The Novel in the Viola Read Online Free PDF Page A

paintings used to hang. The family portraits remained: the one of me aged eleven in my flimsy muslin dress, hair close-cropped, and the images of the sour-faced, thin-lipped great-grandparents with their lace caps, as well as great-great-aunt Sophie oddly pictured among green fields and a wide blue sky – Sophie had been agoraphobic, infamously refusing to leave her rancid apartment for forty years, but the portrait lied, re-casting her as some sort of nature-loving cloudspotter. My favourite was the painting of Anna as Verdi’s Violetta in the moments before her death, barefoot and clad in a translucent nightgown (which had fascinated and outraged the critics in equal measure), her eyes beseeching you wherever you went. I used to hide beneath the dining room table to escape her gaze, but when I emerged after an hour or more, she was always waiting, reproaching me. The other paintings had gone, but they left reminders – the sun-bleached wallpaper marked with rectangular stains. I missed most the one of the bustling Parisian street in the drizzle; ladies hurried along a tree-lined boulevard, while men in top hats clutched black umbrellas. The shop-fronts were red and blue and the ladies pink-cheeked. I had never been to Paris but this had been my window. I shrugged – it shouldn’t matter now whether the paintings were here, since I would not see them. But when leaving home one always likes to think of it as it ought to be, and as it was before, perfect and unchanging. Now, when I think of our apartment, I restore each picture to its proper place: Paris opposite the painting of breakfast on the balcony (purchased by Julian as a present for Anna on their honeymoon). I have to remind myself that the pictures had vanished before that last night, and then, with a blink, the walls are empty once again.
    The chairs scraped on the parquet floor as the men helped the ladies into their places, gowns catching on chair legs and under feet, so that the hum of chatter rippled with apologies. We all peered round the table with interest, hoping that ours would be the amusing end of the party and the others did not have better dinner companions. Herr Finkelstein adjusted his yarmulke , so it neatly covered the bald disc on his head. The men alternated between the ladies, stark in their black and white, ensuring that none of the women’s rainbow dresses clashed beside one another. Anna and Julian sat at opposite heads of the table. They exchanged a look and Anna rang the silver bell once more. Instantly the diners fell silent and Julian rose to his feet.
    ‘Welcome, my friends. This night is indeed different from all other nights. In the morning my younger daughter, Elise, leaves for England. And in another few weeks, Margot and her husband Robert, depart for America.’
    The guests smiled at Margot and then at me, with envy or pity I could not tell. Julian held up his hand and the hum of conversation dulled once again. He was pale, and even in the half-light I could see beads of perspiration on his brow.
    ‘But the truth is, my friends, we already live in exile. We are no longer citizens in our own country. And it is better to be exiled amongst strangers than at home.’
    Abruptly he sat down, and wiped his forehead with his napkin.
    ‘Darling?’ said Anna, from the other end of the long table, trying to keep the note of anxiety from her voice.
    Julian stared at her for a second, and then recollecting himself, stood up once more, and opened the Haggadah . It was strange – until this year we had always hurried through the Passover Seder. It had become a kind of game, seeing how fast we could race to the end, reading quickly, skipping passages so that we could reach Hildegard’s dinner in record time, preferably before she was even ready to serve it, causing her to puff and grumble. This night we paused and, by tacit agreement, read every word. Perhaps the God-fearing among us believed in the prayers and hoped that due to their