Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Yes. Play it on Vial.’

Bernat did so, very well. Despite his pain and anguish, Adrià listened to his friend’s version attentively and came to the conclusion that it was correctly played, but that, sometimes, Bernat had a problem: he didn’t get deep into the soul of things. He had something about him that didn’t allow him to be truthful. And there I was, wallowing in pain and unable to keep myself from analysing the aesthetic object.

‘Are you feeling better?’ he asked when he finished.

‘Yes.’

‘Did you like it?’

‘No.’

I should have kept it to myself, I know. But I’m unable to. I’m like Mother in that way.

‘What do you mean by no?’ Even his tone of voice had changed, it was more shrill, more on guard, more gobsmacked …

‘Doesn’t matter, forget about it.’

‘No, I’m very interested.’

‘Fine, all right.’

Little Lola was at the back of the flat. Mother, in the shop. Adrià dropped onto the sofa. Standing in front of him, the Storioni in his hand, Bernat waited for the verdict and Adrià said welllll technically it’s a perfect version, or almost perfect; but you don’t get to the heart of things; it seems like you’re afraid of the truth.

‘You’re insane. What is truth?’

And Jesus, instead of replying, remained silent as Pilate left the room impatiently. But since I’m not sure what the truth is, I was forced to reply.

‘I don’t know. I recognise it when I hear it. And I don’t recognise it in you. I recognise it in music and in poetry. And in prose. And in painting. But only every once in a while.’

‘Ffucking envy.’

‘Yes. I can admit I envy your ability to play that.’

‘Sure. Now you’re trying to smooth things over.’

‘But I don’t envy how you play.’

‘Bloody hell, don’t pull your punches.’

‘Your goal is to trap that truth and figure out how to express it.’

‘Whoa.’

‘At least you have a goal. I have none.’

So the friendly evening in which Bernat came over to comfort his afflicted friend ended in a bitter fight in hushed voices over aesthetic truth and you can go fuck off, you hear me, fuck off. Now I understand why Saga Voltes-Epstein split. And Bernat left, slamming the door. And a few seconds later, Little Lola peeked into the study and said what happened?

‘No, Bernat was in a big rush, you know how he always is.’

Little Lola looked at Adrià, who was carefully examining the violin to keep from gazing idly into his pain. Little Lola was about to say something, but she stopped herself. Then Adrià realised that she was still standing there, as if wanting to chat.

‘What?’ I said, with an expression that showed I didn’t have the slightest desire to converse.

‘Nothing. Do you know what? I’m going to make dinner because Mother should be coming soon.’

She left and I started to clean the rosin off the violin and I felt sad to the marrow of my bones.

‘You’re mad as a hatter, my boy.’

Mother sat down in her armchair where she takes her coffee. Adrià had outlined the conversation in the worst possible way. Sometimes I wonder why she didn’t tell me to buzz off more often. Because instead of starting by saying Mother, I’ve decided to continue my studies in Tübingen and her answering in Germany? Aren’t you doing fine here, my son? Instead of that, I started by saying, Mother, I have to tell you something.

‘What?’ Frightened, she sat in her armchair where she takes her coffee; frightened because we had lived together for years without any need to tell each other things, but, above all, without the need to say Mother, I have to tell you something.

‘Well, a while back I spoke with a woman named Daniela Amato.’

‘Whom did you say you spoke with?’

‘With my half-sister.’

Mother leapt up as if she’d sat on a pin. I had her against me for the rest of the conversation: fool, worse than a fool, you don’t know anything about getting what you want.

‘You have no half-sister.’

‘The fact that you’ve hidden it from me doesn’t mean I don’t have one. Daniela Amato, from Rome. I have her phone number and address.’

‘What are you conspiring?’

‘Oh, please. Why?’

‘Don’t trust that thief.’

‘She told me that she wants to be a partner in the shop.’

‘You know she stole Can Casic from you?’

‘If I understood correctly, Father gave it to her; she didn’t steal anything from me.’

‘She’s like a vampire. She’ll want the shop for herself.’

‘No. She wants to be a part of it.’

‘Why do you think she wants it?’

‘I don’t know. Because it was Father’s?’

‘Well, now it’s mine and my answer is no to any offer that comes from that tart. Fuck her.’

Wow: we’d got off on a good foot. She hadn’t said ffuck because she’d used it as a verb and not an adjective, like the previous time I had heard her say it. I like Mother’s linguistic refinement. Still standing, she paced around the dining room, silent, thinking whether or not she should continue with the cursing. She decided not to: ‘Is that all you wanted to tell me?’

‘No. I also wanted to tell you that I’m leaving home.’

Mother sat back down in the armchair where she took her coffee.

‘You’re mad as a hatter, my boy.’ Silence. Nervous hands. ‘You’ve got everything here. What have I done?’

‘Nothing. What makes you ask that?’

She wrung her hands nervously. Then she took a deep breath to calm down and placed both hands flat on her skirt.

‘And the shop? Don’t you ever plan on taking it over?’

‘It doesn’t appeal to me.’

‘That’s a lie. It’s your favourite place.’

‘No. I like the things in the shop. But the work …’

She looked at me with what I took for resentment.

‘What you want is to contradict me. As always.’

Why didn’t we ever love each other, Mother and I? It’s a mystery to me. All my life I’ve envied normal children, who can say mum, oh, I hurt my knee so bad, and whose mother would frighten away the pain with a mere kiss. My mother didn’t have that power. When I dared to tell her that I’d hurt my knee, instead of trying for the miracle, she sent me to Little Lola while she waited, impatiently, for my intellectual gift to begin to make some other sort of miracles.

‘Aren’t you happy here?’

‘I’ve decided to continue my studies in Tübingen.’

‘In Germany? Aren’t you fine here?’

‘I want to study under Wilhelm Nestle.’

To be precise, I had no idea if Nestle still taught at Tübingen. Actually, I didn’t even know if he was still alive. In fact, at the time of our conversation, he had been dead for a little over eight years. And yes: he had taught classes in Tübingen, and that was why I had decided I wanted to study in Tübingen.

‘Who is he?’

‘A historian of philosophy. And I also want to meet Coşeriu.’

That time I wasn’t lying. They said he was unbearable but a genius.

‘Who is he?’

‘A linguist. One of the great philologists of our century.’

‘These studies won’t make you happy, my son.’

Let’s see: if I look at it with perspective, I’d have to say she was right. Nothing has ever made me happy except you, and you are the one who has made me suffer most. I have been close to much happiness; I have had some joy. I have enjoyed moments of peace and immense gratitude towards the world and towards some people. I have been close to beautiful things and concepts. And sometimes I feel the itch to possess valuable objects, which made me understand Father’s anxiousness. But since I was the age I was, I smiled smugly and said no one ever said I had to be happy. And I was silent, satisfied.