by Cesar Aira
Ema and two of her friends found themselves in the midst of the crowd, seated on an octagonal rug, along with one of Calvaiú’s wives, who had been assigned to answer their questions. The chief provided hostesses for all those who came intending to make a purchase, not just as a courtesy but also to ensure that they understood how the bidding worked and were able to spend as much as they had planned. Lunch was already coming to an end, and they were drinking and smoking. Bob had come to the fair with a network of black lines painted over all his body, and a black strap around his arm, into which he had tucked long red feathers. He was accompanied by his brother Héctor, an extremely thin young man, whose limbs were still smooth and childlike; there was not a touch of pigment anywhere on his body, but his whole head from the neck up, including his hair, which was cut into the shape of a helmet, was painted the brightest red. Not the opaque sealing-wax red of the uruku, but a vivid, metallic hue. The brothers ate voraciously while Ema spoke. They seemed to be less concerned than she was by the crowd massing all around them and the ambient buzzing of voices. Whenever the waiters went past, they had their earthenware bowls refilled with wine, brandy, or a white punch with an overpowering aroma.
Ema questioned her hostess about the origins of all the chiefs and delegates. She was curious to know what each of them might be able to bid.
“Some have brought infinite quantities of money,” the Indian woman affirmed. “See that one sitting there beside my husband? He’s the son of Mariano. He brought twilight bills of tiger- and tortoise-paper, stewed in a swamp.”
All three turned to look at him. The dignitaries in a circle around Calvaiú maintained the perfect stillness appropriate to their rank.
“Beside him is Quequén, his cousin and brother-in-law. And next to him, a chief without a name.”
She would have continued, but just then something caught the attention of everyone present. From the tent in which he had been sleeping, a burly Indian emerged, wearing the big headdress of a minister. The woman whispered to Ema that he was Catriel’s emissary.
He was greeted with elaborate bows by Calvaiú. But no sooner had he taken a seat than he stood up again and came over to Ema. Everyone was watching him. He sat down next to her, averting his gaze and squinting horribly. They exchanged a pair of conventional greetings: they had known each other during the young woman’s time at court. When the emissary returned to the chief’s circle, Ema was examined with fresh interest.
“Who are those two over there?” she asked.
The young woman took a look and said: “Cayé-San and Elpián. Don’t you know them?”
They were indeed the famous brothers, extravagantly painted and plumed, drinking, surrounded by women.
“Some of the birds they have brought are prizewinners.”
“So they won’t be buying?”
“On the contrary. Those who offer birds for sale are the biggest buyers, for the simple reason that they have unlimited credit. They’re the only ones who can bid as high as they like without having to worry about paying in cash.”
At that point, Ema heard a fragment of conversation behind her: “The longer I live,” said a voice, “the more convinced I am that sex isn’t everything.”
She turned discreetly and saw that the speaker was a majestic middle-aged woman, with large tattoos on her face. She was smoking a long cigarette, surrounded by men. Perhaps she was a queen, although queens were rare. In the world of the savages, women generally renounced power, preferring the contemplative life. Ema looked inquisitively at her guide, who said: “It’s Dedn, queen of the Aguaripayo.”
Ema remembered the name. The little sentence that had drifted her way must have been ironic, because Dedn’s sexual appetite was notoriously insatiable.
The orchestra struck up again, with its usual timing problems, to indicate that the toasts were beginning. Héctor and Bob had fallen asleep sitting up. They had eaten and drunk too much. But Ema and her hostess had their cups refilled and went on talking.
Not far away was a circle of beautiful Indian women laden with necklaces and covered with painting.
“They’re Hebdoceo’s servants.”
Ema’s hostess had apparently presumed that this name would be familiar to her, but since it was not, she explained: “He’s a minor chief, with a tiny village somewhere, but they say he’s the richest of all. He’s the owner and discoverer of the Despeñadero sulfur mines and has one of the biggest breeding farms.”
Ema spotted him among his serving women. He was a very light-skinned individual, wearing bejeweled garters.
“He’s bound to bid strongly for the champions. This year’s specimens are superb.”
“I saw them,” said Ema.
“And it won’t be just Hebdoceo. Many others have their eyes on those birds. Especially Satellite . . .”
This was the name pronounced most often in conversations all around the marketplace. Satellite was the grand champion of the golden breed, and according to those in the know, such a specimen had not been seen for many years. All the breeders were nursing the hope of outbidding the others that afternoon and taking him home.
“But no one has come from the western courts,” said Ema thoughtfully.
“Of course not. The kings never send anyone to the fairs. They have other sources.”
Ema looked at her hostess inquisitively.
“There are two ways of getting purebred specimens,” she explained. “For us, there are these sales. It’s a kind of craft: improving the breed by hybridization and cleaning up the gene pool. Buying and selling qualities and capacities. But the breeders in the west . . .”
She paused, looking off into the distance, as they always did when referring, with the usual precautions, to the western courts, which none of them had ever visited.
“The breeders in the west . . . the kings and the emperor . . . they get their pheasants from local sources. There’s no craft or work out there. Or if there are such things, they’re beyond imagining.”
Ema understood. This was the mystery they were courting so assiduously. The fair itself was no more than a veiled and elaborate allusion to the great combinations of pheasants that took place in the far west.
Around the edge of the showgrounds was a row of kneeling horses. This was one of the new fashions, apparently; the Indians were inveterate dandies. Many had parrots on their shoulders. The musicians continued to modulate, but no one was listening any more. Ema had not gone unnoticed. More than one pair of dark eyes turned to examine her. It was rare for women to come as buyers. When the rumor that she was white began to spread, the interest in her intensified. The polite treatment that she had received from Catriel’s disdainful emissary showed that she was well connected. They wanted to know more.
They saw her smoking with aplomb, and examined the young men accompanying her. Many chiefs made discreet inquiries. All they could find out was that she was new to breeding, and had the support of a white potentate, who, for his part, was new to the printing of money but full of imagination.
A minor chief named Pinedo, who was a relative of Caful, decided to go and greet her.
“Good day,” he said. “Have you admired the pretty chicks?”
“I have,” replied Ema evasively.
After a little more chatting, graced with a “serious smile,” Pinedo went away. Then Calvaiú himself invited her to join his family group. Ema declined, saying that she would like to take a siesta.
“Did you enjoy our little music?”
By this time, lunch was over, and those who had eaten were under the irresistible sway of sleep. Diligently attended to, the Indians reclined on blankets or carpets to take a nap. Some went to lie down among the trees, kicking at the little horses to shoo them away. Meanwhile, the chief sent his assistants to check that everything was in order at the auction site.
An indefinite time elapsed. The sound
of a little silver bell gradually woke them up. After some minor retouching of body paint and a cigarette, they were ready. They set off in long columns, unhurriedly. All the pheasants had been moved to the basement of the stadium, which had been built in a clearing two hundred yards from the village center. Ema was one of the last to go in. She had to pass through an archway, underneath the rows of seats, before emerging into the light. An oval field, surrounded by stands, which were already filling up with a noisy, impatient, brightly adorned crowd.
She looked around; the Indian woman was explaining something. The two pages kept their eyes on the ground, looking disdainful. They took their places in the front row.
At one end was the hatch from which the pheasants would emerge. At the other, a bamboo tower for the auctioneer. Bids were made by placing a roll of money on the little red desk in front of each seat.
Bob was holding the program that listed the champions and runners-up, with illustrations. That morning they had conducted a meticulous inspection of each specimen and filled the little booklet with marks. They were interested in almost all of the prizewinning birds.
From where they were sitting, they had a good view of the stadium. The chiefs and emissaries seemed to fall asleep as soon as they found their seats. They surrounded themselves with thick clouds of cigar smoke and feigned utter indifference to all the proceedings.
The field was covered with gray sand, stained especially to contrast with the colors of the pheasants. The birds began to parade straight away, and at the same time the auctioneer’s strident voice rang out, spouting a superfast stream of words from his cardboard megaphone.
.
Fifteen days later, having returned safe and sound with her pheasants, Ema related her trip to Espina, concluding with these words: “I’ve never had to make so many choices in a single afternoon. But I wouldn’t say that the afternoon was totally absurd. Meaninglessness was always on the point of breaking out, it seemed, but at the critical moment, nothing happened. Or rather, there was no critical moment. It was all repetition. It was exactly what people call ‘a magical afternoon.’ At times like that you feel that a scandal is about to rock the heavens. But for the Indians there’s no such thing as a scandal. Because it’s a human concept; it’s the human par excellence.”
“Although it does have an inhuman resonance,” Espina broke in. “I’ve thought about a civilization entirely made up of scandals.”
“By the time the last champions were auctioned, the light was failing, it was almost night. The stadium, which throughout the proceedings had resembled a basket hung among the clouds, now became an impluvium excavated in hell, lit only by the glowing sky over the silhouettes of the stands. The people sitting next to me, who had run out of rolls of money, took out catlike masks of jade. Some put on helmets. Most wore black sleeping masks without eyeholes. Everything had become frightening. I wonder now how I was able to stay calm; it was clear that we had gone too far. My two friends disappeared, and I had no news of them until the following day. They had been taken away by the priests. I kept thinking: Right now, their hearts are being torn out. I slept in one of the king’s apadanas, a trapezoidal bark construction, painted blue. One of my frightening bedfellows gave me this.”
With a nervous little laugh she handed him a golden ring. The colonel examined it intently, turning it between forefinger and thumb. Then he placed it on the ground. For a while he remained silent, with a look of concentration on his face. Finally he sighed and said: “I still can’t understand how you managed to get out of there alive. I don’t think any of my spies could have pulled that off. They must have been taken by surprise. But indifference is surprise in a higher degree.” He remained thoughtful for a moment. “Sometimes I wonder if we’ll ever understand the Indians. That limitless puerility. Among themselves, they take no pains to hide it. What can we do? We hide ourselves entirely, body and soul, but by adopting the posture of the aesthete, they can hide in their own presence. They’re always visible. Like money . . .”
Ema nodded.
“It’s something I’ve only just come to understand, although I lived with them for two years. In everyday life, money, however powerful, is a mere instrument. But at the auction it revealed itself in all its divine and useless splendor. Seeing those rolls made me shiver. The marvelous veil of money that hides all things had clearly been pulled aside. The little masks are amulets. Their function must be to plug the gaps that open up in the operation.”
“What did they do with them?”
“Nothing; they just displayed them. As I said, they brought them out right at the end, at dusk. The jade reflected the dimmest light, the blend of night and day.”
“Money has always been a solvent. But quantity itself has a dissolving effect. Nature is dissolved by the quantity of species in the world. And the quantity of nature dissolves humanity. How could paper money, which is pure quantity, always about to multiply, be anything other than a cataclysm? In European civilization, sadism is the force that has limited transformations. The theater of money is an Indian invention. There is something contradictory about it, as with most of their systems: it’s an indifferent sadism. For them, the sadistic complex has always been a social principle. Now they’ve reached a different stage in the evolution of representations. Sadism is power and pleasure; and, above all, repetition. They’re beyond that, it seems to me, in the repetition of difference. They’ve reached the point where money simultaneously accumulates and annihilates itself. We’re so far from that . . .” Espina sighed again and concluded, “with our pheasant-breeding.” Then his tone of voice changed. “Has the work begun already? Are the breeders producing results?”
Ema shrugged.
“It’s too soon to be sure. The pheasants were sedated for the journey. We had to wait a few days for them to get over it, and some didn’t acclimatize well: it’s very humid here. But yes, the work has begun. The first step was to impregnate the hens, and they’re already starting to lay.”
“I’d like to take a look.”
“Of course. We’ll do a tour.”
She had invited him to lunch, and they were alone in a room in Ema’s mansion, sitting on mats, Indian style. Slanting paper served as wall and roof, and two screens placed at an angle separated them from a space in which some maids were eating. Between the two of them were various rows of plates and glasses, from which the colonel was busily serving himself.
Ema was holding the youngest of her four children, a baby girl, four months old. When she opened her dress to feed her, the colonel could not repress a little gasp of admiration at the sight of the young woman’s breast. It was the image of purity. But he remembered the rumors about her that had reached his ears in the fort. Ema’s youth was categorical proof of her innocence and wantonness. Lack of age was often enigmatic, thought Espina: it meant a lack of certainty. Although those children were an expression of desire.
An Indian woman came in with another dish of pigeons and left it next to the colonel. He made a mouthful of one, followed straight away by another. He picked them up by the claws, with both hands. He tore off the breast and thighs with one bite, chewed them slowly, and washed them down with liquor. There was a big round demijohn within his reach, from which he kept refilling his cup. He tossed the skeletons into a basket.
Ema waited until the baby girl fell asleep and put her to bed. Then she ate an egg. Espina congratulated her on the woodcocks.
“We’ve found plentiful game in this area,” she said. “Woodcocks, quail, guinea fowl, lapwing. My workers hunt them for sport. They run them down. I’m worried that the pheasants might drive them away; they’re so unfriendly. When we start releasing them, it will affect all the fauna in the area.”
“When will that be?”
“By spring we’ll have two thousand young pheasants ready for life in the wild.”
The colonel whistled in admiration.
“Th
at’s impressive. What does it matter if those wretched fowl disappear. It would be a change for the good. What about the jaguars and the peccaries?”
“When pheasants occupy an area, all the big game disappears.”
“I’m still surprised that you’re intending to release them.”
“Not all of them. Just enough to create a protective zone around the breeding farm. And we’ll keep working on most of the birds here, using Indian techniques: insemination, incubation, fattening up. The wild birds will serve a different purpose.”
Noticing that the colonel’s attention had strayed, she stopped. A dish of strawberries was brought in and another bottle of champagne uncorked.
“To the pheasants!” said Espina, raising his glass.
He’d been obliged to undo his belt buckle, his abdomen was so distended, and the effects of his fullness and the silence were combining to close his eyes. When Ema put a cigarette between his lips, he inhaled with delight. The smoke was very cool by the time it reached his lungs, and the pleasure was acute. The atmosphere surrounding them was created by Ema’s perfect mastery of etiquette. They could hear the pheasants outside crying from time to time, and occasional bursts of laughter and exclamations from the young people, far away, and all these sounds were lapped by waves of deep silence. On the verge of sleep, the colonel thought that he could also hear notes made by an Indian harp, although he could not pick out the melody. Before his drowsy eyes the shadows arranged themselves into figures. A smiling cat with a geometrical head, a coiled snake, a monkey baring its teeth, which turned out to be white dice . . .
When he woke up, Ema was lying asleep on the rush mat. The remains of lunch were radiant, transfigured: a glass, a silver saltcellar, or a drop of water on a piece of fruit gathered the light here and there. There was a plant in a pot, with almost black, palmlike leaves, fuzzed with white on the undersides, graciously curving toward the paper wall. Espina’s movements woke the young woman, who smiled and apologized: “I fell asleep for a moment.” She got up and went to look at her baby girl. “If you like, we could do it now, that tour I promised you.”
