My mother's family denied the story and attributed it to my father's still-burning resentment, or at least to a false memory, but once, when my grandmother was almost a hundred years old, and dramatically evoking a time that she wasn't so much remembering as reliving, she let it slip. "There's that poor man standing in the doorway of the living room, and Nicolasito hasn't asked him to sit down," she said with true regret. Always attentive to her dazzling revelations, I asked her who the man was, and her simple reply was "Garcia, the one with the violin."
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