Jaume Cabré - Confessions

A single, patchily paved landing strip received the plane with some jolts that made them think they would never make it to the baggage carousel, if there even was one at the Kikwit airport. To keep from losing face in front of that young woman with a bored expression, he pretended to be reading while, in his head, he was thinking if he remembered exactly where the emergency exits were. It was the third plane he’d taken since boarding in Brussels. In this one, he was the only white person; he wasn’t worried about sticking out too much. That came with the job. The plane left them more than a hundred metres from the small building. They had to walk the rest, trying not to leave their shoes stuck to the boiling asphalt. He collected his small travel bag, bought a taxi driver who, with his four by four and his jerry cans of petrol, was anxious to be bribed, and who, after three hours of following the Kwilu’s course, asked for more dollars because they were entering a dangerous area. Kikongo, you know what I mean. He paid without complaint because it was all in his expected budget and plan, even the lies. Another long hour of jolts, as if it were a landing strip, and as they advanced there were more trees, taller, thicker trees. The car stopped in front of a half-rotted sign.

‘Bebenbeleke,’ he said in a tone that left no room for a reply.

‘Where the heck is the hospital?’

The taxi driver pointed with his nose towards the reddish sun. Four planks in the shape of a house. It wasn’t as hot as at the airport.

‘When should I come pick you up?’ he said.

‘I’ll walk back.’

‘You’re crazy.’

‘Yes.’

He grabbed his bag and walked towards the four poorly positioned planks without turning to say goodbye to the taxi driver, who spat on the ground, happier than ever because he could still go through Kikongo to visit his cousins and try to drum up some unlikely passenger to Kikwit, and he wouldn’t need to work again for four or five days.

Without turning around, he waited for the sound of the taxi to completely vanish. He headed towards the only tree around, a strange tree that must have had one of those impossible names, and he picked up a bulky bag of military camouflage fabric, which seemed to be waiting for him, leaning against the trunk like someone having a nap. Then he turned the corner and found what could be the main door to Bebenbeleke. A long porch where three women sat in deckchairs of some sort, carefully observing the passing of the hours in silence. There was no actual door. And inside there was no reception area. A dimly lit corridor with a bulb that gave off a shaky light, from a generator. And a hen that ran outside as if realising she’d been caught red-handed. He went back to the porch and addressed the three women, in general.

‘Doctor Müss?’

One of the women, the oldest, pointed inside with a nod of her head. The youngest corroborated it by saying, to the right, but he’s with a patient now.

He went back inside and took the hallway to the right. Soon he found himself in a room where an old man wearing a white coat, which was impeccable even amid so much dust, was listening to the torso of a child who wasn’t so sure about the whole examination and wanted to be rescued by his mother, who stood beside him.

He sat down on a bright green bench next to two other women, who were excited by something breaking the routine in Bebenbeleke that had them repeating, like a litany, the same words over and over for quite some time. He put down the larger bag beside his feet, making a metallic noise. It was getting dark. When Doctor Müss finished with the last patient, he looked up at him for the first time, as if his being there was the most normal thing in the world.

‘Do you need a check-up as well?’ he said in greeting.

‘I just wanted to confess.’

The newcomer now realised that the doctor wasn’t old: he was beyond old. From the way he moved it seemed he had an inexhaustible inner energy, and that was deceiving. His body was what it was, that of a man over eighty. The photo that he had been able to lay his hands on was of a man in his sixties, at most.

As if a European showing up at dusk to the Bebenbeleke hospital asking for confession was a common occurence, Doctor Müss washed his hands in a sink that, miraculously, had a tap with running water and he gestured for the newcomer to follow him. Just then, two men with dark glasses and cocky attitudes sat on the green bench they’d just shooed the excited women off of. The doctor led the visitor to a small room, perhaps his office.

‘Will you be staying for dinner?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t make long-term plans.’

‘As you wish.’

‘It took me a lot of work to find you, Doctor Budden. I lost your trail in a Trappist monastery and there was no way to find where you’d gone.’

‘How did you do it, then?’

‘By visiting the main archives of the order.’

‘Ah, yes, their obsession with having everything documented and archived. Were they helpful?’

‘They probably still don’t know I visited their archives.’

‘What did you find there?’

‘Besides the false lead on the Baltic, there was a reference to Stuttgart, to Tübingen and to Bebenhausen. In that small town I was able to tie up some loose ends with the help of a very kindly old lady.’

‘My cousin Herta Landau, right? She’s always been a windbag. She must have been overjoyed to have someone to listen to her. Forgive me, go on.’

‘Well, that’s it. It took me years to fit the pieces together.’

‘That’s for the best: it’s given me time to make amends for a fraction of the evil I’ve done.’

‘My client would have liked me to have found you sooner.’

‘Why don’t you arrest me and take me to trial?’

‘My client is old: he doesn’t want any delays because he is going to die soon, according to what he says.’

‘Right.’

‘And he doesn’t want to die without seeing you dead.’

‘I understand. And how did you manage to find me?’

‘Oh, a lot of purely technical work. My trade is very boring: long hours of poking around in different places until you finally put the pieces together. And like that, for days and days, until I understood that the Bebenhausen I was looking for wasn’t exactly in Baden-Württemberg. At some points I even thought that it was some sort of a clue left for someone who might be wanting to follow your trail.’

He realised that the doctor was repressing a smile.

‘Did you like Bebenhausen?’

‘Very much.’

‘It is my lost paradise.’ Doctor Müss shook off a recollection with a wave of his hand and now he did smile: ‘You took a long time,’ he said.

‘As I said … When I took on the assignment you were very well hidden.’

‘To be able to work and make amends.’ Curious, ‘How do these assignments work?’

‘It’s very professional and very … cold.’

Doctor Müss got up and, from a small cabinet that seemed to be a refrigerator, he pulled out a bowl of something vague and possibly edible. He put it on the table, with two plates and two spoons.

‘If you don’t mind … At my age I have to eat like a sparrow … little and often. Otherwise, I might faint.’

‘Do people trust such an old doctor?’

‘They have no other options. I hope they don’t close the hospital when I die. I am in negotiations with the village authorities in Beleke and Kikongo.’

‘I’m very sorry, Doctor Budden.’

‘Yes.’ About the vague contents of the bowl: ‘It’s millet. It’s better than nothing, believe me.’

He served himself and passed the bowl to the other man. With his mouth full: ‘What did you mean by that, that it’s a very cold, very professional job?’