‘Being old is obscene. Ageing is obscene.’
‘I understand.’
‘You don’t understand. I would have liked to die before my wife and daughters and yet I’m becoming a decrepit old man, as if I had the slightest interest in clinging to life.’
‘You’re in good shape.’
‘Poppycock. My body is falling apart. And I should have died more than fifty years ago.’
‘So what the fuck did that stupid old man want with a violin if what he wanted was to die? Can’t you see that it’s contradictory?’
‘It was my decision, Bernat. And it’s done.’
‘Bastard. Tell me where that hapless cretin is and I’ll convince him that …’
‘It’s over. I don’t have the Storioni any more. Inside, I feel that … I contributed towards justice being done. I feel good. Two years too late.’
‘I feel terrible. Now I see: the hapless cretin is you.’
He sat down, he stood up again. He couldn’t believe it. He faced Adrià, challenging him: ‘Why do you say two years too late?’
The old man sat down. His hands were trembling a bit. He rested them on the dirty cloth that was still on top of the table, well folded.
‘Have you thought about suicide?’ My tone came out like a doctor asking a patient if he likes chamomile tea.
‘Do you know how Berta was able to buy it?’ he responded.
‘No.’
‘I don’t need it, Matthias, my love. I can spend my life with …’
‘Yes, of course. You can use your same old violin forever. But I’m telling you it’s worth making the effort. My family can lend me half of the price.’
‘I don’t want to be indebted to your family.’
‘They’re your family too, Berta! Why can’t you accept that? …’
That was when my mother-in-law intervened; that was before she got the chest cold. The time between one war and the other, when life came back with a vengeance and musicians could devote themselves to playing music and not rotting in the trenches; that was when Berta Alpaerts spent countless hours trying out a Storioni that was beyond her reach, with a beautiful, confident, deep sound. Jules Arcan was asking for a price that wasn’t the least bit reasonable. That was the day that Trude, our second daughter, turned six months old. We didn’t have Juliet yet. It was dinnertime and, for the first time since we’d been living together, my mother-in-law wasn’t at home. When we returned from work no one had made anything for supper. While Berta and I threw something together, my mother-in-law arrived, loaded down, and placed a magnificent dark case on the table. There was a thick silence. I remember that Berta looked at me for a response I was unable to give her.
‘Open it, my girl,’ said my mother-in-law.
Since Berta didn’t dare, her mother encouraged her: ‘I’ve just come from Jules Arcan’s workshop.’
Then Berta leapt towards the case and opened it. We all looked inside and Vial winked at us. My mother-in-law had decided that since she was well taken care of at our house, her savings could be spent on her daughter. Poor Berta was struck dumb for a couple of hours, unable to play anything, unable to pick up the instrument, as if she weren’t worthy, until Amelietje, our eldest who was still very little, the one with jet-black hair, said come on, Mama, I want to hear how it sounds. Oh, how she made it sound, my Berta … How lovely … My mother-in-law had spent all of her savings. Every last penny. Plus some other secret that she never would tell us. I think she sold a flat she had in Schoten.
The man was silent, his gaze lost beyond the book-covered wall. Then, as if in conclusion to his story, he told me it took me many years to find you, to find Berta’s violin, Mr Ardefol.
‘That’s no argument, Adrià, bloody hell. He could be telling you any old story he’d made up, can’t you see that?’
‘How did you find me?’ said Adrià, his curiosity piqued.
‘Patience and help … the detectives assured me that your father left many trails behind him. He made a lot of noise as he moved.’
‘That was many years ago.’
‘I’ve spent many years crying. Until now I wasn’t prepared to do certain things, including getting back Berta’s violin. I waited a couple of years to come and see you.’
‘A couple of years ago some opportunists spoke to me about you.’
‘Those weren’t my instructions. I only wanted to locate the violin.’
‘They wanted to be intermediaries in its sale,’ insisted Adrià.
‘God save me from intermediaries: I’ve had bad experiences with people like that.’ He stared into Adrià’s eyes. ‘I never would have thought to talk about buying it.’
Adrià observed him, stock-still. The old man came over to him as if he wanted to erase any possible intermediaries between them: ‘I didn’t come here to buy it: I came here for restitution.’
‘They hoodwinked you, Adrià. You’ve been swindled by a conman. A clever chap like you …’
Since Adrià didn’t reply, the man continued speaking: ‘When I located it, first I wanted to meet you. At this point in life, I’m in no rush about anything.’
‘Why did you want to do it this way?’
‘To find out if I had to hold you accountable for your role.’
‘I should tell you that I feel guilty about everything.’
‘That’s why I studied you before coming to see you.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I read La voluntat estètica and the other one, the fat one. Història del … del …’
He snapped his fingers to help along his senior memory.
‘… del pensament europeu,’ said Adrià with very well concealed pride.
‘Exactly. And a collection of articles that I don’t remember the title of now. But don’t make me talk about them because …’
He touched his forehead to make it clear that his brain wasn’t as sharp as it used to be.
‘But why?’
‘I don’t really know. I suppose because I ended up respecting you. And because from what the investigators told me, you didn’t have anything to do with …’
I didn’t want to contradict him. I didn’t have anything to do with …, but I had a lot to do with Father. Possibly it wasn’t aesthetic to talk about that now. So I kept quiet. I only repeated why did you want to study me, Mr Alpaerts.
‘All I have is time. And in trying to make amends for evil, I’ve made many mistakes: the first, believing that if I hid the horror would disappear; and the worst, causing other horrors because of lack of foresight.’
We talked for hours on end and I didn’t even think to offer him a glass of water. I understood that such profound pain came out of confusing, chaotic stories that made it even more profound and bloody.
Matthias Alpaerts had entered my home after lunch, around two or two-thirty in the afternoon. We didn’t leave the study until nine in the evening except for a couple of interruptions to go to the toilet. Now it had been hours since the windows had begun to allow in darkness from the street and the moving reflection of car headlights going down it. Then we looked at each other and I realised that I was about to faint.
Given the hour, the negotiation was quick: green beans, potatoes and onions, boiled. And an omelette. As I prepared it, he asked if he could use the toilet again and I apologised for being such an inattentive host. Matthias Alpaerts excused it with a wave and urgently slipped into the bathroom. As the pressure cooker released its warning, I went back to the study and put the violin on the table. I looked at it carefully. I took a dozen photos of it with your historic camera that was right where you had left it; until the roll of film ended. Face, back, side, scroll and pegbox, neck and a few details of the fillets. Half way through the operation, Matthias Alpaerts came back from the toilet and watched me in silence.