Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Forgive me, but I’m … Of course you can continue.’

‘A few months ago they diagnosed me with a degenerative brain process. And now it seems it’s speeding up.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yes.’

‘You could have told me.’

‘Would you have cured me?’

‘I’m your friend.’

‘That’s why I called you.’

‘Can you live alone?’

‘Little Lola comes every day.’

‘Caterina.’

‘Yeah, that’s right. And she stays until quite late. She leaves my supper prepared.’

Adrià pointed to the stack of papers and said you aren’t just my friend, you’re also a writer.

‘A failed writer,’ was Bernat’s curt reply.

‘According to you.’

‘Yes, and you’ve certainly always been quick to remind me of it.’

‘I’ve always criticised you, you know that, but I never said you failed.’

‘But you’ve thought it.’

‘You don’t know what I have, inside here,’ said Adrià, suddenly irritated, tapping his forehead with both hands.

‘I haven’t published in years.’

‘But you haven’t stopped writing. Isn’t that right?’

Silence. Adrià insisted, ‘Not long ago, in public, you said you were writing a novel. Yes or no?’

‘Another failure. I’ve abandoned it.’ He breathed deeply and said, ‘Come on, what is it you want?’

Adrià grabbed the pile of papers and examined them for a little while, as if it were the first time he had seen them. He looked at Bernat and passed the bundle to him. Now he got a good look at it: it was a thick pile of pages, written on both sides.

‘Only this side is good.’

‘In green ink?’

‘Uh huh.’

‘And the other one?’ He read the first page: ‘The Problem of Evil.’

‘Nothing. Nonsense. It’s worthless,’ said Adrià, uncomfortably.

Bernat looked through the pages in green, a bit disorientated, trying to get used to his friend’s difficult handwriting.

‘What is it?’ he said finally, lifting his head.

‘I don’t know. My life. My life and other lies.’

‘And since when … I didn’t know this side of you.’

‘I know. No one knows it.’

‘Do you want me to tell you what I think of it?’

‘No. Well, if you want to, sure. But … what I’m asking, begging, is that you type it into the computer.’

‘You still haven’t tried out the one I gave you.’

Adrià made a vague gesture in his defence: ‘But I did classes with Llorenç.’

‘That were of no help at all.’ He looked at the bundle of pages. ‘The part written in green doesn’t have a title that I can see.’

‘I don’t know what to call it. Maybe you could help me with that.’

‘Are you pleased with it?’ asked Bernat, picking up the pile.

‘It’s not about whether I’m pleased with it or not. Besides, it’s the first time that …’

‘This is a surprise.’

‘It was a surprise for me too; but I had to do it.’

Adrià leaned back in the armchair. Bernat continued leafing through the pile for a little while and then he placed it all on the small table.

‘Tell me how you are. Can I do anything to …’

‘No, thank you.’

‘But how are you?’

‘Right now, fine. But the process can’t be stopped. In a few months …’

Adrià, hesitating over whether he should speak or not, looked forward, towards the wall where there was a photo of the two friends with rucksacks on their backs, hair on their heads and no spare tires: in Bebenhausen, when they were young and still knew how to smile at the camera. And above it, in a place of honour, as if it were an altar, was the self-portrait. Then he spoke in a soft voice, ‘In a few months I might not even be able to recognise you.’

‘No.’

‘Yes.’

‘Shit.’

‘Yes.’

‘And how will you get along?’

‘I’ll tell you later, don’t worry.’

‘OK.’ Bernat tapped the bundle of paper with a finger: ‘And don’t you worry about this. I hope I’ll be able to understand your handwriting. Do you know what you want to do with it?’

Adrià rambled on for a while, almost without glancing at him. Bernat thought he looked like a penitent confessing. When he stopped speaking they were silent for some time, while the sky grew dark. Perhaps thinking about their lives, which hadn’t been tranquil. And thinking about the things they hadn’t said; and the insults and fights of the past; and the periods they’d gone without seeing each other. And thinking why does life always end with an unwanted death. And Bernat thinking I will do whatever you ask. And Adrià not knowing what he was thinking. And Bernat’s phone started vibrating in his pocket and, at that moment, he found the sound irreverent.

‘What is that?’

‘Nothing, my mobile phone. We humans use the computer a good friend gives us. And we have mobile phones.’

‘Fuck, then answer. Telephones are for answering.’

‘No, it’s probably Tecla. Let her wait.’

And they grew silent again, waiting for the vibration to stop, but it went on and on, becoming some sort of awkward guest in that silent conversation, and Bernat thought it has to be Tecla, what a nag. But finally the vibration died out. And their thoughts gradually returned, implanting themselves in the silence between the two men.

‘But we don’t have a single manuscript!’ exclaimed Bernat, as the two boys stood on the corner of Bruc and València Streets, in front of the conservatory before heading to one of their homes; which one would be decided along the way.

‘I know what I’m talking about.’

‘And our flat is small, compared to yours.’

‘Yeah, but what about that marvellous terrace you guys have, eh?’

‘What I want is a brother.’

‘Me too.’

They walked in silence, now returning to Bernat’s house before heading back towards Adrià’s for the second time so they could put off the moment of separation. In silence they pined for the brother they didn’t have and the mystery behind Roig, Rull, Soler and Pàmies having three, five or four or six siblings, while they had none.

‘Yeah, but Rull’s house is a huge mess, four in one room, with bunk beds. There’s always shouting.’

‘Fine, fine, that’s true. But it’s more fun.’

‘I don’t know. There is always some little kid pestering you.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Or some bigger kid.’

‘Well, yeah.’

What Adrià was also trying to explain was that at Bernat’s house his parents weren’t so, I don’t know, they aren’t on top of you all day long.

‘They are. You haven’t practised your violin today, Bernat. And your homework? Don’t you have homework? And look at how you’ve ruined your shoes, what a disaster, you’re such an oaf. Like that, all day long.’

‘You should see my house.’

‘What.’

On the third trip between the two houses we came to the conclusion that it was impossible to decide which of the two boys was unhappier. But I knew that when I went over to Bernat’s house, his mother would open the door and smile at me, she’d say hello, Adrià, and she’d tousle my hair a bit. My mother didn’t even say how’d it go, Adrià, because it was always Little Lola who let me in and she’d just pinch my cheek, and the house was silent.