Jaume Cabré: Confessions

‘The man in Barcelona you hoodwinked.’

‘I swear I didn’t do it for the money.’

Bernat looked at him, curious. He made a gesture with his head, as if inviting him to continue speaking. But the other man was silent.

‘Why did you do it then?’

‘It was … it was an opportunity … It was … the role of a lifetime. That’s why I said yes.’

‘You were also well paid.’

‘That’s true. But because I embellished it. And, besides, I had to improvise because that bloke struck up a conversation and so, after the monologue, I had to improvise the whole conversation.’

‘And?’

‘And I nailed it.’ Proud: ‘I was able to completely inhabit the character.’

Bernat thought now I’ll throttle him. And he looked around, to see if there were any witnesses. Meanwhile, Bob Mortelmans returned to his favourite role, fired up by the policeman’s admiring silence. Performing, overdoing it slightly: ‘Perhaps I survived until today and am able to tell you all this because I was a coward on Amelietje’s birthday. Or because that rainy Saturday, in the barracks, I stole a crumb of clearly mouldy bread from old Moshes who came from Vilnius. Or because I crept away when the Blockführer decided to teach us a lesson and let loose with the butt of his rifle, and the blow that was meant to wound me killed a little boy whose …’

‘That’s enough!’

Bernat got up and Bob Mortelmans thought he was about to thrash him. He shrank down in his chair, cowering, thoroughly prepared to answer more questions, to answer each and every one that Interpol agent wanted to ask him.

Bernat said open your mouth and Adrià opened it as if he were Llorenç at a year old; he gave him a spoonful and said, yum, semolina soup, eh? Adrià stared at Bernat and said nothing.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Me?’

‘You.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who am I?’

‘That guy.’

‘Here, have another spoonful. Come on, open your mouth, it’s the last one. That’s it, very good.’

He uncovered the second course and said oh, how nice, boiled chicken. Do you like that?

Adrià placed his gaze on the wall, indifferent.

‘I love you, Adrià. And I’ll spare you the story of the violin.’

He looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze, or with the gaze that Adrià saw Sara giving him when she looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze. Or with the gaze that Bernat thought Sara gave Adrià when she looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze.

‘I love you,’ repeated Bernat. And he picked up a quite sad piece of pale chicken thigh and said ooh how nice, how nice. Come on, open up your mouth, Llorenç.

When they’d finished the supper, Jònatan came to take the tray and said do you want to lie down?

‘I can take care of that, if that’s all right.’

‘Fine: if you need help, just whistle.’

Once they were alone, Adrià scratched his head and sighed. He looked at the wall with an empty stare. Bernat shuffled through his briefcase and pulled out a book.

‘The Problem of Evil,’ he read from the cover. ‘Adrià Ardèvol.’

Adrià looked into his eyes and then at the book. He yawned.

‘Do you know what this is?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You wrote it. You asked me not to publish it, but in the university they assured me that it was well worth it. Do you remember it?’

Silence. Adrià, uncomfortable. Bernat took his hand and felt his friend calming down. Then he explained to him that the edition had been done by Professor Parera.

‘I think she did a very good job. And she was advised by Johannes Kamenek, who, from what I’ve seen, is a real workhorse. And loves you very much.’

He stroked his hand and Adrià smiled. They remained like that for some time, in silence, as if they were sweethearts. Adrià’s eyes landed on the book’s cover, apathetically, and he yawned.

‘I gave each of your cousins in Tona a copy. They were very excited. Before New Year’s they’ll come visit.’

‘Very good. Who are they?’

‘Xevi, Rosa and one more whose name escapes me.’

‘Ah.’

‘Do you remember them?’

As he did every time Bernat asked him that question, Adrià clicked his tongue as if he were peeved or perhaps offended.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, uncomfortable.

‘Who am I?’ said Bernat for the third time that evening.

‘You.’

‘And what’s my name?’

‘You. That guy. Wilson. I’m tired.’

‘Well, come on, to bed, it’s quite late. I’ll leave your book on the bedside table.’

‘Fine.’

Bernat grabbed the chair to push it over to the bed. Adrià half-turned, somewhat frightened. Timidly: ‘Now I don’t know … if I’m supposed to sleep in the chair or in the bed. Or in the window.’

‘In the bed, come on. You’ll be more comfortable.’

‘No, no, no: I think it’s the window.’

‘Whatever you say, dear friend,’ said Bernat, pushing the chair over to the bed. And then he added: ‘Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.’

He was awoken by the intense cold entering through all the cracks in the window. It was still dark. He struck the flint until he managed to light the candle’s wick. He put on his habit and his travel cape on top of that and he went out into the narrow corridor. A hesitant light emerged from one of the cells, on the side overlooking the Santa Bàrbara knoll. With a shiver of cold and grief he headed towards the church. The taper that had illuminated the coffin where Friar Josep de Sant Bartomeu was resting had burned down. He put his candle in its place. The birds, feeling dawn near, began to chirp despite the cold. He fervidly prayed an Our Father, thinking of the salvation of the good father prior’s soul. The twinkling light of his candle provoked a strange effect on the paintings in the apse. Saint Peter, Saint Paul and … and … and the other apostles, and the Madonna and the severe Pantocrater seemed to be moving along the wall, in an unhurried, silent dance.

Chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and sparrows were singing the arrival of the new day as the monks had sung the praises of the Lord over centuries. Chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and sparrows seemed joyous at the news of the death of the prior of Sant Pere del Burgal. Or perhaps they were singing the joy of knowing he was in paradise, because he had been a good man. Or perhaps God’s little birdies couldn’t care less and were singing because that was all they knew how to do. Where am I? Five months living in the fog and only once in a while does a little light come on, reminding me that you exist.

‘Friar Adrià,’ he heard behind him. He lifted his head. Brother Julià approached him, his candle flickering.

‘We will have to bury him immediately after Matins,’ he said.

‘Yes, of course. Have the men arrived from Escaló?’

‘Not yet.’

He got up and stood beside the other monk, looking at the altar. Where am I. He tucked his chilblained hands into the wide sleeves of his habit. They weren’t chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds nor sparrows, just two sad monks because that was the last day of monastic life at their monastery after so many centuries of continued existence. It had been several months since they’d sung; they just recited their prayers and left the singing to the birds and their oblivious joy. Closing his eyes, Friar Adrià murmured the words that, over centuries, had served to break the vast silence of the night: ‘Domine, labia mea aperies.’