Confessions

by Jaume Cabré

  ‘Such trust, it’s really appalling,’ muttered Ardèvol, impatient. The weedy man didn’t deign to respond until he had finished what he was doing.

  ‘What did you say?’ he asked as he placed the banknotes into a small briefcase, hid the little notebook, tore up the paper with the notes, gathered the pieces and put them in his pocket.

  ‘That such trust is really appalling.’

  ‘As you wish.’ He stood up, extended a packet he had pulled out of the briefcase and slid it over to Ardèvol.

  ‘That is for you.’

  ‘Now I have to start counting?’

  The man gave a corpse-like smile, rescued the umbrella from the chair, put it on as a hat, and said if you want to rest, your room is paid up until tomorrrow. And he left without turning around or saying goodbye. Fèlix Ardèvol carefully counted the notes and felt satisfied with life.

  He repeated the operation with slight variants. And soon he did it with new intermediaries and with increasingly fatter packets. And larger profits. What’s more, he took advantage of the trips to scrutinise corners and sniff library shelves, archives and warehouses. And one day, the weedy man who went by the name of Abelard, had a voice like thunder and spoke an artificial Spanish, as if he liked to hear himself speak, made a mistake. He left the torn up pieces of the paper where he’d jotted down his sums on the table of the room in the Hôtel du Lac instead of putting them in his pocket. And that night, after patiently constructing the puzzle on the glass top, Fèlix Ardèvol could read the words on the other side. The two words: Anselmo Taboada. And some indecipherable scribblings. Anselmo Taboada. Anselmo Taboada.

  Fèlix Ardèvol took two months to put a face to that name. And one rainy Tuesday he showed up at military government headquarters and waited patiently to be seen. After a very long delay, after seeing soldiers of every rank pass before him, after hearing snippets of strange conversations, they had him enter an office twice the size of his, but without a single book. Behind a desk was the slightly curious face of Lieutenant Colonel Anselmo Taboada Izquierdo. Viva Franco. Long may he live. Viva. Without further ado, they struck up an educational and profitable conversation.

  ‘According to my calculations, Colonel, this is the amount that I have got into Switzerland for you,’ said Fèlix, sliding a paper along the desk with one hand, as he had seen the man who went by the name of Abelard do with his envelope of money.

  ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’

  ‘I am Lorenzo.’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong person.’ He stood up, anxious.

  ‘I don’t have the wrong person.’ Ardèvol, seated, tranquil: ‘Actually, I came by headquarters because it was on my way: I’m going to see my good friend, the Civil Governor of Barcelona. A good friend of mine and also of the Captain-General here in the office next door.’

  ‘You are a friend of Don Wenceslao?’

  ‘A very close friend.’

  As the lieutenant colonel sat back down, hesitating, Ardèvol placed one of the Civil Governor’s personal business cards on the desk and said call him and he’ll get you up to speed.

  ‘There’s no need for that. You can explain it to me.’

  There wasn’t much explanation necessary, my beloved, because Father was very skilled at luring people into his spider web: ‘Oh!’ sycophantic leer from Fèlix Ardèvol as he cursed him in his head. The Civil Governor picked up the terracotta broken into three pieces.

  ‘Is this valuable?’ he said.

  ‘It’s worth a fortune, Your Excellency.’

  Fèlix Ardèvol made an effort not to show his irritation in front of that clumsy oaf. Wenceslao González Oliveros placed the three pieces on the desk and in his florid Spanish said, with the surprising voice of an emasculated bullfighter, I’ll have it put together with good glue, like we’ve done with Spain after it was shattered and besmirched by rebels.

  ‘You can’t do that!’ It slipped out too passionately. ‘I’ll restore it myself and in two days’ time you’ll have your gift back here in your office.’

  Wenceslao González Oliveros put a hand on his shoulder and trumpeted dear Ardèvol, this pagan idol is a symbol of Spain wounded by communism, Catalanism, Judaism and Freemasonry that obliges us to make a necessary war against evil.

  A rdèvol made a gesture of profound reflection that pleased the civil governor, who boldly picked up the smallest piece, an arm broken off the figure, and showed it to his disciple, explaining that there were also two Catalonias: one that is false, treacherous, cynically optimistic …

  ‘I’ve come to ask for a specific favour.’

  ‘… imbued with materialism and, therefore, sceptical of religious and ethical realms, and fundamentally stateless.’

  ‘In exchange for the services I will provide you. Something that is simple for you: permission to have freedom of movement.’

  ‘Another Catalonia is emerging, friendly and admirable, healthy, vital, confident, exquisitely sensitive, like this figure here.’

  ‘It is a Punic terracotta piece, very dear, bought with my savings from a Jewish doctor who needed money urgently.’

  ‘The Jewish race is perfidious, the Bible teaches us.’

  ‘No, Your Excellency: the Catholic Church tells us that. The Bible was written by Jews.’

  ‘You have a good point, Ardèvol. I see that you are a man of culture, such as I am. But that doesn’t mean the Jews are any less perfidious.’

  ‘No, of course not, Your Excellency.’

  ‘And don’t contradict me again,’ he said with one finger lifted, just in case.

  ‘No, Your Excellency.’ Pointing to the three pieces of terracotta: ‘Punic statuette, very valuable, very dear, unique, ancient: Carthaginians and Romans.’

  ‘Yes. A Catalonia powered by intelligence, rich in illustrious, noble origins …’

  ‘And I can assure you that I’ll make it good as new. This right here is more than two thousand years old. It is incredibly dear.’

  ‘… fertile with initiatives, distinguished for its chivalry and a participant with emotion, action and intuition …’

  ‘I only ask for an unrestricted passport, Your Excellency.’

  ‘… in the final fate of Spain, the mother that shelters us all. A Catalonia that knows how to use its charming dialect with moderation, prudence and private decorum, only in the home so as not to offend anyone.’

  ‘To enter and exit the great country that is Spain, without obstacles; even though Europe is at war; precisely because Europe is at war, I can do business buying and selling.’

  ‘Like a vulture in search of carrion?’

  ‘Yes, Your Excellency: and I will show my immense gratitude, in the form of objects and pieces even more valuable than this Punic terracotta statuette, for this document in my name.’

  ‘A spiritual, dynamic, entrepreneurial Catalonia that the rest of Spain has so much to learn from.’

  ‘I am merely a merchant. But I can spread joy. Yes, exactly, without any geographical restrictions, as if I were a diplomat. No, I’m not afraid of the dangers: I always know which doors to knock on.’

  ‘From the very prow, we could say, of the great ship that spies the new horizons.’

  ‘Thank you, Your Excellency.’

  ‘With Franco, our beloved Caudillo, these horizons, once blackened and vile, are now, in this radiant dawn, within our reach.’

  ‘Long live Franco, Your Excellency.’

  ‘I prefer cash to statuettes, Ardèvol.’

  ‘Deal. Long live Spain.’ And to Lieutenant Colonel Anselmo Taboada Izquierdo, a few weeks later, in his office without a single book: ‘Would you like me to call His Excellency the Civil Governor?’

  Hesitation from Lieutenant Colonel Anselmo Taboada. Then Fèlix Ardèvol reminded him and I am also very close friends with the Captain-General. Does the name Lorenzo mean anything to you now?

  Brief: a second at most, was all it took for the lieutenant colonel to smile widely and say did you say
Lorenzo? Sit down, man, sit down!

  ‘I’m already sitting down.’

  Just fifteen minutes of conversation. Having lost his smile after some negotiation, Lieutenant Colonel Anselmo Taboada Izquierdo had to give in and Fèlix Ardèvol doubled his allocation for the next three operations plus a fixed bonus at the end of the year of

  ‘Granted,’ said Anselmo Taboada hastily. ‘Granted.’

  ‘Long live Franco.’

  ‘Long may he live.’

  ‘And I will be silent as the grave, Lieutenant Colonel.’

  ‘That would be the best thing. For your health, I mean.’

  He never saw the weedy man with the umbrella for a hat who went by the name Abelard again; he was surely jailed for professional incompetence. Ardèvol, on the other hand, managed to get his new friend’s colleagues, a commander and a captain, also in administration, as well as a judge and three businessmen, to entrust him with their savings so he could take them to a safe place with a better return. It seems he did that over four or five years, when Europe was at war and when it was over as well, Max told me. And he earned himself a good gang of enemies among those Francoist military men and politicians who had room for financial manoeuvring. Perhaps it was an attempt to balance the scales and avoid repercussions that led him to denounce four or five professors at the university.

  Quite a panorama, my beloved: he took money from everyone and spent it buying objects for the shop or manuscripts for himself … It seems he had a sixth sense for sniffing out those anxious to sell out or those with so many secrets and so many worries that he could pressure them without fear of consequences. Max told me that it was well known in your family because one of your uncles, an Epstein from Milan, was a victim of his. And he was so affected by Father’s scams that he committed suicide. My father did all that, Sara. My father who was my father, Sara. And my mother, it seems, was clueless. It was very hard for Max to explain all of that to me, but he did it just like that, like ripping off a plaster, to get it off his chest. And now I too have vomited it out because it was a secret you only knew a part of. And Max ended up saying because of that, your father’s death …

  ‘What, Max?’

  ‘In our house they said that when someone went to mess with him for whatever reason, Franco’s police looked the other way.’

  They were silent for a long while, taking little sips of wine, looking into the void, thinking it would have been better not to have started this conversation.

  ‘But I …’ said Adrià after a long time.

  ‘Yes, all right. You, nothing. The thing is he brought ruin to one of my parents’ cousins, and his family. Ruin and death.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You don’t have to say anything.’

  ‘Now I understand your mother better. But I loved Sara.’

  ‘Capuleti i Montecchi, Adrià.’

  ‘And I can’t do anything to repair the evil done by my father?’

  ‘What you can do is finish your wine. What do you want to repair?’

  ‘You don’t hold it against me.’

  ‘My sister’s love for you made that easy for me.’

  ‘But she ran away to Paris.’

  ‘She was a girl. Our parents forced her to go to Paris: at twenty years old you can’t … They brainwashed her. It’s that simple.’

  Silence fell, and the sea, the splashing of the waves, the shrieks of the seagulls, the saltiness of the air entered the room. After a thousand years: ‘And now when we argued, she ran away again. Here to Cadaqués.’

  ‘And she spent her days crying.’

  ‘You never told me that.’

  ‘She made me promise not to.’

  Adrià finished his glass of wine and thought that at lunch they would serve even more. He heard a little bell that vaguely reminded him of a nineteenth-century mail boat and Max got up, well-trained.

  ‘We’ll eat out on the terrace. Giorgio doesn’t like it if we make him wait once the meal is ready.’

  ‘Max.’ He stopped, the tray of glasses in his hand. ‘Did Sara ever talk about me when she was here?’

  ‘She made me promise I wouldn’t tell you about anything we discussed.’

  ‘All right.’

  Max headed towards the terrace. But before leaving the study he turned and told me my sister loved you madly. He lowered his voice so Giorgio wouldn’t hear him. That’s why she couldn’t accept that you wouldn’t return a stolen violin. That was what she couldn’t understand. Should we go?

  My God, my beloved.

  ‘Adrià?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  Adrià Ardèvol looked at Doctor Dalmau and blinked. He focused on the Modigliani filled with yellows that had been in front of him such a long time, the whole time.

  ‘Pardon?’ he said, a tad disorientated, searching for where he really was.

  ‘Do you have lapses?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘For quite some time you were … out of it.’

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said as an excuse.

  Doctor Dalmau looked at him seriously and Adrià smiled and said yes, I’ve always had lapses. Everyone says I’m an absent-minded professor.’ Pointing at him with an accusing finger: ‘You say it too.’

  Doctor Dalmau smiled slightly and Adrià continued: ‘I’m not much of a professor, but I’m more and more absent-minded by the day.’

  We talked about Dalmau’s children, his favourite subject, subdivided into the little one, Sergi, who was no problem, but Alícia … And I had the feeling that I’d been in my friend’s office for months on end. When I was already leaving, I pulled a copy of Llull, Vico i Berlin out of my briefcase and signed it for him. For Joan Dalmau, who has been looking out for me ever since he passed Anatomy II. With profound gratitude.

  ‘For Joan Dalmau, who has been looking out for me every since he passed Anatomy II. With profound gratitude. Barcelona, Spring 1998.’ He looked at him, pleased. ‘Thanks, mate. You know I’ll really treasure it.’

  I already knew that Dalmau didn’t read my books. He had them impeccably ordered on a high shelf in his office bookcase. To the left of the Modigliani. But I didn’t give them to him for him to read.

  ‘Thanks, Adrià,’ he said, brandishing the book. And we stood up.

  ‘There’s no rush,’ he added, ‘but I would like to give you a thorough check-up.’

  ‘Oh, really? Well, if I’d known that, I wouldn’t have brought you the book.’

  The two friends parted with a laugh. As hard as it is to believe, Dalmau’s teenage daughter was still on the phone, saying of course he’s a total ratbag, I’ve told you that a million times, girl!

  Out on the street I was greeted by Vallcarca’s damp night. Few cars passed and those that did splattered the puddles in that thoughtless way of theirs. If I couldn’t explain my horror to my friends, I was beyond hope. You had been dead for some time when you came to talk to me and I still haven’t been able to accept it. I live clinging to rotted driftwood from a shipwreck; I cannot row towards any destination. I am at the mercy of any gust of wind thinking of you, thinking why couldn’t it have gone some other way, thinking of the thousand missed opportunities to love you more tenderly.

  It was that Tuesday night in Vallcarca, without an umbrella and with a hard rain falling, that I understood that I am entirely an exaggeration. Or worse: I am entirely an error, beginning with having been born into the wrong family. And I know that I can’t delegate the weight of thought and the responsibility for my actions to gods or friends. But thanks to Max, besides knowing more details about my father, I know something that keeps me afloat: that you loved me madly. Mea culpa, Sara. Confiteor.

  VII

  … USQUE AD CALCEM

  Let us try, if we can, to enter into death with open eyes …*

  Marguerite Yourcenar

  * Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian, trans. Grace Frick, Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1963.

&nb
sp; 58

  There are starting to be too many skeletons in this house, Adrià thought his father had grumbled. And he strolled through the Creation of the Universe without seeing the books’ spines. And at work, classes had lost their vitality because all his desire was limited to sitting before Sara’s self-portrait, in the study, contemplating your mystery, my beloved. Or, also in silence, before the Urgell in the dining room, as if wanting to witness the impossible flight of the sun on the Trespui side. And very occasionally he looked half-heartedly at the pile of papers and some days he picked them up, sighed and wrote a few lines or reread, sceptically, the work he’d done the day or the week before and found it painfully insignificant. The thing is he didn’t know what to do about it. Because even his hunger had abandoned him.

  ‘Adrià, listen.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You haven’t eaten anything in two days.’

  ‘Don’t worry: I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Well, of course I worry.’

  Caterina had just come into the study, taken Adrià by one arm and started to pull on him.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Adrià raising his voice, disconcerted.

  ‘I don’t care if you start bellowing. You’re coming to the kitchen with me, right now.’

  ‘Hey! Leave me be, woman!’ indignant, Adrià Ardèvol.

  ‘No. Sorry, but no.’ More indignant than him, and shouting louder: ‘Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘Come on, one foot in front of the other.’ Brusque, authoritative voice.