Confession, p.1
Confession, page 1
Confession
First published by Charco Press 2023
Charco Press Ltd., Office 59, 44-46 Morningside Road, Edinburgh
EH10 4BF
Copyright © Martín Kohan 2020
First published in Spanish as Confesión (Anagrama, 2020)
English translation copyright © Daniel Hahn, 2023
The rights of Martín Kohan to be identified as the author of this work and of Daniel Hahn to be identified as the translator of this work have been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Work published with funding from the ‘Sur’ Translation Support Programme of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs of Argentina / Obra editada en el marco del Programa ‘Sur’ de Apoyo a las Traducciones del Ministerio de Relaciones Exteriores de la República Argentina.
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from the British Library.
ISBN: 9781913867652
e-book: 9781913867669
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Edited by Fionn Petch
Cover designed by Pablo Font
Typeset by Laura Jones
Proofread by Fiona Mackintosh
Martín Kohan
Confession
Translated
by Daniel Hahn
Note to the reader
The third part of this novel, beginning on page 121, describes a conversation that takes place over a game of cards. The game being played is truco, a trick-taking game that is very widely known in Argentina, but which you’re unlikely to play if you’re reading this in the Anglo world. It is perfectly possible to read the section without knowing how the game works (I did). But if you would like to prepare yourself, you’ll find the basic rules of truco explained by Michel Nieva in an appendix on page 163.
Daniel Hahn
Contents
I. Mercedes
II. Airport
III. Plaza Mayor
For Alexandra
I. Mercedes
Father, I have sinned. I’ve sinned, or I think I have, said, and says, Mirta López, my grandmother. Who wasn’t my grandmother yet, of course: she was only twelve. Kneeling in the confessional at the church of San Patricio, over in Mercedes, aware of Father Suñé, who was leaning forward, just like her, towards the porous wooden grille, in the comingled smell of incense and the damp of the floor and walls, in the thick gloom from the stained-glass windows that are too high up and probably dirty, as she awaited the double promise of understanding and punishment, of acceptance and rebuke, of indulgence and sanction, presenting tolerance with something maybe intolerable, approaching forgiveness with something perhaps unforgivable, Mirta López, my grandmother, the girl who would much later be my grandmother, white blouse and blue skirt and an elastic headband, also blue, holding and ordering her hair, said this: I have sinned, and then: or I think I have. The verbs conjugated in that way, the present perfect, an appropriate form for confession and for all solemn pronouncements (for promises, the future: I won’t do it again; for sins, the present perfect: I have lied). She said and says, in those exact words, and although when speaking today she raises her head, for a better evocation, at the time she lowered it, ashamed: chin touching her chest, her eyes lost on her own hands, a contained sob.
There was a silence. It’s not only sounds that echo, silences echo too; that happens in churches, and it happened in the San Patricio one, over in Mercedes, after my grandmother Mirta spoke. In that silence, which was troubling, it did occur to her that her words, the way she had murmured them, were less like a confession than a question. Then, from the other side, she heard Father Suñé’s voice:
‘You have sinned? Or you think that you have sinned?’
The verbs conjugated in the present perfect, and, besides, using the familiar tú.
Indeed: what she had formulated, the way she’d formulated it, was really a doubt and not a confession, or at least not a confession just yet. Which is why that invisible priest, the voice of Father Suñé, from that kind of sacred hidey-hole called a confessional, was unable to utter, he could not, either penance nor absolution, but could merely do what in fact he did: return the doubt to her, ask for more clarity.
‘You think you’ve sinned? Or you have?’
Mirta López didn’t know. Or rather, she wasn’t sure. That good existed, on the one hand, and that evil existed, on the other, oh, she was perfectly well aware of that: she learned it at communion, she had sensed it earlier and she’d recently had it ratified when she got confirmed in the Mercedes cathedral. God and Lucifer, heaven and hell, virtue and sins; simple as that. Well, then? So why could she not answer? Father Suñé was waiting. The church of San Patricio was waiting. She felt herself being assailed by dizziness and tears. She rested a hand on the wood, the better to support herself, and firmly planted the twelve years of her knees intact on the barely padded covering that received the guilty. Lying is always a sin; here, in God’s house, it’s a mortal one. But she was not going to lie, of course; she didn’t know, that was the truth. Better, then, to tell what had happened, what it was that had happened to her, and let it be for Father Suñé, with that smell of damp and incense that might have been his and not the church’s, finally to establish, discerningly, whether she had sinned or not. And if she had, then what sin it was. And with what penalty she would redeem herself.
So my grandmother spoke. She had confessed throughout her childhood: a lie to her schoolmistress in first grade, yanking Cecilia Pardo’s plaits in second, the theft of an eraser in third, a bad word said in fourth. That sort of thing. Now, however, having completed primary school, having been through her Confirmation, she had the unerring impression that she was confessing for the first time in her life. She wasn’t going to forget this day – 6 March, 1941 – for that reason. Then Mirta López said, she said to Father Suñé, that sometimes she felt a powerful tremor, a kind of whirlpool, only hot, in her stomach, in her whole belly, a thing kind of like a fever and a perspiration, a sudden feeling of alarm and bewilderment, and that it was only by bringing her legs together, no, not bringing but squeezing them together, and not her legs but her thighs, that it was only then, yes, squeezing her thighs together, that she managed gradually to calm herself, gradually to restore her tranquillity.
There was a pause and there was a silence, which wasn’t, not remotely, the same silence as before. Father Suñé cleared his throat.
‘Where do you feel all that, exactly?’ he enquired.
‘Here,’ said my grandmother, and she pointed to herself; but the gesture meant nothing. She, too, was invisible now, at least to Father Suñé. She would have to describe it. So she did: ‘That’s it, like a whirlpool. It goes up or down, and it spins round me. Here, in my stomach.’
‘Your stomach, ah yes,’ Father Suñé confirmed this. ‘But your legs, what about them?’
‘My legs come together, they squeeze together,’ replied Mirta, my grandmother; ‘or I’ve got to squeeze them together, Father, it’s the only thing that calms me down. It becomes like a kind of a bubbling. Then I’m all calm again.’
Father Suñé fell silent. She could just barely make him out, back there, thinking.
‘And do you touch yourself?’ he asked as last.
Mirta didn’t understand at first, she wondered if she’d heard him right. She said something, she can’t remember it now, a babbling, only half-words. The priest seemed to suspect that she was being evasive. He raised his voice. There in the church.
‘Your hands, girl, your hands. What do you do with your hands? Do you touch yourself?’
Mirta thought about a piano, about candy, about boiling water: those things you were and were not allowed to touch. And she said no: she didn’t touch herself.
Perhaps the priest nodded, in there: agreeing or relieved.
‘Do you have wicked thoughts?’ he went on. His voice sounded gentler: ‘When all this happens, do you have wicked thoughts? Abominable pictures in your mind?’
Mirta, my grandmother, she now says, sobbed. And that was a confession to herself, before it was one to Father Suñé, to his voice, to his questions; before it was one to Our Lord God, who is all-knowing, who is all-seeing. Because she, of course, was not lying, you don’t lie in confession, it’s the same as condemning yourself to hell. But she was, yes, keeping things quiet, omitting things. And the sin of omission, well, it’s in the name, is still a sin.
She didn’t find the San Patricio church as scary as the cathedral, which was bigger, though less dark. But she did still find it scary. And Father Suñé’s voice wasn’t unfamiliar to her, she could recognise it right away, and while it inspired confidence in her, it inspired fear, too. She wouldn’t have been able to tell him what at that moment she did tell him if she could have seen him: face to face, his dark eyes, his eyebrows, his frown. But that was just it: she could not. She could not have seen him even if she
Mirta López then said that she did not have wicked thoughts, absolutely not. The whirlpool, the alarm, the fever and the stifling, she had provoked none of it herself, by imagining this or that. The desire to squeeze her thighs together: that, she said, she says, didn’t result from any fantasising either. But nor did it just happen of its own accord, at any old moment, or just because. It happened whenever she saw – through the window of the dining room of her house, on the opposite pavement, or worse still, that is to say, better still, on the near pavement – the Videlas’ eldest son going by.
‘He isn’t their eldest son,’ Father Suñé corrected her. ‘There were two other sons born before him.’
‘But they’re dead!’ exclaimed my grandmother, her voice too loud, and she was startled to hear it bounce off parts of the church: the altar, the pulpit, a poor-box, the crucified Christ. She reverted to a whisper: ‘they died a year later, poor little angels. Of measles.’
‘I know,’ the priest persisted. ‘But they do exist. They died but they exist in the Kingdom of God. Baptised by me, just as you were: Jorge and Rafael.’
My grandmother didn’t contradict him, but she reasoned: that in leaving when still so tiny, without even having grown, she’d always seen the next son, who even carried their names, as the eldest. The fact is that, en route to the railway station, because he was studying in Buenos Aires, or returning from the station, for that same reason, he always walked right by her house. Sometimes closer to the window, if he was on the near pavement, sometimes a tiny bit further away, if he was on the opposite one; but he did go past, always. Upright and serene. And she, on seeing him, would hurry to the window, concealed behind the net curtain, to get a closer view of his passing and so that that passing would last longer. And it was then, just then, on reaching the armchair, or actually a little earlier, from the very moment she saw him, that the hot whirlpool began, it would climb up her belly, it would climb up and also down, a heat as if from lack of sleep or from having eaten too much, a kind of fever and breathlessness in her temples and in her chest, and all this at once sank into her, or overflowed, and she’d get that urge to squeeze her legs together like she’d already told him about, that urge or that urgency to bring her thighs together and squeeze, seeing the Videlas’ eldest son moving away towards the corner, his steps firm and the back of his neck so fair, drawing the curtain a little and looking out but no longer afraid of being seen, the evening, the pavement, the trees and the big Mercedes sky.
So said and says Mirta López, my grandmother. And she says that Father Suñé remained silent for a bit, maybe half a minute or less, but which to her seemed a whole century. Until at last he spoke and asked: if she’d had any wicked thoughts. Not before, nor during, but afterwards. Mirta López said she hadn’t. To which Father Suñé asked: if she’d had wicked dreams, sinful dreams, after that. Mirta López said she never remembered what she dreamt, she didn’t have that ability, but that her teacher in fifth grade, Miss Posadas, had told her that we all dream dreams; that dreaming always happens; only she didn’t remember having had bad dreams afterwards, and if she’d had them she was sure she would have remembered, and no, she didn’t remember any, so no: there had been no bad ones.
She heard the wood creak in there, the other side of the confessional. Father Suñé had moved.
‘You are free from sin,’ he concluded.
Mirta López gave a sigh of relief.
‘Childish over-excitement, that’s all,’ the priest explained.
Mirta López, she can’t say why, thanked him: twice, three times.
‘You are free from sin,’ said Father Suñé. ‘Go with God.’
Father Suñé would have remained there a little while longer, in his little booth for listening and judging. He would have stayed unmoving, in the dark, as if waiting for someone else who might show up to clear out any regrets, tribulations. He would have heard, if not really noticed, the effect of the wooden heels on the church’s chilly paving slabs, the steps with which Mirta López crossed the nave and moved away. He would then have heard the groan of farewell from one of the two swing doors: the girl had gone. He would have brought his hands together, and linked his fingers, as if about to pray, but without praying. He would have been left there thinking – about what? About God, presumably. Finally, after a time, he would have readied himself to leave the confessional. It is easier to be there than it is to go in (get inside and settle himself there) or come out (turn around and emerge), which was why he would have felt visibly agitated as he arranged his cassock with both hands, like somebody trying to get rid of wrinkles (but no, his attire would have looked impeccable) or looking for something in his pockets (but no, he mostly wouldn’t use those pockets). He would have walked, then, through his church, slowly and dragging his feet a little: the friction of worn soles on a mundane floor. On passing the altar, he would have come to a stop, he would have bowed his head, he would have crossed himself; all gestures that seemed automatic, which he would have composed, however, in order to provide premeditation and hence to act knowingly. Then he would have disappeared, on the far side of the building, through one of those side doors that from the place of the faithful cannot be seen and which suggest, for that very reason, because it’s not known where exactly they are nor where exactly they lead, that there are mysteries in the world of man, just as there are in the Kingdom of God, and that they too, albeit quite differently, are unfathomable.
Mirta López emerged from the San Patricio church with something more than relief: with gladness. She walked quickly down the clear pavement, but she could have run, or she could have done it, as she used to, while jumping rope. On this first block she didn’t bump into anybody, but if she had, she would have greeted them or would have smiled at them, out of sheer happiness. She walked to the town’s main square, the place with the most sun and the most light of anywhere. Until not long ago she had gone there to play with her girlfriends, the setting for her childhood, for her evenings and her summers. Now she turned, looked around her, sat down on one of the stone benches. She heard herself breathe. She was happy. There were no obstacles: she could go on spying through the window of the dining room of her house, on Saturday afternoons, on his return from boarding school in Buenos Aires, and on Sundays just before night fell, when he came back, the Videlas’ eldest son, who’d walk past without registering her, supposing her, imagining her.
They say that the city turns its back on the river. And quite right. The reproach, which is spoken frequently, assumes something wasted, it suggests some neglect, some folly. The city has its river, as so many cities do: Paris and London and Frankfurt, or, rather nearer, Montevideo; the city has its best landscape there, the way Rosario has its islands or Santiago its mountain range. And yet instead of looking, it chooses to ignore it. Metaphorically or literally: it turns its back on it.
Is it wrong to do so? The river is horrible. It’s thick and cloudy, it’s dull and flat. It neither flows by nor does it offer anything; its swell, when the wind is blowing, is a mere imitation of the real thing, the frustration of a swell. It’s worse than a motionless river: it’s a river that doesn’t even know how to move. It shudders, irregularly, or stalls on the spot, with neither rhythm nor grace, like an animal that’s too big or a bulk too clumsy.
Where does it come from? From the Paraná and the Uruguay. But it has since lost all its virtues. Because you don’t just see rivers flowing, you know they flow; that they are changing always, that they only stay while going; you’re aware of the idea that they put into Heraclitus’s head, and, with him, thanks to him, into everyone else’s. And where does it go? Towards the Argentine Sea, towards the ocean. But it doesn’t, any longer, have its qualities. Because you don’t just not see the seas ending, you know they don’t end. That’s why they become horizon: because they do, indeed, arrive at the horizon. It’s short-sightedness, that’s all: a lack of angle, of perspective. With enough height (the height does exist, it’s not just conjecture: there are rich people familiar with it on the upper floors of Avenida del Libertador), you can know that it does end right there, just opposite, over in Colonia.
