Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘Ah! So you had the delicacy to tell me first.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are not going to give up the violin. In a couple of months you’ll be begging me to take you back and I’ll tell you sorry, lad: my schedule is full. And you’ll have to deal with it.’ He looked at him with fire in his eyes. ‘Weren’t you leaving?’

And then he wasted no time in telling your mother that there was a girl in the mix and Carme got it into her head that it was all Sara’s fault and she became her enemy.

‘My God.’

‘And because … What I told you about the Epstein family, that …’

‘My God.’

‘I told her not to do it, but she wrote a letter to Sara’s mother.’

‘What did she tell her? Did you read it?’

‘She made things up; I guess they were ugly things about you.’ Long silence, much interest in the oilcloth. ‘I didn’t read it.’

She glanced towards Adrià, whose eyes were wide, perplexed and teary, and then she went back to staring at the oilcloth.

‘Your mother wanted to get that girl out of your life. And out of the shop.’

‘That girl is named Sara.’

‘Yes, sorry, Sara.’

‘My God.’

The shouts from the children on the street began to fade. And the light, outside, grew weaker. A thousand years later, when the dining room was already half-dark, Adrià, who was playing with his teacup, looked at Little Lola.

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Out of loyalty to your mother. Really, Adrià: I’m so sorry.’

What I was sorrier about is that I left Little Lola’s house very hurt, almost without saying goodbye, almost without saying Little Lola, I’m so sorry you’re ill. I gave her a dry peck on the cheek and I never saw her alive again.

Huitième arrondissement; quarante-huit rue Laborde. A pretty sad apartment building with the facade darkened by all sorts of smoke. I pressed the button and the door opened with a sharp, premonitory sound. On the mailboxes I checked that I had to go up to the sixième étage. I preferred to walk instead of taking the lift, to use up some of all my accumulated energy, which could lead to panic. When I got there, I spent a good couple of minutes calming my heartbeat and breathing. And I pushed the bell, which said bzsbzsbzsbzs, as if it wanted to maintain the mystery. The landing was quite dark and no one opened the door. Some delicate footsteps? Yes? The door opened.

‘Hello.’

When you saw me, you mouth dropped open and your face froze. You don’t know how my heart leapt to see you again after so many years, Sara. You were older; I don’t mean old, but older and just as lovely. More serenely beautiful. And then I thought that no one had any right to steal our youth from us the way they had. Behind you, on a console table, was a bouquet of flowers that were very pretty but of a colour I found sad.

‘Sara.’

She remained in silence. She had obviously recognised me, but she wasn’t expecting me. I hadn’t come at a good time; I wasn’t well received. I’ll leave, I’ll come back some other time, I love you, I wanted to, I want to talk to you about … Sara.

‘What do you want?’

Like the encyclopaedia vendor who knows he has half a minute to pass on the message that will keep the sceptical customer from slamming the door in his face, Adrià opened his mouth and wasted thirteen seconds before saying they tricked us, they tricked you; you ran away because they told you horrible things about me. Lies. And horrible things about my father. Those were true.

‘And the letter that you sent me saying that I was a stinking Jewess who could stick my shitty, snotty family where the sun don’t shine, what about that?’

‘I never sent you any such letter! Don’t you know me?’

‘No.’

The encyclopaedia is a useful tool for any family with cultural interests such as yours, ma’am.

‘Sara. I came to tell you that it was all staged by my mother.’

‘Good timing. How long ago was all that?’

‘Many years! But I only found out about it five days ago! The time it took me to find you! You’re the one who vanished!’

A work of these characteristics is always useful, for your husband and for your children. Do you have children, ma’am? Do you have a husband? Are you married, Sara?

‘I thought that you had run away because of some problems of yours, and no one would ever tell me where you were. Not even your parents …’

In twenty-two easy payment instalments. And you can enjoy these two volumes from the very first day.

‘Your family hated my father for …’

‘I already know all that.’

You can keep this volume to examine, ma’am. I’ll come back, I don’t know when, next year, but don’t get mad.

‘I didn’t know anything about it.’

‘The letter you wrote me … You gave it to my mother personally.’ Now the hand that held the door grew tense, as if it were about to slam it in my face any minute now. ‘Coward!’

‘I didn’t write you any letter. It was all a lie! I didn’t give anything to your mother. You didn’t even let me meet her!’

Desperate attack before the retreat: don’t make me think, ma’am, that you aren’t a cultured woman who’s interested in the world’s problems!

‘Show it to me! Don’t you know my handwriting? Couldn’t you see that they were tricking you?’

‘Show it to me …’ she said sarcastically. ‘I tore it up in little pieces and I burned it: it was a hateful letter.’

My God, what murderous rage. What can I do, what can I do?

‘Our mothers manipulated us.’

‘I am doing this for my son’s own good; I’m protecting his future,’ said Mrs Ardèvol.

‘And I’m protecting my daughter’s,’ Mrs Voltes-Epstein’s icy reply. ‘I have no interest in her having anything to do with your son.’ A curt smile. ‘Knowing whose son he is was enough to put me off him.’

‘Well, then we’ve nothing more to discuss: can you get your daughter away from here for a while?’

‘Don’t give me orders.’

‘Fine. I implore you to give this letter from my son to your daughter.’

She handed her a sealed envelope. Rachel Epstein hesitated for a few seconds, but she took it.

‘You can read it.’

‘Don’t tell me what I can and cannot do.’

They parted coldly; they had understood each other perfectly. And Mrs Voltes-Epstein opened the letter before giving it to Sara, you can bet she did, Adrià.

‘I didn’t write you any letter …’

Silence. Standing in the landing of the flat on rue Laborde of the huitième arrondissement. A neighbour lady came down the stairs with a ridiculous little dog and made a lacklustre gesture in greeting to Sara, who replied with a distracted nod.

‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you call? Why didn’t you want to fight with me?’

‘I ran off running and said not again, no, it can’t be.’

‘Again?’

Now your eyes were teary, burdened with the weight of your mysterious history.

‘I had already had a bad experience. Before I met you.’

‘My God. I’m innocent, Sara. I also suffered when you ran away. I only found out why five days ago.’

‘And how did you find me?’

‘Through the same agency that spied on us. I love you. I haven’t stopped missing you every day that has passed. I asked your parents for an explanation, but they didn’t want to tell me where you were nor why you had left. It was horrible.’

And they were still in the landing of the flat in the huitième arrondissement, with the door open, illuminating Adrià’s figure, and she wasn’t letting him in.

‘I love you. They wanted to destroy our love. Do you understand me?’