Confessions (77 page)

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.

I
n the room beside cinquantaquattro, some weak children’s voices sing a carol followed by kindly applause and a woman’s voice: ‘Happy Christmas, Papa.’ Silence. ‘Children, say happy Christmas to Granddad.’

And then the running started. Someone, perhaps Jònatan, emerged from cinquantaquattro frightened: ‘Wilson!’

‘Yes.’

‘Where is Mr Ardèvol?’

‘Where do you think? In cinquantaquattro.’

‘What I’m saying is that he’s not in there.’

‘For the love of God! Where else could he be?’

Wilson opened the door to the room, tense inside and saying sweetie, my prince. And there was no sweetie and no prince. Not in the bed, not in the chair, not by the wall that itches me. Wilson, Jònatan, Olga, Ramos, Maite, Doctor Valls, Doctor Roure, after fifteen minutes Doctor Dalmau, and Bernat Plensa and all the staff who weren’t on duty, looking on terraces, in the toilets of every room and in the staff toilets, in offices, in every room, in every wardrobe of every room, God, God, God, how can this be when the poor man can barely walk? Ónde estás? They even called Caterina Fargues to see if she had any idea. And then they widened the search to include the area around the home when the case had already been put in the hands of the police and they were already searching Collserola Park, behind a tree, beside a fountain, lost in the thick forest among the wild boars or, God forbid, at the bottom of one of the lakes, God help us. And Bernat thought teño medo dunha cousa que vive e que non se ve. Teño medo á desgracia traidora que ven, e que nunca se sabe ónde ven. Adrià, ónde estás. Because Bernat was the only one who could know the truth.

That day, after burying the father prior, they had definitively
abandoned the monastery and left it alone, for the woodland mice who, despite the monks, had already ruled there for centuries – owners without Benedictine habits – of the sacred spot. Like the bats who made their home in the small counter-apse of Saint Michael, above the counts’ tombs. But in a question of a few days the mountain’s wild animals would also begin to rule there and there was nothing they could do about it.

‘Friar Adrià.’

‘Yes.’

‘You don’t look well.’

He looked around him. They were alone in the church. The front door was open. Not long before, when the sun had already set, the men from Escaló had buried the prior. He looked at his open palms, in a gesture he quickly deemed too theatrical. He glanced at Friar Julià and said, in a soft voice, what am I doing here?

‘The same thing I am. Preparing to close up Burgal.’

‘No, no … I live … I don’t live here.’

‘I don’t understand you.’

‘What? How?’

‘Sit down, Brother Adrià. Unfortunately, we are in no hurry.’ He took him by the arm and forced him to sit on a bench. ‘Sit,’ he repeated, even though the other man was already sitting.

Outside, the rosy fingers of dawn painted the still-dark sky and the birds carried on with their racket. Even a rooster from Escaló joined in on the fun, from a distance.

‘Adrià, my prince! How could you manage to hide so well?’ In a whisper: ‘What if he’s been kidnapped?’

‘Don’t say such things.’

‘What do we have to do now?’

Friar Julià looked, puzzled, at the other monk. He remained in worried silence. Adrià insisted, saying eh?

‘Well … prepare the Sacred Chest, close up the monastery, put away the key and pray for God to forgive us.’ After an eternity: ‘And wait for the brothers from Santa Maria de Gerri to arrive.’ He observed him, perplexed: ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Flee.’

‘What did you say?’

‘That you must flee.’

‘Me?’

‘You. They are coming to kill you.’

‘Brother Adrià …’

‘Where am I?’

‘I’ll bring you a bit of water.’

Friar Julià disappeared through the door to the small cloister. Outside, birds and death; inside, death and the snuffed out candle. Friar Adrià gathered in devout prayer almost until the light took possession of the Earth, which was once again flat, with mysterious limits he could never reach.

‘Go through each and every one of his friends. And when I say each and every one, I mean each and every one!’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And don’t give up on the search operation. Widen the circle to include the entire mountain. And Tibidabo. And the amusement park too.’

‘This patient has reduced mobility.’

‘Doesn’t matter: search the entire mountain.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Then he shook his head as if awakening from a deep sleep, got up and went to a cell to collect the Sacred Chest and the key he’d used to close the door to the monastery during Vespers for thirty years. Thirty years as the doorkeeper brother of Burgal. He went through each of the empty cells, the refectory and the kitchen. He also went into the church and the tiny chapterhouse. And he felt that he was the sole person guilty of the extinction of the monastery of Sant Pere del Burgal. With his free hand he beat on his chest and said confiteor, Dominus. Confiteor: mea culpa. The first Christmas without Missa in Nocte and without the praying of Matins.

He collected the little box of pine cones and fir and maple seeds, the desperate gift of a disgraced woman striving to be forgiven for the lack of divine hope implicit in her abominable act of suicide. He contemplated the little box for a few moments, remembering the poor woman, the disgraced Wall-eyed Woman of Salt; murmured a brief prayer for her soul in
case salvation was possible for the desperate, and placed the little box in the deep pocket of his habit. He picked up the Sacred Chest and the key and went out into the narrow corridor. He was unable to resist the impulse to take a last stroll through the monastery, all alone. His footsteps echoed in the corridor beside the cells, the chapterhouse, the cloister … He finished his walk with a glance into the tiny refectory. One of the benches was touching the wall, chipping away at the dirty plaster. Out of habit, he moved the bench. A rebellious tear fell from his eye. He wiped it away and left the grounds. He closed the door to the monastery, inserted the key and made two turns that resonated in his soul. He put the key in the Sacred Chest and sat down to wait for the newcomers who were climbing wearily, despite having spent the night in Soler. My God, what am I doing here when …

Bernat thought it’s impossible, but I can’t think of any other explanation. Forgive me, Adrià. It’s my fault, I know, but I can’t give up the book. Confiteor. Mea culpa.

Before the shadows had shifted much, Friar Adrià got up, dusted off his habit and walked a few steps down the path, clinging to the Sacred Chest. Three monks were coming up. He turned, with tears in his heart, to say farewell to the monastery and he began his descent to save his brothers the final stretch of the steep slope. Many memories died with that gesture. Where am I? Farewell, landscapes. Farewell, ravines and farewell, glorious babbling waters. Farewell, cloistered brothers and centuries of chanting and prayers.

‘Brothers, may peace be with you on this day of the birth of Our Lord.’

‘May the Lord’s peace be with you as well.’

Three strangers. The tallest one pulled back his hood, revealing a noble forehead.

‘Who is the dead man?’

‘Josep de Sant Bartomeu. The father prior.’

‘Praise be the Lord. So you are Adrià Ardèvol.’

‘Well, I …’ He lowered his head: ‘Yes.’

‘You are dead.’

‘I’ve been dead for some time.’

‘No: now you will be dead.’

The dagger glimmered in the faint light before sinking into his soul. The flame of his candle went out and he neither saw nor lived anything more. Nothing more. He wasn’t even able to say where am I because he was no longer anywhere.

Matadepera, 2003–2011

I deemed this novel definitively unfinished on 27 January, 2011, the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz.
During the years in which the novel grew in my life, I asked many people for help and opinions.
There are so many of you, and I’ve been pestering you for so many years, that I’m terrified I’ll leave out someone’s name. So I would instead like to once again count on your generosity as I make a generic acknowledgement in which, I hope, each and every one of you will see yourselves included and reflected.
I am deeply grateful to you all.

Adrià Ardèvol i Bosch

Sara Voltes-Epstein

Bernat Plensa i Punsoda

Black Eagle

Valiant Arapaho Chief

Sheriff Carson

Of Rockland

Fèlix Ardèvol i Guiteres

Adrià Ardèvol’s father

Carme Bosch

Adrià Ardèvol’s mother

Adrià Bosch

Adrià Ardèvol’s grandfather

Vicenta Palau

Adrià Ardèvol’s grandmother

Little Lola (Dolors Carrió i Solegibert)

Carme Bosch’s trusted maid

Big Lola

Little Lola’s mother

Caterina

Angeleta

Seamstress to the Ardèvol i Bosch family

Cecília

Fèlix Ardèvol’s employee

Mr Berenguer

Fèlix Ardèvol’s employee

Signor Falegnami / Mr Zimmermann

Concierge at the Ufficio della Giustizia e della Pace

Doctor Prunés and Mrs Prunés

Visitors

Tecla

Bernat Plensa’s wife

Llorenç Plensa

Bernat Plensa’s son

Xènia

Journalist friend of Bernat Plensa

Mrs Trullols

Violin teacher to Adrià Ardèvol and Bernat Plensa

Master Joan Manlleu

Adrià Ardèvol’s violin teacher

Herr Casals, Herr Oliveres, Herr Romeu, Mr Prats, Signor Simone, Doctor Gombreny

Adrià Ardèvol’s language instructors

Father Anglada, Father Bartrina, Mr Badia, Brother Climent

Adrià Ardèvol’s teachers at the Jesuit School on Casp

Street

Esteban, Xevi, Quico, Rull, Pedro, Massana, Riera, Torres, Escaiola, Pujol, Borrell

Adrià Ardèvol’s classmates at the Jesuit School on Casp

Street

Mr Castells and Antònia Marí

Piano accompanists

Uncle Cinto, from Tona

Fèlix Ardèvol’s brother

Aunt Leo

Cinto Ardèvol’s wife

Rosa, Xevi and Quico

Adrià Ardèvol’s cousins

Eugen Coşeriu

Linguist, professor at the University of Tübingen

Johannes Kamenek

Professor at the University of Tübingen

Doctor Schott

Professor at the University of Tübingen

Kornelia Brendel

Adrià Ardèvol’s classmate at Tübingen

Sagrera

Lawyer

Calaf

Notary

Morral

Bookseller at the Sant Antoni Market

Caterina Fargues

Little Lola’s replacement

Gensana

Adrià Ardèvol’s classmate at the university

Laura Baylina

Professor at the University of Barcelona and Adrià

Ardèvol’s girlfriend

Eulàlia Parera, Todó, Dr. Bassas, Dr. Casals, Omedes

Professors at the University of Barcelona

Heribert Bauçà

Editor

Mireia Gràcia

Presenter of one of Bernat Plensa’s books

Saverio Somethingorother

Luthier in Rome

Daniela Amato

Carolina Amato’s daughter

Albert Carbonell

Daniela Amato’s husband

Tito Carbonell Amato

Daniela Amato and Albert Carbonell’s son

Jascha Heifetz

World famous violinist

Master Eduard Toldrà

Musical composer and director of the Barcelona

Symphony Orchestra

Rachel Epstein

Sara Voltes-Epstein’s mother

Pau Voltes

Sara and Max Voltes-Epstein’s father

Max Voltes-Epstein

Sara Voltes-Epstein’s brother

Giorgio

Max Voltes-Epstein’s friend

Franz-Paul Decker

Director of the Barcelona Symphony Orchestra and

National Orchestra of Catalonia (OBC)

Romain Gunzbourg

French horn in the OBC

Isaiah Berlin

Philosopher and historian of ideas

Aline de Gunzbourg

Isaiah Berlin’s wife

Pau Ullastres

Luthier in Barcelona

Doctor Dalmau

Doctor and Adrià Ardèvol’s friend

Doctor Valls

Doctor Real

Jònatan, Wilson and Dora

Nurses

Plàcida

Adrià Ardèvol’s maid

Eduard Badia

Director of the Artipèlag Gallery

Bob Mortelmans

Matthias Alpaerts’s roommate in the nursing home

Gertrud

Accident victim

Alexandre Roig

Gertrud’s husband

Helena and Àgata

Dora’s friends

Osvald Sikemäe

Gertrud’s brother

Aadu Müür

Àgata’s ex-boyfriend

Eugen Müss

Doctor at Bebenbeleke

Turu Mbulaka

Tribal chief

Elm Gonzaga

Detective

Josep Torras i Bages

Bishop of Vic

Félix Morlin, from Lieja

Fèlix Ardèvol’s classmate

Drago Gradnik, from Ljubljana

Fèlix Ardèvol’s classmate

Faluba, Pierre Blanc, Levinski and Daniele D’Angelo, S. J.

Fèlix Ardèvol’s professors at the Pontificia Università

Gregoriana

Carolina Amato

Saverio Amato

Carolina Amato’s father

Sandro

Carolina Amato’s uncle

Muñoz

Bishop of Vic

Father Ayats

Episcopal secretary

Commissioner Plasencia

Inspector Ocaña

Ramis

The best detective in the world

Felipe Acedo Colunga

Civil Governor

Abelardo

Client of Fèlix Ardèvol

Anselmo Taboada

Lieutenant Coronel

Wenceslao González Oliveros

Civil Governor

Nicolau Eimeric

Inquisitor General

Miquel de Susqueda

Secretary to the Inquisitor

Ramon de Nolla

Assassin for the Inquisitor

Julià de Sau

Monk at Sant Pere del Burgal

Josep de Sant Bartomeu

Father Prior of Sant Pere del Burgal

Wall-eyed Man of Salt

Wall-eyed Woman of Salt

Wife of the Wall-eyed Man of Salt

Friar Maur and Friar Mateu

Monks at the monastery of Santa Maria de Gerri

Josep Xarom, from Girona

Jewish doctor

Dolça Xarom

Josep Xarom’s daughter

Emanuel Meir, from Varna

Dolça Xarom’s descendant

The twins

Jachiam Mureda

Tonewood tracker

Mureda

The father of the Mureda family

Agno, Jenn, Max, Hermes, Josef, Theodor and Micurà. Ilse, Erica, Katharina, Matilde, Gretchen and Bettina

Jachiam Mureda’s siblings

Bulchanij Brocia

The fattest man in Moena

The Brocias of Moena

Enemies of the Muredas of Pardàc

Brother Gabriel

Monk at the abbey of La Grassa

Blond of Cazilhac

Jachiam Mureda’s assistant

Antonio Stradivari

Luthier

Omobono Stradivari

Son of Antonio Stradivari

Zosimo Bergonzi

Luthier, disciple of Antonio Stradivari

Lorenzo Storioni

Luthier, disciple of Zosimo Bergonzi

Maria Bergonzi

Zosimo Bergonzi’s daughter

Monsieur La Guitte

Instrument dealer

Jean-Marie Leclair, l’Aîné

Violinist and composer

Guillaume-François Vial

Jean-Marie Leclair’s nephew

Jewish goldsmith

Amani Alfalati

Azizzadeh Alfalati

Amani’s father

Azizzadeh’s wife

Alí Bahr

Merchant

Honourable Qadi

The twins

Rudolph Höss

SS-Obersturmbannführer (lieutenant colonel),

commander of Auschwitz

Hedwig Höss

Rudolph Höss’s wife

Aribert Voigt

SS-Sturmbannführer (commander), doctor

Konrad Budden

SS-Obersturmführer (lieutenant), doctor

Brother Robert

Novitiate at the abbey of Saint Benedict of Achel

Bruno Lübke

SS soldier

Mathäus

Rottenführer (section leader)

Uncle Haïm Epstein

Rachel Epstein’s uncle

Gavriloff

Deportee

Heinrich Himmler

Reichsführer

Elisaveta Meireva

Unit 615428

Hansch

Gefreiter (corporal)

Barabbas

Oberscharführer (sergeant)

Matthias Alpaerts, from Antwerp

Berta Alpaerts

Matthias Alpaerts’s wife

Netje de Boeck

Matthias Alpaerts’s mother-in-law with a chest cold

Amelia, Trude and Julia Alpaerts

Matthias Alpaerts’s daughters

Franz Grübbe, from Tübingen

SS-Obersturmführer (lieutenant) of the SS Division Reich

Lothar Grübbe

Franz Grübbe’s father

Anna Grübbe

Lothar Grübbe’s wife

Herta Landau, of Bebenhausen

Konrad Budden and Franz Grübbe’s cousin

Vlado Vladić

Serbian partisan

Danilo Janicek

Partisan

Timotheus Schaaf

Hauptsturmführer (captain) of the SS Division Reich

The twins