Cesar Aira - Shantytown

“And how do you know their name?”

Just the sort of question a teenager would ask: she was so absorbed in her own little world she couldn’t imagine how anyone would know the neighbors’ names.

“But darling, why wouldn’t I? We’ve been here fifteen years. I always have a chat with the lady when I see her downstairs or in the elevator. .”

“And you asked her name?”

“Of course not, but it’s on the list of co-proprietors, the bills, her mail, lots of places. You just end up knowing these things in a condo; it’s not like you have to investigate.”

“Which one is she?”

“Huh?”

“That lady, the one from the third floor.”

“You must have seen her thousands of times; she’s the one with wavy, dyed-red hair, who walks slowly and always wears really high heels.” Jessica tried to place her, but couldn’t. Her mother sighed: it was hopeless. “She’s called Élida, her husband’s a fat, pasty-faced guy with glasses. They have a white Duna, and their carport is right next to ours.”

“Cars are all the same to me.”

“You should pay more attention.”

“And why did Vanessa want their name?”

“Where’s your head?! How many times do I have to tell you I don’t know!” Jessica’s mother regretted this outburst immediately. But the girl was trying her patience with those childlike questions. “Call her and ask.”

“But we’re not talking.”

“Well, she called you.”

“No. She called you .”

“No. She called you. She said: Is Jessica in? I said: No, she’s gone out. She’ll be back in a minute. Ah, she said, Can you do me a favor then? The people who live on the third floor in your building, what’s their name? Gandulla, I said. And then she hung up straight away. I’ve got no idea why she wanted to know!”

“Maybe to look up the name in the directory and call them.”

“What directory? The telephone directory? Yes, maybe. But no. Because I didn’t give her the first name, just the surname, and there must be lots of Gandullas in the directory.”

They thought about this for a while. Jessica shook her head despondently, but then a possibility occurred to her mother:

“She could have used the address.”

“How do you mean used the address?” asked Jessica. “Are there addresses in the directory?”

“Yes. Haven’t you ever noticed? You’re so vague, it’s incredible.”

“But if she was using the address to find the number, why did she need the name?”

Her mother took a deep mental breath and explained:

“In the directory the names are arranged in alphabetical order. She found the name Gandulla, then she looked for the Gandulla who lives at this address. Do you get it now?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway, you’re just guessing that she looked in the directory. Maybe she wasn’t trying to call them; maybe she needed the name for some other reason.”

“No! She must have called them! I saw her crying like anything right next to the phone.”

Jessica’s mother turned to look at her, intrigued.

“Seriously?”

“Yes! She was crying with her face in her hands, like this.”

“How do you know she was crying? You saw her from across the street, through the windows, with all the reflections. How can you be so sure? Maybe she was laughing.”

“No, I know her.” Her tone of voice had changed, as if a thought had occurred to her. Jessica’s mother noticed this; she knew her daughter well. She also knew that there was no point trying to make her say what it was. Meanwhile, she’d had a thought of her own. To get the lay of the land, she said:

“Maybe she wanted to tell them that something had fallen onto their balcony or that something was hanging out a window, or whatever. Something she’d noticed. I mean she does live directly opposite, on the same floor. .”

Jessica was lost in her own thoughts and it took her a while to process this conjecture. But her reaction, when it came, was impatient:

“No. What would she care? Why would that make her cry?”

“Maybe they were rude to her on the phone. It’s awful when you’re just trying to help and someone tells you to mind your own business.”

“Come on, Mom, that makes no sense!”

Jessica’s mother concentrated on her zucchini for a moment. The sky had clouded over, and the light coming into the kitchen was gentler. The cream-colored tiles went right up to the ceiling and everything was tidy and spotlessly clean. Eventually she decided to say what she was thinking:

“Listen, Jessica, I don’t know what’s going on — you know I’ve never liked Vanessa — but I suspect she’s up to something.”

“Why?” said her daughter defensively, almost too defensively.

“You must have heard us, your father and I, talking about Mr. Gandulla (though you were probably daydreaming); anyway, this Gandulla, Élida’s husband, has a series of big properties scattered around Buenos Aires, and some evangelical church uses them for worship. One day your father tried to pump him, and he said he just rented the buildings to the ministers and had nothing to do with the church himself. But then he said that he was buying properties in strategic locations, and fitting them out, and that he also had a fleet of buses to transport the congregations, and houses and sports fields for church activities. So he’s involved; he’s not just renting a few properties. Did you know that?”

“No, I had no idea.”

“What about Vanessa?”

“No, no way.”

“But she might have found out and maybe that’s why she wanted to talk with the Gandullas.”

Jessica could not have been more completely or sincerely surprised. The mere idea that Vanessa might be taking an interest in religion left her speechless. But her mother still had an ace up her sleeve:

“What I’m thinking is, one of the church’s projects is a rehabilitation program for young addicts. They have at least two rehab farms on the outskirts of Buenos Aires. It’s supposed to be a charity, but who knows what kind of operation they’re really running out there. Mirta from the second floor is good friends with Élida, and she’s told me all sorts of things. For example: Gandulla is buddies with the superintendent at the police station across the street, so whenever they pick up kids on drugs they send them straight to one of those farms.”

“And what’s this got to do with Vanessa?”

“That’s what I’m wondering, darling. The state she was in when you saw her crying, it must be something serious. You don’t have any idea?”

“What? How would I know? You’re crazy! You never give up, do you?”

“I’m going to have a word with Vanessa’s mother and warn her. Next time I see her I’ll say something. . After all, I don’t know why you two aren’t talking anymore.”

Jessica got up and stormed out, yelling:

“I’ve had it up to here with you! Always sticking your nose in. .!”

She went to her bedroom, slammed the door behind her, rushed to the sliding glass doors that opened onto the balcony and looked out. The windows of Vanessa’s apartment were dark and empty. Since she was looking down from above, all she could see was a strip of floor. When their friendship had been running smoothly, Vanessa used to come to the window, and they would talk on the phone, looking at each other. The circumstances that had led to Jessica’s decision to go out shopping and therefore caused her to miss the call filled her now with an irrational hatred. She felt powerless in the face of time, paralyzed, yet deeply unsettled. It was almost as if her whole life had been one big mistake, and there was nothing she could do to correct it. Her mother’s suppositions weren’t even worth considering; they were too ridiculous, too fictional. She could make a better job of it and come up with something far more realistic: all she had to do was to think and react in her usual way, in other words, be herself. Because deep down she and Vanessa were the same: each was capable of anything the other one might do. And yet, strangely, when she set about testing this method of “being herself,” she didn’t feel herself at all.