That day, after burying the father prior, they had definitively abandoned the monastery and left it alone, for the woodland mice who, despite the monks, had already ruled there for centuries — owners without Benedictine habits — of the sacred spot. Like the bats who made their home in the small counter-apse of Saint Michael, above the counts’ tombs. But in a question of a few days the mountain’s wild animals would also begin to rule there and there was nothing they could do about it.
‘Friar Adrià.’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t look well.’
He looked around him. They were alone in the church. The front door was open. Not long before, when the sun had already set, the men from Escaló had buried the prior. He looked at his open palms, in a gesture he quickly deemed too theatrical. He glanced at Friar Julià and said, in a soft voice, what am I doing here?
‘The same thing I am. Preparing to close up Burgal.’
‘No, no … I live … I don’t live here.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘What? How?’
‘Sit down, Brother Adrià. Unfortunately, we are in no hurry.’ He took him by the arm and forced him to sit on a bench. ‘Sit,’ he repeated, even though the other man was already sitting.
Outside, the rosy fingers of dawn painted the still-dark sky and the birds carried on with their racket. Even a rooster from Escaló joined in on the fun, from a distance.
‘Adrià, my prince! How could you manage to hide so well?’ In a whisper: ‘What if he’s been kidnapped?’
‘Don’t say such things.’
‘What do we have to do now?’
Friar Julià looked, puzzled, at the other monk. He remained in worried silence. Adrià insisted, saying eh?
‘Well … prepare the Sacred Chest, close up the monastery, put away the key and pray for God to forgive us.’ After an eternity: ‘And wait for the brothers from Santa Maria de Gerri to arrive.’ He observed him, perplexed: ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Flee.’
‘What did you say?’
‘That you must flee.’
‘Me?’
‘You. They are coming to kill you.’
‘Brother Adrià …’
‘Where am I?’
‘I’ll bring you a bit of water.’
Friar Julià disappeared through the door to the small cloister. Outside, birds and death; inside, death and the snuffed out candle. Friar Adrià gathered in devout prayer almost until the light took possession of the Earth, which was once again flat, with mysterious limits he could never reach.
‘Go through each and every one of his friends. And when I say each and every one, I mean each and every one!’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And don’t give up on the search operation. Widen the circle to include the entire mountain. And Tibidabo. And the amusement park too.’
‘This patient has reduced mobility.’
‘Doesn’t matter: search the entire mountain.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Then he shook his head as if awakening from a deep sleep, got up and went to a cell to collect the Sacred Chest and the key he’d used to close the door to the monastery during Vespers for thirty years. Thirty years as the doorkeeper brother of Burgal. He went through each of the empty cells, the refectory and the kitchen. He also went into the church and the tiny chapterhouse. And he felt that he was the sole person guilty of the extinction of the monastery of Sant Pere del Burgal. With his free hand he beat on his chest and said confiteor, Dominus. Confiteor: mea culpa. The first Christmas without Missa in Nocte and without the praying of Matins.
He collected the little box of pine cones and fir and maple seeds, the desperate gift of a disgraced woman striving to be forgiven for the lack of divine hope implicit in her abominable act of suicide. He contemplated the little box for a few moments, remembering the poor woman, the disgraced Wall-eyed Woman of Salt; murmured a brief prayer for her soul in case salvation was possible for the desperate, and placed the little box in the deep pocket of his habit. He picked up the Sacred Chest and the key and went out into the narrow corridor. He was unable to resist the impulse to take a last stroll through the monastery, all alone. His footsteps echoed in the corridor beside the cells, the chapterhouse, the cloister … He finished his walk with a glance into the tiny refectory. One of the benches was touching the wall, chipping away at the dirty plaster. Out of habit, he moved the bench. A rebellious tear fell from his eye. He wiped it away and left the grounds. He closed the door to the monastery, inserted the key and made two turns that resonated in his soul. He put the key in the Sacred Chest and sat down to wait for the newcomers who were climbing wearily, despite having spent the night in Soler. My God, what am I doing here when …
Bernat thought it’s impossible, but I can’t think of any other explanation. Forgive me, Adrià. It’s my fault, I know, but I can’t give up the book. Confiteor. Mea culpa.
Before the shadows had shifted much, Friar Adrià got up, dusted off his habit and walked a few steps down the path, clinging to the Sacred Chest. Three monks were coming up. He turned, with tears in his heart, to say farewell to the monastery and he began his descent to save his brothers the final stretch of the steep slope. Many memories died with that gesture. Where am I? Farewell, landscapes. Farewell, ravines and farewell, glorious babbling waters. Farewell, cloistered brothers and centuries of chanting and prayers.
‘Brothers, may peace be with you on this day of the birth of Our Lord.’
‘May the Lord’s peace be with you as well.’
Three strangers. The tallest one pulled back his hood, revealing a noble forehead.
‘Who is the dead man?’
‘Josep de Sant Bartomeu. The father prior.’
‘Praise be the Lord. So you are Adrià Ardèvol.’
‘Well, I …’ He lowered his head: ‘Yes.’
‘You are dead.’
‘I’ve been dead for some time.’
‘No: now you will be dead.’
The dagger glimmered in the faint light before sinking into his soul. The flame of his candle went out and he neither saw nor lived anything more. Nothing more. He wasn’t even able to say where am I because he was no longer anywhere.
Matadepera, 2003–2011
~ ~ ~
I deemed this novel definitively unfinished on 27 January, 2011, the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz.
During the years in which the novel grew in my life, I asked many people for help and opinions.
There are so many of you, and I’ve been pestering you for so many years, that I’m terrified I’ll leave out someone’s name. So I would instead like to once again count on your generosity as I make a generic acknowledgement in which, I hope, each and every one of you will see yourselves included and reflected.