Jaume Cabré - Confessions

After a heavy sigh, they closed the album. The two boys had to wait patiently, hidden away in the bedroom. They had to talk about something, and Bernat wanted to ask him about that thing he hadn’t been able to get out of his head, but he knew he shouldn’t because his parents had told him it’s better if you don’t go into that, Bernat. Still he ended up asking, ‘Why don’t you go to mass?’

‘I have permission.’

‘From who? From God?’

‘No: from Father Anglada.’

‘Wow. But why don’t you go?’

‘I’m not Christian.’

‘Wow! …’ Confused silence. ‘Can you be not Christian?’

‘I suppose so. I’m not.’

‘But what are you? Buddhist? Japanese? Communist? What?’

‘I’m nothing.’

‘Can you be nothing?’

I never knew how to answer that question when I was asked it as a child, because the wording troubled me. Can you be nothing? I will be nothing. Will I be like the zero that isn’t a natural number nor a whole number nor a rational number nor a real number nor a complex number, but the neutral element in the addition of whole numbers? Not even that, I’m afraid: when I am no longer, I will no longer be necessary, if I am now.

‘How. Now you’ve lost me.’

‘Don’t bother.’

‘No, if it were up to me …’

‘Then keep quiet, Black Eagle.’

‘I believe in the Great Spirit of Manitou who covers the plains with bison, sends us rain and snow and moves the sun that warms us and makes it disappear so we can sleep, who blows the wind, guides the river along its bed, points the eagle’s eye towards its prey and gives the warrior the courage to die for his people.’

‘Hello? Where are you, Adrià?’

Adrià blinked and said here, with you, talking about God.

‘Sometimes you’re not here.’

‘Me?’

‘My parents say it’s because you are wise.’

‘Bollocks. I wish …’

‘Don’t even start.’

‘They love you.’

‘And yours don’t?’

‘No: they measure me. They calculate my IQ, they talk about sending me to a special school in Switzerland, they discuss making me do three school years in one.’

‘Wow, how cool!’ He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. ‘No?’

‘No. They argue over me, but they don’t love me.’

‘Bah. I don’t think kisses …’

When Mother said Little Lola, go and get the aprons from Rosita’s house, I knew that it was our time. Like two thieves, like the Lord when he comes for us, we went into the forbidden house. In strict silence, we slipped into Father’s study, listening for the rustle from the back room where Mother and Mrs Angeleta were mending clothes. It took us a few minutes to get used to the darkness and heavy atmosphere in the study.

‘I smell something strange,’ said Bernat.

‘Shhhh!’ I whispered, somewhat melodramatically, because my main goal was impressing Bernat, now that we had become friends. And I told him that it wasn’t a smell, it was the weight of the history the objects in the collection were laden with; he didn’t understand me; I’m sure I wasn’t entirely convinced that what I’d said was true, either.

When our eyes had grown used to the dark, the first thing Adrià did was look smugly at Bernat’s amazed face. Bernat no longer smelled anything but instead felt the weight of the history the objects around him were laden with. Two tables, one covered with manuscripts and with a very strange lamp that was also … What is that? Oh, a loupe. Wow … and a ton of old books. At the back, a bookshelf filled with even older books; to the left a stretch of wall filled with tiny pictures.

‘Are they valuable?’

‘And how!’

‘And how what?’

‘A sketch by Vayreda,’ Adrià proudly pointed at a small unfinished picture.

‘Ah.’

‘Do you know who Vayreda is?’

‘No. Is it worth a lot?’

‘A fortune. And this is an engraving by Rembrandt. It’s not unique, because otherwise …’

‘Aha.’

‘Do you know who Rembrandt is?’

‘No.’

‘And this tiny one …’

‘It’s very lovely.’

‘Yes. It is the most valuable one.’

Bernat moved closer to the pale yellow gardenias by Abraham Mignon, as if he wanted to smell them. Well, as if he wanted to smell their price tag.

‘How much is it worth?’

‘Thousands of pesetas.’

‘No!’ A few moments of meditation. ‘How many thousands?’

‘I don’t know: but a lot.’

Better to leave it vague. It was a good start and now I just had to finish it off. So I turned him towards the glass cabinet and suddenly he reacted and said blimey, what’s that?

‘A Bushi Kaiken dagger,’ said Adrià proudly.

Bernat opened the cabinet door, I nervously watched the door to the study; he grabbed the Bushi Kaiken dagger, like the one in the shop. He examined it very curiously and went over to the balcony to see it better, pulling it out of its sheath.

‘Careful,’ I said in a mysterious voice, since I didn’t think he was sufficiently impressed.

‘What does a booshikiken dagger mean?’

‘The dagger that Japanese women warriors use to kill themselves.’ In a soft voice, ‘The instrument of their suicide.’

‘And why do they have to kill themselves?’ — without surprise, without shock, the stupid boy.

‘Well …’ Using my imagination, I came up with this comment: ‘If things don’t go well for them; if they lose.’ And to top it off: ‘Edo Period, seventeenth century.’

‘Wow.’

He looked at it closely, perhaps imagining the suicide of a Japanese Booshi warrior. Adrià grabbed the dagger, covered it with its sheath and, with exaggerated care in each movement, placed it back in the cabinet of precious objects. He closed it without making any noise. He had already decided he was going to really leave his friend flabbergasted. I had been hesitating up until then, but I saw Bernat making an effort not to get too carried away in the excitement and I lost all prudence. I put my hands to my lips, demanding absolute silence. Then I put on the yellowish light in the corner and I turned the safe’s combination: six, one, five, four, two, eight. Father never locked it with the key. Just with the combination. I opened the secret chamber of the treasures of Tutankhamun. Some old bundles of papers, two small closed boxes, a lot of documents in envelopes, three wads of notes in one corner and, on the lower shelf, a violin case with a dubious stain on the top. I pulled it out very carefully. I opened the case and our Storioni appeared, resplendent. More resplendent than ever before. I brought it over to the light and I put the f-hole under his nose.

‘Read that,’ I ordered.

‘Laurentius Storioni Cremonensis me fecit.’ He looked up, astounded. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Finish reading it,’ I scolded, with the patience of a saint.

Bernat turned towards the violin’s sound hole and looked inside it again. The belly had to be at the right angle to read one, seven, six, four.

‘Seventeen sixty-four,’ Adrià had to say.

‘Ohh … Let me touch it a little bit. Let me hear how it sounds.’

‘Sure, and my father will send us to the galleys. You can only put one finger on it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s the most valuable object in this house, OK?’

‘More than the yellow flowers by what’s his name?’

‘Much more. Much, much more.’

Bernat touched it with one finger, just to be on the safe side; but I wasn’t careful enough and he plucked the D; it sounded sweet, velvety.

‘It’s a bit low.’

‘Do you have perfect pitch?’

‘What?’

‘How do you know it’s a bit low?’

‘Because the D has to be a teensy bit higher, just a touch.’