52

The Sagarra Room at the Athenaeum, at seven forty-five on that dark, cloudy Tuesday had the fifty-something available chairs filled with young people who seemed to be spellbound listening to the extremely saccharine background music. An older man, who seemed disorientated, hesitated endlessly before choosing a seat at the back, as if he were afraid that, when it was over, they would ask him what the lesson was. Two elderly women – clearly disappointed because they hadn’t seen any sign of cheese and biscuits afterwards – shared confidences in the front row, propelled by their fluttering fans. On a side table were the five books that comprised the complete work of Bernat Plensa, displayed. Tecla was there, in the front row, which Adrià was surprised to see. Tecla was looking back, as if monitoring who came in. Adrià approached her and gave her a kiss, and she smiled at him for the first time since the last argument in which he’d intervened, in vain, to make peace. It had been a long time since they’d seen each other.

‘Good, right?’ said Adrià, lifting his eyebrows to refer to the room.

‘I wasn’t expecting this. And, young people, even.’

‘Uh huh.’

‘How’s it going with Llorenç?’

‘Great. I already know how to make word documents and save them on a disk.’ Adrià thought for a few moments: ‘But I’m still unable to write anything directly onto the computer. I’m a paper man.’

‘All in good time.’

‘Or not.’

Then the telephone rang and no one paid any attention to it. Adrià raised his head and his eyebrows. No one paid it any heed, as if it weren’t even ringing.

Bernat’s five published books were also on the speakers’ table, placed so that people could see the covers. The extremely saccharine background music stopped, but the telephone, not as loud, kept ringing and Bernat appeared, accompanied by Carlota Garriga. Adrià was surprised to see him without the violin in his hands and he smiled at the idea. Author and speaker sat down. Bernat winked at me and smiled with satisfaction at the room. Carlota Garriga began by saying that she had always admired the literature of Bernat Plensa, and he winked at me again and for a few moments I imagined that he had set up that whole fandango just for me. So I decided to listen carefully to what Doctor Garriga was saying.

Quotidian worlds, with mostly unhappy characters, who can’t make up their minds to love or leave, all served up with considerable stylistic skill, and that is part of another feature that I will touch on later.

After half an hour, when Garriga had already touched on every subject, even the subject of influences, Adrià raised his hand and asked if he could query the author as to why the characters in his first four books all had so many physical and psychological resemblances, and he immediately regretted the question. Bernat, after a few seconds of reflection, stated yes, yes, the gentleman is right. It is on purpose. A way to affirm that these characters are the precursors to the ones who will appear in the novel I am writing now.

‘You’re writing a novel?’ I asked, surprised.

‘Yes. It’s still a long way off, but yes.’

A hand in the back: it was the girl with the huge plait who asked if he could explain his process for inventing the stories, and Bernat snorted in satisfaction and said oof, the question. I don’t know if I can answer it. But he spent five minutes talking about how he invented the stories. And then the boy with the Quaker beard was inspired to ask about his literary role models. Then I looked back at the audience with satisfaction, and I was shocked to see Laura entering the room just then. It had been a few months since I’d last seen her because she had returned to somewhere in Sweden. I didn’t even know she was back. She looked pretty, yes. But no. What was she doing there? And later, the blond boy with the two admirers got up and said that he or Mrs …

‘Doctor Garriga,’ said Bernat.

‘Yeah, that,’ corroborated the young man with the two admirers. ‘Well, she said in passing that you were a musician and I didn’t understand why you write if you are musician. I mean, can you do a lot of different arts at the same time? Like, maybe you also paint in secret or make sculpture.’

The admirers laughed at the cleverness of the subject of their admiration and Bernat responded that all art springs from the deep dissatisfaction of man’s soul. And then his eyes met Tecla’s and I noticed an oh so slight hesitation, and Bernat quickly added what I mean is that art is born from dissatisfaction; no one makes art with their belly full, they just take a nap. And some of the spectators smiled.

When the event was finished, Adrià went to greet Bernat and he said you see?, full house, and Adrià said yeah, congratulations. Tecla gave Adrià a kiss: she seemed more calm, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, and before Garriga joined them she said I wasn’t expecting so many people to come, will you look at that? And Adrià didn’t dare to ask why didn’t my friend Llorenç come? And Garriga joined the group and wanted to meet Doctor Ardèvol and Bernat suggested why don’t we all have dinner together?

‘Oh, I can’t. I’m so sorry. Really. Go celebrate, you’ve earned it.’

When they left, the room was already empty. In the hall, Laura pretended she was looking at the information on upcoming events and turned as soon as she heard Adrià’s footsteps: ‘Hello.’

‘Let’s have dinner. My treat,’ she said, serious.

‘I can’t.’

‘Come on …’

‘I can’t, really. I have to go to the doctor.’

Laura was left with her mouth hanging open, as if her words had got stuck in her throat. She looked at her watch, but didn’t say anything. Somewhat offended, she said all right, fine, sure, no problem. And with a forced smile: are you all right?

‘No. And you?’

‘Me neither. I might stay in Uppsala.’

‘Wow. If that’s the best thing for you …’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Can we talk some other time?’ said Adrià, lifting his wrist that held his watch as an excuse.

‘Go ahead, go to your appointment.’

Adrià gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek and left quickly, without looking back. He could still make out Bernat’s relaxed laughter and I felt very good, truly, because Bernat deserved it all. Outside, it was starting to rain and, with his glasses splattered with drops, he searched for an impossible taxi.

‘Sorry.’ He wiped his soaked shoes on the mat in the hall.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ He had him come to the left, straight towards the examining room. ‘I thought you’d forgotten about me.’

On the right side of the flat you could hear the murmur of dishes and silverware, of everyday life. Doctor Dalmau had him enter and closed the door without locking it. He went for the white coat he had hanging, but changed his mind. They both sat down, one on each side of the desk. They looked at each other in silence. Behind the doctor there was a Modigliani reproduction filled with yellows. Outside, a smattering of spring rain.

‘Come on, what’s wrong?’

Adrià raised a hand to get attention.

‘Do you hear it?’

‘The telephone.’

‘Yes. They’ll answer it soon. I bet it’s for my daughter and she’ll have the line tied up for a couple of hours.’

Indeed, the telephone at the other end of the flat stopped ringing and a female voice was heard saying hello? Yeah, it’s me; who’d you expect?

‘What else?’ asked Doctor Dalmau.

‘Just that: the telephone. I’m always hearing the telephone ring.’

‘Let’s see if you can explain yourself a little better.’

‘I keep hearing the telephone ringing, a ringing that blames me and eats away at me inside and I can’t get it out of my head.’

‘How long has this been going on?’

‘Two long years. Almost three. Since the fourteenth of July, nineteen ninety-six.’

‘Quatorze juillet.’

‘Oui. The phone has been ringing since the fourteenth of July, nineteen ninety-six. It rang on Laura’s bedside table, in a disorganised room with half-packed suitcases. They looked at each other, as if wanting to ask, in some sort of guilty silence, whether they were expecting any call. Laura didn’t move, with her head on Adrià’s chest, and they both heard how the telephone, monotonously, insisted, insisted, insisted. Adrià stared at Laura’s hair, expecting her to reach for it. Nothing. The telephone kept ringing. And, finally, like a miracle, silence was re-established. Adrià relaxed; then he realised that while it was ringing, he had stiffened up. He ran his fingers through Laura’s hair. He stopped abruptly because the telephone started ringing again.

‘Damn, they don’t give up, do they,’ she said, curling up more towards Adrià.

It rang for another good long while.

‘Answer it,’ he said.

‘I’m not here. I’m with you.’

‘Answer it.’

Laura sat up grudgingly, picked up the receiver and said yes with a very subdued voice. A few seconds of silence. She turned and passed the receiver to him, hiding her shock very well.

‘It’s for you.’

Impossible, thought Adrià. But he took the receiver. He realised, with admiration, that the telephone was cordless. It must have been the first time he’d used a cordless phone. And he was surprised to be thinking that and to be remembering it now in front of Doctor Dalmau almost three full years later.

‘It’s Bernat.’

‘How did you find me?’

‘It’s a long story. Listen …’

I understood that Bernat’s hesitation was a bad portent.

Everything ended here, my beloved. Everything.