‘Is it an ego problem?’
Bernat Plensa picked up Xènia’s recording device, examined it, found the button and turned it off. He placed it back down on the table while he said I am the epitome of mediocrity.
‘You don’t believe what that imbecile from
‘That imbecile and all the others who’ve been kind enough to tell me that in the press.’
‘You know that critics are just …’
‘Just what?’
‘Big poofs.’
‘I’m being serious.’
‘Now I understand your hysterical side.’
‘Wow: you don’t pull your punches.’
‘You want to be perfect. And since you can’t … you get cranky; or you demand that those around you be perfect.’
‘Do you work for Tecla?’
‘Tecla is a forbidden subject.’
‘What’s got into you?’
‘I’m trying to get a reaction out of you,’ replied Xènia. ‘Because you have to answer my question.’
‘What question?’
Bernat watched as Xènia turned on the recorder again and placed it gently on the little table.
‘How does it feel to be a musician writing literature?’ she repeated.
‘I don’t know. It all happens gradually. Inevitably.’
‘You already said that.’
It’s just that it happens so bloody slowly and yet his anxiety arrives all at once because Bernat had been writing for so many years and Adrià had been saying for so many years that what he wrote was of no interest, it was grey, predictable, unessential; it was definitely Adrià’s fault.
‘I am about to break off all ties with you. I don’t like unbearable people. That’s your first and last warning.’
For the first time since he had met her, he looked into her eyes and held Xènia’s black gaze of serene night.
‘I can’t bear being unbearable. Forgive me.’
‘Can we get back to work?’
‘Go ahead. And thanks for the warning.’
‘First and last.’
I love you, he thought. So he had to be perfect if he wanted to have those lovely eyes with him for a few more hours. I love you, he repeated.
‘How does it feel to be a musician making literature?’
I am falling in love with your obstinacy.
‘It feels … I feel … in two worlds … and it bothers me that I don’t know which is more important to me.’
‘Does that matter?’
‘I don’t know. The thing is …’
That evening they didn’t call a cab. But two days later Bernat Plensa screwed up his courage and went to visit his friend. Caterina, with her coat already on and about to leave, opened the door for him and, before he could open his mouth, said in a low voice he’s not well.
‘Why?’
‘I had to hide yesterday’s newspaper from him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because if I don’t notice, he reads the same paper three times.’
‘Boy …’
‘He’s such a hard worker, I hate to see him wasting his time rereading the newspaper, you know?’
‘You did the right thing.’
‘What are you two conspiring about?’
They turned. Adrià had just come out of his study and caught them speaking in low voices.
‘Rrrrriiiiiiinnnnnnnnnngggg.’
Caterina opened the door for Plàcida instead of answering, while Adrià had Bernat enter his study. The two women discussed their shift switch quietly and Caterina said loudly see you tomorrow, Adrià!
‘How’s it going?’ asked Adrià.
‘I’ve been typing it up when I have a moment. Slowly.’
‘Do you understand everything?’
‘Yeah,’ he answered falteringly. ‘I like it a lot.’
‘Why do you say yeah like that?’
‘Because you have the handwriting of a doctor, and it’s tiny. I have to read every paragraph a couple of times to get it right.’
‘Oh. Sorry …’
‘No, no, no … I’m happy to do it. But I don’t work on it every day, obviously.’
‘I’m making a lot of work for you, aren’t I?’
‘No. Not at all.’
‘Good evening, Adrià,’ said a young woman, a smiling stranger, sticking her head into the study.
‘Hello, good evening.’
‘Who’s that?’ Bernat asked in a surprised whisper when the woman had left the study.
‘Whatshername. Now they don’t leave me alone for a second.’
‘Whoa.’
‘Yeah, you have no idea. This place is like the Ramblas with all the coming and going.’
‘It’s better that you’re not alone, right?’
‘Yes. And thank goodness for Little Lola, she takes care of organising everything.’
‘Caterina.’
‘What?’
‘No, nothing.’
They were silent for a little while. Then Bernat asked him about what he was studying and he looked around him, touched the book on his reading table and made a vague expression that Bernat was unable to interpret. He got up and grabbed the book.
‘Hey, poetry!’
‘Huh?’
Bernat waved the book. ‘You’re reading poetry.’
‘I always have.’
‘Really? Not me.’
‘And look how things turned out for you.’
Bernat laughed because it was impossible to get angry at Adrià now that he was ill. And then he repeated I can’t do any more, I can’t go any faster with your papers.
‘Fine …’
‘Do you want me to hire someone?’
‘No!’ Now the life came back into his appearance, his face and the colour of his hair. ‘Definitely not! This can only be done by a friend. And I don’t want …. I don’t know … It’s very personal and … Maybe once it’s typed up I won’t want it published.’
‘Didn’t you say I should give it to Bauça?’
‘When the time comes, we’ll discuss it.’
Silence came over the room. Someone was going through doors or making noise with something in some part of the house. Perhaps in the kitchen.
‘Plàcida, that’s it! Her name is Plàcida, this one.’ Pleased with himself. ‘You see? Despite what they say, I still have a good memory.’
‘Ah!’ said Bernat, remembering something. ‘The backside of your manuscript pages, what you wrote in black ink, you know? it’s really interesting too.’