‘It’s … No, not brilliant: it’s profound; it’s admirable. And your German, it’s perfect,’ Coșeriu told him the day after his dissertation defence. ‘Above all, don’t stop studying. And if you choose linguistics, let me know.’
What Adrià didn’t know was that Coșeriu had barely slept over the course of two days and one night while reading one of the committee members’ copies. I found out a few years later, from Doctor Kamenek himself. But that day Adrià was only able to stand there, alone, in the corridor, watching Coșeriu head off, unable to completely grasp that the man had hugged him and told him that he admired him; no: that he admired what he had written. Coșeriu recognising that
‘What’s wrong with you, Ardèvol?’
He had been standing in the corridor for five minutes and he hadn’t seen Kamenek approaching from behind.
‘Me? What?’
‘Are you feeling OK?’
‘Me? Yes … Yes, yes. I was …’
He made a vague gesture with his hands to indicate that he didn’t really know. Afterwards, Kamenek asked him if he had decided whether he was going to stay in Tübingen and continue studying, and he responded that he had many binding commitments, which wasn’t true, because he couldn’t care less about the shop and the only thing he was longing for was Father’s study and he was also starting to long for the possibility of longing for Tübingen’s cold landscape. And he also wanted to be closer to the memory of Sara: I now recognised myself as a castrated man, without you. All those things were beginning to lead him to comprehend that he would never achieve happiness. That surely no one could. Happiness was always just out of reach, but unreachable; surely it was unreachable for everyone. Despite the joys that life sometimes brought, like that day when Bernat called him as if they hadn’t been officially at odds for more or less six months and said can you hear me? He’s finally dead, the rotten bastard! Everyone here is pulling the champagne out of the fridge. And then he said now is the moment for Spain to reconsider and free all its people and ask for all the historical forgiveness necessary.
‘Ay.’
‘What? Aren’t I right?’
‘Yes. But it sounds like you don’t know Spain very well.’
‘You’ll see, you’ll see.’ And with the same momentum: ‘Ah, and I am about to give you a surprise announcement.’
‘Are you pregnant?’
‘No, it’s not a joke. You’ll see. Wait a few days.’
And he hung up because a call to Germany cost an arm and a leg and he was calling from a phone booth, euphoric, thinking Franco’s dead, the ogre is dead, the wolf is dead, the vermin is dead and with it its venom. There are moments when even good people can be happy over someone’s death.
Bernat wasn’t lying to him: in addition to his confirming the dictator’s death, which was front page news the next day, five days later Adrià received a laconic, urgent letter that read Dear Know-It-Alclass="underline" you remember when you said it’sveryvery bad.Itlackssoul;Ididn’tbelieveasingleemotion.Idon’tknow why,butIthinkit’sterrible.Idon’tknowwhoAmadeuis; andtheworst ofitisthatIdon’tgivearat’sarse.And Elisa,well,itgoeswithoutsay ing. Do you remember? Well, that story without believable emotions just won the Blanes Prize. Awarded by an intelligent jury. I’m happy. YourfriendBernat.
WowI’mthrilled, answered Adrià. Butdon’tforgetthatif youhaven’trewrittenit, it’sstilljustasbad.YourfriendAdrià. And Bernat responded with an urgent telegram that read Gotakealongwalkoffashortpierstop. YourfriendBernatstop.
When I went back to Barcelona, they offered me a class in Aesthetic and Cultural History at the University of Barcelona and I said yes, without thinking it over, even though I had no need to work. There was something pleasing about it, after so many years of living abroad, to find work in my neighbourhood, a ten-minute walk from my house. And the first day that I went to the department to discuss the details of my joining the staff, I met Laura there. The first day! Blonde, on the short side, friendly, smiling and, I didn’t yet know, sad on the inside. She had registered for her fifth year and was asking for some professor, I think it was Cerdà, who it turned out was her advisor for a thesis on Coșeriu. And blue eyes. And a pleasant voice. Nervous, not very well-groomed hands. And some very interesting cologne or perfume — I’ve never been clear on the difference. And Adrià was smiling at her, and she said hello, do you work here? And he said: I’m not sure. And she said: I wish you would!
‘You should never have come back.’
‘Why?’
‘Your future is in Germany.’
‘And weren’t you the one who didn’t want me to go? How’s the violin going?’
‘I’m going to try out for a spot in the Barcelona Symphony Orchestra.’
‘That’s great, right?’
‘Yeah, sure. I’ll be a civil servant.’
‘No: you will be a violinist in a good orchestra with plenty of room for improvement.’
‘If I make it.’ A few seconds of hesitation. ‘And I’m marrying Tecla. Will you be my best man?’
‘Of course. When are you getting married?’
Meanwhile, things were happening. I had to start wearing reading glasses and my hair began to desert me without any explanation. I was living alone in a vast flat in the Eixample, surrounded by the boxes of books that had arrived from Germany that I never had the energy to classify and put away in their proper place, for various reasons including that I didn’t have the shelf space. And I was unable to convince Little Lola to stay.
‘Goodbye, Adrià, my son.’
‘I’m so sorry, Little Lola.’
‘I want to live my own life.’
‘I can understand that. But this is still your home.’
‘Find yourself a maid, trust me.’
‘No, no. If you don’t … Impossible.’
Would I cry over Little Lola’s departure? No. What I did do was to buy myself a good upright piano and put it in my parents’ bedroom, which I was turning into my own. The hallway, which was very wide, had grown accustomed to the obstacles of unpacked boxes of books.
‘But … Forgive me for asking, all right?’
‘Go ahead.’
‘Do you have a home?’
‘Of course. Even though I haven’t lived there in a thousand years, I have a little flat in the Barceloneta. I’ve had it repainted.’
‘Little Lola.’
‘What?’
‘Don’t get offended, but I … I wanted to give you something. In appreciation.’
‘I’ve been paid for each and every one of the days I’ve lived in this house.’
‘I don’t mean that. I mean …’
‘Well, you don’t need to say it.’
Lola took me by the arm and led me to the dining room; she showed me the bare wall where the painting by Modest Urgell used to hang.
‘Your mother gave me a gift I don’t deserve.’
‘What more can I do for you …’
‘Deal with these books, you can’t live like this.’
‘Come on, Little Lola. What more can I do for you?’
‘Let me leave in peace; I mean it.’
I hugged her and I realised that … it’s shocking, Sara, but I think I loved Little Lola more than I loved my own mother.
Little Lola moved out of the house; the tramcars no longer circulated noisily up Llúria because the city council, at the end of the dictatorship, had opted for direct pollution and replaced them with buses without removing the tracks, which caused many a motorbike accident. And I shut myself up in the house, to continue studying and to forget you. Installed in my parents’ room and sleeping on the same bed where I’d been born on the thirtieth of April nineteen forty-six at six thirty-seven in the morning.