‘You still haven’t tried out the one I gave you.’
Adrià made a vague gesture in his defence: ‘But I did classes with Llorenç.’
‘That were of no help at all.’ He looked at the bundle of pages. ‘The part written in green doesn’t have a title that I can see.’
‘I don’t know what to call it. Maybe you could help me with that.’
‘Are you pleased with it?’ asked Bernat, picking up the pile.
‘It’s not about whether I’m pleased with it or not. Besides, it’s the first time that …’
‘This is a surprise.’
‘It was a surprise for me too; but I had to do it.’
Adrià leaned back in the armchair. Bernat continued leafing through the pile for a little while and then he placed it all on the small table.
‘Tell me how you are. Can I do anything to …’
‘No, thank you.’
‘But how are you?’
‘Right now, fine. But the process can’t be stopped. In a few months …’
Adrià, hesitating over whether he should speak or not, looked forward, towards the wall where there was a photo of the two friends with rucksacks on their backs, hair on their heads and no spare tires: in Bebenhausen, when they were young and still knew how to smile at the camera. And above it, in a place of honour, as if it were an altar, was the self-portrait. Then he spoke in a soft voice, ‘In a few months I might not even be able to recognise you.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how will you get along?’
‘I’ll tell you later, don’t worry.’
‘OK.’ Bernat tapped the bundle of paper with a finger: ‘And don’t you worry about this. I hope I’ll be able to understand your handwriting. Do you know what you want to do with it?’
Adrià rambled on for a while, almost without glancing at him. Bernat thought he looked like a penitent confessing. When he stopped speaking they were silent for some time, while the sky grew dark. Perhaps thinking about their lives, which hadn’t been tranquil. And thinking about the things they hadn’t said; and the insults and fights of the past; and the periods they’d gone without seeing each other. And thinking why does life always end with an unwanted death. And Bernat thinking I will do whatever you ask. And Adrià not knowing what he was thinking. And Bernat’s phone started vibrating in his pocket and, at that moment, he found the sound irreverent.
‘What is that?’
‘Nothing, my mobile phone. We humans use the computer a good friend gives us. And we have mobile phones.’
‘Fuck, then answer. Telephones are for answering.’
‘No, it’s probably Tecla. Let her wait.’
And they grew silent again, waiting for the vibration to stop, but it went on and on, becoming some sort of awkward guest in that silent conversation, and Bernat thought it has to be Tecla, what a nag. But finally the vibration died out. And their thoughts gradually returned, implanting themselves in the silence between the two men.
8
‘But we don’t have a single manuscript!’ exclaimed Bernat, as the two boys stood on the corner of Bruc and València Streets, in front of the conservatory before heading to one of their homes; which one would be decided along the way.
‘I know what I’m talking about.’
‘And our flat is small, compared to yours.’
‘Yeah, but what about that marvellous terrace you guys have, eh?’
‘What I want is a brother.’
‘Me too.’
They walked in silence, now returning to Bernat’s house before heading back towards Adrià’s for the second time so they could put off the moment of separation. In silence they pined for the brother they didn’t have and the mystery behind Roig, Rull, Soler and Pàmies having three, five or four or six siblings, while they had none.
‘Yeah, but Rull’s house is a huge mess, four in one room, with bunk beds. There’s always shouting.’
‘Fine, fine, that’s true. But it’s more fun.’
‘I don’t know. There is always some little kid pestering you.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Or some bigger kid.’
‘Well, yeah.’
What Adrià was also trying to explain was that at Bernat’s house his parents weren’t so, I don’t know, they aren’t on top of you all day long.
‘They are. You haven’t practised your violin today, Bernat. And your homework? Don’t you have homework? And look at how you’ve ruined your shoes, what a disaster, you’re such an oaf. Like that, all day long.’
‘You should see my house.’
‘What.’
On the third trip between the two houses we came to the conclusion that it was impossible to decide which of the two boys was unhappier. But I knew that when I went over to Bernat’s house, his mother would open the door and smile at me, she’d say hello, Adrià, and she’d tousle my hair a bit. My mother didn’t even say how’d it go, Adrià, because it was always Little Lola who let me in and she’d just pinch my cheek, and the house was silent.
‘You see? Your mother sings while she darns socks.’
‘So?’
‘Mine doesn’t. There’s no singing allowed in my house.’
‘Come on.’
‘Practically. I’m hapless.’
‘Me too. But you get As and A+s.’
‘That’s no achievement. The classes are easy.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘Welclass="underline" I have trouble with the violin.’
‘I’m not talking about violin: I’m talking about schooclass="underline" grammar, geography, physics and chemistry, maths, natural sciences, boring old Latin; that’s what I’m talking about. The violin is easy.’
I can’t be sure of the dates, but you already know what I mean when I say we were very unhappy. Now as I listen to myself explaining it to you it sounds more like a teenage sadness than a childhood one. But I know I had that conversation with Bernat, walking along the streets that separated his house from mine, oblivious to the harsh traffic on València, Llúria, Bruc, Girona and Mallorca, the heart of the Eixample district, which was my world and, except for travels, has remained my world. I also know that Bernat had an electric train and I didn’t. And he studied violin because he wanted to. And, above all, his parents would say to him Bernat, what do you want to be when you grow up? and he could say I don’t know yet.
‘Think about it,’ Mr Plensa would say, seeming like such a good egg.
‘Yes, Father.’
And that was all they said, can you imagine? They would ask him what do you want to be when you grow up and my father one day said to me listen hard because I won’t say it twice and now I’m going to tell you what you are going to be when you grow up. Father had planned my path to the tiniest detail of each curve. And Mother still had yet to put in her two penn’orth and I can’t tell you which was worse. And I’m not complaining to you: I’m just writing. But the rope grew so taut that I didn’t even feel comfortable talking to Bernat about it. Really. Because I hadn’t been able to finish all my German homework for a few classes because Trullols had asked me to practise for an hour and a half if I wanted to get past the first stumbling blocks of the double stop chords, and I hated the double stop chord because when you want to play a single note, you get three, and when you want to do a double stop all you get is one and after a while you just want to smash the violin against the wall, because the fingering is so complicated and you put on a record where people like Iossif Robertovich Heifetz do it so perfectly it makes you dizzy, and I wanted to be Heifetz for three reasons: first, because I was sure his Trulleviĉius didn’t say to him, no Jascha, the third finger has to slide with the hand, you can’t leave it there in the middle of the fingerboard, for the love of God, Jascha Ardèvol! Second, because he always did it well; third, because I was sure he didn’t have a father like mine, and fourth, because he believed that being a child prodigy was a serious illness he’d managed to survive and which I survived because I wasn’t really a child prodigy, no matter what my father said.