Jaume Cabré - Confessions

I didn’t say Sara, my sister died. When Tito Carbonell called me to tell me that his mother had died, I was so focused on him possibly mentioning the violin that at first I didn’t understand what he was saying, and it was as simple as she is at the Les Corts funeral home, if you want to go, and we’re burying her tomorrow, and I hung up and I didn’t say Sara, my sister died because I think you would have said you have a sister? Or you wouldn’t have said anything, because in those days you and I weren’t on speaking terms.

In the funeral home, there were quite a few people. At the Montjuïc cemetery we were about twenty. Daniela Amato’s niche has a wonderful view of the sea. Not that it will do her any good, I heard someone say behind me, while the workers sealed up the niche. Cecília hadn’t shown up or she hadn’t been told or she was already dead. Mr Berenguer pretended he hadn’t seen me the entire time. And Tito Carbonell stood beside him as if he wanted to mark his territory. The only person who seemed perplexed and sad over her death was Albert Carbonell, who was debuting as a widower without having had time to get used to the idea of so much unexpected solitude. Adrià had only seen him a couple of times in his life, but he felt some grief over the desolation of that man who had aged considerably. As we went down the long paths of the cemetery, Albert Carbonell approached me, took me by the arm and said thank you for coming.

‘It’s the least I could do. I’m so sad.’

‘Thank you. You might be the only one. The others are crunching numbers.’

We grew silent; the sound of the group’s footsteps on the dirt path, broken by whispers, by the occasional curse against Barcelona’s mugginess, by the odd cough that couldn’t be stifled, lasted until we reached where we had left our cars. And meanwhile, almost into my ear, as if he wanted to take advantage of the proximity, Albert Carbonell said watch it with that nosy parker Berenguer.

‘Did he work with Daniela in the shop?’

‘For two months. And Daniela threw him out on his ear. Since then they’ve hated each other and never missed the chance to show it.’

He paused, as if he were having trouble speaking and walking at the same time. I vaguely recalled that he was asthmatic. Or maybe I made that part up. Anyway, he continued, saying Berenguer is a crafty devil; he’s sick.

‘In what sense?’

‘There’s only one possible sense. He’s not right in the head. And he hates all women. He can’t accept that a woman is more intelligent than him. Or that she makes the decisions instead of him. That pains him and eats him up inside. Be careful that he doesn’t hurt you.’

‘Do you mean that he could?’

‘You never know with Berenguer.’

We said goodbye in front of Tito’s car. We shook hands and he said take care of yourself; Daniela spoke affectionately of you. It’s a shame you didn’t spend more time together.

‘As a boy I was in love with her for one whole day.’

I said it as he was getting into the car and I don’t know if he heard me. He waved vaguely from inside. I never saw him again. I don’t know if he’s still alive.

It wasn’t until I was right in the middle of the dense traffic around the statue of Columbus covered in tourists taking photos of themselves, on my way home and wondering whether I should speak to you about it or not, that I realised that Albert Carbonell was the first person who didn’t call Mr Berenguer Mr Berenguer.

When I opened the door, Sara could have asked me where are you coming from, and I, from burying my sister; and she, you have a sister? And I, yes, a half-sister. And she, well, you could have told me; and I, you never asked, we barely ever saw each other, you know. Why didn’t you tell me now, that she’d died? Because I would have had to tell you about your friend Tito Carbonell, who wants to steal the violin from me, and we would’ve had another argument. But when I opened the door to the house, you didn’t ask me where are you coming from and I didn’t respond from burying my sister and you couldn’t respond you have a sister? And then I realised that your suitcase was in the entryway. Adrià looked at it, surprised.

‘I’m going to Cadaqués,’ replied Sara.

‘I’ll come.’

‘No.’

She left without any explanation. It happened so fast that I wasn’t aware of the importance it would have for us both. When Sara was gone, Adrià, still disorientated, with his heart heavy and restless, opened Sara’s wardrobe and suddenly felt relieved: her clothes were still there. I thought that you must have just taken a few outfits.

Since he didn’t know what to do, Adrià didn’t do anything. He had been abandoned by Sara again; but now he knew why. And it was only a momentary escape. Momentary? To keep from thinking about it too much, he threw himself into his work, but he had trouble concentrating on what would be the definitive version of Llull, Vico, Berlin, tres organitzadors de les idees, a book with a dense title. He felt personally compelled to write it in order to distance himself from his Història del pensament europeu, which was weighing on him perhaps because he had dedicated many years to it, perhaps because he had much hope placed in it, perhaps because people he admired had made mention of it … The unity, one of the unities of the book, was created by the historical narrative. And he rewrote the three essays entirely. He had been working on that for months. I had begun, my beloved, the day when I saw on television the horrifying images of the building in Oklahoma City gutted by a bomb placed by Timothy McVeigh. I didn’t say anything to you about it because it’s better to do these things and then later, if necessary, talk about them. I got to work on it because I’ve always believed that those who kill in the name of something have no right to sully history. One hundred and sixty-eight deaths, caused by Timothy McVeigh. And much more grief and suffering not reflected in the statistics. In the name of what intransigence, Timothy? And, I don’t know how, I imagined another intransigent, of another sort of intransigence, asking him the question, why, Timothy, why such destruction when God is Love?

‘The American government can shove it up their ass.’

‘Timothy, son: what religion do you practise?’ interjected Vico.

‘Sticking it to the people who are screwing up the country.’

‘There is no such religion,’ Ramon Llull, patient. ‘There are three known religions, Timothy: namely, Judaism, which is a terrible error with apologies to Mr Berlin; Islam, which is the mistaken belief system of the infidel enemies of the church, and Christianity, which is the only just and true religion, because it is the religion of the Good God, who is Love.’

‘I don’t understand you, old man. I kill the government.’

‘And the forty children you killed are the government?’ Berlin, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief.

‘Collateral damage.’

‘Now I don’t understand.’

‘1:1’

‘What?’

‘One to one.’

‘The colonel who doesn’t stop the massacre of women and children,’ states Vico, ‘must go to jail.’

‘But not if he kills men?’ Berlin, mockingly, to his colleague, putting on his glasses.

‘Why don’t you three just all shove it up your ass, huh?’

‘This boy has a strange verbal obsession with the posterior,’ observed Llull, very perplexed.

‘All those who live by the sword, die by the sword, Timothy,’ Vico reminded him just in case. And he was going to say which verse of Matthew it was, but he couldn’t remember because it had all been too long ago.

‘Would you doddering old fogies mind fucking leaving me alone?’