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Authors: Arturo Pérez-Reverte
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lips. “If I told you how much I have to pay in taxes every year just to hang on to this house and live in it, you’d be horrified.”
“It’s a good area,” Julia said. “And a good house.”
“Yes, but my pension is tiny. That’s why I’ve gradually been selling off little souvenirs. The painting will give me a breathing space.”
He remained thoughtful, nodding slowly, although he didn’t seem particularly downcast. On the contrary, he seemed to find the whole thing amusing, as if there were humorous aspects to it that only he could appreciate. Perhaps what at first sight seemed only vulgar pillaging on the part of an unscrupulous niece and her husband was, for him, an odd kind of experiment in family greed: it’s always “uncle this and uncle that”, here we are at your beck and call, and your pension only just covers the costs; you’d be better off in a home with people the same age as you; it’s a shame, all these pictures hanging on the walls for no purpose. Now, with the Van Huys as bait, Belmonte must have felt safe. He could regain the initiative after long years of humiliation. Thanks to the painting, he could finally settle his account with his niece and her husband.
Julia offered him a cigarette, and he gave a grateful smile but hesitated.
“I shouldn’t really,” he said. “Lola allows me only one milky coffee and one cigarette a day.”
“Forget Lola,” Julia replied, with a spontaneity that surprised her. Menchu looked startled, but the old man didn’t seem bothered in the least. He gave Julia a look in which she thought she caught a glimmer of complicity, instantly extinguished, and reached out his thin fingers. Leaning over the table to light the cigarette, Julia said: “About the painting… Something unexpected has come up.”
The old man took a pleasurable gulp of smoke, held it in his lungs as long as possible and half closed his eyes.
“Unexpected in a good way or a bad way?”
“In a good way. We’ve discovered an original inscription underneath the paint. Uncovering it would increase the value of the painting.” She sat back in her chair, smiling. “It’s up to you what we do.”
Belmonte looked at Menchu and then at Julia, as if making some private comparison or as if torn between two loyalties. At last he seemed to decide. Taking another long pull on his cigarette, he rested his hands on his knees with a look of satisfaction.
“You’re not only pretty, but you’re obviously bright as well,” he said to Julia. “I bet you even like Bach.”
“I love Bach.”
“Please, tell me what the inscription says.”
And Julia told him.
“Who’d have thought it!” Belmonte, incredulous, was still shaking his head after a long silence. “All those years of looking at that picture and I never once imagined…” He glanced briefly at the empty space left by the Van Huys, and his eyes half-closed in a contented smile. “So the painter was fond of riddles.”
“So it would seem,” Julia said.
Belmonte pointed to the record player in the corner.
“He’s not the only one,” he said. “Works of art containing games and hidden clues used to be commonplace. Take Bach, for example. The ten canons that make up his
Musical Offering
are the most perfect thing he composed, and yet not one of them was written out in full, from start to finish. He did that deliberately, as if the piece were a series of riddles he was setting Frederick of Prussia. It was a common musical stratagem of the day. It consisted in writing a theme, accompanied by more or less enigmatic instructions, and leaving the canon based on that theme to be discovered by another musician or interpreter; or by another player, since it was in fact a game.”
“How interesting!” said Menchu.
“You don’t know just how interesting. Like many artists, Bach was a joker. He was always coming up with devices to fool the audience. He used tricks employing notes and letters, ingenious variations,
“It’s a good area,” Julia said. “And a good house.”
“Yes, but my pension is tiny. That’s why I’ve gradually been selling off little souvenirs. The painting will give me a breathing space.”
He remained thoughtful, nodding slowly, although he didn’t seem particularly downcast. On the contrary, he seemed to find the whole thing amusing, as if there were humorous aspects to it that only he could appreciate. Perhaps what at first sight seemed only vulgar pillaging on the part of an unscrupulous niece and her husband was, for him, an odd kind of experiment in family greed: it’s always “uncle this and uncle that”, here we are at your beck and call, and your pension only just covers the costs; you’d be better off in a home with people the same age as you; it’s a shame, all these pictures hanging on the walls for no purpose. Now, with the Van Huys as bait, Belmonte must have felt safe. He could regain the initiative after long years of humiliation. Thanks to the painting, he could finally settle his account with his niece and her husband.
Julia offered him a cigarette, and he gave a grateful smile but hesitated.
“I shouldn’t really,” he said. “Lola allows me only one milky coffee and one cigarette a day.”
“Forget Lola,” Julia replied, with a spontaneity that surprised her. Menchu looked startled, but the old man didn’t seem bothered in the least. He gave Julia a look in which she thought she caught a glimmer of complicity, instantly extinguished, and reached out his thin fingers. Leaning over the table to light the cigarette, Julia said: “About the painting… Something unexpected has come up.”
The old man took a pleasurable gulp of smoke, held it in his lungs as long as possible and half closed his eyes.
“Unexpected in a good way or a bad way?”
“In a good way. We’ve discovered an original inscription underneath the paint. Uncovering it would increase the value of the painting.” She sat back in her chair, smiling. “It’s up to you what we do.”
Belmonte looked at Menchu and then at Julia, as if making some private comparison or as if torn between two loyalties. At last he seemed to decide. Taking another long pull on his cigarette, he rested his hands on his knees with a look of satisfaction.
“You’re not only pretty, but you’re obviously bright as well,” he said to Julia. “I bet you even like Bach.”
“I love Bach.”
“Please, tell me what the inscription says.”
And Julia told him.
“Who’d have thought it!” Belmonte, incredulous, was still shaking his head after a long silence. “All those years of looking at that picture and I never once imagined…” He glanced briefly at the empty space left by the Van Huys, and his eyes half-closed in a contented smile. “So the painter was fond of riddles.”
“So it would seem,” Julia said.
Belmonte pointed to the record player in the corner.
“He’s not the only one,” he said. “Works of art containing games and hidden clues used to be commonplace. Take Bach, for example. The ten canons that make up his
Musical Offering
are the most perfect thing he composed, and yet not one of them was written out in full, from start to finish. He did that deliberately, as if the piece were a series of riddles he was setting Frederick of Prussia. It was a common musical stratagem of the day. It consisted in writing a theme, accompanied by more or less enigmatic instructions, and leaving the canon based on that theme to be discovered by another musician or interpreter; or by another player, since it was in fact a game.”
“How interesting!” said Menchu.
“You don’t know just how interesting. Like many artists, Bach was a joker. He was always coming up with devices to fool the audience. He used tricks employing notes and letters, ingenious variations,
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