Bernat, halfway up the stairs, felt his pocket and pulled out the vibrating mobile phone. Tecla. He hesitated for a few seconds, not sure whether to answer or not. He moved aside to let a hurrying neighbour get past him. He stood there like an idiot looking at the lit-up screen, as if he could see Tecla in it, cursing his name, and that gave him a guilty pleasure. He put the mobile back into his pocket and after a moment he could feel that it had stopped vibrating. Tecla must have been negotiating the last loose end with the voice mail operator. Maybe she was saying, and we each get the house in Llançà for six months a year. And the operator, who do you think you are, you’ve never set foot in there and when you have it was with that peeved face you are so fond of pulling just to make poor Bernat’s life difficult! Who do you think you are? Bravo for the Orange operator, thought Bernat. He caught his breath at the landing on the main floor and, once he had, he rang the bell.
‘Rrrrrrrrrrinnnnnng.’
It took so long for him to hear any reaction from inside the flat that he had time to think about Tecla, about Llorenç and about the very unpleasant conversation they’d had the night before. The murmur of dragging footsteps, the sudden clamour of the lock and the door began to move. Adrià, looking at him over narrow reading glasses, finished opening the door and turned on the light in the hallway. Its gleam reflected off his bald head.
‘The bulb in the landing blew again,’ he said in greeting.
Bernat hugged him and Adrià didn’t hug him back. He took off his eyeglasses and said thank you for coming, as he waved him in.
‘How are you?’
‘Terrible. And you?’
‘Terrible.’
‘Would you like a drink?’
‘No. Yes. I don’t drink any more.’
‘We don’t drink any more, we don’t fuck any more, we don’t overeat any more, we don’t go to the cinema any more, we don’t ever like a book any more, now every woman is too young, we can’t get it up any more, we don’t believe those who say they’ll save the country any more.’
‘Quite a list.’
‘How’s Tecla doing?’
He had him enter the study. Bernat looked around with open admiration, as he did every time he went in there. For a few seconds his gaze stopped on the self-portrait, but he refrained from any comment.
‘What did you ask me?’ he said.
‘How’s Tecla?’
‘Very well. Fabulous.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’
‘Adrià.’
‘What.’
‘Come on, don’t make fun.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I told you two days ago that we’re separating, that we’re at each other’s throats …’
‘Oh, Christ …’
‘Don’t you remember?’
‘No. I’m very absorbed and …’
‘You’re an absent-minded scholar.’
Adrià grew quiet and, to break the silence, Bernat said we’re separating; at our age, and we’re separating.
‘I’m so sorry. But you’re doing the right thing.’
‘To tell you the truth, I couldn’t care less. I’m tired of everything.’
When he sat down, Bernat tapped his knees and, in a falsely cheery tone, said come on, what was all the rush and urgency about?
Adrià stared at him for a very long minute. Bernat held his gaze until he realised that, even though he was looking at him, Adrià was far, far away.
‘What’s wrong?’ He paused. The other man was in the clouds. ‘Adrià?’ A hint of panic. ‘What’s going on with you?’
Adrià swallowed hard and looked, somewhat anxiously, towards his friend. Then he looked away. ‘I’m ill.’
Silence. Your whole life, our whole lives, thought Bernat, passing before your eyes when a loved one tells you they are ill. And Adrià was only half there. Bernat tried to forget for a few moments about Tecla, that bitch who was ruining his day, his week and his month, that shrew, and he said but what do you mean? What do you have?
‘An expiration date.’
Silence. More long seconds of silence.
‘But what is going on, for Christ’s sake, are you dying, is it serious, is there anything I can do, I don’t know, explain yourself, will you?’
If he hadn’t been separated from Tecla, he never would have had that reaction. And Bernat was infinitely sorry for what he’d said but, on the other hand, from what he could see, it hadn’t had much of an effect on Adrià because his response was a smile.
‘Yes, there is something you can do for me. A favour.’
‘Of course. But how are you? What do you have?’
‘It’s hard for me to explain. They have to put me in assisted living or something like that.’
‘Shit, but you’re fine. Look at you, all hale and hearty.’
‘You have to do me a favour.’
He got up and disappeared into the flat. What patience I need lately, thought Bernat. First Tecla, and now Adrià, with his endless mysteries and his hypochondria.
Adrià came back with his hypochondria and a mystery in the shape of a large bundle of papers. He put it down on the little table, in front of Bernat.
‘You need to make sure this doesn’t get lost.’
‘Let’s see, let’s see … How long have you been ill?’
‘A while.’
‘I didn’t know anything about this.’
‘I didn’t know you and Tecla were separating either, even though I’ve suggested it to you more than once. And I always wanted to think that you’d worked it out. Can I continue?’
Men who are soulmates know how to fight and make up, and they know not to tell each other everything, just in case the other could lend a helping hand. Adrià had told him that thirty-five years ago and Bernat remembered it perfectly. And he cursed life, which gives us so many deaths.
‘Forgive me, but I’m … Of course you can continue.’
‘A few months ago they diagnosed me with a degenerative brain process. And now it seems it’s speeding up.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yes.’
‘You could have told me.’
‘Would you have cured me?’
‘I’m your friend.’
‘That’s why I called you.’
‘Can you live alone?’
‘Little Lola comes every day.’
‘Caterina.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. And she stays until quite late. She leaves my supper prepared.’
Adrià pointed to the stack of papers and said you aren’t just my friend, you’re also a writer.
‘A failed writer,’ was Bernat’s curt reply.
‘According to you.’
‘Yes, and you’ve certainly always been quick to remind me of it.’
‘I’ve always criticised you, you know that, but I never said you failed.’
‘But you’ve thought it.’
‘You don’t know what I have, inside here,’ said Adrià, suddenly irritated, tapping his forehead with both hands.
‘I haven’t published in years.’
‘But you haven’t stopped writing. Isn’t that right?’
Silence. Adrià insisted, ‘Not long ago, in public, you said you were writing a novel. Yes or no?’
‘Another failure. I’ve abandoned it.’ He breathed deeply and said, ‘Come on, what is it you want?’
Adrià grabbed the pile of papers and examined them for a little while, as if it were the first time he had seen them. He looked at Bernat and passed the bundle to him. Now he got a good look at it: it was a thick pile of pages, written on both sides.
‘In green ink?’
‘Uh huh.’
‘And the other one?’ He read the first page: ‘The Problem of Evil.’
‘Nothing. Nonsense. It’s worthless,’ said Adrià, uncomfortably.
Bernat looked through the pages in green, a bit disorientated, trying to get used to his friend’s difficult handwriting.
‘What is it?’ he said finally, lifting his head.
‘I don’t know. My life. My life and other lies.’
‘And since when … I didn’t know this side of you.’
‘I know. No one knows it.’
‘Do you want me to tell you what I think of it?’
‘No. Well, if you want to, sure. But … what I’m asking, begging, is that you type it into the computer.’
‘You still haven’t tried out the one I gave you.’
Adrià made a vague gesture in his defence: ‘But I did classes with Llorenç.’
‘That were of no help at all.’ He looked at the bundle of pages. ‘The part written in green doesn’t have a title that I can see.’
‘I don’t know what to call it. Maybe you could help me with that.’
‘Are you pleased with it?’ asked Bernat, picking up the pile.
‘It’s not about whether I’m pleased with it or not. Besides, it’s the first time that …’
‘This is a surprise.’
‘It was a surprise for me too; but I had to do it.’
Adrià leaned back in the armchair. Bernat continued leafing through the pile for a little while and then he placed it all on the small table.
‘Tell me how you are. Can I do anything to …’
‘No, thank you.’
‘But how are you?’
‘Right now, fine. But the process can’t be stopped. In a few months …’
Adrià, hesitating over whether he should speak or not, looked forward, towards the wall where there was a photo of the two friends with rucksacks on their backs, hair on their heads and no spare tires: in Bebenhausen, when they were young and still knew how to smile at the camera. And above it, in a place of honour, as if it were an altar, was the self-portrait. Then he spoke in a soft voice, ‘In a few months I might not even be able to recognise you.’
‘No.’
‘Yes.’
‘Shit.’
‘Yes.’
‘And how will you get along?’
‘I’ll tell you later, don’t worry.’
‘OK.’ Bernat tapped the bundle of paper with a finger: ‘And don’t you worry about this. I hope I’ll be able to understand your handwriting. Do you know what you want to do with it?’
Adrià rambled on for a while, almost without glancing at him. Bernat thought he looked like a penitent confessing. When he stopped speaking they were silent for some time, while the sky grew dark. Perhaps thinking about their lives, which hadn’t been tranquil. And thinking about the things they hadn’t said; and the insults and fights of the past; and the periods they’d gone without seeing each other. And thinking why does life always end with an unwanted death. And Bernat thinking I will do whatever you ask. And Adrià not knowing what he was thinking. And Bernat’s phone started vibrating in his pocket and, at that moment, he found the sound irreverent.
‘What is that?’
‘Nothing, my mobile phone. We humans use the computer a good friend gives us. And we have mobile phones.’
‘Fuck, then answer. Telephones are for answering.’
‘No, it’s probably Tecla. Let her wait.’
And they grew silent again, waiting for the vibration to stop, but it went on and on, becoming some sort of awkward guest in that silent conversation, and Bernat thought it has to be Tecla, what a nag. But finally the vibration died out. And their thoughts gradually returned, implanting themselves in the silence between the two men.