‘No. I want to read.’
‘They should give you alphabet soup.’
‘Yes.’
‘Come on, eat a little.’
‘Little Lola.’
‘Wilson.’
‘Wilson.’
‘What, Adrià?’
‘Why am I so befuddled?’
‘What you need to do is eat and rest. You’ve worked enough.’
He gave him five spoonfuls of the semolina soup and was satisfied that Adrià had had enough lunch.
‘Now you can read.’ He looked at the floor, ‘Oh, we’ve made a real mess with the soup,’ he said. ‘And if you want to take a nap, let me know and I’ll put you into bed.’
Adrià, obedient, only read for a little while. He slowly read how Cornudella explained his reading of Carner. He read with his mouth open. But soon he was overcome by I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Little Lola, and he grew tired because Carner and Horace blurred together on the table. He took off his glasses and ran his palm over his fatigued eyes. He didn’t know if he should sleep in the chair or the bed or … I don’t think they’ve explained it well enough to me, he thought. Maybe it was the window?
‘Adrià.’
Bernat had come into cinquantaquattro and was looking at his friend.
‘Where should I sleep?’
‘Are you tired?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who am I?’
‘Little Lola.’
Bernat kissed him on the forehead and examined the room. Adrià was sitting in a comfortable chair beside the window.
‘Jònatan?’
‘Huh?’
‘Are you Jònatan?’
‘I’m Bernat.’
‘No: Wilson!’
‘Wilson is that lively bloke, the one from Ecuador?’
‘I don’t know. I think …’ He looked at Bernat, perplexed: ‘I’m all mixed up now,’ he confessed finally.
Outside it was an overcast, cold, windy day; but even if it’d been a sunny, gorgeous day it wouldn’t have mattered because the glass separated the two worlds too efficiently. Bernat went towards the bedside table and opened the drawer: he placed Black Eagle and Sheriff Carson inside it, so they could continue their useless but loyal watch, lying on the dirty rag where some dark and light checks and a large scar in the middle could still be made out; a rag that had been the source of much speculation by the doctors because during the first few days Mr Ardèvol wouldn’t let go of it, clutching it with both hands. A disgusting, dirty rag, yes, Doctor. How strange, no? What is this rag, eh, sweetie?
Adrià scratched with his fingernail at a small stain on the chair’s arm. Bernat turned when he heard the slight sound and said are you all right?
‘There’s no way to get rid of it.’ He scratched harder. ‘You see?’
Bernat came closer, put on his eyeglasses and examined the spot as if it were very interesting. Since he didn’t know what to do or what to say, he folded his glasses and said, don’t worry, it won’t spread. After fifteen minutes of silence, no one had interrupted them because life is made up of the sum of solitudes that lead us to
‘Very welclass="underline" look at me. Adrià, look at me, for God’s sake.’
Adrià stopped scratching and looked at him, a bit frightened; he gave him an apologetic smile, as if he’d been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
‘I just finished typing up your papers. I liked them very much. Very much. And the flipside of the pages, I plan on having them published. Your friend Kamenek says I should.’
He looked him in the eyes. Adrià, disorientated, kept scratching at the itchy stain on the arm of the chair.
‘You aren’t Wilson.’
‘Adrià. I’m talking to you about what you wrote.’
‘Forgive me.’
‘I don’t have anything to forgive you for.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘I really like what you wrote. I don’t know if it’s very good, but I really, really like it. You’ve no right, you son of a bitch.’
Adrià looked at his interlocutor, scratched at the stain, opened his mouth and closed it again. He lifted up his arms, perplexed: ‘Now what do I do?’
‘Listen to me. All my life. Sorry: all my ffucking life trying to write something decent, something that would affect and move the reader, and you, a total novice, the first day you put pen to paper you rub salt into the most sensitive wounds of the soul. At least, of my soul. You’ve no right, damn it.’
Adrià Ardèvol didn’t know whether to scratch at the stain or look at his interlocutor. He chose to look at the wall, worried: ‘I think you’re making some mistake. I haven’t done anything.’
‘You have no right.’
Two large tears began to roll down Adrià’s face. He couldn’t look at the other man. He wrung his hands.
‘What can I do?’ he implored.
Bernat, absorbed, didn’t respond. Then Adrià looked at him and begged, ‘Listen, sir.’
‘Don’t call me sir. I’m Bernat and I’m your friend.’
‘Bernat, listen.’
‘No: you listen. Because now I know what you think of me. I’m not complaining; you’ve revealed me and I deserve it; but I still have secrets you’ll never be able to even suspect.’
‘I’m very sorry.’
They grew quiet. And then Wilson came in and said everything OK, sweetie? And he lifted up Adrià’s chin to examine his face, as if he were a boy. He wiped away his tears with a tissue and gave him a little pill and a half-full glass that Adrià drank up eagerly, with an eagerness that Bernat had never seen in him before. Wilson said is everything OK, looking at Bernat, who made an expression that said fantastic, man, and Wilson glanced at the semolina all over the floor. With a paper napkin he picked up some of it, displeased, and left the room with the empty glass, whistling some strange music in six by eight time.
‘I’m so envious that …’
Ten minutes passed in silence.
‘Tomorrow I’ll bring the papers to Bauçà. All right? All the ones written in green ink. I’ve sent the ones in black ink to Johannes Kamenek and a colleague of yours at the university named Parera. Both sides. All right? Your memoir and your reflection. All right, Adrià?’
‘I have an itch here,’ said Adrià pointing to the wall. He looked at his friend. ‘How can I have an itch on the wall?’
‘I’ll keep you posted.’
‘My nose itches too. And I’m very tired. I can’t read because the ideas get mixed up in my head. I already don’t remember what you said.’
‘I admire you,’ said Bernat, looking him in the eyes.
‘I won’t do it again. I promise.’