César Aira - The Musical Brain - And Other Stories

The aforementioned problems — how to balance personal expenses against charity, and how to avoid the vanity of the self-admiring benefactor — can be avoided by following the example set out below.

The priest begins by recognizing that he is a visitor passing through a world in which poverty and need are permanent fixtures. He will be replaced by another priest, who will be faced with the same dilemmas. And he realizes that a good way to practice charity is to ensure that it will not be discontinued in the future. This is not only a precaution but an act of humility as well, if the person acting charitably in the present deliberately gives up piety points in favor of his successor. In other words, and to be more specific, it’s a matter of taking the money that might have been given to the poor today and investing it in amenities that will be enjoyed by the next priest assigned to the parish, so that he will be able to use his whole budget to protect the needy against hunger and cold.

Motivated by this reasoning, which might seem rather unusual, but has a solid logical base, the priest arranges for a house to be built as soon as he arrives to take up his new position. The existing house, which is his to live in, is old, small, uncomfortable, and dark. The roof leaks, the floors are bare gray cement, and there are no shutters on the little windows. It’s surrounded by a patio full of weeds, a ruined chicken coop, and swampy scrubland. For him, it would be fine. He doesn’t need luxuries, not even modest ones. His vow of poverty implicitly or explicitly enjoins him to share life’s hardships with the least fortunate of his fellow men. And the money at his disposal would make a difference to many of those who live nearby: doing his initial rounds, getting to know the flock that has fallen to his care, he can see for himself the terrible poverty afflicting those helpless families, victims of unemployment, ignorance, and distance from major cities. It would be easy for him to play the role of benefactor, beginning, for example, with the most desperate situation (although it would be hard to choose among so many pitiful cases) and providing a remedy that would seem nothing short of miraculous. So acute is the deprivation that what he and his relatives would consider a trifle — literally: the price of a dessert — might keep those poor people in food for weeks. Then he could move on to other families, and others, his action spreading like a drop of oil, finally earning the love and respect of everyone in the area. . But he would leave a minefield for his successor, who’d be tempted to look after himself rather than his neighbors, especially since he’d be able to say: My predecessor did so much for others, he was so self-abnegating; he left the priest’s house in such a ruinous state, it’s only reasonable for me to do something for myself, and for my successor. The poor, meanwhile, as well as having been spoiled by the largesse of the first priest, would find themselves without food, shelter, or medication.

So, although his heart is bleeding for the pitiful condition of his flock, he pays no heed, but hires architects and builders, buys bricks, cement, marble, and wood. And he embarks on the construction of a large modern house, equipped with all the latest conveniences, built to last, with the finest materials.

Under the innocent, admiring gazes of barefoot children, teams of builders brought in by a developer work in shifts to erect a worthy abode. The priest has discussed the plans at length with the architect. Every step of the way he thinks of his faceless, nameless successor, who may still be unborn, but is already foremost in his thoughts. The house is for that future priest, after all; it has been designed so that he will find it splendid and welcoming, so well suited to his taste that there will be nothing for him to do, besides devoting his days to the exercise of charity. But with a stranger, there’s a lot to cover, if you’re trying to cover it all; where there’s a choice between two possibilities, you have to allow for both rather than choosing one. So the priest finds himself obliged to opt for a magnificence to which he is not accustomed, and yet he forges on without fear of excess, regardless of the cost.

In matters of taste, of course. . And alterations are costly, sometimes even more costly than building. So he has to figure it out as carefully as possible at every step. But tastes don’t differ all that much, and in this case the differences are limited because he’s designing the house for a priest like him, a pious man, devoted to his pastoral duties. So all he has to do is identify with his successor, imagine a version of himself transported into the future, for whom the previous incumbent has smoothed the way by leaving him a fully prepared and furnished dwelling, so that he won’t have to worry about setting up house and will be able to focus entirely on spiritual matters and helping his neighbors. He is guided by his own taste, stretching it here and there to accommodate any unexpected idiosyncrasies. When in doubt, he opts for a Solomonic solution, but instead of dividing, he duplicates. With the bathrooms, for example: he knows that some owners prefer en suites, while others find them repugnant and hold that bathrooms should give on to a hallway. So he decides to have two main bedrooms, one with an en suite bathroom, the other with the bathroom next door, but opening off a hall. This problem solves itself as the plans are worked out and the bedrooms and bathrooms multiply: they can be disposed in a variety of ways to satisfy not only the eventual owner of the house but all his guests and visitors as well. When it comes to the kitchen, however, there’s a choice that can’t be avoided by multiplication: should it be an “open” kitchen, giving on to the everyday dining room, or a “closed” one, with a separating wall? It’s hard to know, because, really, it’s up to the woman of the house, who will be the main user of the kitchen, so all the priest can do is speculate. Some women, he thinks, might want more privacy, less interference when they’re cooking, while others would prefer not to be cut off from the other members of the family, who might be chatting or enjoying some game at the table in the dining room. A sliding door would seem to be the synthesis that overcomes this problem, but, on due reflection, there’s no need for a synthesis: all one has to do is make the kitchen large enough to include a dining area, should one be required, and have a separate dining room as well.

The house has two floors, three including the attic rooms. Or four, including the basement, where the laundry is, and which is only half underground because the ground floor, the piano nobile , is elevated. That’s where the salons are, arranged in a kind of circuit, so that, whatever the time of day, the ample windows of one, at least, can capture the sunlight. Having climbed the twelve steps of the grand stairway to enter the house and walked down a long hallway, one reaches a central lobby, which is the only large space on the ground floor that does not give on to the outside. Yet it is not deprived of daylight, because a spacious arcade connects it with another lobby, of the same dimensions, which opens on to the rear gallery and receives the rays of the sun. These twin spaces cater to different tastes: for light or shade, for gatherings (or solitary meditation) in the cool of the back lobby during summer, with the doors open to the gallery, or in the snug warmth of the central lobby with its fireplace in winter time. The design also allows for choice between large and small spaces, between the majestic and the intimate. To the right of the lobbies, a maze of little rooms, arranged in an arc around the lateral façade, satisfies the taste for intimacy. They could be used as studies or waiting rooms, for storing documents or accommodating extra guests and residents who might prefer to be away from the main bedrooms on the first floor. A large bathroom and two smaller ones service this area. Tucked away among these little rooms are two without any windows, which offer the possibility of complete isolation, should anyone need to withdraw in order to concentrate, or for any another reason. Preferences for large or small spaces are not mutually exclusive: the same person might opt for one or the other in different circumstances and at different hours or moments of the day.