Jaume Cabré - Confessions

It turned out that yes, Franz-Paul Decker’s model French horn, Romain Gunzbourg, timid, blond and short, a secret pianist, was a member of the Gunzbourg family and knew Aline Elisabeth Yvonne de Gunzbourg, of course. Romain was from the poor branch of the family, and if you’d like, I can call Tante Aline right now.

‘Bloody hell … Tante Aline!’

‘Yes. She married some important philosopher or something like that. But they’ve been living in England forever. What’s it for?’

And Bernat gave him a kiss on each cheek, even though he wasn’t enamoured of Romain. Everything was coming up roses. They had to wait for the spring, for the Easter week gigs, and before that Romain had long conversations with Tante Aline to get her on their side. And when they were in London, which was the end of the orchestra’s mini-tour, they hopped on a train that left them in Oxford at mid-morning. Headington House seemed deserted when they rang the doorbell, which made a noble sound. They looked at each other, somewhat expectant, and no one came to open the door. And it was the time they’d agreed on. No. Yes, tiny footsteps. And finally the door opened. An elegant woman looked at them, puzzled.

‘Tante Aline,’ said Romain Gunzbourg.

‘Romain?’

‘Yes.’

‘You’ve grown so much!’ she lied. ‘You were like this …’ She pointed to her waist. Then she had them come in, pleased with her role as a co-conspirator.

‘He will see you; but I can’t guarantee that he’ll read it.’

‘Thank you, madam. Truly,’ said Bernat.

She had them go into some sort of small hallway. On the walls were framed scores by Bach. Bernat pointed with his chin to one of the reproductions. Romain went over to it. In a whisper: ‘I told you I was from the poor branch.’ About the framed score: ‘I’m sure it’s an original.’

A door opened and Tante Aline had them come into a large room, filled with books from top to bottom, ten times more books than in Adrià’s house. And a table filled with folders stuffed with papers. And some piles of books with numerous slips of long paper as bookmarks. And before the desk, sitting in an armchair was Isaiah Berlin, with a book in his hand, who looked curiously at that strange pair who had entered his sanctuary.

‘How did it go?’ asked Sara, when he came back.

Berlin seemed tired. He spoke little and when Bernat gave him the copy of Der ästhetische Wille, the man took it, turned it over and then opened it at the index. For a long minute no one said a peep. Tante Aline winked at her nephew. When Berlin finished examining the book he closed it and left it in his hands.

‘And why do you think I should read it?’

‘Well, I … If you don’t want to …’

‘Don’t cringe, man! Why do you want me to read it?’

‘Because it is very good. It’s excellent, Mr Berlin. Adrià Ardèvol is a profound and intelligent man. But he lives too far from the centre of the world.’

Isaiah Berlin put the book on a small table and said every day I read and every day I realise that I have everything left to read. And every once in a while I reread, even though I only reread that which deserves the privilege of rereading.

‘And what earns it that privilege?’ Now Bernat sounded like Adrià.

‘Its ability to fascinate the reader; to make him admire it for its intelligence or its beauty. Even though with rereading, by its very nature, we always enter into contradiction.’

‘What do you mean, Isaiah?’ interrupted Tante Aline.

‘A book that doesn’t deserve to be reread doesn’t deserve to be read either.’ He looked at the guests. ‘Have you asked them if they would like some tea?’ He looked at the book and he immediately forgot his pragmatic suggestion. He continued: ‘But before reading it we don’t know that it’s not worthy of a rereading. Life is cruel like that.’

They spoke about everything for a little while, both of the visitors sitting on the edge of the sofa. They didn’t have any tea because Romain had given his auntie a signal that it was best to take advantage of the little time they had. And they spoke of the orchestra’s tour.

‘French horn? Why do you play the French horn?’

‘I fell in love with the sound,’ replied Romain Gunzbourg.

And then the strange pair told them that the next evening they would perform at the Royal Festival Hall. And the Berlins promised they would listen to them on the radio.

In the programme there was Leonora (number three), Robert Gerhard’s second symphony and Bruckner’s fourth with Gunzbourg on the French horn and dozens more musicians. It went well. Gerhard’s widow attended, was moved, and received the bouquet of flowers meant for Decker. And the next day they returned home after five concerts in Europe that had left them worn out and with divided opinions about whether it was good to do microtours during the season or ruin the summer gigs with a more properly set-up tour or forget about tours altogether, with what they pay us we do enough just going to all the rehearsals, don’t you think?

In the hotel, Bernat found an urgent message and thought what’s happened to Llorenç, and that was the first time he worried about his son, perhaps because he was still thinking about the unwrapped book he had given him.

It was an urgent telephone message from Mr Isaiah Berlin that said, in the evening receptionist’s handwriting, that he should come urgently to Headington House, if possible the next day, that it was very important.

‘Tecla.’

‘How did it go?’

‘Well. Poldi Feichtegger came. Adorable: eighty-something years old. The bouquet of flowers was bigger than she was.’

‘You are coming home tomorrow, right?’

‘Well. I, it’s that … I have to stay one more day, because …’

‘Because of what?’

Bernat, loyal to his special way of complicating his life, didn’t want to tell Tecla that Isaiah Berlin had asked him to come back to talk about my book, which he had found very, very interesting, which he had read in a matter of hours but was starting to reread because it had a series of perceptions that he considered brilliant and profound, and that he wanted to meet me. It would have been easy to tell her that. But Bernat wouldn’t be Bernat if he wasn’t making his life more complicated. He didn’t trust Tecla’s ability to keep a secret, which I have to admit he was right about. But he chose silence and replied because an urgent job came up.

‘What job?’

‘This thing. It’s … it’s complicated.’

‘Drinking French wine with a French horn?’

‘No, Tecla. I have to go to Oxford to … There’s a book that … anyway I’ll be home the day after tomorrow.’

‘And they’re going to change your ticket?’

‘Ay, that’s right.’

‘Well: I think it’d be best, if you plan on flying back. If you plan on coming back at all.’

And she hung up. Bollocks, thought Bernat; I screwed up again. But the next morning he changed his plane ticket, took the train to Oxford and Berlin told him what he had to tell him and he gave him a note for me that read dear sir, your book moved me deeply. Particularly the reflection on the why behind beauty. And how this why can be asked in every period of humanity. And also how it is impossible to separate it from the inexplicable presence of evil. I just recommended it effusively to some of my colleagues. When will it be published in English? Please, don’t stop thinking and, every once in a while, writing down your thoughts. Sincerely yours, Isaiah Berlin. And I am so grateful to Bernat, for the consequences of his persuading Berlin to read my book, which were essential for me, but even more so for the tenacity with which he has always tried to help me. And I reward his efforts by talking to him sincerely about his writings and causing him severe bouts of depression. Friend, life is so hard.