Confessions (69 page)

‘I’ve come to return the violin.’

‘Ah, yes, come in. It’s about time, eh?’

The starched maid closed the door and disappeared. And her muffled voice said sir, they’ve come to return Vial. And, immediately, a patriarchal man with white hair came out, dressed in a burgundy and black plaid robe, tightly gripping a baseball bat, and he said are you the bastard Ardefol?

‘Well, yeah.’

‘And you’ve brought Vial?’

‘Here.’

‘Fèlix Ardefol, right?’ he said lifting the bat over his shoulders.

‘No. Fèlix was my father. I’m the bastard Adrià Ardefol.’

‘And what took you so long to bring it back to me?’ The bat, still threatening my skull.

‘It’s a very long story, sir, and right now … I’m tired and my beloved is in hospital, sleeping.’

The man with white hair and patriarchal bearing tossed the bat to the floor, where the maid picked it up, and he snatched the case from me. He opened it right there, on the floor, lifted the protective chamois cloths and pulled out the Storioni. Magnificent. Just then I regretted what I was doing because the man with the white hair and patriarchal bearing wasn’t worthy of that violin. I woke up covered in sweat and went back to the hospital to be by your side and I told you I’m doing what I can but I haven’t found the paper. No, don’t ask me to get it from Mr Berenguer because I don’t trust him and he would sully everything. Where were we?

A
lexandre Roig put the spoon in front of her mouth. For a few seconds, Gertrud didn’t open it; she just stared into his eyes. Come on, open up your little mouth, I said to her, so I wouldn’t have to tolerate that gaze. Finally, thank God, she opened up and I was able to get her to swallow the warm broth with a bit of pasta and thought that surely the best thing to do was pretend that I hadn’t heard what she’d said to Dora when she thought I wasn’t home and I said Gertrud, I love you, why won’t you speak to me, what’s wrong, they tell me you speak when I’m not here, why, it’s as if you had something against me. And Gertrud, in response, opened her mouth. Professor Roig gave her a couple more spoonfuls and looked into her eyes: ‘Gertrud. Tell me what’s wrong. Tell me what you’re thinking.’

After a few days, Alexandre Roig was already able to recognise that he wasn’t feeling sorry for that woman, he was afraid of her. I’m sorry that I don’t feel bad for you, but that’s how life is. I am in love, Gertrud, and I have the right to remake my life and I don’t want you to stand in the way, not by being pitiful
nor with threats. You were a vibrant woman, always wanting to impose your criteria, and now you are limited to opening your mouth for soup. And staying quiet. And speaking Estonian. And how will you read your Martials and your Livys? Doctor Dalmau – that imbecile – says that this regression is common. Until one day when Alexandre Roig, anxious, decided not to lower his guard; this isn’t regression: it’s cunning. She does it to make me suffer … She just wants to make me suffer! If she wants to hurt me, I won’t allow it. But she doesn’t want me to know what she’s up to. I don’t know how to neutralise her scheme. I don’t know how. I had found the perfect way, but she didn’t go along with it. The perfect way, but very risky, because I don’t know how I was able to get out of the car.

‘Weren’t you wearing your seatbelt?’

‘Yes. I guess so. I don’t know.’

‘It’s not broken or forced.’

‘Maybe. I don’t know: I was … The car hit such a bad bump that the door opened and I flew out.’

‘To save yourself?’

‘No, no. The bump sent me flying out. Once I was on the ground I saw the car sinking and I couldn’t see it any more and she was screaming Saaaaandreeeee.’

‘The drop was three metres.’

‘For me it was as if it had been swallowed up by the landscape. And I suppose I fainted.’

‘She called you Sandre?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Why do you only suppose you fainted?’

‘No … I’m confused. How is she?’

‘In a bad way.’

‘Will she pull through?’

Then the inspector said what he had been so fearing; he said I don’t know if you are a believer or not, but there’s been a miracle here; the Lord has listened to your prayers.

‘I’m not a believer.’

‘Your wife is not going to die. Although …’

‘My God.’

‘Yes.’

‘T
ell me exactly what you want, Mr Ardèvol.’

I had to spend a little while ordering unorderable ideas. The stillness of Pau Ullastres’s workshop helped to calm me down. And finally I said this violin was stolen during World War II. By a Nazi. I think it was seized in Auschwitz itself.

‘Whoa.’

‘Yes. And through circumstances that are irrelevant to the case, it has been in my family for years.’

‘And you want to return it,’ prompted the luthier.

‘No! Or yes, I don’t know. But I wanted to know whom it was seized from. Who was its previous owner. And then, well, we’ll see.’

‘If the previous owner ended up in Auschwitz …’

‘I know. But he must have some relative, right?’

Pau Ullastres picked up the violin and began to play fragments of a Bach partita, I can’t remember which. The third? And I felt dirty because it had been too long since I’d been by your side and when I finally was I took your hand and I said I am taking steps to return it, Sara, but so far I haven’t had much luck. I want to return it to its real owner, not some opportunist. And the luthier strongly recommended, Mr Ardèvol, that you are very careful and don’t do anything hasty. There are a lot of vultures hovering around stories like this one. Do you understand me, Sara?

‘G
ertrud.’

The woman looked at the ceiling; she didn’t even bother to shift her gaze. Alexandre waited for Dora to close the door to the flat and leave them alone before he spoke: ‘It was my fault,’ he said in a soft tone. ‘Forgive me … I guess I fell asleep … It was my fault.’

She looked at him as if coming from a far distance. She opened her mouth as if she were about to say something. After a few endless seconds, though, she just swallowed hard and shifted her gaze.

‘I didn’t do it on purpose, Gertrud. It was an accident …’

She looked at him and now he was the one who swallowed hard: this woman knows everything. A gaze had never cut
me to the quick like that. My God. She’s capable of saying something crazy to the first person who shows up because now she knows that I know that she knows. I am afraid I have no choice. I don’t want you to be an obstacle to this happiness I deserve.

M
y husband wants to kill me. No one understands me here. Warn my brother; Osvald Sikemäe; he is a teacher in Kunda; tell him to save me. Please, I am afraid.

‘No …’

‘Yes.’

‘Say it again,’ asked Dora.

Àgata glanced quickly at the notebook. She looked at the waiter who was heading off and repeated my husband wants to kill me. No one understands me here. Warn my brother; Osvald Sikemäe; he is a teacher in Kunda; tell him to save me. Please, I am afraid. And she added I am alone in the world, I am alone in the world. Someone who understands me, whom I can understand.

‘But what did you tell her? This is the first time, since I’ve been taking care of her, that she’s had a conversation. Up until now, she just talked to the walls, poor woman. What did you tell her?’

‘Ma’am … that must be the nerves over …’

‘My husband knows that I know that he wants to kill me. I am very afraid. I want to go back to the hospital. Here alone with him … everything frightens me … Don’t you believe me?’

‘Of course I believe you. But …’

‘You don’t believe me. He will kill me.’

‘Why would he want to kill you?’

‘I don’t know. We were fine until now. I don’t know. The accident …’ Àgata turned a page in the notebook and continued deciphering her bad, hasty handwriting … I think the accident … How come he didn’t … She lifted her head, devastated: ‘Poor woman, she went on, saying incoherent things.’

‘Do you believe her?’ Dora, sweating, distressed.

‘What do I know!?’

They looked at the third woman, the silent one. As if they had asked her the question, she spoke for the first time.

‘I believe her. Where is Kunda?’

‘On the northern coast. On the Gulf of Finland.’

‘And how is it that you know Estonian and you know …’ Dora, impressed.

‘Look …’

Which meant that I met Aadu Müür, yes, that oh so handsome young man, six foot two, kind smile … you can imagine. I met him eight years ago and I fell head over heels in love; I fell in love with Aadu Müür the watchmaker, and I went to live in Tallinn by his side and I would have gone to the ends of the earth, there where the contours of the mountains end and the horrific precipice begins, which leads you straight to hell, if you slip, for having thought, at any point, that the Earth was round. I would have gone there if Aadu had asked me to. And in Tallinn I worked in a hair salon and then I sold ice creams in a place where at night they allowed alcohol and the time came when I spoke Estonian so well that they didn’t know if my accent was because I was from Saaremaa Island or what, and when I told them I was Catalan, they couldn’t believe it. Because they say that the Estonians are cold like ice, but it’s a lie because with vodka in their bodies they turn warm and talkative. And Aadu disappeared one awful day and I’ve never heard from him again; well, yes, but it hurts me to remember it and I came back because I had nothing to do there, in the middle of the ice, without Aadu the watchmaker, selling ice creams to Estonians who were about to get drunk. I still hadn’t recovered from the shock and Helena called me and said let’s see if we get lucky, you know Estonian, right? And I, yes, why? And she, well, I have a friend who’s a nurse, Dora, and she has a problem that … She’s frightened and … it could be something really serious … And I’m still willing to sign up for anything that could help me forget about all six foot two of Aadu and that hesitant sweet soul that one fine day stopped being hesitant and sweet, and I said sure, I speak Estonian: where do we go, what needs to be done?

‘No, no … I mean … How do you know it so well? Because
it took me forever to figure out that she was speaking Estonian. It didn’t sound like anything I’d ever heard before, you know? Until she said something, can’t remember what and I, after saying Norwegian, Swedish, Danish, Finnish, Icelandic, I said Estonian and it seemed that her eyes gleamed a bit differently. That was my only clue, yeah. And I hit the nail on the head.’

‘The funny thing is that we don’t know if her husband is a serial killer or if she’s lost her marbles. If we are in danger or not, you know what I mean?’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever,’ – Helena’s second contribution to the conversation – ‘seen a woman so afraid. From now on we’d better be on our guard.’

‘We have to ask her more things.’

‘Do you want me to talk to her again?’

‘Yes.’

‘And what if the husband shows up … Hmm?’

Alexandre Roig, after having paid his beloved a brief but passionate visit, had come to a final decision. I’m sorry, Gertrud, but I have no choice: you are forcing me to it. Now it’s my turn to live. He climbed the metro stairs mechanically and said to himself tonight’s the night.

Meanwhile, Gertrud was saying more and more things in Estonian and Àgata, dressed as a nurse – she who fainted at the first sight of blood – with her heart in her throat, translated them for Dora, and she said I was watching him in the dark, I was watching his profile. Yes, because he had been strange, very strange, for several days and I don’t know what’s happening with him, and he went like this, tightening his jaw and poor Gertrud wanted to lift an arm to show what like this was, but she was realising she could only move her thoughts and then she said it seemed like he was showing me his soul, that he was loathing me just for existing. And he said that’s it, to hell with everything; yes, yes; that’s it, to hell with everything.

‘He said it in Estonian?’

‘What?’

‘Did he say it in Estonian?’

‘What do I know? … That was when I saw him struggling
with his seat belt and the car started flying and I said Saaaandreeee son of a biiiiiitcccch … And nothing more; nothing more … Until I woke up and he was there before me and he said it wasn’t my fault, Gertrud, it was an accident.’

‘Your husband doesn’t speak Estonian.’

‘No. But he understands it. Or yes, he does speak it.’

‘And couldn’t you speak in Catalan?’

‘What am I speaking now?’

Then they heard the sound of a key in the lock and the three women’s blood froze in their veins.

‘Put the thermometer in her mouth. No, rub her legs!’

‘How?’

‘Rubbing, for god’s sake. He shouldn’t be here.’

‘Oh, is there a guest?’ he said, hiding his surprise.

‘Good evening, Mr Roig.’

He looked at the two of them. The three of them. A quick, suspicious glance. He opened his mouth. He saw how the strange nurse was rubbing Gertrud’s right foot as if she were playing with modelling clay.

‘Uh … She came to help me.’

‘How is she?’ referring to Gertrud.

‘The same. No change.’ Referring to Àgata: ‘She is a colleague who …’

Professor Roig came all the way into the room, looked at Gertrud, gave her a kiss on the forehead, pinched her cheek and said I’ll be right back, dear, I forgot to buy noodles. And he went out, without giving the other women any explanation. When they were alone again, the two of them looked at each other. The three of them.

S
ara, last night I found your slip of paper with the name. Matthias Alpaerts, it says. And he lives in Antwerp. But do you know what? I don’t trust your source, not in the least. It is a source corrupted by Mr Berenguer and Tito’s resentment. Mr Berenguer is a thief who only wants revenge on my father, my mother and me. And he’s used you for his ends. Let me think it over. I have to know … I’m not sure; I promise you, I’m doing what I can, Sara.

I
know you want to kill me, Sandre, even though you call me dear and you buy me noodles. I know what you did because I dreamt it. They told me that I was in a coma for five days. For me, those five days were a crystal-clear, slow-motion vision of the accident: I was looking at you in the dark because you’d been very strange for several days, a bit elusive, nervous, always lost in thought. The first thing that a woman thinks when her husband is like that is that there’s another woman he’s thinking of; the ghost of the other woman. Yes, that’s the first thing you think; but I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t imagine you cheating on me. And the first day I said out loud help, I think my husband wants to kill me; help, I think he wants to kill me because he made a strange face in the car and he took off his seat belt and he said that’s it, and I Saandreeee, son of a biiiiiiitccccccccccch, and after a slow dream that repeated everything until, it seems, five days had passed. I no longer know what I’m saying. Yes, that’s the first time I dared to say out loud that I think you want to kill me, no one paid me any mind, as if they didn’t believe me. But then they looked at me, and this Dora told me what are you saying, I can’t understand you; when it was clear as day that I was saying I think my husband wants to kill me, now shamelessly, and panicking over another fear: that no one believed me or paid me any mind. It is like being buried alive. It’s terrible, Sandre, this. I look into your eyes and you don’t hold my gaze: what must you be planning? Why don’t you tell me what you say to the others that you won’t tell me? What do you want? For me to tell you to your face that I think you wanted to kill me, that I think you want to kill me? That I tell you, holding your gaze, that I believe you want to kill me, because I am in the way of your life and it’s easier to just get rid of me like snuffing out a candle than to have to explain? At this point, Sandre … I don’t think I need any explanations; but don’t blow out my flame: I don’t want to die. I am stock-still and buried in this shell and all I have left is a weak flame. Don’t take that from me. Go, divorce me, but don’t snuff out my flame.