Confessions

by Jaume Cabré

  ‘How many years was he here?’

  ‘Five or six.’ She looked at the screen and corrected herself: ‘Seven.’

  ‘Are you sure that the man in the photo was Matthias Alpaerts?’

  ‘Completely. I’ve been working here for twenty years.’ Satisfied: ‘I remember all the faces. The names, that’s another story.’

  ‘Did he have any relative who …’

  ‘Mr Alpaerts was alone.’

  ‘No, but did he have any distant relative who …’

  ‘Alone. They had killed his family in the war. They were Jews. Only he survived.’

  ‘Not a single relative?’

  ‘He was always telling his dramatic story, poor man. I think in the end he went mad. Always telling it, over and over, compelled by …’

  ‘By guilt.’

  ‘Yes. Always. To everyone. His story had become his reason for living. Living only to explain how he had two daughters …’

  ‘Three.’

  ‘Three? Well, three daughters named so-and-so, so-and-so and so-and-so and who …’

  ‘Amelietje with the jet-black hair, Truu with the tresses the colour of fine wood and Juliet, the littlest, blonde like the sun.’

  ‘Did you know him?’ Her eyes wide with surprise.

  ‘In a way. Are there many people who know that story?’

  ‘In this home, yes. The ones who are still alive, of course. We’re talking about a few years ago now.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Bob did a very good imitation of him.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘He was Alpaerts’s roommate.’

  ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Very alive. He keeps us on our toes.’ She lowered her voice, totally taken by that second violin of the Antigone Quartet, tall as a Maypole. ‘He organises secret domino matches between the residents.’

  ‘Could I …’

  ‘Yes. I’m going against all the rules …’

  ‘In the name of music.’

  ‘Exactly! In the name of music.’

  In the waiting room there were five magazines in Dutch and one in French. And a cheap reproduction of a Vermeer; a woman beside a window who looked, shocked, towards Bernat, as if he were about to enter the room inside the painting.

  The man arrived five minutes later. Thin, with weepy eyes and bushy white hair. From his expression, he hadn’t recognised Bernat.

  ‘English or French?’ smiled Bernat.

  ‘English.’

  ‘Good morning.’

  Bernat had before him the man from that afternoon, the man who had convinced Adrià … I told you, Adrià, he thought. They saw you a mile away. Instead of going right over and throttling him, he smiled and said have you ever heard of a Storioni violin named Vial?

  The man, who hadn’t sat down, headed towards the door. Bernat kept him from leaving the little room, standing between him and the door, covering the exit with his whole body.

  ‘You stole the violin from him.’

  ‘Do you mind telling me who you are?’

  ‘Police.’

  He pulled out his ID card as a member of the Barcelona Symphony Orchestra and National Orchestra of Catalonia and added: ‘Interpol.’

  ‘My God,’ said the man. And he sat down, defeated. And he explained that he didn’t do it for the money.

  ‘How much did they give you for it?’

  ‘Fifty thousand francs.’

  ‘Hell’s bells.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for the money. And they were Belgian francs.’

  ‘Then why did you do it?’

  ‘Matthias Alpaerts drove me batty, every day during the five years we shared a room he would tell me about his bloody little daughters and his mother-in-law with a chest cold. Every day he would tell me, looking out the window, not even seeing me. Every single day. And he got sick. And then those men showed up.’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘I don’t know. From Barcelona. One was thin and the other was young. And they told me we’ve heard you do a very good impression of him.

  ‘I’m an actor. Retired, but an actor. And I play the accordion and the sax. And the piano a little.’

  ‘Let’s see how your impression is.’

  They took him to a restaurant, they let him eat and try a white wine and a red. And he looked at them, puzzled, and asked them why don’t you just talk to Alpaerts?

  ‘He’s on his last legs. He won’t live long.’

  ‘What a relief it’ll be to not hear him talk about his coughing mother-in-law.’

  ‘Don’t you feel sorry for the poor man?’

  ‘Matthias has been saying he wants to die for sixty years. How can I feel sorry for him when he finally gets his wish?’

  ‘Come on, Bob: show us what you can do.’

  And Bob Mortelmans started to say because imagine you are having lunch at home, with your Berta, your sick mother-in-law and the three lights of your life, Amelietje, the eldest, who was turning seven that day; Truu, the middle daughter, with hair the colour of mahogany, and Juliet, the littlest one, blonde like the sun. And out of nowhere, they bust down the front door and all these soldiers burst in shouting raus, raus and Amelietje, who said what does raus mean, Papa?, and I couldn’t stop them and I didn’t do a single thing to protect them.

  ‘Perfect. That’s enough.’

  ‘Hey, hey, hey! I can do more than …’

  ‘I said that’s perfect. Do you want to make some serious dough?

  ‘And since I said yes, they put me on a plane and in Barcelona we rehearsed a couple of times, with variations; but it was always the true story of Matthias the pain in the arse.’

  ‘And your friend, meanwhile, was lying in bed, dying.’

  ‘He wasn’t my friend. He was a broken record. When I got back to Antwerp he was already dead.’ And, rehearsing insouciance with the tall policeman: ‘As if he’d missed me, you know?’

  Bernat was quiet. And Bob Mortelmans made a run for the door. Bernat, without getting up from his chair or moving a muscle, said try to run away and I’ll break your spine. Understood?

  ‘Yup. Perfectly.’

  ‘You’re scum. You stole the violin from him.’

  ‘But he didn’t even know that anyone had it …’

  ‘You’re scum. Selling out for a hundred thousand francs.’

  ‘I didn’t do it for the money. And they were fifty thousand. And Belgian.’

  ‘And you also robbed poor Adrià Ardèvol.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘The man in Barcelona you hoodwinked.’

  ‘I swear I didn’t do it for the money.’

  Bernat looked at him, curious. He made a gesture with his head, as if inviting him to continue speaking. But the other man was silent.

  ‘Why did you do it then?’

  ‘It was … it was an opportunity … It was … the role of a lifetime. That’s why I said yes.’

  ‘You were also well paid.’

  ‘That’s true. But because I embellished it. And, besides, I had to improvise because that bloke struck up a conversation and so, after the monologue, I had to improvise the whole conversation.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I nailed it.’ Proud: ‘I was able to completely inhabit the character.’

  Bernat thought now I’ll throttle him. And he looked around, to see if there were any witnesses. Meanwhile, Bob Mortelmans returned to his favourite role, fired up by the policeman’s admiring silence. Performing, overdoing it slightly: ‘Perhaps I survived until today and am able to tell you all this because I was a coward on Amelietje’s birthday. Or because that rainy Saturday, in the barracks, I stole a crumb of clearly mouldy bread from old Moshes who came from Vilnius. Or because I crept away when the Blockführer decided to teach us a lesson and let loose with the butt of his rifle, and the blow that was meant to wound me killed a little boy whose …’

  ‘That’s enough!’

  Bernat got up and Bob Mortelmans thou
ght he was about to thrash him. He shrank down in his chair, cowering, thoroughly prepared to answer more questions, to answer each and every one that Interpol agent wanted to ask him.

  Bernat said open your mouth and Adrià opened it as if he were Llorenç at a year old; he gave him a spoonful and said, yum, semolina soup, eh? Adrià stared at Bernat and said nothing.

  ‘What are you thinking?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who am I?’

  ‘That guy.’

  ‘Here, have another spoonful. Come on, open your mouth, it’s the last one. That’s it, very good.’

  He uncovered the second course and said oh, how nice, boiled chicken. Do you like that?

  Adrià placed his gaze on the wall, indifferent.

  ‘I love you, Adrià. And I’ll spare you the story of the violin.’

  He looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze, or with the gaze that Adrià saw Sara giving him when she looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze. Or with the gaze that Bernat thought Sara gave Adrià when she looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze.

  ‘I love you,’ repeated Bernat. And he picked up a quite sad piece of pale chicken thigh and said ooh how nice, how nice. Come on, open up your mouth, Llorenç.

  When they’d finished the supper, Jònatan came to take the tray and said do you want to lie down?

  ‘I can take care of that, if that’s all right.’

  ‘Fine: if you need help, just whistle.’

  Once they were alone, Adrià scratched his head and sighed. He looked at the wall with an empty stare. Bernat shuffled through his briefcase and pulled out a book.

  ‘The Problem of Evil,’ he read from the cover. ‘Adrià Ardèvol.’

  Adrià looked into his eyes and then at the book. He yawned.

  ‘Do you know what this is?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. You wrote it. You asked me not to publish it, but in the university they assured me that it was well worth it. Do you remember it?’

  Silence. Adrià, uncomfortable. Bernat took his hand and felt his friend calming down. Then he explained to him that the edition had been done by Professor Parera.

  ‘I think she did a very good job. And she was advised by Johannes Kamenek, who, from what I’ve seen, is a real workhorse. And loves you very much.’

  He stroked his hand and Adrià smiled. They remained like that for some time, in silence, as if they were sweethearts. Adrià’s eyes landed on the book’s cover, apathetically, and he yawned.

  ‘I gave each of your cousins in Tona a copy. They were very excited. Before New Year’s they’ll come visit.’

  ‘Very good. Who are they?’

  ‘Xevi, Rosa and one more whose name escapes me.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Do you remember them?’

  As he did every time Bernat asked him that question, Adrià clicked his tongue as if he were peeved or perhaps offended.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, uncomfortable.

  ‘Who am I?’ said Bernat for the third time that evening.

  ‘You.’

  ‘And what’s my name?’

  ‘You. That guy. Wilson. I’m tired.’

  ‘Well, come on, to bed, it’s quite late. I’ll leave your book on the bedside table.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Bernat grabbed the chair to push it over to the bed. Adrià half-turned, somewhat frightened. Timidly: ‘Now I don’t know … if I’m supposed to sleep in the chair or in the bed. Or in the window.’

  ‘In the bed, come on. You’ll be more comfortable.’

  ‘No, no, no: I think it’s the window.’

  ‘Whatever you say, dear friend,’ said Bernat, pushing the chair over to the bed. And then he added: ‘Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.’

  He was awoken by the intense cold entering through all the cracks in the window. It was still dark. He struck the flint until he managed to light the candle’s wick. He put on his habit and his travel cape on top of that and he went out into the narrow corridor. A hesitant light emerged from one of the cells, on the side overlooking the Santa Bàrbara knoll. With a shiver of cold and grief he headed towards the church. The taper that had illuminated the coffin where Friar Josep de Sant Bartomeu was resting had burned down. He put his candle in its place. The birds, feeling dawn near, began to chirp despite the cold. He fervidly prayed an Our Father, thinking of the salvation of the good father prior’s soul. The twinkling light of his candle provoked a strange effect on the paintings in the apse. Saint Peter, Saint Paul and … and … and the other apostles, and the Madonna and the severe Pantocrater seemed to be moving along the wall, in an unhurried, silent dance.

  Chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and sparrows were singing the arrival of the new day as the monks had sung the praises of the Lord over centuries. Chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and sparrows seemed joyous at the news of the death of the prior of Sant Pere del Burgal. Or perhaps they were singing the joy of knowing he was in paradise, because he had been a good man. Or perhaps God’s little birdies couldn’t care less and were singing because that was all they knew how to do. Where am I? Five months living in the fog and only once in a while does a little light come on, reminding me that you exist.

  ‘Friar Adrià,’ he heard behind him. He lifted his head. Brother Julià approached him, his candle flickering.

  ‘We will have to bury him immediately after Matins,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, of course. Have the men arrived from Escaló?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He got up and stood beside the other monk, looking at the altar. Where am I. He tucked his chilblained hands into the wide sleeves of his habit. They weren’t chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds nor sparrows, just two sad monks because that was the last day of monastic life at their monastery after so many centuries of continued existence. It had been several months since they’d sung; they just recited their prayers and left the singing to the birds and their oblivious joy. Closing his eyes, Friar Adrià murmured the words that, over centuries, had served to break the vast silence of the night: ‘Domine, labia mea aperies.’

  ‘Et proclamabo laudem tuam,’ responded Friar Julià in the same murmuring tone.

  That Christmas night, the first one without Missa in Nocte, the two lay friars could only pray Matins. Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. It was the saddest chanting of Matins in all the centuries of monastic life at Sant Pere del Burgal. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.

  The conversation with Tito Carbonell was unexpectedly relaxed. As they ordered, Tito admitted he was a coward, that it had been more than a year since he’d gone to the nursing home to visit Zio Adriano.

  ‘Give it a try.’

  ‘It’s too depressing. I don’t have your mettle.’ Picking up the menu and signalling the waiter: ‘By the way, I appreciate the time and effort you devote to him.’

  ‘I consider it my obligation as his friend.’

  Tito Carbonell skilfully navigated the menu, ordered and ate his first course with few comments. And there was a somewhat uncomfortable silence when the plate was empty. Until Tito decided to break it: ‘And what, exactly, did you want?’

  ‘To talk about Vial.’

  ‘Vial? Zio Adriano’s violin?’

  ‘Yes. I went to Antwerp a few months ago, to visit Mr Bob Mortelmans.’

  Tito received those words with a spirited laugh: ‘I thought you’d never bring it up!’ he said. ‘What could you possibly want to know from me?’

  They waited for the waiter to place the second course in front of them; then, since Bernat remained in silence, Tito, looking him in the eyes, said: ‘Yes, yes, it was my idea; brilliant, yes. Since I know Zio Adriano, I knew that everything would be easier with Mr Mortelmans’s help.’ He pointed at him with his knife. ‘And I was right!’

  Bernat ate in silence, looking at him without saying a word. Tito Carbonell continued: ‘Yes, yes, Mr Berengu
er sold the Storioni to the highest bidder; yes, we made a bundle; do you like that codfish?; isn’t it the best you’ve ever had?; yes, it’s a shame to have such a fine violin locked up in a safe. Do you know who bought it from us?’

  ‘Who?’ He heard the question coming too much from his stomach, like a shriek.

  ‘Joshua Mack.’ Tito waited for some reaction from Bernat, who was making titanic efforts to control himself. ‘You see? It ended up going to a Jew.’ Laughing: ‘Justice, right?’

  Bernat counted to ten to keep from doing anything rash. To take the sting out of his rage he said you disgust me. Tito Carbonell didn’t even bat an eyelash.

  ‘And I don’t care what Mack does with it. I confess that I did it all for the money.’

  ‘But I am going to report you to the police now,’ said Bernat, staring him in the eye, brimming with rage. ‘And don’t think I can be bought.’

  Tito Carbonell chewed, attentive to his meal; he wiped his lips with a napkin, took a tiny sip of wine and smiled.

  ‘Me, buy you? You?’ He smacked his lips, irked. ‘I wouldn’t give you a red tuppence for your silence.’

  ‘And I wouldn’t accept it. I am doing this for the memory of my dear friend.’

  ‘I wouldn’t make too many speeches, if I were you, Mr Plensa.’

  ‘Does it bother you that I have principles?’

  ‘No, please. It’s very sweet. But you should know that I know what I need to know.’

  Bernat looked him in the eye. Tito Carbonell smiled again and said I’ve moved some pieces as well.

  ‘Now you’ve lost me.’

  ‘Your editor has been working on your new book for about a month now.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s none of your business.’

  ‘Oh, but it is! I’m in it and everything! With another name and as a supporting character, but I’m in it.’

  ‘How do you know that? …’

  Tito Carbonell moved his face right up to Bernat’s, and said is it a novel or an autobiography? Because if Zio Adriano wrote it, it’s an autobiography; if you wrote it, it’s a novel. I understand that the changes you made were very slight … It’s a shame you changed the names … That’ll make it hard to know who is who. The only name you kept was Adrià’s. It’s strange. But since you had the cheek to appropriate the entire text, we have to conclude that it’s a novel. He clicked his tongue, as if he were worried. ‘And then it turns out that we are all pure fiction. Even me!’ He patted his body, shaking his head, ‘What can I say? It’s frustrating …’