Jaume Cabré - Confessions

Toldrà played a Coriolano that I’d never heard before and really enjoyed. Then, when he came back out on stage, he brought Jascha Heifetz by the hand, probably to show his support or something like that. Heifetz made a cold, arrogant, abominable, stupid, stuck-up, repulsive, detestable and haughty nod of his head. He didn’t have any interest in concealing his irritated, severe expression. He gave himself three long minutes to shake off his indignation while Master Toldrà stood, looking to either side, patiently waiting for the other man to say let’s begin. And they began. I remember that my mouth hung open throughout the entire concert. And that I cried without the slightest embarrassment during the andante assai, compelled by the physical pleasure of the binary rhythm of the violin set on top of the triplets of the orchestral backdrop. And how the piece was left in the hands of the orchestra and, at the end, the horn and a humble pizzicato. True beauty. And Heifetz was a warm, humble, kind man devoted to the service of the beauty that captivated me. And Adrià thought he saw Heifetz’s eyes gleaming suspiciously. Bernat, I know, held back a deep sob. And at intermission he rose and said I have to go meet him.

‘They won’t let you backstage.’

‘I’m going to try.’

‘Wait,’ she said.

Sara got up and gestured for them to follow her. Bernat and I looked at each other quizzically. We went up the small stairs on the side and through a door. The guard inside gave us the sign for vade retro, but Sara, with a smile, pointed to Master Toldrà, who was talking to one of the musicians, and he, as if he had caught Sara’s gesture, turned, saw us and said hello, princess, how are you? How’s your mother?

And he came over to give her a kiss. He didn’t even see us. Master Toldrà explained that Heifetz was deeply offended by the graffiti that it seems was everywhere around the Palau and that he was cancelling his performance tomorrow and leaving the country. It’s not the best moment to bother him, you understand?

When the concert was over and we were out on the street, we saw that it was true, that the tarred graffiti on the sign and on the walls, all over, suggested, in Spanish, that the Jews leave.

‘If I were him, I would have done the concert tomorrow,’ said Adrià, future historian of ideas, without knowing anything about the history of humanity. Sara whispered in his ear that she was in a rush and she also said call me, and Adrià barely reacted because his head was still filled with Heifetz and all he said was yes, yes, and thanks.

‘I’m giving up the violin,’ I said before the profaned sign, before an incredulous Bernat and before myself. All my life I’ve remembered myself saying I’m giving up the violin, at the exit, before the profaned sign before an incredulous Bernat and before myself, all my life I’ve remembered myself saying I’m giving up the violin.

‘But … but …’ Bernat pointed to the Palau as if he wanted to say what better argument cou

‘I’m giving up the violin. I’ll never be able to play like that.’

‘Practise.’

‘Bullshit. I’m giving it up. It’s impossible. I’ll finish seventh, take the exam and that’s it. Enough. Assez. Schluss. Basta.’

‘Who was that girl?’

‘Which one?’

‘That one!’ He pointed at Sara’s aura, which still lingered. ‘The one who led us to Master Toldrà like Ariadna, that one! The one who said Adrià Ican’trememberwhat, my pet. The one who said call me …’

Adrià looked at his friend with his mouth hanging open.

‘What have I done to you this time?’

‘What have you done to me? You’re threatening to give up the violin.’

‘Yes. It’s final. But I’m not giving you up: I’m giving up the violin.’

When Heifetz finished the Prokofiev concert, he was transformed, to the point that he seemed taller and more powerful. And he played, I would almost say arrogantly, three Jewish dances and then I found him even taller and with an even more powerful aura. Then he gathered himself and gave us the gift of the Ciaccona of the Partita for Violin No. 2, which, apart from our attempts, I had only heard on a shellac 78 played by Ysaÿe. They were minutes of perfection. I have been to many concerts. But for me this was the foundation, the concert that opened up the path to beauty for me, the concert that closed the door to the violin for me, the concert that put an end to my brief career as a musician.

‘You’re a lousy bum,’ was Bernat’s opinion, who saw that he would have to face his eighth year all on his own, without my presence one year behind him. All alone with Master Massià. ‘A lousy stinking bum.’

‘Not if I learn how to be happy. I’ve seen the light: no more suffering and I’ll enjoy music played by those who know how.’

‘A lousy bum, and a coward to boot.’

‘Yes. Probably. Now I can devote myself to my studies without added pressures.’

Right there in the street, as we walked home, the pedestrians caught in the cold wind coming down Jonqueres Street were witnesses to one of the three times I’ve seen my friend Bernat explode. It was terrible. He began to shout and to say German, English, Catalan, Spanish, French, Italian, Greek, Latin, counting on his fingers. You’re nineteen and you can read one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight languages, and you’re afraid of eighth-year violin, idiot? If I had your brain, for fuck’s sake!

Then silent snowflakes started to fall. I had never seen it snow in Barcelona; I had never seen Bernat so indignant. I had never seen Bernat so helpless. I don’t know if it was snowing for him or for me.

‘Look,’ I said.

‘I don’t give a shit about the snow. You’re making a mistake.’

‘You’re afraid to face up to Massià without me.’

‘Yeah, so?’

‘You have what it takes to be a violinist. I don’t.’

Bernat lowered his voice and said don’t think that, I’m always at my limit. I smile when I play, but not because I’m happy. It’s to ward off panic. But the violin is as treacherous as the horn: you can play a false note at any moment. Even still, I don’t give up like you, like a little shit. I want to get to tenth and then I’ll see whether I go on or not. Give it up after tenth.

‘There will come a day when you’ll smile with pleasure while you play the violin, Bernat.’

I realised I came off sounding like Jesus Christ with that prophecy, and if we examine how things turned out … well, look, I don’t know what to say.

‘Give it up after tenth.’

‘No. After the exams in June. For appearances. Because if you really make me angry, I’ll stop right now and fuck appearances.’

And the snow continued to fall. We walked to my house in silence. He left me in front of the dark wooden door without even a good night or any slight gesture of affection.

I’ve fought with Bernat a few times in my life. This was the first serious fight, the first one that left scars. Christmas break that year took place in an unusually snowy landscape. At home, Mother was silent, Little Lola attentive to everything, and I was spending more and more hours in Father’s study each day. I had earned the right to with the outstanding honours I’d received at the end of term, and the space drew me irresistibly further and further in. The day after Boxing Day I went for a walk along the white streets and I saw Bernat, who was living at the top of Bruc Street, skiing down Bruc with his violin on his back. He saw me but said nothing. I confess that I was overcome with jealousy because I immediately thought whose house is he going to go play at, the bastard, without saying anything to me. Nineteen- or twenty-year-old Adrià, in the throes of a fit of jealousy, started to chase after him, but he couldn’t catch up to the skis and soon Bernat was just a tiny crèche figure, probably already at the Gran Via. How ridiculous, panting, exhaling through his scarf, watching his friend leave. I never found out where he went that day and I would give … I was about to say I would give half my life, but today that expression makes no sense. But what the hell, still today I would give half my life to know whose house he went to play at on that day during Christmas break when Barcelona was enveloped in several feet of unexpected snow.