César Aira - The Musical Brain - And Other Stories

But that furrow will not be opened for some time yet, so much time that he will not be the one to receive the wound. At the mere thought of this, he is seized by a doubt. He knows that the reasoning on which he has based his enterprise is sound, and not only sound but just, and yet the heart has its reasons. . His heart bled to see the distressing deprivation that surrounds him, and, bloodless now, it contracts in a spasm of anxiety as he realizes that with the money he is spending on the building of the house he could relieve much of that suffering. He could, for example, build a complex of small houses equipped with all the basic amenities necessary for a hygienic, civilized existence; half the population of the area, or more, would be well housed, and there’d be money left over for a school, a clinic. . But then the priest’s house would remain a depressing, dilapidated pile; at best, he’d be able to do a few repairs, with scraps of money pilfered from charity.

And in that case (here the priest, like someone who has reached the top of a slope and begun the easier descent, resumes his well-rehearsed argument), in that case, his successor might come to shirk the holy duties of charity, invoking the satanic proverb: “Charity begins at home.” Or, even if he wasn’t quite so bold, he could still consider the complex of neat little houses built by his predecessor and say: “It’s all done.” That would be a prodigious error, because the work of charity is never all done, not to mention the fact that to satisfy the housing needs of so many people with a fixed budget, one would have to use cheap materials and unskilled workers, and as a result the little houses in question would already be starting to need repairs by then. No, it certainly wouldn’t be all done; those ignorant people, raised amid filth and neglect, without a sense of civic virtue, would actively contribute to the deterioration of their homes. So it is essential to ensure that the charitable work of supporting, educating, and civilizing will continue. And the best way to do that is to leave a perfectly appointed residence for many priests to come. Once that task is accomplished, the priest will be able to give away all that he has, because he won’t need anything for himself. And the only reason he can’t do it straightaway is that he’s already giving — in secret, which is the best way to give.

This self-granted consolation allows him to return to work on the splendid house, the house of the future, with fresh energy. And in the days that follow, he has no time to fret over the conditions of the needy, because, as the structure nears completion, his tasks have multiplied; in a sense, they’re just beginning, because the walls and the roof are barely a skeleton and must be covered with all the things that make a house habitable. He has already decided which rooms will have marble floors (all those on the piano nobile except the main library and the rooms in the western wing), and where the floors will be wooden or tiled. Bluish-gray tiles of nonslip volcanic rock for the service areas, the kitchens, and the laundries; Slavonian oak, in boards of various widths and parquetry, for the first floor and the attic rooms. For the grand ceremonial staircase, pink Iranian marble, which will also cover the columns in the salons. White Carrara marble for the steps up to the main entrance and down from the rear gallery. The use of marble requires a certain sensitivity and tact: it’s a material that can have an inhibiting effect because of its associations with solemnity or courtly grandeur, but that is precisely why some people like it: because it makes them feel important, as if they’d entered a world in which momentous decisions are being made. The priest attempts to reconcile these opposite reactions by choosing restful forms for the bases of the columns and the sweep of the staircase, in order to impress without intimidating.

For the private bathrooms he has towel racks made to measure from a light, warm wood. The shared bathrooms, which are scattered around the house, away from the bedrooms, are floored with black and white tiles, which create an atmosphere of childlike innocence. He supervises the polishing, tests the waxes, and already he’s considering carpets.

The next step, although it has been under way for some time, is finishing the walls, in one of the three classic fashions: wood paneling, wallpaper (or hangings), and paint. In choosing the woods for the paneling from catalogs and samples, he runs the gamut from humble peteribi to precious cedar. The carvings of flowers, vegetables, animals, fish, scrolls, and capricious geometrical figures, which correspond over large distances so that instead of clearly echoing one another they seem vaguely, unplaceably familiar, are copied from old models and produced by craftsmen in various cities. They begin to arrive along with the wallpaper and hangings, some of which have been ordered from catalogs, while others have been custom-made. The salon walls begin to take on color as they are hung with damasks, brocades, and silks; the hexagonal coffers of the ceilings are covered with old gold leaf so as to hold the light. For the walls of certain bedrooms, floral wallpapers are suitable, while for others a uniform color is best: the pinkish bister of parchment or the midnight blue of Bengal cotton. On the rare occasions when the effect of the wallpaper (not in isolation but in conjunction and contrast with the other papers) is deemed unsatisfactory, it is removed and replaced. Harmony and variety must be reconciled, and monotony avoided without yielding to distracting excesses. The difference that the pictures and furniture will make must also be borne in mind. For the walls of the ancillary spaces, the paint selected is a creamy latex blend in neutral tones, but not so neutral as to exclude the hint of a metallic or watery sheen.

From a certain point on, once the boring installation of the plumbing, heating, wiring, and sewage is completed to the priest’s satisfaction, and the floors, ceilings, walls, doors, and windows have been duly covered and adorned, he feels that one phase is finished, and he can now begin to concentrate on the next. His focus has always been, and always will be, his successor in the parish, in accordance with the plan that moved him to act in the first place. Not for an instant does he lose sight of his objective: to build a house that will satisfy all the needs of its inhabitant, who as a result will not have to spare a moment or a thought for himself, and will be able to dedicate his energies entirely to the welfare of others. In a way, he is building a monument to Charity. But he is also building a house, and must, unavoidably, apply himself to the practical questions that keep arising. For the moment, he is moderately satisfied to have finished what might be called the “shell”; now he can move on to the contents. What he has achieved is no mean feat, because that “shell” has two surfaces: the outer surface made up of façades, roofs, slates, awnings, balconies, shutters, cornices, chimneys, window frames, and moldings; and the inner surface: paintings, paneling, coffered ceilings, floors. . Inside the shell, there will be further layers, each with its inner and outer surface, even if he considers all the spaces as forming a whole, which is what he plans to do; layers that will gradually bring him closer (while also taking him farther away), closer to a center that still seems very remote. And that center — it strikes him now with the force of a revelation — is Charity, devotion to others. That’s why any approach to it will also be a distancing: because what he has staked on this enterprise, with supreme generosity, is his own death.

In any case, the phase that is now beginning comprises innumerable complications and seems, at the outset, infinite. Since he’s intending to have the house fully furnished and equipped, with every last teacup and towel in place, ready to be lived in as soon as it’s finished (although he’s not actually preparing it for himself but for an unknown successor, who won’t arrive until some time after his death, possibly years later), he will have to get the whole thing finished and attend to every part, great or small, of that whole. It would be an exaggeration to speak of “infinity,” because there’s a limit to what can fit in a house; the house itself is that limit. But, in accordance with his previous reasoning, the asymptotic approach to the center, to the smallest and most central item (the coffee spoon, the adaptor plug), seems never-ending. The furniture in each of the many rooms, the decoration, the useful objects provided for every occasion in daily life. . And yet that proliferation has an advantage over the design and building of the structure: it facilitates more flexible variations with which to satisfy the needs of the future inhabitant who is the constant focus of his thoughts.