Confessions (75 page)

I began with these words: ‘It wasn’t until last night, walking along the wet streets of Vallcarca, that I finally comprehended that being born into my family had been an unforgivable mistake.’ And, now that it’s written, I understand that I had to begin at the beginning. In the beginning there was always the word. Which is why I’ve now returned to the beginning and reread: ‘Up until last night, walking along the wet streets of Vallcarca, I didn’t comprehend that being born into that family had been an unforgivable mistake.’ I lived through that long ago; and much time has slipped away since I wrote it. Now is different. Now is the following day.

A
fter much paperwork with notaries and lawyers, and three or four consultations with the cousins in Tona, who didn’t know how to thank him for everything he was doing for Adrià, Bernat went to see this Laura Baylina in Uppsala.

‘What a shame, poor Adrià.’

‘Yes.’

‘Forgive me, but I feel like I’m about to start crying.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘No. What is it Adrià sent you here for?’

As he blew on his scalding hot tea, Bernat explained the details of the will that concerned her.

An Urgell? The one in the dining room?

‘Oh, you know it?’

‘Yes. I was over at his house a few times.’

How many things you hid from us, Adrià. I had never really met her before today. How many things we friends hide from each other, thought Bernat.

Laura Baylina was pretty, blonde, short, nice, and she said she wanted to think over whether she would accept it or not. Bernat told her that it was a gift, there were no strings.

‘Taxes. I don’t know if I’ll be able to pay the taxes for accepting that painting. Or whatever you call this bequeathing thing. Here in Sweden I’d have to ask for a loan, inherit, pay the taxes and sell the painting to liquidate the loan.’

He left Baylina thinking over her decision, with the tea still steaming, and Bernat Plensa returned to Barcelona in time to ask for permission from management to miss two orchestra rehearsals for serious family matters, fearlessly enduring the manager’s disapproving looks and took the second plane in the last two months, this time to Brussels.

It was a nursing home for the elderly, in Antwerp. At reception, he smiled at a fat woman who was handling the telephone and a computer at the same time and waited for her to finish the call she was on. When the woman hung up, he exaggerated
his smile, said English or French, the receptionist answered English and he asked for Mr Matthias Alpaerts. The woman looked at him, intrigued. It was actually more like she was observing him. Or that’s how he felt: intently observed.

‘Who did you say you were looking for?’

‘Mr Matthias Alpaerts.’

The woman thought it over for a few moments. Then she checked the computer. She looked at it for some time. She answered the phone twice to transfer calls and continued consulting the computer. Until she said of course, Alpaerts! She hit another key, looked at the screen and looked at Bernat: ‘Mr Alpaerts died in 1997.’

‘Oh… I …’

He was about to leave, but he got a crazy idea: ‘Could I have a look at his file?’

‘You aren’t family, are you?’

‘No, madam.’

‘Can you tell me what brings you? …’

‘I wanted to buy a violin from him.’

‘Now I recognise you!’ she exclaimed, as if it had been bothering her.

‘Me?’

‘Second violin in the Antigone quartet.’

For a few seconds, Bernat Plensa dreamed of glory. He smiled, flattered.

‘What a good memory you have,’ he said finally.

‘I’m very good with faces,’ she responded. ‘Besides, such a tall man …’ Timidly: ‘But I don’t remember your name.’

‘Bernat Plensa.’

‘Bernat Plensa …’ She held out her hand to shake his. ‘Liliana Moor. I heard you in Ghent two months ago. Mendelssohn, Schubert, Shostakovich.’

‘Wow … I …’

‘I like to be in the front row, right by the musicians.’

‘Are you a musician?’

‘No. I’m just a music lover. Why do you want information about Mr Alpaerts?’

‘Because of the violin …’ He hesitated for a few seconds. ‘I
just wanted to see a photo of his face.’ He smiled. ‘Please … Liliana.’

Miss Moor thought it over for a few moments and in honour of the Antigone quartet she turned the computer screen so that Bernat could see it. Instead of a thin man with weepy eyes, bushy white hair and protruding ears – that electric presence he had seen for thirty silent seconds in Adrià’s study when he went to drop off the computer – on the flat screen before him he had a sad man, but who was bald and fat, with round eyes the colour of jet like one of his daughters, he couldn’t remember which. Fucking sneaky bastards.

The receptionist turned the screen back to its original position and Bernat began to sweat anxiously. Just in case, he repeated I wanted him to sell me his violin, you know?

‘Mr Alpaerts never had any violin.’

‘How many years was he here?’

‘Five or six.’ She looked at the screen and corrected herself: ‘Seven.’

‘Are you sure that the man in the photo was Matthias Alpaerts?’

‘Completely. I’ve been working here for twenty years.’ Satisfied: ‘I remember all the faces. The names, that’s another story.’

‘Did he have any relative who …’

‘Mr Alpaerts was alone.’

‘No, but did he have any distant relative who …’

‘Alone. They had killed his family in the war. They were Jews. Only he survived.’

‘Not a single relative?’

‘He was always telling his dramatic story, poor man. I think in the end he went mad. Always telling it, over and over, compelled by …’

‘By guilt.’

‘Yes. Always. To everyone. His story had become his reason for living. Living only to explain how he had two daughters …’

‘Three.’

‘Three? Well, three daughters named so-and-so, so-and-so and so-and-so and who …’

‘Amelietje with the jet-black hair, Truu with the tresses the colour of fine wood and Juliet, the littlest, blonde like the sun.’

‘Did you know him?’ Her eyes wide with surprise.

‘In a way. Are there many people who know that story?’

‘In this home, yes. The ones who are still alive, of course. We’re talking about a few years ago now.’

‘Of course.’

‘Bob did a very good imitation of him.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘He was Alpaerts’s roommate.’

‘Is he alive?’

‘Very alive. He keeps us on our toes.’ She lowered her voice, totally taken by that second violin of the Antigone Quartet, tall as a Maypole. ‘He organises secret domino matches between the residents.’

‘Could I …’

‘Yes. I’m going against all the rules …’

‘In the name of music.’

‘Exactly! In the name of music.’

I
n the waiting room there were five magazines in Dutch and one in French. And a cheap reproduction of a Vermeer; a woman beside a window who looked, shocked, towards Bernat, as if he were about to enter the room inside the painting.

The man arrived five minutes later. Thin, with weepy eyes and bushy white hair. From his expression, he hadn’t recognised Bernat.

‘English or French?’ smiled Bernat.

‘English.’

‘Good morning.’

Bernat had before him the man from that afternoon, the man who had convinced Adrià … I told you, Adrià, he thought. They saw you a mile away. Instead of going right over and throttling him, he smiled and said have you ever heard of a Storioni violin named Vial?

The man, who hadn’t sat down, headed towards the door. Bernat kept him from leaving the little room, standing between him and the door, covering the exit with his whole body.

‘You stole the violin from him.’

‘Do you mind telling me who you are?’

‘Police.’

He pulled out his ID card as a member of the Barcelona Symphony Orchestra and National Orchestra of Catalonia and added: ‘Interpol.’

‘My God,’ said the man. And he sat down, defeated. And he explained that he didn’t do it for the money.

‘How much did they give you for it?’

‘Fifty thousand francs.’

‘Hell’s bells.’

‘I didn’t do it for the money. And they were Belgian francs.’

‘Then why did you do it?’

‘Matthias Alpaerts drove me batty, every day during the five years we shared a room he would tell me about his bloody little daughters and his mother-in-law with a chest cold. Every day he would tell me, looking out the window, not even seeing me. Every single day. And he got sick. And then those men showed up.’

‘Who were they?’

‘I don’t know. From Barcelona. One was thin and the other was young. And they told me we’ve heard you do a very good impression of him.

‘I’m an actor. Retired, but an actor. And I play the accordion and the sax. And the piano a little.’

‘Let’s see how your impression is.’

They took him to a restaurant, they let him eat and try a white wine and a red. And he looked at them, puzzled, and asked them why don’t you just talk to Alpaerts?

‘He’s on his last legs. He won’t live long.’

‘What a relief it’ll be to not hear him talk about his coughing mother-in-law.’

‘Don’t you feel sorry for the poor man?’

‘Matthias has been saying he wants to die for sixty years. How can I feel sorry for him when he finally gets his wish?’

‘Come on, Bob: show us what you can do.’

And Bob Mortelmans started to say because imagine you are having lunch at home, with your Berta, your sick mother-in-law
and
the three lights of your life, Amelietje, the eldest, who was turning seven that day; Truu, the middle daughter, with hair the colour of mahogany, and Juliet, the littlest one, blonde like the sun. And out of nowhere, they bust down the front door and all these soldiers burst in shouting raus, raus and Amelietje, who said what does raus mean, Papa?, and I couldn’t stop them and I didn’t do a single thing to protect them.

‘Perfect. That’s enough.’

‘Hey, hey, hey! I can do more than …’

‘I said that’s perfect. Do you want to make some serious dough?

‘And since I said yes, they put me on a plane and in Barcelona we rehearsed a couple of times, with variations; but it was always the true story of Matthias the pain in the arse.’

‘And your friend, meanwhile, was lying in bed, dying.’

‘He wasn’t my friend. He was a broken record. When I got back to Antwerp he was already dead.’ And, rehearsing insouciance with the tall policeman: ‘As if he’d missed me, you know?’

Bernat was quiet. And Bob Mortelmans made a run for the door. Bernat, without getting up from his chair or moving a muscle, said try to run away and I’ll break your spine. Understood?

‘Yup. Perfectly.’

‘You’re scum. You stole the violin from him.’

‘But he didn’t even know that anyone had it …’

‘You’re scum. Selling out for a hundred thousand francs.’

‘I didn’t do it for the money. And they were fifty thousand. And Belgian.’

‘And you also robbed poor Adrià Ardèvol.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘The man in Barcelona you hoodwinked.’

‘I swear I didn’t do it for the money.’

Bernat looked at him, curious. He made a gesture with his head, as if inviting him to continue speaking. But the other man was silent.

‘Why did you do it then?’

‘It was … it was an opportunity … It was … the role of a lifetime. That’s why I said yes.’

‘You were also well paid.’

‘That’s true. But because I embellished it. And, besides, I had to improvise because that bloke struck up a conversation and so, after the monologue, I had to improvise the whole conversation.’

‘And?’

‘And I nailed it.’ Proud: ‘I was able to completely inhabit the character.’

Bernat thought now I’ll throttle him. And he looked around, to see if there were any witnesses. Meanwhile, Bob Mortelmans returned to his favourite role, fired up by the policeman’s admiring silence. Performing, overdoing it slightly: ‘Perhaps I survived until today and am able to tell you all this because I was a coward on Amelietje’s birthday. Or because that rainy Saturday, in the barracks, I stole a crumb of clearly mouldy bread from old Moshes who came from Vilnius. Or because I crept away when the Blockführer decided to teach us a lesson and let loose with the butt of his rifle, and the blow that was meant to wound me killed a little boy whose …’

‘That’s enough!’

Bernat got up and Bob Mortelmans thought he was about to thrash him. He shrank down in his chair, cowering, thoroughly prepared to answer more questions, to answer each and every one that Interpol agent wanted to ask him.

B
ernat said open your mouth and Adrià opened it as if he were Llorenç at a year old; he gave him a spoonful and said, yum, semolina soup, eh? Adrià stared at Bernat and said nothing.

‘What are you thinking?’

‘Me?’

‘You.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Who am I?’

‘That guy.’

‘Here, have another spoonful. Come on, open your mouth, it’s the last one. That’s it, very good.’

He uncovered the second course and said oh, how nice, boiled chicken. Do you like that?

Adrià placed his gaze on the wall, indifferent.

‘I love you, Adrià. And I’ll spare you the story of the violin.’

He looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze, or with the gaze that Adrià saw Sara giving him when she looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze. Or with the gaze that Bernat thought Sara gave Adrià when she looked at him with Gertrud’s gaze.

‘I love you,’ repeated Bernat. And he picked up a quite sad piece of pale chicken thigh and said ooh how nice, how nice. Come on, open up your mouth, Llorenç.

When they’d finished the supper, Jònatan came to take the tray and said do you want to lie down?

‘I can take care of that, if that’s all right.’

‘Fine: if you need help, just whistle.’

Once they were alone, Adrià scratched his head and sighed. He looked at the wall with an empty stare. Bernat shuffled through his briefcase and pulled out a book.

‘The Problem of Evil,’
he read from the cover. ‘Adrià Ardèvol.’

Adrià looked into his eyes and then at the book. He yawned.

‘Do you know what this is?’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. You wrote it. You asked me not to publish it, but in the
university
they assured me that it was well worth it. Do you remember it?’

Silence. Adrià, uncomfortable. Bernat took his hand and felt his friend calming down. Then he explained to him that the edition had been done by Professor Parera.

‘I think she did a very good job. And she was advised by Johannes Kamenek, who, from what I’ve seen, is a real workhorse. And loves you very much.’

He stroked his hand and Adrià smiled. They remained like that for some time, in silence, as if they were sweethearts. Adrià’s eyes landed on the book’s cover, apathetically, and he yawned.

‘I gave each of your cousins in Tona a copy. They were very excited. Before New Year’s they’ll come visit.’

‘Very good. Who are they?’

‘Xevi, Rosa and one more whose name escapes me.’

‘Ah.’

‘Do you remember them?’

As he did every time Bernat asked him that question, Adrià clicked his tongue as if he were peeved or perhaps offended.

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, uncomfortable.

‘Who am I?’ said Bernat for the third time that evening.

‘You.’

‘And what’s my name?’

‘You. That guy. Wilson. I’m tired.’

‘Well, come on, to bed, it’s quite late. I’ll leave your book on the bedside table.’

‘Fine.’

Bernat grabbed the chair to push it over to the bed. Adrià half-turned, somewhat frightened. Timidly: ‘Now I don’t know … if I’m supposed to sleep in the chair or in the bed. Or in the window.’

‘In the bed, come on. You’ll be more comfortable.’

‘No, no, no: I think it’s the window.’

‘Whatever you say, dear friend,’ said Bernat, pushing the chair over to the bed. And then he added: ‘Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.’

He was awoken by the intense cold entering through all
the cracks in the window. It was still dark. He struck the flint until he managed to light the candle’s wick. He put on his habit and his travel cape on top of that and he went out into the narrow corridor. A hesitant light emerged from one of the cells, on the side overlooking the Santa Bàrbara knoll. With a shiver of cold and grief he headed towards the church. The taper that had illuminated the coffin where Friar Josep de Sant Bartomeu was resting had burned down. He put his candle in its place. The birds, feeling dawn near, began to chirp despite the cold. He fervidly prayed an Our Father, thinking of the salvation of the good father prior’s soul. The twinkling light of his candle provoked a strange effect on the paintings in the apse. Saint Peter, Saint Paul and … and … and the other apostles, and the Madonna and the severe Pantocrater seemed to be moving along the wall, in an unhurried, silent dance.

Chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and sparrows were singing the arrival of the new day as the monks had sung the praises of the Lord over centuries. Chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and sparrows seemed joyous at the news of the death of the prior of Sant Pere del Burgal. Or perhaps they were singing the joy of knowing he was in paradise, because he had been a good man. Or perhaps God’s little birdies couldn’t care less and were singing because that was all they knew how to do. Where am I? Five months living in the fog and only once in a while does a little light come on, reminding me that you exist.

‘Friar Adrià,’ he heard behind him. He lifted his head. Brother Julià approached him, his candle flickering.

‘We will have to bury him immediately after Matins,’ he said.

‘Yes, of course. Have the men arrived from Escaló?’

‘Not yet.’

He got up and stood beside the other monk, looking at the altar. Where am I. He tucked his chilblained hands into the wide sleeves of his habit. They weren’t chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds nor sparrows, just two sad monks because that was the last day of monastic life at their
monastery after so many centuries of continued existence. It had been several months since they’d sung; they just recited their prayers and left the singing to the birds and their oblivious joy. Closing his eyes, Friar Adrià murmured the words that, over centuries, had served to break the vast silence of the night: ‘Domine, labia mea aperies.’

‘Et proclamabo laudem tuam,’ responded Friar Julià in the same murmuring tone.

That Christmas night, the first one without Missa in Nocte, the two lay friars could only pray Matins. Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. It was the saddest chanting of Matins in all the centuries of monastic life at Sant Pere del Burgal. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.