by Jaume Cabré
He put the napkin down on the table, suddenly serious: ‘So don’t talk to me about principles.’
Bernat Plensa was left with a bite of suddenly dry cod in his mouth. He heard Tito say I kept half the profits of the sale of the violin. But you kept the whole book. Zio Adriano’s whole life.
Tito Carbonell pushed back his chair, carefully observing Bernat. He continued: ‘I know that the book you supposedly wrote is going to come out in a couple of months. Now you decide whether we set up a press conference or we just let it go.’
He opened his arms, inviting him to make up his mind. Since Bernat didn’t move, he went on: ‘Would you like dessert?’ He snapped his fingers at the waiter. ‘They do a fabulous flan here.’
When Bernat went into cinquantaquattro Wilson had just finished putting some brand-new tennis shoes on Adrià, who was sitting in the wheelchair.
‘Look how handsome he is,’ said the nurse.
‘Gorgeous. Thank you, Wilson. Hello, Adrià.’
Adrià didn’t recognise his name. It seemed that he was smiling. The room was the same as ever, although it had been a long time since he’d been there.
‘I brought you this,’ he said.
He gave him a fat book. Adrià took it in his hands, somewhat fearful. He looked at Bernat, not really knowing what to do with it.
‘I wrote it,’ he said to him. ‘It’s hot off the presses.’
‘Oh, how nice,’ said Adrià.
‘You can keep it. And forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.’
Adrià, seeing the stranger with his head bowed and almost crying, began to cry.
‘Is it my fault?’
‘No, not at all. I’m crying because … Just because.’
‘Sorry.’ He looked at him, concerned. ‘Come on, don’t cry, sir.’
Bernat pulled a CD case out of his pocket, took out the CD and put it in Adrià’s player. He took him by the hands and said listen to this, Adrià: it’s your violin. Prokofiev. His second concerto. Soon the lament that Joshua Mack extracted from Adrià’s Storioni could be heard. They were like that for twenty-six minutes. Holding hands, listening to the concert and the applause on the live recording.
‘This CD is for you. Tell Wilson it’s yours.’
‘Wilson!’
‘Not now, that’s OK. I’ll tell him myself.’
‘Booooy!’ insisted Adrià.
As if he were waiting for the moment, as if he were spying on them, Wilson stuck his nose into the room: ‘What is it? Are you all right?’
‘It’s just that … I brought him this CD and this book, too. All right?’
‘I’m sleepy.’
‘But I just got you dressed, my prince!’
‘I need to make a poo poo.’
‘Oh, you’re such a pill.’ To Bernat: ‘Do you mind? It’ll be five minutes.’
Bernat went out into the hallway with the book. He headed towards the terrace and flipped through the pages. A shadow came up beside him: ‘Nice, eh?’ Doctor Valls pointed to the book: ‘It’s yours, right?’
‘It just …’
‘Oy!’ the doctor interrupted. ‘I have no time to read.’ And as if it were a threat: ‘But I promise that I will read it one day.’ Joking: ‘I don’t know much about literature, but I will review it mercilessly.’
There’s no fear of that, thought Bernat as he watched the doctor head off. And his mobile buzzed. He went into a corner of the terrace because you weren’t allowed to use your mobile inside.
‘Hello.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the hospital.’
‘Do you want me to come there?’
‘No, no, no,’ he said, a little too hastily. ‘I’ll be at your house at two.’
‘You really don’t want me to come?’
‘No, no, no … there’s no need, really.’
‘Bernat.’
‘What?’
‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Me … Why?’
‘I just finished the book. From what little I know, you’ve captured your dear friend perfectly…’
‘Weeelll … thanks, really.’ Recomposing himself: ‘I’ll be at your house at two.’
‘I won’t put on the rice until you get here.’
‘All right, Xènia: I have to go now.’
‘Give him a kiss from me.’
As he hung up, musing on the impossible figure of the Klein bottle, Wilson pushed Adrià out onto the terrace in his wheelchair. Adrià put up one hand for a visor, as if the sun was blinding. ‘Hello,’ said Bernat. To Wilson: ‘I’ll take him to the corner with the wisteria.’
Wilson shrugged his shoulders and Bernat dragged Adrià towards the corner with the wisteria. From there you could see a good stretch of the city of Barcelona and the sea in the background. Klein. He sat down and opened the book to its final pages. And he read: I lived through that long ago; and much time has slipped away since I wrote it. Now is different. Now is the following day.
And why have I explained all that? Because if Friar Miquel hadn’t had a pang of bad conscience at the cruelties of the holy inquisitor, he wouldn’t have fled and he wouldn’t have become Friar Julià, the one with the maple seeds in his pocket, and Guillaume-François Vial wouldn’t have sold his Storioni to the Arcan family at an exorbitant price.
‘A Storioni.’
‘I don’t know that name.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Laurent Storioni!’
‘No.’
‘Purveyor to the courts of Bavaria and Weimar,’ he improvised.
‘Never heard of him. Don’t you have anything by Ceruti or Pressenda?’
‘For the love of God!’ Exaggeratedly scandalised, Monsieur Vial. ‘Pressenda learned his trade from Storioni!’
‘And Stainer?’
‘Right now I don’t have anything.’ He pointed to the violin that rested on the table. ‘Try it. For as many hours as you’d like, Heer Arcan.’
Nicolas Arcan took off his wig and picked up the violin with a displeased or perhaps disdainful expression, but dying to give it a try. His extremely agile fingers, using his customary bow and strange playing position, began to make it speak an extraordinary sound almost from the very first note. Guillaume-François Vial had to go through the humiliation of seeing a Flemish violinist play by heart one of disgusting Tonton Leclair’s sonatas; but he didn’t show his feelings because the sale was at stake. After an hour, his bald pate and forehead sweaty, Nicolas Arcan gave the violin back to Guillaume-François Vial, who assumed that he had him convinced.
‘No. I don’t like it,’ said the violinist.
‘Fifteen thousand florins.’
‘I don’t want to buy it.’
Monsieur Vial got up and took the instrument. He put it away carefully in its case, which still bore a dark stain of unknown origin.
‘I have a customer a half hour from Antwerp. Will you forgive me if I leave without greeting your wife?’
‘Ten thousand.’
‘Fifteen thousand.’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Fourteen thousand.’
‘Deal, Monsieur Vial.’ And with the price already set, Heer Arcan admitted in a soft voice: ‘Exceptional acoustics.’
Vial left the case on the table and opened it up again. He saw Heer Arcan’s gluttonous eyes. He whispered to himself: ‘If I know one thing it’s that this instrument will bring much joy.’
Nicolas Arcan grew old beside the violin and passed it down to his daughter, a spinet player, and she to her nephew Nestor, the composer of the famous estampes, and Nestor to his son, and his son to a nephew, and like that until, after many decades, Jules Arcan made a series of mistakes on the stock market and had to squander his inheritance. And the coughing mother-in-law lived in Antwerp, as did Arcan. Wonderful sound, proportions, touch, shape … A true Cremona. And if Father had had scruples, if Voigt had been an honourable man and hadn’t shown an interest in the violin; if … I wouldn’t be tal
king about all this. If I hadn’t had the Storioni, I wouldn’t have made friends with Bernat. I wouldn’t have met you at a concert in Paris. I would be someone else and I wouldn’t be talking to you now. I know: I explained everything out of order, but it’s just that my head is a bit unfurnished these days. I only just reached here, with little chance of going back over what I’ve written. I don’t have the heart to look back; on one hand, because I cried as I wrote some of these things; and on the other, because I can tell that with each passing day a chair or a cornucopia disappears from inside my head. And I am slowly becoming a character from a Hopper, looking out a window or out at life, with an empty gaze and my tongue thick from so much tobacco and whisky.
Bernat looked at Adrià, who seemed entertained by a wisteria leaf that fell close to his head. After a second’s hesitation, he dared to say: ‘Does any of what I’m reading ring a bell with you?’
Adrià, after a few moments of uncertainty, replied guiltily: ‘Should it ring a bell, sir?’
‘Please, don’t call me sir: I’m Bernat.’
‘Bernat.’
But the wisteria leaf was more interesting. And Bernat continued reading where he’d left off, which was when Adrià was saying I want to tell you something that has been obsessing me, my beloved: after spending my life trying to ponder the cultural history of humanity and trying to play an instrument that resisted being played, I mean that we are, all of us, we and our penchants, ffucking random. And the facts that weave together actions and events, the people we meet, those we happen upon or never meet at all, are also just random. It is all chance: or perhaps it’s not chance, but it’s just already drawn. I don’t know which affirmation to stick with because both are true. And if I don’t believe in God, I can’t believe in a previous drawing, whether it is called destiny or something else.
My beloved: it is late, night-time. I am writing before your self-portrait, which retains your essence because you were able to capture it. And before the two landscapes of my life. A neighbour, Carreres on the third, I imagine, remember that tall blond?, is closing the door to the lift, too noisily for this time of night. Goodbye, Carreres. All these months I’ve been writing on the other side of the manuscript where I tried, unsuccessfully, to reflect on evil. Wasting the time I devoted to it. Paper scribbled on both sides. On one, my failed reflection; on the other, the narration of my facts and my fears. I could have told you a thousand things about my life, things that are inaccurate but true. And I could talk to you and I could conjecture or invent things about my parents’ lives, my parents whom I hated, judged, undervalued and, now, miss a little.
This narration is for you, because you are alive somewhere, even if it is just in my story. It’s not for me, who won’t make it to tomorrow. I feel like Anicius Manlius Torquatus Severinus Boethius, who was born in Rome around four hundred seventy-five, and received many honours for his life devoted to the study of the philosophy of the classics; I earned my doctorate in nineteen seventy-six at the University of Tübingen and then I taught at the University of Barcelona, a fifteen-minute walk from my home. I have published several works, the fruit of my reflections out loud in class. I was appointed to political posts, which brought me fame and then disgrace, and imprisoned at the Ager Calventianus in Pavia before it was called Pavia; I await the judges’ verdict, which I already know will be my death sentence. Which is why I stop time by writing De consolatione philosophiae while I wait for the end to come, writing these memories to you, which can be called by no other name than their own. My death will be slow, not like Boethius’s. My murderous emperor is not named Theodoric, but rather Alzheimer the Great.
Through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, they taught me at school, I who am not even baptised, I don’t think. And they spiced it up with an incredible story about original sin. I am guilty of everything; if need be, of all the earthquakes, fires and floods in history. I don’t know where God is. Not mine, not yours, not the God of the Epsteins. The sensation of loneliness is excruciating, my beloved, my dearest beloved.
There is no redemption for the sinner. At most, forgiveness from the victim. But often one can’t live with the forgiveness either. Müss decided on reparation, without waiting for forgiveness from anyone, not even God. I feel guilty of many things and I’ve tried to go on living. Confiteor. I write with much difficulty, wearily, bewildered because I’ve started to have worrisome lapses. From what the doctor tells me, when these pages are printed, my beloved, I will already be a vegetable unable to ask for anyone’s help – not out of love but out of compassion – to give up on living.
Bernat looked at his friend, who returned his gaze in silence. For a few moments, he was afraid because it looked like Gertrud’s gaze. Despite everything, he kept reading I wrote all of this in a desperate attempt to hold onto you. I descended to the infernos of memory and the gods allowed me to rescue you with one, impossible condition. Now I understand Lot’s wife, who also turned at the wrong moment. I swear that I turned to make sure you wouldn’t trip on the staircase’s uneven step. The implacable gods of Hades took you back to the inferno of death. I didn’t know how to resuscitate you, beloved Eurydice.
‘Eurydice.’
‘What.’
‘No, nothing, sorry.’
Bernat was silent for a few minutes. Cold sweat. Fear.
‘Do you understand me?’
‘Huh?’
‘Do you know what this is, that I’m reading?’
‘No.’
‘Really?’
‘Boooy!’
‘One moment,’ said Bernat, making up his mind. ‘I’ll be right back.’ Without the slightest irony: ‘Don’t move. And don’t call for Wilson, I’ll be back in a second.’
‘Wilson!’
With his heart about to leap out of his chest, Bernat burst into the doctor’s office and blurted out Doctor Valls, he corrected my pronunciation.
The doctor looked up from the document he was reading. It took him a few seconds to process the information, as if his patients’ slowness was contagious: ‘A reflex.’ He looked at his papers and then at Bernat. ‘Mr Ardèvol cannot remember anything. Not at this point. Just a coincidence. Unfortunately for all of us.’
‘But he said Eurydice when I said Eurydice.’
‘Random chance. I assure you it’s just a coincidence.’
Bernat returned to his friend’s side, in the corner with the wisteria, and he said forgive me, Adrià: I’m very anxious because …
Adrià looked at him somewhat askance.
‘Is that good or bad?’ he replied, slightly scared.
Bernat thought my poor friend, all his life spent reasoning and reflecting and now he can only formulate one question about morality. Is that good or bad? As if life could be summed up as doing evil or not doing it. Maybe he’s right. I don’t know.
They remained in silence for a while longer until Bernat, in a loud, clear voice, continued his reading with now I’ve finally reached the end. It has been several months of intense writing, of reviewing my life; I was able to reach the end, but I no longer have the strength to order it as the canons dictate. The doctor explained that my light will gradually fade out, at a speed they can’t predict because every case is different. We have decided, that as long as I’m still me, that what’s her name, uh … that she will work full-time because they say I need someone to keep an eye on me. And soon we’ll have to hire two more people to complete the cycle … You see how I’m spending the money from the sale of the shop? I decided that while I still have a shred of consciousness I don’t want to be separated from my books. When I’ve lost that, I’m afraid I won’t care about anything any more. Since you aren’t here to take care of me; since Little Lola left hastily many years ago now … I had to make the preparations myself. In the nursing home in Collserola, close to my beloved Barcelona, they will take care of my body when I’ve passed over to another world, which may or may not be one of shadows. They assure me that I won’t miss
my reading. It’s ironic that I spent my entire life trying to be aware of the steps I took; my entire life lugging around my many guilts, and the guilts of humanity, and in the end I will leave without knowing that I’m leaving. Farewell, Adrià. I’ll say it now, just in case. I look around me, the study where I’ve spent so many hours. ‘But one moment still, let us gaze together on these familiar shores, on these objects which doubtless we shall not see again … Let us try, if we can, to enter into death with open eyes …’ says Emperor Adrià before dying. Small soul. Supple, gentle, wandering soul, Sara, my body’s companion: you went first to the pale, frozen, naked places. Bugger. I pick up the telephone and stop writing. I dial my friend’s mobile number: it’s been months since I’ve spoken with him, locked up here, writing to you.
‘Hey! It’s Adrià. How are you? Oh, were you already sleeping? No: what time is it? What? Four in the mor …? Ohh, sorry! … Yikes … listen, I want to ask you for a favour and explain a couple of things to you. Yes. Yes. No, you can come over tomorrow: well, today. Yeah, it’s best if you come here. Any time that’s good for you, of course. I’m not going anywhere. Yeah, yeah. Thank you.’
I just explained the hic et nunc of what I’m living through. I had to write that last part in the present, which is very distressing. I am almost at the end of my text. Outside, the rosy fingers of dawn paint the still-dark sky. My hands are stiff with cold. I move the pages I’ve written, the inkwell and the writing implements and I look out the window. What cold, what loneliness. The brothers from Gerri will climb the path that I’ll glimpse when dawn wins the battle. I look at the Sacred Chest and I think that there’s nothing sadder than having to give up a monastery that has never stopped singing God’s praises. I can’t stop feeling guilty over this disaster, my beloved. Yes, I know. We all end up dying … But you, thanks to the generosity of my friend, who has been patient enough to be my friend all these years, you will continue living in these lines every time someone reads these pages. And one day, they tell me, my body will also decompose. Forgive me, but, like Orpheus, I was unable to go beyond. Resurrection is only for the gods. Confiteor, my beloved. L’shanah haba’ah b’Yerushalayim. Now is the following day.
