by Cesar Aira
The only one who had a secret thought was Patri. Less an idea than a feeling: she felt that she still had to do something; that there was some unfinished business. What she really wanted was to stop thinking. She didn’t like feeling that she was a mechanism performing a function, but since she had told the ghosts that she “had to think about it,” she felt obliged to do so. By nature she was particularly taciturn, but this predicament helped her to see the usefulness of speaking. When you speak, you automatically stop thinking; it’s like being released from a contract. Or rather, as she said to herself, it’s like those stories in which an especially handsome man appears, to whom the virile protagonist feels inexplicably attracted, which he finds disturbing, understandably, until it is finally revealed that the handsome man is in fact a woman in disguise. Such is the dialectic of thinking and speaking. But having reached this point in her reflections, Patri wondered if she wasn’t herself (and this was the secret of all her thought) a woman in disguise, brilliantly disguised.... as a woman. But she didn’t go down those mysterious passageways, preferring to remain on the surface of her frivolity, because there was also a dialectical relation between thought and secrecy. Or, more pertinently in this case, between thought and time. It simply wasn’t possible to go on thinking all the time. It would be like a painter who has to delay the completion of a picture for technical reasons, say to allow certain thick layers of color to dry, and meanwhile is assailed by new ideas—a figure, a mountain, an animal, and so on—which go on filling up the painting until the pressure of multiplicity makes it explode.
The children kept escaping from their little table. Stunned by the bliss of the meal, their parents let them be, except when they strayed out of the circle of variably feeble light shed by the globe, because the darkness beyond hid the irrevocable edges of the void, and those of the deep swimming pool, which were dangerous if not so terrible. When they did stray, one of the women would volunteer to go and bring them back, or frighten them into submission with a scolding if that was sufficient. Patri, lost in thought while all the others had gone rounding up the children, was the last to take her turn. There had been a veritable exodus, and some stern words from Elisa had failed to bring them all back to their places, so Patri pushed her chair back and went into the darkness to see what she could see. She walked toward the back of the terrace, to the left of the pool, until she heard the older children running around the right side to get away. But she went all the way to the back anyway, to make sure there were none left. There were no children, and once she was close to the edge, she could see more clearly, because of the light coming up from the houses and the streets. She stopped on the brink, but was not in any danger, because of her pensive mood: she was continually stopping to think, and that moment was no exception. Some ghosts appeared, floating in the air two or three yards away. Night had made them majestic, monumental, perhaps because they were illuminated from below by the glow coming from the Avenida Alberdi on the other side of the block, and they looked like foreshortened figures, barely a few golden lines in the darkness. They seemed more serious too, but there was no way to be sure. In Patri’s eyes, at any rate, they had entered a spacious domain of seriousness. For her, those volumes swimming in shadow, those volumes reduced to lines, as if to suggest that they existed in a dimension of aggravated unreality, seemed strangely, almost incredibly, solemn. The shadows served a different function for the ghosts, since they had “nothing to hide” (because they weren’t alive). I accept the invitation, said Patri. A minute before midnight I’ll jump off here. Here? asked one of the ghosts, as if he had not heard. Yes, here. Ah. It’s more practical, said Patri, feeling obliged to explain. Then they nodded; and that simple movement, indicating that they had heard, made them seem less serious. One of them said: Thank you for the confirmation, young lady. Everything is ready for the feast.
When she came back to the table, she noticed that her mother was looking at her strangely, and wondering briefly what she was thinking. Over the chicken bones and empty salad bowls, the diners were speaking of this and that. By a curious coincidence, all of them, without exception, had been born in the city of Santiago, the most beautiful city in the world, as they readily agreed, having already made up their minds. The way they praised Santiago, they could have been employed by a travel agency.
It’s a pity you can’t see the stars in Santiago, because of the smog, said Roberto. I’ve seen them, said Raúl Viñas, leaning forward. Under close observation, some of Raúl Viñas’ mannerisms, such as a certain way of swaying his head, could seem to be typical of a drunkard. But it happened that his brother, who didn’t drink, or never to excess, had the same mannerisms. So the observer’s judgment had to be revised: they were family traits. Roberto was constantly making this readjustment when he spoke with his future brothers-in-law. I’ve seen them, said Raúl Viñas, leaning forward and exaggerating the swaying movement of his head. Yeah, all right, very clever, replied his sister’s boyfriend, I’ve seen them too, otherwise how would I know they exist? I didn’t discover them in Argentina. But I saw them in the old days, when I was a kid. I’ve seen them just recently, said Raúl Viñas. And his brother Javier repeated his words. Listen Roberto, they said, Listen.... (Right from the start they had decided to dispense with formalities, since they were going to be brothers-in-law; and the women had done the same. Otherwise Roberto would have felt uncomfortable.) Since they weren’t agreeing about what they had seen in Santiago, they moved on to not agreeing about something closer to hand. The same thing happens here, said Inés Viñas, although there’s no smog. It’s because there’s too much street lighting. Some people think you can’t have enough, Carmen pointed out. But you can see them here too! said Javier Viñas. Don’t you believe it, Roberto replied. Hey kids, let’s do a test, cried Elisa, then she asked the children to behave, because it was going to be dark for a while. She went to the kitchen, and switched off the light. They all threw their heads back and looked up. When their pupils dilated, an immense starry sky, the whole Milky Way in its rare magnificence, appeared before them. You can hardly see it, said Raúl Viñas. I can see it clear as anything, said Javier. Yes, it’s true. Yes, yes. They all looked up and abandoned the conversation. There are the galaxies! said Javier’s children. If only we had a telescope!
While the others were going into raptures about the stars, Patri felt that she could see her family in the sky, her beloved family, and realized that she was bidding them farewell. It wasn’t true what they said about the dead being turned into stars for the living to see: it was the other way around. She couldn’t say that she was sad to be leaving them for ever, but she saw them scattered over the black sky, each a beautiful, everlasting point of light, and felt a kind of nostalgia, not in anticipation but almost as if she were looking back already. She was telling herself that as long as a sacrifice is worthwhile, it is possible. The thing is, the stars were so far away.... The kids were right: they needed a telescope; but that would have made them look even more distant. She moved her head slightly, and felt that the stars, remote as they were, had entered her. The “state of farewell” implied a certain detachment. That detachment or doubling affected thought as well, and under its influence Patri conceived the following analogy. In the course of his everyday activities, it occurs to a man that in an ideal state of perfect happiness, satisfying all the requirements set out by the philosophers (and some have been extremely particular in these matters, not so much because they were naturally fussy, al
though they were, because most of them were bachelors, but mainly because they got carried away by their ontological deductions), he would be doing exactly what he is doing now, not something equivalent, but the very same thing, as if in a parallel world. Of course not if his work was really terrible, as so much work is, but these days, thought Patri, quite a few people live without working, so the objects of this man’s hypothetical comparisons would be a walk, a session at the gym, a train trip to the suburbs, that sort of thing, and it wouldn’t require a great imaginative effort to arrive at the conclusion that there could indeed be a perfect identity between what he is doing in reality, and what he would be doing at the same time, on the same day, in a state of perfect happiness (individual, social and even cosmic happiness, if you like, the end of alienation, etc. etc.). In fact it wouldn’t require any imaginative effort at all, because there would be no need to call on the imagination; all he’d have to do would be to modify his gestures, or their form: slightly slower movements, a conceited little smile, the head held slightly higher.... It’s always the way, she thought: you look up at the starry sky, and before you know it you’re thinking about other worlds. How idiotic!
Of course, the stars over Santiago, said Javier, are completely different. What do you mean different? he was asked in surprise and bewilderment. They’re not the same, he replied. Appalled, Raúl Viñas put his head in his hands. What a dumb thing to say! We’re in the same hemisphere! What’s that got to do with it? Neither brother knew whether to credit the other’s implausible ignorance or assume it was an exercise in mutual leg-pulling. The women laughed. Elisa Vicuña, who was justly reputed for her intelligence, backed up her brother-in-law: But they are different. It’s true, said Roberto, supporting her. Raúl Viñas had no choice but to yield, mainly because, on that point, he actually was in agreement. Of course they’re different, he said, but that doesn’t mean they’re not the same constellations, the same arrangements, the same stars, if you like. They all looked very carefully at the stars. Was there anything familiar about them? They couldn’t say there was, but they couldn’t say there wasn’t either. What I think, said Patri, is that they’re the same but back to front. Exactly, said Raúl, Patricita is right. Point of view is everything, said Carmen. And to think we’ve seen those stars from the other side, said Inés Viñas, poised between melancholy and delight. But their necks had begun to hurt, and since the children had taken advantage of the darkness to escape and tear around like little devils, they switched on the light again. They emerged from that plunge into the starry darkness smiling more broadly, and saw each other with different eyes, which were, of course, logically, the same. They drank a toast: To the stars of Chile. There’s a current that carries the stars away! said Raúl Viñas, between mouthfuls.
Soon the fruit was served and they were tasting it. All the family preferred fruit to desserts, which was lucky for the mistress of the household, because it meant less work, although she still had to peel, pit, and remove seeds, especially for the children. When they told Roberto, he couldn’t believe it. It turned out that he was exactly the same. His devotion to fruit was matched only by his aversion to desserts; serving them after the finest meal was enough to spoil all the pleasure retrospectively. He was sure that Inés must have mentioned it, that quirk of his, but no, on the contrary, Elisa Vicuña had been worried that he wouldn’t be satisfied with plain fruit, served in the primitive style. Even so she hadn’t wanted to spoil the rest of the family’s pleasure. It was almost telepathic, a coincidence that proved he was meant to be part of the family. And what fruit! Glorious nectarines, so ripe they were violet, mosque-shaped apricots, bunches of green and black grapes, each one sublime, bleeding strawberries, Anjou pears with snow-white flesh, purple cherries, big black plums, all the abundance of nature, civilized to a supreme degree of refinement by grafting and husbandry, to the point where any improvement in flavor would almost have been imperceptible. Nothing less could satisfy this family of insatiable fruit-eaters; luckily fruit was cheap in summer.
Did you know, said Elisa, that we have ghosts on this site? Real ghosts? they asked. Well, they’re never real, are they? But you can see them, every day, at siesta time. And other times, added Patri. Yes, other times too. The conversation moved on to ghosts. Everyone could contribute an experience, a memory, or at least something they had heard. It was the ideal subject for storytelling.
Raúl Viñas told the story of the ghost who was walking along and, distracted by the sight of a plane flying over, fell into a well. In the well there was a hare, and they struck up a conversation. The hare (a male hare, while the ghost, as it happened, was the ghost of a woman) had also fallen in by accident, and had stayed there, not because he couldn’t get out (it wasn’t a very deep well) but to rest. Were you watching the plane flying over too? asked the ghost. No, said the hare, I was running away. Uh huh? said the ghost, her curiosity piqued. What from? The hare shrugged his shoulders, difficult as that may be to imagine. He went on to explain that in fact he was always running away, from everything, so in the end he didn’t really distinguish between reasons for flight. But you should, advised the ghost. Why? said the hare. Why run away more quickly from what seems to be more dangerous, and more slowly from what seems a lesser threat? That would be a grave mistake, because you can always judge wrongly, and even if you don’t, the lesser threat could turn out to be fatal. The ghost concurred, and said reflectively that it had been rash of her to offer advice on a subject she knew nothing about. Understandably enough, since her specialty—appearing—was the opposite of flight. The hare sighed, envying his chance companion’s lot: how wonderful not to have to worry about preserving your life! Except that you have to start by losing it, the ghost remarked wisely. Ah, but then.... You see.... No, sorry, but you’re mistaken.... Allow me to.... They were so absorbed in their philosophizing that they didn’t notice the arrival of a hunter, a bad sport as we shall see, and inept too, who looked over the edge of the well, and seeing a defenseless hare at his feet, cocked his shotgun (that sinister “click” finally brought the hare and the ghost back down to earth, but all they had time to do was freeze), and fired: bang. Since he was a poor shot, he hit the ghost, who of course he hadn’t seen. Transparent as air, blood spurted from a wound on the left side of her chest. The hare had no time to pity her, since, like the classic moral at the end of a fable, he had leapt out of the well with a single bound, and was already far away, fleeing as fast as he could.
Javier Viñas told the story of the old watchmaker who could tell what time it was by observing the positions of ghosts, which led him, by association, to depressing reflections on the decline of his trade. All things analog were losing ground, and the tendency seemed to be irreversible. It saddened him to hear people say “Eleven fifty-six, seven thirty-nine, two-o-one” as they walked past his poky little shop. Nobody said “it’s just gone twenty to two” because even a child would have replied, “You mean one forty-one? Or one forty-two?” Now his only clients were little old men like himself with some broken-down antique, an Omega, a Vacheron Constantin, or a Girard Perregaux, and he was no longer surprised when one of them decided that it wasn’t worth repairing, and walked past the next day with a Japanese watch on his wrist. Soon no one would know that the hour is made up of two halves. Already the ticking of a watch was a thing of the past: the heart was an outmoded organ. Because the ticking of a watch was “like” that of the heart; in other words, they were analogs. And analog watches were the old
ones, the ones with hands. It was true that there were also imitation analog watches, with hands, which operated digitally, but that was ostentatious or condescending, and gave the old watchmaker little hope. He spent the day sitting still, feeling depressed, stiller and more depressed each day, staring at the back wall of the shop, where two ghosts showed the time, all day long. They were two child-sized ghosts, so punctual and patient that the watchmaker found it natural for them to be there, showing the time. And the stiller he became, the more natural the slow, sure movement of the ghost-hands seemed. But he shouldn’t have been so complacent. Because one afternoon, the ghosts came down from their places and said to him with a mischievous smile: Time passes, you stupid old miser, technology changes, but not human greed, and “backwards” people like you just spread gloom, which has spoilt life for ghosts. Aren’t you ashamed? The old watchmaker was so astonished, he couldn’t even open his mouth. He felt himself being swept up by an impalpable force, into the air, and carried to that place by the back wall where the ghosts had shown the time. Now he was showing it, his body marking the hour, as on the first clock faces, before the invention of the minute hand. Meanwhile the real ghosts had vanished.
