Jaume Cabré: Confessions

‘Et proclamabo laudem tuam,’ responded Friar Julià in the same murmuring tone.

That Christmas night, the first one without Missa in Nocte, the two lay friars could only pray Matins. Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. It was the saddest chanting of Matins in all the centuries of monastic life at Sant Pere del Burgal. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.

The conversation with Tito Carbonell was unexpectedly relaxed. As they ordered, Tito admitted he was a coward, that it had been more than a year since he’d gone to the nursing home to visit Zio Adriano.

‘Give it a try.’

‘It’s too depressing. I don’t have your mettle.’ Picking up the menu and signalling the waiter: ‘By the way, I appreciate the time and effort you devote to him.’

‘I consider it my obligation as his friend.’

Tito Carbonell skilfully navigated the menu, ordered and ate his first course with few comments. And there was a somewhat uncomfortable silence when the plate was empty. Until Tito decided to break it: ‘And what, exactly, did you want?’

‘To talk about Vial.’

‘Vial? Zio Adriano’s violin?’

‘Yes. I went to Antwerp a few months ago, to visit Mr Bob Mortelmans.’

Tito received those words with a spirited laugh: ‘I thought you’d never bring it up!’ he said. ‘What could you possibly want to know from me?’

They waited for the waiter to place the second course in front of them; then, since Bernat remained in silence, Tito, looking him in the eyes, said: ‘Yes, yes, it was my idea; brilliant, yes. Since I know Zio Adriano, I knew that everything would be easier with Mr Mortelmans’s help.’ He pointed at him with his knife. ‘And I was right!’

Bernat ate in silence, looking at him without saying a word. Tito Carbonell continued: ‘Yes, yes, Mr Berenguer sold the Storioni to the highest bidder; yes, we made a bundle; do you like that codfish?; isn’t it the best you’ve ever had?; yes, it’s a shame to have such a fine violin locked up in a safe. Do you know who bought it from us?’

‘Who?’ He heard the question coming too much from his stomach, like a shriek.

‘Joshua Mack.’ Tito waited for some reaction from Bernat, who was making titanic efforts to control himself. ‘You see? It ended up going to a Jew.’ Laughing: ‘Justice, right?’

Bernat counted to ten to keep from doing anything rash. To take the sting out of his rage he said you disgust me. Tito Carbonell didn’t even bat an eyelash.

‘And I don’t care what Mack does with it. I confess that I did it all for the money.’

‘But I am going to report you to the police now,’ said Bernat, staring him in the eye, brimming with rage. ‘And don’t think I can be bought.’

Tito Carbonell chewed, attentive to his meal; he wiped his lips with a napkin, took a tiny sip of wine and smiled.

‘Me, buy you? You?’ He smacked his lips, irked. ‘I wouldn’t give you a red tuppence for your silence.’

‘And I wouldn’t accept it. I am doing this for the memory of my dear friend.’

‘I wouldn’t make too many speeches, if I were you, Mr Plensa.’

‘Does it bother you that I have principles?’

‘No, please. It’s very sweet. But you should know that I know what I need to know.’

Bernat looked him in the eye. Tito Carbonell smiled again and said I’ve moved some pieces as well.

‘Now you’ve lost me.’

‘Your editor has been working on your new book for about a month now.’

‘I’m afraid that’s none of your business.’

‘Oh, but it is! I’m in it and everything! With another name and as a supporting character, but I’m in it.’

‘How do you know that? …’

Tito Carbonell moved his face right up to Bernat’s, and said is it a novel or an autobiography? Because if Zio Adriano wrote it, it’s an autobiography; if you wrote it, it’s a novel. I understand that the changes you made were very slight … It’s a shame you changed the names … That’ll make it hard to know who is who. The only name you kept was Adrià’s. It’s strange. But since you had the cheek to appropriate the entire text, we have to conclude that it’s a novel. He clicked his tongue, as if he were worried. ‘And then it turns out that we are all pure fiction. Even me!’ He patted his body, shaking his head, ‘What can I say? It’s frustrating …’

He put the napkin down on the table, suddenly serious: ‘So don’t talk to me about principles.’

Bernat Plensa was left with a bite of suddenly dry cod in his mouth. He heard Tito say I kept half the profits of the sale of the violin. But you kept the whole book. Zio Adriano’s whole life.

Tito Carbonell pushed back his chair, carefully observing Bernat. He continued: ‘I know that the book you supposedly wrote is going to come out in a couple of months. Now you decide whether we set up a press conference or we just let it go.’

He opened his arms, inviting him to make up his mind. Since Bernat didn’t move, he went on: ‘Would you like dessert?’ He snapped his fingers at the waiter. ‘They do a fabulous flan here.’

When Bernat went into cinquantaquattro Wilson had just finished putting some brand-new tennis shoes on Adrià, who was sitting in the wheelchair.

‘Look how handsome he is,’ said the nurse.

‘Gorgeous. Thank you, Wilson. Hello, Adrià.’

Adrià didn’t recognise his name. It seemed that he was smiling. The room was the same as ever, although it had been a long time since he’d been there.

‘I brought you this,’ he said.

He gave him a fat book. Adrià took it in his hands, somewhat fearful. He looked at Bernat, not really knowing what to do with it.

‘I wrote it,’ he said to him. ‘It’s hot off the presses.’

‘Oh, how nice,’ said Adrià.

‘You can keep it. And forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.’

Adrià, seeing the stranger with his head bowed and almost crying, began to cry.

‘Is it my fault?’

‘No, not at all. I’m crying because … Just because.’

‘Sorry.’ He looked at him, concerned. ‘Come on, don’t cry, sir.’

Bernat pulled a CD case out of his pocket, took out the CD and put it in Adrià’s player. He took him by the hands and said listen to this, Adrià: it’s your violin. Prokofiev. His second concerto. Soon the lament that Joshua Mack extracted from Adrià’s Storioni could be heard. They were like that for twenty-six minutes. Holding hands, listening to the concert and the applause on the live recording.

‘This CD is for you. Tell Wilson it’s yours.’

‘Wilson!’

‘Not now, that’s OK. I’ll tell him myself.’

‘Booooy!’ insisted Adrià.

As if he were waiting for the moment, as if he were spying on them, Wilson stuck his nose into the room: ‘What is it? Are you all right?’

‘It’s just that … I brought him this CD and this book, too. All right?’

‘I’m sleepy.’

‘But I just got you dressed, my prince!’

‘I need to make a poo poo.’

‘Oh, you’re such a pill.’ To Bernat: ‘Do you mind? It’ll be five minutes.’

Bernat went out into the hallway with the book. He headed towards the terrace and flipped through the pages. A shadow came up beside him: ‘Nice, eh?’ Doctor Valls pointed to the book: ‘It’s yours, right?’