Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘To tell you the truth. Because I couldn’t stand you living so long thinking that I’d insulted you.’

‘I …’

‘And because I love you. And why have you come?’

‘I don’t know. Because I love you too. Maybe I came because … No, nothing.’

‘You can tell me.’ I took both of her hands in mine to encourage her to speak.

‘Weellll … to compensate for my weakness as a twenty-year-old.’

‘I can’t judge you either. Things happened the way they did.’

‘And also …’

‘What?’

‘Also because I haven’t been able to get your gaze out of my head, you there on the landing of my house.’ She smiled, remembering. ‘Do you know what you looked like?’ she asked.

‘An encyclopaedia salesman.’

She burst into laughter, your laugh, Sara! And she said yes, yes, that’s exactly it. But she quickly contained herself and said I came back because I love you, yes. If you want it. And I stopped thinking about how much I had lied that morning. I couldn’t even tell you that, there in the huitième arrondissement, you with your hand on the door as if you were prepared to slam it in my face at any moment, I was panicked; I never told you that. I covered it up like a good encyclopaedia salesman. In the deepest depths of my heart, I went to Paris, to your house, to quarante-huit rue Laborde, to be able to hear you say that you wanted nothing to do with me and thus be able to close a chapter without feeling guilty and have a good reason to cry. But Sara, after saying no in Paris, showed up in Barcelona and said I’d love a cup of coffee.

Adrià in a wheelchair, looking into the study from the doorway. In his hands he gripped a dirty rag that he hadn’t let anyone take from him. Adrià looking into the study. A long minute, excruciatingly long for everyone. He took a deep breath and he said whenever you wish; it had been a brief second for him. Jònatan’s firm hand grabbed the wheelchair with poorly masked impatience and turned it towards the door to the street. Adrià pointed to Xevi and said Xevi. He pointed at Bernat, whose eyes were teary, and he said Bernat, he pointed at Xènia and said Tecla. And when he pointed at Caterina and said Little Lola, for the first time in her life Caterina didn’t correct him.

‘He will be well taken care of, don’t worry,’ said one of the survivors.

The retinue went downstairs in silence, looking out of the corners of their eyes at the light on the lift that held Adrià, the wheelchair and Jònatan. Once they were downstairs it occurred to Bernat that, when Jònatan wheeled him out of the lift and his friend saw them all again, Adrià might not recognise them. It was a like a flash of fear.

Ten days earlier the alarm had been sounded. It was sounded by Caterina when Adrià got lost inside his own house. In Slavic literature, looking around him, scared.

‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I don’t know. Where am I?’

‘At home.’

‘At whose home?’

‘Your home. Do you know who I am?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who am I?’

‘That one.’ Long pause. Frightened. ‘Right? Or a direct object! Or the subject! The subject, right?’

That same week he had been rummaging around in the fridge, increasingly worried and grumbling, and Jònatan, the nurse on the night shift that week, asked him what he was looking for, at that time of the night.

‘My socks? What do you think I’m looking for?’

Jònatan had told that to Plàcida, who had let Caterina know. And Plàcida added that Adrià had asked her to put a book on to boil. He’s completely lost it, hasn’t he?

And now, in Slavic literature, Caterina insisted do you know who I am, Adrià? and he: a direct object. So, frightened, she called Doctor Dalmau and Bernat. And Doctor Dalmau, frightened, called the nursing home to speak with Doctor Valls, and he said I think the time has come. There were a few days of exhaustive check-ups, of tests and analyses and of looking askance at the results. And of silences. The indirect object, really now! And finally, Doctor Dalmau called Bernat and the cousins from Vic together. Bernat offered his home and made sure there was plenty of Tasmanian water. Doctor Dalmau explained the steps they had to take.

‘But he’s a man who …’ Xevi, indignant with fate, was still resisting: ‘He speaks seven or eight languages!’

‘Thirteen,’ corrected Bernat.

‘Thirteen? Every time I turn my head he’s learned a new one.’ His eyes light up. ‘You see, doctor? Thirteen languages! I’m a farmer, I’m older and I only know one and a half. Isn’t this unfair? Isn’t it?’

‘Catalan, French, Spanish, Germany, Italian, English, Russian, Aramaic, Latin, Greek, Dutch, Romanian and Hebrew,’ ticked off Bernat. ‘And he could easily read six or seven more.’

‘You see, doctor?’ An indisputable medical argument from Xevi Ardèvol, desperately opening up another defence front.

‘Your cousin was one of a kind,’ the doctor politely cut him off. ‘I know because I followed him carefully. If you’ll allow me to say so, I consider myself his friend. But it’s over. His brain is drying up.’

‘What a shame, what a shame, what a shame …’

After resisting in vain for a few more minutes, they agreed that the best they could do was put Adrià’s life in order and accept the orders he himself had established when his head was still clear. Bernat thought how sad to have to decide things for when you are no longer here; to have to write I give my flat in Barcelona to my cousins Xavier, Francesc and Rosa Ardèvol in three equal parts. As for my library, I would like, when I can no longer make use of it, for Bernat Plensa to decide either to keep it or donate it to the universities of Tübingen and Barcelona, according to their respective interests. It should be him, if he’s willing, since he was the one who helped me to set it up long ago, when we worked together to create the world.

‘I don’t understand a thing.’ Xevi, perplexed, the day we met with the lawyer.

‘It’s one of Adrià’s jokes. I’m afraid only I can understand it,’ clarified Bernat.

‘And I wish for Mrs Caterina Fargues to be remunerated with an amount equal to two years’ salary. I also authorise Bernat Plensa to keep whatever he would like of those things not specified in this will, which, more than a will, seems like an instruction manual. And Bernat should decide what to do with the rest of the things, including valuable objects such as the coin and manuscript collection, unless he considers it best to donate them to the aforementioned universities. I recommend following the criteria expressed by Professor Johannes Kamenek of Tübingen. As for the self-portrait of Sara Voltes-Epstein, it should be delivered to her brother Max Voltes-Epstein. And I wish the painting by Modest Urgell of the Santa Maria de Gerri monastery that hangs in the dining room to be given to Friar Julià of the neighbouring monastery of Sant Pere del Burgal, who is responsible for everything.

‘What?’ Xevi, Rosa and Quico, all three at once.

Bernat opened his mouth and closed it. The lawyer read it to himself again and said yes, yes: it says Friar Julià of Sant Pere del Burgal.

‘Who the hell is he,’ said Quico from Tona, suspicious.

‘And what does it mean that he should be held accountable? Accountable for what?’

‘No, no: it says responsible.’

‘Responsible for what?’