Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Why did you underline Cremonensis?’

‘Because of my pride in being from here.’

‘That is a signature. You should do the same thing in every violin you make.’

‘I will always be proud of having been born in Cremona, Master Zosimo.’

The master was satisfied and he returned the corpse to its maker, who placed it in the coffin.

‘Don’t ever say where you got your wood. And buy some from wherever you can for the coming years. At whatever price, if you want to have a future.’

‘Yes, Master.’

‘And don’t screw up with the varnish.’

‘I know how I have to do it, Master.’

‘I know you know. But don’t screw it up.’

‘What do I owe you for the wood, Master?’

‘Just one favour.’

‘I’m at your service …’

‘Keep away from my daughter. She is too young.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me. Don’t make me repeat myself.’ He extended his hand towards the case. ‘Or give me back the violin and the wood that’s left over.’

‘Well, I …’

He grew as pale as his first violin. He didn’t dare look the maestro in the eye and he left Zosimo Bergonzi’s workshop in silence.

Lorenzo Storioni spent several weeks absorbed in the varnishing process as he began a new violin and considered the price Zosimo had demanded of him. When the sound was as it should be, Monsieur La Guitte, who was still wandering about Cremona, got the chance to have a look at that slightly darkened varnish that would become a distinctive mark of a Storioni. He passed it to a silent, scrawny boy who grabbed the bow and began to play. Lorenzo Storioni cried, over the sound and over Maria. The scrawny boy got an even better sound out of it than he’d been able to. Maria, I love you. He added a florin to the original price for each tear shed.

‘A thousand florins, Monsieur La Guitte.’

La Guitte looked him in the eyes for ten very uncomfortable seconds. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the scrawny, taciturn boy, who lowered his lids in a sign of assent; and Storioni thought that surely he could have got more out of him and that he would still have to learn about that aspect of the trade.

‘We can’t see each other any more, my beloved Maria.’

‘It’s a fortune,’ said La Guitte, reflecting his refusal in his facial expression.

‘Your Lordship knows it is worth that.’ And in an act of supreme bravery, Lorenzo grabbed the violin. ‘If you don’t want it, I have other buyers lined up for next week.’

‘Why, Lorenzo, my love?’

‘My client will want Stradivari or Guarneri … You are still unknown. Storioni! Connais pas.’

‘In ten years’ time, everyone will want a Storioni in their home.’ He placed the violin in its protective case.

‘Your father has forbidden me from seeing you. That’s why he gave me the wood.’

‘Eight hundred,’ he heard the Frenchman say.

‘No! I love you. We love each other!’

‘Nine hundred and fifty.’

‘Yes, we love each other; but if your father doesn’t want us to … I can’t …’

‘Nine hundred, because I’m in a rush.’

‘Let’s run away together, Lorenzo!’

‘Sold. Nine hundred.’

‘Run away? How can we run away from Cremona when I’m setting up my workshop here?’

It was true that he was in a rush. Monsieur La Guitte was anxious to leave with the new instruments he had bought and the only thing that kept him in Cremona were the attentions of dark, passionate Carina. He thought that one would be a good violin for Monsieur Leclair.

‘Set it up in another city!’

‘Far from Cremona? Never!’

‘Lorenzo, you are a traitor! Lorenzo, you are a coward! You don’t love me any more.’

‘If next year I come back with a couple of commissions, we’ll renegotiate the price in my favour,’ warned La Guitte.

‘I do love you, Maria. With all my heart. But if you can’t understand …’

‘Agreed, Monsieur La Guitte.’

‘There’s another woman, isn’t there? Traitor!’

‘No! You know how your father is. He’s got my hands and feet tied.’

‘Coward!’

La Guitte paid without any further discussion. He was convinced that Leclair, in Paris, would pay five times more for it without batting an eyelash and he was pleased with the job he’d done. It was a shame that it would be the last week he’d get to sleep with sweet Carina.

Storioni was also pleased with his own work. And he also felt sad because he hadn’t realised up until that point that selling an instrument meant never seeing it again. And making the instrument had also meant losing a love. Ciao, Maria. Coward. Ciao, beloved. There’s nothing you can say. Ciao: I’ll never forget you. You traded me for fine wood, Lorenzo: I hope you drop dead! Ciao, Maria, you don’t know how sorry I am. I hope your wood rots, or burns up in a fire. But it went worse for Monsieur Jean-Marie Leclair of Paris or Leclair l’Aîné or Tonton Jean depending on who was addressing him, because, besides the inflated price they asked of him, he barely got the chance to hear that sweet, velvety D that Bernat had imprudently plucked.

That was one of the many times in life that I let myself get carried away by crazy impulse because I understood that I had to take advantage of Bernat’s musical superiority for my own gain, but I also knew it would require something really spectacular. As I let my new friend stroke the top of the Storioni with his fingertips, I said if you teach me how to do vibrato, you can take it home with you one day.

‘Whoa!’

Bernat smiled, but after a few seconds he grew serious, even disconsolate: ‘That’s impossible: vibrato isn’t something you can teach; you have to find it.’

‘You can teach it.’

‘You have to find it.’

‘I won’t lend you the Storioni.’

‘I’ll teach you to do vibrato.’

‘It has to be now.’

‘OK. But then I’ll take it with me.’

‘Not today. I have to prepare it. Some day.’

Silence, mental calculation, avoiding my eyes, thinking of the magical sound and not trusting me.

‘Some day is like saying never. When?’

‘Next week. I swear.’

In my room, Ŝevcîk’s scales and arpeggios were on the music stand, open to the page detailing the accursed exercise XXXIX, which was, according to Trullols, pure genius and the essence of what I had to learn in life, before or after tackling the double stop. They spent half an hour, in which Bernat drew out the sounds in a measured, sweet vibrato, and Adrià watched him, seeing how Bernat closed his eyes as he concentrated on the sound, thinking that to vibrate the sound I have to close my eyes, trying it, closing his eyes … but the sound came out stunted, snide, in a duck’s voice. And he closed his eyes and squeezed them tight; but the sound escaped him.

‘You know what? You’re too anxious.’

‘You’re the one who’s anxious.’

‘Me? What are you talking about?’

‘Yeah, because if you don’t teach me right, forget about the Storioni. Not next week and not ever.’

It’s called moral blackmail. But Bernat didn’t know what more to do besides stop saying that vibrato couldn’t be taught and had to be found. He had him check his hand position, and his sequence of hand movements.

‘No, no, you’re not making mayonnaise with the strings. Relax!’

Adrià didn’t entirely know what relax meant; but he relaxed; he closed his eyes and he found the vibrato at the end of a long C on the second string. I will remember it my entire life because it seemed to me like I was starting to learn how to make the sound laugh and cry. If it weren’t for the fact that Bernat was there and it wasn’t allowed in my house, I would have roared with happiness.