Jaume Cabré - Confessions

The auditorium of the Palau de la Música was full, but the silent was thick. We had trouble getting to our two empty seats, in the stalls, almost in the middle.

‘Hello.’

‘Hello,’ said Adrià, timidly as he sat beside the lovely girl who smiled at him.

‘Adrià? Adrià Ican’trememberwhat?’

Then I recognised you. You didn’t have plaits in your hair and you looked like a real woman.

‘Sara Voltes-Epstein! …’ I said, astonished. ‘Are you here?’

‘What does it look like?’

‘No, I mean …’

‘Yes,’ she said laughing and putting her hand over mine casually, setting off a fatal electric shock. ‘I live in Barcelona now.’

‘Well, how about that,’ I said, looking from side to side. ‘This is my friend Bernat. Sara.’

Bernat and Sara nodded politely to each other.

‘How awful, eh, the thing with the sign …’ said Adrià, with his extraordinary ability to stick his foot in it. Sara made a vague expression and started looking at the programme. Without taking her eyes off of it, ‘How did your concert go?’

‘The one in Paris?’ A bit embarrassed. ‘Fine. Normal.’

‘Do you still read?’

‘Yes. And you, do you still draw?’

‘Yes. I’m having an exhibition.’

‘Where?’

‘In the parish of …’ She smiled. ‘No, no. I don’t want you to come.’

I don’t know if she meant it or if it was a joke. Adrià was so stiff that he didn’t dare to look her in the eye. He just smiled timidly. The lights began to dim, the audience started to applaud and Master Toldrà came out on the stage and Bernat’s footsteps were heard coming from the other end of the flat. Then Xènia put the computer to sleep and stood up from the chair. She pretending she’d been reading book spines and when Bernat entered the study she made a bored face.

‘Forgive me,’ he said, brandishing the mobile.

‘More problems?’

He furrowed his brow. It was clear he didn’t want to talk about it. Or that he had learned he shouldn’t discuss it with Xènia. They sat down and, for a few seconds, the silence was quite uncomfortable; perhaps that was why they both smiled without looking at each other.

‘And how does it feel to be a musician writing literature?’ asked Xènia, putting the tiny recorder in front of her on the small round table.

He looked at her without seeing her, thinking of the furtive kiss of the other night, so close to his lips.

‘I don’t know. It all happened gradually, inevitably.’

That was a real whopper. It all happened so bloody slowly, so gratuitously and capriciously and, yet, his anxiety did arrive all at once, because Bernat had been writing for years and for years Adrià had been telling him that what he wrote was completely uninteresting, it was grey, predictable, dispensable; definitely not an essential text. And if you don’t like what I’m saying, stop asking me for my opinion.

‘And that’s it?’ said Xènia, a bit peeved. ‘It all happened gradually, inevitably? And full stop? Should I turn off the tape recorder?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Where are you?’

‘Here, with you.’

‘No.’

‘Well, it’s post-concert trauma.’

‘What’s that?’

‘I’m more than sixty years old, I am a professional violinist, I know that I do fine but playing with the orchestra doesn’t do it for me. What I wanted was to be a writer, you understand?’

‘You already are.’

‘Not the way I wanted to be.’

‘Are you writing something now?’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. Why?’

‘No reason. What do you mean by not the way you wanted to be?’

‘That I’d like to captivate, enthral.’

‘But with the violin …’

‘There are fifty of us playing. I’m not a soloist.’

‘But sometimes you play chamber music.’

‘Sometimes.’

‘And why aren’t you a soloist?’

‘Not everyone who wants to be one can be. I don’t have the skill or temperament for it. A writer is a soloist.’

‘Is it an ego problem?’

Bernat Plensa picked up Xènia’s recording device, examined it, found the button and turned it off. He placed it back down on the table while he said I am the epitome of mediocrity.

‘You don’t believe what that imbecile from

‘That imbecile and all the others who’ve been kind enough to tell me that in the press.’

‘You know that critics are just …’

‘Just what?’

‘Big poofs.’

‘I’m being serious.’

‘Now I understand your hysterical side.’

‘Wow: you don’t pull your punches.’

‘You want to be perfect. And since you can’t … you get cranky; or you demand that those around you be perfect.’

‘Do you work for Tecla?’

‘Tecla is a forbidden subject.’

‘What’s got into you?’

‘I’m trying to get a reaction out of you,’ replied Xènia. ‘Because you have to answer my question.’

‘What question?’

Bernat watched as Xènia turned on the recorder again and placed it gently on the little table.

‘How does it feel to be a musician writing literature?’ she repeated.

‘I don’t know. It all happens gradually. Inevitably.’

‘You already said that.’

It’s just that it happens so bloody slowly and yet his anxiety arrives all at once because Bernat had been writing for so many years and Adrià had been saying for so many years that what he wrote was of no interest, it was grey, predictable, unessential; it was definitely Adrià’s fault.

‘I am about to break off all ties with you. I don’t like unbearable people. That’s your first and last warning.’

For the first time since he had met her, he looked into her eyes and held Xènia’s black gaze of serene night.

‘I can’t bear being unbearable. Forgive me.’

‘Can we get back to work?’

‘Go ahead. And thanks for the warning.’

‘First and last.’

I love you, he thought. So he had to be perfect if he wanted to have those lovely eyes with him for a few more hours. I love you, he repeated.

‘How does it feel to be a musician making literature?’

I am falling in love with your obstinacy.

‘It feels … I feel … in two worlds … and it bothers me that I don’t know which is more important to me.’

‘Does that matter?’

‘I don’t know. The thing is …’

That evening they didn’t call a cab. But two days later Bernat Plensa screwed up his courage and went to visit his friend. Caterina, with her coat already on and about to leave, opened the door for him and, before he could open his mouth, said in a low voice he’s not well.

‘Why?’

‘I had to hide yesterday’s newspaper from him.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if I don’t notice, he reads the same paper three times.’

‘Boy …’

‘He’s such a hard worker, I hate to see him wasting his time rereading the newspaper, you know?’

‘You did the right thing.’

‘What are you two conspiring about?’

They turned. Adrià had just come out of his study and caught them speaking in low voices.