51
When I crossed the threshold, the boards creaked warmly as if the house was welcoming me. With the disappearance of the dowser, the thick, unsettling energy that had permeated the atmosphere during my previous visits was also gone.
The room was in disarray, just as it had been the last time I’d been there, but this time, that same chaos welcomed me instead of rejecting me. I tiptoed around and imagined the old gardener, with his long gray beard, leafing through a magazine in his green armchair. I could almost see him there, sitting at the oak table, sipping a herbal tea while sketching the new layout of the orchard. Or maybe standing in the yard, digging in the dirt without gloves to feel each tiny pebble, as I also liked to do.
I sat in his place and caressed the greenish velvet of the armrest, which was softer and more worn after decades of use. A shadow stirred the fern leaves in one corner, and I knew my mother”s ghost had followed me into the house.
“I wish I could have got to know him,” I muttered. “But now I”ll never know who he really was.”
I thought of my father, Martin: the boy whose mother had made him believe he was an orphan when he wasn’t; the husband betrayed by his wife and his best friend; the man who ended up becoming Drago, the dowser, fleeing from a crime he hadn’t even committed.
“The only thing you need to know,” said Beatriz behind my back, “is that Martin was your father, that he loved you, and that he would never have abandoned you if it hadn”t been for me.”
A brown folder secured with rubber bands rested on the table. I got up to look at it, and when I opened it, I found several hastily handwritten pages in Spanish and Slovenian. At the end was a signed statement clarifying his dual identity and our relationship.
“His will,” I said, turning the pages warily.
“That”s right,” my mother corroborated. “But he didn”t have time to take it to the notary. You”ll have to do it yourself… if you wish.”
“What makes you think I wouldn”t want to?” I asked, perplexed. “It”s just what I was looking for. The reason I came here in the first place.”
My mother shrugged.
“Read it.”
I held the first page, straining to understand my elderly father”s shaky handwriting.
‘I, Martin Br?ljan, appoint my only daughter, Vesna Br?ljan Exposito, as heir to all my property, with the exception of the Tartini Violin, which is stored inside my piano bench. My wish is that the instrument be returned to its previous owner, Don Enzo Rossi of Nova Gorica, or, in his absence, to his direct heirs...’
I reread the will several times, incredulous.
“Why?” I exclaimed, throwing the sheets on the table in fury, “Is this a joke, or what?
But my mother was no longer there to answer me. I heard the door open with a creak, and a thud of footsteps announced Max”s return.
“What is a joke?” he asked, holding out a sandwich wrapped in aluminum foil. “By the way, how did you get in?”
I refused the sandwich and, scowling, pointed to the brown folder on the table.
“Just read that... I can”t believe it.”
Max put aside his lunch and began to read the will with a thoughtful look on his face. Then he put it back on the table without comment.
He approached the grand piano and stepped stealthily around it. A wide, deep trunk served as a stool. When he removed the lid, I took a sharp intake of breath when I saw a dark, wooden antique case. Taking it by the handle, Max removed it from the place where it had lain for decades. With great care, he opened the metal lock, revealing the antique we’d been looking for all that time. A beautiful honey-colored violin with three antique embossed pegs on the neck; the fourth, however, was different from the others and had been replaced by a more modern one.
I gasped and clutched the pendant that Drago had stolen from my room and later returned to me.
Max took the instrument out of its case with reverence, plucking the strings as he gently turned the pegs. He took the violin in one hand, bringing it close to his face, and with the bow, he played a long, sharp chord to tune it. The first arpeggio sounded like the yawn of a baby waking up.
Once satisfied with the sound of the notes, he began to play the same piece he had played for me in Piran. As he did so, I felt like Maestro Tartini”s soul had returned from eternal sleep, released after centuries in hell. Free and resurrected for a fleeting instant, once again present among the living thanks to the overlooked talent of the great Maximilian Finkenstein.
“The Devil”s Trill,” I muttered when he finished. “Flawless.”
Max nodded, and only then did I notice that his eyes were glazed over.
“I wanted to try it once before you returned it to its owner,” he said, his voice breaking on the last word.
He stumbled out of the living room as if being chased by the very same Devil who had bought Tartini’s soul. I heard him run down the porch steps and out into the street. I followed him outside, but he was gone.
Behind me, someone cleared their throat.
“A sensitive guy,” said my mother, materializing again from behind an apple tree. “He seems nice.”
“I thought you’d left for good.”
“I wanted to say goodbye first.”
“Will I ever see you again?” I asked, certain that she must have no more stories to tell me.
She shook her head.
“I don”t think so. Maybe somewhere else, in another life, who knows? But my mission here is done.”
I looked at my mother, standing in a sea of flowers, and saw myself reflected in her eyes. For the first time in many years, I smiled at her with sincerity and felt like hugging her.
“What are you going to do with the will?” she asked, holding out a daisy.
“I don”t know yet. I have to think about it.”
“I know you’ll choose the right thing,” she said. “You and I were always so alike... but it’s not too late to be different. You can be better than me.”
Her contours began to blur, along with the echo of her sorrows and the weight of her secrets.
“Mom!” I called out, even though I was already beginning to feel her absence. “Mom, don”t go yet! Come back... I need to tell you that I understand you... that I forgive you!”
A sharp gust of wind blew through the leaves like a sigh of relief, stirring the tulips. Beatriz Exposito was no longer there, and I knew that she’d never return.
“And that, in spite of everything...” I whispered, pressing the daisy against my chest, “In spite of everything, I love you. Have a good trip, Mom.”