Adrià blinked and said here, with you, talking about God.
‘Sometimes you’re not here.’
‘Me?’
‘My parents say it’s because you are wise.’
‘Bollocks. I wish …’
‘Don’t even start.’
‘They love you.’
‘And yours don’t?’
‘No: they measure me. They calculate my IQ, they talk about sending me to a special school in Switzerland, they discuss making me do three school years in one.’
‘Wow, how cool!’ He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘No?’
‘No. They argue over me, but they don’t love me.’
‘Bah. I don’t think kisses …’
When Mother said Little Lola, go and get the aprons from Rosita’s house, I knew that it was our time. Like two thieves, like the Lord when he comes for us, we went into the forbidden house. In strict silence, we slipped into Father’s study, listening for the rustle from the back room where Mother and Mrs Angeleta were mending clothes. It took us a few minutes to get used to the darkness and heavy atmosphere in the study.
‘I smell something strange,’ said Bernat.
‘Shhhh!’ I whispered, somewhat melodramatically, because my main goal was impressing Bernat, now that we had become friends. And I told him that it wasn’t a smell, it was the weight of the history the objects in the collection were laden with; he didn’t understand me; I’m sure I wasn’t entirely convinced that what I’d said was true, either.
When our eyes had grown used to the dark, the first thing Adrià did was look smugly at Bernat’s amazed face. Bernat no longer smelled anything but instead felt the weight of the history the objects around him were laden with. Two tables, one covered with manuscripts and with a very strange lamp that was also … What is that? Oh, a loupe. Wow … and a ton of old books. At the back, a bookshelf filled with even older books; to the left a stretch of wall filled with tiny pictures.
‘Are they valuable?’
‘And how!’
‘And how what?’
‘A sketch by Vayreda,’ Adrià proudly pointed at a small unfinished picture.
‘Ah.’
‘Do you know who Vayreda is?’
‘No. Is it worth a lot?’
‘A fortune. And this is an engraving by Rembrandt. It’s not unique, because otherwise …’
‘Aha.’
‘Do you know who Rembrandt is?’
‘No.’
‘And this tiny one …’
‘It’s very lovely.’
‘Yes. It is the most valuable one.’
Bernat moved closer to the pale yellow gardenias by Abraham Mignon, as if he wanted to smell them. Well, as if he wanted to smell their price tag.
‘How much is it worth?’
‘Thousands of pesetas.’
‘No!’ A few moments of meditation. ‘How many thousands?’
‘I don’t know: but a lot.’
Better to leave it vague. It was a good start and now I just had to finish it off. So I turned him towards the glass cabinet and suddenly he reacted and said blimey, what’s that?
‘A Bushi Kaiken dagger,’ said Adrià proudly.
Bernat opened the cabinet door, I nervously watched the door to the study; he grabbed the Bushi Kaiken dagger, like the one in the shop. He examined it very curiously and went over to the balcony to see it better, pulling it out of its sheath.
‘Careful,’ I said in a mysterious voice, since I didn’t think he was sufficiently impressed.
‘What does a booshikiken dagger mean?’
‘The dagger that Japanese women warriors use to kill themselves.’ In a soft voice, ‘The instrument of their suicide.’
‘And why do they have to kill themselves?’ — without surprise, without shock, the stupid boy.
‘Well …’ Using my imagination, I came up with this comment: ‘If things don’t go well for them; if they lose.’ And to top it off: ‘Edo Period, seventeenth century.’
‘Wow.’
He looked at it closely, perhaps imagining the suicide of a Japanese Booshi warrior. Adrià grabbed the dagger, covered it with its sheath and, with exaggerated care in each movement, placed it back in the cabinet of precious objects. He closed it without making any noise. He had already decided he was going to really leave his friend flabbergasted. I had been hesitating up until then, but I saw Bernat making an effort not to get too carried away in the excitement and I lost all prudence. I put my hands to my lips, demanding absolute silence. Then I put on the yellowish light in the corner and I turned the safe’s combination: six, one, five, four, two, eight. Father never locked it with the key. Just with the combination. I opened the secret chamber of the treasures of Tutankhamun. Some old bundles of papers, two small closed boxes, a lot of documents in envelopes, three wads of notes in one corner and, on the lower shelf, a violin case with a dubious stain on the top. I pulled it out very carefully. I opened the case and our Storioni appeared, resplendent. More resplendent than ever before. I brought it over to the light and I put the f-hole under his nose.
‘Read that,’ I ordered.
‘Laurentius Storioni Cremonensis me fecit.’ He looked up, astounded. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Finish reading it,’ I scolded, with the patience of a saint.
Bernat turned towards the violin’s sound hole and looked inside it again. The belly had to be at the right angle to read one, seven, six, four.
‘Seventeen sixty-four,’ Adrià had to say.
‘Ohh … Let me touch it a little bit. Let me hear how it sounds.’
‘Sure, and my father will send us to the galleys. You can only put one finger on it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the most valuable object in this house, OK?’
‘More than the yellow flowers by what’s his name?’
‘Much more. Much, much more.’
Bernat touched it with one finger, just to be on the safe side; but I wasn’t careful enough and he plucked the D; it sounded sweet, velvety.
‘It’s a bit low.’
‘Do you have perfect pitch?’
‘What?’
‘How do you know it’s a bit low?’
‘Because the D has to be a teensy bit higher, just a touch.’
‘Boy, you make me so jealous!’ Even though that afternoon was all me about leaving Bernat with his mouth hanging open, the exclamation came straight from my heart.
‘Why?’
‘Because you have perfect pitch.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Forget about it.’ And going back to the initial situation: ‘Seventeen sixty-four, did you hear me?’
‘Seventeen sixty-four …’ He said it with sincere admiration and I was very pleased. He stroked it again, sensually, like he had when he said I’ve finished, Maria, my love. And she whispered I’m proud of you. Lorenzo stroked its skin and the instrument seemed to shiver, and Maria felt a bit jealous. He admired the rhythm of its curves with his hands. He placed it on the workshop table and moved away from it until he could no longer smell the intense scent of the miraculous fir and maple and he proudly contemplated the whole. Master Zosimo had taught him that a good violin, besides sounding good, had to be pleasing to the eye and faithful to the proportions that make it valuable. He felt satisfied. With a shadow of doubt, because he still didn’t know the price he would have to pay for the wood. But yes, he was satisfied. It was the first violin that he had started and finished all by himself and he knew that it was a very good one.
Lorenzo Storioni smiled in relief. He also knew that the sound would take on the right colour with the varnishing process. He didn’t know if he should show it to Master Zosimo first or go and offer it directly to Monsieur La Guitte, who they say is a bit fed up with the people of Cremona and will soon return to Paris. A feeling of loyalty to his teacher sent him to Zosimo Bergonzi’s workshop with the still pale instrument under his arm, like a corpse in its provisional coffin. Three heads lifted up from their labours when they saw him come in. The maestro understood the smile of his young quasi disciple. He placed the cello he was polishing on a shelf and brought Lorenzo to the window that opened onto the street below, which had the best light for examining instruments. In silence, Lorenzo pulled the violin from its pinewood case and presented it to the master. The first thing that Zosimo Bergonzi did was caress its back and face. He understood that everything was going as he had foreseen when, a few months earlier, he had secretly presented his disciple Lorenzo with a gift of some exceptional wood so he could prove that he had truly learned his lessons.