Tito Carbonell chewed, attentive to his meal; he wiped his lips with a napkin, took a tiny sip of wine and smiled.
‘Me, buy you? You?’ He smacked his lips, irked. ‘I wouldn’t give you a red tuppence for your silence.’
‘And I wouldn’t accept it. I am doing this for the memory of my dear friend.’
‘I wouldn’t make too many speeches, if I were you, Mr Plensa.’
‘Does it bother you that I have principles?’
‘No, please. It’s very sweet. But you should know that I know what I need to know.’
Bernat looked him in the eye. Tito Carbonell smiled again and said I’ve moved some pieces as well.
‘Now you’ve lost me.’
‘Your editor has been working on your new book for about a month now.’
‘I’m afraid that’s none of your business.’
‘Oh, but it is! I’m in it and everything! With another name and as a supporting character, but I’m in it.’
‘How do you know that? …’
Tito Carbonell moved his face right up to Bernat’s, and said is it a novel or an autobiography? Because if Zio Adriano wrote it, it’s an autobiography; if you wrote it, it’s a novel. I understand that the changes you made were very slight … It’s a shame you changed the names … That’ll make it hard to know who is who. The only name you kept was Adrià’s. It’s strange. But since you had the cheek to appropriate the entire text, we have to conclude that it’s a novel. He clicked his tongue, as if he were worried. ‘And then it turns out that we are all pure fiction. Even me!’ He patted his body, shaking his head, ‘What can I say? It’s frustrating …’
He put the napkin down on the table, suddenly serious: ‘So don’t talk to me about principles.’
Bernat Plensa was left with a bite of suddenly dry cod in his mouth. He heard Tito say I kept half the profits of the sale of the violin. But you kept the whole book. Zio Adriano’s whole life.
Tito Carbonell pushed back his chair, carefully observing Bernat. He continued: ‘I know that the book you supposedly wrote is going to come out in a couple of months. Now you decide whether we set up a press conference or we just let it go.’
He opened his arms, inviting him to make up his mind. Since Bernat didn’t move, he went on: ‘Would you like dessert?’ He snapped his fingers at the waiter. ‘They do a fabulous flan here.’
~ ~ ~
When Bernat went into cinquantaquattro Wilson had just finished putting some brand-new tennis shoes on Adrià, who was sitting in the wheelchair.
‘Look how handsome he is,’ said the nurse.
‘Gorgeous. Thank you, Wilson. Hello, Adrià.’
Adrià didn’t recognise his name. It seemed that he was smiling. The room was the same as ever, although it had been a long time since he’d been there.
‘I brought you this,’ he said.
He gave him a fat book. Adrià took it in his hands, somewhat fearful. He looked at Bernat, not really knowing what to do with it.
‘I wrote it,’ he said to him. ‘It’s hot off the presses.’
‘Oh, how nice,’ said Adrià.
‘You can keep it. And forgive me, forgive me, forgive me.’
Adrià, seeing the stranger with his head bowed and almost crying, began to cry.
‘Is it my fault?’
‘No, not at all. I’m crying because … Just because.’
‘Sorry.’ He looked at him, concerned. ‘Come on, don’t cry, sir.’
Bernat pulled a CD case out of his pocket, took out the CD and put it in Adrià’s player. He took him by the hands and said listen to this, Adrià: it’s your violin. Prokofiev. His second concerto. Soon the lament that Joshua Mack extracted from Adrià’s Storioni could be heard. They were like that for twenty-six minutes. Holding hands, listening to the concert and the applause on the live recording.
‘This CD is for you. Tell Wilson it’s yours.’
‘Wilson!’
‘Not now, that’s OK. I’ll tell him myself.’
‘Booooy!’ insisted Adrià.
As if he were waiting for the moment, as if he were spying on them, Wilson stuck his nose into the room: ‘What is it? Are you all right?’
‘It’s just that … I brought him this CD and this book, too. All right?’
‘I’m sleepy.’
‘But I just got you dressed, my prince!’
‘I need to make a poo poo.’
‘Oh, you’re such a pill.’ To Bernat: ‘Do you mind? It’ll be five minutes.’
Bernat went out into the hallway with the book. He headed towards the terrace and flipped through the pages. A shadow came up beside him: ‘Nice, eh?’ Doctor Valls pointed to the book: ‘It’s yours, right?’
‘It just …’
‘Oy!’ the doctor interrupted. ‘I have no time to read.’ And as if it were a threat: ‘But I promise that I will read it one day.’ Joking: ‘I don’t know much about literature, but I will review it mercilessly.’
There’s no fear of that, thought Bernat as he watched the doctor head off. And his mobile buzzed. He went into a corner of the terrace because you weren’t allowed to use your mobile inside.
‘Hello.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At the hospital.’
‘Do you want me to come there?’
‘No, no, no,’ he said, a little too hastily. ‘I’ll be at your house at two.’
‘You really don’t want me to come?’
‘No, no, no … there’s no need, really.’
‘Bernat.’
‘What?’
‘I’m proud of you.’
‘Me … Why?’
‘I just finished the book. From what little I know, you’ve captured your dear friend perfectly…’
‘Weeelll … thanks, really.’ Recomposing himself: ‘I’ll be at your house at two.’
‘I won’t put on the rice until you get here.’
‘All right, Xènia: I have to go now.’
‘Give him a kiss from me.’
As he hung up, musing on the impossible figure of the Klein bottle, Wilson pushed Adrià out onto the terrace in his wheelchair. Adrià put up one hand for a visor, as if the sun was blinding. ‘Hello,’ said Bernat. To Wilson: ‘I’ll take him to the corner with the wisteria.’
Wilson shrugged his shoulders and Bernat dragged Adrià towards the corner with the wisteria. From there you could see a good stretch of the city of Barcelona and the sea in the background. Klein. He sat down and opened the book to its final pages. And he read: I lived through that long ago; and much time has slipped away since I wrote it. Now is different. Now is the following day.