Confessions

by Jaume Cabré

  ‘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.

  ‘This is really a gift?’ Lorenzo Storioni had said, shocked.

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘But this is part of the wood that …’

  ‘Yes. That Jachiam of Pardàc brought. It is at its best moment now.’

  ‘I want to know the price, Master Zosimo.’

  ‘I told you not to worry about it. When you have made the first instrument I will tell you the price.’

  That wood had never been free. The Year of Our Lord 1705, many years ago, long before young Storioni had been born, when the earth was increasingly round, Jachiam the unrepentant, of the Muredas of Pardàc, had arrived in Cremona with a cart loaded down with wood that was apparently worthless, saving them quite a few scares along the endless journey. Jachiam was a man over thirty, strong and with a gaze darkened by the determination with which he took on life. He left Blond with the load at a safe distance from Cremona and he headed quickly towards the city. When he reached a small wood of holm oaks, he entered it. He soon found a spot where he could empty his bowels comfortably. As he squatted he looked out in front of him distractedly, and saw some discarded cloth tatters. Those anonymous scraps of clothing reminded him of the accursed doublet of Bulchanij of Moena, and all the misfortune that fell upon the Muredas of Pardàc and which might now end with the stroke of luck he was working in his favour. He cried as he defecated, unable to contain his nervousness. When he was fully composed, after he’d relieved his body and carefully replaced his greasy clothes, he entered the city and went straight to Stradivari’s workshop as he had done a few times as a lad. He asked to speak directly to Master Antonio. He told him that he knew he was about to have problems finding wood because of the fire in the Paneveggio fifteen years ago.

  ‘I get it from other places.’

  ‘I know. From the Slovenian forests. When you make an instrument you will find its sound is muffled.’

  ‘That’s all there is.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I have an alternative.’

  Stradivari must really have been in a bind, because he followed the stranger to the outskirts of Cremona, where he had hidden the cart. His most taciturn son, Omobono, and a workshop apprentice named Bergonzi came with him. All three of them examined the wood, cutting off pieces, chewing them, looking at each other furtively, and Jachiam, Mureda’s son, watched them with satisfaction, sure of his work, as they examined the pieces again and again. It was already getting dark when Master Antonio challenged Jachiam: ‘Where did you get this wood?’

  ‘From very far away. From the West, a very cold place.’

  ‘How do I know you didn’t steal it?’

  ‘You have to trust me. My whole life is wood, I know how to make it sing, I know how to smell it, I know how to choose it.’

  ‘It is of very high quality and very well p
acked. Where did you learn the trade?’

  ‘I am the son of Mureda of Pardàc. Have someone sent to ask my father.’

  ‘Pardàc?’

  ‘Down here you call it Predazzo.’

  ‘Mureda of Predazzo is dead.’

  Two unexpected tears of pain sprang from Jachiam’s eyes. My father is dead and won’t see me return home with ten bags of gold so he and and all my brothers and sisters won’t ever have to work again. Agno, Jenn, Max, Hermes the slow one, Josef, Theodor who can’t walk, Micurà, Ilse, Erica, Katharina, Matilde, Gretchen and little Bettina, my little blind sweetheart who gave me the medallion of Santa Maria dai Ciüf that our mother had given her when she died.

  ‘Dead? My father?’

  ‘From grief at the burning of his woods. From grief over the death of his son.’

  ‘Which son?’

  ‘Jachiam, the best of the Muredas.’

  ‘I am Jachiam.’

  ‘Jachiam was drowned in the eddies of Forte Buso because of the fire.’ With an ironic look, ‘If you are Mureda’s son, you must remember that.’

  ‘I am Jachiam, son of Mureda of Pardàc,’ insisted Jachiam, son of Mureda of Pardàc, as Blond of Cazilhac listened with interest despite the fact that he sometimes missed a word because they spoke so quickly.

  ‘I know that you are trying to trick me.’

  ‘No. Look, Master.’

  He pulled out the medallion around his neck and showed it to Master Stradivari.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Santa Maria dai Ciüf of Pardàc. The patron saint of the woodcutters. The patron saint of the Muredas. It belonged to my mother.’

  Stradivari grabbed the medallion and studied it carefully. A stately Virgin Mary and a tree.

  ‘A fir tree, Master.’

  ‘A fir tree in the background.’ He gave it back to him. ‘That’s your proof?’

  ‘The proof is the wood I am offering you, Master Antonio. If you don’t want it, I will offer it to Guarneri or someone else. I’m tired. I want to go home and see if my brothers and sisters are still alive. I want to see if Agno, Jenn, Max, Hermes the dull-witted, Josef, Theodor the lame, Micurà, Ilse, Erica, Katharina, Matilde, Gretchen and little Bettina who gave me the medallion are still alive.’

  Antonio Stradivari, sensing the possibility that Guarneri would profit from this wood, was generous and paid very well for that load that would save him work when he was able to use it, after a few years of peaceful ageing in the warehouse. He had his future well protected. And that was why the violins he made twenty years later were his finest. He couldn’t know that yet. But Omobono and Francesco, after the master’s death, knew it full well. They still had quite a few planks of that mysterious wood that had come from the west and they used it sparingly. And when they both died, Carlo Bergonzi inherited the workshop, along with the secret stash of special wood. And Bergonzi passed on the secret to his two sons. Now, the younger of the Bergonzi boys, who had become Master Zosimo, was examining the first instrument that young Lorenzo had made in the light that came from the window overlooking the Cucciatta. He examined its interior: ‘Laurentis Storioni Cremonensis me fecit, seventeen sixty-four.’

  ‘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 l
osing 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.