘I gave my word and … Besides, he’s a lad who’s here alone, and I feel kind of sorry for …’

‘And now you’re going to have trouble with Tecla, can’t you see that?’

‘Don’t exaggerate. Why would there be trouble?’

And Bernat went home after the rehearsal and said hey, Tecla, I’m going to Valldemossa for a couple of days, with a French horn.

‘What?’

Tecla was coming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, smelling of chopped onions.

‘Tomorrow I’m going to show Gunzbourg where Chopin stayed.’

‘Who in the hell is Gunzbourg?’

‘A French horn, I already told you.’

‘What?’

‘From the orchestra. Since we have two days of …’

‘Just like that, without letting me know?’

‘I’m letting you know.’

‘And what about Llorenç’s birthday?’

‘Oh, it slipped my mind. Shit. Well … It’s that …’

Bernat took Gunzbourg to Valldemossa, they got drunk in a musical pub, Gunzbourg turned out to be excellent at improvising on the piano and Bernat, thanks to the Menorcan gin, sang a couple of standards in the voice of Mahalia Jackson.

‘Why do you play the French horn?’ The question he’d been wanting to ask him from the first time he saw him pull the instrument out of its case.

‘Someone’s got to play it,’ he answered as they walked back to the hotel, with the sun emerging along the ruddy horizon.

‘But you, the piano …’

‘Let it go.’

The final result was that they forged a nice friendship and Tecla pouted for twenty days and added another offence to his curriculum. That was when Sara realised that Bernat never realised that Tecla was pouting until her pouting had solidified in the form of a crisis about to explode.

‘Why is Bernat like that?’ you asked me one day.

‘I don’t know. Maybe to show the world something or other.’

‘Isn’t he a bit old to be showing the world something or other?’

‘Bernat? Even on his deathbed, he’ll still be thinking that he has to show the world something or other.’

‘Poor Tecla. She’s always in the right when she complains.’

‘He lives in his own world. He’s not a bad kid.’

‘That’s easy to say. But then she’s the one who ends up looking like a whinger.’

‘Don’t you get mad at me now,’ Adrià, slightly peeved.

‘He’s a difficult man.’

‘I’m sorry, Tecla, but I’d promised him! Bloody hell, you’re making too big a deal of it. Don’t be so dramatic, for god’s sake! It was just a couple of days in Majorca, for god’s sake! Bloody hell!’

‘And Llorenç? He’s your son! He’s not the French horn’s son.’

‘What is he now, nine or ten?’

‘Eleven.’

‘That’s it: eleven. He’s not a baby any more.’

‘Would you like me to tell you whether he’s still a baby or not?’

‘Go ahead.’

Mother and son each took a bite of birthday cake in silence. Llorenç said Mama, what about Dad? And she replied that he had work in Majorca. And they continued eating cake in silence.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. It sucks that Dad’s not here.’

‘So get going on the gift you owe him.’

‘But you already gave him some …’

‘Right now!’ screamed Tecla, almost about to cry with rage.

Bernat bought a very lovely book for Llorenç, which he gazed at for a good long while without daring to tear the wrapping paper. Llorenç looked at his father, he looked at his mother’s frayed nerves and he didn’t know that he was sad over things he couldn’t comprehend.

‘Thanks, Dad, it’s really nice,’ he said, without having torn the wrapping paper. The next morning, when he woke him up to go to school, the boy was sleeping with the wrapped book in his arms.

‘R
srsrsrsrsrrsrsrs.’

Caterina went to answer the door and found a very well-dressed young man, with the smile of a salesman selling those new water filters, very expressive grey eyes and a small briefcase in his hand. She stared at him without letting go of the door. He understood the silence as a question and said, yes, Mr Ardèvol, please.

‘He’s not here.’

‘What do you mean?’ Confused. ‘But he told me that …’ He checked his watch, a bit lost. ‘That’s strange … And the lady of the house?’

‘She’s not here either.’

‘Boy. In that case …’

Caterina made a gesture that said I’m very sorry but there’s nothing we can do. But the nice young man, who was also quite attractive, pointed to her with one finger and said for what I’ve come to do, maybe they don’t even need to be here.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve come for the appraisal.’

‘The what?’

‘The appraisal. Didn’t they mention it to you?’

‘No. What appraisal?’

‘So, they haven’t told you anything about it?’ Desolate, the clever young man.

‘No.’

‘The appraisal of the violin.’ Gesturing inside, ‘Posso?’

‘No!’ Caterina thought it over for a few seconds. ‘It’s just that I don’t know anything about this. They didn’t tell me anything.’

The clever young man had got both feet onto the doorsill by degrees and now widened his smile.

‘Mr Ardèvol is very absent-minded.’ He made a politely conspiratorial expression and continued: ‘We spoke about it just last night. I only have to examine the instrument for five minutes.’

‘Look. Maybe it’d be better if you came back some other time when they’re here …’

‘Forgive me, but I’ve come from Cremona, Lombardy, Italy,
just for this, do you understand? Does that ring a bell? Call Mr Ardèvol and ask him for permission.’

‘I wouldn’t know how to locate him.’

‘Darn …’

‘Besides, lately he keeps it inside a safe.’

‘I understand that you know the combination.’

Silence. The nice young man hadn’t made any brusque movements, but he already had both feet inside the flat. Caterina was betrayed by her silence. He unzipped his briefcase and pulled out a wad of five-thousand notes, to help her make up her mind.

‘This always stimulates the memory, dear Caterina Fargues.’

‘Seven two eight zero six five. How do you know my name?’

‘I told you, I’m an appraiser.’

As if that were an incontestable argument, Caterina Fargues took a step back and let the nice young man in.

‘Come with me,’ he said to her. First the man gave her the wad of notes, which she gripped tightly in her hand.

In my study, the man put on some very thin gloves – appraiser’s gloves, he said – and opened the safe with the seven two eight zero six five, extracted the violin. He heard Caterina saying if he thinks he can take the violin, he’s got another thing coming, and he replied, without looking at her, I told you I’m an appraiser, woman. And she kept quiet just in case. He put the violin beneath my loupe lamp, he examined its label, he read Laurentius Storioni Cremonensis me fecit, and then he said mille settecento sessantaquattro, winked at Caterina, who, leaning beside the friendly appraiser, wanting to justify her salary by making it clear that, no matter how friendly he was, that man was not going to leave the house with the violin in his hands. And his grey eyes were now more metallic than expressive. The appraiser noticed the double line beneath Cremonensis and his heart gave such a leap that surely even that idiot realised it.

‘Va bene, va bene …’ he said, as if he were a doctor who’d just listened to the patient’s chest and was keeping his diagnosis to himself for the moment. He turned the instrument over, ran his eyes along the wood, the little scratches, the
curves, the flaming, as he mechanically repeated va bene, va bene.

‘Is it valuable?’ Caterina tightened the hand that held the guilty wad, tightly folded.

The appraiser didn’t reply; he was smelling the violin’s varnish. Or its wood. Or its age. Or its beauty. Finally, he put the violin down delicately on the table and pulled a Polaroid camera out of his briefcase. Caterina moved aside because she didn’t want any photographic evidence that revealed her indiscretion. Five photos, with that calm of his, shaking each photo so it would dry, a smile plastered on his face, one eye on that woman and his ear trying to make out any noise from the stairwell. Once he was finished, he picked up the instrument and put it back in the safe. He closed it. He didn’t take off his gloves. Caterina felt relieved. The affable man looked around him. He went over to some bookcases. He noticed the shelf with the incunabula. He nodded his head, and for the first time in a long while he looked Caterina in the eye: ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

‘Excuse me: how did you know that I knew it?’ she said pointing to the safe.

‘I didn’t know.’

The man left my study silently and turned around suddenly, so suddenly that Caterina bumped into him. And he said to her:

‘But now I know that you know that I know.’

He left silently with his gloves still on and he closed the door himself after bowing his head slightly towards Caterina, who, despite her confusion, found him awfully elegant. You know that I know that; no, what was it? Once she was left alone, she opened up her hand. A wad of five-thousand notes. No: the first one was five-thousand; the others were oh, what a son of a bitch, that affable appraiser and the horse he rode in on! She opened the door about to … About to what, idiot? To make a scene with a man she’d just let into the house? Like a thief the Lord will come. She could still hear the regular, confident, affable footsteps of the mysterious thief on the last few steps of the staircase, heading
towards the street. Caterina closed the door, looked at the wad of notes and stood there for a while saying no, no, no, it can’t be. And I don’t know what she saw in those grey eyes, because you could barely see them under those eyebrows, so thick he looked like a sheepdog.

I
received a letter from Oxford. I think it changed my life. It forced me to start writing again. In fact, it was the spark and the vitamins I needed to roll up my sleeves and get down to work on what would end up being a work as long as a day without bread, which brought me much joy and I’m pleased to have written:
Història del pensament europeu.
It is my way of saying to myself, you see, Adrià? You’ve done something that holds a candle to the
Griechische Geistesgeschichte
and, therefore, you can feel a bit closer to Nestle. Without that letter, I wouldn’t have had the strength to get down to work on it. Adrià had read the missive, his curiosity piqued: an airmail letter. Instinctively, he looked at the sender: I. Berlin, Headington House, Oxford, England, UK.

‘Sara!’

Where was Sara? Adrià, wandering perfunctorily through the Created World, yelled Sara, Sara, until he reached her studio and saw that she had the door closed. He opened it. Sara was making sketches of faces and houses, in that frantic way that sometimes came over her like a fit, and she would fill half a dozen sheets of paper with those irrational impulses, and then she would spend a few days looking at the results and deciding what should be tossed and what should be worked on further. She was wearing headphones.

‘Sara!’

Sara turned and saw Adrià with wild eyes, pulled off the headphones and said what’s wrong, what’s going on? Adrià held up the letter so she could see it and for a few moments she thought no, not more bad news, no.

‘What’s wrong?’ she said, frightened.

Sara saw how Adrià, pale, sat down on the drawing stool and extended the envelope to her. She took it and said who is it? Adrià gestured for her to turn it over. She did and read I.
Berlin, Headington House, Oxford, England, UK. She looked at Adrià and asked him who is it?

‘Isaiah Berlin.’

‘Who is Isaiah Berlin?’

Adrià left and, a few seconds later, came back with four or five books by Berlin and put them beside a sheet of paper filled with sketching attempts.

‘This man,’ he said, pointing to the books.

‘And what does he want?’

‘I don’t know. But why could he possibly be writing to me?’

Then you took my hand, you forced me to sit down and, as if you were the teacher calming the excitable child in the class, you told me you know what you have to do to find out what it says in a letter, right? Isn’t that right, Adrià? You have to open it up. And then, you have to read it …

‘But it’s from Isaiah Berlin!’

‘It doesn’t matter if it’s from the tsar of the entire Russian empire. You have to open it.’

You gave me a letter opener. It was hard to slice it neatly so that it didn’t pinch the paper inside or ruin the envelope.

‘But what could he want?’ I said, hysterical. You just pointed to the envelope in response. But Adrià, once he had it open, left it on Sara’s table.

‘Don’t you want to read it?’

‘I’m terrified.’

You picked up the envelope and I, like a boy, took it from you and extracted the letter. A single page, hand written, that said Oxford, April 1987, dear sir, your book moved me deeply, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera, and that, even after so much time, I still know by heart. Until the end that said please, don’t stop thinking and, every once in a while, writing down your thoughts. Sincerely yours, Isaiah Berlin.