Jaume Cabré - Confessions

That night, desperate, I went through the pockets of my coat, my jacket and my trousers, cursing because I couldn’t find the concert programme.

‘Sara Voltes-Epstein? No. Doesn’t ring a bell. Try the Betlem parish, they do those sorts of activities there.’

I went to about twenty parishes, trudging through increasingly dirty snow, until I found her, in the neighbourhood of Poble Sec, in a very modest parish church, in an even more modest, and almost empty, room with three walls covered in extraordinary charcoal drawings. Six or seven portraits and some landscapes. I was impressed by the sadness of the gaze in one entitled Uncle Haïm . And a dog that was amazing. And a house by the sea that was called Little Beach at Portlligat. I’ve looked at those drawings so many times, Sara. That girl was a real artist, Sara. My mouth hung open for half an hour until I heard your voice at my neck, as if scolding me, your voice saying I told you not to come.

I turned with an excuse on my lips, but all that came out was a shy I just happened to be passing by and. With a smile she forgave me. And in a soft, timid voice you said, ‘What do you think of them?’

‘Mother.’

‘What?’ Without looking up from the papers she was going over on the manuscript table.

‘Can you hear me?’

But she was avidly reading financial reports from Caturla, the man she had chosen to get the shop back on a sound footing. I knew that she wasn’t paying attention, but it was now or never.

‘I’m giving up the violin.’

‘Fine.’

And she continued reading the reports from Caturla, which must have been enthralling. When Adrià left the study, with a cold sweat on his soul, he heard his mother’s eyeglasses folding with a click-clack. She must have been watching him. Adrià turned. Yes, she was watching him, with her glasses in one hand and holding up a sheaf of reports in the other.

‘What did you say?’

‘That I’m giving up the violin. I’ll finish seventh year, but then I’m done.’

‘Don’t even think it.’

‘I’ve made up my mind.’

‘You aren’t old enough to make such a decision.’

‘Of course I am.’

Mother put down Caturla’s report and stood up. I’m sure she was wondering how Father would resolve this mutiny. To begin with, she used a low, private, threatening tone.

‘You will take your seventh year examinations, then your eighth year examinations and then you will do two years of virtuosity and, when the time comes, you will go to the Julliard School or wherever Master Manlleu decides.’

‘Mother: I don’t want to devote my life to interpreting music.’

‘Why not?’

‘It doesn’t make me happy.’

‘We weren’t born to be happy.’

‘I was.’

‘Master Manlleu says you have what it takes.’

‘Master Manlleu despises me.’

‘Master Manlleu tries to goad you because sometimes you’re listless.’

‘That is my decision. You are going to have to put up with it,’ I dared to say.

That was a declaration of war. But there was no other way I could do it. I left Father’s study without looking back.

‘How.’

‘Yes?’

‘You can start painting my face with war paint. Black and white from the mouth to the ears and two yellow stripes from top to bottom.’

‘Stop joking, I’m trembling.’

Adrià locked himself in his room, unwilling to give an inch. If that meant war, so be it.

Little Lola’s voice was the only one heard in the house for many days. She was the only one who tried to give an appearance of normality. Mother, always at the shop, I at university, and dinners in silence, both of us looking at our plates, and Little Lola watching one of us and then the other. It was very difficult and so intense that, for a few days, the joy of having found you again was subdued by the violin crisis.

The storm was unleashed the day I had class with Master Manlleu. That morning, before vanishing into the shop, Mother spoke to me for the first time that entire week. Without looking at me, as if Father had just died: ‘Bring the Storioni to class.’

I arrived at Master Manlleu’s house with Vial and, as we went down the hallway to his studio, I heard his voice, now sweet, telling me we could look at some other repertoire that you like better. All right, lad?

‘When I’ve finished seventh, I’m giving up the violin. Does everybody understand that? I have other priorities in my life.’

‘You will regret this wrong decision for every day of your entire life’ (Mother).

‘Coward’ (Manlleu).

‘Don’t leave me alone, mate’ (Bernat).

‘Negroid’ (Manlleu).

‘But you play better than I do!’ (Bernat).

‘Poof’ (Manlleu).

‘What about all the hours you’ve invested, what about that? Just flush them down the drain?’ (Mother).

‘Capricious gypsy’ (Manlleu).

‘And what is it you want to do?’ (Mother).

‘Study’ (me).

‘You can combine that with the violin, can’t you?’ (Bernat).

‘Study what?’ (Mother).

‘Bastard’ (Manlleu).

‘Poof’ (me).

‘Watch it, or I’ll walk out on you right now’ (Manlleu).

‘Do you even know what you want to study?’ (Mother).

‘How’ (Black Eagle, the valiant Arapaho chief).

‘Hey, I asked you what it is you want to study. Medicine?’ (Mother)

‘Ingrate’ (Manlleu).

‘Come on, Adrià, shit!’ (Bernat).

‘History’ (me).

‘Ha!’ (Mother).

‘What?’ (me).

‘You’ll starve to death. And get bored’ (Mother).

‘History!?’ (Manlleu).

‘Yes’ (Mother).

‘But history …’ (Manlleu).

‘Ha, ha … Tell me about it’ (Mother).

‘Traitor!!’ (Manlleu).

‘And I also want to study philosophy’ (me).

‘Philosophy?’ (Mother).

‘Philosophy?’ (Manlleu).

‘Philosophy?’ (Bernat).

‘Even worse’ (Mother).

‘Why even worse?’ (me)

‘If you have to choose between two evils, become a lawyer’ (Mother).

‘No. I hate the normalisation of life with rules’ (me).

‘Smart arse’ (Bernat).

‘What you want is to contradict just for the sake of contradicting. That’s your style, isn’t it?’ (Manlleu).

‘I want to understand humanity by studying its cultural evolution’ (me).

‘A smart arse, that’s what you are. Should we go to the cinema?’ (Bernat).

‘Sure, let’s go. Where?’ (me).

‘To the Publi’ (Bernat).

‘I don’t understand you, Son’ (Mother).

‘Irresponsible’ (Manlleu).

‘History, philosophy … Don’t you see they’re useless?’ (Manlleu).

‘What do you know!’ (me).

‘Arrogant!’ (Manlleu).

‘And music? What use is it?’ (me).

‘You’ll make a lot of money; look at it that way’ (Manlleu).

‘History, philosophy … Don’t you see they’re useless?’ (Bernat).

‘Tu quoque?’ (me).

‘What?’ (Bernat).

‘Nothing’ (me).

‘Did you like the film?’ (Bernat).

‘Well, yeah’ (me).

‘Well, yeah or yes?’ (Bernat).

‘Yes’ (me).

‘It’s useless!’ (Mother).

‘I like it’ (me).

‘And the shop? Would you like to work there?’ (Mother).

‘We’ll discuss that later’ (me).

‘How’ (Black Eagle, the valiant Arapaho chief).

‘Not now, damn, don’t be a drag’ (me).

‘And I want to study languages’ (me).

‘English is all you need’ (Manlleu).

‘What languages?’ (Mother).

‘I want to perfect my Latin and Greek. And start Hebrew, Aramaic and Sanskrit’ (me).

‘Whoa! What a disappointment …’ (Mother).