Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Well, now I will give you the information and let’s see if you can make an effort to understand the situation.’

‘Let’s see,’ she said sarcastically. And I applauded her in silence, as the best wife of the best palaeographer in the world had done.

‘I am sorry to tell you that if we dig into your husband’s life we will find unpleasant things. Do you want to hear them?’

‘Of course.’

I suppose that Mother, after the appearance of my Italian angel (I lovingly touched the medallion I secretly wore around my neck), was prepared for anything. So she added, go ahead, Commissioner.

‘I warn you that you’ll say I’m making things up and you won’t believe me.’

‘Try me.’

‘Very well.’

The Commissioner paused and then he began to tell her the truth and nothing but the truth. He explained that Mr Fèlix Ardèvol was a criminal who ran two brothels in Barcelona and had got involved in a shady affair of inducing a minor into prostitution. Do you know what a whore is, madam?

‘Go on.’

‘Il fait déjà beaucoup de temps que son mari mène une double vie, madame Agdevol. Deux prostíbuls (prostiboules?) with l’agreujant (agreujant?) de faire, de … de … d’utiliser des filles de quinze ou seize ans. Je suis désolé d’être obligé de parler de tout ça.’

My foot had calmed down, thankfully, because my French was awful that day and I could go back to the Commissioner’s difficult, muttered Spanish. I think Carson winked at me when he saw that I managed to control my foot.

‘Do you want me to continue, madam?’

‘Please.’

‘It seems that the father of one of these girls your husband prostituted took his revenge. Because before locking them up in the brothel, he tried them out personally. Do you understand me?’ With some emphasis: ‘He deflowered them.’

‘How.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s two.’

‘Yes: brothel and deflower.’

‘It’s awful and hard to believe. Put yourself in those girls’ skins. Or the father of those girls’. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Yes, I do, Commissioner.’

‘If you’d like, we can investigate and find the desperate father who disappeared after taking justice into his own hands. But any movements on our part will make your husband’s unwholesome life more public.’

Silence. My foot threatened to bouger encore une fois. Little sounds. The Commissioner was probably putting away the small cigar he’d been denied. Suddenly, Mother: ‘Do you know what, Commissioner?’

‘What?’

‘You’re completely right. I don’t believe a word. You are making this up. Now I need to know why.’

‘You see? You see? I warned you.’ Raising his voice: ‘Didn’t I? Eh?’

‘That’s no argument.’

‘If you aren’t afraid of the consequences, I can keep pulling on loose ends. But only your husband knows what we’ll find.’

‘Farewell, Commissioner. I have to admit it was a good try.’

Mother spoke like Old Shatterhand, a bit cocksure. I liked it. Carson and Black Eagle were so gobsmacked that Black Eagle, that evening, asked me if I would call him Winnetou. I refused. Mother had said farewell and they hadn’t even stood up yet! Since she had started cracking the whip in the shop she had got much better at setting a scene. Because Commissioner Plasencia could only stand up and mutter something incoherent. And I was left wondering whether what the Commissioner had said about Father, which I hadn’t entirely understood, was true or not.

‘How.’

‘Yes. Brothel and what was the other one?’

‘Depowder?’ suggested Carson.

‘I don’t know. Something like that.’

‘Well, let’s look up brothel. In the Espasa dictionary.’

‘Brothel: whorehouse, bawdyhouse, cathouse.’

‘Wow. We’ll have to look up whorehouse now. Here, in this volume.’

‘Whorehouse: brothel, bawdyhouse, house of ill repute.’

Silence. All three of them were still confused.

‘And bawdyhouse?’

‘Bawdyhouse: whorehouse, cathouse, brothel. That’s annoying. Place or house that serves as a den of iniquity.’

‘Now cathouse.’

‘Cathouse: whorehouse, brothel.’

‘Jeez!’

‘Hey, wait. House or place that lacks decorum and is filled with noise and confusion.’

So Father had cathouses, which are noisy public houses. And they had to kill him for that?

‘What if we look up depowder?’

‘How do you say depowder in Spanish?’

They were silent for a little while. Adrià was confused.

‘How.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s all about sex, not noise.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure. When a warrior reaches adulthood, the shaman explains the secrets of sex to him.’

‘When I reach adulthood, nobody’s going to explain any sex secrets to me.’

Slightly bitter silence. I heard someone spitting curtly.

‘What is it, Carson?’

‘I could you tell you a few things.’

‘So, come on, tell me.’

‘No. You aren’t the right age for some things.’

Sheriff Carson was right. I was never the right age for anything. I was either too young or I’m too old.

‘Put your hands in hot water. Take them out, take them out, don’t let them get too soft. Walk. Don’t get nervous. Relax. Walk. Take deep breaths. Stop. There. Very good. Think about the beginning. Imagine yourself entering the theatre and bowing to the audience. Very, very good. Now, bow. No, come on, not like that, please. You have to lean forwards, you have to submit to the audience. But, don’t really submit. The audience has to think you are submitting to them; but if you reach the summit, where I am, you’ll know that you are superior and that they should be kneeling before you. I said don’t get nervous. Dry your hands; do you want to catch a cold? Pick up the violin. Stroke it, dominate it, think how you are in charge, that you order it to do what you want. Think about the first bars. That’s it, without the bow, as if you were playing. Very good. Now you can do more scales.’

Master Manlleu, spent, left the dressing room and I was finally able to breathe. I was more relaxed doing scales, extracting the sound without gaffes, without shrillness, making the bow glide well, measuring the rosin, breathing. And then Adrià Ardèvol said never again, that this was torture, that he wasn’t made for going out onto that display case that was the stage and presenting his merchandise in case someone wanted to buy it with a smattering of applause. From the theatre came the sounds of a very well-played Chopin prelude, and he imagined the hand of a lovely girl stroking the piano keys and he couldn’t take it any more, he put the violin into the open case and went out and, through the curtain, he saw her; she was a girl, she was beyond lovely and he fell head over heels and urgently in love; at that moment he wanted to be the baby grand piano. When the sublime girl had finished and was taking an unbelievably cute bow, Adrià began to applaud frantically and a very impatient hand landed on his shoulder.

‘What the hell are you doing here? You are about to go on stage!’

On the way to the dressing room, Master Manlleu cursed my lack of professionalism, which was that of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy not terribly excited for his first recital, and look at how we’ve worked for this, your mother and I; and here you are with your head in the clouds. In such a way that he left me suitably nervous. I greeted Professor Marí, who was already waiting at the stage exit (You see? Now that’s a professional), and Professor Marí winked at me and said relax, you do it very well and it’ll be even better up there. And that I shouldn’t speed up in the introduction: that I was the boss and that she would follow me; don’t rush. Like in the last rehearsal. And then Adrià felt Master Manlleu’s breath on the back of his neck.