Confessions

by Jaume Cabré

  ‘I am Doctor Zimmermann,’ said the Western man.

  The two men, without saying a word, began to walk swiftly through the backstreets around the bazaar and the fat man had quite a time keeping them in his sight around each corner or when they mingled among the increasingly fewer people circulating on those backstreets. Until they went through a half-open door to a shop stuffed with copper utensils, and he went in after them. They went along the only aisle left by the piles of utensils, a narrow path that led to the back of the shop, where there was a curtain that opened onto a courtyard lit by a dozen candles where a short bald man in a jellabah was pacing, visibly impatient. When they arrived, he extended his hand to the Westerner, ignoring the two guides, and said I was worried. The two guides disappeared as silently as they had come.

  ‘I had problems at the customs control in the airport.’

  ‘Everything taken care of?’

  The man removed his hat, as if he wanted to show off his baldness, and he used it to fan himself. He made a gesture that said, yes, everything taken care of.

  ‘Father Morlin,’ he said.

  ‘Here I am always David Duhamel. Always.’

  ‘Monsieur Duhamel. What were you able to find out?’

  ‘Many things. But I want to dot the i’s.’

  Father Félix Morlin, standing, dotted the i’s in the light of the twelve candles, and spoke in a murmur that the other man listened to attentively, as if it were a confession without a confessional. He told him that Fèlix Ardèvol had betrayed his confidence by taking advantage of Mr Zimmermann’s situation, robbing him, practically, of that valuable violin. And violating the sacred rule of hospitality, he had also turned Mr Zimmermann in, revealing his hidey hole to the Allies.

  ‘Because of his unjust actions, I have enjoyed five years of forced labour for having served my country in times of war.’

  ‘A war against the expansion of communism.’

  ‘Against the expansion of communism, yes.’

  ‘And now what do you want to do?’

  ‘Find him.’

  ‘Enough blood,’ declaimed Father Morlin. ‘You do know that, even though Ardèvol is unpredictable and has harmed you, he is still my friend.’

  ‘I just want to get my violin back.’

  ‘Enough blood, I said. Or I personally will make you pay.’

  ‘I haven’t the slightest interest in harming a hair on his head. Gentleman’s promise.’

  As if those words were a definitive assurance of good conduct, Father Morlin nodded and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his trousers pocket and passed it to Herr Zimmermann. He opened it up, drew near one of the candles, read it quickly, folded it again and made it disappear into his pocket.

  ‘At least the trip wasn’t in vain.’ He pulled out a handkerchief and ran it over his face as he said ffucking heat, I don’t know how people can live in these countries.

  ‘How have you earned a living, since you were released?’

  ‘As a psychiatrist, of course.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And what do you do, in Damascus?’

  ‘Internal things for the order. At the end of the month I will go back to my monastery, Santa Sabina.’

  He didn’t say that he was trying to revive the noble espionage institution that Monsignor Benigni had founded many years earlier and had had to shut down because of the blindness of the Vatican authorities, who didn’t realise that the only real danger was communism spreading throughout Europe. Nor did he say that the next day it would be forty-seven years since he had joined the Dominican order with the firm, holy intention of serving the church, offering up his life if necessary. Forty-seven years already, since he had asked to be admitted to the order’s monastery in Liège. Félix Morlin had been born during the winter of 1320 in the same city of Girona where he was raised in an atmosphere of fervour and piety in a family who gathered each day to pray after finishing their work. And no one was surprised by the young man’s decision to become a member of the fledgling Dominican order. He studied medicine at the University of Vienna and, at twenty-one years of age, joined the Austrian National Socialist Party with the name Alí Bahr. He was preparing to begin the studies that would make him a good Qadi or a good mufti, since he had already modelled himself on the gifts of wisdom, deliberation and justice of his teachers and shortly afterward he joined the SS as member number 367,744. After serving on the battlefield of Buchenwald under the orders of Doctor Eisel, on 8 October, 1941, he was named chief medic on the dangerous battle front of Auschwitz-Birkenau, where he worked selflessly for the good of humanity. Misunderstood, Doctor Voigt had to flee disguised with various names such as Zimmermann and Falegnami and he was willing to wait, among the chosen, for the moment to regain the Earth when it became flat again, when the sharia had spread all over the world and only the faithful would have the right to live there in the name of the Most Merciful. Then the end of the world would be a mysterious fog and we will be able to go back to managing this mystery and all the mysteries that derive from it. So be it.

  Doctor Aribert Voigt instinctively patted his pockets. Father Morlin told him that it would be better if he took a train to Aleppo. And from there another train to Turkey. The Taurus Express.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To avoid ports and airports. And if the train line is down, which can happen, rent a car with a chauffeur: dollars make miracles.’

  ‘I already know how to get around.’

  ‘I doubt that. You arrived in an aeroplane.’

  ‘But it was totally secure.’

  ‘It’s never totally secure. They held you there for a little while.’

  ‘You don’t think I was followed.’

  ‘My men made sure you weren’t. And you’ve never seen me in your life.’

  ‘Obviously I would never put you in any danger, Monsieur Duhamel. I am infinitely grateful to you.’

  Up until then he hadn’t unbuttoned his trousers, as if it hadn’t occurred to him. On some sort of fabric belt he wore various small hidden objects. He pulled out a tiny black bag and gave it to Morlin, who loosened the string that closed it. Three large tears of a thousand faces were reflected, multiplied, in the light of the twelve candles. Morlin made the bag disappear among the mysteries of his jellabah while Doctor Voigt buttoned his trousers.

  ‘Good night, Mr Zimmermann. The first train for the north departs at six in the morning.’

  ‘Ffucking heat,’ said Mr Berenguer in response as he stood up and aimed the fan more directly onto himself.

  Adrià, in a hushed voice – since he remembered how Mr Berenguer threatened Father when he was spying on them from behind the sofa – said, Mr Berenguer, I am the legitimate owner of the violin. And if they want to take this to court, they can, but I warn you that if they continue along this path, I will spill the beans and you’ll be left exposed.

  ‘As you wish. You have the same character as your mother.’

  No one had ever told me that before. And I didn’t believe it when he did. Mostly I felt hatred for that man because he was the one who had caused Sara to fight with me. And he could say whatever balderdash he wanted to.

  I stood up because I had to look tough if I wanted my words to be credible. By the time I’d stood up, I was already regretting everything I’d said and the way I was handling things. But Mr Berenguer’s amused expression made me decide to continue, albeit fearfully.

  ‘It’d be best if you don’t mention my mother. I understand she made you toe the line.’

  I started to head back towards the door, thinking that I was a bit of an idiot: what had I got out of that visit? I hadn’t cleared up anything. I had merely made a unilateral declaration of war that I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to follow through on. But Mr Berenguer, walking behind me, lent me a hand: ‘Your mother was a horrid cunt who wanted to make my life miserable. The day she died I opened up a bottle of Veuve Clicquot champagne.’ I felt Mr Berenguer’s breath on the nape of my neck as we walked towards t
he door. ‘I drink a sip each day. It’s gone flat, but it forces me to think about ffucking Mrs Ardèvol, the horrid cunt.’ He sighed. ‘When I drink the last drop, then I can die.’

  They reached the entrance and Mr Berenguer overtook him. He mimed drinking: ‘Every day, glug, down the hatch. To celebrate that the witch is dead and I’m still alive. As you can imagine, Ardèvol, your wife isn’t going to change her mind. Jews are so sensitive about some things …’

  He opened the door.

  ‘I could reason with your father and he gave me freedom of movement for the good of the business. Your mother was a nag. Like all women: but with particular malice … And I – glug! – one sip down the hatch each and every day.’

  Adrià went out onto the landing of the stairwell and turned to say some worthy phrase like you’ll pay dearly for these insults or something like that. But instead of Mr Berenguer’s sly smile, he found the dark varnish of the door that Mr Berenguer was slamming in his face.

  That evening, alone at home, I tried the sonatas and the partitas. I didn’t need the score despite the years; but I would have liked to have other fingers. And Adrià, as he played the second sonata, began to cry because he was sad about everything. Just then Sara came in off the street. When she saw that it was me and not Bernat, she left again without even saying hello.

  48

  My sister died fifteen days after my conversation with Mr Berenguer. I didn’t know she was ill, just like had happened with my mother. Her husband told me that neither she nor anyone else had known either. She had just turned seventy-one and, even though I hadn’t seen her in a long time, lying in the coffin she looked to me like an elegant woman. Adrià didn’t know what he felt: grief, distance, something strange. He didn’t know which feeling he was experiencing. He was more worried about Sara’s anger than about how he felt about Daniela Amato de Carbonell, as the funeral card read.

  I didn’t say Sara, my sister died. When Tito Carbonell called me to tell me that his mother had died, I was so focused on him possibly mentioning the violin that at first I didn’t understand what he was saying, and it was as simple as she is at the Les Corts funeral home, if you want to go, and we’re burying her tomorrow, and I hung up and I didn’t say Sara, my sister died because I think you would have said you have a sister? Or you wouldn’t have said anything, because in those days you and I weren’t on speaking terms.

  In the funeral home, there were quite a few people. At the Montjuïc cemetery we were about twenty. Daniela Amato’s niche has a wonderful view of the sea. Not that it will do her any good, I heard someone say behind me, while the workers sealed up the niche. Cecília hadn’t shown up or she hadn’t been told or she was already dead. Mr Berenguer pretended he hadn’t seen me the entire time. And Tito Carbonell stood beside him as if he wanted to mark his territory. The only person who seemed perplexed and sad over her death was Albert Carbonell, who was debuting as a widower without having had time to get used to the idea of so much unexpected solitude. Adrià had only seen him a couple of times in his life, but he felt some grief over the desolation of that man who had aged considerably. As we went down the long paths of the cemetery, Albert Carbonell approached me, took me by the arm and said thank you for coming.

  ‘It’s the least I could do. I’m so sad.’

  ‘Thank you. You might be the only one. The others are crunching numbers.’

  We grew silent; the sound of the group’s footsteps on the dirt path, broken by whispers, by the occasional curse against Barcelona’s mugginess, by the odd cough that couldn’t be stifled, lasted until we reached where we had left our cars. And meanwhile, almost into my ear, as if he wanted to take advantage of the proximity, Albert Carbonell said watch it with that nosy parker Berenguer.

  ‘Did he work with Daniela in the shop?’

  ‘For two months. And Daniela threw him out on his ear. Since then they’ve hated each other and never missed the chance to show it.’

  He paused, as if he were having trouble speaking and walking at the same time. I vaguely recalled that he was asthmatic. Or maybe I made that part up. Anyway, he continued, saying Berenguer is a crafty devil; he’s sick.

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘There’s only one possible sense. He’s not right in the head. And he hates all women. He can’t accept that a woman is more intelligent than him. Or that she makes the decisions instead of him. That pains him and eats him up inside. Be careful that he doesn’t hurt you.’

  ‘Do you mean that he could?’

  ‘You never know with Berenguer.’

  We said goodbye in front of Tito’s car. We shook hands and he said take care of yourself; Daniela spoke affectionately of you. It’s a shame you didn’t spend more time together.

  ‘As a boy I was in love with her for one whole day.’

  I said it as he was getting into the car and I don’t know if he heard me. He waved vaguely from inside. I never saw him again. I don’t know if he’s still alive.

  It wasn’t until I was right in the middle of the dense traffic around the statue of Columbus covered in tourists taking photos of themselves, on my way home and wondering whether I should speak to you about it or not, that I realised that Albert Carbonell was the first person who didn’t call Mr Berenguer Mr Berenguer.

  When I opened the door, Sara could have asked me where are you coming from, and I, from burying my sister; and she, you have a sister? And I, yes, a half-sister. And she, well, you could have told me; and I, you never asked, we barely ever saw each other, you know. Why didn’t you tell me now, that she’d died? Because I would have had to tell you about your friend Tito Carbonell, who wants to steal the violin from me, and we would’ve had another argument. But when I opened the door to the house, you didn’t ask me where are you coming from and I didn’t respond from burying my sister and you couldn’t respond you have a sister? And then I realised that your suitcase was in the entryway. Adrià looked at it, surprised.

  ‘I’m going to Cadaqués,’ replied Sara.

  ‘I’ll come.’

  ‘No.’

  She left without any explanation. It happened so fast that I wasn’t aware of the importance it would have for us both. When Sara was gone, Adrià, still disorientated, with his heart heavy and restless, opened Sara’s wardrobe and suddenly felt relieved: her clothes were still there. I thought that you must have just taken a few outfits.

  49

  Since he didn’t know what to do, Adrià didn’t do anything. He had been abandoned by Sara again; but now he knew why. And it was only a momentary escape. Momentary? To keep from thinking about it too much, he threw himself into his work, but he had trouble concentrating on what would be the definitive version of Llull, Vico, Berlin, tres organitzadors de les idees, a book with a dense title. He felt personally compelled to write it in order to distance himself from his Història del pensament europeu, which was weighing on him perhaps because he had dedicated many years to it, perhaps because he had much hope placed in it, perhaps because people he admired had made mention of it … The unity, one of the unities of the book, was created by the historical narrative. And he rewrote the three essays entirely. He had been working on that for months. I had begun, my beloved, the day when I saw on television the horrifying images of the building in Oklahoma City gutted by a bomb placed by Timothy McVeigh. I didn’t say anything to you about it because it’s better to do these things and then later, if necessary, talk about them. I got to work on it because I’ve always believed that those who kill in the name of something have no right to sully history. One hundred and sixty-eight deaths, caused by Timothy McVeigh. And much more grief and suffering not reflected in the statistics. In the name of what intransigence, Timothy? And, I don’t know how, I imagined another intransigent, of another sort of intransigence, asking him the question, why, Timothy, why such destruction when God is Love?

  ‘The American government can shove it up their ass.’

  ‘Timothy, son: what religion do you practise?’ interjec
ted Vico.

  ‘Sticking it to the people who are screwing up the country.’

  ‘There is no such religion,’ Ramon Llull, patient. ‘There are three known religions, Timothy: namely, Judaism, which is a terrible error with apologies to Mr Berlin; Islam, which is the mistaken belief system of the infidel enemies of the church, and Christianity, which is the only just and true religion, because it is the religion of the Good God, who is Love.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, old man. I kill the government.’

  ‘And the forty children you killed are the government?’ Berlin, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief.

  ‘Collateral damage.’

  ‘Now I don’t understand.’

  ‘1:1’

  ‘What?’

  ‘One to one.’

  ‘The colonel who doesn’t stop the massacre of women and children,’ states Vico, ‘must go to jail.’

  ‘But not if he kills men?’ Berlin, mockingly, to his colleague, putting on his glasses.

  ‘Why don’t you three just all shove it up your ass, huh?’

  ‘This boy has a strange verbal obsession with the posterior,’ observed Llull, very perplexed.

  ‘All those who live by the sword, die by the sword, Timothy,’ Vico reminded him just in case. And he was going to say which verse of Matthew it was, but he couldn’t remember because it had all been too long ago.

  ‘Would you doddering old fogies mind fucking leaving me alone?’

  ‘They are going to kill you tomorrow, Tim,’ Llull pointed out.

  ‘168:1.’

  And he began to fade out.

  ‘What did he say? Did you understand anything?’

  ‘Yes. One hundred and sixty-eight, colon, one.’

  ‘It sounds cabbalistic.’