by Jaume Cabré
‘All your talk about confessional secrets, you bastard.’
‘I’m no priest.’
Sturmbannführer Voigt picked up the violin with eager hands and Rudolf Höss slammed the door excessively hard on his way out and rushed towards the chapel of his inquisitorial headquarters and remained on his knees for two hours, crying at his weakness in the face of the temptations of the flesh, until the new chief secretary, worried because he hadn’t shown up for the first advance review, found him in that edifying state of holy devotion and piety. Friar Nicolau stood up, informed the secretary not to expect him until the following day and headed to the registry office.
‘Prisoner number 615428.’
‘One moment, Obersturmbannführer. Yes. Shipment A27 from Bulgaria on 13 January of this year.’
‘What is her name?’
‘Elisaveta Meireva. She’s one of the few that has a file.’
‘What does it say?’
Gefreiter Hänsch checked in the file cabinet and pulled it out and read Elisaveta Meireva, eighteen years old, daughter of Lazar Meirev and Sara Meireva of Varna. It doesn’t say anything more. Is there some problem, Obersturmbannführer?
Elisaveta, sweet, with fairy eyes, witch eyes, lips of fresh moss; it was a shame she was so skinny.
‘Any complaints, Obersturmbannführer?’
‘No, no … But begin urgent proceedings to have her sent back to the general population.’
‘She still has sixteen days in the Kommando of domestic service in
‘That’s an order, Gefreiter.’
‘I can’t …’
‘Do you know what an order from a superior is, Gefreiter? And stand up when I speak to you.’
‘Yes, Obersturmbannführer!’
‘Then, proceed!’
‘Ego te absolvo a peccatis tuis, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Obersturmbannführer.’
‘Amen,’ replied Friar Nicolau as he humbly kissed the gold-filled cross on the venerable father confessor’s stole, with his soul blessedly relieved by the sacrament of confession.
‘You Catholics have it good, with confession,’ said Kornelia, in the middle of the cloister, with her arms outstretched, taking in the springtime sun.
‘I’m not Catholic. I’m not religious. Are you?’
Kornelia shrugged. When she didn’t have a proper answer, she shrugged and kept quiet. Adrià understood that the subject made her uncomfortable.
‘Seen from outside,’ I said, ‘I like Lutherans better: the Grace of God liberates us without intermediaries.’
‘I don’t like talking about that stuff,’ said Kornelia, very tense.
‘Why?’
‘Because it makes me think about death, I guess. What do I know!’ She grabbed him by the arm and they left the Bebenhausen monastery. ‘Come on, we’ll miss the bus.’
On the bus, Adrià, looking out at the landscape without seeing it, began to think about Sara, as he always did when he lowered his guard. He found it humiliating to realise that her facial features were beginning to fade in his memory. Her eyes were dark, but were they black or dark brown? Sara, what colour were your eyes? Sara, why did you leave? And Kornelia’s hand took his and Adrià smiled sadly. And that afternoon they wandered through the cafés of Tübingen, first to have some beers and then, when they’d had their fill, they ordered very hot tea, and then dinner at the Deutsches Haus because, apart from studying and going to concerts, Adrià didn’t know what else to do in Tübingen. Read Hölderlin. Listen to Coşeriu rant about what a blockhead Chomsky was, and against generativism and all that crap.
When they got off the bus in front of the Brechtbau, Kornelia whispered in his ear don’t come to the house this evening.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m busy.’
They parted without a kiss and Adrià felt something like vertigo in the very centre of his soul. And it was all your fault because you had left me without any reason to live, and we’d only been dating for a few months, Sara, but I lived in the clouds with you and you are the best thing that could ever happen to me, until you ran away, and Adrià, once he was in Tübingen, far from his painful memory, spent four months studying desperately, trying in vain to sign up for some course with Coşeriu but secretly auditing it, and going to all the conferences, seminars, talks and open meetings offered at the Brechtbau – which had just moved to a new building – and everywhere else but especially the Burse. And when winter came suddenly, the electric heater in his room wasn’t always enough, but he continued studying to keep from thinking about Sara, because you left without saying a word, and when the sadness was too strong, he went out to stroll along the banks of the Neckar, with his nose frozen, and he would reach the Hölderlin Tower and he would think that if he didn’t do something he would lose his mind over this love. And one day the snow began to melt, gradually, it was becoming green again, and he wished he weren’t so sad, so that he could appreciate the nuances of the shades of green. And since he had no intention of returning to his distant mother’s home that summer, he decided to change his life, laugh a little, drink beer with the others who lived with him in the pension, frequent the department’s Clubhaus, laugh for laughter’s sake, and go to the cinema to see boring and incredible stories, instead of dying over love. And with a hitherto unknown restlessness he started to look at the students with different eyes, now that they were beginning to remove their anoraks and hats, and he realised how pleasurable that was, and it helped to slightly fade the memory of runaway Sara’s face and yet it didn’t erase the questions I’ve asked myself throughout my entire life, like what did you mean when you told me I ran away crying, saying not again, it can’t be. But in History of Aesthetics I, Adrià sat behind a girl with wavy black hair, whose gaze made him a bit dizzy, a girl named Kornelia Brendel who was from Offenbach. He noticed her because she seemed unattainable. And he smiled at her and she smiled back, and soon they had a coffee at the department bar and she swore you don’t have the slightest accent, I thought you were German, really. And from coffee they moved to strolling together through that park bursting with spring, and Kornelia was the first woman I went to bed with, Sara, and I hugged her close pretending that … Mea culpa, Sara. And I started to love her even though sometimes she said things I didn’t completely understand. And I knew how to hold her gaze. I liked Kornelia. And we were together like that for a few months. I clung desperately to her. Which was why I became anxious when, as the second winter began, when we returned from our visit to the Bebenhausen monastery, she told me don’t come to my house this evening.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’ll be busy.’
They parted without a kiss and Adrià felt something like vertigo in the very centre of his soul, because he didn’t know whether you could say to a woman hey, hey, what do you mean you’ll be busy? Or whether he had to be prudent and think she’s old enough not to have to explain herself to you. Or shouldn’t she, actually? Isn’t she your girlfriend? Kornelia Brendel, do you take Adrià Ardèvol i Bosch as your boyfriend? Can Kornelia Brendel have secrets?
Adrià let Kornelia go off down Wilhelmstrasse without asking for any explanation because, deep down, he had his secrets from Kornelia: he still hadn’t told her anything about Sara, for example. That was all very well and good in theory, but two minutes later he was sorry he’d let her go without raising any objections. He didn’t see her in Greek or in Philosophy of the Experience. Nor in the open seminar in Moral Philosophy that she’d said she didn’t want to miss. And very ashamed of myself, I headed towards Jakobsgasse and I stood, slightly hidden and even more ashamed of myself, on the corner with Schmiedtorstrasse, as if I were waiting for the 12. And after ten or twelve 12s had passed, I was still standing there, so cold my feet were like ice about to crack, trying to find out what Kornelia’s secret was.
At five in the afternoon, when I was frozen from the heart down, Kornelia appeared with her secret. She was wearing the same coat as always, s
o pretty, so Kornelia. The secret was a tall, blond, handsome, laughing boy whom she’d met in the cloister at Bebenhausen and who was now kissing her before they both entered the building. He kissed her much better than I knew how to. That’s where the problems began. Not because I had spied on her, but because she realised it when she drew the curtain in the living room and saw Adrià on the corner in front of her house, frozen, looking at her incredulously, with his eyes wide, waiting for the 12. That night I cried on the street and when I got home I found a letter from Bernat; it had been months since I’d heard from him and in the letter he assured me that he was bursting with happiness, that her name was Tecla and that he was coming to see me whether I liked it or not.
Since I’d been in Tübingen, my relationship with Bernat had cooled somewhat. I don’t write letters: well, I didn’t when I was young. The first sign of life from him was a suicidal postcard sent from Palma, with the text in full view of the Francoist military censors, which said I am playing the cornet for the colonel of the regiment and playing with myself when they don’t let us go out or playing on everyone’s nerves when I practise the violin. I hate life, soldiers, the regime and the rock they all crawled out from under. And how are you? There was no indication as to where he could send a reply and Adrià wrote back to Bernat’s parents’ house. I think I told him about Kornelia but very sketchily. But that summer I travelled down to Barcelona and, with the money that Mother had put in my own account, I paid a small fortune to Toti Dalmau, who was already a doctor, and he sent me for a few check-ups at the Military Hospital and I came out of them with a certificate stating that I had serious cardio-respiratory problems that kept me from serving my homeland. Adrià, for a cause he considered just, had moved the strings of corruption. And I don’t regret it. No dictatorship has the right to demand a year and a half or two of my life, amen.
25
He wanted to bring Tecla. I told him that I only had one bed in my flat and blah, blah, blah, which was ridiculous because they could have easily gone to a hostel. And then it turned out that Tecla couldn’t come because she had too much work, which, he later confessed to me, meant that Tecla’s parents wouldn’t allow her to go on such a long trip with that boyfriend of hers, who was too tall, with hair too long and a gaze too melancholy. I was glad he didn’t show up with her because otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to really talk, which meant that Adrià would have felt so envious that he wouldn’t have been able to breathe and he would have said what are you doing with a woman, you should always put friends first; you know what I mean, loser? Friends! And I would have said that out of ffucking envy and desperation at seeing my cardiac problems with Kornelia take the same path as the ones I had with you, my love. With one advantage: I knew Kornelia’s secret. Her secrets. And yet … I was still asking myself why you had run away to Paris. So he came alone, with a student violin, and with a lot of things he wanted to talk about. It seemed he had grown a bit. He was now a good half a head taller than me. And he was starting to look at the world with a little less impatience. Sometimes he even smiled for no reason, just because, just because of life.
‘Are you in love?’
Then his smile widened. Yes, he was in love. Hopelessly in love. Unlike me, who was hopelessly confused by Kornelia, who went off with some other guy the minute I turned my back because she was at that age, the age of experiences. I envied Bernat’s serene smile. But there was a detail that worried me. When he set himself up in my room, on the foldout bed, he opened his violin case. Serious violinists don’t just carry a violin in their cases; they have half their lives in there: two or three bows, rosin for the strings, a photo or two, scores in a side pocket, sets of strings and their only review, from some local magazine. Bernat had his student violin, a bow and that’s it. And a folder. And the first thing he opened was the folder. There was a clumsily stapled text inside, which he held out to me. Here, read.
‘What is it?’
‘A short story. I’m a writer.’
The way he said I’m a writer bothered me. In fact, it’s bothered me all my life. With his usual lack of tact, he wanted me to read it right then and there. I took it, looked at the title and the length, and said I’ll have to read it leisurely.
‘Of course, of course. I’ll go out and take a walk.’
‘No. I’ll read it tonight, when I usually read. Tell me about Tecla.’
He told me that she was like this and like that, that she had delicious dimples in her cheeks, that he’d met her at the conservatory of the Liceu; she played the piano and he was the concertmaster for the Schumann quintet.
‘The funny thing is that she plays the piano and her name is Tecla.’ Tecla means key.
‘She’ll get over it. Does she play well?’
Since if it were up to him we would stay there all day, I grabbed my anorak and said follow me and I took him to the Deutsches Haus, which was full as always, and I checked out of the corner of my eye for Kornelia and one of her experiences, which meant I wasn’t entirely attentive to the conversation with Bernat, who, after ordering the same thing I had, just in case, started to say I miss you but I don’t want to study abroad in Europe and …
‘You’re making a mistake.’
‘I prefer to make an inner voyage. That’s why I’ve started writing.’
‘That’s balderdash. You have to travel. Find teachers who will invigorate you, get your blood flowing.’
‘That’s disgusting.’
‘No: it’s Sauerkraut.’
‘What?’
‘Pickled cabbage. You get used to it.’
No sign of Kornelia, yet. Halfway into my sausage I was more calm, and barely thinking about her at all.
‘I want to pack in the violin,’ he said, I think to provoke me.
‘I forbid you.’
‘Are you expecting someone?’
‘No, why?’
‘No, it’s just that you’re … Well, it looks like you’re expecting someone.’
‘Why do you say you want to give up the violin?’
‘Why did you give it up?’
‘You already know that. I don’t know how to play.’
‘Neither do I. I don’t know if you remember: I lack soul.’
‘You’ll find it studying abroad. Study under Kremer, or that kid, Perlman. Or have Stern hear you play. Hell, Europe is filled with great teachers that we’ve never even heard of. Light a fire under yourself, burn the candle at both ends. Or go to America.’
‘I don’t have a future as a soloist.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Shut up, you don’t understand. I can’t do more than I’m doing.’
‘All right. Then you can be a good orchestral violinist.’
‘I still want to take on the world.’
‘You decide: take the risk or play it safe. And you can take on the world sitting at your music stand.’
‘No. I’m losing my excitement.’
‘And when you play chamber music? Aren’t you happy?’
Here Bernat hesitated, looking towards one wall. I left him with his hesitation because just then Kornelia came in with a new experience on her arm and I wanted to disappear but I followed her with my eyes. She pretended not to see me and they sat down behind me. I felt a horrific emptiness at my back.
‘Maybe.’
‘What?’
Bernat looked at me, puzzled. Patiently: ‘Maybe when I play chamber I’m something like happy.’
I couldn’t give two shits about Bernat’s chamber music that evening. My priority was the emptiness, the itching at my back. And I turned, pretending I was looking for the blonde waitress. Kornelia was laughing as she checked the list of sausages on the plastic-coated menu. The experience had an amazing moustache that was completely odious and out of place. Diametrically opposed to the tall, blond secret of ten days earlier.
‘What’s wrong with you?’
‘Me? What do you mean?’
‘I don’t know. You’re like …
’
Then Adrià smiled at the waitress who was passing by and asked her for a bit of bread and looked at Bernat and said go on, go on, forgive me, I was just …
‘Well, maybe when I play chamber music I’m …’
‘You see? And if you do Beethoven’s entire series with Tecla?’
The itching at my back was growing so intense that I didn’t think about whether I was making sense or not.
‘Yes, I can do it. And why? Who would ask us to do it in a hall? Or record it on a dozen LPs? Huh?’
‘You’re asking for a lot … Just being able to play it … Excuse me for a moment.’
I got up and went to the bathroom. When I passed Kornelia and her experience, I looked at her, she lifted her head, saw me and said hello and continued reading the sausage menu. Hello. As if it were the most normal thing in the world, after having sworn eternal love or practically, and having slept with you, she picks up an experience and when you run into her she says hello and keeps reading the sausage menu. I was about to say you should try my Bratwurst, it’s very good, miss. As I walked to the bathroom I heard the experience, in a superstrong Bavarian accent, say who is that guy with the Bratwurst? I missed Kornelia’s response because I went into the bathroom to make way for some waitresses with full trays.
We had to get over the spiked fence to be able to stroll in the cemetery at night. It was very cold, but we could both use the walk because we’d drunk all the beer we could get our hands on, him thinking about chamber music and me meeting new experiences. I told him about my Hebrew classes and the philosophy I alternated with my philology studies and my decision to spend my whole life studying and if I can teach in the university, fantastic: otherwise, I’ll be a private scholar.
‘And how will you earn a living? That is if you have to at all.’
‘I can always have dinner over at your house.’