Bernat didn’t even laugh. He stared at him in silence. He took him by the hand that was still sporadically battling the rebellious stain and he kissed it like you would a father or an uncle. He looked into his eyes. Adrià held his gaze for a few seconds.
‘You know who I am,’ Bernat declared, almost. ‘Right?’
Adrià stared at him. He nodded as he traced a faint smile.
‘Who am I?’ A hint of frightened hope in Bernat.
‘Yes, of course … Mr … whatshisname. Right?’
Bernat got up, serious.
‘No?’ said Adrià, worried. He looked at the other man, who was standing. ‘But I know it. What’s his name. That guy. I can’t quite come up with the name. I don’t know yours, but there is that other one, yeah. One named … right now I can’t remember, but I know it. I take very good care of myself. Very. My name is … now I don’t remember my name, but yes, it’s him.’
And after a heartrending pause: ‘Isn’t that right, sir?’
Something vibrated in Bernat’s pocket. He pulled out his mobile phone. An SMS: ‘Where are you hiding?’ He leaned over and kissed the sick man’s forehead.
‘Goodbye, Adrià.’
‘Take care. Come back whenever you’d like …’
‘My name is Bernat.’
‘Bernat.’
‘Yes, Bernat. And forgive me.’
Bernat went out into the hallway and headed off; he wiped away a runaway tear. He looked furtively from side to side and made a phone call.
‘Where in God’s name are you?’ Xènia’s voice, a bit upset.
‘Hey, no, sorry.’
‘Where are you?’
‘Nowhere. Work.’
‘I thought you didn’t have rehearsal.’
‘No; it’s just that some things came up.’
‘Come on, come over, I want to screw.’
‘It’ll take me about an hour.’
‘Are you still at the tax office?’
‘Yes. I have to go now, all right? Bye.’
He hung up before Xènia could ask for more explanations. A cleaning lady passed by him with a cart filled with supplies and gave him a severe look because he had a mobile in his hands. She reminded him of Trullols. A lot. The woman grumbled as she headed down the corridor.
Doctor Valls brought his hands together, in a prayer pose, and shook his head: ‘Today’s medicine can’t do anything more for him.’
‘But he’s wise! He’s intelligent. Gifted!’ He had a feeling of déjà vu, as if he were Quico Ardèvol from Tona. ‘He knows something like ten or fifteen languages!’
‘All that is in the past. And we’ve talked about it many times. If they cut off an athlete’s leg, he can’t break any more records. Do you understand that? Well, this is similar.’
‘He wrote five emblematic studies in the field of cultural history.’
‘We know … But the illness doesn’t give a fig about that. That’s just how it is, Mr Plensa.’
‘There’s no possible improvement?’
‘No.’
Doctor Valls checked his watch, not obviously, but making sure Bernat noticed. Still, he was slow to react.
‘Does anyone else come, to see him?’
‘The truth is that …’
‘He has some cousins in Tona.’
‘They come sometimes. It’s hard.’
‘There’s no one else who …’
‘Some colleagues from the university. A few others, but … he spends a lot of time alone.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘From what we know, that doesn’t worry him much.’
‘He can live on the memories.’
‘Not really. He doesn’t remember anything. He lives in the moment. And he forgets it very quickly.’
‘You mean that now he doesn’t remember that I came to see him?’
‘Not only doesn’t he remember that you came to see him, but I don’t think he really has any idea who you are.’
‘He doesn’t seem to be clear on it. If we took him to his house, maybe that would spark something for him.’
‘Mr Plensa: this disease consists of the formation of intraneuronal fibres …’
The doctor is quiet and thinks briefly.
‘How can I say this to you? …’ He thought for a few more seconds and added, ‘It’s the conversion of the neurons into coarse, knot-shaped fibres …’ He looked from side to side as if asking for help. ‘To give you an idea, it’s as if the brain were being invaded by cement, irreversibly. If you took Mr Ardèvol home he wouldn’t recognise it or remember anything. Your friend’s brain is permanently destroyed.’
‘So,’ insisted Bernat, ‘he doesn’t even know who I am.’
‘He’s polite about it because he’s a polite person. He is starting not to know who anyone is, and I think he doesn’t even know who he is.’
‘He still reads.’
‘Not for long. He’ll soon forget. He reads and he can’t remember the paragraph he’s read; and he has to reread it, do you understand? And he’s made no progress. Except for tiring himself out.’
‘So then he’s not suffering since he doesn’t remember anything?’
‘I can’t tell you that for sure. Apparently, he’s not. And soon, the deterioration will spread to his other vital functions.’
Bernat stood up with his eyes weepy; an era was ending forever. Forever. And he was dying a little bit with his friend’s slow death.
Trullols went into cinquantaquattro with the cleaning cart. She pushed Adrià’s wheelchair into one corner so he wasn’t in the way.
‘Hello, sweetie.’ Examining the floor of the room: ‘Where’s the disaster?’
‘Hello, Wilson.’
‘What a mess you’ve made!’
The woman started scrubbing the area laid waste by the semolina and said looks like we’re going to have to teach you not to be such a piglet, and Adrià looked at her, scared. With her cleaning cloth, Trullols approaches the chair where Adrià is observing her, about to pout over her scolding. Then she undoes the top button on his shirt and looks at his thin chain with the medallion, the way Daniela had forty years earlier.
‘It’s pretty.’
‘Yes. It’s mine.’
‘No: it’s mine.’
‘Ah.’ A bit disorientated, with no comeback at the ready.
‘You’ll give it back to me, won’t you?’
Adrià Ardèvol looked at the woman, unsure as to what to do. She glanced at the door and then, gently, picked up the chain and lifted it over Adrià’s head. She gazed at it for a quick second and then stuck it into the pocket of her smock.