by Jaume Cabré
‘Resting.’
‘In a monastery?’
Brother Gabriel made a vague gesture that said he wasn’t in the mood to go into more details.
‘But how did you work it out?’
‘By smelling the wood.’
‘Impossible. It’s very dry and the varnish covers up the scent.’
That day, safe in the sacristy, Jachiam Mureda learned to distinguish woods by their odour and he thought what a shame, what a shame, not being able to share what he’d learned with his family, starting with his father, who was apt to die of sadness if he were to hear that anything had happened to him. And Agno, too, Jenn and Max who haven’t lived at home for years now, Hermes the dim-witted, Josef, Theodor the lame, Micurà, Ilse and Erica, who are already married, Katharina, Matilde, Gretchen and little Bettina, my little blind one who gave me Mum’s medallion, which is the bit of Pardàc that I always carry with me.
It wasn’t until six weeks later, when they began to take down the scaffolding, that Brother Gabriel said that he knew something I think you’ll find very interesting.
‘What’s that?’
He led him far away from the men who were dismantling the scaffolding and he whispered in his ear that he knew of an old, abandoned monastery, in the middle of nowhere, with a forest of fir trees beside it; that red fir that you like.
‘A forest?’
‘A fir grove. About twenty firs and a majestic maple tree. And the wood doesn’t belong to anyone. No one has even touched it in five years.’
‘Why doesn’t it belong to anyone?’
‘It’s beside an abandoned monastery.’ In a whisper: ‘La Grassa and Santa Maria de Gerri won’t miss a couple of trees.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Don’t you want to go back with your family?’
‘Of course. I want to go back to my father, who I hope is still alive. And I want to see Agno again, and Jenn and Max who no longer live at home, and Hermes the dim-witted …’
‘Yes, yes, yes, I know. And Josef and all the others, yes. And with a load of wood that will be of help to you all.’
Jachiam of Pardàc didn’t return to Carcassona. From La Grassa, accompanied by Blond of Cazilhac with a couple of men and five mules laden with cart wheels and a bag filled with all his wages since his flight, he headed up through Ariège and the Salau pass, towards a dream.
They arrived at Sant Pere del Burgal seven or eight days later, at the end of the summer, along the Escaló trail, which, in the cold times of the great-grandparents of the great-grandparents of the great-great-grandparents, the envoy of death had travelled. On the peak was the monastery, whose walls showed signs of neglect. When he walked around the building he was shocked to find what he believed to be the equal of the finest part of the Paneveggio woods, before the fire. It was an awe-inspiring grove of ten or fifteen immense fir trees and in the centre, like a queen, rose a maple with a suitably large trunk. As his men rested after the wearisome trip, Jachiam blessed the memory of Brother Gabriel of La Grassa. He walked through the trees and touched them, and he made the wood sing like his father had taught him and he sniffed it like Brother Gabriel had. And he felt happy. Then, while his men were napping, he walked through the abandoned rooms until he reached the church’s locked door. He pushed it with the palm of his hand and the rotten, worm-eaten wood of the door crumbled. Inside it was so dark that he just glanced in distractedly before going to take a nap himself.
They set up camp inside the walls of the isolated monastery, beneath a mouldy, half-rotten ceiling, and they bought provisions from the people of Escaló and Estaron, who didn’t understand what those men were after in the ruins of Burgal. They devoted an entire moon to building sturdy carts for transport, further down near the river where the road was more level. Jachiam hugged all the living trunks after cutting off the lower branches. He tapped them with a flat hand and brought his ear close to listen carefully, to the sceptical silence and surprise of his men. By the time they had the carts built, Jachiam of Pardàc had decided which fir he would chop down along with the maple. He was convinced that it was a wood that had grown with exceptional regularity; despite years away from the trade, he knew that it would sing. And Jachiam spent many hours looking at the mysterious paintings in the apse of the little church, which must have contained stories that were new to him. Prophets and archangels, Saint Peter, the patron of the monastery, and Saint Paul, Saint John and the other apostles beside the Mother of God, praising the severe Pantocrator along with the archangels. And he felt no remorse.
And then they began to saw down the chosen fir. Yes: it was a tree with regular growth, marked by a cold that must be intense and, above all, constant. A tree with the same density in each growth despite the years. My God, what wood. And with the tree felled – again observed sceptically by the men helping him – he felt and he smelt, then tapped along the trunk until he found the good parts. He marked two areas in chalk, one twelve feet long and the other ten. Those spots were where the wood sang best. And he had them sawed knowing that it wasn’t the new January moon, which is when many say the wood for a good violin should be chosen. The Muredas had realised that, unless the woodworms had got to it, a bit of resin would revive wood that had to travel a long way.
‘I think you’re pulling my leg,’ said Bernat.
‘Whatever you say.’
They were silent. But the out-of-tune student was so out of tune that it was worse when they were quiet. After quite some time, Adrià said, ‘Whatever. But it’s more fun to think that the violin is the one in charge, because it’s alive.’
After a few days of rest, they began with the maple. It was immense, perhaps two centuries old. And its leaves were already yellowing in preparation for the first snowfall, which it would no longer be around for. He knew that the part closest to the stump was the best and they sawed close to ground level despite the complaints of his men, who found it laborious and didn’t see the point. He had to promise them two more days of rest before setting off. They cut close to the ground. So close to the ground that Blond of Cazilhac, drawn by something, used his pick to make a hole down towards the roots.
‘Come here, you have to see this,’ he said, interrupting his daily visit to the magical paintings in the apse.
The men had almost completely uprooted the tree. Among the roots, there were bones, a skull and some human hairs with tatters of dark cloth ruined by the dampness.
‘Who buries someone beneath a tree?’ exclaimed one of the men.
‘This is very old.’
‘They didn’t bury him beneath the tree,’ said Blond of Cazilhac.
‘They didn’t?’ Jachiam looked at him, puzzled.
‘Don’t you see? The tree comes out of the man, if it is a man. He nourished the tree with his blood and his flesh.’
Yes. It was as if the tree had been born from the skeleton’s womb. And Adrià brought his face closer to his father’s, so he would see him, so he would answer him.
‘Father, I just want to see how it sounds. Let me play four scales. Just a tiny bit. Come on, Father! …’
‘No. And no means no. Full stop,’ said Fèlix Ardèvol, eluding his son’s gaze.
And do you know what I think? That this study, which is my world, is like a violin that, over the course of its life, has accommodated many different people: my father, me …, you because you are here in your self-portrait, and who knows who else because the future is impossible to comprehend. So no; no means no, Adrià.
‘Don’t you know that no means yes?’ Bernat would tell me, angrily, many years later.
‘You see?’ Father changed his tone. He had him turn the violin over and show him the back of the instrument. He pointed to a spot without touching it. ‘This thin line … who made it? How? Is it a blow? Was it done on purpose? When? Where?’
He took the instrument from me delicately and said to himself, as if in dreams, with this I’m happy. That’s why I like … He gestured with his h
ead around the study, at all the miracles contained therein. And he carefully placed Vial into its case, and that into the dungeon of the safe.
Just then Trullols’s classroom door opened. Bernat said, in a low voice the teacher couldn’t hear, ‘What claptrap: I don’t belong to the violin. It’s mine: my father bought it for me at Casa Parramon’s. For a hundred and seventy-five pesetas.’
And he closed the case. I found it very unfriendly. So young and already mystery made him uncomfortable. There was no way he could be my friend. Ruled out. Kaputt. Then it turned out he also went to Casp, a year ahead of me. And his name was Bernat Plensa i Punsoda. I may have said that already. And he was so uptight, as if they’d bathed him in a vat of hair spray and forgot to rinse him off. And I had to admit, after sixteen minutes, that that unfriendly boy who refused to accept mystery, who would never be my friend, and who was named Bernat Plensa i Punsoda, had something about him that made a violin bought for one hundred and seventy-five pesetas at Casa Parramon sound with a delicacy I had never been able to achieve. And Trullols looked at him with satisfaction and I thought what a piece of shit my violin was. That was when I swore that I would make him shut up forever, him, the violin dedicated to Madame d’Angoulême and the hair spray he’d bathed in; and I think that it would have been much better for everyone if I’d never had that thought. For the moment, all I did was let it gradually ripen. It’s hard to believe that the most unthinkable tragedies can be born of the most innocent things.
Bernat, halfway up the stairs, felt his pocket and pulled out the vibrating mobile phone. Tecla. He hesitated for a few seconds, not sure whether to answer or not. He moved aside to let a hurrying neighbour get past him. He stood there like an idiot looking at the lit-up screen, as if he could see Tecla in it, cursing his name, and that gave him a guilty pleasure. He put the mobile back into his pocket and after a moment he could feel that it had stopped vibrating. Tecla must have been negotiating the last loose end with the voice mail operator. Maybe she was saying, and we each get the house in Llançà for six months a year. And the operator, who do you think you are, you’ve never set foot in there and when you have it was with that peeved face you are so fond of pulling just to make poor Bernat’s life difficult! Who do you think you are? Bravo for the Orange operator, thought Bernat. He caught his breath at the landing on the main floor and, once he had, he rang the bell.
‘Rrrrrrrrrrinnnnnng.’
It took so long for him to hear any reaction from inside the flat that he had time to think about Tecla, about Llorenç and about the very unpleasant conversation they’d had the night before. The murmur of dragging footsteps, the sudden clamour of the lock and the door began to move. Adrià, looking at him over narrow reading glasses, finished opening the door and turned on the light in the hallway. Its gleam reflected off his bald head.
‘The bulb in the landing blew again,’ he said in greeting.
Bernat hugged him and Adrià didn’t hug him back. He took off his eyeglasses and said thank you for coming, as he waved him in.
‘How are you?’
‘Terrible. And you?’
‘Terrible.’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t drink any more.’
‘We don’t drink any more, we don’t fuck any more, we don’t overeat any more, we don’t go to the cinema any more, we don’t ever like a book any more, now every woman is too young, we can’t get it up any more, we don’t believe those who say they’ll save the country any more.’
‘Quite a list.’
‘How’s Tecla doing?’
He had him enter the study. Bernat looked around with open admiration, as he did every time he went in there. For a few seconds his gaze stopped on the self-portrait, but he refrained from any comment.
‘What did you ask me?’ he said.
‘How’s Tecla?’
‘Very well. Fabulous.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Adrià.’
‘What.’
‘Come on, don’t make fun.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I told you two days ago that we’re separating, that we’re at each other’s throats …’
‘Oh, Christ …’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No. I’m very absorbed and …’
‘You’re an absent-minded scholar.’
Adrià grew quiet and, to break the silence, Bernat said we’re separating; at our age, and we’re separating.
‘I’m so sorry. But you’re doing the right thing.’
‘To tell you the truth, I couldn’t care less. I’m tired of everything.’
When he sat down, Bernat tapped his knees and, in a falsely cheery tone, said come on, what was all the rush and urgency about?
Adrià stared at him for a very long minute. Bernat held his gaze until he realised that, even though he was looking at him, Adrià was far, far away.
‘What’s wrong?’ He paused. The other man was in the clouds. ‘Adrià?’ A hint of panic. ‘What’s going on with you?’
Adrià swallowed hard and looked, somewhat anxiously, towards his friend. Then he looked away. ‘I’m ill.’
‘Oh.’
Silence. Your whole life, our whole lives, thought Bernat, passing before your eyes when a loved one tells you they are ill. And Adrià was only half there. Bernat tried to forget for a few moments about Tecla, that bitch who was ruining his day, his week and his month, that shrew, and he said but what do you mean? What do you have?
‘An expiration date.’
Silence. More long seconds of silence.
‘But what is going on, for Christ’s sake, are you dying, is it serious, is there anything I can do, I don’t know, explain yourself, will you?’
If he hadn’t been separated from Tecla, he never would have had that reaction. And Bernat was infinitely sorry for what he’d said but, on the other hand, from what he could see, it hadn’t had much of an effect on Adrià because his response was a smile.
‘Yes, there is something you can do for me. A favour.’
‘Of course. But how are you? What do you have?’
‘It’s hard for me to explain. They have to put me in assisted living or something like that.’
‘Shit, but you’re fine. Look at you, all hale and hearty.’
‘You have to do me a favour.’
He got up and disappeared into the flat. What patience I need lately, thought Bernat. First Tecla, and now Adrià, with his endless mysteries and his hypochondria.
Adrià came back with his hypochondria and a mystery in the shape of a large bundle of papers. He put it down on the little table, in front of Bernat.
‘You need to make sure this doesn’t get lost.’
‘Let’s see, let’s see … How long have you been ill?’
‘A while.’
‘I didn’t know anything about this.’
‘I didn’t know you and Tecla were separating either, even though I’ve suggested it to you more than once. And I always wanted to think that you’d worked it out. Can I continue?’
Men who are soulmates know how to fight and make up, and they know not to tell each other everything, just in case the other could lend a helping hand. Adrià had told him that thirty-five years ago and Bernat remembered it perfectly. And he cursed life, which gives us so many deaths.
‘Forgive me, but I’m … Of course you can continue.’
‘A few months ago they diagnosed me with a degenerative brain process. And now it seems it’s speeding up.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yes.’
‘You could have told me.’
‘Would you have cured me?’
‘I’m your friend.’
‘That’s why I called you.’
‘Can you live alone?’
‘Little Lola comes every day.’
‘Caterina.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. And she stays until quite late. She leaves my supper prepared.’<
br />
Adrià pointed to the stack of papers and said you aren’t just my friend, you’re also a writer.
‘A failed writer,’ was Bernat’s curt reply.
‘According to you.’
‘Yes, and you’ve certainly always been quick to remind me of it.’
‘I’ve always criticised you, you know that, but I never said you failed.’
‘But you’ve thought it.’
‘You don’t know what I have, inside here,’ said Adrià, suddenly irritated, tapping his forehead with both hands.
‘I haven’t published in years.’
‘But you haven’t stopped writing. Isn’t that right?’
Silence. Adrià insisted, ‘Not long ago, in public, you said you were writing a novel. Yes or no?’
‘Another failure. I’ve abandoned it.’ He breathed deeply and said, ‘Come on, what is it you want?’
Adrià grabbed the pile of papers and examined them for a little while, as if it were the first time he had seen them. He looked at Bernat and passed the bundle to him. Now he got a good look at it: it was a thick pile of pages, written on both sides.
‘Only this side is good.’
‘In green ink?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And the other one?’ He read the first page: ‘The Problem of Evil.’
‘Nothing. Nonsense. It’s worthless,’ said Adrià, uncomfortably.
Bernat looked through the pages in green, a bit disorientated, trying to get used to his friend’s difficult handwriting.
‘What is it?’ he said finally, lifting his head.
‘I don’t know. My life. My life and other lies.’
‘And since when … I didn’t know this side of you.’
‘I know. No one knows it.’
‘Do you want me to tell you what I think of it?’
‘No. Well, if you want to, sure. But … what I’m asking, begging, is that you type it into the computer.’
‘You still haven’t tried out the one I gave you.’
Adrià made a vague gesture in his defence: ‘But I did classes with Llorenç.’
‘That were of no help at all.’ He looked at the bundle of pages. ‘The part written in green doesn’t have a title that I can see.’
