‘Is it a good instrument?’
‘Very good. A mirecourt from the late nineteenth century. A Thouvenel.’
‘Why don’t you insist she pays the fine?’
‘I don’t want to have anything more to do with Tecla. I hate her from the bottom of my heart. She’s even prejudiced me against my son. And that is almost as unforgivable as destroying the violin.’
Silence.
‘I meant the other way around.’
‘I knew what you meant.’
Every once in a while, large cities have narrow streets, silent passageways that allow your footsteps to echo in the stillness of the night, and it seems like everything is going back to the way it was, when there were only a few of us and we all knew each other and greeted each other on the street. In the period when Barcelona, at night, also went to bed. Bernat and Xènia walked along the lonely Permanyer Alley, the child of another world, and for a few minutes all they heard were their own footsteps. Xènia wore heels. Dressed to the nines. She was dressed to the nines even though it was almost an improvised meeting. And her heels echoed in the night of her dark eyes; she’s simply lovely.
‘I feel your pain,’ said Xènia when they got to Llúria and were greeted by the honk of a noisy taxi in a hurry. ‘But you have to get it out of your head. It’s better if you don’t talk about it.’
‘You were the one who asked me.’
‘If only I’d known …’
As Bernat opened the door to his flat he said right back where I started from, and then explained that he had grown up in the Born district and now, coincidentally, after his separation, he had moved back. And I like being back here because I have memories around every corner. You want whisky or something like that?
‘I don’t drink.’
‘Neither do I. But I have some for guests.’
‘I’ll have some water.’
‘The bitch didn’t even give me the option of staying in my own home. I had to pull myself up by my bootstraps.’ He opened his arms as if he wanted to show her the whole flat in one swoop. ‘But I’m glad to be back in my old neighbourhood. This way.’
He pointed towards where she should go. He went ahead to turn on the light in the room. ‘I think that people make a journey and then come back to where they started from. We always return to our roots. Unless we die first.’
It was a large room, surely meant to be a dining room. There was a sofa and an armchair in front of a small round table, two music stands with scores on them, a cabinet with three instruments and a table with a computer and a large pile of papers beside it. The opposite wall was covered with books and scores. As if they summed up Bernat’s life.
Xènia opened her purse, pulled out the tape recorder and placed it in front of Bernat.
‘You see? I’ve haven’t got it all fixed up yet, but this is meant to be a living room.’
‘It’s quite comfortable.’
‘Tecla, that bitch, didn’t even let me take a stick of furniture. It’s all from Ikea. At my age and shopping at Ikea. Hell’s bells, are you recording?’
Xènia turned off the tape recorder. In a tone he hadn’t heard the whole evening: ‘Do you want to talk about your bitch of a wife or about your books? So I know whether to turn the tape recorder on or not.’
The silence was so deep they could have heard their own footsteps. But they weren’t walking along a deserted narrow street. Bernat could make out his own heartbeat and he felt incredibly ridiculous. He waited for the sound of a motorbike going up Llúria to pass.
‘Touché.’
‘I don’t speak French.’
Bernat vanished, embarrassed. He returned with a bottle of some water she’d never seen before. And two Ikea glasses.
‘Water from the clouds of Tasmania. You’ll like it.’
They spent half an hour talking about his short stories and his writing process. And that the third and fourth collections were the best. Novel? No, no: I like the short form. As he calmed down, he mentioned that he was embarrassed about the scene he’d made talking about his bitch of an ex-wife, but that it was still all going through his head and he couldn’t believe that even after he’d paid a fortune to the lawyer they’d sided with Tecla on almost everything, and I’m still shaken up about it and I’m really sorry to have told you all that, but as you can see writers — all artists — are people too.
‘I never doubted that.’
‘Touché pour la seconde fois.’
‘I told you I don’t speak French. Can you tell me about your creative process?’
They spoke for a long time. Bernat explained how he started, many, many years ago, to write, in no particular rush. I take a long time to finish a book. Plasma took a good three years.
‘Wow!’
‘Yes. It wrote itself. How can I explain it …’
Silence. A couple of hours had passed and they’d finished off the Tasmanian cloud water. Xènia listened, rapt. The occasional car still went up Llúria. The place was comfortable; for the first time in many months, Bernat was comfortable at home, with someone who listened to him and didn’t criticise him the way poor Adrià had always done.
Suddenly, he was overcome by the fatigue that followed the tension of so many hours of conversation. The years take their toll.
Xènia settled back in the Ikea armchair. She extended her hand as if she wanted to turn off the tape recorder, but she stopped halfway.
‘Now I’d like to discuss … your double personality, as a musician and a writer.’
‘Aren’t you tired?’
‘Yes. But this is something I’ve been wanting to do for some time, an interview so … like this.’
‘Thank you so much. But we can leave it for tomorrow. I’m …’
He knew that he was spoiling the magic of the moment but there was nothing he could do about it. For a few minutes they were seated in silence, as she put away her things and both of them calculating whether it was a good moment to continue or if it was best to be prudent, until Bernat said I’m very sorry that I only offered you water.
‘It was excellent.’
What I’d like to do is take you to bed.
‘Should we meet tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow’s not good for me. The day after.’
To the bedroom, right now.
‘Very well. Come here, if that works for you.’
‘All right.’
‘And we’ll talk about whatever.’
‘Whatever.’
They grew silent. She smiled and he smiled back.
‘Wait, I’ll call you a cab.’
They were so close. Looking at each other, in silence, she with the serene night in her gaze. He, with the vague greyness of unconfessable secrets in his eyes. But despite everything, she left in the ruddy blooming taxi that always had to spoil everything. Before, Xènia had given him a furtive kiss on the cheek, near his lips. She’d had to stand on tiptoe to reach. She’s so cute on tiptoes. Downstairs on the street he watched the taxi take Xènia out of his life, even just for a couple of days. He smiled. It had been two long years since he’d last smiled.