30
Enzo Rossi sat upright in his wheelchair, and for an instant, I saw through his withered shell, getting a glimpse of the fascinating man he must have been—a serene, handsome gentleman with an intellect as quick as a bullet.
“It never occurred to me that the Br?ljan surname would spread on its own.” He coughed, and his son brought him a glass of water. “It spread, hah! Just like ivy does.”
Mr. Rossi smiled, and his gaze glazed over again as he retreated back into his world of memories.
“This is... simply extraordinary,” I said, unable to hide my astonishment. “So what was my grandfather”s real name? Are there any records, any documents with his original surname...?”
“Hribar,” Rossi answered instantly, without hesitation.
How could he still remember?
“Many Slovenians are called that,” the son commented, arranging his father”s blanket so that it covered both legs.
“Tell me, please,” I asked the old man. “What happened to them?”
“The husband...” Mr. Rossi wrinkled his forehead, trying to remember. “The husband died in the war, but she... she survived... she was clever. Clever, very clever! When the Germans left, I think she went to Bled... Bled, yes... but I had to go back to Venice long before then. I couldn”t stay...” He coughed again. “Carmen, yes. Beautiful, fearless Carmen. She was pure fire, Carmencita, even though she didn”t look it. Marija, they called her. Few knew her... but I did. I did!”
I smiled faintly. I remembered her as a piece of furniture, sitting in her dingy apartment in Gran Via, stinking of old age and medicine, wiry and hunched, sewing sometimes, and crying most of the time. When she saw me, she was unable to remember who I was, and the worst thing was that I was always forced to give her a kiss, which I hated.
It was very difficult to match my own memories of Grandma Carmen with those of Mr. Rossi or with the words of the stranger whose diary I was reading.
Enzo Rossi gave a soft nod as if he had fallen asleep for a second. His son went to stand up, and I hurried to continue talking before he took him out of the office.
“So, do you think I could find any members of my family in Bled?” I asked.
“His family, I don”t know much about them. I think they had a hotel in Bled, and they sold it later to some Austrians... Heinzberg... Hengsberg... Hengsberger... I don”t remember well, but who cares, signorina... weare all family, aren’t we?”
He opened his arms like Jesus Christ, trying to hug me, and I read the son”s lips as he mouthed, He”s having a bad day, I”m sorry.
I smiled at the Italian”s words and took his hand in mine again, checking out of the corner of my eye that Max had taken note of those names.
“Of course we are, Mr. Rossi,” I said, and he squeezed my hand back, looking at me with sudden affection.
“I”m here because I”m looking for my inheritance, you know? I was told that my family had left me something of value, and I”m trying to find it.”
“Does she no longer have the Tartini?“ Enzo muttered, his expression changing from sentimental to rabid in a millisecond. “How could she have lost it?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“The Tartini... did you lose it? You ungrateful child!”
“Don”t listen to him. It”s some sort of family legend, but each time, he tells it differently,” the son said. “It’s said that my grandfather”s great-grandfather bought a violin at an auction in Paris two hundred years ago. It could have been one of Tartini”s violins, which later passed into the hands of Paganini. Paganini must have sold it to pay for his gambling hobby. Our ancestors were Venetian nobles, and the instrument had been in our family for generations. It should have passed to my great-grandmother Antonia, but she refused to marry her fiancé in an arranged marriage and fled to Gorizia with her lover. Obviously, she was disinherited, and her younger sister kept everything. From then on, nobody knows what happened to the violin. It’s possible Antonia stole it when she fled and brought it to Gorizia, but even if she did, it was probably lost during some catastrophe long before my father was born. There are no records of the Tartini Violin beyond the 19th century.”
“I”ve played that violin a hundred times!” protested the elderly man.
The son shrugged, like someone waiting for a child”s tantrum to pass. Max, however, looked livid. His eyes were fixed on Enzo Rossi, and he seemed to have frozen on the spot.
“Of course, Father, don”t worry, they”ll give it back to you right away,” said the son, winking at me. “Miss. Br?ljan has it in her car. She’ll go down and get it. It’s all good.”
“I gave it to her...” the old man whimpered, rubbing his eyes under his glasses. “What happened to her? Where’s Carmencita? She wouldn”t have done that...”
“If you mean my grandmother, she died a long time ago, Mr. Rossi,” I replied, more saddened by the poor man”s distress than by my grandmother”s distant death.
The old man was shocked to hear this and began to wail loudly. His deafness prevented him from hearing himself, and his sobs echoed like anti-aircraft sirens in the office.
“It can”t be! But she was only twenty-five years old... Carmen, my Carmen...” he repeated.
“Excuse me, Miss Br?ljan,” said the son at last, getting up to grab the handles of the wheelchair. “My father needs to rest. I think all these memories have caused him a lot of stress. You’ll have to excuse him.”