Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘That much?’

‘Yes. Are you interested, Doctor?’

‘If it were this much, yes.’

‘That’s a leap! This much.’

‘This much.’

‘All right, fine: this much.’

That time it was the hand-written score of Allegro de concert by Granados. For a few days, I avoided the gazes of Sheriff Carson and the valiant Arapaho Chief Black Eagle.

Franz-Paul Decker announced a ten-minute break because it seems that management was calling him in over something very urgent, because management was always more urgent than anything else, even the second rehearsal of Bruckner’s fourth. Bernat began speaking with that quiet, shy French horn, whom Decker had made repeat the awakening of the first day in the Bewegt, nicht zu schnell, to show the entire orchestra how good a good French horn sounds. And he, the third time the director was having him display his talents, hit a false note that the French horn fears worse than death. And everyone laughed a bit. Decker and the French horn did as well, but Bernat felt a little anxious. That boy had joined the orchestra recently, and always kept to his corner, timid, eyes down, short and blond, a bit plump. It seemed his name was Romain Gunzbourg.

‘Bernat Plensa.’

‘Enchanté. First violins, right?’

‘Yes. So? How’s it going for you, in the orchestra? Besides the fancy stuff the maestro’s been making you do.’

It was going well for him. He was Parisian, he was enjoying getting to know Barcelona, but he was anxious to visit the Chopin route in Majorca.

‘I’ll take you,’ offered Bernat, the way he always did, almost without thinking. I had told him a thousand times, bloody hell, Bernat, think before you speak. Or just say it disingenuously, but don’t commit yourself to …

‘I gave my word and … Besides, he’s a lad who’s here alone, and I feel kind of sorry for …’

‘And now you’re going to have trouble with Tecla, can’t you see that?’

‘Don’t exaggerate. Why would there be trouble?’

And Bernat went home after the rehearsal and said hey, Tecla, I’m going to Valldemossa for a couple of days, with a French horn.

‘What?’

Tecla was coming out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron, smelling of chopped onions.

‘Tomorrow I’m going to show Gunzbourg where Chopin stayed.’

‘Who in the hell is Gunzbourg?’

‘A French horn, I already told you.’

‘What?’

‘From the orchestra. Since we have two days of …’

‘Just like that, without letting me know?’

‘I’m letting you know.’

‘And what about Llorenç’s birthday?’

‘Oh, it slipped my mind. Shit. Well … It’s that …’

Bernat took Gunzbourg to Valldemossa, they got drunk in a musical pub, Gunzbourg turned out to be excellent at improvising on the piano and Bernat, thanks to the Menorcan gin, sang a couple of standards in the voice of Mahalia Jackson.

‘Why do you play the French horn?’ The question he’d been wanting to ask him from the first time he saw him pull the instrument out of its case.

‘Someone’s got to play it,’ he answered as they walked back to the hotel, with the sun emerging along the ruddy horizon.

‘But you, the piano …’

‘Let it go.’

The final result was that they forged a nice friendship and Tecla pouted for twenty days and added another offence to his curriculum. That was when Sara realised that Bernat never realised that Tecla was pouting until her pouting had solidified in the form of a crisis about to explode.

‘Why is Bernat like that?’ you asked me one day.

‘I don’t know. Maybe to show the world something or other.’

‘Isn’t he a bit old to be showing the world something or other?’

‘Bernat? Even on his deathbed, he’ll still be thinking that he has to show the world something or other.’

‘Poor Tecla. She’s always in the right when she complains.’

‘He lives in his own world. He’s not a bad kid.’

‘That’s easy to say. But then she’s the one who ends up looking like a whinger.’

‘Don’t you get mad at me now,’ Adrià, slightly peeved.

‘He’s a difficult man.’

‘I’m sorry, Tecla, but I’d promised him! Bloody hell, you’re making too big a deal of it. Don’t be so dramatic, for god’s sake! It was just a couple of days in Majorca, for god’s sake! Bloody hell!’

‘And Llorenç? He’s your son! He’s not the French horn’s son.’

‘What is he now, nine or ten?’

‘Eleven.’

‘That’s it: eleven. He’s not a baby any more.’

‘Would you like me to tell you whether he’s still a baby or not?’

‘Go ahead.’

Mother and son each took a bite of birthday cake in silence. Llorenç said Mama, what about Dad? And she replied that he had work in Majorca. And they continued eating cake in silence.

‘It’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Yeah. It sucks that Dad’s not here.’

‘So get going on the gift you owe him.’

‘But you already gave him some …’

‘Right now!’ screamed Tecla, almost about to cry with rage.

Bernat bought a very lovely book for Llorenç, which he gazed at for a good long while without daring to tear the wrapping paper. Llorenç looked at his father, he looked at his mother’s frayed nerves and he didn’t know that he was sad over things he couldn’t comprehend.

‘Thanks, Dad, it’s really nice,’ he said, without having torn the wrapping paper. The next morning, when he woke him up to go to school, the boy was sleeping with the wrapped book in his arms.

‘Rsrsrsrsrsrrsrsrs.’

Caterina went to answer the door and found a very well-dressed young man, with the smile of a salesman selling those new water filters, very expressive grey eyes and a small briefcase in his hand. She stared at him without letting go of the door. He understood the silence as a question and said, yes, Mr Ardèvol, please.

‘He’s not here.’

‘What do you mean?’ Confused. ‘But he told me that …’ He checked his watch, a bit lost. ‘That’s strange … And the lady of the house?’

‘She’s not here either.’

‘Boy. In that case …’

Caterina made a gesture that said I’m very sorry but there’s nothing we can do. But the nice young man, who was also quite attractive, pointed to her with one finger and said for what I’ve come to do, maybe they don’t even need to be here.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’ve come for the appraisal.’

‘The what?’

‘The appraisal. Didn’t they mention it to you?’

‘No. What appraisal?’

‘So, they haven’t told you anything about it?’ Desolate, the clever young man.

‘No.’

‘The appraisal of the violin.’ Gesturing inside, ‘Posso?’

‘No!’ Caterina thought it over for a few seconds. ‘It’s just that I don’t know anything about this. They didn’t tell me anything.’

The clever young man had got both feet onto the doorsill by degrees and now widened his smile.

‘Mr Ardèvol is very absent-minded.’ He made a politely conspiratorial expression and continued: ‘We spoke about it just last night. I only have to examine the instrument for five minutes.’

‘Look. Maybe it’d be better if you came back some other time when they’re here …’

‘Forgive me, but I’ve come from Cremona, Lombardy, Italy, just for this, do you understand? Does that ring a bell? Call Mr Ardèvol and ask him for permission.’

‘I wouldn’t know how to locate him.’

‘Darn …’

‘Besides, lately he keeps it inside a safe.’

‘I understand that you know the combination.’

Silence. The nice young man hadn’t made any brusque movements, but he already had both feet inside the flat. Caterina was betrayed by her silence. He unzipped his briefcase and pulled out a wad of five-thousand notes, to help her make up her mind.