Testaments. Danuta Mostwin

got up and paced back and forth, puffing impatiently on his cigar. Now Wieniawski could take a good look at him. The old man was powerfully built but worn with age. His head drooped to one side, as if it were too heavy for the neck that supported it. Wieniawski looked at him thoughtfully.

      “How old are you, may I ask?”

      “About seventy-eight. Why?”

      Wieniawski said nothing. “He could be my father,” he thought, and felt a twinge of a forgotten emotion. It had been many years since his father had died.

      “A handsome age,” he said aloud. “Do you have any children, either here or in Poland?”

      “I have no one.”

      “And that . . . Gienia Bolanowska?”

      “That’s my late sister’s girl.”

      Wieniawski pulled out a sheet of paper and began to prepare an act of donation. Błażej, meanwhile, put on his glasses, reached for the letter again, and strained once more to figure out its contents.

      “What does it say here?” He pointed with his finger.

      “I thought you knew what the letter says.”

      “No, over here. Start reading from here, please.”

      His work on Broad Street had taught Wieniawski patience. He smoothed out the crumpled sheets and began reading aloud:

      Dear Uncle,