by Jaume Cabré
This long letter that I’ve written you has reached its end. Je n’ai fait celle-ci plus longue que parce que je n’ai pas eu le loisir de la faire plus courte. After so many intense days, I have reached my rest. The autumn enters. End of the inventory. Now it is the following day forever. I turned on the television and saw the weatherman’s sleepy face assuring me that in the next few hours there will be a sudden drop in temperature and sporadic showers. It made me think of Szymborska, who said that even though it’s mostly sunny, those who continue living are advised to have an umbrella. I, of course, won’t need one.
59
In the room beside cinquantaquattro, some weak children’s voices sing a carol followed by kindly applause and a woman’s voice: ‘Happy Christmas, Papa.’ Silence. ‘Children, say happy Christmas to Granddad.’
And then the running started. Someone, perhaps Jònatan, emerged from cinquantaquattro frightened: ‘Wilson!’
‘Yes.’
‘Where is Mr Ardèvol?’
‘Where do you think? In cinquantaquattro.’
‘What I’m saying is that he’s not in there.’
‘For the love of God! Where else could he be?’
Wilson opened the door to the room, tense inside and saying sweetie, my prince. And there was no sweetie and no prince. Not in the bed, not in the chair, not by the wall that itches me. Wilson, Jònatan, Olga, Ramos, Maite, Doctor Valls, Doctor Roure, after fifteen minutes Doctor Dalmau, and Bernat Plensa and all the staff who weren’t on duty, looking on terraces, in the toilets of every room and in the staff toilets, in offices, in every room, in every wardrobe of every room, God, God, God, how can this be when the poor man can barely walk? Ónde estás? They even called Caterina Fargues to see if she had any idea. And then they widened the search to include the area around the home when the case had already been put in the hands of the police and they were already searching Collserola Park, behind a tree, beside a fountain, lost in the thick forest among the wild boars or, God forbid, at the bottom of one of the lakes, God help us. And Bernat thought teño medo dunha cousa que vive e que non se ve. Teño medo á desgracia traidora que ven, e que nunca se sabe ónde ven. Adrià, ónde estás. Because Bernat was the only one who could know the truth.
That day, after burying the father prior, they had definitively abandoned the monastery and left it alone, for the woodland mice who, despite the monks, had already ruled there for centuries – owners without Benedictine habits – of the sacred spot. Like the bats who made their home in the small counter-apse of Saint Michael, above the counts’ tombs. But in a question of a few days the mountain’s wild animals would also begin to rule there and there was nothing they could do about it.
‘Friar Adrià.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t look well.’
He looked around him. They were alone in the church. The front door was open. Not long before, when the sun had already set, the men from Escaló had buried the prior. He looked at his open palms, in a gesture he quickly deemed too theatrical. He glanced at Friar Julià and said, in a soft voice, what am I doing here?
‘The same thing I am. Preparing to close up Burgal.’
‘No, no … I live … I don’t live here.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘What? How?’
‘Sit down, Brother Adrià. Unfortunately, we are in no hurry.’ He took him by the arm and forced him to sit on a bench. ‘Sit,’ he repeated, even though the other man was already sitting.
Outside, the rosy fingers of dawn painted the still-dark sky and the birds carried on with their racket. Even a rooster from Escaló joined in on the fun, from a distance.
‘Adrià, my prince! How could you manage to hide so well?’ In a whisper: ‘What if he’s been kidnapped?’
‘Don’t say such things.’
‘What do we have to do now?’
Friar Julià looked, puzzled, at the other monk. He remained in worried silence. Adrià insisted, saying eh?
‘Well … prepare the Sacred Chest, close up the monastery, put away the key and pray for God to forgive us.’ After an eternity: ‘And wait for the brothers from Santa Maria de Gerri to arrive.’ He observed him, perplexed: ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Flee.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That you must flee.’
‘Me?’
‘You. They are coming to kill you.’
‘Brother Adrià …’
‘Where am I?’
‘I’ll bring you a bit of water.’
Friar Julià disappeared through the door to the small cloister. Outside, birds and death; inside, death and the snuffed out candle. Friar Adrià gathered in devout prayer almost until the light took possession of the Earth, which was once again flat, with mysterious limits he could never reach.
‘Go through each and every one of his friends. And when I say each and every one, I mean each and every one!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And don’t give up on the search operation. Widen the circle to include the entire mountain. And Tibidabo. And the amusement park too.’
‘This patient has reduced mobility.’
‘Doesn’t matter: search the entire mountain.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Then he shook his head as if awakening from a deep sleep, got up and went to a cell to collect the Sacred Chest and the key he’d used to close the door to the monastery during Vespers for thirty years. Thirty years as the doorkeeper brother of Burgal. He went through each of the empty cells, the refectory and the kitchen. He also went into the church and the tiny chapterhouse. And he felt that he was the sole person guilty of the extinction of the monastery of Sant Pere del Burgal. With his free hand he beat on his chest and said confiteor, Dominus. Confiteor: mea culpa. The first Christmas without Missa in Nocte and without the praying of Matins.
He collected the little box of pine cones and fir and maple seeds, the desperate gift of a disgraced woman striving to be forgiven for the lack of divine hope implicit in her abominable act of suicide. He contemplated the little box for a few moments, remembering the poor woman, the disgraced Wall-eyed Woman of Salt; murmured a brief prayer for her soul in case salvation was possible for the desperate, and placed the little box in the deep pocket of his habit. He picked up the Sacred Chest and the key and went out into the narrow corridor. He was unable to resist the impulse to take a last stroll through the monastery, all alone. His footsteps echoed in the corridor beside the cells, the chapterhouse, the cloister … He finished his walk with a glance into the tiny refectory. One of the benches was touching the wall, chipping away at the dirty plaster. Out of habit, he moved the bench. A rebellious tear fell from his eye. He wiped it away and left the grounds. He closed the door to the monastery, inserted the key and made two turns that resonated in his soul. He put the key in the Sacred Chest and sat down to wait for the newcomers who were climbing wearily, despite having spent the night in Soler. My God, what am I doing here when …
Bernat thought it’s impossible, but I can’t think of any other explanation. Forgive me, Adrià. It’s my fault, I know, but I can’t give up the book. Confiteor. Mea culpa.
Before the shadows had shifted much, Friar Adrià got up, dusted off his habit and walked a few steps down the path, clinging to the Sacred Chest. Three monks were coming up. He turned, with tears in his heart, to say farewell to the monastery and he began his descent to save his brothers the final stretch of the steep slope. Many memories died with that gesture. Where am I? Farewell, landscapes. Farewell, ravines and farewell, glorious babbling waters. Farewell, cloistered brothers and centuries of chanting and prayers.
‘Brothers, may peace be with you on this day of the birth of Our Lord.’
‘May the Lord’s peace be with you as well.’
Three strangers. The tallest one pulled back his hood, revealing a noble forehead.
‘Who is the dead man?’
‘Josep de Sant Bartomeu. The father prior.’
‘Praise be the Lord. So you are Adrià Ardèvol.’
‘Well, I …’ He lowered his head: ‘Yes.’
‘You are dead.’
‘I’ve been dead for some time.’
‘No: now you will be dead.’
The dagger glimmered in the faint light before sinking into his soul. The flame of his candle went out and he neither saw nor lived anything more. Nothing more. He wasn’t even able to say where am I because he was no longer anywhere.
Matadepera, 2003–2011
I deemed this novel definitively unfinished on 27 January, 2011, the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz.
During the years in which the novel grew in my life, I asked many people for help and opinions.
There are so many of you, and I’ve been pestering you for so many years, that I’m terrified I’ll leave out someone’s name. So I would instead like to once again count on your generosity as I make a generic acknowledgement in which, I hope, each and every one of you will see yourselves included and reflected.
I am deeply grateful to you all.
Dramatis Personae
Adrià Ardèvol i Bosch
Sara Voltes-Epstein
Bernat Plensa i Punsoda
Black Eagle
Valiant Arapaho Chief
Sheriff Carson
Of Rockland
Fèlix Ardèvol i Guiteres
Adrià Ardèvol’s father
Carme Bosch
Adrià Ardèvol’s mother
Adrià Bosch
Adrià Ardèvol’s grandfather
Vicenta Palau
Adrià Ardèvol’s grandmother
Little Lola (Dolors Carrió i Solegibert)
Carme Bosch’s trusted maid
Big Lola
Little Lola’s mother
Caterina
Angeleta
Seamstress to the Ardèvol i Bosch family
Cecília
Fèlix Ardèvol’s employee
Mr Berenguer
Fèlix Ardèvol’s employee
Signor Falegnami / Mr Zimmermann
Concierge at the Ufficio della Giustizia e della Pace
Doctor Prunés and Mrs Prunés
Visitors
Tecla
Bernat Plensa’s wife
Llorenç Plensa
Bernat Plensa’s son
Xènia
Journalist friend of Bernat Plensa
Mrs Trullols
Violin teacher to Adrià Ardèvol and Bernat Plensa
Master Joan Manlleu
Adrià Ardèvol’s violin teacher
Herr Casals, Herr Oliveres, Herr Romeu, Mr Prats, Signor Simone, Doctor Gombreny
Adrià Ardèvol’s language instructors
Father Anglada, Father Bartrina, Mr Badia, Brother Climent
Adrià Ardèvol’s teachers at the Jesuit School on Casp
Street
Esteban, Xevi, Quico, Rull, Pedro, Massana, Riera, Torres, Escaiola, Pujol, Borrell
Adrià Ardèvol’s classmates at the Jesuit School on Casp
Street
Mr Castells and Antònia Marí
Piano accompanists
Uncle Cinto, from Tona
Fèlix Ardèvol’s brother
Aunt Leo
Cinto Ardèvol’s wife
Rosa, Xevi and Quico
Adrià Ardèvol’s cousins
Eugen Coşeriu
Linguist, professor at the University of Tübingen
Johannes Kamenek
Professor at the University of Tübingen
Doctor Schott
Professor at the University of Tübingen
Kornelia Brendel
Adrià Ardèvol’s classmate at Tübingen
Sagrera
Lawyer
Calaf
Notary
Morral
Bookseller at the Sant Antoni Market
Caterina Fargues
Little Lola’s replacement
Gensana
Adrià Ardèvol’s classmate at the university
Laura Baylina
Professor at the University of Barcelona and Adrià
Ardèvol’s girlfriend
Eulàlia Parera, Todó, Dr. Bassas, Dr. Casals, Omedes
Professors at the University of Barcelona
Heribert Bauçà
Editor
Mireia Gràcia
Presenter of one of Bernat Plensa’s books
Saverio Somethingorother
Luthier in Rome
Daniela Amato
Carolina Amato’s daughter
Albert Carbonell
Daniela Amato’s husband
Tito Carbonell Amato
Daniela Amato and Albert Carbonell’s son
Jascha Heifetz
World famous violinist
Master Eduard Toldrà
Musical composer and director of the Barcelona
Symphony Orchestra
Rachel Epstein
Sara Voltes-Epstein’s mother
Pau Voltes
Sara and Max Voltes-Epstein’s father
Max Voltes-Epstein
Sara Voltes-Epstein’s brother
Giorgio
Max Voltes-Epstein’s friend
Franz-Paul Decker
Director of the Barcelona Symphony Orchestra and
National Orchestra of Catalonia (OBC)
Romain Gunzbourg
French horn in the OBC
Isaiah Berlin
Philosopher and historian of ideas
Aline de Gunzbourg
Isaiah Berlin’s wife
Pau Ullastres
Luthier in Barcelona
Doctor Dalmau
Doctor and Adrià Ardèvol’s friend
Doctor Valls
Doctor Real
Jònatan, Wilson and Dora
Nurses
Plàcida
Adrià Ardèvol’s maid
Eduard Badia
Director of the Artipèlag Gallery
Bob Mortelmans
Matthias Alpaerts’s roommate in the nursing home
Gertrud
Accident victim
Alexandre Roig
Gertrud’s husband
Helena and Àgata
Dora’s friends
Osvald Sikemäe
Gertrud’s brother
Aadu Müür
Àgata’s ex-boyfriend
Eugen Müss
Doctor at Bebenbeleke
Turu Mbulaka
Tribal chief
Elm Gonzaga
Detective
VIC AND ROME 1914–1918
Josep Torras i Bages
Bishop of Vic
Félix Morlin, from Lieja
Fèlix Ardèvol’s classmate
Drago Gradnik, from Ljubljana
Fèlix Ardèvol’s classmate
Faluba, Pierre Blanc, Levinski and Daniele D’Angelo, S. J.
Fèlix Ardèvol’s professors at the Pontificia Università
Gregoriana
Carolina Amato
Saverio Amato
Carolina Amato’s father
Sandro
Carolina Amato’s uncle
Muñoz
Bishop of Vic
Father Ayats
Episcopal secretary
BARCELONA, ’40s AND ’50s
Commissioner Plasencia
Inspector Ocaña
Ramis
The best detective in the world
Felipe Acedo Colunga
Civil Governor
Abelardo
Client of Fèlix Ardèvol
Anselmo Taboada
Lieutenant Coronel
Wenceslao González Oliveros
Civil Governor
GIRONA, SANTA MARIA DE GERRI, SANT PERE DEL BURGAL (14th AND 15th CENTURIES)
Nicolau Eimeric
Inquisitor General
Miquel de Susqueda
Secretary to the Inquisitor
Assassin for the Inquisitor
Julià de Sau
Monk at Sant Pere del Burgal
Josep de Sant Bartomeu
Father Prior of Sant Pere del Burgal
Wall-eyed Man of Salt
Wall-eyed Woman of Salt
Wife of the Wall-eyed Man of Salt
Friar Maur and Friar Mateu
Monks at the monastery of Santa Maria de Gerri
Josep Xarom, from Girona
Jewish doctor
Dolça Xarom
Josep Xarom’s daughter
Emanuel Meir, from Varna
Dolça Xarom’s descendant
The twins
PARDÀC, CREMONA, PARIS (17th AND 18th CENTURIES)
Jachiam Mureda
Tonewood tracker
Mureda
The father of the Mureda family
Agno, Jenn, Max, Hermes, Josef, Theodor and Micurà. Ilse, Erica, Katharina, Matilde, Gretchen and Bettina
Jachiam Mureda’s siblings
Bulchanij Brocia
The fattest man in Moena
The Brocias of Moena
Enemies of the Muredas of Pardàc
Brother Gabriel
Monk at the abbey of La Grassa
Blond of Cazilhac
Jachiam Mureda’s assistant
Antonio Stradivari
Luthier
Omobono Stradivari
Son of Antonio Stradivari
Zosimo Bergonzi
Luthier, disciple of Antonio Stradivari
Lorenzo Storioni
Luthier, disciple of Zosimo Bergonzi
Maria Bergonzi
Zosimo Bergonzi’s daughter
Monsieur La Guitte
Instrument dealer
Jean-Marie Leclair, l’Aîné
Violinist and composer
Guillaume-François Vial
Jean-Marie Leclair’s nephew
Jewish goldsmith
AL-HISW
Amani Alfalati
Azizzadeh Alfalati
Amani’s father
Azizzadeh’s wife
Alí Bahr
Merchant
Honourable Qadi
