Confessions

58

There are starting to be too many skeletons in this house, Adrià thought his father had grumbled. And he strolled through the Creation of the Universe without seeing the books’ spines. And at work, classes had lost their vitality because all his desire was limited to sitting before Sara’s self-portrait, in the study, contemplating your mystery, my beloved. Or, also in silence, before the Urgell in the dining room, as if wanting to witness the impossible flight of the sun on the Trespui side. And very occasionally he looked half-heartedly at the pile of papers and some days he picked them up, sighed and wrote a few lines or reread, sceptically, the work he’d done the day or the week before and found it painfully insignificant. The thing is he didn’t know what to do about it. Because even his hunger had abandoned him.

‘Adrià, listen.’

‘Yes.’

‘You haven’t eaten anything in two days.’

‘Don’t worry: I’m not hungry.’

‘Well, of course I worry.’

Caterina had just come into the study, taken Adrià by one arm and started to pull on him.

‘What are you doing?’ Adrià raising his voice, disconcerted.

‘I don’t care if you start bellowing. You’re coming to the kitchen with me, right now.’

‘Hey! Leave me be, woman!’ indignant, Adrià Ardèvol.

‘No. Sorry, but no.’ More indignant than him, and shouting louder: ‘Have you looked at yourself in the mirror?’

‘There’s no need.’

‘Come on, one foot in front of the other.’ Brusque, authoritative voice.

He was Haïm Epstein, and Little Lola was the Hauptsturmführer taking him to barracks number twenty-six against the orders of Sturmbannführer Barber because someone had invented a terribly fun rabbit hunting game. Hauptsturmführer Katharine forced him into the kitchen and, instead of half a dozen frightened Hungarian women, he found rice soup and noodles and a steak with a tomato cut in two. Hauptsturmführer Katharine made him sit at the little table and Haïm Ardèvol was hungry for the first time in many days and he started eating, head bowed, as if he feared the Hauptsturmführer’s recrimination.

‘Delicious,’ about the soup.

‘Would you like more?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

During dinner, Katharine, with the visor of her cap hiding her gaze, standing, with the staff threateningly tapping the leg of her shiny boot, watched to make sure the prisoner didn’t escape from the kitchen. She even got him to have a yogurt for dessert. When he finished the prisoner said thank you, Little Lola, then got up and left the kitchen.

‘Caterina.’

‘Caterina. Shouldn’t you be home by now?’

‘Yes. But I don’t want to show up tomorrow and find you stiff as a board in the corner.’

‘Oh, please. What an imagination.’

‘No, sir. Stiff as a board: deader than the Dead Sea.’

Adrià went back to the study because he thought that his problem was some pages he had written that he didn’t entirely believe in. Too many things for him to deal with on his own. And the days kept passing. The months, too, slow, endless. Until one day he heard a curt spitting onto the floor and he said what do you want, Carson?

‘Maybe this is enough already, don’t you think?’

‘There’s never enough when you feel …’

‘How do you feel?’

‘What do I know?’

‘How.’

‘Yes, go on.’

‘If you’ll allow me …’

‘Go ahead, come on, Black Eagle.’

‘The wind on the open plain will do your sickly spirit good.’

‘Yes. I thought about taking a trip, but I don’t know where to go or what to do.’

‘It would be enough to just accept the invitations to Oxford, Rennes, Tübingen and I don’t know where else.’

‘Konstanz.’

‘That was it.’

‘You’re right.’

‘The hunt will be fruitful if the noble warrior offers up his valiant chest to the new challenges of war and the hunt.’

‘I understand already, thank you. Thank you both.’

I listened to my advisers and I took some air along the plains of Europe in search of noble exploits. The anxiety over his writing returned shyly, hesitantly, perhaps thanks to the travel and the encouragement he got from those who asked when are you going to publish another book, Ardèvol?

And in the end, a pile of pages written on one side, that he wasn’t at all convinced about. I’ve lost all steam. I don’t know where evil is and I don’t know how to explain my agnostic perplexity. I lack the tools of the philosopher to continue the journey. I insist on searching for the place where evil resides and I know that it is not inside a person. Inside many people? Is evil the fruit of a perverse human will? Or not: does it come from the Devil, who inoculates those he wishes to with it, as poor weepy-eyed Matthias Alpaerts seemed to think? Evil is that the Devil doesn’t exist. And God, where is He? Abraham’s severe God, Jesus’s inexplicable God, cruel and loving Allah … Ask the victims of any perverse act. If God exists, his coldness in the face of evil’s consequences would be shocking. What do the theologians say? As poetic as they make it, in the end, deep down, they come up against its limits: absolute evil, relative evil, physical evil, moral evil, the evil of guilt, the evil of pain … My God. It would be laughable, if evil wasn’t accompanied by pain. And natural catastrophes, are they evil as well? Are they another evil? And the pain that they provoke, is that another pain?

‘How.’

‘What.’

‘You’ve lost me.’

‘Me too, Black Eagle,’ murmured Adrià, before the pile of manuscript pages in his neat but illegible handwriting. He got up and walked around the study, to loosen up his ideas. Do you know what was wrong with me, Sara? Instead of reasoning, I was shouting. Instead of thinking, I cried or laughed, and that’s not the way to do scholarship. And then I thought seven, two, eight, zero, six, five.

I opened my father’s safe, which I hadn’t visited in years. Seven, two, eight, zero, six, five. I was curious because I couldn’t remember what I had stored there. I found a couple of thick envelopes with various documents belonging to my parents that were almost certainly of no use to anyone: receipts from a thousand years ago, hastily written notes that had lost their urgency after fifty years. And some stock certificates and things like that, which I put to one side so the accountant could have a look at them and tell me what to do with them. And a sole, sad, blue folder, the manuscript in Aramaic that Father had written too many years ago. That message with delayed effects. If Father could now know that I had got rid of Vial, he would surely scream and give me a hard smack to the nape of the neck. In the same folder there was another, also solitary, amulet: the letter that Isaiah Berlin had sent me thanks to Bernat’s manoeuvrings. Thank you, Bernat, my friend, who will be reading these pages before the others — if all goes according to plan — and you’ll be able to cut out this final expansiveness.

And there was still something in one corner. A Kodak envelope. I opened it with curious fingers: inside were photos that I had taken of my Storioni the day I gave it back to Matthias Alpaerts. I didn’t even remember that, after I’d had the photos developed, I’d hidden them all in the safe. I was only thinking, and I still think it today, of the uncertainty over having done the stupidest thing in the world by allowing myself to be taken in by a story that was too dramatic to be fake. I went through the photos one by one: they were those kind that have the month and year they were taken stamped right on them. I went through them: its face, its back, its ribs, its lovely scroll, the f-holes; and the one that I took by getting right up to the f-hole: you could barely make out the Laurentius Storioni cremonensis me fecit inside. Oof. I looked at the next photo and my mouth dropped open: it was a photo you had taken of yourself in the mirror on your wardrobe. Like a kind of self-portrait, perhaps prior to drawing yourself. It was dated two years earlier than the others. Had you forgotten about it? Or maybe you’d started the roll and left it inside the camera, waiting to finish the reel before taking it to be developed? There were another couple of photos taken by you. Adrià’s vision blurred and he had to make an effort to calm himself down. It was him, working, with his head leaning towards the desk, writing. A photo taken in secret when we were no longer speaking to each other. You were irritated and angry with me, but you took my picture secretly. Now I realise what I hadn’t thought enough about: the fight hurt you more than it hurt me, because you started it. And what if the stroke was caused by having to suffer such pressure?

The third photo was a drawing on the easel in your studio. A drawing I’ve never seen and that Sara never mentioned to me. A drawing saved in a photo because you had probably torn it into a thousand pieces. Poor thing. I struggled to hold back my tears and I thought that the next day, if I could find the negatives, I would have an enlargement made. I looked at it under the table’s magnifying glass. They were six studies, in search of a face. Six drawings, increasingly more complete, in three-quarter views, of a baby’s face. I couldn’t say if they were drawings made with the baby in front of her or if they were an exercise in remembering Claudine’s face, what she could recall of it. Or if she’d had the cold bloodedness to draw her dead daughter. All this time that photograph had been in the safe beside the others. The photograph of your pain. Because once you had lived through the drama, you were still able to draw it; perhaps you didn’t know that it is impossible to resist. Look at Celan. Look at Primo Levi. Drawing, like writing, is reliving. And as if wanting to corroborate it with applause, the bloody telephone rang and I began to tremble, as if I were worse off than I already was. I forced myself, on the orders of Dalmau in fact, to undertake the gruelling task of lifting the receiver: ‘Hello.’

‘Hey, Adrià. It’s Max.’

‘Hi.’

‘How are you?’

‘Fine.’ Five seconds. ‘And you?’

‘Fine. Listen: do you want to come to a wine tasting in the Priorat?’

‘Wow …’

‘I’ve decided to write a book … One with a lot of photos, eh, not like yours.’

‘On what?’

‘On the tasting process …’

‘It must be difficult to put such fragile sensations into words.’

‘Poets do it.’

Now I will ask him what he knew about Claudine and Sara’s grief.

‘Max Voltes-Epstein, the poet of wine.’

‘Are you up for it?’

‘Listen. I wanted to ask you a question that …’ He ran a hand over his bald skull and was in time to stop himself. ‘Sure, why not: when is it?’

‘This weekend: at the Quim Soler Centre.’

‘Will you pick me up?’

‘Deal.’

Max hung up. I had no right to rummage around in the life of a good man like Max. And maybe he didn’t know anything about it. Because Sara’s secrets could have been secrets from everyone. What a shame: I would have been able to help you bear your pain. That seems a tad pretentious. Or bear a part of it. I would have liked to be your refuge and I wasn’t able to and I didn’t know enough about it. At best, I sheltered you from a few scattered showers but not a single storm.

I had asked Dalmau how fast the process is, how much of a rush we’re in, how urgent is it, you understand? and he pressed his lips together to help him think.

‘Every case is different.’

‘Obviously, I’m interested in my case.’

‘They’ll have to do some tests. What we have now are signs.’

‘Is it really irreversible?’

‘With today’s medicine, yes.’

‘Bugger.’

‘Yeah.’

They were silent. Doctor Dalmau looked at his friend, seated on the other side of his office desk, refusing to bury his head between his shoulders, thinking urgently, refusing to focus his eyes on the yellows of the Modigliani.

‘I’m still working. I read well.’

‘You yourself have admitted that you have inexplicable lapses. That you go blank. That …’

‘Yes, yes, yes … But that happens to everyone at my age.’

‘Sixty-two, today, isn’t that old. You’ve had a lot of warning signs. You haven’t even noticed many of them.’

‘Let’s say that this is the third warning.’ Silence. ‘Can you give me a date?’

‘I don’t know. There isn’t a date; it is a process that advances at its own pace, which is different in each individual. We will monitor you. But you have to …’ He stopped.

‘I have to what?’

‘To make arrangements.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Put your affairs … in order.’

‘You mean a will?’

‘Um … I don’t know how … You don’t have anyone, do you?’

‘Well, I do have friends.’

‘You don’t have anyone, Adrià. You have to leave everything in order.’

‘That’s brutal, man.’

‘Yes. And you’ll have to hire someone, so you spend the minimum amount of time alone.’

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.’

‘All right. But come every fifteen days.’

‘Deal,’ I said, imitating Max.

That was when I made the decision I had begun to ponder on that rainy night in Vallcarca. I took the three hundred pages where I had worn my fingers to the bone struggling to discuss evil, which I already knew was ineffable and mysterious like beliefs, and on the back side, like some sort of palimpsest, I started the letter that seems to be drawing to a close as I reach the hic et nunc. Despite Llorenç’s efforts, I didn’t use the computer, which lies, obedient, on one corner of my desk. These pages are the day-to-day record of something written chaotically, in many tears mixed with a little ink.

All these months I have been writing frenetically, in front of your self-portrait and the two landscapes you gave me: your subjective vision of my Arcadia and the small lobed apse of Sant Pere del Burgal. I have observed them obsessively and I know their every detail, every line and every shadow. And every one of the stories they’ve evoked in me. I have written steadily in front of this altar made up of your drawings, as if in a race between memory and oblivion, which will be my first death. I wrote without thinking, pouring onto the paper everything I could put into words, and trusting that, afterwards, someone with the soul of a palaeontologist, Bernat if he accepts the task, can decipher it in order to be able to give it to I don’t even know whom. Perhaps this is my testament. Very disorganised, but a testament.

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.

~ ~ ~

After 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.’

In 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.

~ ~ ~

Bernat 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.

~ ~ ~

The conversation with Tito Carbonell was unexpectedly relaxed. As they ordered, Tito admitted he was a coward, that it had been more than a year since he’d gone to the nursing home to visit Zio Adriano.

‘Give it a try.’

‘It’s too depressing. I don’t have your mettle.’ Picking up the menu and signalling the waiter: ‘By the way, I appreciate the time and effort you devote to him.’

‘I consider it my obligation as his friend.’

Tito Carbonell skilfully navigated the menu, ordered and ate his first course with few comments. And there was a somewhat uncomfortable silence when the plate was empty. Until Tito decided to break it: ‘And what, exactly, did you want?’

‘To talk about Vial.’

‘Vial? Zio Adriano’s violin?’

‘Yes. I went to Antwerp a few months ago, to visit Mr Bob Mortelmans.’

Tito received those words with a spirited laugh: ‘I thought you’d never bring it up!’ he said. ‘What could you possibly want to know from me?’

They waited for the waiter to place the second course in front of them; then, since Bernat remained in silence, Tito, looking him in the eyes, said: ‘Yes, yes, it was my idea; brilliant, yes. Since I know Zio Adriano, I knew that everything would be easier with Mr Mortelmans’s help.’ He pointed at him with his knife. ‘And I was right!’

Bernat ate in silence, looking at him without saying a word. Tito Carbonell continued: ‘Yes, yes, Mr Berenguer sold the Storioni to the highest bidder; yes, we made a bundle; do you like that codfish?; isn’t it the best you’ve ever had?; yes, it’s a shame to have such a fine violin locked up in a safe. Do you know who bought it from us?’

‘Who?’ He heard the question coming too much from his stomach, like a shriek.

‘Joshua Mack.’ Tito waited for some reaction from Bernat, who was making titanic efforts to control himself. ‘You see? It ended up going to a Jew.’ Laughing: ‘Justice, right?’

Bernat counted to ten to keep from doing anything rash. To take the sting out of his rage he said you disgust me. Tito Carbonell didn’t even bat an eyelash.

‘And I don’t care what Mack does with it. I confess that I did it all for the money.’

‘But I am going to report you to the police now,’ said Bernat, staring him in the eye, brimming with rage. ‘And don’t think I can be bought.’

Tito Carbonell chewed, attentive to his meal; he wiped his lips with a napkin, took a tiny sip of wine and smiled.

‘Me, buy you? You?’ He smacked his lips, irked. ‘I wouldn’t give you a red tuppence for your silence.’

‘And I wouldn’t accept it. I am doing this for the memory of my dear friend.’

‘I wouldn’t make too many speeches, if I were you, Mr Plensa.’

‘Does it bother you that I have principles?’

‘No, please. It’s very sweet. But you should know that I know what I need to know.’

Bernat looked him in the eye. Tito Carbonell smiled again and said I’ve moved some pieces as well.

‘Now you’ve lost me.’

‘Your editor has been working on your new book for about a month now.’

‘I’m afraid that’s none of your business.’

‘Oh, but it is! I’m in it and everything! With another name and as a supporting character, but I’m in it.’

‘How do you know that? …’

Tito Carbonell moved his face right up to Bernat’s, and said is it a novel or an autobiography? Because if Zio Adriano wrote it, it’s an autobiography; if you wrote it, it’s a novel. I understand that the changes you made were very slight … It’s a shame you changed the names … That’ll make it hard to know who is who. The only name you kept was Adrià’s. It’s strange. But since you had the cheek to appropriate the entire text, we have to conclude that it’s a novel. He clicked his tongue, as if he were worried. ‘And then it turns out that we are all pure fiction. Even me!’ He patted his body, shaking his head, ‘What can I say? It’s frustrating …’

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 talking 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.

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