Jaume Cabré - Confessions

One thing is hearing a conversation clearly enough, and another is understanding what it’s about. The espionage system that Adrià used to know what was cooking in Father’s study was complicated and, as he grew taller and heavier, it had to become more sophisticated because I could no longer fit behind the sofa. When I heard the first shouts I saw that I had to somehow protect my angel from Mother’s rage. From the little dressing room, the door that opened onto the gallery and the laundry room left me before a ground glass window that was never opened but looked into Father’s study. The little natural light that reached the study entered through that window. And by lying down under the window I could hear the conversation. As if I were in there with them. At home I was always everywhere. Almost. Mother, pale, finished reading the letter and looked at the wall.

‘How do I know this is true?’

‘Because I inherited Can Casic in Tona.’

‘Pardon?’

My angel, in reply, handed her another document in which the notary Garolera of Vic certified to all effects the willing of the house, the straw loft, the pond, the garden plot and the three fields of Can Casic to Daniela Amato, born in Rome on 25th December of 1919, daughter of Carolina Amato and an unknown father.

‘Can Casic in Tona?’ Vehemently: ‘It didn’t belong to Fèlix.’

‘It did. And now it’s mine.’

Mother tried to conceal the trembling in the hand that held the document. She gave it back to its owner with a disdainful gesture.

‘I don’t know where you are going with this. What do you want?’

‘The shop. I have a right to it.’

From her tone of voice, I could tell that my angel had said it with a delicious smile, which made me want to cover her in kisses. If I were in my mother’s place, I would have given her the shop and whatever else it took with the only condition being that she never lost that smile. But Mother, instead of giving her anything, started laughing, pretending to laugh heartily: a fake laugh that she had recently added to her repertoire. I started to be scared, because I still wasn’t used to that side of Mother, the heartless, anti-angel side; I had always seen her either with her gaze lowered before Father or absent and cold, when she was recently widowed and was planning my future. But I had never seen her snap her fingers, demanding to see the document detailing ownership of Can Casic again and saying, after a pause, I don’t give a ffuck what this paper says.

‘It is a legal document. And I have a right to my part of the shop. That is why I’ve come.’

‘My solicitor will inform you of my refusal of all of your proposals. All of them.’

‘I am your husband’s daughter.’

‘That’s like saying you are Raquel Meller’s daughter. It’s a lie.’

My angel said no, Mrs Ardèvol: it is not a lie. She looked around her, slowly, and she repeated it is not a lie: Fifteen years ago I was in this study. He didn’t invite me to take a seat either.

‘What a surprise, Carolina,’ said Fèlix Ardèvol, his mouth agape, completely disconcerted. Even his tone of voice had cracked from the shock. The two women came in and he had them go into the study before Little Lola, who was busy with Carme’s trousseau, noticed the inopportune visit.

The three of them were in the study, standing as hustle and bustle reigned in the rest of the house, porters bringing up Mother’s furniture, Grandmother’s dresser, the hall mirror that Fèlix had agreed to put in the dressing room and people coming and going, and Little Lola, who had only been there for two hours but already knew every tile in Mr Ardèvol’s house, my God, what a grand flat the girl will have. And the study door was closed, with those visitors she didn’t find amusing in the least, but she couldn’t pry into Mr Fèlix’s affairs.

‘Are you busy?’ asked the older woman.

‘Quite.’ He lifted his arms. ‘Everything’s topsy-turvy.’ Curtly: ‘What do you want?’

‘Your daughter, Fèlix.’

‘Carolina, I …’

Carolina had understood pretty much everything from the moment her seminarian with the clean gaze of a good man had shrugged so cowardly when she’d placed his palm on her belly.

‘But we’ve only gone to bed together three or four times!’ he had said, frightened, pale, scared, terrified, sweaty.

‘Twelve times,’ she replied gravely. ‘And it only takes once.’

Silence. Hiding the fear. Looking at the future. Glancing at the exit doors. Looking the girl in the face and hearing her say, with her eyes glassy with emotion, aren’t you excited, Fèlix?

‘Oh, sure.’

‘We’re going to have a baby, Fèlix!’

‘How great. I’m so happy.’

And the next day fleeing Rome, leaving his studies half completed. What he most regretted was not being able to hear the end of Pater Faluba’s course.

‘Fèlix Ardèvol?’ Bishop Muñoz had said with his mouth hanging open. ‘Fèlix Ardèvol i Guiteres?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not possible.’

He was sitting before the desk in his office and Father Ayats was standing, with a folder in his hand and that deferential bearing that so irked the monsignor. Through the palace’s balcony rose the whine of a cart that must have been overloaded and the shriek of a woman scolding a child.

‘Yes it is possible.’ The episcopal secretary didn’t stifle his smug tone. ‘Unfortunately, he has done it. He got a woman pregnant and …’

‘Save me the details,’ said the bishop.

Once he had informed him of every last facet, shocked Monsignor Muñoz went to pray because his soul was confused, as he mused over his luck that Monsignor Torras i Bages had been saved the shame of the behaviour of the student many said was the pearl of the bishopric, and Father Ayata lowered his eyes humbly because he had known for some time that Ardèvol was no pearl. Very clever, very philosophical, very this and very that, but an inveterate rogue.

‘How did you know I’m marrying tomorrow?’

Carolina didn’t answer. Her daughter couldn’t stop looking at the face of that man who was her father, and she barely paid attention to the conversation. Carolina looked at Fèlix — fatter, not as charming, badly aged, with darker skin and crow’s feet — and she hid a smile. ‘Your daughter is named Daniela.’

Daniela. She looks just like her mother did when I met her.

‘That day, right here,’ said my angel, ‘your husband signed Can Casic over to me under oath. And when you came back from Majorca the inheritance was formalised.’

The trip to Majorca, the days with her husband, who no longer removed his hat when he ran into her because they were together all day long and, so he couldn’t say how are you, beautiful, either. Or he could say it but he didn’t; at first her husband was very attentive to her every move and, gradually, more mindful of his own silent thoughts. I never understood what your father did, thinking all day without saying a word, Son. All day long thinking without a word. And every once in a while shouting or smacking whomever was closest because he must have thought about that Italian tart, and about missing her and giving her Can Casics.

‘How did you know that my husband had died?’

My angel looked into my mother’s eyes and, as if she hadn’t heard her, ‘He promised me. No, he swore to me that I would be in his will.’

‘Then you must already know that you aren’t.’

‘He didn’t think he would die so soon.’

‘Farewell. And send your mother my regards.’

‘She is dead too.’

Mother didn’t say I’m sorry or anything like that. She opened the door to the study but my angel still stipulated, turning towards Mother as she left, ‘A part of the business is mine and I won’t stop fighting unt