Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Ramon de Nolla?’ Apprehensively, ‘Is that you?’

‘Yes, Your Excellency,’ said the knight, as he bowed in reverence before the bed.

‘Leave us alone.’

‘But, Your Excellency!’ protested the two brothers in unison.

‘I said leave us alone,’ he spat with a still frightful energy, but without shouting because he no longer had the strength. The two lay brothers, contrite, left the room without saying another word. Eimeric, sitting up in bed, looked at the knight: ‘You have the chance to complete your penitence.’

‘Praised be the Lord!’

‘You have to become the executing arm of the Holy Tribunal.’

‘You know that I will do whatever you order if that will earn me my pardon.’

‘If you fulfil the penitence I give you, God will forgive you and your soul will be cleansed. You shall no longer live in inner torment.’

‘That is all I wish for, Your Excellency.’

‘My former personal secretary in the tribunal.’

‘Who is he and where does he live?’

‘His name is Friar Miquel de Susqueda. He was condemned to death in absentia for high treason to the Holy Tribunal. This was many years ago, but none of my agents have succeeded in finding him. Which is why I’ve now chosen a man of war such as yourself.’

He began to cough, surely induced by the eagerness with which he spoke. One of the nurse brothers opened the door, but Ramon de Nolla didn’t think twice about slamming it in his face. Friar Nicolau explained that the fugitive wasn’t hiding in Susqueda, that he had been seen in Cardona, and an agent of the tribunal had even assured him that he’d joined the order of Saint Benedict but they didn’t know in which monastery. And he explained more details of his holy mission. And it doesn’t matter if I’ve died; it doesn’t matter how many years have passed; but when you see him, tell him I am your punishment, stick a dagger in his heart, cut off his tongue and bring it to me. And if I am dead, leave it on my grave, let it rot there as is the Lord Our God’s will.’

‘And then my soul will be free of all guilt?’

‘Amen.’

‘It is a personal message, Father Prior,’ the visitor had insisted, when they had arrived in silence to the end of the cold cloister at Santa Maria.

Out of Benedictine courtesy, since he was no danger, the noble knight was received by the father abbot, to whom he repeated I am looking for a brother of yours, Father Abbot.

‘Who?’

‘Friar Miquel de Susqueda, Father Abbot.’

‘We have no brother by that name. Why are you looking for him?’

‘It is a personal matter, Father Abbot. A family matter. And very important.’

‘Well, you have made the trip in vain.’

‘Before joining the order of Saint Benedict as a monk, he was a Dominican friar for some years.’

‘Ah, I know of whom you speak,’ said the abbot, cutting him off. ‘Yes … He is part of the community of Sant Pere del Burgal, near Escaló. Brother Julià de Sau was a Dominican friar long ago.’

‘Blessed be the Lord!’ exclaimed Ramon de Nolla.

‘You may not find him alive.’

‘What do you mean?’ said the noble knight, alarmed.

‘There were two monks at Sant Pere and yesterday we found out that one has died. I don’t know if it was the father prior or Brother Julià. The emissaries weren’t entirely sure.’

‘Then … How can I …’

‘And you’ll have to wait for better weather.’

‘Yes, Father Abbot. But how can I know if the surviving brother is the one I am searching for?’

‘I just sent two brothers to collect the Holy Chest and the surviving monk. When they return you will know.’

Silence, each man thinking his own thoughts. And the father abbot: ‘How sad. A monastery closing its doors after almost six hundred years of praising the Lord with the chanting of the hours each and every day.’

‘How sad, Father Abbot. I will head off on the path to see if I can catch up with your monks.’

‘There’s no need: wait for them. Two or three days.’

‘No, Father Abbot. I have no time to wait.’

‘As you wish, sir: they will get you there safely.’

With both hands he took the painting off the dining room wall and brought it over to the weaker light of the balcony. Santa Maria de Gerri , by Modest Urgell. Many families had a cheap reproduction of the last supper in their home; theirs was presided over by an Urgell. With the painting in his hand, he went into the kitchen and said Little Lola, don’t say no: keep this painting.

Little Lola, who was still seated at the kitchen table thinking about the wall, looked towards Adrià.

‘What?’

‘It’s for you.’

‘You don’t know what you’re saying, boy. Your parents …’

‘That doesn’t matter: now I’m in charge. I’m giving it to you.’

‘I can’t accept it.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s too valuable. I can’t.’

‘No: you are afraid that Mother wouldn’t like it.’

‘Either way. I can’t accept it.’

And I stood there with the rejected Urgell in my hands.

I brought it back to the spot where I had always seen it and the dining room returned to being what it had always been. I went around the flat; I went into Father and Mother’s study to rummage through drawers without any clear objective. And after rummaging through the drawers, Adrià began to think. After a few hours of stillness, he got up and went towards the laundry room.

‘Little Lola.’

‘What.’

‘I have to go back to Germany. I have at least six or seven months before I can come back.’

‘Don’t worry.’

‘I’m not worried: stay, please: this is your home.’

‘No.’

‘It’s more your home than mine. I’m, as long as I have the study …’

‘I came here thirty-one years ago to take care of your mother. If she’s dead, my work here is done.’

‘Little Lola, stay.’

Five days later I was able to read the will. In fact, it was the notary, Cases, who read it to me, Little Lola and Aunt Leo. And when, in his thin, rasping voice, the man announced it is my wish that the painting entitled Santa Maria de Gerri, by Modest Urgell, which is personal property of the family, be given without any compensation to my loyal friend Dolors Carrió, whom we have always called Little Lola, as a tiny show of appreciation for the support that she has offered me throughout my life, I started to laugh, Little Lola burst into tears and Aunt Leo looked at us, puzzled. The rest of the will was more complicated except for a personal letter in an envelope with a seal that the countertenor put into my hands and which began dear Adrià, my beloved son, something she had never said to me in my ffucking life.

Dear Adrià, my beloved son.

That was the end of my mother’s sentimental expansiveness. All the rest was instructions about the shop. About my moral obligation to take care of it. And she explained in full detail the unusual relationship she maintained with Mr Berenguer, imprisoned by a salary in order to return the amount of an old embezzlement, which was still in effect for one more year. And your father had all his hopes tied up in the shop and now that I’m no longer around you can’t just wash your hands of it. But since I know that you always have and will do whatever you want to, I’m not convinced that you will heed me, roll up your sleeves, go into the shop and put everyone in their place the way I did after your father’s death. I don’t want to speak ill of him, but he was a romantic: I had to bring order to the shop; I had to rationalise it. I turned it into a good business that you and I have been able to live off of, and I’ve only added a couple of salaries, as you know. I’ll be very sorry if you don’t want to keep the shop; but since I won’t be able to see you, well, what can I do? And then she gave me some very precise instructions as to how to deal with Mr Berenguer and she asked me to follow them to the letter. And then she went back to the personal arena and said but I am writing you these lines today, on the twentieth of January of nineteen seventy-five because the doctor told me that I probably won’t live much longer. I gave instructions for them not to disturb your studies until the time came. But I am writing to you because I want you to know, besides what I’ve already said, two more things. First: I have gone back to the church. When I married your father I was a wishy-washy girl, very susceptible to influence, who didn’t know exactly what she wanted out of life, and when your father told me that the most likely thing was that God didn’t exist, I said ah, well, all right. But later I missed having him in my life, especially when my father died and Fèlix died, and with the loneliness I’ve felt not knowing what to do with you.