Jaume Cabré - Confessions

She sat beside him and without looking at him said that they were brother and sister, that they had to understand each other, that she was the owner of Can Casic.

‘I already know that. My mother told me.’

‘I’m planning on demolishing the house, the filth, the pond, the manure and the stench of rotten hay. And put up new houses there.’

‘Don’t even think it.’

‘You’ll get used to the idea.’

‘Viola died of grief.’

‘Who is Viola?’

‘The bitch of Can Casic. Dark beige with a black snout and droopy ears.’

Surely Daniela didn’t understand him, but she didn’t say anything. Adrià stared at her for a few seconds in silence.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’

‘You need to know who our father was.’

‘You hate him.’

‘Our father is dead, Adrià.’

‘But you hate him. Why have you come to Tona?’

‘To talk to you without your mother around. To talk to you about the shop. When it’s yours I would like to be involved as a partner.’

‘But why are you telling this to me? Deal with my mother …’

‘Your mother is impossible to deal with. And you know that full well.’

The sun had hidden behind Collsuspina some time ago and I felt an immense void inside of me. The light was gradually dimming and I thought I could hear the crickets starting. The pale moon awoke drowsily, rising early, over the Collsacabra. When the shop is mine, was that what she had said?

‘It will eventually be yours, sooner or later.’

‘Go to hell.’

I said that last bit in Catalan. From her slight smile I could tell she had understood me perfectly even though she didn’t bat an eyelash.

‘I still have more things to tell you about. By the way, what violin did you bring with you?’

‘I’m not planning on practising much at all. In fact, I’ve stopped my lessons. I only brought it for Aunt Leo.’

Since it would soon be dark, they started the walk down. Along the steep path, in revenge, he took long strides, making light of the precipice, and she, despite her narrow skirt, followed him without any apparent problems. The moon was already at its height when they reached the level of the trees, near the cemetery.

‘But which violin did you bring with you?’

‘My student one. Why?’

‘As far as I know,’ continued Signor Somethingorother, still standing in the middle of the street, ‘it is a violin that has never been played regularly: like the Stradivarius Messiah, do you understand what I’m saying?’

‘No,’ said Ardèvol, impatient.

‘I’m saying that makes it even more valuable. Guillaume-François Vial made off with it the very same year it was made, and its whereabouts since then are unknown. Perhaps it has been played, but I have no record of it. And now we find it here. It is an instrument of incalculable value.’

‘That is what I wanted to hear, caro dottore.’

‘Is it really his first?’ asked Mr Berenguer, his interest piqued.

‘Yes.’

‘I would forget about it, Mr Ardèvol. That’s a lot of money.’

‘Is it worth it?’ asked Fèlix Ardèvol, looking at Somethingorother.

‘I would pay it without thinking twice. If you have the money. It has an incredibly lovely sound.’

‘I don’t give a damn about its sound.’

‘And exceptional symbolic value.’

‘That does matter to me.’

They said goodbye because it was starting to rain. They said goodbye after Signor Somethingorother got paid his expert’s fee, right there on the street. The ravages of war, besides millions of dead and entire cities destroyed, had got people out of the habits of courtesy and they now settled things on any old street corner, deals that could seriously affect more than one life. They said goodbye when Fèlix Ardèvol said all right, that he would take Mr Berenguer’s advice and that yes, fifty thousand dollars was too much money. And thank you both very much. And until we meet again, if we ever do. Mr Berenguer, before going round the corner, turned to observe Ardèvol. He pretended to be lighting a cigarette that he didn’t have in his hand in order to get a better look. Fèlix Ardèvol felt the other man’s gaze on the back of his neck but didn’t turn.

‘Who is Mr Falegnami?

He was back at the Santa Sabina monastery. They were back in the discreet corridor without an echo. Father Morlin checked his watch and sent Ardèvol, forcefully, out towards the street.

‘Blast it, Morlin, it’s raining!’

Father Morlin opened a huge umbrella, the size used by country folk, grabbed Ardèvol by the arm and they started walking in front of the monastery. They looked like a Dominican friar consoling and giving advice to a poor mortal with a heavy conscience, pacing in front of Santa Sabina’s facade, as if they were speaking of infidelities, fits of lust, sinful feelings of envy or rage, and it’s been many years since my last confession, Father, and for the passers-by it was an uplifting image.

‘He’s the concierge of the Ufficio della Giustizia e della Pace.’

‘I already know that.’ Two drenched strides. ‘Who is he, come on. How is it that he has such a valuable violin?’

‘So it really is incredibly valuable …’

‘You’ll have your commission.’

‘I know what he’s asking.’

‘I reckoned as much. But you don’t know what I’m going to give him.’

‘His name isn’t Falegnami: it’s Zimmermann.’

He looked at him out of the corner of his eye. After a few steps in silence, Father Morlin tested the waters: ‘You don’t know who he is, do you?’

‘I’m convinced his real name isn’t Zimmermann either.’

‘It’s best if you continue to call him Falegnami. You can offer him a quarter of what he asked you for. But don’t make him feel choked because …’

‘Because he’s dangerous.’

‘Yes.’

An American army jeep passed quickly along the Corso and splashed the bottoms of their habit and trousers.

‘Damn it to hell,’ said Ardèvol, without raising his voice. Morlin shook his head with displeasure.

‘My dear friend,’ he said with a distant smile as if looking into the future, ‘your character will be your undoing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘That you should know that you aren’t as strong as you think you are. And even less so in times like these.’

‘Who is this Zimmermann?’

Félix Morlin took his friend by the arm. The whisper of the rain hitting the umbrella didn’t drown out his voice.

Outside, the extreme cold had turned the downpour into a profuse, silent snowfall. Inside, as he looked into the iridescent colour of the wine in his raised glass, he said, I was born into a wealthy and very religious family, and the moral rectitude of my upbringing has helped me to assume the difficult task, by direct order from the Führer via the explicit instructions from Reichsführer Himmler, of becoming a stalwart defence against the enemy inside our fatherland. This wine is excellent, Doctor.

‘Thank you,’ said Doctor Voigt, a bit weary of so much talk. ‘It is an honour for me to be able to taste it here, in my improvised home,’ he thought to say. With each passing day he was more repulsed by these grotesque characters without the slightest manners.

‘Improvised but comfortable,’ said the Oberlagerführer.

A second little sip. Outside, the snow was already covering the earth’s unmentionables with a modest thick sheet of cold. Rudolf Höss continued, ‘For me, orders are sacred, no matter how difficult they may seem, since as an SS I must be willing to completely sacrifice my personality in the fulfilment of my duty to the fatherland.’

Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

‘Of course, Obersturmbannführer Höss.’