by Jaume Cabré
‘But we’ve only gone to bed together three or four times!’ he had said, frightened, pale, scared, terrified, sweaty.
‘Twelve times,’ she replied gravely. ‘And it only takes once.’
Silence. Hiding the fear. Looking at the future. Glancing at the exit doors. Looking the girl in the face and hearing her say, with her eyes glassy with emotion, aren’t you excited, Fèlix?
‘Oh, sure.’
‘We’re going to have a baby, Fèlix!’
‘How great. I’m so happy.’
And the next day fleeing Rome, leaving his studies half completed. What he most regretted was not being able to hear the end of Pater Faluba’s course.
‘Fèlix Ardèvol?’ Bishop Muñoz had said with his mouth hanging open. ‘Fèlix Ardèvol i Guiteres?’ He shook his head. ‘That’s not possible.’
He was sitting before the desk in his office and Father Ayats was standing, with a folder in his hand and that deferential bearing that so irked the monsignor. Through the palace’s balcony rose the whine of a cart that must have been overloaded and the shriek of a woman scolding a child.
‘Yes it is possible.’ The episcopal secretary didn’t stifle his smug tone. ‘Unfortunately, he has done it. He got a woman pregnant and …’
‘Save me the details,’ said the bishop.
Once he had informed him of every last facet, shocked Monsignor Muñoz went to pray because his soul was confused, as he mused over his luck that Monsignor Torras i Bages had been saved the shame of the behaviour of the student many said was the pearl of the bishopric, and Father Ayata lowered his eyes humbly because he had known for some time that Ardèvol was no pearl. Very clever, very philosophical, very this and very that, but an inveterate rogue.
‘How did you know I’m marrying tomorrow?’
Carolina didn’t answer. Her daughter couldn’t stop looking at the face of that man who was her father, and she barely paid attention to the conversation. Carolina looked at Fèlix – fatter, not as charming, badly aged, with darker skin and crow’s feet – and she hid a smile. ‘Your daughter is named Daniela.’
Daniela. She looks just like her mother did when I met her.
‘That day, right here,’ said my angel, ‘your husband signed Can Casic over to me under oath. And when you came back from Majorca the inheritance was formalised.’
The trip to Majorca, the days with her husband, who no longer removed his hat when he ran into her because they were together all day long and, so he couldn’t say how are you, beautiful, either. Or he could say it but he didn’t; at first her husband was very attentive to her every move and, gradually, more mindful of his own silent thoughts. I never understood what your father did, thinking all day without saying a word, Son. All day long thinking without a word. And every once in a while shouting or smacking whomever was closest because he must have thought about that Italian tart, and about missing her and giving her Can Casics.
‘How did you know that my husband had died?’
My angel looked into my mother’s eyes and, as if she hadn’t heard her, ‘He promised me. No, he swore to me that I would be in his will.’
‘Then you must already know that you aren’t.’
‘He didn’t think he would die so soon.’
‘Farewell. And send your mother my regards.’
‘She is dead too.’
Mother didn’t say I’m sorry or anything like that. She opened the door to the study but my angel still stipulated, turning towards Mother as she left, ‘A part of the business is mine and I won’t stop fighting unt
‘Farewell.’
The door to the street slammed, like the day Father left the house to be killed. Honestly, I hadn’t understood much. Only a vague suspicion of I don’t know what. In that period, I had the absolute ablative conquered but life, not so much. Mother went back to the study, locked the door behind her, rummaged through the safe for a little while, pulled out a small green box, moved aside the pink cotton and pulled out a chain from which hung a very pretty golden medallion. She put it back in the little box and she threw it in the bin. Then she sat on the sofa and she started to cry all the tears she hadn’t cried since the day she was married, with that bittersweet weeping that produces stinging tears because they are made of a mix of rage and grief.
I was skilful. Accompanied by clever Black Eagle (fine, I was a big baby but I sometimes needed moral support), when everyone was sleeping, I slipped into Father’s study and, feeling my way, I searched through the bin until I came upon the small cube-shaped box. I grabbed it and the valiant Arapaho kept me from doing anything rash. Following his instructions, I turned on the magnifying lamp, I opened the little box and I pulled out the medallion. I closed the little box again and I placed it silently at the bottom of the bin. Adrià turned off the lamp with the loupe and backed up, his booty in his hands, to his room. Once he was inside with the door closed, violating the unwritten law that the doors at home should never be shut but rather ajar, he turned on the lamp on his bedside table, silently expressed his gratitude to Black Eagle and looked at that medallion with an interest that made his heart beat like a runaway train. It was a fairly rudimentary Madonna, surely a reproduction of a Romanesque sculpture, vaguely resembling the Virgin of Montserrat, with a slight baby Jesus in her arms. It had a very curious background, an enormous, lush tree in the distance. On the flip side, where I hoped to find the solution to the mystery, was only the word Pardàc roughly engraved on the bottom. And that was all. I sniffed the medallion to see if it gave off the scent of angel, since – although I couldn’t say why – I was convinced that it was closely linked to my great, only and forever Italian love.
14
Mother usually spent mornings at the shop. As soon as she entered she raised her eyebrows and didn’t lower them again until she left. As soon as she entered she considered everyone an enemy to be distrusted. It seems that’s a good method. First she attacked Mr Berenguer and came out the winner because her surprise attack had caught him with his guard down and he was unable to fight back. When he was very, very old, he explained it to me himself, I think with a hint of admiration towards his bosom enemy. I never would have thought that your mother knew what a promissory note was or the differences between ebony and cherry wood. But she knew that and she knew many things about the shady dealings that your father—
‘Shady dealings?’
‘More like murky.’
So Mother took the reins at the shop and began to say you do this and you do that, without having to look them in the eye.
‘Mrs Ardèvol,’ said Mr Berenguer one day, entering Mr Ardèvol’s office, which he had tried, unsuccessfully, to convert into Mr Berenguer’s office. And he said Mrs Ardèvol with his voice sullied by rage. She looked at him, with an eyebrow raised and in silence.
‘I should think that I have some rights earned over so many years of working at the highest level. I am the expert in this shop; I travel, I buy and I know the buying and selling prices. I know how to negotiate prices and, if necessary, I know how to swindle. I am the one your husband always trusted! It’s not fair that now I … I know how to do my job!’
‘Well, then do it. But from now on I will be the one who says what your job is. For example: of the three console tables from Turin, buy two if they don’t give you the third for free.’
‘It’s better to have all three. That way the prices will be m
‘Two. I told Ottaviani that you would go there tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’
It wasn’t that he minded travelling; in fact, he enjoyed it immensely. But going to Turin for a couple of days meant leaving the shop in the hands of that witch.
‘Yes, tomorrow. Cecília will go and pick up the tickets this afternoon. And come back the day after tomorrow. And if you think you need to make a decision that isn’t the one we’ve discussed, check with me by telephone.’
Things had changed in the shop. Mr Berenguer was so constantly surprised that he hadn’t shut
his mouth in weeks. And Cecília had spent that same time carefully trying to conceal her smugly innocent smile; she hid it pretty well, but not perfectly because she wanted Mr Berenguer to see that for once she had the whip hand. Vengeance is so sweet.
But Mr Berenguer didn’t see it the same way and that morning, before Mrs Ardèvol arrived at the shop to put everything on its head, he stood in front of Cecília, with his hands on her desk and his body leaned towards her, and said what the hell are you laughing about, eh?
‘Nothing. Just that finally someone is getting things in order and keeping you on a short lead.’
Mr Berenguer debated between smacking her and strangling her. She looked into his eyes and added that’s what the hell I’m laughing about.
It was one of the few times that Mr Berenguer lost control. He went around the desk and grabbed Cecília’s arm roughly, so hard that he sprained it, and she shrieked with pain. So when Mrs Ardèvol entered the shop, after the ten o’clock bells had rung, into a silence so thick it could only be cut with a straight razor, all sorts of bad things could happen.
‘Good morning, Mrs Ardèvol.’
Cecília couldn’t pay much attention to the boss because a customer came in with an urgent need to buy two chairs that matched the chest of drawers in the photo, you see, with these kind of legs, you see?
‘Come to my office, Mr Berenguer.’
They prepared the trip to Turin in five minutes. Then, Mrs Ardèvol opened Mr Ardèvol’s briefcase and pulled out a file, put it on the desk and, without looking at her victim, said now you’ll have to explain why this, this and this don’t add up. The buyer paid twenty and fifteen went into the till.
Mrs Ardèvol began to drum her fingers on the desk, deliberately imitating the best detective in the world. Then she looked at Mr Berenguer and passed him this, this and this, which were the accounts of about a hundred objects defrauded from the company. Mr Berenguer looked, with a disgusted face, at the first this and he’d had enough. How the hell had that woman been able …
‘Cecília helped me,’ said Mother as if she could read his thoughts, the way she did to me. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to on my own.’
Fucking cunts, both of them. That’s what I get for working with women, damn it.
‘When did you start this illegal practice that goes against the company’s interests?’
Dignified silence, like Jesus before Pilate.
‘The very beginning?’
Even more dignified silence, surpassing Jesus’s.
‘I will have to turn you in.’
‘I did it with Mr Ardèvol’s permission.’
‘Come on now!’
‘Do you doubt my word?’
‘Of course! And why would my husband allow you to swindle us?’
‘It’s not swindling anyone: it’s adjusting prices.’
‘And why would my husband allow you to adjust prices?’
‘Because he recognised that my salary was low considering all I do for the shop.’
‘Why didn’t he raise it?’
‘You’ll have to ask him that. Excuse me. But it’s true.’
‘Do you have any document proving that?’
‘No. It was a verbal agreement.’
‘Well, I will have to turn you in.’
‘Do you know why Cecília gave you those receipts?’
‘No.’
‘Because she wants my ruin.’
‘Why?’ Mother, curious, leaning back in her chair with a questioning stance.
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Go ahead. We have time. Your plane leaves in the mid-afternoon.’
Mr Berenguer sat down. Mrs Ardèvol placed her elbows on the desk and held up her chin with both hands. She looked him in the eye, inviting him to speak.
‘Come on, Cecília, we don’t have time.’
Cecília made that lewd smile she did when no one was watching and she let Mr Ardèvol grab her by the hand and take her into his office, here.
‘Where is Berenguer?’
‘In Sarrià. Emptying out the Pericas-Sala flat.’
‘Didn’t you send Cortés?’
‘He doesn’t trust the heirs. They want to hide things.’
‘What sneaks. Take off your clothes.’
‘The door is open.’
‘More exciting. Take off your clothes.’
Cecília naked in the middle of the office, her eyes lowered and that innocent smile of hers. And I wasn’t emptying out the Pericas-Sala flat because the inventory was very specific and if even a drawing-pin were missing I would have demanded it back. The nasty girl, sitting on top of this desk, doing things to your husband.
‘You get better every day.’
‘Someone could come in.’
‘You just do your job. If someone comes in, I’ll deal with them. Can you imagine?’
They started laughing like crazy as they knocked things over and made a mess, the inkwell fell to the floor and you can still make out the stain, see?
‘I love you.’
‘Me too. You’ll come with me to Bordeaux.’
‘What about the shop?’
‘Mr Berenguer.’
‘But he doesn’t even know where the
‘Don’t stop what you’re doing. You’ll come to Bordeaux and we’ll have a party every night.’
Then the little bell on the door sounded and in came a customer who was very interested in buying a Japanese weapon he’d looked at the week before. While Fèlix helped him, Cecília did what she could to tidy up her appearance.
‘Can you help him, Cecília?’
‘One moment, Mr Ardèvol.’
Without underwear, trying to erase the trail of lipstick smudged all over her face, Cecília emerged from the office bright red and waved for the customer to follow her while Fèlix watched the scene with amusement.
‘And why are you telling me this, Mr Berenguer?’
‘So you know everything. It went on for years.’
‘I don’t believe a word.’
‘Well, there’s more. And we are all tired of the song and dance.’
‘Go ahead, I already told you, we’ve got time.’
‘You are a coward. No, no, let me speak: a coward. It’s been five years of the same old song and dance, yes, Cecília, next month I’ll tell her everything, I swear. Coward. Coward. Five years of excuses. Five years! I’m not a little girl. (…) No, no, no! I’m talking now: we will never live together because you don’t love me. No, you be quiet, it’s my turn to talk. I said be quiet! Well, you can stick your sweet words up your arse. It’s over. Do you hear me? What? (…) No. Don’t say a word. What? Because I’ll hang up when I’m good and ready. No, sir: quan a mi em roti.’
‘I already told you that I don’t believe a word. And I know of which I speak.’
‘As you wish. I suppose I’ll have to look for a new job.’
‘No. Each month you’ll pay me back a part of what you’ve stolen and you can continue working here.’
‘I’d rather leave.’
‘Then I will turn you in, Mr Berenguer.’
Mother pulled a sheet with some figures out of her briefcase.
‘Your salary, from now on. And here is the amount you won’t receive, as the repayment. I want you to give back every last red cent and from prison you won’t be able to do that. So what do you say, Mr Berenguer? Yes or yes?’
Mr Berenguer opened and closed his mouth like a fish. And he still had to feel Mrs Ardèvol’s breath on his face. She had sat up and leaned over the desk, to say, in a soft voice, if anything funny happens to me, you should know that I have all this information and instructions for the police in a notary’s safe in Barcelona, on the twenty-first of March of nineteen fifty-eight; signed, Carme Bosch d’Ardèvol. Notary xxx bore witness. And after another silence she repeated yes or yes, Mr Berenguer?
And while she was at it, seizing the momentum, she requested an appointment with Barcelona’s Civil Governor, the loathsom
e Acedo Colunga. In her role as General Moragues’s widow, Mrs Carme Bosch d’Ardèvol went before the Governor’s personal secretary and demanded justice.
‘Justice for what, madam?’
‘For my husband’s murder.’
‘I will have to look into it in order to know what you are referring to.’
‘The form they had me fill out explained the reason behind my request to be seen. In detail.’ Pause. ‘Have you read it?’
The Governor’s secretary looked at the papers he had in front of him. He read them carefully. The black widow, trying to even out her breathing, thought what am I doing here, wasting my breath over a man who ignored me from the very start and never loved me in his entire ffucking life.
‘Very well,’ said the secretary. ‘And what do you want?’
‘To speak with His Excellency the Civil Governor.’
‘You are already speaking with me, which is the same thing.’
‘I wish to speak with the Governor personally.’
‘That’s impossible. Forget about it.’
‘But …’
‘You cannot do that.’
And she could not do it. When she left the governor’s offices, her legs shaking with rage, she decided to let it go. Perhaps she was more worried about the miraculous apparition of my guardian angel than the disdain of the Francoist authorities. Or the maddening insistence of various parties that Fèlix was an impossibly compulsive fornicator. Or, who knows, maybe she’d finally arrived at the conclusion that it wasn’t worth her while demanding justice for a man who had been so unjust with her. Yes. Or no. Really I have no idea, because after Father, the biggest question mark in my life, before meeting you, has always been my mother. I can say that, only two days later, things shifted slightly and her plans changed, and that I can speak of first-hand without making any of it up.
‘Rrrrrrrrinnnnnnng.’
I opened the door. Mother had just arrived from wreaking havoc in the shop and I think she was in the bathroom. The first thing that entered the house was the stench of Commissioner Plasencia’s tobacco.
‘Mrs Ardèvol?’ He screwed up his face in what may have been an attempt at a smile. ‘We’ve met, haven’t we?’ he said.
