‘Bulchanij.’
‘I don’t speak to dogs.’
‘Bulchanij.’
The sombre tone of voice made him turn reluctantly. Bulchanij of Moena had a prominent belly that, had he lived longer and eaten enough, would have been a very good spot to rest his arms.
‘What the hell do you want?’
‘Where’s your doublet?’
‘What the hell business is that of yours?’
‘Why aren’t you wearing it? Show it to me.’
‘Piss off. What do you think, just because you’re down on your luck everybody from Moena has to do what you say? Eh?’ He pointed to him with hatred in his eyes. ‘I’m not going to show it to you. Now get lost, you’re blocking the damn sun.’
Jachiam, the fourth Mureda boy, with cold rage, unsheathed the bark-stripping knife he always carried in his belt. He rammed it into the belly of Bulchanij Brocia, the fattest man in Moena, as if he were the trunk of a maple tree. Bulchanij opened his mouth and his eyes widened as big as oranges, surprised less by the pain than by the fact that a piece of shit from Pardàc dared to touch him. When Jachiam Mureda pulled out his knife, which made a disgusting bloop gloop and was red with blood, Bulchanij collapsed into a chair as if deflating from the wound.
Jachiam looked up and down the deserted road. Naively, he set off running towards Pardàc. When he had passed the last house in Moena, he realised that the hunchbacked woman from the mill, who was loaded down with wet clothes and looked at him mouth agape, might have seen everything. Instead of lashing out at her gaze, he just increased his pace. Even though he was the best at finding tonewoods, even though he was not yet twenty, his life had just abruptly changed course.
His family reacted well, because they quickly sent people to San Martino and Siròr, to explain with evidence that Bulchanij was an arsonist who had burned the forest down maliciously, but the people of Moena thought that there was no need to come to any arrangement with the law and they prepared, without any arbitrators, to hunt down villainous Jachiam Mureda.
‘Son,’ said old man Mureda, his gaze even sadder than usual. ‘You must flee.’ And he held out a bag with half of the gold he’d saved over thirty years of working the Paneveggio wood. And none of Jachiam’s siblings said a word about that decision. And, somewhat ceremoniously, he said even though you are the best tree tracker and the best at locating tonewood, Jachiam, my dear son, the fourth of this ill-fated house, your life is worth more than the best maple trunk we could ever sell. And this way you will save yourself from the ruin that surely awaits us, because Bulchanij of Moena has left us without wood.
‘Father, I …’
‘Run, flee, be quick about it, go through Welschnofen, because they will surely be looking for you in Siròr. We will spread the word that you are hiding in Siròr or Tonadich. It’s too dangerous for you to stay in the valleys. You’ll have to make a very, very long trip, far from Pardàc. Run, Son, and may God keep you and protect you.’
‘But Father, I don’t want to leave. I want to work in the forest.’
‘They’ve burned it down. What could you work with, Son?’
‘I don’t know; but if I leave the valleys I’ll die!’
‘If you don’t run away this very night, I’ll kill you myself. Do you understand me now?’
‘Father …’
‘No one from Moena will lay a hand on any son of mine.’
And Jachiam of the Muredas from Pardàc said goodbye to his father and kissed each of his siblings one by one: Agno, Jenn, Max and their wives. Hermes, Josef, Theodor and Micurà. Ilse, Eria and their husbands; and then, Katharina, Matilde, Gretchen and Bettina. They had all gathered to say goodbye to him in silence, and when he was already at the door, little Bettina said Jachiam, and he turned and saw how the girl held out her hand, and from it hung the medallion of Saint Maria dai Ciüf of Pardàc, the medallion that Mum had entrusted her with on her deathbed. Jachiam, in silence, looked at his brothers and sisters, and fixed his gaze on his father, who made a wordless gesture with his head. Then he went over to little Bettina and took the medallion and said Bettina, my sweet little one, I will wear this treasure until the day I die; and he didn’t know how true what he was saying would be. And Bettina touched both of her hands to his cheeks, refusing to cry. Jachiam left the house with his eyes flooded; he murmured a brief prayer at his mother’s grave and disappeared into the night, towards the endless snow, to change his life, change his history and his memories.
‘Is that all you have?’
‘This is an antiques shop,’ responded Cecília with that stern attitude that made men feel ashamed. And with a hint of sarcasm, ‘Why don’t you try a luthier?’
I liked Cecília when she got mad. She was even prettier. Prettier than Mother even. Than Mother in that period.
From where I was I could see Mr Berenguer’s office. I heard Cecília escorting the disappointed customer, who still wore his hat, to the door. As I heard the little bell ring and Cecília wish him well, Mr Berenguer looked up and winked at me.
‘Adrià.’
‘Yes.’
‘When are they coming to pick you up?’ he said, raising his voice.
I shrugged. I never knew exactly when I had to be one place or the other. My parents didn’t want me home alone so they brought me to the shop whenever they were both out. Which was fine for me because I entertained myself looking at the most unimaginable objects, things that had already lived and now rested patiently waiting for a second or third or fourth opportunity. And I imagined their lives in different homes and it was very amusing.
Little Lola always ended up coming for me, rushing because she had to make dinner and hadn’t even started. That was why I shrugged when Mr Berenguer asked me when they were picking me up.
‘Come,’ he told me, lifting up a blank piece of paper. ‘Sit at the Tudor desk and draw for a bit.’
I’ve never liked drawing because I don’t know how; I haven’t a clue. That’s why I’ve always admired your skill, which I find miraculous. Mr Berenguer told me to draw for a bit because it bothered him to see me there doing nothing, which wasn’t true, because I spent the time thinking. But you can’t say no to Mr Berenguer. Seated there at the Tudor desk, I did whatever I could to keep him quiet. I pulled Black Eagle out of my pocket and tried to draw him. Poor Black Eagle, if he could see himself on that paper … That was before Black Eagle had had a chance to meet Sheriff Carson, because I’d acquired him that very morning in a swap with Ramon Coll for a Weiss harmonica. If my father finds out, he’ll kill me.