Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Would you like to come to Rome?’

Laura looked at him in surprise. They were in the faculty’s cloister, surrounded by students, he with his hands in his pockets, she with a full briefcase, looking like a public defender about to go into court to settle a difficult case, and I, staring into her blue gaze. Laura was no longer a student anxious for knowledge. She was a professor who was quite beloved by the students. She still had the blue gaze and the sadness inside. And Adrià contemplated her, filled with uncertainty, as images of you, Sara, mixed in his mind with images of this woman who, from what he had seen, didn’t have much luck with the boyfriends she chose.

‘Excuse me?’

‘I have to go there for work … Five days at most. We could be here on Monday and you wouldn’t miss any classes.’

In fact, Adrià was improvising. Days earlier he had realised that he didn’t know how to approach that blue gaze. He wanted to take the step but he didn’t know how. And I was afraid to make up my mind because I thought that if I did I would finally get you out of my mind. And then he had come up with the most presentable plan; the blue gaze smiled and Adrià wondered if Laura was ever not smiling. And he was very surprised when she said all right, sure.

‘Sure what?’

‘I’ll go to Rome with you.’ She looked at him, alarmed. ‘That’s what you meant, right?’

They both laughed and he thought you are getting involved again and you have no idea what Laura is like, besides blue.

During the take-off and the landing, she took his hand for the first time, smiled timidly and confessed I’m afraid of flying, and he said why didn’t you tell me. And she shrugged as if to say look, this is how it played out, and he interpreted that to mean that it was worth it to her to swallow her fear and go with Ardèvol to Rome. I felt very proud of my rallying power, beloved Sara, even though she was just a young professor with her whole future ahead of her.

Rome was no bowl of cherries; it was a bedlam of vehicles atop an immense city, captained by suicidal taxi drivers like the one who took them in record time from the hotel to the Via del Corso, which was crucified by traffic. The Amato green-grocer’s was a well-lit oasis of appetising boxes of fruit that made the passers-by turn their heads. He introduced himself to a man with a thick beard who was taking care of a demanding customer; he gave him a card with some instructions and pointed up the street, towards the Piazza del Popolo.

‘Do you mind telling me what we’re doing?’

‘You’ll know soon enough.’

‘Fine: I would like to understand what I’m doing here.’

‘Keeping me company.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m scared.’

‘Fantastic.’ She had to run to keep up with Adrià’s strides. ‘Then maybe you could explain to me what’s going on. Don’t you think?’

‘Look, we’re here.’

It was three doors further on. He pressed one of the bells and soon the sound of a lock indicated that the door was open, as if they were expecting them. Up in the flat, with her hand on the open door, my angel — my former angel — was waiting, with a slightly distant smile. Adrià kissed her, pointed to her casually, informing Laura that, ‘This is my half-sister. This is Mrs Daniela Amato.’

And to Daniela I said, ‘This is my lawyer,’ referring to Laura.

Laura reacted well. Actually, she was fantastic. She didn’t bat an eyelash. The two women looked at each other for a few seconds, as if making calculations on the force they would have to exert. Daniela had us go into a very nice living room, where there was a Sheraton sideboard I was sure I’d seen in the shop; on top of the sideboard was a photo of Father quite young and a very pretty girl, who looked a bit like Daniela. I supposed it was the legendary Carolina Amato, Father’s Roman love, la figlia del fruttivendolo Amato. In the photo she was a young woman, with an intense gaze and smooth skin. It was strange, because that young woman’s daughter was right in front of me, and she was in her fifties and no longer bothered to try to conceal her wrinkles. My half-sister was still an elegant, beautiful woman. Before we began to speak, a lanky teenager with thick brows came in with a tray of coffee.

‘My son Tito,’ announced Daniela.

‘Piacere di conoscerti,’ I said, extending my hand.

‘Don’t bother,’ he responded in Catalan as he put the tray down delicately on the coffee table. ‘My father is from Vilafranca.’

And then Laura began to shoot me murderous glances because she must have thought that I’d gone too far, expecting her, in the role of my lawyer, to chat with the Italian branch of my family, whom she couldn’t care less about. I smiled at her and put my hand over hers, to reassure her; it worked, as I had never got it to work with anyone else, before or since. Poor Laura: I have the feeling I owe her a thousand explanations and I’m afraid I’m too late.

The coffee was wonderful. And the sale conditions for the shop were too. Laura just kept quiet; I said the price, Daniela looked at Laura a couple of times and saw that she was slowly and discreetly shaking her head, very professional. Even still, she tried to bargain: ‘I don’t agree with your offer.’

‘Excuse me,’ interjected Laura, and I looked at her in surprise. In a weary tone: ‘This is the only offer that Mr Ardèvol will be making.’

She looked at her watch, as if she were in a big rush, and then she grew silent and serious. It took Adrià a few seconds to react and he said that the offer also included his right to rescue certain objects from the shop before you take over. Daniela carefully read the list I presented to her as I looked at Laura. I winked at her and she didn’t wink back, serious in her role as lawyer.

‘And the Urgell in the house?’ Daniela lifted her head.

‘That belongs to the family: it’s not part of the shop.’

‘And the violin?’

‘That too. It’s all in writing.’

Laura lifted a hand as if she wanted to have a word and, with a studied weary air, looking at Daniela, she said you know that we are talking about a shop filled with intangibles.

Ay, Laura.

‘What?’ Daniela.

It’s best if you keep quiet.

‘That one thing is the object and quite another its value.’

Why did I ever ask you to come with me to Rome, Laura?

‘Bravo. So?’

‘The price goes up with each passing day.’

Please don’t start.

‘And?’

‘That the price you two agree on is one thing.’ Laura said that without even glancing at me, as if I weren’t there. While I thought shut up and don’t mess things up, bloody hell, she said but regardless of the price you come to, you will never even approximate its true value.

‘I’d be very curious to hear what you think the true value of the shop is, madam.’

I would be, too, Laura. But stop mucking things up, all right?

‘No one knows that. X number of pesetas is the official price. To arrive at the true value, we would have to add the weight of history.’

Silence. As if we were digesting those wise words. Laura wiped her hair off her forehead, putting it behind one ear and, in a confident tone that I had never heard from her before, leaning towards Daniela, she said we aren’t exactly talking about apples and bananas, Mrs Amato.

We continued in silence. I knew that Tito was behind the door, because a shadow with thick eyebrows gave him away. Soon I was imagining that the boy had inherited the fever for objects, the one that Father had, the one that Mother had acquired, the one that I have, the one that Daniela has … Touched by the family obsession. The silence was so thick that it seemed we were all attempting to gauge the weight of history.