Dear Cousin Joaquín:

It has already been four years since you left us, but my memory of you has faded not one iota. How many times have I felt the urge to pick up the telephone to share with you, as we used to do, a joy, an experience, even a worry.

Sadly, that melodious and upbeat voice of "Mon Cher Cousin" who responded to my calls is left behind; but not the bundle of memories of shared experiences, of projects and enthusiasms, of laughter and accomplices' silences, and of affection above all.

You entered my life shortly after the death of my father; one might rightly observe that in a certain way you filled his empty space.

Our great-grandfathers were brothers, thence our common origin. But it was my uncle Lluís Nin, my mother's brother, who for many years maintained a connection between the two branches of the family. You came to Barcelona frequently, installed yourself in the home of your dear Rosés friends in Sarriá, where you composed your opera "La Celestina," and you saw my uncle Lluis and his family once in a while. Uncle Lluís also corresponded with your sister Anaïs, who never returned to Barcelona. I vaguely heard from him of your level-headed personality, your exquisite culture and manners, and your total devotion to music. I heard how you and Uncle Lluís got together once to visit Salomó, the village in the region of Tarragona from which the Nin family originated.

I had met you on one occasion when you participated as a juror in the annual María Canals voice competition in Barcelona. We met, hit it off, and I immediately confirmed how accurately Uncle Lluís had described you. I wanted to know you better, to ask you questions, to enjoy on some occasion the blessings of blue kindness transmitted by your gaze. But the moment had not yet arrived.

It was in Madrid, in early 1992, that our paths crossed again. I was there for my work, and you had received from the Ministry of Culture, the depressing news that your "Celestina" would not be produced as had originally been planned for the celebration of the "Fifth Centenary" (of Columbus' historic voyage). As usual, budget considerations. "Music is the first to get the axe," you said with a smile, but an enormous sadness in your eyes. We decided to dine together. You were flying back to California the next day.

I wanted to cheer you up, at least to distract you; first we went to the Café Gijón, then to the restaurant next door, "El Espejo," chosen perhaps because of its ornate Art Nouveau décor, which appealed to us because of its similarity to the Catalan Modernism of our origins. We started out sharing family gossip and anecdotes, of the same family which in a moment in history was separated into two branches, yours the "Americanos" (or "Indianos") and ours the Catalans who stayed "at Home."

In the "modernist" environment we chatted about Barcelona at the turn of the 19th and 20th centuries when your father and my grandfather, who curiously were of the same age, although they were nephew and uncle, met frequently at the famous bohemian tavern "Els Quatre Gats." Your father frequently played in piano concerts there, where one might run into Ramòn Casas, Utrillo, Santiago Rusiņol or a young man from Málaga, last name of Ruiz, Ruiz Picasso.

The two young Nin men would soon follow very different destinies: Joaquín Nin Castellanos would leave precipitously for Cuba (skirt business, so goes the story) where he would meet and marry your mother Rosa Culmell, and where he would be acclaimed as a virtuoso pianist. He would later establish himself in Paris, Berlin and Brussels as a pianist, musicologist and composer, and would father three children (Anaïs, Thorvald and Joaquín), all of whom would eventually become U.S. citizens. My grandfather, Antoni María de Nin Alberich would become an exceedingly creative architect, would marry and soon father four children (among them my mother Mercedes) and would die prematurely at age 40.

It was during that dinner I mentioned the possibility of producing your opera in Barcelona. What harm could it do to make the effort? You had many friends there who knew your work. Why not approach the Gran Teatre del Liceu? During the coffee (excuse me, you were drinking a poly-mint beverage...!) we came up with a long list of persons prominent in the music world who would certainly support the initiative. Your expression gradually changed from a decided bleakness to an almost juvenile delight. It was not an impossible dream.

Twenty four hours later you were flying to California, and I, with the list of names in hand, back in Barcelona, got in touch first with the Rosés family in their welcoming home on Duquesa de Orleáns street. I suggested we organize a group of friends for the purpose of producing a detailed dossier of your accomplishments, and which would include an unequivocal manifesto of our goals: to achieve the production of the world premiere of your opera "La Celestina" in the Gran Teatre del Liceu in Barcelona.

As you know, we met weekly in Sarriá, thanks to the welcoming spirit of that great lady of Barcelona, Doņa Mercedes Batlló de Rosés. Acting as members of the entity known in Catalan as "Amics de Joaquim Nin Culmell" (friends of Joaquín Nin-Culmell) we contacted the most outstanding figures of your musical world. All supported the initiative with letters and signatures of luminaries such as Victoria de los Angeles, Alfredo Kraus, Montsalvatge, Ros Marbá...among many others.

The Artistic Director of the Liceu, Dr. Albin Hanseroth, graciously received us with interest. He was acquainted with many of your compositions, through not your opera. I handed him the score on your behalf, together with the brand new dossier pulled together by so many of your friends. For weeks Hanseroth meticulously studied the libretto and score. Not many days remained before you were to return to Barcelona, and we already had a long-awaited appointment in La Rambla. I can remember it as if it were today, the lunch you and I attended at the Circulo del Liceu as guests of the Theater director Josep Caminal and Dr. Hanseroth.

Three months had passed since that evening of disappointment and hope. The Artistic Director of the Liceu was enthusiastic about the opera. I remember his words: "Maestro, today there are many new operas which are more music than theater, and others which are the reverse. Your Celestina, respected friend, is equally music and theater." They decided to include your "Old Lady" (as you referred to it) in the program of new works at the Liceu, to take place in three years. Only three years to wait to see, at long last, the performance of your dearest composition!! When we left the Gran Teatre we found refuge across the street, in the "Café de la Opera." Its walls are witnesses to many of our speculations and hopes. That afternoon everything was rose colored. You were exultant, but later with a troubled smile you asked, "That's it? I cannot believe it..." I was perplexed. This was no time for pessimism!

It was a premonition. Months later the Gran Teatre del Liceu was in flames. And so was our project, since its principal backer, Dr. Albin Hanseroth, left Barcelona to become Artistic Director of the Hamburg Opera. Joaquín, with what fortitude you endured those days, with what serenity you again aspired to another proposal to perform your opera, this time in Madrid, which in the end, also was not fulfilled. With that smile, with tightened lips, you reflected ironically that Albeniz (after all) had to wait eleven years to see his opera performed. You maintained your inner balance and kept on working with such energy, so inappropriate for a nonagenarian.

As a matter of fact, you did celebrate your 90th birthday here in Barcelona (in 1998) with your friends the Rosés and Bartumeus and with your Juste de Nin family. The "Mariona" Restaurant, near the Mercado Galvany was witness to your happiness, and witness also to your feeling of belonging to this city, this ancient Catalan homeland of your origins.

But eventually your sky-blue vision began to fail you. In your last visit to "Ithaca" as I always called it, in 2001, your health was not as high as your illusions. You felt weak and knew that you probably would not return to Barcelona, to the "Casa Beethoven" in the Rambla where you bought score sheets and chatted with the owner, to the "Quatre Gats," sharing an infusion redolent of father and grandfather, to your favorite barbershop, in Sarriá, to those who loved you on this side of the ocean.

Neus (my wife) and I decided to accompany you to Madrid where you were to board your flight to San Francisco. We spent that night in the "Palace." You could not see it well, but you could "feel" it with great intensity, a hotel which brought you many fond memories. That night was the prelude to a difficult and anxiety ridden separation. The next morning we took you to the airport. Your beloved niece Gayle and her husband David were waiting for you in San Francisco. It was time to say "good-bye," a word we didn't mention. We hugged more tightly than usual. We both shed a well-hidden tear. We made plans as usual. "We'll talk once a week." It ripped my heart to shreds. But we both knew this was probably our last embrace. The loud speaker announced your flight. You took a deep breath and with almost the same firmness of previous times, you gave me your final instructions: "My son, when my "Old Lady" is produced, if for some reason I am not able to attend the premiere, you can be sure that I'll enjoy it through your eyes."

I shall miss you deeply forever, Joaquín,

Lluís Juste de Nin