Little Lola, who was still seated at the kitchen table thinking about the wall, looked towards Adrià.
‘What?’
‘It’s for you.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying, boy. Your parents …’
‘That doesn’t matter: now I’m in charge. I’m giving it to you.’
‘I can’t accept it.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s too valuable. I can’t.’
‘No: you are afraid that Mother wouldn’t like it.’
‘Either way. I can’t accept it.’
And I stood there with the rejected Urgell in my hands.
I brought it back to the spot where I had always seen it and the dining room returned to being what it had always been. I went around the flat; I went into Father and Mother’s study to rummage through drawers without any clear objective. And after rummaging through the drawers, Adrià began to think. After a few hours of stillness, he got up and went towards the laundry room.
‘Little Lola.’
‘What.’
‘I have to go back to Germany. I have at least six or seven months before I can come back.’
‘Don’t worry.’
‘I’m not worried: stay, please: this is your home.’
‘No.’
‘It’s more your home than mine. I’m, as long as I have the study …’
‘I came here thirty-one years ago to take care of your mother. If she’s dead, my work here is done.’
‘Little Lola, stay.’
Five days later I was able to read the will. In fact, it was the notary, Cases, who read it to me, Little Lola and Aunt Leo. And when, in his thin, rasping voice, the man announced it is my wish that the painting entitled Santa Maria de Gerri, by Modest Urgell, which is personal property of the family, be given without any compensation to my loyal friend Dolors Carrió, whom we have always called Little Lola, as a tiny show of appreciation for the support that she has offered me throughout my life, I started to laugh, Little Lola burst into tears and Aunt Leo looked at us, puzzled. The rest of the will was more complicated except for a personal letter in an envelope with a seal that the countertenor put into my hands and which began dear Adrià, my beloved son, something she had never said to me in my ffucking life.
Dear Adrià, my beloved son.
That was the end of my mother’s sentimental expansiveness. All the rest was instructions about the shop. About my moral obligation to take care of it. And she explained in full detail the unusual relationship she maintained with Mr Berenguer, imprisoned by a salary in order to return the amount of an old embezzlement, which was still in effect for one more year. And your father had all his hopes tied up in the shop and now that I’m no longer around you can’t just wash your hands of it. But since I know that you always have and will do whatever you want to, I’m not convinced that you will heed me, roll up your sleeves, go into the shop and put everyone in their place the way I did after your father’s death. I don’t want to speak ill of him, but he was a romantic: I had to bring order to the shop; I had to rationalise it. I turned it into a good business that you and I have been able to live off of, and I’ve only added a couple of salaries, as you know. I’ll be very sorry if you don’t want to keep the shop; but since I won’t be able to see you, well, what can I do? And then she gave me some very precise instructions as to how to deal with Mr Berenguer and she asked me to follow them to the letter. And then she went back to the personal arena and said but I am writing you these lines today, on the twentieth of January of nineteen seventy-five because the doctor told me that I probably won’t live much longer. I gave instructions for them not to disturb your studies until the time came. But I am writing to you because I want you to know, besides what I’ve already said, two more things. First: I have gone back to the church. When I married your father I was a wishy-washy girl, very susceptible to influence, who didn’t know exactly what she wanted out of life, and when your father told me that the most likely thing was that God didn’t exist, I said ah, well, all right. But later I missed having him in my life, especially when my father died and Fèlix died, and with the loneliness I’ve felt not knowing what to do with you.
‘What do you mean what to do with me? Love me.’
‘I did love you, Son.’
‘From a distance.’
‘We’ve never been very affectionate in this house; that doesn’t mean we’re bad people.’
‘Mother: love me, look me in the eyes, ask me what I want to do.’
‘And your father’s death ruined everything.’
‘You could have tried.’
‘I’ve never been able to forgive you for giving up the violin.’
‘I’ve never forgiven you for forcing me to be the best.’
‘You are.’
‘No. I’m intelligent and, you could even say, gifted. But I can’t do it all. I don’t have any obligation to be the best. You and Father made a mistake with me.’
‘Not your father.’
‘I am finishing my doctorate and I don’t plan on studying law. And I haven’t learned Russian.’
‘For the moment.’
‘Fine. For the moment.’
‘Let’s not argue, I’m dead.’
‘All right. And what was the other thing you wanted me to know? By the way: does God exist, Mother?’
‘I’m dying with many regrets. The main one is not knowing who killed your father and why.’
‘What did you do to try to find that out?’
‘I now know that you were spying on me from behind the sofa. You know things that I didn’t know you knew.’
‘Not really. I only really learned what a brothel is, but not who killed my father.’
‘Hey, hey, here comes the black widow!’ said Inspector Ocaña, frightened, poking his head into the Commissioner’s office.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Didn’t you get rid of her for good?’
‘Pain in my arse.’
Comissioner Plasencia stuck the rest of his sandwich into the drawer, stood up and looked out the window at the traffic on Llúria Street. When he heard the female presence at the door, he turned.
‘What a surprise.’
‘Good afternoon.’
‘It’s been days since …’
‘Yes. It’s that … I had them investigate and …’
On the table, inside a cold ashtray, a small half-smoked, snuffed-out cigar was stinking up the room.
‘And what?’
‘Aribert Voigt, Commissioner. Revenge over some business dealings, Commissioner. Or you could call it, personal revenge; but it has nothing to do with brothels or raped girls. I don’t know why you made up that deplorable story.’
‘I always follow orders.’
‘I don’t, Commissioner. And I plan on taking you to court for obstruction of
‘Don’t make me laugh!’ the policeman cut her off, rudely. ‘Luckily, Spain is no democracy. Here we good guys are in charge.’
‘You will soon receive the citation. If the guilt lies higher up, we will follow the loose ends and uncover it.’
‘What loose ends?’
‘Someone let that murderer act with impunity. And someone let him leave without detaining him.’
‘Don’t be naive. You won’t find any loose ends, because there are none.’
The commissioner took the cigar from the ashtray, lit a match and began smoking. A thick bluish cloud momentarily concealed his face.
‘And why didn’t you go to court, Mother?’
Commissioner Plasencia sat down, still spewing smoke from his nose and mouth. Mother preferred to remain standing before him.