with a lush pine tree in the background that reminded him of the pine beside the Travignolo stream, in his Pardàc.
Repairing the wall had been complicated because first they’d had to knock down a good bit that was shaky. And in a few days he had built a magnificent scaffolding with his wood. The monastery’s carpenter, Brother Gabriel, praised him for it. Brother Gabriel was a man with hands large as feet when it came to hacking and chopping, and thin as lips when it came time to gauge the wood’s quality. They hit it off right away. The friar, a natural talker, wondered how he knew so much about the inner life of wood since he was just a carpenter, and Jachiam, finally free of his fear of vengeance, for the first time since he had run away said I’m not a carpenter, Brother Gabriel. I cut wood, I listen to wood. My trade is making the wood sing, choosing the trees and the parts of the trunk that will later be used by master luthiers to make a good instrument, such as a viola or a violin.
‘And what are you doing working for a foreman, child of God?’
‘Nothing. It’s complicated.’
‘You ran away from something.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘It’s not my place to say this, but be careful you aren’t running away from yourself.’
‘No. I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Because those who run away from themselves find that theshadow of their enemy is always on their heels and they can’t stop running, until finally they explode.’
‘Is your father a violinist?’ Bernat asked me.
‘No.’
‘Well, I … But the violin is mine,’ he added.
‘I’m not saying it’s not yours. I’m saying that you are the violin’s.’
‘You say strange things.’
They were silent. They heard Trullols raising her voice to quiet a student who was zealously playing out of tune.
‘How awful,’ said Bernat.
‘Yes.’ Silence. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Bernat Plensa. And you?’
‘Adrià Ardèvol.’
‘Are you a fan of Barça or Espanyol?’
‘Barça. You?’
‘Me too.’
‘Do you collect any trading cards?’
‘Of cars.’
‘Wow. Do you have the Ferrari triple?’
‘No. Nobody does.’
‘You mean it doesn’t exist?’
‘That’s what my father says.’
‘Oh, boy, wow.’ Desolate. ‘Really?’
Both boys were silent thinking about Fangio’s Ferrari, which was composed of three cards that might not exist. That gave them a gnawing feeling in their stomachs. And the two men, also in silence, watched as the wall in La Grassa rose up straight thanks to the solid scaffolding Jachiam had built. After quite some time:
‘And what wood do you use to make those instruments?’
‘I don’t make them, I never did. I offered the best wood. Always the best. The masters in Cremona came to me for it and they trusted that my father and I would have it prepared for them. We sold them wood chopped during the January full moon if they didn’t want it to have resin and in midsummer if they wanted a more bold, melodious wood. My father taught me how to find the wood that sang best, from amonghundreds of trees. Yes; my father taught me, and his father – who worked for the Amatis – taught him.’
‘I don’t know who they are.’
Then Jachiam of Pardàc told him about his parents and his siblings and his wooded landscape in the Tyrolean Alps. And about Pardàc, whom those further south call Predazzo. And he felt relieved, as if he had confessed to the lay brother. But he didn’t feel guilty of any death, because Bulchanij of Moena was a murdering swine who’d burned down the future out of envy and he would carve open his belly ten thousand times if he had the chance. Jachiam the unrepentant.
‘What are you thinking about, Jachiam? I can see the hatred in your face.’
‘Nothing, I’m sad. Memories. My brothers and sisters.’
‘You spoke of many brothers and sisters.’
‘Yes. First we were eight boys and when they’d given up hope of having a girl, they got six.’
‘And how
Repairing the wall had been complicated because first they’d had to knock down a good bit that was shaky. And in a few days he had built a magnificent scaffolding with his wood. The monastery’s carpenter, Brother Gabriel, praised him for it. Brother Gabriel was a man with hands large as feet when it came to hacking and chopping, and thin as lips when it came time to gauge the wood’s quality. They hit it off right away. The friar, a natural talker, wondered how he knew so much about the inner life of wood since he was just a carpenter, and Jachiam, finally free of his fear of vengeance, for the first time since he had run away said I’m not a carpenter, Brother Gabriel. I cut wood, I listen to wood. My trade is making the wood sing, choosing the trees and the parts of the trunk that will later be used by master luthiers to make a good instrument, such as a viola or a violin.
‘And what are you doing working for a foreman, child of God?’
‘Nothing. It’s complicated.’
‘You ran away from something.’
‘Well, I don’t know.’
‘It’s not my place to say this, but be careful you aren’t running away from yourself.’
‘No. I don’t think so. Why?’
‘Because those who run away from themselves find that theshadow of their enemy is always on their heels and they can’t stop running, until finally they explode.’
‘Is your father a violinist?’ Bernat asked me.
‘No.’
‘Well, I … But the violin is mine,’ he added.
‘I’m not saying it’s not yours. I’m saying that you are the violin’s.’
‘You say strange things.’
They were silent. They heard Trullols raising her voice to quiet a student who was zealously playing out of tune.
‘How awful,’ said Bernat.
‘Yes.’ Silence. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Bernat Plensa. And you?’
‘Adrià Ardèvol.’
‘Are you a fan of Barça or Espanyol?’
‘Barça. You?’
‘Me too.’
‘Do you collect any trading cards?’
‘Of cars.’
‘Wow. Do you have the Ferrari triple?’
‘No. Nobody does.’
‘You mean it doesn’t exist?’
‘That’s what my father says.’
‘Oh, boy, wow.’ Desolate. ‘Really?’
Both boys were silent thinking about Fangio’s Ferrari, which was composed of three cards that might not exist. That gave them a gnawing feeling in their stomachs. And the two men, also in silence, watched as the wall in La Grassa rose up straight thanks to the solid scaffolding Jachiam had built. After quite some time:
‘And what wood do you use to make those instruments?’
‘I don’t make them, I never did. I offered the best wood. Always the best. The masters in Cremona came to me for it and they trusted that my father and I would have it prepared for them. We sold them wood chopped during the January full moon if they didn’t want it to have resin and in midsummer if they wanted a more bold, melodious wood. My father taught me how to find the wood that sang best, from amonghundreds of trees. Yes; my father taught me, and his father – who worked for the Amatis – taught him.’
‘I don’t know who they are.’
Then Jachiam of Pardàc told him about his parents and his siblings and his wooded landscape in the Tyrolean Alps. And about Pardàc, whom those further south call Predazzo. And he felt relieved, as if he had confessed to the lay brother. But he didn’t feel guilty of any death, because Bulchanij of Moena was a murdering swine who’d burned down the future out of envy and he would carve open his belly ten thousand times if he had the chance. Jachiam the unrepentant.
‘What are you thinking about, Jachiam? I can see the hatred in your face.’
‘Nothing, I’m sad. Memories. My brothers and sisters.’
‘You spoke of many brothers and sisters.’
‘Yes. First we were eight boys and when they’d given up hope of having a girl, they got six.’
‘And how
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