Jaume Cabré - Confessions

‘For everything,’ said the lawyer, after consulting the paper.

‘We’ll find out,’ said Bernat. And he gestured to the lawyer to continue.

‘And if he can’t be located or he refuses it, I wish it to be offered to Mrs Laura Baylina of Uppsala. If she doesn’t accept it, I delegate Mr Bernat Plensa to find the best solution. And the aforementioned Bernat Plensa should deliver to the editor, as we agreed, the book I gave him.’

‘A new book?’ Xevi.

‘Yes. I’m already taking care of it, don’t worry.’

‘You mean to say that he was still in good health, when he wrote that?’

‘We have to assume so,’ said the lawyer. ‘We can’t ask him to explain things now.’

‘Who is Mrs Ofupsala?’ asked Rosa. ‘Does she exist?’

‘Don’t worry: I’ll find her. She exists.’

‘And finally, a small reflection dedicated to you and whomever has joined you. They tell me that I won’t miss my books or music, which I find hard to believe. They tell me that I won’t recognise you: don’t be too cruel with me. They tell me that I won’t suffer over that. So, please don’t you all suffer. And be indulgent with my decline, which will be gradual but constant.’

‘Very well,’ said the lawyer after reading what Adrià Ardèvol had entitled ‘Practical Instructions For The Final Stretch Of My Life’.

‘There is still a little bit,’ Rosa dared to say, pointing to the page.

‘Yes, sorry: it is a closing comment of farewell.’

‘And what does it say?’

‘It says that as for the spiritual instructions, I have collected them all separately.’

‘Where?’

‘In the book he wrote,’ said Bernat. ‘I’ll take care of it, don’t worry.’

Bernat opened up, trying not to make a sound. Like a thief. He felt along the wall until he found the switch. He flipped it, but the light didn’t come on. Shit. He pulled a torch out of his briefcase and felt even more like a thief. There in the hall was the fuse-box or whatever it’s called now. He flipped the switch and the hall light came on as well as another one at the back of the flat, perhaps the one in the Germanic and Asian prose corridor. He stood there for a few seconds, contemplating the silence of that house. He went towards the kitchen. The refrigerator was unplugged, with the door open and no socks inside. And the freezer, also empty. He walked through Slavic and Nordic prose, led by the light that was on in fine arts and encylopaedias, Sara’s studio, which had been Little Lola’s room before that. The easel was still set up, as if Adrià hadn’t stopped believing that one day Sara would come back and start drawing, dirtying her fingers with charcoal. And a mountain of huge folders with sketches. Framed and placed on some sort of an altar were In Arcadia Hadriani and Sant Pere del Burgal: A Dream, the two landscapes that Sara had given Adrià and which, since he’d left no specific instructions for them, Bernat had decided he would send to Max Voltes-Epstein. He left the light on. He glanced at religion and the classical world, and went back through Romance languages and peeked into poetry; there he switched on the light. Everything was in order. Then he went to literary essays and turned on the light: the dining room was the same as ever. The sun, at the monastery of Santa Maria de Gerri, continued to come from Trespui. He pulled a camera out of his jacket pocket. He had to move aside a couple of chairs to stand before the painting by Modest Urgell. He took a couple of photos with flash and a couple without. He left literary essays and went into the study. Everything was just as they had left it. He sat in a chair and began to think about all the time he had spent in there, always with Adrià by his side, discussing mostly music and literature, but also politics and life. As young men and as boys, dreaming of the secret mysteries there. He turned on the light beside the reading chair. He also turned on the light beside the sofa and the light on the ceiling. There where Sara’s self-portrait had hung for years was now a blank spot that made him feel sort of dizzy. He took off his jacket, rubbed his face with the palms of his hands, the way Adrià used to, and said let’s get to it. He went behind the desk and knelt. He tried six, one, five, four, two, eight. It didn’t open. He tried seven, two, eight, zero, six, five, and the safe opened silently. There was nothing inside. Yes, there were some envelopes. He grabbed them and placed them on the desk to look at more comfortably. He opened one. He went through it page by page: a list of characters. He was there: Bernat Plensa, Sara Voltes-Epstein, Me, Little Lola, Aunt Leo … the people … well, the characters with the date of their birth and in some cases death. More papers: some sort of diagram with a lot of lines through it as if it’d been rejected. Another list with more characters. And that was it. If that was all, Adrià had written in a torrent, going from one place to another as dictated by his remaining fading memory. Bernat put it all back into the envelope and placed the envelope in his briefcase. He lowered his head and struggled to keep from crying. He breathed in and out slowly a few times until he was calmer. He opened up the other envelope. A few photos: one of Sara taking a picture of herself in the mirror. So pretty. Not even now did he want to admit that he had always been a little bit in love with her. The other photo was Adrià working, writing at that same desk where Bernat was now sitting. My friend, Adrià. And a few more photos: an illustration with sketches of a very young girl’s face. And also several photos of Vial, from the back and from the front. He put the photos back into the envelope, with an expression of bitter disgust, thinking about lost Vial. He looked inside the safe. Nothing more; he closed it but didn’t move the wheel. He paid a visit to history and geography. On the bedside table, Carson and Black Eagle kept faithful watch for no one. He picked them up, with their horses and everything, and put them into his briefcase. He went back to the study and sat in the armchair that Adrià usually used for reading. For almost an hour he stared into the void, reminiscing and longing for it all and allowing the occasional tear to slip down his cheek.

After a long time, Bernat Plensa i Punsoda finally snapped out of it. He looked around him and was no longer able to hold back a sob that came from deep inside. He covered his face with his hands. When he was calmer he got up from the reading chair; he took a last look over the whole study as he put on his jacket. Adéu, ciao, à bientôt, adiós, tschüss, vale, dag, bye, αντίο, Пoká, la revedere, viszlát, head aega, lehitraot, tchau, maa as-salama, puix beixlama, my friend.

You came into my life sweetly, like the first time, and I didn’t think about Edward or Ottilie or about my lies again, but rather about your silent and comforting presence. Adrià told her take possession of the house; take possession of me. And he had her choose between two rooms to set up her drawing studio, and her books, and her clothes and your life, if you want to, my beloved Sara; but I didn’t know that in order to store all of Sara’s life it would take many more cupboards than Adrià could possibly offer her.

‘This will work very well. It’s larger than my studio in Paris,’ you said, looking into Little Lola’s room from the doorway.

‘It has light and it’s mostly quiet. Since it’s interior.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, turning towards me.

‘You don’t have to thank me. Thank you.’