by Jaume Cabré
That night, desperate, I went through the pockets of my coat, my jacket and my trousers, cursing because I couldn’t find the concert programme.
‘Sara Voltes-Epstein? No. Doesn’t ring a bell. Try the Betlem parish, they do those sorts of activities there.’
I went to about twenty parishes, trudging through increasingly dirty snow, until I found her, in the neighbourhood of Poble Sec, in a very modest parish church, in an even more modest, and almost empty, room with three walls covered in extraordinary charcoal drawings. Six or seven portraits and some landscapes. I was impressed by the sadness of the gaze in one entitled Uncle Haïm. And a dog that was amazing. And a house by the sea that was called Little Beach at Portlligat. I’ve looked at those drawings so many times, Sara. That girl was a real artist, Sara. My mouth hung open for half an hour until I heard your voice at my neck, as if scolding me, your voice saying I told you not to come.
I turned with an excuse on my lips, but all that came out was a shy I just happened to be passing by and. With a smile she forgave me. And in a soft, timid voice you said, ‘What do you think of them?’
18
‘Mother.’
‘What?’ Without looking up from the papers she was going over on the manuscript table.
‘Can you hear me?’
But she was avidly reading financial reports from Caturla, the man she had chosen to get the shop back on a sound footing. I knew that she wasn’t paying attention, but it was now or never.
‘I’m giving up the violin.’
‘Fine.’
And she continued reading the reports from Caturla, which must have been enthralling. When Adrià left the study, with a cold sweat on his soul, he heard his mother’s eyeglasses folding with a click-clack. She must have been watching him. Adrià turned. Yes, she was watching him, with her glasses in one hand and holding up a sheaf of reports in the other.
‘What did you say?’
‘That I’m giving up the violin. I’ll finish seventh year, but then I’m done.’
‘Don’t even think it.’
‘I’ve made up my mind.’
‘You aren’t old enough to make such a decision.’
‘Of course I am.’
Mother put down Caturla’s report and stood up. I’m sure she was wondering how Father would resolve this mutiny. To begin with, she used a low, private, threatening tone.
‘You will take your seventh year examinations, then your eighth year examinations and then you will do two years of virtuosity and, when the time comes, you will go to the Julliard School or wherever Master Manlleu decides.’
‘Mother: I don’t want to devote my life to interpreting music.’
‘Why not?’
‘It doesn’t make me happy.’
‘We weren’t born to be happy.’
‘I was.’
‘Master Manlleu says you have what it takes.’
‘Master Manlleu despises me.’
‘Master Manlleu tries to goad you because sometimes you’re listless.’
‘That is my decision. You are going to have to put up with it,’ I dared to say.
That was a declaration of war. But there was no other way I could do it. I left Father’s study without looking back.
‘How.’
‘Yes?’
‘You can start painting my face with war paint. Black and white from the mouth to the ears and two yellow stripes from top to bottom.’
‘Stop joking, I’m trembling.’
Adrià locked himself in his room, unwilling to give an inch. If that meant war, so be it.
Little Lola’s voice was the only one heard in the house for many days. She was the only one who tried to give an appearance of normality. Mother, always at the shop, I at university, and dinners in silence, both of us looking at our plates, and Little Lola watching one of us and then the other. It was very difficult and so intense that, for a few days, the joy of having found you again was subdued by the violin crisis.
The storm was unleashed the day I had class with Master Manlleu. That morning, before vanishing into the shop, Mother spoke to me for the first time that entire week. Without looking at me, as if Father had just died: ‘Bring the Storioni to class.’
I arrived at Master Manlleu’s house with Vial and, as we went down the hallway to his studio, I heard his voice, now sweet, telling me we could look at some other repertoire that you like better. All right, lad?
‘When I’ve finished seventh, I’m giving up the violin. Does everybody understand that? I have other priorities in my life.’
‘You will regret this wrong decision for every day of your entire life’ (Mother).
‘Coward’ (Manlleu).
‘Don’t leave me alone, mate’ (Bernat).
‘Negroid’ (Manlleu).
‘But you play better than I do!’ (Bernat).
‘Poof’ (Manlleu).
‘What about all the hours you’ve invested, what about that? Just flush them down the drain?’ (Mother).
‘Capricious gypsy’ (Manlleu).
‘And what is it you want to do?’ (Mother).
‘Study’ (me).
‘You can combine that with the violin, can’t you?’ (Bernat).
‘Study what?’ (Mother).
‘Bastard’ (Manlleu).
‘Poof’ (me).
‘Watch it, or I’ll walk out on you right now’ (Manlleu).
‘Do you even know what you want to study?’ (Mother).
‘How’ (Black Eagle, the valiant Arapaho chief).
‘Hey, I asked you what it is you want to study. Medicine?’ (Mother)
‘Ingrate’ (Manlleu).
‘Come on, Adrià, shit!’ (Bernat).
‘History’ (me).
‘Ha!’ (Mother).
‘What?’ (me).
‘You’ll starve to death. And get bored’ (Mother).
‘History!?’ (Manlleu).
‘Yes’ (Mother).
‘But history …’ (Manlleu).
‘Ha, ha … Tell me about it’ (Mother).
‘Traitor!!’ (Manlleu).
‘And I also want to study philosophy’ (me).
‘Philosophy?’ (Mother).
‘Philosophy?’ (Manlleu).
‘Philosophy?’ (Bernat).
‘Even worse’ (Mother).
‘Why even worse?’ (me)
‘If you have to choose between two evils, become a lawyer’ (Mother).
‘No. I hate the normalisation of life with rules’ (me).
‘Smart arse’ (Bernat).
‘What you want is to contradict just for the sake of contradicting. That’s your style, isn’t it?’ (Manlleu).
‘I want to understand humanity by studying its cultural evolution’ (me).
‘A smart arse, that’s what you are. Should we go to the cinema?’ (Bernat).
‘Sure, let’s go. Where?’ (me).
‘To the Publi’ (Bernat).
‘I don’t understand you, Son’ (Mother).
‘Irresponsible’ (Manlleu).
‘History, philosophy … Don’t you see they’re useless?’ (Manlleu).
‘What do you know!’ (me).
‘Arrogant!’ (Manlleu).
‘And music? What use is it?’ (me).
‘You’ll make a lot of money; look at it that way’ (Manlleu).
‘History, philosophy … Don’t you see they’re useless?’ (Bernat).
‘Tu quoque?’ (me).
‘What?’ (Bernat).
‘Nothing’ (me).
‘Did you like the film?’ (Bernat).
‘Well, yeah’ (me).
‘Well, yeah or yes?’ (Bernat).
‘Yes’ (me).
‘It’s useless!’ (Mother).
‘I like it’ (me).
‘And the shop? Would you like to work there?’ (Mother).
‘We’ll discuss that later’ (me).
‘How’ (Black Eagle, the valiant Arapaho chief).
‘Not now, damn, d
on’t be a drag’ (me).
‘And I want to study languages’ (me).
‘English is all you need’ (Manlleu).
‘What languages?’ (Mother).
‘I want to perfect my Latin and Greek. And start Hebrew, Aramaic and Sanskrit’ (me).
‘Whoa! What a disappointment …’ (Mother).
‘Latin, Greek and what else?’ (Manlleu).
‘Hebrew, Aramaic and Sanskrit’ (me).
‘You’ve got a screw loose, lad’ (Manlleu).
‘That depends’ (me).
‘The girls on aeroplanes speak English’ (Manlleu).
‘What?’ (me).
‘I can assure you that you have no need for Aramaic when flying to New York for a concert’ (Manlleu).
‘We speak different languages, Master Manlleu’ (me).
‘Abominable!’ (Manlleu).
‘Maybe you could stop insulting me’ (me).
‘Now I understand! I’m too difficult a role model for you’ (Manlleu).
‘No, no way!’ (me).
‘What does “no, no way” mean? Eh? What do you mean by “no, no way”?’ (Manlleu).
‘What is said cannot be unsaid’ (me).
‘Cold, arrogant, abominable, stupid, stuck-up, repulsive, detestable, haughty!’ (Manlleu).
‘Very well, as you wish’ (me).
‘What is said cannot be unsaid’ (Manlleu).
‘Bernat?’ (me).
‘What?’ (Bernat).
‘Want to go for a walk along the breakwater?’ (me).
‘Let’s go’ (Bernat).
‘If your father could see you now!’ (Mother).
I’m sorry, but the day that Mother said that, in the middle of the war, I couldn’t help a booming, exaggerated laugh at the thought of a decapitated corpse seeing anything. I know that Little Lola, who was listening to everything from the kitchen, also stifled a smile. Mother, pale, realised too late what she’d said. We were all exhausted and we just left it at that. It was the seventh day of conflict.
‘How’ (Black Eagle, the valiant Arapaho chief).
‘I’m tired’ (me).
‘All right. But you should know that you’ve begun a war of attrition, of trenches, like World War One; I just want you to keep in mind that you are fighting on three fronts’ (Black Eagle, the valiant Arapaho chief).
‘You’re right. But I know that I don’t aspire to be an elite musician’ (me).
‘And, above all, don’t confuse tactics with strategy’ (Black Eagle, the valiant Arapaho chief).
Sheriff Carson spat chaw on the ground and said keep it up, what the hell. If what you want is to spend your life reading, go ahead, you and your books. And tell the others where they can stuff it.
‘Thank you, Carson’ (me).
‘Don’t mention it’ (Sheriff Carson).
It was the seventh day and we all went to sleep, worn out from so much tension and hoping an armistice would come. That night was the first of many in which I dreamt about Sara.
From a strategic point of view it was very good that the armies of the Triple Alliance fought amongst themselves: Turkey stood up to Germany in Master Manlleu’s house. And that was good for the Entente, who had time to lick its wounds and begin to think about Sara constructively. The chronicles of the battle say that the old allies were bloodthirsty and cruel and that the screams could be heard echoing through the courtyard of Master Manlleu’s house. She said everything that had been kept quiet for years and accused him of not being able to hold on to a boy who was very flighty but had an extraordinary intellectual ability.
‘Don’t exaggerate.’
‘My son is extremely gifted. Didn’t you know? Haven’t we discussed it enough?’
‘There has only ever been one extremely gifted person in this house, Mrs Ardèvol.’
‘My son needs a guiding hand. Your ego, Mr Manlleu …’
‘Master Manlleu.’
‘You see? Your ego keeps you from seeing reality. We have to rethink the financial agreement.’
‘That’s unfair. This is all your extremely gifted son’s fault.’
‘Don’t try to be funny, it’s lame.’
Then they moved straight into the insults (negroid, gypsy, coward, poof, cold, arrogant, abominable, stupid, stuck-up, repulsive, detestable and haughty on one hand. On the other, only pathetic.)
‘What did you just say to me?’
‘Pathetic.’ And bringing her face very close to his: ‘Pa-thet-ic!’
‘The last straw. Insulting me! I’ll take you to court.’
‘It would be a pleasure to be able to set a few lawyers on you. Now I won’t even pay you for next month. As far as I’m concerned … As for me … I’ll speak with Yehudi Menuhin.’
And, it seems, they came to blows, he saying that Menuhin was greyness personified and that he’d charge her ten times more, while she headed towards the door, followed by an indignant Manlleu, who kept repeating do you know how Menuhin teaches? Do you know?
When she heard the whack of the door to Manlleu’s house, after she herself had slammed it in rage, Carme Bosch knew that her dream of making Adrià into the finest violinist in the world was finished. What a shame, Little Lola. And I told Bernat that he would get used to it and I promised we could play together whenever he felt like it; at my house or his, whichever he preferred. Then I began to breathe and to be able to think about you without impediments.
19
Et in Arcadia ego. Although Poussin made the painting thinking that it was death speaking, death which is present everywhere, even in the corners of happiness, I have always preferred to believe that it is my own ego speaking: I have been in Arcadia, Adrià has his Arcadia. Adrià, so sad, bald, miserable, pot-bellied and cowardly, has lived in an Arcadia, because I have had several and the first, the personified one, is your presence, and I’ve lost it forever. I was expelled from it by an angel with a fiery sword, and Adrià headed out covering his naughty bits and thinking from now on I’ll have to work to earn a living, alone, without you, my Sara. Another of my Arcadias – the one that is a place – is Tona, the ugliest and prettiest town in the world, where I spent fifteen summers frolicking on the edges of the fields of Can Casic, my body covered in the itchy spikes that came off the harvested piles where I hid from Xevi, Quico and Rosa, my inseparable companions during the eight weeks my summer out of Barcelona lasted, far from the tolling bells of the Concepció, the black and yellow taxis and anything that reminded me of school. Far from my parents; later, far from my mother, and far from the books that Adrià couldn’t bring with him. And we scampered up to the castle, to look out at Can Ges, the large house, the gardens and, in the distance, the farms; the landscape looked like a nativity scene. And closer, the fields covered in harvested piles and Can Casic, the small house, the old gnawed haystack, also like in a nativity scene. And further on, the cork mountains, the Collsacabra to the northeast and the Montseny to the east. And we shouted and were the kings of the world, especially Xevi, who was six years older than me and beat me at everything, until he started helping his father with the cows and stopped playing with us. Quico also won all the time, but one day I beat him in a race to the white wall. All right: it was because he tripped; but I won fair and square. And Rosa was very pretty and, yes, she too beat me at everything. At Aunt Leo’s house life was different. It was life without grumbling, without silences. People spoke and made eye contact. It was an immense house where Aunt Leo reigned without ever removing her neat, beige apron. Can Ges, the Ardèvol family home, is a vast house with more than thirteen rooms, open to every current in the summer and all the urban comforts in the winter, conveniently distanced from the cow barn and the horse stables, and whose southern face is adorned with a porch that was the best place in the world to read and also the best spot for practising the violin. My three cousins would casually come over to hear me, and I would practise repertoire instead of doing exercises, which is always more enjoyable, and one day a blackbird alighted on
the porch’s parapet, beside a potted geranium, and watched me as I played Leclair’s Sonata No. 2 from his Second livre de sonates, which is very ornate and the blackbird seemed to really like and that Trullols had made me play one year in the opening concert at the conservatory on Bruc. And Tonton Leclair, when he wrote the last note, blew on the manuscript because he had run out of drying powder. Then he got up, satisfied, picked up his violin and played it without glancing at the score, thinking of impossible continuations. And he clicked his tongue, proud of himself. And he sat back down. On the lower half of the last page, which was blank, in his most ceremonious hand, he wrote: ‘I dedicate this sonata to my beloved nephew Guillaume-Francois, son of my beloved sister Annette, on the day of his birth. May his passage through this vale of tears be auspicious.’ He read it over and had to blow again, cursing all the servants in the house, who were incapable of keeping his writing implements in proper order. Everyone knew what had to be done, at Can Ges. Everyone, including me now, was welcome there as long as they fulfilled their duties. And in the summer, I didn’t have anything to do except eat bountifully, because these city lads are skinny as beanstalks, look at his colour when he gets here, poor thing. My cousins were older; Rosa, the youngest, was three years ahead of me. So I was sort of the spoiled baby they had to fatten up with real cow’s milk and proper sausage. And bread smeared with oil. And bread drizzled with wine and sprinkled with sugar. And streaked bacon. What worried Uncle Cinto was that Adrià had the somewhat unhealthy habit of shutting himself up in his room for hours reading books without illustrations, only letters: and that, at seven, ten or twelve years old, was frankly distressing. But Aunt Leo would gently place her hand on his uncle’s arm and he would change the subject, saying to Xevi that he’d have to come with him that afternoon because Prudenci was going to pay the cows a visit.