‘Do you know what this is?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You wrote it. You asked me not to publish it, but in the university they assured me that it was well worth it. Do you remember it?’
Silence. Adrià, uncomfortable. Bernat took his hand and felt his friend calming down. Then he explained to him that the edition had been done by Professor Parera.
‘I think she did a very good job. And she was advised by Johannes Kamenek, who, from what I’ve seen, is a real workhorse. And loves you very much.’
He stroked his hand and Adrià smiled. They remained like that for some time, in silence, as if they were sweethearts. Adrià’s eyes landed on the book’s cover, apathetically, and he yawned.
‘I gave each of your cousins in Tona a copy. They were very excited. Before New Year’s they’ll come visit.’
‘Very good. Who are they?’
‘Xevi, Rosa and one more whose name escapes me.’
‘Ah.’
‘Do you remember them?’
As he did every time Bernat asked him that question, Adrià clicked his tongue as if he were peeved or perhaps offended.
‘I don’t know,’ he admitted, uncomfortable.
‘Who am I?’ said Bernat for the third time that evening.
‘You.’
‘And what’s my name?’
‘You. That guy. Wilson. I’m tired.’
‘Well, come on, to bed, it’s quite late. I’ll leave your book on the bedside table.’
‘Fine.’
Bernat grabbed the chair to push it over to the bed. Adrià half-turned, somewhat frightened. Timidly: ‘Now I don’t know … if I’m supposed to sleep in the chair or in the bed. Or in the window.’
‘In the bed, come on. You’ll be more comfortable.’
‘No, no, no: I think it’s the window.’
‘Whatever you say, dear friend,’ said Bernat, pushing the chair over to the bed. And then he added: ‘Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.’
He was awoken by the intense cold entering through all the cracks in the window. It was still dark. He struck the flint until he managed to light the candle’s wick. He put on his habit and his travel cape on top of that and he went out into the narrow corridor. A hesitant light emerged from one of the cells, on the side overlooking the Santa Bàrbara knoll. With a shiver of cold and grief he headed towards the church. The taper that had illuminated the coffin where Friar Josep de Sant Bartomeu was resting had burned down. He put his candle in its place. The birds, feeling dawn near, began to chirp despite the cold. He fervidly prayed an Our Father, thinking of the salvation of the good father prior’s soul. The twinkling light of his candle provoked a strange effect on the paintings in the apse. Saint Peter, Saint Paul and … and … and the other apostles, and the Madonna and the severe Pantocrater seemed to be moving along the wall, in an unhurried, silent dance.
Chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and sparrows were singing the arrival of the new day as the monks had sung the praises of the Lord over centuries. Chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds and sparrows seemed joyous at the news of the death of the prior of Sant Pere del Burgal. Or perhaps they were singing the joy of knowing he was in paradise, because he had been a good man. Or perhaps God’s little birdies couldn’t care less and were singing because that was all they knew how to do. Where am I? Five months living in the fog and only once in a while does a little light come on, reminding me that you exist.
‘Friar Adrià,’ he heard behind him. He lifted his head. Brother Julià approached him, his candle flickering.
‘We will have to bury him immediately after Matins,’ he said.
‘Yes, of course. Have the men arrived from Escaló?’
‘Not yet.’
He got up and stood beside the other monk, looking at the altar. Where am I. He tucked his chilblained hands into the wide sleeves of his habit. They weren’t chaffinches, greenfinches, goldfinches, blackbirds nor sparrows, just two sad monks because that was the last day of monastic life at their monastery after so many centuries of continued existence. It had been several months since they’d sung; they just recited their prayers and left the singing to the birds and their oblivious joy. Closing his eyes, Friar Adrià murmured the words that, over centuries, had served to break the vast silence of the night: ‘Domine, labia mea aperies.’
‘Et proclamabo laudem tuam,’ responded Friar Julià in the same murmuring tone.
That Christmas night, the first one without Missa in Nocte, the two lay friars could only pray Matins. Deus, in adiutorium meum intende. It was the saddest chanting of Matins in all the centuries of monastic life at Sant Pere del Burgal. Domine, ad adiuvandum me festina.
~ ~ ~
The conversation with Tito Carbonell was unexpectedly relaxed. As they ordered, Tito admitted he was a coward, that it had been more than a year since he’d gone to the nursing home to visit Zio Adriano.
‘Give it a try.’
‘It’s too depressing. I don’t have your mettle.’ Picking up the menu and signalling the waiter: ‘By the way, I appreciate the time and effort you devote to him.’
‘I consider it my obligation as his friend.’
Tito Carbonell skilfully navigated the menu, ordered and ate his first course with few comments. And there was a somewhat uncomfortable silence when the plate was empty. Until Tito decided to break it: ‘And what, exactly, did you want?’
‘To talk about Vial.’
‘Vial? Zio Adriano’s violin?’
‘Yes. I went to Antwerp a few months ago, to visit Mr Bob Mortelmans.’
Tito received those words with a spirited laugh: ‘I thought you’d never bring it up!’ he said. ‘What could you possibly want to know from me?’
They waited for the waiter to place the second course in front of them; then, since Bernat remained in silence, Tito, looking him in the eyes, said: ‘Yes, yes, it was my idea; brilliant, yes. Since I know Zio Adriano, I knew that everything would be easier with Mr Mortelmans’s help.’ He pointed at him with his knife. ‘And I was right!’
Bernat ate in silence, looking at him without saying a word. Tito Carbonell continued: ‘Yes, yes, Mr Berenguer sold the Storioni to the highest bidder; yes, we made a bundle; do you like that codfish?; isn’t it the best you’ve ever had?; yes, it’s a shame to have such a fine violin locked up in a safe. Do you know who bought it from us?’
‘Who?’ He heard the question coming too much from his stomach, like a shriek.
‘Joshua Mack.’ Tito waited for some reaction from Bernat, who was making titanic efforts to control himself. ‘You see? It ended up going to a Jew.’ Laughing: ‘Justice, right?’
Bernat counted to ten to keep from doing anything rash. To take the sting out of his rage he said you disgust me. Tito Carbonell didn’t even bat an eyelash.
‘And I don’t care what Mack does with it. I confess that I did it all for the money.’
‘But I am going to report you to the police now,’ said Bernat, staring him in the eye, brimming with rage. ‘And don’t think I can be bought.’