Jaume Cabré: Confessions

‘Because of the violin …’ He hesitated for a few seconds. ‘I just wanted to see a photo of his face.’ He smiled. ‘Please … Liliana.’

Miss Moor thought it over for a few moments and in honour of the Antigone quartet she turned the computer screen so that Bernat could see it. Instead of a thin man with weepy eyes, bushy white hair and protruding ears — that electric presence he had seen for thirty silent seconds in Adrià’s study when he went to drop off the computer — on the flat screen before him he had a sad man, but who was bald and fat, with round eyes the colour of jet like one of his daughters, he couldn’t remember which. Fucking sneaky bastards.

The receptionist turned the screen back to its original position and Bernat began to sweat anxiously. Just in case, he repeated I wanted him to sell me his violin, you know?

‘Mr Alpaerts never had any violin.’

‘How many years was he here?’

‘Five or six.’ She looked at the screen and corrected herself: ‘Seven.’

‘Are you sure that the man in the photo was Matthias Alpaerts?’

‘Completely. I’ve been working here for twenty years.’ Satisfied: ‘I remember all the faces. The names, that’s another story.’

‘Did he have any relative who …’

‘Mr Alpaerts was alone.’

‘No, but did he have any distant relative who …’

‘Alone. They had killed his family in the war. They were Jews. Only he survived.’

‘Not a single relative?’

‘He was always telling his dramatic story, poor man. I think in the end he went mad. Always telling it, over and over, compelled by …’

‘By guilt.’

‘Yes. Always. To everyone. His story had become his reason for living. Living only to explain how he had two daughters …’

‘Three.’

‘Three? Well, three daughters named so-and-so, so-and-so and so-and-so and who …’

‘Amelietje with the jet-black hair, Truu with the tresses the colour of fine wood and Juliet, the littlest, blonde like the sun.’

‘Did you know him?’ Her eyes wide with surprise.

‘In a way. Are there many people who know that story?’

‘In this home, yes. The ones who are still alive, of course. We’re talking about a few years ago now.’

‘Of course.’

‘Bob did a very good imitation of him.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘He was Alpaerts’s roommate.’

‘Is he alive?’

‘Very alive. He keeps us on our toes.’ She lowered her voice, totally taken by that second violin of the Antigone Quartet, tall as a Maypole. ‘He organises secret domino matches between the residents.’

‘Could I …’

‘Yes. I’m going against all the rules …’

‘In the name of music.’

‘Exactly! In the name of music.’

In the waiting room there were five magazines in Dutch and one in French. And a cheap reproduction of a Vermeer; a woman beside a window who looked, shocked, towards Bernat, as if he were about to enter the room inside the painting.

The man arrived five minutes later. Thin, with weepy eyes and bushy white hair. From his expression, he hadn’t recognised Bernat.

‘English or French?’ smiled Bernat.

‘English.’

‘Good morning.’

Bernat had before him the man from that afternoon, the man who had convinced Adrià … I told you, Adrià, he thought. They saw you a mile away. Instead of going right over and throttling him, he smiled and said have you ever heard of a Storioni violin named Vial?

The man, who hadn’t sat down, headed towards the door. Bernat kept him from leaving the little room, standing between him and the door, covering the exit with his whole body.

‘You stole the violin from him.’

‘Do you mind telling me who you are?’

‘Police.’

He pulled out his ID card as a member of the Barcelona Symphony Orchestra and National Orchestra of Catalonia and added: ‘Interpol.’

‘My God,’ said the man. And he sat down, defeated. And he explained that he didn’t do it for the money.

‘How much did they give you for it?’

‘Fifty thousand francs.’

‘Hell’s bells.’

‘I didn’t do it for the money. And they were Belgian francs.’

‘Then why did you do it?’

‘Matthias Alpaerts drove me batty, every day during the five years we shared a room he would tell me about his bloody little daughters and his mother-in-law with a chest cold. Every day he would tell me, looking out the window, not even seeing me. Every single day. And he got sick. And then those men showed up.’

‘Who were they?’

‘I don’t know. From Barcelona. One was thin and the other was young. And they told me we’ve heard you do a very good impression of him.

‘I’m an actor. Retired, but an actor. And I play the accordion and the sax. And the piano a little.’

‘Let’s see how your impression is.’

They took him to a restaurant, they let him eat and try a white wine and a red. And he looked at them, puzzled, and asked them why don’t you just talk to Alpaerts?

‘He’s on his last legs. He won’t live long.’

‘What a relief it’ll be to not hear him talk about his coughing mother-in-law.’

‘Don’t you feel sorry for the poor man?’

‘Matthias has been saying he wants to die for sixty years. How can I feel sorry for him when he finally gets his wish?’

‘Come on, Bob: show us what you can do.’

And Bob Mortelmans started to say because imagine you are having lunch at home, with your Berta, your sick mother-in-law and the three lights of your life, Amelietje, the eldest, who was turning seven that day; Truu, the middle daughter, with hair the colour of mahogany, and Juliet, the littlest one, blonde like the sun. And out of nowhere, they bust down the front door and all these soldiers burst in shouting raus, raus and Amelietje, who said what does raus mean, Papa? and I couldn’t stop them and I didn’t do a single thing to protect them.

‘Perfect. That’s enough.’

‘Hey, hey, hey! I can do more than …’

‘I said that’s perfect. Do you want to make some serious dough?

‘And since I said yes, they put me on a plane and in Barcelona we rehearsed a couple of times, with variations; but it was always the true story of Matthias the pain in the arse.’

‘And your friend, meanwhile, was lying in bed, dying.’

‘He wasn’t my friend. He was a broken record. When I got back to Antwerp he was already dead.’ And, rehearsing insouciance with the tall policeman: ‘As if he’d missed me, you know?’

Bernat was quiet. And Bob Mortelmans made a run for the door. Bernat, without getting up from his chair or moving a muscle, said try to run away and I’ll break your spine. Understood?

‘Yup. Perfectly.’

‘You’re scum. You stole the violin from him.’

‘But he didn’t even know that anyone had it …’

‘You’re scum. Selling out for a hundred thousand francs.’

‘I didn’t do it for the money. And they were fifty thousand. And Belgian.’

‘And you also robbed poor Adrià Ardèvol.’

‘Who’s that?’