44

The area around Headington House was tranquil and placid, just as Adrià had imagined it. Before Sara rang the bell, she looked at him, smiled and Adrià knew he was the most loved being on earth and he had to hold himself back to keep from covering her in kisses just as a maid opened the door. Behind her rose the splendid figure of Aline de Gunzbourg. Sara and her distant aunt embraced in silence, as if they were old friends who hadn’t seen each other for donkey’s years; or as if they were two colleagues who respected each other deeply but still maintained a certain rivalry; or like two polite ladies, one much younger than the other, who had to treat each other with extreme courtesy for some professional reasons; or like a niece and aunt who had never met before; or like two people who knew that they had only narrowly escaped the long hand of the Abwehr, the Gestapo and the SS because life’s calendar had kept them from being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Because evil strives to corrupt all plans of happiness, no matter how humble, and struggles to exert as much destruction as possible in its immediate surroundings. Spermatozoa, ova, frenetic dances, premature deaths, voyages, escapes, knowledge, hope, doubts, breakups, reconciliation, moves and many other difficulties that could have kept that encounter from happening had been defeated by the warm embrace between two strangers, two grown women, one forty-six and the other over seventy, both silent, both smiling, at the front door of Headington House, before me. Life is so strange.

‘Come in.’

She extended her hand to me without losing her smile. We shook hands in silence. Two framed scores by Bach greeted the visitors. I made an effort to remain calm and was thus able to offer a polite smile to Aline de Gunzbourg.

We spent two unforgettable hours in Isaiah Berlin’s study, on the upper floor of Headington House, surrounded by books, with the clock on the mantelpiece making the time pass too quickly. Berlin was very downcast, as if he were certain his time was drawing near. He listened to Aline, repressing a smile, and said I haven’t got much rope left. You are the ones who must keep on. And then, in a softer voice, he said I don’t fear death; I just get angry with it. Death makes me mad but it doesn’t scare me. Where you are, death isn’t; where death is, you aren’t. Therefore, fearing it is a waste a time. And he talked about it so much that I am sure he was scared of it, perhaps as much as I am. And then he added Wittgenstein said that death isn’t an event in life. And Adrià thought to ask him what surprised him about life.

‘Surprises me?’ He pondered the question. As if arriving slowly from a distance, the tick tock of the clock took over the room and our thoughts. ‘Surprises me …’ he repeated. And he made up his mind, ‘Well, yes: the simple fact that I’ve been able to live with such serenity and pleasure through such horrors, in the worst century that humanity has ever known. Because it has been the worst, by a long shot. And not only for the Jews.’

He looked at me shyly, as if hesitating, searching for the appropriate expression and in the end added I’ve been happy, but survivor’s guilt and remorse have always gnawed at me.

‘What?’ said Aline and Sara at the same time.

Then I realised that he had mumbled those last few words in Russian. And I translated them without moving, without taking my eyes off of him, because Berlin hadn’t yet finished speaking. And now, in English, he took up the thread of his thoughts and said what did I do, why did nothing happen to me? He shook his head: ‘Unfortunately most Jews of this century live with this weight burdening us.’

‘I believe Jews of other centuries did as well,’ said Sara.

Berlin looked at her with his mouth open and nodded in silence. And then, as if it were a way of banishing sad thoughts, he spoke about Professor Adrià Ardèvol’s publications. It seems he had read Història del pensament europeu with interest; he liked it, but he still considered La voluntat estètica the real gem.

‘I still can’t believe it found its way into your hands.’

‘Oh! It was through a friend of yours. Right, Aline? Those two awkward figures, one six feet tall and the other not even five, who just stood there …’ Smiling, he reminisced staring straight ahead, at the wall. ‘Strange pair.’

‘Isaiah …’

‘They were convinced I would be interested in it and so they brought it to me.’

‘Isaiah, wouldn’t you like a tea?’

‘Yes, tell me …’

‘Would you like tea as well?’ Now Tante Aline asked all of us.

‘What two friends of mine?’ asked Adrià, surprised.

‘A Gunzbourg. Aline has so many relatives … sometimes I mix them up.’

‘Gunzbourg …’ said Adrià, not grasping it.

‘One moment …’

Berlin got up with some effort and went into one corner. I caught a glance between Aline Berlin and Sara, and I still found it all very strange. Berlin returned with a copy of my book. I puffed up with pride to see that there were five or six little slips of papers sticking out of its pages. He opened it, pulled one out and read Bernat Plensa of Barcelona.

‘Ah, of course, yes,’ said Adrià, not knowing what he was saying.

I don’t remember much more of the conversation because I went blank. And just then the maid came in with a huge tray filled with all the tools and elements necessary to enjoy a proper tea as God and the Queen dictate. They spoke of many more things that I can only scarcely and indistinctly remember. What a pleasure, what luxury, that long conversation with Isaiah Berlin and Tante Aline …

‘What do I know!?’ said Sara the three times Adrià wondered, on the trip home, if she knew what Bernat had to do with all that. And on the fourth she said why don’t you invite him over for one of these new teas we bought?

‘Mmm … Superb. British tea always tastes different. Don’t you find?’

‘I knew you’d like it. But don’t change the subject.’

‘Yes. When did you go visit Isaiah Berlin?’

‘Isaiah Berlin.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘The Power of Ideas. Liberty. Russian Thinkers.’

‘What are you talking about?’ To Sara: ‘What’s wrong with Adrià?’ And both of them, lifting their cups, repeated: ‘Superb tea.’ And he scratched his noggin.

‘The Hedgehog and the Fox,’ said Adrià, making a concession to a wider audience.

‘Bloody hell, you’re off your rocker.’ And to Sara: ‘Has he been like this long?’

‘Isaiah Berlin told me that you had made him read La voluntat estètica.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Bernat, what’s going on?’

Adrià looked at Sara, who was very busy serving more tea even though no one had asked for any.

‘Sara, what’s going on?’

‘Someone is hiding something from me here …’ Suddenly he remembered: ‘You and a very short bloke. ‘A strange pair,’ was how Berlin defined you. Who was the other man?’

‘Well, Berlin is off his rocker. I’ve never been to Oxford.’

Silence. There was no clock on any mantelpiece going tick tock. But the soft breeze that emanated from the Urgell on the wall could be felt, the sun still illuminating the bell tower of Santa Maria de Gerri in the dining room of the house. And the murmur of the water on the river that came down from Burgal. Suddenly, Adrià pointed to Bernat and, calmly, imitating Sheriff Carson: ‘You gave yourself away, kid.’

‘You don’t even know who Berlin is, you’ve never even heard of him, but somehow you know he lives in Oxford.’

Bernat looked towards Sara, who avoided his gaze. Adrià observed them both and said tu quoque, Sara?

‘She quoque,’ admitted Bernat. With his head lowered he said I think I forgot to mention one little detail.

‘Go ahead. I’m listening.’

‘It all started …’ Bernat looked at Sara, ‘five or six years ago?’

‘Seven and a half.’

‘Yes. With ages … I’m not … Seven and a half years ago.’

As soon as she came into the bar, he put a copy of the German edition of La voluntat estètica in front of her. She looked at the book, she looked at Bernat, she looked back at the book and she made a sign of not knowing what was going on as she sat down.

‘Would the lady like anything?’ The smile of a somewhat obsequious bald waiter who had emerged from the darkness.

‘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.’

‘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.

‘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.

‘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.’

‘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.’