Jaume Cabré: Confessions

This long letter that I’ve written you has reached its end. Je n’ai fait celle-ci plus longue que parce que je n’ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte. After so many intense days, I have reached my rest. The autumn enters. End of the inventory. Now it is the following day forever. I turned on the television and saw the weatherman’s sleepy face assuring me that in the next few hours there will be a sudden drop in temperature and sporadic showers. It made me think of Szymborska, who said that even though it’s mostly sunny, those who continue living are advised to have an umbrella. I, of course, won’t need one.

In the room beside cinquantaquattro, some weak children’s voices sing a carol followed by kindly applause and a woman’s voice: ‘Happy Christmas, Papa.’ Silence. ‘Children, say happy Christmas to Granddad.’

And then the running started. Someone, perhaps Jònatan, emerged from cinquantaquattro frightened: ‘Wilson!’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is Mr Ardèvol?’

‘Where do you think? In cinquantaquattro.’

‘What I’m saying is that he’s not in there.’

‘For the love of God! Where else could he be?’

Wilson opened the door to the room, tense inside and saying sweetie, my prince. And there was no sweetie and no prince. Not in the bed, not in the chair, not by the wall that itches me. Wilson, Jònatan, Olga, Ramos, Maite, Doctor Valls, Doctor Roure, after fifteen minutes Doctor Dalmau, and Bernat Plensa and all the staff who weren’t on duty, looking on terraces, in the toilets of every room and in the staff toilets, in offices, in every room, in every wardrobe of every room, God, God, God, how can this be when the poor man can barely walk? Ónde estás? They even called Caterina Fargues to see if she had any idea. And then they widened the search to include the area around the home when the case had already been put in the hands of the police and they were already searching Collserola Park, behind a tree, beside a fountain, lost in the thick forest among the wild boars or, God forbid, at the bottom of one of the lakes, God help us. And Bernat thought teño medo dunha cousa que vive e que non se ve. Teño medo á desgracia traidora que ven, e que nunca se sabe ónde ven. Adrià, ónde estás. Because Bernat was the only one who could know the truth.

That day, after burying the father prior, they had definitively abandoned the monastery and left it alone, for the woodland mice who, despite the monks, had already ruled there for centuries — owners without Benedictine habits — of the sacred spot. Like the bats who made their home in the small counter-apse of Saint Michael, above the counts’ tombs. But in a question of a few days the mountain’s wild animals would also begin to rule there and there was nothing they could do about it.

‘Friar Adrià.’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t look well.’

He looked around him. They were alone in the church. The front door was open. Not long before, when the sun had already set, the men from Escaló had buried the prior. He looked at his open palms, in a gesture he quickly deemed too theatrical. He glanced at Friar Julià and said, in a soft voice, what am I doing here?

‘The same thing I am. Preparing to close up Burgal.’

‘No, no … I live … I don’t live here.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘What? How?’

‘Sit down, Brother Adrià. Unfortunately, we are in no hurry.’ He took him by the arm and forced him to sit on a bench. ‘Sit,’ he repeated, even though the other man was already sitting.

Outside, the rosy fingers of dawn painted the still-dark sky and the birds carried on with their racket. Even a rooster from Escaló joined in on the fun, from a distance.

‘Adrià, my prince! How could you manage to hide so well?’ In a whisper: ‘What if he’s been kidnapped?’

‘Don’t say such things.’

‘What do we have to do now?’

Friar Julià looked, puzzled, at the other monk. He remained in worried silence. Adrià insisted, saying eh?

‘Well … prepare the Sacred Chest, close up the monastery, put away the key and pray for God to forgive us.’ After an eternity: ‘And wait for the brothers from Santa Maria de Gerri to arrive.’ He observed him, perplexed: ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Flee.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That you must flee.’

‘Me?’

‘You. They are coming to kill you.’

‘Brother Adrià …’

‘Where am I?’

‘I’ll bring you a bit of water.’

Friar Julià disappeared through the door to the small cloister. Outside, birds and death; inside, death and the snuffed out candle. Friar Adrià gathered in devout prayer almost until the light took possession of the Earth, which was once again flat, with mysterious limits he could never reach.

‘Go through each and every one of his friends. And when I say each and every one, I mean each and every one!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And don’t give up on the search operation. Widen the circle to include the entire mountain. And Tibidabo. And the amusement park too.’

‘This patient has reduced mobility.’

‘Doesn’t matter: search the entire mountain.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Then he shook his head as if awakening from a deep sleep, got up and went to a cell to collect the Sacred Chest and the key he’d used to close the door to the monastery during Vespers for thirty years. Thirty years as the doorkeeper brother of Burgal. He went through each of the empty cells, the refectory and the kitchen. He also went into the church and the tiny chapterhouse. And he felt that he was the sole person guilty of the extinction of the monastery of Sant Pere del Burgal. With his free hand he beat on his chest and said confiteor, Dominus. Confiteor: mea culpa. The first Christmas without Missa in Nocte and without the praying of Matins.

He collected the little box of pine cones and fir and maple seeds, the desperate gift of a disgraced woman striving to be forgiven for the lack of divine hope implicit in her abominable act of suicide. He contemplated the little box for a few moments, remembering the poor woman, the disgraced Wall-eyed Woman of Salt; murmured a brief prayer for her soul in case salvation was possible for the desperate, and placed the little box in the deep pocket of his habit. He picked up the Sacred Chest and the key and went out into the narrow corridor. He was unable to resist the impulse to take a last stroll through the monastery, all alone. His footsteps echoed in the corridor beside the cells, the chapterhouse, the cloister … He finished his walk with a glance into the tiny refectory. One of the benches was touching the wall, chipping away at the dirty plaster. Out of habit, he moved the bench. A rebellious tear fell from his eye. He wiped it away and left the grounds. He closed the door to the monastery, inserted the key and made two turns that resonated in his soul. He put the key in the Sacred Chest and sat down to wait for the newcomers who were climbing wearily, despite having spent the night in Soler. My God, what am I doing here when …

Bernat thought it’s impossible, but I can’t think of any other explanation. Forgive me, Adrià. It’s my fault, I know, but I can’t give up the book. Confiteor. Mea culpa.

Before the shadows had shifted much, Friar Adrià got up, dusted off his habit and walked a few steps down the path, clinging to the Sacred Chest. Three monks were coming up. He turned, with tears in his heart, to say farewell to the monastery and he began his descent to save his brothers the final stretch of the steep slope. Many memories died with that gesture. Where am I? Farewell, landscapes. Farewell, ravines and farewell, glorious babbling waters. Farewell, cloistered brothers and centuries of chanting and prayers.