‘Quite a list.’
‘How’s Tecla doing?’
He had him enter the study. Bernat looked around with open admiration, as he did every time he went in there. For a few seconds his gaze stopped on the self-portrait, but he refrained from any comment.
‘What did you ask me?’ he said.
‘How’s Tecla?’
‘Very well. Fabulous.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Adrià.’
‘What.’
‘Come on, don’t make fun.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I told you two days ago that we’re separating, that we’re at each other’s throats …’
‘Oh, Christ …’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No. I’m very absorbed and …’
‘You’re an absent-minded scholar.’
Adrià grew quiet and, to break the silence, Bernat said we’re separating; at our age, and we’re separating.
‘I’m so sorry. But you’re doing the right thing.’
‘To tell you the truth, I couldn’t care less. I’m tired of everything.’
When he sat down, Bernat tapped his knees and, in a falsely cheery tone, said come on, what was all the rush and urgency about?
Adrià stared at him for a very long minute. Bernat held his gaze until he realised that, even though he was looking at him, Adrià was far, far away.
‘What’s wrong?’ He paused. The other man was in the clouds. ‘Adrià?’ A hint of panic. ‘What’s going on with you?’
Adrià swallowed hard and looked, somewhat anxiously, towards his friend. Then he looked away. ‘I’m ill.’
‘Oh.’
Silence. Your whole life, our whole lives, thought Bernat, passing before your eyes when a loved one tells you they are ill. And Adrià was only half there. Bernat tried to forget for a few moments about Tecla, that bitch who was ruining his day, his week and his month, that shrew, and he said but what do you mean? What do you have?
‘An expiration date.’
Silence. More long seconds of silence.
‘But what is going on, for Christ’s sake, are you dying, is it serious, is there anything I can do, I don’t know, explain yourself, will you?’
If he hadn’t been separated from Tecla, he never would have had that reaction. And Bernat was infinitely sorry for what he’d said but, on the other hand, from what he could see, it hadn’t had much of an effect on Adrià because his response was a smile.
‘Yes, there is something you can do for me. A favour.’
‘Of course. But how are you? What do you have?’
‘It’s hard for me to explain. They have to put me in assisted living or something like that.’
‘Shit, but you’re fine. Look at you, all hale and hearty.’
‘You have to do me a favour.’
He got up and disappeared into the flat. What patience I need lately, thought Bernat. First Tecla, and now Adrià, with his endless mysteries and his hypochondria.
Adrià came back with his hypochondria and a mystery in the shape of a large bundle of papers. He put it down on the little table, in front of Bernat.
‘You need to make sure this doesn’t get lost.’
‘Let’s see, let’s see … How long have you been ill?’
‘A while.’
‘I didn’t know anything about this.’
‘I didn’t know you and Tecla were separating either, even though I’ve suggested it to you more than once. And I always wanted to think that you’d worked it out. Can I continue?’
Men who are soulmates know how to fight and make up, and they know not to tell each other everything, just in case the other could lend a helping hand. Adrià had told him that thirty-five years ago and Bernat remembered it perfectly. And he cursed life, which gives us so many deaths.
‘Forgive me, but I’m … Of course you can continue.’
‘A few months ago they diagnosed me with a degenerative brain process. And now it seems it’s speeding up.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yes.’
‘You could have told me.’
‘Would you have cured me?’
‘I’m your friend.’
‘That’s why I called you.’
‘Can you live alone?’
‘Little Lola comes every day.’
‘Caterina.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. And she stays until quite late. She leaves my supper prepared.’
Adrià pointed to the stack of papers and said you aren’t just my friend, you’re also a writer.
‘A failed writer,’ was Bernat’s curt reply.
‘According to you.’
‘Yes, and you’ve certainly always been quick to remind me of it.’
‘I’ve always criticised you, you know that, but I never said you failed.’
‘But you’ve thought it.’
‘You don’t know what I have, inside here,’ said Adrià, suddenly irritated, tapping his forehead with both hands.
‘I haven’t published in years.’
‘But you haven’t stopped writing. Isn’t that right?’
Silence. Adrià insisted, ‘Not long ago, in public, you said you were writing a novel. Yes or no?’
‘Another failure. I’ve abandoned it.’ He breathed deeply and said, ‘Come on, what is it you want?’
Adrià grabbed the pile of papers and examined them for a little while, as if it were the first time he had seen them. He looked at Bernat and passed the bundle to him. Now he got a good look at it: it was a thick pile of pages, written on both sides.
‘Only this side is good.’
‘In green ink?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And the other one?’ He read the first page: ‘The Problem of Evil.’
‘Nothing. Nonsense. It’s worthless,’ said Adrià, uncomfortably.
Bernat looked through the pages in green, a bit disorientated, trying to get used to his friend’s difficult handwriting.
‘What is it?’ he said finally, lifting his head.
‘I don’t know. My life. My life and other lies.’
‘And since when … I didn’t know this side of you.’
‘I know. No one knows it.’
‘Do you want me to tell you what I think of it?’
‘No. Well, if you want to, sure. But … what I’m asking, begging, is that you type it into the computer.’