Confessions

by Jaume Cabré

  Out of Benedictine courtesy, since he was no danger, the noble knight was received by the father abbot, to whom he repeated I am looking for a brother of yours, Father Abbot.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Friar Miquel de Susqueda, Father Abbot.’

  ‘We have no brother by that name. Why are you looking for him?’

  ‘It is a personal matter, Father Abbot. A family matter. And very important.’

  ‘Well, you have made the trip in vain.’

  ‘Before joining the order of Saint Benedict as a monk, he was a Dominican friar for some years.’

  ‘Ah, I know of whom you speak,’ said the abbot, cutting him off. ‘Yes … He is part of the community of Sant Pere del Burgal, near Escaló. Brother Julià de Sau was a Dominican friar long ago.’

  ‘Blessed be the Lord!’ exclaimed Ramon de Nolla.

  ‘You may not find him alive.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ said the noble knight, alarmed.

  ‘There were two monks at Sant Pere and yesterday we found out that one has died. I don’t know if it was the father prior or Brother Julià. The emissaries weren’t entirely sure.’

  ‘Then … How can I …’

  ‘And you’ll have to wait for better weather.’

  ‘Yes, Father Abbot. But how can I know if the surviving brother is the one I am searching for?’

  ‘I just sent two brothers to collect the Holy Chest and the surviving monk. When they return you will know.’

  Silence, each man thinking his own thoughts. And the father abbot: ‘How sad. A monastery closing its doors after almost six hundred years of praising the Lord with the chanting of the hours each and every day.’

  ‘How sad, Father Abbot. I will head off on the path to see if I can catch up with your monks.’

  ‘There’s no need: wait for them. Two or three days.’

  ‘No, Father Abbot. I have no time to wait.’

  ‘As you wish, sir: they will get you there safely.’

  With both hands he took the painting off the dining room wall and brought it over to the weaker light of the balcony. Santa Maria de Gerri, by Modest Urgell. Many families had a cheap reproduction of the last supper in their home; theirs was presided over by an Urgell. With the painting in his hand, he went into the kitchen and said Little Lola, don’t say no: keep this painting.

  Little Lola, who was still seated at the kitchen table thinking about the wall, looked towards Adrià.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s for you.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re saying, boy. Your parents …’

  ‘That doesn’t matter: now I’m in charge. I’m giving it to you.’

  ‘I can’t accept it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s too valuable. I can’t.’

  ‘No: you are afraid that Mother wouldn’t like it.’

  ‘Either way. I can’t accept it.’

  And I stood there with the rejected Urgell in my hands.

  I brought it back to the spot where I had always seen it and the dining room returned to being what it had always been. I went around the flat; I went into Father and Mother’s study to rummage through drawers without any clear objective. And after rummaging through the drawers, Adrià began to think. After a few hours of stillness, he got up and went towards the laundry room.

  ‘Little Lola.’

  ‘What.’

  ‘I have to go back to Germany. I have at least six or seven months before I can come back.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried: stay, please: this is your home.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s more your home than mine. I’m, as long as I have the study …’

  ‘I came here thirty-one years ago to take care of your mother. If she’s dead, my work here is done.’

  ‘Little Lola, stay.’

  Five days later I was able to read the will. In fact, it was the notary, Cases, who read it to me, Little Lola and Aunt Leo. And when, in his thin, rasping voice, the man announced it is my wish that the painting entitled Santa Maria de Gerri, by Modest Urgell, which is personal property of the family, be given without any compensation to my loyal friend Dolors Carrió, whom we have always called Little Lola, as a tiny show of appreciation for the support that she has offered me throughout my life, I started to laugh, Little Lola burst into tears and Aunt Leo looked at us, puzzled. The rest of the will was more complicated except for a personal letter in an envelope with a seal that the countertenor put into my hands and which began dear Adrià, my beloved son, something she had never said to me in my ffucking life.

  Dear Adrià, my beloved son.

  That was the end of my mother’s sentimental expansiveness. All the rest was instructions about the shop. About my moral obligation to take care of it. And she explained in full detail the unusual relationship she maintained with Mr Berenguer, imprisoned by a salary in order to return the amount of an old embezzlement, which was still in effect for one more year. And your father had all his hopes tied up in the shop and now that I’m no longer around you can’t just wash your hands of it. But since I know that you always have and will do whatever you want to, I’m not convinced that you will heed me, roll up your sleeves, go into the shop and put everyone in their place the way I did after your father’s death. I don’t want to speak ill of him, but he was a romantic: I had to bring order to the shop; I had to rationalise it. I turned it into a good business that you and I have been able to live off of, and I’ve only added a couple of salaries, as you know. I’ll be very sorry if you don’t want to keep the shop; but since I won’t be able to see you, well, what can I do? And then she gave me some very precise instructions as to how to deal with Mr Berenguer and she asked me to follow them to the letter. And then she went back to the personal arena and said but I am writing you these lines today, on the twentieth of January of nineteen seventy-five because the doctor told me that I probably won’t live much longer. I gave instructions for them not to disturb your studies until the time came. But I am writing to you because I want you to know, besides what I’ve already said, two more things. First: I have gone back to the church. When I married your father I was a wishy-washy girl, very susceptible to influence, who didn’t know exactly what she wanted out of life, and when your father told me that the most likely thing was that God didn’t exist, I said ah, well, all right. But later I missed having him in my life, especially when my father died and Fèlix died, and with the loneliness I’ve felt not knowing what to do with you.

  ‘What do you mean what to do with me? Love me.’

  ‘I did love you, Son.’

  ‘From a distance.’

  ‘We’ve never been very affectionate in this house; that doesn’t mean we’re bad people.’

  ‘Mother: love me, look me in the eyes, ask me what I want to do.’

  ‘And your father’s death ruined everything.’

  ‘You could have tried.’

  ‘I’ve never been able to forgive you for giving up the violin.’

  ‘I’ve never forgiven you for forcing me to be the best.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘No. I’m intelligent and, you could even say, gifted. But I can’t do it all. I don’t have any obligation to be the best. You and Father made a mistake with me.’

  ‘Not your father.’

  ‘I am finishing my doctorate and I don’t plan on studying law. And I haven’t learned Russian.’

  ‘For the moment.’

  ‘Fine. For the moment.’

  ‘Let’s not argue, I’m dead.’

  ‘All right. And what was the other thing you wanted me to know? By the way: does God exist, Mother?’

  ‘I’m dying with many regrets. The main one is not knowing who killed your father and why.’

  ‘What did you do to try to find that out?’

  ‘I now know that you were spying on me from behind the sofa. You know things that I didn’t know you knew.’

  ‘Not really.
I only really learned what a brothel is, but not who killed my father.’

  ‘Hey, hey, here comes the black widow!’ said Inspector Ocaña, frightened, poking his head into the Commissioner’s office.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Didn’t you get rid of her for good?’

  ‘Pain in my arse.’

  Comissioner Plasencia stuck the rest of his sandwich into the drawer, stood up and looked out the window at the traffic on Llúria Street. When he heard the female presence at the door, he turned.

  ‘What a surprise.’

  ‘Good afternoon.’

  ‘It’s been days since …’

  ‘Yes. It’s that … I had them investigate and …’

  On the table, inside a cold ashtray, a small half-smoked, snuffed-out cigar was stinking up the room.

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Aribert Voigt, Commissioner. Revenge over some business dealings, Commissioner. Or you could call it, personal revenge; but it has nothing to do with brothels or raped girls. I don’t know why you made up that deplorable story.’

  ‘I always follow orders.’

  ‘I don’t, Commissioner. And I plan on taking you to court for obstruction of

  ‘Don’t make me laugh!’ the policeman cut her off, rudely. ‘Luckily, Spain is no democracy. Here we good guys are in charge.’

  ‘You will soon receive the citation. If the guilt lies higher up, we will follow the loose ends and uncover it.’

  ‘What loose ends?’

  ‘Someone let that murderer act with impunity. And someone let him leave without detaining him.’

  ‘Don’t be naive. You won’t find any loose ends, because there are none.’

  The commissioner took the cigar from the ashtray, lit a match and began smoking. A thick bluish cloud momentarily concealed his face.

  ‘And why didn’t you go to court, Mother?’

  Commissioner Plasencia sat down, still spewing smoke from his nose and mouth. Mother preferred to remain standing before him.

  ‘There are loose ends!’ said Mother.

  ‘Ma’am, I have work to do,’ responded the commissioner, remembering his half-eaten sandwich.

  ‘A Nazi who lives without a care in the world. If he’s still alive.’

  ‘Names. Without names, it’s all just smoke and mirrors.’

  ‘A Nazi. Aribert Voigt. I’m giving you a name!’

  ‘Farewell, madam.’

  ‘On the evening of the crime my husband told me he was going to the Athenaeum to see someone named Pinheiro …’

  ‘Mother, why didn’t you take it to court?’

  ‘… but that wasn’t true, he wasn’t meeting up with Pinheiro. A commissioner had called him.’

  ‘Names. Ma’am. There are lots of commissioners in Barcelona.’

  ‘And it was a trap. Aribert Voigt was acting under the protection of the Spanish police.’

  ‘What you’re saying could get you sent to prison.’

  ‘Mother, why didn’t you take it to court?’

  ‘And the man lost control. He wanted to hurt my husband. He wanted to scare him, I think. But he ended up killing him and destroying him.’

  ‘Ma’am, don’t talk nonsense.’

  ‘Instead of arresting him, they kicked him out of the country. Isn’t that how it went, Commissioner Plasencia?’

  ‘Ma’am, you’ve read too many novels.’

  ‘I can assure you that is not the case.’

  ‘If you don’t stop badgering me and getting in the way of the police, you are going to have a very bad time of it. You, your little girlfriend and your son. Even if you flee to the ends of the earth.’

  ‘Mother, did I hear that right?’

  ‘Hear what right?’

  ‘The part about your little girlfriend.’

  The commissioner pulled back to observe the effect his words had had. And he drove them home: ‘It wouldn’t be difficult to spread information in the circles you frequent. Farewell, Mrs Ardèvol. And don’t ever come back.’ And he opened the half-empty drawer, with the remains of his thwarted sandwich, and he closed it angrily, this time in front of the black widow.

  ‘Yes, yes, all right, Mother. But how did you know that all that about the brothels and the rapes was a lie?’

  Mother, even though she was dead, grew silent. I was fretfully awaiting a response. After an eternity: ‘I just know it.’

  ‘That’s not enough for me.’

  ‘Fine.’ Dramatic pause, I suppose to gather courage. ‘Early on in our marriage, after we conceived you, your father was diagnosed with total sexual impotence. From that point on, he was completely unable to have erections. That made him bitter for the rest of his life. And it embittered us. Doctors and pitiful visits to understanding ladies, none of it did any good. Your father wasn’t perfect, but he couldn’t rape anyone, not even a child, because he ended up hating sex and everything related to it. I guess that’s why he took refuge in his sacred objects.’

  ‘If that was the case, why didn’t you take them to court? Did they blackmail you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘About your lover?’

  ‘No.’

  And Mother’s letter ended with a series of more general recommendations and a timid sentimental effusion at the end when it said goodbye, my beloved son. The last sentence, I will watch over you from heaven, has always seemed to contain a slight threat.

  ‘Oh, boy …’ said Mr Berenguer, stretched out in the office chair, wiping non-existent specks from his impeccable trouser leg. ‘So you’ve decided to roll up your sleeves and get to work.’

  He was sitting in Mother’s office, with the smug air of someone who’s reconquered valuable territory, and the sudden appearance of lamebrained Ardèvol Jr, who’s always got his head in the clouds, distracted him from his thoughts. He was surprised to see the lad entering his office without knocking. That was why he said oh boy.

  ‘What do you want to talk about?’

  Everything, Adrià wanted to talk about everything. But first, he cleverly laid the groundwork for them to clearly understand each other: ‘The first thing I want to do is extricate you from the shop.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  ‘Do you know about the deal I have with your mother?’

  ‘She’s dead. And yes, I’m familiar with it.’

  ‘I don’t believe you do: I signed a contract obliging me to work at the shop. I still have a year left in the galleys.’

  ‘I’m releasing you from it: I want to see the back of you.’

  ‘I don’t know what it is with your family, but you’ve all got a real nasty streak …’

  ‘Don’t start lecturing me, Mr Berenguer.’

  ‘Lectures, no; but some information, yes. Do you know that your father was a predator?’

  ‘More or less. And that you were the hyena who tried to pinch the remains of the gnu from him.’

  Mr Berenguer smiled widely, revealing a gold incisor.

  ‘Your father was a merciless predator when it came to making a profit from a sale. And I say sale, but it was often a blatant requisition.’

  ‘Fine, a requisition. But you will gather up your things today. You are no longer welcome in the shop.’

  ‘My, oh my …’ A strange smile tried to conceal his surprise at the words of the Ardèvol pup. ‘And you call me a hyena? Who are you to …’

  ‘I am the son of the king of the jungle, Mr Berenguer.’

  ‘You’re as much of a bastard as your mother was.’

  ‘Farewell, Mr Berenguer. Tomorrow the new manager will call on you, if necessary, in the company of a lawyer who will be fully informed about everything.’

  ‘You do know that your fortune is built on extortion?’

  ‘Are you still here?’

  Luckily for me, Mr Berenguer thought that I was solid as a rock, like my mother; he mistook my resigned fatalism for some sort of deep indifference and that disarmed him and strengthened me. He
gathered, in silence, all that he must have only very shortly before placed in a drawer of my mother’s desk and left the office. I saw him rummaging through various nooks and crannies until I noticed that Cecília, pretending to be working with the catalogues, was glancing curiously at the hyena’s movements. She soon understood what was going on, and a lipsticked smile grew wide on her face.

  Mr Berenguer slammed the door to the street, trying to crack the glass, but he didn’t pull it off. The two new employees didn’t seem to understand anything. Mr Berenguer, after working there for thirty years, had barely taken an hour to disappear from the shop. I thought he had disappeared from my life as well. And I locked Mother and Father’s office with a key. Instead of demanding information and searching out signs of the king of the jungle’s prowess, I began to cry. The next morning, instead of demanding information and searching out signs, I put the shop in the hands of the manager and went back to Tübingen because I didn’t want to miss any more of Coșeriu’s classes. Information and signs.

  27

  During my last months in Tübingen I began to long for that city, along with the landscape of Baden-Württemberg and the Black Forest and all of it, which was so lovely; because Adrià was going through the same thing that happened to Bernat: he was happier longing after something that was out of his reach than looking at what he held in his hands. He was thinking more about how the heck will I be able to live so far from this landscape when I return to Barcelona, how? And this was while still finishing his dissertation on Vico, which had somehow become some sort of atomic pile where he’d deposited all of his thoughts and which I knew would provide me with an unceasing series of intellectual reflections that would accompany me throughout my life. That could explain, my dear, why I didn’t want to get distracted by information and signs that could disrupt my life and my studies. And I tried not to think about it much until I got used to not thinking about it at all.

  ‘It’s … No, not brilliant: it’s profound; it’s admirable. And your German, it’s perfect,’ Coșeriu told him the day after his dissertation defence. ‘Above all, don’t stop studying. And if you choose linguistics, let me know.’