Confessions

by Jaume Cabré

  ‘For the last year; but they say that you already speak it.’

  ‘It’s that …’ And now what do I tell him?

  ‘And German.’

  ‘Well, I …’

  ‘And English.’

  He said it as if rubbing salt in a wound after having caught me in fragranti, and Adrià got defensive. He had to admit that yes, English too.

  ‘And that you taught yourself.’

  ‘No,’ I said with relief. ‘That’s a lie. I take lessons.’

  ‘Well, I was told that …’

  ‘No, it’s Italian.’ Contrite. ‘That I’m teaching myself.’

  ‘That’s incredible.’

  ‘No: it’s very simple. Romance vocabulary. If you know Catalan, Spanish and French, it’s a cinch, I mean it’s very easy.’

  Father Bartrina looked at me askance, as if trying to gauge whether that lad was pulling his leg. Adrià, to get on his good side: ‘I’m sure my Italian pronunciation is bad.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘Yes. I never know where to put the tonic.’

  After an incredibly long minute of silence: ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’

  ‘I don’t know. Read. Study. I don’t know.’

  Silence. Father Bartrina took a few steps towards the balcony. From the inner depths of his cassock he pulled out an immaculate white handkerchief and dried his lips, pensively. The traffic on Llúria Street was intense and, at points, overwhelming. Father Bartrina turned towards the boy, who was still standing in the middle of the room. Perhaps that was when he realised:

  ‘Sit, sit.’

  I sat at a desk, not knowing what the man wanted. He approached me and sat at the desk beside mine. He looked me in the eye.

  ‘I play the piano.’

  Silence. I had already figured that because in class he played the chords on the piano while we sol-faed drowsily. And that was also how he kept us from lowering our tone when we sang. It seemed he was having difficulties getting the words out. But he finally took the bull by the horns: ‘We could rehearse the Kreutzer for the end of the school year, for the graduation event. What do you think? At the Palau de la Música! Wouldn’t you enjoy playing in the Palau de la Música?’

  I was silent. I imagined all the kids calling me a poof and me trying to be perfect up on stage. Utter hell.

  ‘It’s what you were supposed to play at the Casal del Metge. You must know it by heart, right?’

  For the first time he sketched a smile, intent on inspiring me. Trying to convince me. So I would say yes. I was still silent, because I had come up with a great idea. It occurred to me that, as a musician, he could help me and I said Father Bartrina, do they call you a poof too?

  Adrià Ardèvol i Bosch, of class 3A, was expelled for three days for unclear reasons they didn’t even want to explain to Mother. The explanation given to his classmates was a sore throat. And to Bernat, well, when I asked him if he was a poof like me, the bloke flew into a rage.

  ‘Are you a poof?’

  ‘What do I know? Esteban says I am because I play the violin. So that means you’re one too. And Father Bartrina, if playing the piano counts.’

  ‘And Jascha Heifetz.’

  ‘Yeah. I suppose so. And Pau Casals.’

  ‘Yeah. But no one’s said that to me.’

  ‘Because they don’t know you play the violin. Bartrina didn’t know.’

  Before reaching the conservatory, both friends stopped, oblivious to the rapid traffic on Bruc Street. Bernat came up with an idea: ‘Why don’t you ask your mother?’

  ‘Why don’t you ask yours? Or your father, since you’ve got a father. Huh?’

  ‘But I’m not the one who got expelled for calling someone a poof.’

  ‘Why don’t we ask Trullols?’

  That day, Adrià had decided to attend Trullols’s class to see if he could infuriate Master Manlleu once and for all. She was pleased to see him, checked his progress and didn’t mention the incident at the Casal del Metge, although she’d surely heard about it. They didn’t ask Trullols about the mysterious word poof; she complained that they were both out of tune just to annoy her and it wasn’t true at all. What happened was that, to top it all off, we heard a younger boy playing before we came in, I think his name was Claret, he was visiting from somewhere, and he played the violin as if he were a man of twenty. And that, far from motivating me, made me feel small.

  ‘Oh, not me. It makes me angry and I practise more.’

  ‘You will be a great violinist, Bernat.’

  ‘As will you.’

  The conversations Bernat and I had weren’t typical of boys our age. But a violin in your hands has the power to transform you.

  That evening, Adrià lied to his mother. He had been expelled for three days because he had laughed at a teacher for not knowing something. Mother, who was thinking about the shop and the angelic machinations of Daniela the angel of my eyes, gave him a very half-hearted, utilitarian lecture. She said that you must know that God has blessed you with unique intelligence. Remember that it is not by your merit but by nature. And Adrià noticed that now that Father had died, Mother spoke of God again even though she jumbled him together with nature. Let see if it turns out God does exist and I’m here in the dark.

  ‘All right, Mother. I won’t do it again. Forgive me.’

  ‘No: you have to ask for forgiveness from your teacher.’

  ‘Yes, Mother.’

  And she didn’t ask who the teacher was, nor what exactly Adrià had said and what the teacher had answered. She was changed beyond all recognition. And as soon as they finished supper, she locked herself in Father’s study, where she had some accounting books open on the incunabula table.

  As Little Lola cleared the dishes and began to tidy up the kitchen, Adrià dragged his heels while pretending that he wanted to give her a hand, and when he was sure that Mother was good and busy in the study, he went into the kitchen, closed the door partway and, before shyness could make him change his mind, said Little Lola, can you explain why they call me a poof at school?

  It took me a long time to fall asleep because the mere possibility of being able to demonstrate Bernat’s ignorance –he who was the one who always knew everything that was beyond the realm of our studies – kept me up so late that I even heard the Concepció bells ringing out eleven and the night watchman’s truncheon hitting the metal doors of Can Solà and echoing out through the entire neighbourhood, in those days when Franco ruled and the earth again became flat for us, when I was little and hadn’t met you yet; in those days when Barcelona, as soon as night fell, was still a city that also went to sleep.

  III

  ET IN ARCADIA EGO

  When I was young, I fought to be myself; now I am resigned to being how I am.

  Josep Maria Morreres

  16

  Adrià Ardèvol had matured quite a lot. Time wasn’t passing in vain. He now knew what poof meant and he had even discovered the meaning of theodicy. Black Eagle, the Arapaho chief, and valiant Sheriff Carson gathered desert dust on the shelf that held Salgari, Karl May, Zane Grey and Jules Verne. But he hadn’t managed to escape his mother’s implacable tutelage. My capacity for obedience had made me a technically good, yet soulless, violinist. Like a second-rate Bernat. Even my shameful flight from my first public recital was eventually accepted by Master Manlleu as a sign of my genius nature. Our relationship didn’t change, except that, from then on, he considered it his right to insult me when he deemed it necessary. Master Manlleu and I never spoke about music. We only spoke about the violin repertoire, and about names like Wieniaswski, Nardini, Viotti, Ernst, Sarasate, Paganini and, above all, Manlleu, Manlleu and Manlleu, and I felt like saying to him but, sir, when will we play real music? But I knew that it would set off a tempest that could cause me real damage. We only spoke of repertoire, of his repertoire. Of hand position. Of feet position. Of what clothes you have to wear when you practise. And whether the foot position could be
the Sarasate-Sauret position, the Wieniaswski-Wilhelmj position, the Ysaÿe-Joachim or, only for the chosen few, the Paganini-Manlleu position. And you have to try the Paganini-Manlleu position because I want you to be a chosen one even though, unfortunately, you were unable to be a child prodigy because I arrived in your life too late.

  Resuming lessons with Master Manlleu after Adrià’s escape from the recital, with a substantial raise from Mrs Ardèvol, had been extremely difficult because at first they were silent classes, designed to show the offended silence of the genius who strove to convert a boy confused by weak character into a semi-genius. Gradually, the indications and the corrections led him back to his usual loquacity until one day he said bring your Storioni.

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘I want to play it.’

  ‘I have to ask my mother for permission.’ Adrià had learned the rules of prudence after so many disasters.

  ‘She will let you if you tell her that it is my express wish.’

  Mother said you’re crazy, what are you thinking; take your Parramon and get going. And Adrià insisted long enough that she said no means no. That was when he let out that it was Master Manlleu’s express wish.

  ‘You should have said that to begin with,’ she said, serious. Very serious, because mother and son had been at war for a few years and any excuse was a good one, to the point that one day Adrià said when I turn eighteen I’m going to leave home. And she answered: with what money? And he: with my hands; with my inheritance from Father; I don’t know. And she: well, you’d better find out before you leave.

  And the next Friday I showed up with the Storioni. More than playing it, the master wanted to compare it. He played Wieniawski’s tarantella with my Storioni; it sounded amazing. And then, with his eyes gleaming, looking for my reaction, he revealed a secret to me: a 1702 Guarnerius that had belonged to Felix Mendelssohn. And he played the same tarantella, which sounded amazing. With a triumphant look on his face he told me that his Guarnerius sounded ten times better than my Storioni. And he gave it back to me smugly.

  ‘Master Manlleu, I don’t want to be a violinist.’

  ‘You keep quiet and practise.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What will your adversaries say?’

  ‘I have no adversaries.’

  ‘Son,’ he said, sitting in the listening chair. ‘Everyone who is studying violin at a level above you is your adversary. And they will look for a way to sink you.’

  And we went back to the vibrato, vibrato trill, and the hunt for harmonics, martelé and tremolo … and I was sadder with each passing day.

  ‘Mother, I don’t want to be a violinist.’

  ‘Son: you are a violinist.’

  ‘I want to give it up.’

  Her response was to set up a recital for me in Paris. So I would realise what a spectacular life awaits you as a violinist, Son.

  ‘At eight years old,’ reflected Master Manlleu, ‘I did my first recital. You’ve had to wait until seventeen. You’ll never be able to catch up to me. But you must try to approach my greatness. And I’ll help you to overcome the trac.’

  ‘I don’t want to be a violinist. I want to read. And I don’t have trac.’

  ‘Bernat, I don’t want to be a violinist.’

  ‘Don’t say that, you’ll make me angry. You play great and with seeming effortlessness. It’s just trac.’

  ‘I have no problem with playing the violin, but I don’t want to be a violinist. I don’t want to. And I don’t have trac.’

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t give up your lessons.’

  It wasn’t that Bernat was interested in my mental health or my future. It was that Bernat was still following along with my lessons from Manlleu, second-hand. And he was making progress in his technique and, since he didn’t have to deal with Manlleu, he didn’t get bored of it or tire of the instrument or get heartburn. And meanwhile he was studying with Massià, who had been highly recommended by Trullols.

  Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Adrià Ardèvol was to realise that his aversion to a career as a soloist had sprung up as the only way to fight against his mother and Master Manlleu. And, when his voice was already beginning to crack because he couldn’t control it, he said Master Manlleu, I want to play music.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I want to play Brahms, Bartók, Schumann. I hate Sarasate.’

  Master Manlleu was silent for a few weeks, teaching lessons with mere gestures, until one Friday he put a stack of scores, a good six inches high, on top of the piano and said come now, let’s return to the repertoire. It was the only time in his life that Master Manlleu acknowledged that Adrià was right. His father had done it only once, but he’d admitted it. Master Manlleu only said come now, let’s return to the repertoire. And in revenge for having to acknowledge that I was right he wiped the dandruff off his dark trousers and said on the twentieth of next month, in the Debussy theatre in Paris. The Kreutzer, the César Franck, Brahms’s third and just a brilliant performance of some Wieniaswski and Paganini for the encores. Happy now?

  The spectre of my trac, because I had massive trac, skilfully disguised by the charming theory that my love for music kept me from etcetera. The spectre of my trac reappeared and Adrià began to sweat.

  ‘Who will play the piano?’

  ‘Some accompanist. I’ll find one for you.’

  ‘No. Someone who … The piano won’t accompany me: it should do what I do.’

  ‘Nonsense: you are the leader. Yes or no? I will find an acceptable pianist for you. Three rehearsals. And now let’s read. We’ll begin with Brahms.’

  And Adrià started to feel that perhaps knowing how to play the violin was a way to figure out life, figure out the mysteries of loneliness, the growing evidence that his desires never match up to his reality, his yearning to discover what he had made happen to his father.

  The acceptable pianist was Master Castells, a good pianist, timid, able to hide beneath the keys at Master Manlleu’s slightest bidding. Adrià realised very quickly that he formed part of the vast economic network of Mrs Ardèvol, who was shelling out a fortune for her son to play in Paris, in one of Pleyel’s chamber halls with a seating capacity for one hundred, of which about forty were filled. The musicians travelled alone, to concentrate on their work. Mr Castells and Adrià, in third class. Master Manlleu, in first so he could focus on his multiple roles. The musicians fought insomnia by reading the concerto and Adrià was amused to see Master Castells singing and marking his entrance and he pretended to be playing and singing softly, humouring him; it was a brilliant system to get their entrances properly in sync. That was when the steward had to come in to make the beds and he turned right around thinking that it was a compartment filled with lunatics. When they had passed Lyon, after nightfall, Master Castells confessed that Master Manlleu had him under his thumb and he wanted to ask Adrià for a favour, could he ask Master Manlleu to let them take a walk alone before the concert because … I have to see my sister and Master Manlleu doesn’t want us mixing work and pleasure, you know?

  Paris was a contrivance designed by my mother to make me decide to continue studying the violin. But she didn’t know that it would change my life. That was where I met you. Thanks to her contrivance. But it wasn’t in the music hall, but before, during the semi-clandestine side trip I made with Mr Castells. To the Café Condé. He had to meet his sister there, and she brought a niece with her, who was you.

  ‘Saga Voltes-Epstein.’

  ‘Adrià Ardèvol-Bosch.’

  ‘I draw.’

  ‘I read.’

  ‘Aren’t you a violinist?’

  ‘No.’

  You laughed and the sky entered the Condé. Your aunt and uncle chattered, absorbed in their things, and they didn’t notice.

  ‘Don’t come to the concert, please,’ I implored. And for the first time I was honest and I said in a lower voice, I’m scared to death. And what I liked best about you was that you didn’t come to the
concert. That won me over. I don’t think I ever told you that.

  The concert went well. Adrià played normally, not nervous, knowing that he would never see the people in the audience again in his life. And Master Castells turned out to be an excellent partner because on the couple of occasions when I hesitated he covered me very delicately. And Adrià thought that perhaps with him as a teacher he could make music.

  We met thirty or forty years ago, Sara and I. The light of my life, and the person I weep most bitterly for. A girl with dark hair pulled back into two plaits, who spoke Catalan with a French accent she never lost, as if she were from the Roussillon. Sara Voltes-Epstein, who came into my life sporadically and whom I’ve always missed. The twentieth of September of the early nineteen-sixties. And after that brief encounter at the Café Condé we didn’t see each other again for two years, and the next time was also random. And at a concert.

  Then Xènia stood before him and said, I’d love to.

  Bernat looked into her dark eyes that matched the night. Xènia. He replied all right then, come up to my house. We can talk as long as we want. Xènia.

  It had been a few months since Bernat and Tecla had parted ways in a meticulous and gruelling effort on both sides to ensure that it was a noisy, traumatic, useless, painful, angry break-up filled with petty details, particularly on her side, I don’t understand how I ever was interested in a woman like that. Much less share my life with her, it’s astounding. And Tecla explained that their last few months of living together were hell because Bernat spent all day looking in the mirror, no, no, you have to understand: he only cared about himself, as always; only his things were important at home; he was only worried about whether a concert went well, that the critics were more and more mediocre each day, how could they not mention our sublime interpretation; and whether the violin was tucked away in the safe or whether we should replace the safe because the violin is the most important thing in this house, you hear me Tecla?, and if you don’t get that into your head, we’ll regret it; and, above all, what hurt me was his absolute tactlessness and lack of love for Llorenç. I couldn’t get past that. That was when I started to put my foot down. Until the blow-up and the sentencing a few months ago. He’s a terrible egomaniac who thinks he’s a great artist and he’s just a good-for-nothing idiot who, in addition to playing the violin, is constantly playing on my nerves because he thinks he’s the greatest writer in the world and he’ll say here, read it and tell me what you think. And poor me if I give him a single but, because then he’ll spend days trying to convince me that I was completely wrong and that he was the only one who knew anything about it.