Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Breathe. Don’t look at the audience. Bow elegantly. Feet slightly apart. Look at the back of the theatre and begin even before Professor Marí is completely prepared. You are the one in charge.’

I had wanted to know who the girl who’d gone on before me was so I could say hi to her or give her a kiss, or hug her and smell her hair; but it seems that those who’d already finished exited on the other side, and I heard them say the young talent Adrià Ardèvol i Bosch with the collaboration of Professor Antònia Marí. So we had to go out on stage and I found that Bernat, who had sworn don’t worry, really, Adrià, relax, I won’t come, I swear, was in the front row, the big poof, and I thought I could see him trying to hide a mocking smile. He had even brought his parents, the little … And Mother, accompanied by two men I had never seen before. And Master Manlleu, who joined the group and whispered something into Mother’s ear. More than half of the theatre was filled with strangers. And I was overcome with an irrepressible need to piss. I told Professor Marí, into her ear, that I was going to go make a pee pee and she said, don’t worry, they won’t leave without hearing you.

Adrià Ardèvol didn’t head to the bathroom. He went to the dressing room, put the violin in its case and left it there. When he ran towards the exit he found himself before Bernat, who watched him, frightened, and said, where do you think you’re going? And he said home. And Bernat but you’re crazy. And Adrià said you have to help me. Say that they took me to the hospital or something like that, and he left the Casal del Metge and was greeted by the night-time traffic on the Via Laietana and he noticed he was sweating profusely and then he headed home. And it wasn’t until a long hour later that he found out that Bernat had been a good friend because he went back inside and told Mother that I didn’t feel well and that they had taken me to the hospital.

‘To what hospital, darling?’

‘What do I know? Ask the taxi driver.’

And, in the middle of the hallway, Master Manlleu gave contradictory orders, completely losing it because the strangers who were with him could barely stifle their laughter, and Bernat was the crucial obstacle that kept them from seeing me run down the Via Laietana, when they stepped out onto the street.

An hour later they were already home, because Little Lola, the big dummy, sneaked on me when she saw me arriving in a panic and had called the Casal del Metge — because grownups always help each other out — and Mother made me go into the study and had Master Manlleu come in too and closed the door. It was terrible. Mother said what were you thinking. I said I didn’t want to try it again. Mother: what were you thinking; Master Manlleu: lifting his arms and saying incredible, incredible. And me: no, I was fed up; that I wanted time to read; and Mother: no, you will study violin and when you are grown up you can decide; and me, well, I’ve already decided. And Mother: at thirteen you aren’t able to decide; and me, indignant: thirteen and a half!; and Master Manlleu lifting his arms and saying incredible, incredible; and Mother, what was I thinking for the second or third time, and adding that with the money I’m spending on these classes and you acting like a … and Master Manlleu who felt he was being alluded to, pointed out that they weren’t actually expensive; and Mother: well, let me tell you, they are expensive, very expensive. And Master Manlleu, well, if they’re so expensive then you can work it out with your son; it’s not like he’s Oistrakh. And my mother replied angrily, don’t even start: you said that the boy had talent and that you would make a violinist out of him. Meanwhile I was calming down because they were hitting the ball back and forth between them and I didn’t even have to translate the conversation into my French. And Little Lola, the sneaky pettegola, stuck her head in saying there was a very urgent call from the Casal del Metge, and Mother, saying as she left no one move I’ll be right back, and Master Manlleu brought his face close to mine and said fucking coward, you had the sonata mastered, and I said I couldn’t care less, I don’t want to perform in public. And he: and what would Beethoven think about that? And I: Beethoven is dead and won’t know. And he: incredulous. And I: poof. And there was a very thick silence the colour of a dirty smudge.

‘What did you say?’

Both stock still, facing each other. Then Mother came back. Master Manlleu, his mouth hanging open, was still unable to react. Mother said that I was not allowed out except for going to school and violin class. Go to your room now and we’ll discuss whether or not you’ll have supper tonight. Go on. Master Manlleu still had his arm raised and his mouth open. Too slow for the rage Mother and I had inside of us.

I closed the door in an act of rebellion and Mother could complain if she wanted to. I opened the box of treasures where — except for Black Eagle and Carson, who roamed free — I kept my secrets. Now I remember there being a double trading card of a Maserati, some gorgeous glass marbles and my angel’s medallion when it wasn’t around my neck, which was my souvenir of my angel with her red smile saying ciao, Adriano. And Adrià imagined himself replying, ciao, angelo mio.

He arranged to meet him in the dusty rooms where the younger kids did their music theory classes, in the other building. When he went into the dark hallway, the excessive dust on the floor and the stillness muffled the shouts of his classmates running after the ball. Down the hall, in the far classroom, there was a light on.

‘Look at him, the artist.’

Father Bartrina was an angular man, so tall and thin that his cassock was inevitably short on him and worn trousers peeked out at the bottom. Since he always had to lean over, it seemed that he was about to pounce on his interlocutor. Actually, he was kindly, and he had accepted that no student would ever be interested in music theory. But since he was the music teacher, he taught music theory and that was that. And the problem was maintaining a certain sense of authority because all of the students, without exception, even if they couldn’t hit a note or had no idea how to write fa, would never be left back because of music. So he shrugged at life and just kept on, with that immense scratched blackboard with four red staves on which he wrote the absurd difference between a black (which in chalk was coloured white) and a white (a circle the colour of the blackboard). And he just kept passing every student, year after year.

‘Hello.’

‘I’m told you play the violin.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that you refused to go on stage at the Casal del Metge.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Adrian explained his theory about the perfection required of an interpreter.

‘Forget about perfection. You have trac.’

‘What?’

And Father Bartrina explained his theory about interpreters’ trac, which he had got from an English music magazine: it was French for stage fright. No. It wasn’t the same, I thought. But I had trouble getting him to understand that. It’s not that I’m afraid: it’s that I don’t want to strive for perfection. I don’t want to do a job that doesn’t allow for error or hesitation.

‘Error and hesitation are there, in the interpreter. But he keeps them in the practice room. When he plays in front of an audience he has already overcome his hesitations. And that’s that.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘What?’

‘Pardon. I do not agree. I love music too much to make it a slave to a misplaced finger.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirteen and a half.’

‘You don’t talk like a boy.’

Was he scolding me? I scrutinised his gaze and didn’t find the answer.