Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘And now run to the wall again.’ To Haïm, pushing him: ‘You stand here, damn it!’

He looked at his team of hares with some sort of solidarity and pride and shouted: ‘The bastard who doesn’t run in zig-zags, won’t make it. Go!’

They were so drunk that they could only kill three women. You reached the other side, alive, and guilty of not having acted as a shield for any of the three women who lay on the ground. One of them was badly hurt, and Doctor You saw right away that the entry hole in her neck had cut her jugular; as if wanting to prove him right, the woman remained immobile as the puddle of blood that was her bed widened. Mea culpa.

And more things that he only told me and I wasn’t brave enough to tell Rachel and the children. That he couldn’t take it any more and he shouted at the Nazis that they were miserable wretches, and the least drunk among them started laughing and aimed at the youngest of the surviving women and said ffucking shut your trap or I’ll start picking them off one by one. You shut up. And when they went back to the basement, one of the hunters started to vomit and another told him you see? you see? that’s what you get for mixing so many sweet liquors, blockhead. And it seemed they had to stop their fun and games and the basement was left in the dark, and only the moans of horror kept them company. And outside, an exchange of cross shouts and vexed orders that You couldn’t understand. And it turns out that the next day the camp’s evacuation began because the Russians were approaching faster than they had foreseen and, in the confusion, no one remembered the six or seven hares in basement. Long live the Red Army, said You in Russian, when he realised the situation; and one of the women understood him and explained it to the other hares. And the moans stopped to give way to hope. And so, You’s life was saved. But I often think that surviving was a worse punishment than death. Do you understand me, Ardèvol? That is why I am a Jew, not by birth, as far as I know, but by choice, as are many Catalans who feel we are slaves in our land and we have tasted the diaspora just for being Catalan. And from that day on I knew that I am also a Jew, Sara. Jewish not by blood, but by intellect, by people, by history. A Jew without God and trying not to do harm, like Mr Voltes, because trying to do good is, I think, too pretentious. I didn’t pull it off either.

‘It would be better if you didn’t tell my daughter about this conversation,’ were the last words Mr Voltes said to me as I got out of the car. And that is why I never told you anything about it, until writing it today, Sara. I was unfaithful to you with that secret as well. But I am very sorry that I never saw Mr Voltes alive again.

If I’m not mistaken, that was about the time that you bought the wine pitcher with the long spout.

And when we had only been living together for a couple of months Morral called me and said I have the original of El coronel no tiene quien le escriba.

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘Guaranteed?’

‘Mr Ardèvol, don’t insult me.’

And I said, putting on a normal voice with no hint of emotion in it, I’m going out for a minute, Sara. And from the depths of her studio Sara’s voice emerged from the tale of the laughing frog and said where are you going?

‘To the Athenaeum’ (I swear it just came out).

‘Ah’ (what did she know, poveretta).

‘Yes, I’ll be back shortly’ (maestro dell’inganno).

‘It’s your night to cook’ (innocente e angelica).

‘Yes, yes, don’t worry. I’ll be back soon’ (traditore).

‘Is something wrong?’ (compassionevole).

‘No, what could be wrong’ (bugiardo, menzognero, impostore).

Adrià ran away and didn’t realise that, when he closed the door, he had slammed it, like his father had many years earlier, when he went to meet his death.

In the little flat where Morral carried out his transactions I was able to examine the splendid, extraordinary manuscript. The final part was typed, but Morral assured me that that was often the case with García Márquez manuscripts. What a delicacy.

‘How much?’

‘That much.’

‘Come on!’

‘As you wish.’

‘This much.’

‘Don’t make me laugh. And I have to be frank with you, Doctor Ardèvol. I acquired it at, let’s just say, a certain risk, and risk is costly.’

‘You mean it’s stolen?’

‘Such words … I can assure you that these papers haven’t left any trail.’

‘Then this much.’

‘No: that much.’

‘Deal.’

These transactions were never paid by cheque. I had to wait, impatient, until the next day; and that night I dreamt that García Márquez himself came to my house to reproach me for the theft and I pretended not to know what he was talking about and he chased me around the flat with a huge knife and I …

‘What’s wrong with you?’ asked Sara, turning on the light.

It was past four in the morning and Adrià had sat up in his parents’ bed, which was now ours. He was panting as if he’d just run a race.

‘Nothing, nothing … Just a dream.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘I can’t remember.’

I lay back down. I waited for her to turn off the light and I said García Márquez was chasing me around the house and wanted to kill me with a knife this big.

Silence. No: a slight tremble in the bed. Until Sara exploded with laughter. Then I felt her hand running lovingly over my bald head the way my mother’s never had. And I felt dirty and a sinner because I was lying to her.

The next day, we were quiet at breakfast, still waking up. Until Sara burst into explosive laughter again.

‘And now what’s wrong with you?’

‘Even your ogres are intellectuals.’

‘Well, I was really scared. Oh, today I have to go to the university’ (impostore).

‘But it’s Tuesday’ (angelica).

‘I know, yeah … But Parera wants something and asked me to … pff …’ (spregevole).

‘Well, have patience’ (innocente).

One lie after another, and I was headed to La Caixa bank, I withdrew that much and went to Can Morral, with the anguished premonition that the flat had caught fire that night, or he’d changed his mind, or he’d found a more generous bidder … or he’d been arrested.

No. The colonel was still waiting patiently for me. I picked him up tenderly. Now it was mine and I didn’t have to suffer any more. Mine.

‘Mr Morral.’

‘Yes?’

‘And the complete Nietzsche manuscript?’

‘Aha.’

‘What’s the price?’

‘If you’re asking just to ask, I’ll keep it to myself, and don’t take it the wrong way.’

‘I’m asking because I want to buy, if I can.’

‘In ten days from now call me and I will tell you an amount, if it hasn’t been sold yet.’

‘What!?’

‘Oh, what do you think? You’re the only one in the world?’

‘But I want it.’

‘Ten days.’

At home, I couldn’t show you my treasure. That was my clandestine side, to compensate for your secrets. I hid the manuscript at the bottom of a drawer. I wanted to buy a folder that showed each and every page, both sides, of the entire work. But I had to do it in secret. And to top it all off, Black Eagle.

‘Come on, what, say it.’

‘Now you’ve crossed the forbidden river.’

‘What?’

‘You keep spending money on trinkets, without saying a word to your squaw.’

‘It’s as if you were cheating on her,’ added Carson. ‘There’s no way this ends well.’

‘I can’t do it any other way.’

‘We are about to break ties with the white friend who has sheltered us our whole lives.’

‘Or about to spill the beans to Sara.’