‘My God,’ said the man. And he sat down, defeated. And he explained that he didn’t do it for the money.
‘How much did they give you for it?’
‘Fifty thousand francs.’
‘Hell’s bells.’
‘I didn’t do it for the money. And they were Belgian francs.’
‘Then why did you do it?’
‘Matthias Alpaerts drove me batty, every day during the five years we shared a room he would tell me about his bloody little daughters and his mother-in-law with a chest cold. Every day he would tell me, looking out the window, not even seeing me. Every single day. And he got sick. And then those men showed up.’
‘Who were they?’
‘I don’t know. From Barcelona. One was thin and the other was young. And they told me we’ve heard you do a very good impression of him.
‘I’m an actor. Retired, but an actor. And I play the accordion and the sax. And the piano a little.’
‘Let’s see how your impression is.’
They took him to a restaurant, they let him eat and try a white wine and a red. And he looked at them, puzzled, and asked them why don’t you just talk to Alpaerts?
‘He’s on his last legs. He won’t live long.’
‘What a relief it’ll be to not hear him talk about his coughing mother-in-law.’
‘Don’t you feel sorry for the poor man?’
‘Matthias has been saying he wants to die for sixty years. How can I feel sorry for him when he finally gets his wish?’
‘Come on, Bob: show us what you can do.’
And Bob Mortelmans started to say because imagine you are having lunch at home, with your Berta, your sick mother-in-law and the three lights of your life, Amelietje, the eldest, who was turning seven that day; Truu, the middle daughter, with hair the colour of mahogany, and Juliet, the littlest one, blonde like the sun. And out of nowhere, they bust down the front door and all these soldiers burst in shouting raus, raus and Amelietje, who said what does raus mean, Papa? and I couldn’t stop them and I didn’t do a single thing to protect them.
‘Perfect. That’s enough.’
‘Hey, hey, hey! I can do more than …’
‘I said that’s perfect. Do you want to make some serious dough?
‘And since I said yes, they put me on a plane and in Barcelona we rehearsed a couple of times, with variations; but it was always the true story of Matthias the pain in the arse.’
‘And your friend, meanwhile, was lying in bed, dying.’
‘He wasn’t my friend. He was a broken record. When I got back to Antwerp he was already dead.’ And, rehearsing insouciance with the tall policeman: ‘As if he’d missed me, you know?’
Bernat was quiet. And Bob Mortelmans made a run for the door. Bernat, without getting up from his chair or moving a muscle, said try to run away and I’ll break your spine. Understood?
‘Yup. Perfectly.’
‘You’re scum. You stole the violin from him.’
‘But he didn’t even know that anyone had it …’
‘You’re scum. Selling out for a hundred thousand francs.’
‘I didn’t do it for the money. And they were fifty thousand. And Belgian.’
‘And you also robbed poor Adrià Ardèvol.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘The man in Barcelona you hoodwinked.’
‘I swear I didn’t do it for the money.’
Bernat looked at him, curious. He made a gesture with his head, as if inviting him to continue speaking. But the other man was silent.
‘Why did you do it then?’
‘It was … it was an opportunity … It was … the role of a lifetime. That’s why I said yes.’
‘You were also well paid.’
‘That’s true. But because I embellished it. And, besides, I had to improvise because that bloke struck up a conversation and so, after the monologue, I had to improvise the whole conversation.’
‘And?’
‘And I nailed it.’ Proud: ‘I was able to completely inhabit the character.’
Bernat thought now I’ll throttle him. And he looked around, to see if there were any witnesses. Meanwhile, Bob Mortelmans returned to his favourite role, fired up by the policeman’s admiring silence. Performing, overdoing it slightly: ‘Perhaps I survived until today and am able to tell you all this because I was a coward on Amelietje’s birthday. Or because that rainy Saturday, in the barracks, I stole a crumb of clearly mouldy bread from old Moshes who came from Vilnius. Or because I crept away when the Blockführer decided to teach us a lesson and let loose with the butt of his rifle, and the blow that was meant to wound me killed a little boy whose …’
‘That’s enough!’
Bernat got up and Bob Mortelmans thought he was about to thrash him. He shrank down in his chair, cowering, thoroughly prepared to answer more questions, to answer each and every one that Interpol agent wanted to ask him.
~ ~ ~
Bernat said open your mouth and Adrià opened it as if he were Llorenç at a year old; he gave him a spoonful and said, yum, semolina soup, eh? Adrià stared at Bernat and said nothing.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘Me?’
‘You.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who am I?’
‘That guy.’
‘Here, have another spoonful. Come on, open your mouth, it’s the last one. That’s it, very good.’
He uncovered the second course and said oh, how nice, boiled chicken. Do you like that?
Adrià placed his gaze on the wall, indifferent.
‘I love you, Adrià. And I’ll spare you the story of the violin.’
He looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze, or with the gaze that Adrià saw Sara giving him when she looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze. Or with the gaze that Bernat thought Sara gave Adrià when she looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze.
‘I love you,’ repeated Bernat. And he picked up a quite sad piece of pale chicken thigh and said ooh how nice, how nice. Come on, open up your mouth, Llorenç.
When they’d finished the supper, Jònatan came to take the tray and said do you want to lie down?
‘I can take care of that, if that’s all right.’
‘Fine: if you need help, just whistle.’
Once they were alone, Adrià scratched his head and sighed. He looked at the wall with an empty stare. Bernat shuffled through his briefcase and pulled out a book.
‘The Problem of Evil,’ he read from the cover. ‘Adrià Ardèvol.’
Adrià looked into his eyes and then at the book. He yawned.