by Jaume Cabré
‘Two waters,’ said Bernat, impatiently. And the waiter left without hiding his displeasure and muttering you can dress up a pig, as my father used to say. Bernat continued, ignoring him:
‘I have an idea. I wanted to check with you about it, but you have to swear you won’t say a word to Adrià.’
Negotiations: how can I swear over something when I don’t know what it is. He can’t know. All right, but first tell me what this is about so I can swear whatever you need me to. It’s madness. More reason not to swear, unless it’s some madness that’s really worth it. It’s madness that’s really worth it. For goodness sake, Bernat. I need you in on this, Saga.
‘My name is not Saga.’ Peevish: ‘My name is Sagga.’
‘Oh, sorry.’
After that push and pull, they reached the conclusion that Sagga’s swearing would be provisional, with the option of rescinding it if the idea was too too too crazy that there was just no way.
‘You told me that your family knew Isaiah Berlin. Is that still true?’
‘Well, yeah … His wife is … I think she’s a distant relative of some Epstein cousins.’
‘Is there any way of … You putting me in touch with him?’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘Bring him this book: so he can read it.’
‘Listen, people don’t just …’
‘I’m sure he’s going to like it.’
‘You’re insane. How do you expect him to read something by a stranger who …’
‘I already told you it was madness,’ he interrupted. ‘But I want to try.’
Sara thought it over. I can imagine you rubbing your forehead, the way you do when you think things over, my love. And I see you sitting at the table of some bar, looking at Bernat the Mad, not quite able to believe what he’s telling you. I see you telling him wait, and flipping through your address book, and finding Tante Chantal’s phone number, and calling from the bar telephone, which took tokens; Bernat had asked the waiter for dozens of tokens that started dropping when she said allô, ma chère tante, ça marche bien? (…) Oui. (…) Oui. (….) Aoui. (…….) Aaooui. (………….), and Bernat, undaunted, putting more tokens into the phone and asking the waiter for even more, with a peremptory gesture, it’s an emergency, and leaving a hundred-peseta note on the table as a guarantee, and Sara still saying Oui. (………………) Oui. (…………………..) Aoui. (……………………….), until the waiter said that’s it, did he think this was the phone company, he didn’t have any more tokens and then, Sara quickly asked her auntie about the Berlins and started jotting things down in her address book and saying oui, oui, ouiii! …, and in the end, when she was thanking her, ma chère tante, for her help, and the telephone made a click and cut off for lack of tokens and she was left with that uncomfortable sensation that she hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to her chère tante Chantal.
‘What did she say?’
‘That she will try to talk to Aline.’
‘Who is Aline?’
‘Berlin’s wife.’ Sara checked the pages with undecipherable handwriting: ‘Aline Elisabeth Yvonne de Gunzbourg.’
‘Brilliant! We’ve got it!’
‘Wait, we’ve got the contact. But that’s just …’
Bernat snatched her address book from her, ‘What did you say her name was?’
She took it back and consulted it: ‘Aline Elisabeth Yvonne de Gunzbourg.’
‘Gunzbourg?’
‘Yes, what? It’s a family that’s very … Half Russian and half French. Barons and things like that. These ones are rich.’
‘Holy Mother of God.’
‘Shhh, don’t swear.’
Bernat gave her a kiss; well: or two or three or four, because I think Bernat has always been a bit enamoured of you. I say that now, now that you are over your desire to contradict me; just so you know, I think that every man fell a little bit in love with you. I fell completely and utterly.
‘But Adrià should know about this!’
‘No. I already told you it’s pure madness.’
‘It’s pure madness, but he should know.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘It’s my gift to him. I think it’s more of a gift if he never finds out about it.’
‘If he never finds out, he’ll never be able to thank you for it.’
And that must have been when the waiter, from one corner of the table, concealed a smile when he saw the man saying in a slightly louder voice this conversation is over, Mrs Voltes-Epstein. This is how I want it. Will you swear?
After a few seconds of silent tension, the man got down on one knee before the lady, in an imploring pose. Then, the elegant woman lowered her eyes and said, ‘I swear it to you, Bernat.’
The waiter ran a hand over his bald skull and concluded that lovers were always making fools of themselves. If they could see themselves through my eyes … Now, the woman is beautiful, lovely as a summer’s day, that’s a fact. I’d make a fool of myself over her too.
It turned out that yes, Franz-Paul Decker’s model French horn, Romain Gunzbourg, timid, blond and short, a secret pianist, was a member of the Gunzbourg family and knew Aline Elisabeth Yvonne de Gunzbourg, of course. Romain was from the poor branch of the family, and if you’d like, I can call Tante Aline right now.
‘Bloody hell … Tante Aline!’
‘Yes. She married some important philosopher or something like that. But they’ve been living in England forever. What’s it for?’
And Bernat gave him a kiss on each cheek, even though he wasn’t enamoured of Romain. Everything was coming up roses. They had to wait for the spring, for the Easter week gigs, and before that Romain had long conversations with Tante Aline to get her on their side. And when they were in London, which was the end of the orchestra’s mini-tour, they hopped on a train that left them in Oxford at mid-morning. Headington House seemed deserted when they rang the doorbell, which made a noble sound. They looked at each other, somewhat expectant, and no one came to open the door. And it was the time they’d agreed on. No. Yes, tiny footsteps. And finally the door opened. An elegant woman looked at them, puzzled.
‘Tante Aline,’ said Romain Gunzbourg.
‘Romain?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’ve grown so much!’ she lied. ‘You were like this …’ She pointed to her waist. Then she had them come in, pleased with her role as a co-conspirator.
‘He will see you; but I can’t guarantee that he’ll read it.’
‘Thank you, madam. Truly,’ said Bernat.
She had them go into some sort of small hallway. On the walls were framed scores by Bach. Bernat pointed with his chin to one of the reproductions. Romain went over to it. In a whisper: ‘I told you I was from the poor branch.’ About the framed score: ‘I’m sure it’s an original.’
A door opened and Tante Aline had them come into a large room, filled with books from top to bottom, ten times more books than in Adrià’s house. And a table filled with folders stuffed with papers. And some piles of books with numerous slips of long paper as bookmarks. And before the desk, sitting in an armchair was Isaiah Berlin, with a book in his hand, who looked curiously at that strange pair who had entered his sanctuary.
‘How did it go?’ asked Sara, when he came back.
Berlin seemed tired. He spoke little and when Bernat gave him the copy of Der ästhetische Wille, the man took it, turned it over and then opened it at the index. For a long minute no one said a peep. Tante Aline winked at her nephew. When Berlin finished examining the book he closed it and left it in his hands.
‘And why do you think I should read it?’
‘Well, I … If you don’t want to …’
‘Don’t cringe, man! Why do you want me to read it?’
‘Because it is very good. It’s excellent, Mr Berlin. Adrià Ardèvol is a profound and intelligent man. But he lives too far from the centre of the world.’
Isaiah Berlin put
the book on a small table and said every day I read and every day I realise that I have everything left to read. And every once in a while I reread, even though I only reread that which deserves the privilege of rereading.
‘And what earns it that privilege?’ Now Bernat sounded like Adrià.
‘Its ability to fascinate the reader; to make him admire it for its intelligence or its beauty. Even though with rereading, by its very nature, we always enter into contradiction.’
‘What do you mean, Isaiah?’ interrupted Tante Aline.
‘A book that doesn’t deserve to be reread doesn’t deserve to be read either.’ He looked at the guests. ‘Have you asked them if they would like some tea?’ He looked at the book and he immediately forgot his pragmatic suggestion. He continued: ‘But before reading it we don’t know that it’s not worthy of a rereading. Life is cruel like that.’
They spoke about everything for a little while, both of the visitors sitting on the edge of the sofa. They didn’t have any tea because Romain had given his auntie a signal that it was best to take advantage of the little time they had. And they spoke of the orchestra’s tour.
‘French horn? Why do you play the French horn?’
‘I fell in love with the sound,’ replied Romain Gunzbourg.
And then the strange pair told them that the next evening they would perform at the Royal Festival Hall. And the Berlins promised they would listen to them on the radio.
In the programme there was Leonora (number three), Robert Gerhard’s second symphony and Bruckner’s fourth with Gunzbourg on the French horn and dozens more musicians. It went well. Gerhard’s widow attended, was moved, and received the bouquet of flowers meant for Decker. And the next day they returned home after five concerts in Europe that had left them worn out and with divided opinions about whether it was good to do microtours during the season or ruin the summer gigs with a more properly set-up tour or forget about tours altogether, with what they pay us we do enough just going to all the rehearsals, don’t you think?
In the hotel, Bernat found an urgent message and thought what’s happened to Llorenç, and that was the first time he worried about his son, perhaps because he was still thinking about the unwrapped book he had given him.
It was an urgent telephone message from Mr Isaiah Berlin that said, in the evening receptionist’s handwriting, that he should come urgently to Headington House, if possible the next day, that it was very important.
‘Tecla.’
‘How did it go?’
‘Well. Poldi Feichtegger came. Adorable: eighty-something years old. The bouquet of flowers was bigger than she was.’
‘You are coming home tomorrow, right?’
‘Well. I, it’s that … I have to stay one more day, because …’
‘Because of what?’
Bernat, loyal to his special way of complicating his life, didn’t want to tell Tecla that Isaiah Berlin had asked him to come back to talk about my book, which he had found very, very interesting, which he had read in a matter of hours but was starting to reread because it had a series of perceptions that he considered brilliant and profound, and that he wanted to meet me. It would have been easy to tell her that. But Bernat wouldn’t be Bernat if he wasn’t making his life more complicated. He didn’t trust Tecla’s ability to keep a secret, which I have to admit he was right about. But he chose silence and replied because an urgent job came up.
‘What job?’
‘This thing. It’s … it’s complicated.’
‘Drinking French wine with a French horn?’
‘No, Tecla. I have to go to Oxford to … There’s a book that … anyway I’ll be home the day after tomorrow.’
‘And they’re going to change your ticket?’
‘Ay, that’s right.’
‘Well: I think it’d be best, if you plan on flying back. If you plan on coming back at all.’
And she hung up. Bollocks, thought Bernat; I screwed up again. But the next morning he changed his plane ticket, took the train to Oxford and Berlin told him what he had to tell him and he gave him a note for me that read dear sir, your book moved me deeply. Particularly the reflection on the why behind beauty. And how this why can be asked in every period of humanity. And also how it is impossible to separate it from the inexplicable presence of evil. I just recommended it effusively to some of my colleagues. When will it be published in English? Please, don’t stop thinking and, every once in a while, writing down your thoughts. Sincerely yours, Isaiah Berlin. And I am so grateful to Bernat, for the consequences of his persuading Berlin to read my book, which were essential for me, but even more so for the tenacity with which he has always tried to help me. And I reward his efforts by talking to him sincerely about his writings and causing him severe bouts of depression. Friend, life is so hard.
‘And swear to me one more time that you will never mention it to Adrià.’ He looked at her with fervent eyes. ‘You understand me, Sara?’
‘I swear.’ And after a pause: ‘Bernat.’
‘Hmmm?’
‘Thank you. From me and from Adrià.’
‘No need for that. I always owe Adrià things.’
‘What do you owe him?’
‘I don’t know. Things. He’s my friend. He’s a kid who … Even though he’s so wise, he still wants to be my friend and put up with my crises. After all these years.’
45
Vissarion Grigoryevich Belinsky was to blame for the fact that when I turned fifty I started to brush up my neglected Russian. To distance myself from fruitless approaches to the nature of evil, I immersed myself in the suicidal attempt to bring Berlin, Vico and Llull together in one book and I was starting to see, to my surprise, that it was possible. As usually happened in moments of unexpected discoveries, I had to distance myself in order to reassure myself that the intuition wasn’t a mirage and so I spent a few days paging through completely different things, including Belinsky. It was Belinksy, the scholar and enthusiastic propagandist of Pushkin, who gave me a pressing desire to read in Russian. Belinsky talking about Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin and not Pushkin’s work directly. I understood what the interest in others’ literature meant, that which pushes you to create literature without realising it. I was passionate about Belinsky’s passion, so much so that what I knew of Pushkin didn’t impress me until I reread him after reading Belinsky. Before my eyes, Ruslan, Ludmila, Farlaf, Ratmir, Rodgay and also Chernomor and the Boss came to life, recited out loud thanks to what Belinsky had inspired in me. Sometimes I think about the power of art and about the study of art and I get frightened. Sometimes I don’t understand why humanity is always fighting when there are so many other things to do. Sometimes I think that we are more wicked than we are poets and, therefore, that we are hopeless. The problem is that no one is without sin. Very, very few people, to be more precise. Very, very few. And then Sara came in and Adrià, whose gaze was on the inextricable whole: verses of jealousy, love and Russian language, could tell without looking at her that Sara’s eyes were gleaming. He lifted his gaze.
‘How did it go?’
She put down the folders with the portrait samples on the sofa.
‘We are going to do the exhibition,’ she said.
‘Bravo!’
Adrià got up, glanced with a bit of nostalgia at Ludmila’s doom and hugged Sara.
‘Thirty portraits.’
‘How many do you have?’
‘Twenty-eight.’
‘All charcoal?’
‘Yes, yes: that will be the leitmotif: seeing the soul in charcoal or something like that. They have to find a really lovely phrase.’
‘Make them show it to you first: to make sure they don’t come up with something ridiculous.’
‘Seeing the soul in charcoal isn’t ridiculous.’
‘No, of course not! But gallery owners aren’t poets. And the ones at Artipèlag …’ Pointing to the folders resting on the sofa: ‘I’m so pleased. You deserve it.’
‘I ne
ed to make two more portraits.’
I already knew that you wanted to make one of me. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea, but I did like your enthusiasm. At my age I was starting to learn that more than things, what was important was the excitement we projected into them. That is what makes us people. And Sara was in an exceptional moment: every day she was more respected for her drawings. I had only twice asked why she didn’t try her hand at painting, and she, with that gentle but definitive stance, both times told me no, Adrià, what makes me happy is drawing with pencil and charcoal. My life is in black and white, perhaps in memory of my family, who lived in black and white. Or perhaps …
‘Perhaps there’s no need for you to explain.’
‘You’re right.’
At dinnertime I said that I knew whom the other portrait should be of and she said who? and I answered a self-portrait. She stopped with her fork in the air, thinking it over; I surprised you, Sara. You hadn’t thought of that. You never think of yourself.
‘I’m embarrassed,’ you said, after a few long seconds of silence. And you put the bite of croquette into your mouth.
‘Well, get over it. You’re a big girl.’
‘It’s not arrogant?’
‘No, quite the opposite; it is a display of humility: you bare the souls of twenty-nine people and you subject yourself to the same interrogation as the others. It would seem that you’re restoring the order of things.’
Now I caught you again with your fork in the air. You put it down and you said you know, you might be right. And thanks to that, today as I write to you I have your extraordinary self-portrait on the wall in front of me, beside the incunabula, presiding over my world. It is the most valuable object in this study. Your self-portrait that was to be the last drawing in the exhibition you prepared so meticulously, whose opening you were unable to attend.
For me, Sara’s work is some sort of window into inner silence. An invitation to introspection. Sara, I love you. And I remember you suggesting an order for the thirty artworks, and secretly making the first sketches for your self-portrait. And those at the Artipèlag Gallery outdid themselves: Sara Voltes-Epstein. Charcoal drawings. A window into the soul. It was a gorgeous catalogue that made one want to be sure to see the exhibition, or buy up every drawing. Your mature work that took you two years to complete. Without rushing, naturally, calmly, the way you’ve always done things.
