Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘What do you mean what to do with me? Love me.’

‘I did love you, Son.’

‘From a distance.’

‘We’ve never been very affectionate in this house; that doesn’t mean we’re bad people.’

‘Mother: love me, look me in the eyes, ask me what I want to do.’

‘And your father’s death ruined everything.’

‘You could have tried.’

‘I’ve never been able to forgive you for giving up the violin.’

‘I’ve never forgiven you for forcing me to be the best.’

‘You are.’

‘No. I’m intelligent and, you could even say, gifted. But I can’t do it all. I don’t have any obligation to be the best. You and Father made a mistake with me.’

‘Not your father.’

‘I am finishing my doctorate and I don’t plan on studying law. And I haven’t learned Russian.’

‘For the moment.’

‘Fine. For the moment.’

‘Let’s not argue, I’m dead.’

‘All right. And what was the other thing you wanted me to know? By the way: does God exist, Mother?’

‘I’m dying with many regrets. The main one is not knowing who killed your father and why.’

‘What did you do to try to find that out?’

‘I now know that you were spying on me from behind the sofa. You know things that I didn’t know you knew.’

‘Not really. I only really learned what a brothel is, but not who killed my father.’

‘Hey, hey, here comes the black widow!’ said Inspector Ocaña, frightened, poking his head into the Commissioner’s office.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Didn’t you get rid of her for good?’

‘Pain in my arse.’

Comissioner Plasencia stuck the rest of his sandwich into the drawer, stood up and looked out the window at the traffic on Llúria Street. When he heard the female presence at the door, he turned.

‘What a surprise.’

‘Good afternoon.’

‘It’s been days since …’

‘Yes. It’s that … I had them investigate and …’

On the table, inside a cold ashtray, a small half-smoked, snuffed-out cigar was stinking up the room.

‘And what?’

‘Aribert Voigt, Commissioner. Revenge over some business dealings, Commissioner. Or you could call it, personal revenge; but it has nothing to do with brothels or raped girls. I don’t know why you made up that deplorable story.’

‘I always follow orders.’

‘I don’t, Commissioner. And I plan on taking you to court for obstruction of

‘Don’t make me laugh!’ the policeman cut her off, rudely. ‘Luckily, Spain is no democracy. Here we good guys are in charge.’

‘You will soon receive the citation. If the guilt lies higher up, we will follow the loose ends and uncover it.’

‘What loose ends?’

‘Someone let that murderer act with impunity. And someone let him leave without detaining him.’

‘Don’t be naive. You won’t find any loose ends, because there are none.’

The commissioner took the cigar from the ashtray, lit a match and began smoking. A thick bluish cloud momentarily concealed his face.

‘And why didn’t you go to court, Mother?’

Commissioner Plasencia sat down, still spewing smoke from his nose and mouth. Mother preferred to remain standing before him.

‘There are loose ends!’ said Mother.

‘Ma’am, I have work to do,’ responded the commissioner, remembering his half-eaten sandwich.

‘A Nazi who lives without a care in the world. If he’s still alive.’

‘Names. Without names, it’s all just smoke and mirrors.’

‘A Nazi. Aribert Voigt. I’m giving you a name!’

‘Farewell, madam.’

‘On the evening of the crime my husband told me he was going to the Athenaeum to see someone named Pinheiro …’

‘Mother, why didn’t you take it to court?’

‘… but that wasn’t true, he wasn’t meeting up with Pinheiro. A commissioner had called him.’

‘Names. Ma’am. There are lots of commissioners in Barcelona.’

‘And it was a trap. Aribert Voigt was acting under the protection of the Spanish police.’

‘What you’re saying could get you sent to prison.’

‘Mother, why didn’t you take it to court?’

‘And the man lost control. He wanted to hurt my husband. He wanted to scare him, I think. But he ended up killing him and destroying him.’

‘Ma’am, don’t talk nonsense.’

‘Instead of arresting him, they kicked him out of the country. Isn’t that how it went, Commissioner Plasencia?’

‘Ma’am, you’ve read too many novels.’

‘I can assure you that is not the case.’

‘If you don’t stop badgering me and getting in the way of the police, you are going to have a very bad time of it. You, your little girlfriend and your son. Even if you flee to the ends of the earth.’

‘Mother, did I hear that right?’

‘Hear what right?’

‘The part about your little girlfriend.’

The commissioner pulled back to observe the effect his words had had. And he drove them home: ‘It wouldn’t be difficult to spread information in the circles you frequent. Farewell, Mrs Ardèvol. And don’t ever come back.’ And he opened the half-empty drawer, with the remains of his thwarted sandwich, and he closed it angrily, this time in front of the black widow.

‘Yes, yes, all right, Mother. But how did you know that all that about the brothels and the rapes was a lie?’

Mother, even though she was dead, grew silent. I was fretfully awaiting a response. After an eternity: ‘I just know it.’

‘That’s not enough for me.’

‘Fine.’ Dramatic pause, I suppose to gather courage. ‘Early on in our marriage, after we conceived you, your father was diagnosed with total sexual impotence. From that point on, he was completely unable to have erections. That made him bitter for the rest of his life. And it embittered us. Doctors and pitiful visits to understanding ladies, none of it did any good. Your father wasn’t perfect, but he couldn’t rape anyone, not even a child, because he ended up hating sex and everything related to it. I guess that’s why he took refuge in his sacred objects.’

‘If that was the case, why didn’t you take them to court? Did they blackmail you?’

‘Yes.’

‘About your lover?’

‘No.’

And Mother’s letter ended with a series of more general recommendations and a timid sentimental effusion at the end when it said goodbye, my beloved son. The last sentence, I will watch over you from heaven, has always seemed to contain a slight threat.

‘Oh, boy …’ said Mr Berenguer, stretched out in the office chair, wiping non-existent specks from his impeccable trouser leg. ‘So you’ve decided to roll up your sleeves and get to work.’

He was sitting in Mother’s office, with the smug air of someone who’s reconquered valuable territory, and the sudden appearance of lamebrained Ardèvol Jr, who’s always got his head in the clouds, distracted him from his thoughts. He was surprised to see the lad entering his office without knocking. That was why he said oh boy.

‘What do you want to talk about?’

Everything, Adrià wanted to talk about everything. But first, he cleverly laid the groundwork for them to clearly understand each other: ‘The first thing I want to do is extricate you from the shop.’

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘Do you know about the deal I have with your mother?’

‘She’s dead. And yes, I’m familiar with it.’

‘I don’t believe you do: I signed a contract obliging me to work at the shop. I still have a year left in the galleys.’

‘I’m releasing you from it: I want to see the back of you.’

‘I don’t know what it is with your family, but you’ve all got a real nasty streak …’