‘How.’
‘What, Black Eagle.’
‘You said three.’
‘Three what?’
‘Three reasons you wanted to be Jascha Heifetz.’
Sometimes I get mixed up. And now, as I write this, each day I get more and more mixed up. I don’t know if I’ll make it to the end.
What was clear, in my murky childhood, was my father’s immense pedagogical ability. One day, when Little Lola wanted to stick up for me, he said but what the hell are you saying! German, violin and because of that he can’t do English? Is that it? What is he, a total milksop? And you, who are you to say … And why am I even talking about this with you?
Little Lola flew out of the study in a rage. It had all started when Father announced that I had to save Mondays for English classes with Mr Prats, a young man who really knew his stuff, and I was left with my mouth hanging open, because I didn’t know what to say, because I knew that I would love studying English but I didn’t want Father to … And I looked at Mother as I finished my boiled veg in silence and Little Lola took the empty plate to the kitchen. But Mother didn’t say a peep; she left me alone and then I said that I needed time for the violin because the double stops …
‘Excuses. The double stops … Look at how any normal violinist plays and don’t tell me you can’t be a normal violinist.’
‘I need more time.’
‘You’ll make the time, you’re young. Or quit the violin, what do you want me to say.’
The next day there was a discussion between Mother and Little Lola that I couldn’t follow because I had no spy base in the laundry room. And then, a few days later, Little Lola confronted Father. That was when she flew out of the study in a rage. But she was the only one in the house who could stand up to him without fear of too much repercussion. And, starting on the Monday before Christmas holidays, I could no longer wile away my time with Bernat, on the streets.
‘One.’
‘Wan.’
‘Two.’
‘Tu.’
‘Three.’
‘Thrii.’
‘Four.’
‘Foa.’
‘Four.’
‘Fuoa …’
‘Fffoouur.’
‘Fffoooa.’
‘It’s all right!’
I was fascinated by English pronunciation, which was never what I expected from looking at the written words. And I was amazed by its morphological simplicity. And its subtle lexical relationship to German. And Mr Prats was extremely timid, to the extent that he didn’t even look me in the eye when he had me read the first text, which I won’t name in deference to good taste. Just to give you an idea, the plot was about whether my pencil was on top of or under the table, and the unexpected plot twist consisted of discovering that it was in my pocket.
‘How are your English classes going?’ my father asked me, impatiently, ten minutes after the first English class, at supper time.
‘All right,’ I said, adopting a disinterested pose. And it drove me crazy because, deep down, in spite of Father, I was already dying to know how you said one, two, three, four in Aramaic.
‘Can I have two?’ asked Bernat, always asking for more.
‘Of course.’
Little Lola gave him two squares of chocolate; she hesitated for half a second and then gave me a second one, too. For the first time in my ffucking life, I didn’t have to swipe it.
‘And don’t get any on the floor.’
The two boys went towards the bedroom and on the way Bernat said tell me, what is it, eh?
‘A big secret.’
Once in the bedroom, I opened up my album of racing car collectors’ cards to the centre page and, without looking at the album, watched his face. He opened his eyes wide as saucers.
‘No!’
‘Yes.’
‘So, it exists.’
‘Yes.’
It was the triple of Fangio at the wheel of the Ferrari. You heard me right, my beloved: the Fangio triple.
‘Let me touch it.’
‘Carefully, OK?’
But that’s how Bernat was: when he liked something, he had to touch it. Like me. He was always that way. He still is. Like me. Adrià watched his friend’s envy with satisfaction, as Bernat placed his fingertips on the Fangio triple and the fastest red Ferrari of all time, except for the future.
‘We’d agreed it didn’t exist … How did you get it?’
‘Contacts.’
That’s how I was when I was little. I think I was trying to imitate Father. Or perhaps Mr Berenguer. In this case, the contacts were a very profitable Sunday morning at the second-hand stalls of the Sant Antoni market. You can find everything there; even quirks of fate; from Josephine Baker’s underwear to a volume of poems dedicated to Jeroni Zanné by Josep Maria López-Picó. And the Fangio triple collectors’ card that no other kid in Barcelona had, according to the rumours. When Father took me there, he always tried to keep me busy so he could exchange mysteries with a couple of men who always had a cigarette hanging from their lips, their hands in their pockets and a restless gaze. And he jotted down secrets in a little notebook that he then made vanish into a pocket.
After a heavy sigh, they closed the album. The two boys had to wait patiently, hidden away in the bedroom. They had to talk about something, and Bernat wanted to ask him about that thing he hadn’t been able to get out of his head, but he knew he shouldn’t because his parents had told him it’s better if you don’t go into that, Bernat. Still he ended up asking, ‘Why don’t you go to mass?’
‘I have permission.’
‘From who? From God?’
‘No: from Father Anglada.’
‘Wow. But why don’t you go?’
‘I’m not Christian.’
‘Wow! …’ Confused silence. ‘Can you be not Christian?’
‘I suppose so. I’m not.’
‘But what are you? Buddhist? Japanese? Communist? What?’
‘I’m nothing.’
‘Can you be nothing?’
I never knew how to answer that question when I was asked it as a child, because the wording troubled me. Can you be nothing? I will be nothing. Will I be like the zero that isn’t a natural number nor a whole number nor a rational number nor a real number nor a complex number, but the neutral element in the addition of whole numbers? Not even that, I’m afraid: when I am no longer, I will no longer be necessary, if I am now.
‘How. Now you’ve lost me.’
‘Don’t bother.’
‘No, if it were up to me …’
‘Then keep quiet, Black Eagle.’
‘I believe in the Great Spirit of Manitou who covers the plains with bison, sends us rain and snow and moves the sun that warms us and makes it disappear so we can sleep, who blows the wind, guides the river along its bed, points the eagle’s eye towards its prey and gives the warrior the courage to die for his people.’
‘Hello? Where are you, Adrià?’