by Jaume Cabré
‘I’ve become a collector.’ He specified: ‘I am a collector.’
‘A collector of what?’
‘A collector.’ He opened his arms, like Saint Dominic preaching from the throne. ‘I’m looking for beautiful things.’
And heavens did Father Morlin have information. If there was one person in the world able to know everything while barely ever leaving Santa Sabina, it was Father Fèlix Morlin, a friend to his friends and, according to what they say, a danger to his enemies. Ardevole was a friend and, therefore, they soon came to an agreement. First, Fèlix Ardèvol had to put up with a sermon about the frenzied times that were their lot and no one wants, and to make a good impression he added a you can say that again, you can say that again, and if you were watching from a distance, you’d think they were reciting the litanies of the rosary. And the frenzied times that Europe was experiencing were starting to force a lot of people to look towards America and, thanks to Father Morlin, Fèlix Ardèvol spent a few months travelling through Europe before the fire, trying to save the furniture from any likely earthquake. His first contact was Tiefer Graben, in Vienna’s Innere Stadt district. It was a very nice house, not very wide but surely quite deep. He rang the bell and smiled sympathetically at the woman who had opened the door to him somewhat reluctantly. With that first contact he was able to buy all of the house’s furnishings, which, after setting aside the five most valuable objects, he resold for twice the price without leaving Vienna, almost without crossing the Ring. Such a spectacular success that it could have given him a swelled head, but Fèlix Ardèvol was an astute man, as well as intelligent. And so he proceeded with caution. In Nuremberg he bought a collection of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century painting: two Fragonards, an evanescent Watteau and three Rigauds. And the Mignon with the yellow gardenias, I imagine, which he saved for himself. Pontegradella, near Ferrara, was where he first held a valuable musical instrument in his hands. It was a viola made by Nicola Galliano of Naples. As he considered buying it, he even lamented not having learned to play that type of instrument. He knew enough to stay silent until the seller, a viola player named Davide Fiordaliso who, according to what his sources had informed him, had been forced out of the Vienna Philharmonic because of the new race laws and was reduced to earning a living playing in a café in Ferrara, anxiously told him due milioni in a very soft voice. He looked at Signor Arrau, who’d spent an hour examining the viola with a magnifying glass, and Arrau gave him the sign with his eyes that meant yes. Fèlix Ardèvol knew that what he had to do then was give the object back to its owner with an offended expression on his face and offer some absurdly low figure. He did it, but he was so reluctant to endanger his chances of possessing that viola, that afterwards he had to sit down and rethink his strategy. One thing was buying and selling with a cool head and the other was setting up the shop, if he ever did. He bought the viola for duecentomila lire. And he refused to have a coffee with the seller whose hands trembled violently, because in war they teach you not to look your victim in the eye. A Galliano. Signor Arrau told him that, although instruments weren’t his strong suit, he’d venture that he could get three times that if he discreetly spread the word and wasn’t in a rush to sell. And if he wished, he would introduce him to another Catalan, Signor Berenguer, a promising young man who had learned to appraise things with extraordinary precision and who, when the war ended in Spain, which had to happen someday, planned to return home.
On the advice of Father Morlin, who seemed to know it all, he rented a storage space in a village near Zurich and stockpiled the sofas, canapes, console tables, Fragonards, Chippendale chairs and Watteaus there. And the Galliano viola. He still couldn’t even imagine that one day a string instrument, similar on the face of it, would be his end. But he had already made a clear distinction between the shop and his private collection comprised of the most select objects in his catalogue.
Every once in a while he returned to Rome, to the Bramante hostel, and met with Morlin. They talked about possible clients, they talked about the future, and Morlin let on that the war in Spain would never end because Europe was now undergoing a convulsive period and that meant things would be very uncomfortable. The world map had to be reworked and the fastest way to do that was with bombs and trenches, he said with a touch of nonchalant resignation.
‘And how do you know all this?’
I was unable to ask any other question. Daniela and I had gone up the Barri path to the castle, as if we were walking with someone elderly who didn’t want to tackle the other, much steeper, one.
‘What a marvellous view,’ she said.
In front of the castle’s chapel, they looked out at the Plana, and Adrià thought about his Arcadia, but only fleetingly. ‘How do you know so much about my father?’
‘Because he’s my father. What’s the name of that mountain in the distance?’
‘The Montseny.’
‘Doesn’t it all look like a nativity scene?’
What do you know about my crèches, the ones we never set up at home, I thought. But Daniela was right, Tona looked more like a nativity scene than ever and Adrià couldn’t help but point downhill, ‘Can Ges.’
‘Yes. And Can Casic.’
They walked to the Torre dels Moros. Inside it was filled with piss and shit. Outside, there was the wind and the landscape. Adrià sat beside the precipice to get a good view of his landscape. Until then he hadn’t formulated the right question: ‘Why are you telling me all this?’
She sat beside him and without looking at him said that they were brother and sister, that they had to understand each other, that she was the owner of Can Casic.
‘I already know that. My mother told me.’
‘I’m planning on demolishing the house, the filth, the pond, the manure and the stench of rotten hay. And put up new houses there.’
‘Don’t even think it.’
‘You’ll get used to the idea.’
‘Viola died of grief.’
‘Who is Viola?’
‘The bitch of Can Casic. Dark beige with a black snout and droopy ears.’
Surely Daniela didn’t understand him, but she didn’t say anything. Adrià stared at her for a few seconds in silence.
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘You need to know who our father was.’
‘You hate him.’
‘Our father is dead, Adrià.’
‘But you hate him. Why have you come to Tona?’
‘To talk to you without your mother around. To talk to you about the shop. When it’s yours I would like to be involved as a partner.’
‘But why are you telling this to me? Deal with my mother …’
‘Your mother is impossible to deal with. And you know that full well.’
The sun had hidden behind Collsuspina some time ago and I felt an immense void inside of me. The light was gradually dimming and I thought I could hear the crickets starting. The pale moon awoke drowsily, rising early, over the Collsacabra. When the shop is mine, was that what she had said?
‘It will eventually be yours, sooner or later.’
‘Go to hell.’
I said that last bit in Catalan. From her slight smile I could tell she had understood me perfectly even though she didn’t bat an eyelash.
‘I still have more things to tell you about. By the way, what violin did you bring with you?’
‘I’m not planning on practising much at all. In fact, I’ve stopped my lessons. I only brought it for Aunt Leo.’
Since it would soon be dark, they started the walk down. Along the steep path, in revenge, he took long strides, making light of the precipice, and she, despite her narrow skirt, followed him without any apparent problems. The moon was already at its height when they reached the level of the trees, near the cemetery.
‘But which violin did you bring with you?’
‘My student one. Why?’
‘As far as I know,’ continued Signor Somethingorother, still stan
ding in the middle of the street, ‘it is a violin that has never been played regularly: like the Stradivarius Messiah, do you understand what I’m saying?’
‘No,’ said Ardèvol, impatient.
‘I’m saying that makes it even more valuable. Guillaume-François Vial made off with it the very same year it was made, and its whereabouts since then are unknown. Perhaps it has been played, but I have no record of it. And now we find it here. It is an instrument of incalculable value.’
‘That is what I wanted to hear, caro dottore.’
‘Is it really his first?’ asked Mr Berenguer, his interest piqued.
‘Yes.’
‘I would forget about it, Mr Ardèvol. That’s a lot of money.’
‘Is it worth it?’ asked Fèlix Ardèvol, looking at Somethingorother.
‘I would pay it without thinking twice. If you have the money. It has an incredibly lovely sound.’
‘I don’t give a damn about its sound.’
‘And exceptional symbolic value.’
‘That does matter to me.’
They said goodbye because it was starting to rain. They said goodbye after Signor Somethingorother got paid his expert’s fee, right there on the street. The ravages of war, besides millions of dead and entire cities destroyed, had got people out of the habits of courtesy and they now settled things on any old street corner, deals that could seriously affect more than one life. They said goodbye when Fèlix Ardèvol said all right, that he would take Mr Berenguer’s advice and that yes, fifty thousand dollars was too much money. And thank you both very much. And until we meet again, if we ever do. Mr Berenguer, before going round the corner, turned to observe Ardèvol. He pretended to be lighting a cigarette that he didn’t have in his hand in order to get a better look. Fèlix Ardèvol felt the other man’s gaze on the back of his neck but didn’t turn.
‘Who is Mr Falegnami?
He was back at the Santa Sabina monastery. They were back in the discreet corridor without an echo. Father Morlin checked his watch and sent Ardèvol, forcefully, out towards the street.
‘Blast it, Morlin, it’s raining!’
Father Morlin opened a huge umbrella, the size used by country folk, grabbed Ardèvol by the arm and they started walking in front of the monastery. They looked like a Dominican friar consoling and giving advice to a poor mortal with a heavy conscience, pacing in front of Santa Sabina’s facade, as if they were speaking of infidelities, fits of lust, sinful feelings of envy or rage, and it’s been many years since my last confession, Father, and for the passers-by it was an uplifting image.
‘He’s the concierge of the Ufficio della Giustizia e della Pace.’
‘I already know that.’ Two drenched strides. ‘Who is he, come on. How is it that he has such a valuable violin?’
‘So it really is incredibly valuable …’
‘You’ll have your commission.’
‘I know what he’s asking.’
‘I reckoned as much. But you don’t know what I’m going to give him.’
‘His name isn’t Falegnami: it’s Zimmermann.’
He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. After a few steps in silence, Father Morlin tested the waters: ‘You don’t know who he is, do you?’
‘I’m convinced his real name isn’t Zimmermann either.’
‘It’s best if you continue to call him Falegnami. You can offer him a quarter of what he asked you for. But don’t make him feel choked because …’
‘Because he’s dangerous.’
‘Yes.’
An American army jeep passed quickly along the Corso and splashed the bottoms of their habit and trousers.
‘Damn it to hell,’ said Ardèvol, without raising his voice. Morlin shook his head with displeasure.
‘My dear friend,’ he said with a distant smile as if looking into the future, ‘your character will be your undoing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That you should know that you aren’t as strong as you think you are. And even less so in times like these.’
‘Who is this Zimmermann?’
Félix Morlin took his friend by the arm. The whisper of the rain hitting the umbrella didn’t drown out his voice.
Outside, the extreme cold had turned the downpour into a profuse, silent snowfall. Inside, as he looked into the iridescent colour of the wine in his raised glass, he said, I was born into a wealthy and very religious family, and the moral rectitude of my upbringing has helped me to assume the difficult task, by direct order from the Führer via the explicit instructions from Reichsführer Himmler, of becoming a stalwart defence against the enemy inside our fatherland. This wine is excellent, Doctor.
‘Thank you,’ said Doctor Voigt, a bit weary of so much talk. ‘It is an honour for me to be able to taste it here, in my improvised home,’ he thought to say. With each passing day he was more repulsed by these grotesque characters without the slightest manners.
‘Improvised but comfortable,’ said the Oberlagerführer.
A second little sip. Outside, the snow was already covering the earth’s unmentionables with a modest thick sheet of cold. Rudolf Höss continued, ‘For me, orders are sacred, no matter how difficult they may seem, since as an SS I must be willing to completely sacrifice my personality in the fulfilment of my duty to the fatherland.’
Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.
‘Of course, Obersturmbannführer Höss.’
And then Höss told him, loudly, about that pathetic episode with Soldier Bruno something or other, until, as if he were Dietmar Kehlmann at the Berliner Theater, he ended with the famous line take away this carrion. He had told it to about twenty people and, as far as Doctor Voigt knew, always concluded with the same shrill ending.
‘My parents, who were fervent Catholics in a predominantly Lutheran, if not Calvinist, Germany, wanted me to be a priest. I spent quite some time considering it.’
Envious wretch.
‘You would have made a good priest, Obersturbannführer Höss.’
‘I imagine so.’
And conceited.
‘I’m sure: everything you do, you do well.’
‘What you’ve just made out to be a virtue, could also be my ruin. And especially now that Reichsführer Himmler is going to visit us.’
‘Why?’
‘Because as Oberlagerführer, I am responsible for all the failings of the system. For example, I only have two or three cans at the most left from the last shipment of Zyklon gas and the quartermaster hasn’t even thought to tell me to make a new order. And so I’ll have to ask for favours, get some lorries to come here that probably should be somewhere else, and stifle my craving to yell at the quartermaster because we are all working at our limit, here at Auschwitz.’
‘I imagine that the experience of Dachau …’
‘From a psychological point of view, the difference is vast. At Dachau we had prisoners.’
‘From what I understand huge numbers of them died and still do.’
This doctor is an imbecile, thought Höss. Let’s call a spade a spade.
‘Yes, Doctor Voigt, but Dachau is a prison camp. Auschwitz-Birkenau is designed, created and calculated to exterminate rats. If it weren’t for the fact that Jews aren’t human, I would think we are living in hell, with one door that leads to a gas chamber and another place that’s cremation ovens and their flames, or the open pits in the forest, where we burn the remaining units, because we can’t keep up with all the material they send us. This is the first time I’ve talked about these things with someone not involved in the camp, Doctor.’
And who does this brainless piece of shit think he was then?
‘It’s good to vent every once in a while, Obersturmbannführer Höss.’
It feels good to really get things off your chest, even if it’s with a conceited, stupid doctor like this one, thought Höss.
‘I’m counting on your professional secrecy, because the Reichsführer …’
‘Naturally.
You, who are a Christian … In short, a psychiatrist is like a confessor, the confessor you could have been.’
‘My men have to be strong to carry out the task they have been entrusted with. The other day a soldier, more than thirty years old, not some teenager, burst into tears in one of the barracks in front of his comrades.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Bruno, Bruno, wake up!’
Although it’s hard to believe, the Oberlagerführer, the Obersturmbannführer Rudolf Höss, was about to relate the entire scene again from start to finish as soon as he drank his second glass of wine. By the fourth or fifth, his eyes were glassy. Then he began to be incoherent and inadvertently let slip that he was fixated on a Jewish girl. The doctor was shocked but he concealed it, telling himself that it could be very interesting information to use in periods of hardship. So the next day he spoke with Gefreiter Hänsch and very politely asked him whom the Obersturmbannführer was referring to. It was simple: his maid. And he jotted it down in his ‘just in case’ notebook.
A few days later, he had to once again tend to the odious task of selecting merchandise. Shielded, Doctor Voigt observed the soldiers, who tried to forcefully convince the women to let their children be taken away. He saw the selection that Doctor Budden made, the ten girls and boys that he had ordered, and then he noticed an old woman who was coughing and weeping. He went over to her.
‘What’s this?’
He touched the case with his hand, but the old shrew stepped back; who did that contemptible hag think she was, he thought. The old woman clung to the case in such a way that it was impossible to get it from her. Sturmbannführer Voigt pulled out his pistol, aimed it at the back of the woman’s worn, grey neck and fired; the weak pac! was barely heard amid the general wailing. And the disgusting crone splattered blood on the violin case. The doctor ordered Emmanuel to clean it off and bring it to his office at once; meanwhile he headed off as he put away his weapon, followed by many terrified eyes.
‘Here’s the thing you asked for,’ said Emmanuel, a few minutes later. And he put the case down on the desk. It was a fine one; that was what had caught Doctor Voigt’s eye. A fine case doesn’t usually hide a bad instrument. A person who spends money on a case has already spent plenty on the instrument. And if the instrument is good, you hold on to it for dear life, even if you are headed to Auschwitz.
