Jaume Cabré - Confessions

Me, inheriting something from Little Lola? She was a millionaire and she’d worked as a maid her whole life and, moreover, in a family like mine? My God.

‘And what am I to inherit?’

The notary looked at me somewhat aslant; surely he didn’t like me at all: but my heart was still upset about Paris, with that I remade my life, Adrià, and the closing door, and I couldn’t give a hoot about what the entire association of notaries thought of me. The notary again stroked his little beard, shook his head and read the writing before him, in an exceedingly nasal voice: ‘A painting by someone named Modest Urgell, dated eighteen ninety-nine.’

Little Lola, you are even more stubborn than I am.

Once the formalities were over and the taxes paid, Adrià once again hung the Urgell, the painting of the Santa Maria de Gerri monastery, on the wall that he hadn’t wanted to cover with any other painting or any bookshelves. The light of the sun setting over Trespui still illuminated it with a certain sadness. Adrià pulled out a chair from the dining room table and sat in it. He was there for a long time, looking at the painting, as if he wanted to watch the sun’s slow movement. When he returned from the monastery of Santa Maria de Gerri, he burst into tears.

The university, the classes, being able to live inside the world of books … His great joy was discovering an unexpected book in his home library. And the solitude didn’t weigh on him because all his time was occupied. The two books he had published had been harshly reviewed by their few readers. A vitriolic comment on the second book appeared in El Correo Catalán and Adrià clipped it out and saved it in a file. Deep down he was proud of having provoked strong emotions. Anyway, he contemplated it all with indifference because his real pains were others and also because he knew that he was just getting started. Every once in a while, I played my beloved Storioni, mostly so its voice wouldn’t fade out; and also to learn the stories that had left scars on its skin. Sometimes I even went back to Mrs Trullols’s technical exercises and I missed her a little bit. What must have happened to everyone and everything. What must have become of Trullols …

‘She died,’ said Bernat one day, now that they were seeing each other again occasionally. ‘And you should get married,’ he added as if were Grandfather Ardèvol arranging nuptials in Tona.

‘Did she die a long time ago?’

‘It’s not good for you to be alone.’

‘I’m fine on my own. I spend the day reading and studying. And playing the violin and the piano. Every once in a while I buy myself a treat at Can Múrria, some cheese, foie gras or wine. What more could I want? Little Lola takes care of the mundane things.’

‘Caterina.’

‘Yes, Caterina.’

‘Amazing.’

‘It’s what I wanted to do.’

‘And fucking?’

Fucking, bah. It was the heart. That was why he had fallen hopelessly in love with twenty-three students and two faculty colleagues, but he hadn’t made much progress because … well, except for with Laura who, well, who …

‘What did Trullols die of?’

Bernat got up and gestured to the cabinet. Adrià raised one hand to say help yourself. And Bernat played a diabolical csárdás that made even the manuscripts dance and then a sweet little waltz, slightly sugary but very well played.

‘It sounds marvellous,’ said Adrià admiringly. And grabbing Vial, a bit jealous: ‘Some day when you are playing in chamber, you should borrow it.’

‘Too much responsibility.’

‘So? What did you want, that was so urgent?’

Bernat wanted me to read a story he had written and I sensed we would have more problems.

‘I can’t stop writing. Even though you always tell me I should give it up.’

‘Well done.’

‘But I’m afraid that you’re right.’

‘About what?’

‘That what I write has no soul.’

‘Why doesn’t it?’

‘If I knew that …’

‘Maybe it’s because it’s not your medium of expression.’

Then Bernat took the violin from me and played Sarasate’s Caprice basque, with six or seven flagrant errors. And when he finished he said you see, the violin isn’t my medium of expression.

‘You made those mistakes on purpose. I know you, kid.’

‘I could never be a soloist.’

‘You don’t need to be. You are a musician, you play the violin, you earn a living doing it. What more do you want, for Christ’s sake?’

‘I want to earn appreciation and admiration, not a living. And playing as assistant concertmaster I’ll never leave a lasting impression.’

‘The orchestra leaves a lasting impression.’

‘I want to be a soloist.’

‘You can’t! You just said so yourself.’

‘That’s why I want to write: a writer is always a soloist.’

‘I don’t think that should be the great motivation for creating literature.’

‘It’s my motivation.’

So I had to keep the story, which was actually a story collection, and I read it and after a few days I told him that perhaps the third one is the best, the one about the travelling salesman.

‘And that’s it?’

‘Well. Yes.’

‘You didn’t find any soul or any such shite?’

‘No soul or any such shite. But you already know that!’

‘You’re just bitter because they rip apart what you write. Even though I like it, eh?’

From that declaration of principles, and for a long time after, Bernat didn’t pester Adrià with his writing again. He had published three books of short stories that hadn’t shaken up the Catalan literary world and probably hadn’t shaken up a single reader either. And instead of being happy with the orchestra he sought out a way to be a tad bitter. And here I am giving lessons on how to attain happiness. As if I were some sort of a specialist. As if happiness were a required course.

The class had been pretty regular, leaning towards good. He had talked about music in the time of Leibniz. He had transported them to Leibniz’s Hannover and he had played music by Buxtehude for them, specifically the variation for spinet of the aria ‘La Capricciosa’ (BuxWV 250) and he asked them to see if they could remember a later work (not much later, eh?) of a more famous musician. Silence. Adrià stood up, rewound the cassette and let them listen to another minute of Trevor Pinnock’s spinet.

‘Do you know what work I am referring to?’ Silence. ‘No?’ he asked.

Some students looked out of the window. Others stared at their notes. One girl shook her head. To help them, he spoke of Lübeck in that period and again said no? And then he drastically lowered the bar and said come on: if you can’t tell me the work, at least tell me the composer. Then a student he’d barely noticed before, sitting in one of the middle rows, without raising his hand said Johann Sebastian Bach? like that, with a question mark, and Adrià said bravo! And the work has a similar structure. A theme, the one I played twice for you, that is reminiscent of the development of a variation … Do you know what? For next Wednesday’s class try to find out the work I’m talking about. And try to listen to it a couple of times.

‘And if we can’t guess which one it is?’ The girl who had shaken her head before.

‘It is number 998 in his catalogue. Happy now? Any more hints?’

Despite the bar lowering I had to do, I would have liked the classes of that period to have each lasted five hours. I would have also liked it if the students were always deeply interested in everything and posed questions that forced me to ask for more time so I could have my reply prepared for the next class. But Adrià had to settle for what he had. The students went down the tiered seats to the exit door. All except the one who’d guessed the right answer, who remained seated on the bench. Adrià, as he removed the cassette, said I don’t think I’ve noticed you before. Since the other didn’t respond, he looked up and realised that the young man was smiling in silence.