Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘I’m not a violinist. She was. I was only a hobbyist.’

‘And Berta?’

‘She was a great woman.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘She was first violinist of the Antwerp Philharmonic.’

He began playing a Jewish melody that I had heard once but couldn’t place where. But since he played so terribly, he ended up singing it. I got goose bumps.

‘And now I’ve got fucking goose bumps, because you gave away that violin, for fuck’s sake!’

‘Justice was done.’

‘He was an imposter, you blockhead! Can’t you see? Bloody hell, my God. Our Vial is gone forever. After so many years of … What would your father say? Huh?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never wanted to use it.’

‘But I was dying to, for fuck’s sake! Don’t you know how to interpret a no?’ Don’t you know that when you told me use it, take it on tour, Bernat smiled timidly and left the instrument in the cabinet as he shook his head and said I can’t, I can’t, it’s too big a responsibility? Huh?

‘That means no.’

‘It doesn’t mean no, bloody hell. It means I’m dying to!’ Bernat, with his eyes wanting to pounce on me: ‘Is that so hard to understand?’

Adrià was silent for a few moments, as if he was having trouble digesting so much life philosophy.

‘Look, laddie: you’re a bastard,’ continued Bernat. ‘And you let yourself be swindled by some bloke who came to you with a sob story.’

He pointed to the computer: ‘And I came here to help you.’

‘Maybe we should do it some other day. Today we’re … a little …’

‘Fuck, you’re an idiot, giving the violin to the first cry-baby who knocks on your door! I can’t fucking believe it.’

When he had finished singing the melody, the old man put the violin and bow into the cabinet and sat back down as he timidly said at my age you can only play the violin for yourself. Nothing works any more, your fingers fail you, and your arm isn’t strong enough to hold up the instrument correctly.

‘I understand.’

‘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 …’