Jaume Cabré - Confessions

When the occupying military authorities tried to reconstruct the events, all they found were the remains of at least two people. And one of those people had honking big feet. And amid the scrap iron, intestines and blood splatters they found, around a wide neck, the ID tag of missing SS-Obersturmführer Franz Grübbe, who according to the only approved version, the version of SS-Hauptsturmführer Timotheus Schaaf, was the abject cause of that humiliating defeat of a Waffen-SS division that had heroically succumbed at the entrance to Kranjska Gora, since as soon as he heard the first shots, he ran towards the enemies with his hands in the air begging for mercy. An SS officer begging for mercy from a communist guerrilla commando! Now we understand it: the abject traitor reappeared, mixed up in the preparation of an abject attempt on the Reichsführer himself, because that was nothing less than a plan to kill Reichsführer Heinrich Himmler.

‘And who is this Grübbe?’

‘A traitor to the fatherland, to the Führer and the sacred vow he solemnly swore when he joined the Schutzstaffel. SS-Haupsturmführer Schaaf can give you more details.’

‘May he be shamefully reviled.’

The telegram that Lothar Grübbe received was curt and to the point, informing him of the infamy committed by his abject son, who wanted to make an attempt on the life of his highest direct superior, the Reichsführer, but had been blown up into a thousand abject bits when handling the explosive. And it added that they had made twelve arrests of German traitors belonging to an already crushed group like that of the abject Jew Herbert Baum. The shame of the empire will fall on your abject son for a thousand years.

And Lothar Grübbe cried with a smile and that night he told Anna, you see, my love, our son had a change of mind. I wanted to spare you this, but it turns out that our Franz had got his head filled with all of Hitler’s crap; and something made him realise that he was wrong. The infamy of the regime has befallen us, which is the greatest joy they can give a Grübbe.

To celebrate the bravery of little Franz, the hero of the family, the only one who up until now has responded with valour to the beast of the Reich, he asked Günter Raue to repay the favour; yes, after so many years. And Günter Raue weighed the pros and cons and said yes, Lothar, my friend, but with one condition. What’s that? That, for the love of God, you be discreet. And I will tell you how much of a tip you should give the gravediggers. And Lothar Grübbe said all right, that seems fair. And five days later — as they said that the Western front was starting to be a problem and no one talked about the Byelorussian disaster, where mother Earth had swallowed up a group of whole armies — in the tranquil Tübingen cemetery, in the Grübbe-Landau family plot, in front of a sad man and his cousin Herta Landau, of the Landaus of Bebenhausen, the memory of a brave hero was buried inside an empty coffin. When better times come, we will honour him with flowers as white as his soul. I am proud of our son, dear Anna, who is now reunited with you. I won’t be long in coming because I have nothing more to do here.

Darkness had fallen. They left, pensive, through the gate that was still open, she took his hand, they walked in silence to the street lamp that illuminated the park’s path and when they reached there she said I think what Professor Schott said is true.

‘He said a lot of things.’

‘No, that your history of European thought is a truly important work.’

‘I don’t know. I would like it to be true, but I can’t know that.’

‘It is,’ insisted Sara. And what’s more, I love you.

‘Well, I’ve been batting around some other ideas for a while now.’

‘What kind of ideas?’

‘I don’t know. The history of evil.’

As they left the cemetery, Adrià said the problem is I haven’t really got my bearings. I haven’t been able to really reflect. I don’t know, I come up with examples but not an idea that …’

‘Just write, I’m by your side.’

I wrote with Sara by my side as she drew with me close by. Sara illustrating stories and drawing in charcoal and Adrià beside her, admiring her skill. Sara cooking kosher food and teaching him about the richness of Jewish cuisine and Adrià responding with the eternal potato omelette, boiled rice and grilled chicken. Every once in a while, Max would send a package with bottles from excellent years. And laughing just because. And going into her studio while she was absorbed, for over ten minutes, in the easel with a blank sheet of paper, thinking her things, her mysteries, her secrets, her tears that she won’t allow me to wipe away.

‘I love you too, Sara.’

And she turned and went from the blank paper to my pale face (extremely pale according to the valiant Black Eagle) and took three seconds to smile because it was hard for her to abandon her things, her mysteries, her secrets, her mysterious tears. But we were happy. And now, leaving the cemetery, in Tübingen, she said you just write, I’m by your side.

When it’s cold, even in springtime, nocturnal footsteps make a different noise, as if the cold had a sound. Adrià was thinking that as they walked in silence to the hotel. The footsteps in the night of two happy people.

‘Sie wünschen?’

‘Adrià Ardèvol? Adrià? Is that you?’

‘Ja. Yes. Bernat?’

‘Hello. Can you talk?’

Adrià looked at Sara, who was taking off her anorak and about to draw the curtains in their room in the little hotel Am Schloss.

‘What are we doing? What do you want?’

Sara had time to brush her teeth, put on her pyjamas and get into bed. Adrià was saying aha, yes, sure, sure, yes. Until he decided not to say anything and just to listen. When he hadn’t spoken for five minutes, he looked at Sara, who was contemplating the ceiling and lulled by the silence.

‘Listen, I … Yes. Yes. Of course.’

Three more minutes. I think that you, my love, were thinking about the two of us. Every once in a while I would look at you out of the corner of my eye and you were hiding a satisfied smile. I think, my beloved, that you were proud of me, and I felt like the happiest man in the world.

‘Wait, what?’

‘Haven’t you been listening to me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Well, look: that’s it. And I’m …’

‘Bernat: maybe you should think about separating. If it’s not working, it’s not working.’ Pause. Adrià heard his friend’s breathing on the other end of the line. ‘No?’

‘Man, it’s just that …’

‘How’s the novel going?’

‘It’s not. How can it, with all this crap?’ Distant silence. ‘Besides, I don’t know how to write and on top of it all you want me to get separated.’

‘I don’t want you to get separated. I don’t want anything. I just want to see you happy.’

Three and a half more minutes until Bernat said thanks for listening and decided to hang up. Adrià sat for a few seconds in front of the telephone. He got up and pulled the thin curtain open a tiny bit. Outside it was snowing silently. He felt sheltered, by Sara’s side. I felt sheltered by your side, Sara: then it was impossible to imagine that now, as I write to you, I would be living exposed to the elements.

I returned from Tübingen puffed up like a balloon and vain as a peacock. I was looking down on humanity from so far up that I wondered, in admiration, how the rest of the world could live so far down there below. Until I went to have a coffee at the university bar.

‘Hey there.’

Even prettier. She had sidled up to me without me even realising.

‘Hey, how’s it going?’

Yes, even prettier. That irritation she made an effort to show when I was around had softened in the last few months. Maybe out of boredom. Maybe because things were going well for her.