In that period, thanks to Father, I liked the object almost more than the music that came out of it. But Bernat looked at me suspiciously. For a few moments I thought he must have a Guarnerius and didn’t want to show it to me. But since I opened my case and presented a very dark red student violin that produced a very conventional sound, he did the same with his. I imitated Mr Berenguer’s demeanour: ‘French, turn of the century.’ And looking into his eyes, ‘One of those dedicated to Madame d’Angoulême.’
‘How do you know?’ asked Bernat, impressed, perplexed, mouth agape.
From that day on Bernat admired me. For the stupidest possible reason: it’s not hard at all to remember objects and know how to assess and classify them. You only have to have a father who’s obsessed with such things. How do you know, eh?
‘The varnish, the shape, the general air …’
‘Violins are all the same.’
‘Certainly not. Every violin has a story behind it. There’s not only the luthier who created it, but every violinist who has played it. This violin isn’t yours.’
‘Of course it is!’
‘No. It’s the other way around. You’ll see.’
My father had told me that, one day, with the Storioni in his hands. He offered it to me somewhat regretfully and said, without really knowing what he was saying, be very careful, because this object is unique. The Storioni in my hands felt as if it were alive. I thought I could feel a soft, inner pulse. And Father, his eyes gleaming, said imagine, this violin has been through experiences we know nothing about, it has been played in halls and homes that we will never see, and it has lived all the joys and pains of the violinists who have played it. The conversations it has heard, the music it’s expressed … I am sure it could tell us many tender stories, he finally said, with an extraordinary dose of cynicism that at the time I was unable to capture.
‘Let me play it, Father.’
‘No. Not until you’ve finished your eighth year of violin study. Then it will be yours. Do you hear me? Yours.’
I swear that the Storioni, upon hearing those words, throbbed more intensely for a moment. I couldn’t tell if it was out of joy or grief.
‘Look, it’s … how can I put it; look at it, it’s a living thing. It even has a proper name, like you and I.’
Adrià looked at his father with a somewhat distant stance, as if calculating whether he was pulling his leg or not.
‘A proper name?’
‘Yes.’
‘And what’s it called?’
‘Vial.’
‘What does Vial mean?’
‘What does Adrià mean?’
‘Well … Hadrianus is the surname of a Roman family that came from Hadria, near the Adriatic.’
‘That’s not what I meant, for god’s sake.’
‘You asked me what my nam ‘Yes, yes, yes … Well, the violin is just named Vial and that’s it.’
‘Why is it named Vial?’
‘Do you know what I’ve learned, Son?’
Adrià looked at him with disappointment because he was avoiding the question, he didn’t know the answer or he didn’t want to admit it. He was human and he tried to cover it up.
‘What have you learned?’
‘That this violin doesn’t belong to me, but rather I belong to it. I am one of many who have owned it. Throughout its life, this Storioni has had various players at its service. And today it is mine, but I can only look at it. Which is why I wanted you to learn to play the violin, so you can continue the long chain in the life of this instrument. That is the only reason you must study the violin. That’s the only reason, Adrià. You don’t need to like music.’
My father — such elegance — twisting the story and making it look as if it had been his idea I study violin and not Mother’s. What elegance my father had as he arranged others’ fates. But I was trembling with emotion at that point despite having understood his instructions, which ended with that blood-curdling you don’t need to like music.
‘What year was it made?’ I asked.
Father had me look through the right f-hole. Laurentius Storioni Cremonensis me fecit 1764.
‘Let me hold it.’
‘No. You think about all the history this violin has. But no touching.’
Jachiam Mureda let the two carts and the men follow him towards La Grassa, led by Blond of Cazilhac. He hid in a corner to relieve himself. A few moments of calm. Beyond the wooden carts that slowly headed off was the silhouette of the monastery and the wall destroyed by lightning. He had taken refuge in Carcassona three summers ago, fleeing the hatred of those in Moena, and fate was about to change the course of his life. He had got used to the sweet language of the Occitans. He had grown accustomed to not eating cheese every day; but what was hardest for him was not being surrounded by forests and not having mountains nearby; there were some, but always so far, far away that they didn’t seem real. As he defecated he suddenly understood that it wasn’t that he missed the landscape of Pardàc, but that he missed his father, Mureda of Pardàc, and all the Muredas: Agno, Jenn, Max, Hermes, Josef, Theodor, Micurà, Ilse, Erica, Katharina, Matilde, Gretchen and little Bettina who gave me the medallion of Saint Maria dai Ciüf, the patron saint of Pardàc’s woodcutters, so I would never feel alone. And he began to cry with longing for his people and as he shat he took the medallion off his neck and looked at it: a proud Virgin Mary facing forward, holding a tiny baby and with a lush pine tree in the background that reminded him of the pine beside the Travignolo stream, in his Pardàc.
Repairing the wall had been complicated because first they’d had to knock down a good bit that was shaky. And in a few days he had built a magnificent scaffolding with his wood. The monastery’s carpenter, Brother Gabriel, praised him for it. Brother Gabriel was a man with hands large as feet when it came to hacking and chopping, and thin as lips when it came time to gauge the wood’s quality. They hit it off right away. The friar, a natural talker, wondered how he knew so much about the inner life of wood since he was just a carpenter, and Jachiam, finally free of his fear of vengeance, for the first time since he had run away said I’m not a carpenter, Brother Gabriel. I cut wood, I listen to wood. My trade is making the wood sing, choosing the trees and the parts of the trunk that will later be used by master luthiers to make a good instrument, such as a viola or a violin.
‘And what are you doing working for a foreman, child of God?’
‘Nothing. It’s complicated.’
‘You ran away from something.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘It’s not my place to say this, but be careful you aren’t running away from yourself.’
‘No. I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Because those who run away from themselves find that the shadow of their enemy is always on their heels and they can’t stop running, until finally they explode.’
‘Is your father a violinist?’ Bernat asked me.
‘No.’
‘Well, I … But the violin is mine,’ he added.
‘I’m not saying it’s not yours. I’m saying that you are the violin’s.’
‘You say strange things.’
They were silent. They heard Trullols raising her voice to quiet a student who was zealously playing out of tune.
‘How awful,’ said Bernat.
‘Yes.’ Silence. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Bernat Plensa. And you?’
‘Adrià Ardèvol.’
‘Are you a fan of Barça or Espanyol?’
‘Barça. You?’
‘Me too.’
‘Do you collect any trading cards?’
‘Of cars.’
‘Wow. Do you have the Ferrari triple?’
‘No. Nobody does.’
‘You mean it doesn’t exist?’