Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Well, things …’

‘No, please, I’m interested.’

‘Well, for example, I never meet my clients. And they never meet me either, of course.’

‘That’s seems logical. But how do you organise it?’

‘Well, there’s a whole technique. Indirect contact is always a possibility, but you must be very meticulous to ensure that you are always connecting with the right person. And you have to learn how to not leave a trail.’

‘That seems logical as well. But today you came in Makubulo Joseph’s car. He’s an incorrigible gossip and by now must have told everyone that …’

‘He’s telling them what I want him to tell them. I am giving up a false lead. You’ll understand that I can’t go into details … And how did you know who my taxi driver was?’

‘I founded the Bebenbeleke hospital forty years ago. I know the name of every dog that barks and every hen that cackles.’

‘So you came here straight from Mariawald.’

‘Does that interest you?’

‘It fascinates me. I’ve had a lot of time to think about you. Have you always worked alone?’

‘I don’t work alone. Before day breaks there are already three nurses seeing patients. I get up early as well, but not that early.’

‘I’m very sorry to be keeping you from your work.’

‘I don’t think the interruption is very important, not today.’

‘And do you do anything else?’

‘No. I devote all my energy to helping the needy during every hour of life I have left.’

‘It sounds like a religious vow.’

‘Well … I’m still somewhat of a monk.’

‘Didn’t you leave the monastery?’

‘I left the Trappist order; I left the monastery, but I still feel that I am a monk. A monk without a community.’

‘And do you lead mass and all that stuff?’

‘I’m not a priest. Non sum dignus.’

They used the silence to take a sizeable chunk out the plate of millet.

‘It’s good,’ said the newcomer.

‘To tell you the truth, I’m sick of it. I miss a lot of foods. Like Sauerkraut. I can’t even remember what it tastes like, but I miss it.’

‘Aw, if I’d known …’

‘No, I miss them but I don’t …’ He swallowed a spoonful of millet. ‘I don’t deserve Sauerkraut.’

‘Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration … I mean, I’m no one to …’

‘I can assure you full well that you are not no one.’

He wiped his lips with the back of his hand and brushed his still immaculate white coat. He pushed aside the tray of food without asking the other man and they remained face to face, with the bare table between them.

‘And the piano?’

‘I gave it up. Non sum dignus. Even the memory of the music I used to adore makes me heave.’

‘Isn’t that a bit of an exaggeration?’

‘Tell me your name.’

Silence. The newcomer thinks it over.

‘Why?’

‘Curiosity. I have no use for it.’

‘I’d rather not.’

‘Your call.’

They couldn’t help it: they both smiled.

‘I don’t know the client. But he gave me a key word that will give you a clue, if you are curious. Don’t you want to know who sent me?’

‘No. Whoever it was who sent you, you are welcome.’

‘My name is Elm.’

‘Thank you, Elm, for trusting me. Don’t take this the wrong way, but I have to ask you to change your profession.’

‘I am doing my last few jobs. I’m retiring.’

‘I’d be happier if this were your last job.’

‘I can’t promise you that, Doctor Budden. And I would like to ask you a personal question.’

‘Go ahead. I just asked you one.’

‘Why haven’t you turned yourself in? I mean, when you left prison, if you felt you hadn’t purged your crimes … well …’

‘In prison or dead I wouldn’t have been able to make amends for my evil.’

‘When it is beyond repair, what do you hope to make amends for?’

‘We are a community that lives on a rock that sails through space, as if we were always searching for God amid the fog.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I’m not surprised. I mean that you can always repair with one person the evil you’ve done to another. But you have to repair it.’

‘And you must not have wanted your name …’

‘Yes. I didn’t want that, it’s true. My life, since I left prison, has consisted of hiding and repairing. Knowing that I will never repair all the evil I’ve done. I’ve been carrying it around inside me for years and never told anyone.’

‘Ego te absolvo, etcetera. Right?’

‘Don’t laugh. I tried it once. But the problem is that my sin cannot be forgiven because it is too big. I devoted my life to atoning for it knowing that when you got here I would still be on the starting line.’

‘From what I remember, if the penitence is enough …’

‘Nonsense. What do you know!’

‘I had a religious education.’

‘What good did it do you?’

‘Look who’s talking.’

They both smiled again. Doctor Müss stuck a hand under his white coat and into his shirt. The other, quickly, leaned over the table and immobilised his arm, grabbing him by the wrist. The doctor, slowly, pulled out a dirty, folded rag. Seeing what it was, the newcomer released his wrist. The doctor put the cloth, which seemed to have been cut in half at one point, onto the table, and with vaguely ritualistic gestures, he unfolded it. It was a handspan and a half square and still had traces of the white and blue threads that made up the checks. The newcomer observed him with curiosity. He glanced at the doctor, who had closed his eyes. Was he praying? Was he remembering?

‘How were you able to do what you did?’

Doctor Müss opened his eyes.

‘You don’t know what I did.’

‘I’ve done my research. You were part of a team of doctors who trampled on the Hippocratic oath.’

‘Despite your profession, you are educated.’

‘Like you. I don’t want to miss my chance to tell you that you disgust me.’

‘I deserve the disdain of hitmen.’ He closed his eyes and said, as if reciting: ‘I sinned against man and against God. In the name of an idea.’

‘Did you believe in it?’

‘Yes. Confiteor.’

‘And what about piety and compassion?’

‘Have you killed children?’ Doctor Müss looked him in the eye.

‘I’m the one asking the questions.’

‘Right. So you know how it feels.’

‘Watching a child cry as you rip off the skin on his arm to study the effects of the infections … means you have no compassion.’

‘I wasn’t a man, Father,’ confessed Doctor Müss.

‘How is it that, without being a man, you were able to regret?’

‘I don’t know, Father. Mea maxima culpa.’

‘None of your colleagues have repented, Doctor Budden.’

‘Because they know that the sin was too large to ask for forgiveness, Father.’

‘Some have committed suicide and others have fled and hid like rats.’

‘I am no one to judge them. I am like them, Father.’

‘But you are the only one who wants to repair the evil.’

‘Let’s not jump to conclusions: I may not be the only one.’

‘I’ve done my research. By the way, Aribert Voigt.’

‘What?’

Despite his self-control, Doctor Müss was unable to avoid a tremor through his entire body at just the mention of that name.

‘We hunted him down.’

‘He deserved it. And may God forgive me, Father, because I deserve it too.’

‘We punished him.’

‘I can’t say anything more. It is too big. The guilt is too deep.’

‘We hunted him down years ago. Aren’t you pleased to hear it?’

‘Non sum dignus.’

‘He cried and begged for forgiveness. And he shat himself.’