César Aira - The Literary Conference

The Exoscope was still. I leaned over to look into the glass. There it was, a transparent blue phylactery dissolving into atoms and mixing up with the golden atoms of the sun in a furious battle, in an inoffensive, artistic game that dispersed in seconds. But one drop of blood on Nelly’s foot had splashed onto the glass. In a swish, the atomic beam carried it away into the depth of the transparency.

I stood back. It was over. The audience applauded and cheered, joyous honking began to resound throughout the city. The entire herd of gigantic worms had disappeared, dissolved into the dawn air. People took it as some kind of miracle, but I, of course, knew that clones were like that: one is all.

I examined my friend’s foot, which was bleeding profusely. Men and boys were climbing down the gorge, and the first to arrive offered to carry her up; the wound wasn’t serious, but she needed to be taken to the emergency room to be bandaged. I climbed up behind them, and when they’d gotten her into the car, I told her that I was leaving on the morning flight, as planned. She promised to come to the airport to say goodbye.

March 8, 1996