After a laborious push and pull, it turned out that only one girl had: the one with the green ribbon in her hair. Adrià took a few deep breaths to calm himself down.
‘But, Prof, what does that mean, what Horace said?’
‘It’s talking about what’s said in Acts, in Peter’s second epistle and in Revelations.’
An even thicker silence. Until someone with more criteria said and what does it say in Acts and all that?
‘In Acts and all that it says that the Lord will come like a thief in the night.’
‘What lord?’
‘Has anyone here ever read the Bible, even once?’
Since he couldn’t tolerate another ominous silence, he said you know what? Let’s just drop it. Or no: on Friday bring me a phrase taken from a literary work that speaks on this topos.
‘What’s a topos, Prof?’
‘And between now and Friday you all have to read a poem. And go to the theatre. I will expect a full account.’
Then, before the disorientated faces of his students, he woke up, with wide eyes. And when he remembered that it wasn’t a dream but rather a memory of his last class, he felt like crying. Just then he realised that he had awoken from his nightmare because the telephone was ringing. Always the damn telephone.
A computer was turned on, atop the table in the study. He never would have thought it possible. The light from the screen made Llorenç and Adrià’s faces look pale, as they both observed it attentively.
‘Do you see?’
Llorenç moved the mouse and the cursor shifted on the screen.
‘Now you do it.’
And Adrià, sticking out the tip of his tongue, made the cursor move.
‘Are you left-handed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wait. I’ll get on your other side.’
‘Hey, wait, I don’t have enough pad. It’s really small.’
Llorenç kept his laughter to himself, but Adrià still perceived it.
‘Don’t mock me: it’s true; it’s too small.’
Once he had overcome that obstacle with some practice motions, Adrià Ardèvol was initiated into the mysteries of the creation of a text document, which was, more or less, an infinite, extraordinary, magical spool. And the telephone started ringing, but it went into one of Adrià’s ears and right out the other.
‘No, I can already see that …’
‘That what?’
‘That it must be very practical; but ugh, what a drag.’
‘And next you need to learn how to write an email.’
‘Oh, no. No, no … I have work to do.’
‘It’s super easy. And email is basic.’
‘I already know how to write letters and I have a letter box downstairs. I also have a telephone.’
‘My dad told me that you don’t want a mobile.’ Incredulous silence: ‘Is that true?’
The telephone grew tired of its useless shouting and was silent.
‘I don’t need one. I have a lovely telephone here at home.’
‘But you don’t even answer it when it rings!’
‘No,’ Adrià cut him off. ‘You are wasting your time. Show me how to write with this thing and … How old are you?’
‘Twenty.’ Pointing to the dialogue box: ‘Here it tells you how to save the text so you don’t lose what you’ve written.’
‘Now you’re scaring me … You see? You can’t lose paper.’
‘Yeah, you can lose paper. And it can burn.’
‘Do you know I remember when you were two days old, in the hospital?’
‘Yeah, really?’
‘Your father was wild with joy. He was unbearable.’
‘He still is.’
‘Well, I meant …’
‘You see?’ Llorenç pointed to the screen. ‘That’s how you save the document.’
‘I didn’t see how you did it.’
‘Like this, see?’
‘You’re going too fast.’
‘Look: grab the mouse.’
Adrià grabbed it fearfully, as if the little beast could bite him.
‘Get a good hold of it. Like this. Put the little arrow there where it says document.’
‘Why do you say he’s unbearable?’
‘Who?’
‘Your father.’
‘Pfff … It’s just that …’ Stopping his hand on the mouse. ‘No, no, to the left.’
‘It doesn’t want to go there.’
‘Drag it along the mouse pad.’
‘Damn, this is harder than it looks.’
‘This is nothing. A few minutes of practice. Now click.’
‘What do you mean click?’
‘Make a click on the mouse. Like this.’
‘Whoa! How did I do that? Oh, it disappeared!’
‘All right … let’s try again.’
‘Why is your father unbearable?’ Pause, moving the cursor with serious difficulties. ‘Do you hear me, Llorenç?’
‘Look, just things.’
‘He makes you study violin against your will.’
‘No, it’s not that …’
‘No?’
‘Well, that’s part of it.’
‘You don’t like the violin.’
‘I do like it.’
‘What year are you in?’
‘In the old plan it would be seventh.’
‘Wow.’
‘According to my Dad, I should be doing virtuosity.’
‘Everyone has their own pace.’
‘According to my Dad, I don’t put enough interest into it.’
‘And is he right?’
‘Pfff … No. He’d like me to … Should we get back to the lesson?’
‘What would Bernat like?’
‘Me to be a Perlman.’
‘And who are you?’
‘Llorenç Plensa. And I don’t think my Dad gets that.’
‘And your mother?’
‘She does.’
‘Your father is a very good man.’
‘I know. You two are very good friends.’
‘Despite that, he’s a good man.’
‘Well, yeah. But he’s a pain.’
‘What are you studying? Just violin?’
‘Oh, no! … I’m enrolled in architecture.’
‘That’s good, right?’
‘No.’
‘So why are you studying it?’
‘I didn’t say I’m studying architecture. I said I’m enrolled in it.’
‘And why aren’t you studying it?’
‘I’d like to be a teacher.’
‘That’s great, right?’
‘Oh, really? Tell that to my father.’
‘He doesn’t like the idea?’
‘It’s not enough for his son. He wants me to be the best violinist in the world, the best architect or the best whatever in the world. And that’s exhausting.’
Silence. Adrià was pressing hard on the mouse, which couldn’t complain. When he realised, he let it go. He had to breathe deeply to calm himself down: ‘And why don’t you tell him that you want to be a teacher?’
‘I already told him.’
‘And?’
‘A teacher? A teacher, you? My son, a teacher?’
‘What’s wrong? What do you have against teachers?’
‘Nothing: what do you think? But why can’t you be an engineer or an I don’t know what, eh?’
‘I want to teach reading and writing. And multiplying. It’s nice.’
‘I agree.’ Tecla, shooting her husband a defiant look.
‘I don’t.’ Bernat, serious, wiping his lips with a napkin. He places the napkin down on the table and, looking at the empty plate, says the life of a teacher is exhausting and filled with hardship. And they don’t make much. Shaking his head: ‘It’s not a good idea.’
‘But I like it.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Hey, it’s the boy who has to study it. Not you. You understand?’
‘Fine, fine … do what you want. You always do anyway …’
‘What do you mean, we always do anyway?’ Tecla, cross. ‘Huh?’