Confessions (19 page)

My foot had calmed down, thankfully, because my French was awful that day and I could go back to the Commissioner’s difficult, muttered Spanish. I think Carson winked at me when he saw that I managed to control my foot.

‘Do you want me to continue, madam?’

‘Please.’

‘It seems that the father of one of these girls your husband prostituted took his revenge. Because before locking them up in the brothel, he tried them out personally. Do you understand me?’ With some emphasis: ‘He deflowered them.’

‘How.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s two.’

‘Yes: brothel and deflower.’

‘It’s awful and hard to believe. Put yourself in those girls’ skins. Or the father of those girls’. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Yes, I do, Commissioner.’

‘If you’d like, we can investigate and find the desperate father who disappeared after taking justice into his own hands. But any movements on our part will make your husband’s unwholesome life more public.’

Silence. My foot threatened to bouger encore une fois. Little sounds. The Commissioner was probably putting away the small cigar he’d been denied. Suddenly, Mother: ‘Do you know what, Commissioner?’

‘What?’

‘You’re completely right. I don’t believe a word. You are making this up. Now I need to know why.’

‘You see? You see? I warned you.’ Raising his voice: ‘Didn’t I? Eh?’

‘That’s no argument.’

‘If you aren’t afraid of the consequences, I can keep pulling on loose ends. But only your husband knows what we’ll find.’

‘Farewell, Commissioner. I have to admit it was a good try.’

Mother spoke like Old Shatterhand, a bit cocksure. I liked it. Carson and Black Eagle were so gobsmacked that Black Eagle, that evening, asked me if I would call him Winnetou. I refused. Mother had said farewell and they hadn’t even stood up yet! Since she had started cracking the whip in the shop she had got much better at setting a scene. Because Commissioner Plasencia could only stand up and mutter something incoherent. And I was left wondering whether what the Commissioner had said about Father, which I hadn’t entirely understood, was true or not.

‘How.’

‘Yes. Brothel and what was the other one?’

‘Depowder?’ suggested Carson.

‘I don’t know. Something like that.’

‘Well, let’s look up brothel. In the Espasa dictionary.’

‘Brothel: whorehouse, bawdyhouse, cathouse.’

‘Wow. We’ll have to look up whorehouse now. Here, in this volume.’

‘Whorehouse: brothel, bawdyhouse, house of ill repute.’

Silence. All three of them were still confused.

‘And bawdyhouse?’

‘Bawdyhouse: whorehouse, cathouse, brothel. That’s annoying. Place or house that serves as a den of iniquity.’

‘Now cathouse.’

‘Cathouse: whorehouse, brothel.’

‘Jeez!’

‘Hey, wait. House or place that lacks decorum and is filled with noise and confusion.’

So Father had cathouses, which are noisy public houses. And they had to kill him for that?

‘What if we look up depowder?’

‘How do you say depowder in Spanish?’

They were silent for a little while. Adrià was confused.

‘How.’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s all about sex, not noise.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’m sure. When a warrior reaches adulthood, the shaman explains the secrets of sex to him.’

‘When I reach adulthood, nobody’s going to explain any sex secrets to me.’

Slightly bitter silence. I heard someone spitting curtly.

‘What is it, Carson?’

‘I could you tell you a few things.’

‘So, come on, tell me.’

‘No. You aren’t the right age for some things.’

Sheriff Carson was right. I was never the right age for anything. I was either too young or I’m too old.

‘P
ut your hands in hot water. Take them out, take them out, don’t let them get too soft. Walk. Don’t get nervous. Relax. Walk. Take deep breaths. Stop. There. Very good. Think about the beginning. Imagine yourself entering the theatre and bowing to the audience. Very, very good. Now, bow. No, come on, not like that, please. You have to lean forwards, you have to submit to the audience. But, don’t really submit. The audience has to think you are submitting to them; but if you reach the summit, where I am, you’ll know that you are superior and that they should be kneeling before you. I said don’t get nervous. Dry your hands; do you want to catch a cold? Pick up the violin. Stroke it, dominate it, think how you are in charge, that you order it to do what you want. Think about the first bars. That’s it, without the bow, as if you were playing. Very good. Now you can do more scales.’

Master Manlleu, spent, left the dressing room and I was finally able to breathe. I was more relaxed doing scales, extracting the sound without gaffes, without shrillness, making the bow glide well, measuring the rosin, breathing. And then Adrià Ardèvol said never again, that this was torture, that he wasn’t made for going out onto that display case that was the stage and presenting his merchandise in case someone wanted to buy it with a smattering of applause. From the theatre came the sounds of a very well-played Chopin prelude, and he imagined the hand of a lovely girl stroking the piano keys and he couldn’t take it any more, he put the violin into the open case and went out and, through the curtain, he saw her; she was a girl, she was beyond lovely and he fell head over heels and urgently in love; at that moment he wanted to be the baby grand piano. When the sublime girl had finished and was taking an unbelievably cute bow, Adrià began
to applaud frantically and a very impatient hand landed on his shoulder.

‘What the hell are you doing here? You are about to go on stage!’

On the way to the dressing room, Master Manlleu cursed my lack of professionalism, which was that of a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy not terribly excited for his first recital, and look at how we’ve worked for this, your mother and I; and here you are with your head in the clouds. In such a way that he left me suitably nervous. I greeted Professor Marí, who was already waiting at the stage exit (You see? Now that’s a professional), and Professor Marí winked at me and said relax, you do it very well and it’ll be even better up there. And that I shouldn’t speed up in the introduction: that I was the boss and that she would follow me; don’t rush. Like in the last rehearsal. And then Adrià felt Master Manlleu’s breath on the back of his neck.

‘Breathe. Don’t look at the audience. Bow elegantly. Feet slightly apart. Look at the back of the theatre and begin even before Professor Marí is completely prepared. You are the one in charge.’

I had wanted to know who the girl who’d gone on before me was so I could say hi to her or give her a kiss, or hug her and smell her hair; but it seems that those who’d already finished exited on the other side, and I heard them say the young talent Adrià Ardèvol i Bosch with the collaboration of Professor Antònia Marí. So we had to go out on stage and I found that Bernat, who had sworn don’t worry, really, Adrià, relax, I won’t come, I swear, was in the front row, the big poof, and I thought I could see him trying to hide a mocking smile. He had even brought his parents, the little … And Mother, accompanied by two men I had never seen before. And Master Manlleu, who joined the group and whispered something into Mother’s ear. More than half of the theatre was filled with strangers. And I was overcome with an irrepressible need to piss. I told Professor Marí, into her ear, that I was going to go make a pee pee and she said, don’t worry, they won’t leave without hearing you.

Adrià Ardèvol didn’t head to the bathroom. He went to the dressing room, put the violin in its case and left it there. When he ran towards the exit he found himself before Bernat, who watched him, frightened, and said, where do you think you’re going? And he said home. And Bernat but you’re crazy. And Adrià said you have to help me. Say that they took me to the hospital or something like that, and he left the Casal del Metge and was greeted by the night-time traffic on the Via Laietana and he noticed he was sweating profusely and then he headed home. And it wasn’t until a long hour later that he found out that Bernat had been a good friend because he went back inside and told Mother that I didn’t feel well and that they had taken me to the hospital.

‘To what hospital, darling?’

‘What do I know? Ask the taxi driver.’

And, in the middle of the hallway, Master Manlleu gave contradictory orders, completely losing it because the strangers who were with him could barely stifle their laughter, and Bernat was the crucial obstacle that kept them from seeing me run down the Via Laietana, when they stepped out onto the street.

An hour later they were already home, because Little Lola, the big dummy, sneaked on me when she saw me arriving in a panic and had called the Casal del Metge – because grownups always help each other out – and Mother made me go into the study and had Master Manlleu come in too and closed the door. It was terrible. Mother said what were you thinking. I said I didn’t want to try it again. Mother: what were you thinking; Master Manlleu: lifting his arms and saying incredible, incredible. And me: no, I was fed up; that I wanted time to read; and Mother: no, you will study violin and when you are grown up you can decide; and me, well, I’ve already decided. And Mother: at thirteen you aren’t able to decide; and me, indignant: thirteen and a half!; and Master Manlleu lifting his arms and saying incredible, incredible; and Mother, what was I thinking for the second or third time, and adding that with the money I’m spending on these classes and you acting like a … and Master Manlleu who felt he was being alluded to,
pointed out that they weren’t actually expensive; and Mother: well, let me tell you, they are expensive, very expensive. And Master Manlleu, well, if they’re so expensive then you can work it out with your son; it’s not like he’s Oistrakh. And my mother replied angrily, don’t even start: you said that the boy had talent and that you would make a violinist out of him. Meanwhile I was calming down because they were hitting the ball back and forth between them and I didn’t even have to translate the conversation into my French. And Little Lola, the sneaky pettegola, stuck her head in saying there was a very urgent call from the Casal del Metge, and Mother, saying as she left no one move I’ll be right back, and Master Manlleu brought his face close to mine and said fucking coward, you had the sonata mastered, and I said I couldn’t care less, I don’t want to perform in public. And he: and what would Beethoven think about that? And I: Beethoven is dead and won’t know. And he: incredulous. And I: poof. And there was a very thick silence the colour of a dirty smudge.

‘What did you say?’

Both stock still, facing each other. Then Mother came back. Master Manlleu, his mouth hanging open, was still unable to react. Mother said that I was not allowed out except for going to school and violin class. Go to your room now and we’ll discuss whether or not you’ll have supper tonight. Go on. Master Manlleu still had his arm raised and his mouth open. Too slow for the rage Mother and I had inside of us.

I closed the door in an act of rebellion and Mother could complain if she wanted to. I opened the box of treasures where – except for Black Eagle and Carson, who roamed free – I kept my secrets. Now I remember there being a double trading card of a Maserati, some gorgeous glass marbles and my angel’s medallion when it wasn’t around my neck, which was my souvenir of my angel with her red smile saying ciao, Adriano. And Adrià imagined himself replying, ciao, angelo mio.

H
e arranged to meet him in the dusty rooms where the younger kids did their music theory classes, in the other
building. When he went into the dark hallway, the excessive dust on the floor and the stillness muffled the shouts of his classmates running after the ball. Down the hall, in the far classroom, there was a light on.

‘Look at him, the artist.’

Father Bartrina was an angular man, so tall and thin that his cassock was inevitably short on him and worn trousers peeked out at the bottom. Since he always had to lean over, it seemed that he was about to pounce on his interlocutor. Actually, he was kindly, and he had accepted that no student would ever be interested in music theory. But since he was the music teacher, he taught music theory and that was that. And the problem was maintaining a certain sense of authority because all of the students, without exception, even if they couldn’t hit a note or had no idea how to write fa, would never be left back because of music. So he shrugged at life and just kept on, with that immense scratched blackboard with four red staves on which he wrote the absurd difference between a black (which in chalk was coloured white) and a white (a circle the colour of the blackboard). And he just kept passing every student, year after year.

‘Hello.’

‘I’m told you play the violin.’

‘Yes.’

‘And that you refused to go on stage at the Casal del Metge.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

Adrian explained his theory about the perfection required of an interpreter.

‘Forget about perfection. You have trac.’

‘What?’

And Father Bartrina explained his theory about interpreters’ trac, which he had got from an English music magazine: it was French for stage fright. No. It wasn’t the same, I thought. But I had trouble getting him to understand that. It’s not that I’m afraid: it’s that I don’t want to strive for perfection. I don’t want to do a job that doesn’t allow for error or hesitation.

‘Error and hesitation are there, in the interpreter. But he
keeps them in the practice room. When he plays in front of an audience he has already overcome his hesitations. And that’s that.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘What?’

‘Pardon. I do not agree. I love music too much to make it a slave to a misplaced finger.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirteen and a half.’

‘You don’t talk like a boy.’

Was he scolding me? I scrutinised his gaze and didn’t find the answer.

‘How come you never take communion?’

‘I’m not baptised.’

‘My God.’

‘I’m not Catholic.’

‘What are you?’ Cautiously, as Adrià thought it over. ‘Protestant? Jewish?’

‘I’m not anything. We aren’t anything at home.’

‘We’ll have to talk about that.’

‘My parents were assured by the school that they wouldn’t speak to me about those matters.’

‘My God.’ And to himself: ‘I will have to investigate this.’

Then he began again with his accusatory tone: ‘I’ve been told you get A+s in every subject.’

‘Sure. There’s no merit in that,’ I said in my defence.

‘Why not?’

‘Because it’s easy. And I have a good memory.’

‘Do you?’

‘Yes. I remember everything.’

‘Can you play without a score?’

‘Of course. If I’ve read it once.’

‘Extraordinary.’

‘No. Because I don’t have perfect pitch. Plensa does.’

‘Who?’

‘Plensa in 4C. He plays the violin with me.’

‘Plensa? That blond boy, slightly tall?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘And he plays the violin?’

What could that man want. Why was he asking so many questions? What was he getting at? I nodded and thought that perhaps I was putting Bernat in a fix by revealing these secrets.

‘And I’ve been told that you know languages.’

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘Well … French … We study it in class.’

‘For the last year; but they say that you already speak it.’

‘It’s that …’ And now what do I tell him?

‘And German.’

‘Well, I …’

‘And English.’

He said it as if rubbing salt in a wound after having caught me in fragranti, and Adrià got defensive. He had to admit that yes, English too.

‘And that you taught yourself.’

‘No,’ I said with relief. ‘That’s a lie. I take lessons.’

‘Well, I was told that …’

‘No, it’s Italian.’ Contrite. ‘That I’m teaching myself.’

‘That’s incredible.’

‘No: it’s very simple. Romance vocabulary. If you know Catalan, Spanish and French, it’s a cinch, I mean it’s very easy.’

Father Bartrina looked at me askance, as if trying to gauge whether that lad was pulling his leg. Adrià, to get on his good side: ‘I’m sure my Italian pronunciation is bad.’

‘Oh, really?’

‘Yes. I never know where to put the tonic.’

After an incredibly long minute of silence: ‘What do you want to do when you grow up?’

‘I don’t know. Read. Study. I don’t know.’

Silence. Father Bartrina took a few steps towards the balcony. From the inner depths of his cassock he pulled out an immaculate white handkerchief and dried his lips, pensively. The traffic on Llúria Street was intense and, at points, overwhelming. Father Bartrina turned towards the boy, who was still standing in the middle of the room. Perhaps that was when he realised:

‘Sit, sit.’

I sat at a desk, not knowing what the man wanted. He approached me and sat at the desk beside mine. He looked me in the eye.

‘I play the piano.’

Silence. I had already figured that because in class he played the chords on the piano while we sol-faed drowsily. And that was also how he kept us from lowering our tone when we sang. It seemed he was having difficulties getting the words out. But he finally took the bull by the horns: ‘We could rehearse the
Kreutzer
for the end of the school year, for the graduation event. What do you think? At the Palau de la Música! Wouldn’t you enjoy playing in the Palau de la Música?’

I was silent. I imagined all the kids calling me a poof and me trying to be perfect up on stage. Utter hell.

‘It’s what you were supposed to play at the Casal del Metge. You must know it by heart, right?’

For the first time he sketched a smile, intent on inspiring me. Trying to convince me. So I would say yes. I was still silent, because I had come up with a great idea. It occurred to me that, as a musician, he could help me and I said Father Bartrina, do they call you a poof too?