Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘I know nothing about this. I have never met any Jaume Malla. I do not know what hosts are.’

‘That means that you consider yourself a Jew.’

‘Well … I am Jewish, yes, Your Excellency. You already know that. My family and all the families in the Jewish Quarter are under the King’s protection.’

‘In these four walls, the only protection is God’s. Never forget that.’

Most High Adonai, where are you now, thought the venerable Doctor Josep Xarom, knowing that it was a sin to distrust the Most High.

During an hour that dragged on, Friar Nicolau, with the patience of a saint, ignoring his headache and the heating up of his internal humours, tried to discover the secret of the nefarious crime this abominable creature had committed with the consecrated hosts, which was detailed in the meticulous and providential report, but Josep Xarom just kept repeating things he’d already said: that he was named Josep Xarom, that he had been born in the Jewish Quarter, where he had lived all this time, that he had learned the arts of medicine, that he helped babies into the world both in and out of the Jewish Quarter and that his life was the practice of that profession and nothing more.

‘And attending synagogue on your Sabbath day.’

‘The King has not forbidden that.’

‘The King cannot speak of the foundations of the soul. You are accused of practising nefarious crimes with consecrated hosts. What can you say in your defence?’

‘Who is my accuser?’

‘There is no need for you to know that.’

‘Yes, there is. This is a calumny and, depending on its source, I can demonstrate the reasons that would move someone to

‘Are you insinuating that a good Christian could lie?’ shocked, astounded, Friar Nicolau.

‘Yes, Your Excellency. Undoubtedly.’

‘That worsens your situation because if you insult a Christian you insult the Lord God Jesus Christ whose blood is on your hands.’

My Highest and Most Merciful Lord, you are the one and only God, Adonai.

Inquisitor General Nicolau Eimeric, without even looking at him — such was the disdain he provoked in him — ran his palm over his forehead with concern and told the men holding the stubborn man to torture him and bring him to me here in an hour with the declaration signed.

‘Which torture, Your Excellency?’ asked Friar Miquel.

‘The rack, for one credo in unum deum. And hooks if need be, for a couple of ourfathers.’

‘Your Excellency …’

‘And if that doesn’t refresh his memory, repeat as necessary.’

He approached Friar Miquel de Susqueda, who had lowered his gaze some time earlier, and almost in a whisper ordered him to let this Jaume Malla know that if he sells or gives hosts to any Jew, he will hear from me.

‘We don’t know who he is, this Jaume Malla.’ Taking a deep breath. ‘He may not even exist.’

But the holy man did not hear him because he was focused on his terrible headache and offering it up to God as penance.

Doctor Josep Xarom of Girona — on the rack and with butcher’s hooks in his flesh, ripping tendons — confessed that yes, yes, yes, for Almighty God, I did it, I bought them from this man you say, yes, yes, but stop, for the love of God.

‘And what did you do with them?’ Friar Miquel de Susqueda, sitting before the rack, trying not to look at the blood that dripped from it.

‘I don’t know. Whatever you say but, please, don’t turn it any more, I …’

‘Watch out, if he faints on us, the declaration is over.’

‘So? He’s already confessed.’

‘Very well: then you talk to Friar Nicolau, yes, you, the redhead, and you tell him that the prisoner merely slept through the torture, and I can assure you that he himself will put us on the rack, accused of putting sticks in the wheels of divine justice. Both of us.’ Exasperated: ‘Don’t you know His Excellency?’

‘Sir, but if we …’

‘Yes. And I’ll be the notary for the record of your torture. Look lively, come now.’

‘Let’s see: grab him by the hair, like this. All right, let’s have it: what did you do with the consecrated hosts? Do you hear me? Hey! Xarom, fucking hell!’

‘I will not tolerate such language in a building of the Holy Inquisition,’ said Friar Miquel, indignant. ‘Behave like good Christians.’

The light had completely disappeared and the room was now lit by a torch whose flame trembled like Xarom’s soul, as he listened, in a semi-conscious state, to the conclusions of the high tribunal read by the powerful voice of Nicolau Eimeric, condemning him, in the presence of the attendant witnesses, to death purified by flame, on the eve of Saint James the Apostle’s Day, since he refused to repent with a conversion that would have saved him, if not from the death of his body, at least from the death of his soul. Friar Nicolau, after signing the sentence, warned Friar Miquel: ‘You must cut out the prisoner’s tongue first. Remember that.’

‘Wouldn’t a gag be sufficient, Your Excellency?’

‘You must cut out the prisoner’s tongue first,’ insisted Friar Nicolau with saintly patience. ‘And I will not tolerate any leniency.’

‘But Your Excellency …’

‘They know all the tricks, they bite the gag, they … And I want the heretics to be mute from the moment they are brought to the bonfire. Even before it’s lit because, if they still have the ability to speak, their blasphemies and vituperation can gravely wound the piety of those who attend the event.’

‘That has never happened here …’

‘It has in Lleida. And while I hold this post, I will not allow it.’ He looked at him with eyes so black they hurt, and in a softer voice; ‘Never, I will never allow it.’ Raising his tone: ‘Look me in the eyes when I speak to you, Friar Miquel! Never.’

He stood up and left the room quickly without looking at the secretaries, or the prisoner or the rest of those in attendance because he was invited for dinner at the episcopal palace, he was running late and was terribly uncomfortable in the intense heat of the day, what with his headache and fevers.

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 out fatherland. This wine is excellent, Doctor.

‘Thank you. It is an honour for me to be able to taste it here, in my improvised home.’

‘Improvised but comfortable.’

A second little sip. Outside, the snow was already covering the earth’s unmentionables with a modest thick sheet of cold. The wine was warming. Obersturmbannführer Rudolf Höss, who had been born in Girona during the rainy autumn of 1320, in that remote period when the earth was flat and reckless travellers’ eyes grew wide when they insisted, enflamed by curiosity and fantasy, on seeing the end of the world, was especially proud to be sharing that wine in a tête à tête with the prestigious and well-situated Doctor Voigt and he was anxious to mention it, oh so casually, to one of his colleagues. And life is beautiful. Especially now that the earth is flat again and that they, with the help of the Führer’s serene gaze, were showing humanity who held the strength, power, truth and the future and teaching humanity how the unfailing attainment of the ideal was incompatible with any form of compassion. The strength of the Reich was limitless and turned the actions of all the Eimerics in history into child’s play. With the wine’s assistance, he came up with a sublime phrase: ‘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. That is why, in 1334, when I turned fourteen, I entered the monastery of the Dominican friar preachers in my city of Girona and I have devoted my entire life to making the Truth shine. They call me cruel, King Pedro hates me, envies me and would like to annihilate me, but I remain impassive because against the faith I defend neither my king nor my father. I do not recognise my mother and I do not respect my lineage since above all I serve only the Truth. You will only ever find the Truth coming from my mouth, Your Grace.’