Cesar Aira - Ghosts

The situation on the terrace had changed substantially. The assembly of women had become a general meeting, buzzing with attention, tacit family understandings, news, the roughness of men, and a good quantity of joy. For a start, they had taken some chairs from the dining room to a part of the terrace shaded by the neighboring building. It was even possible to imagine that a cooler breeze was beginning to stir, but that was just the impression naturally created by open air and altitude combined. Here’s the ice! cried Raúl Viñas. Javier Viñas stood up to greet the women. He was thinner than his brother, and taller too, although still short, more reserved, more distinguished-looking, but he also smiled more and had a more affectionate manner, although he was not so mysterious; perhaps, all in all, he was more ordinary. He hugged his sister and then addressed an elaborate greeting to Patri, with whom all the family were especially polite. Raúl Viñas had risen to his feet to greet his sister and apologized for having been asleep when she arrived. Carmen Larraín, Javier’s wife, also exchanged salutations with her sister-in-law and Patri, while her children, Pablo and Enrique, paragons of politeness, patiently waited their turn. What about Roberto? Carmen asked Inés Viñas. He’ll be right along. They proceeded to talk about him in his absence. Unlike the hosts, Carmen and Javier had met Roberto. They lavished praise upon him, while the interested party expressed prudent reservations. Roberto was a Chilean-Argentinean, a traveling salesman for a small cigarette paper manufacturer. The engagement had been formalized only a few weeks before; they were planning to get married at the end of the coming year, which would begin in a few hours’ time. The Viñas brothers (Inés was the youngest child, by a fair margin; Raúl and Javier were twins) were observing the developments with interest. A man’s entry into the family was apparently more important than a woman’s; they had each brought a woman in already, and in Raúl’s case, a prior daughter as well: Patri, that enigmatic supplement. In fact the opposite was true, but the apparent was more important that the real. They considered the prospect at leisure, in a gentle, affectionate, futile way, since it was one of those things that is only a matter of time (which are the things that make time matter). With all the chatting it got quite noisy up there, thirty yards above street level. The presence of the men made a difference: it was more international, not as strictly Chilean as when the women had been talking amongst themselves, less of an artificial enclave, not so much a gathering of exiles, and yet at the same time more Chilean too, in a certain way. Differences like that made the women feel that the men were irreplaceable.

Elisa took the bags into the kitchen, and Carmen Larraín went with her, asking the usual question: Did she need any help? It was customary to reply in the negative. Raúl Viñas had suggested that they bring glasses for the first toast. Your husband’s eyes are so red, dear, said Carmen, they’re like slices of raw ham. Elisa laughed uproariously. Her sister-in-law was renowned for her witticisms. In case it wasn’t obvious, she explained that he had been celebrating with his workmates at lunchtime. Ah, well, it’s understandable then. Of course it is! A transition: Tell me, what are you cooking? Oh, nothing special, chicken, and the salads there, see what I bought. Perfect, perfect, said Carmen Larraín without even looking. Who’s hungry in this weather? Hey, what do your kids like? Everything, but they don’t eat much; don’t make anything special for them. You’ve brought them up so well, your kids, said Elisa Vicuña. Mine just refuse to eat. Wait till they grow a bit, dear. I guess that’s all I can do: wait. They laughed. Patri came in, like a shadow. Her mother asked her to take out cups for all the children and put an ice cube in each one. The girl counted out six orange plastic cups and placed them on a tray of gold-colored cardboard. The mothers started talking about Carmen’s pregnancy. The experience of pregnancy was always interesting; though repeated often enough to be envisaged by all women, it still retained an exceptional character, which set it apart from, and above, normal repetitions. Outside, the men were talking about oceanography: the return of the catastrophic El Niño current. The children rushed for the cups, and were disappointed to find that they contained only little ice cubes, and nothing to drink. Reluctant to waste the opportunity to do something, they started shaking the cups to make a noise, and naturally some ice came out and fell on the floor. Inés Viñas called them to order and took them all to a tap so they could rinse off the cubes, which were covered with dust. Even those who hadn’t dropped their ice wanted to rinse it. I’m bringing the Coke, said Patri. Hey, Patricita, bring our glasses, don’t forget, will you, said Raúl Viñas. She smiled: Mom brought them already. What a good girl, remarked Javier. The heat seemed to have diminished with the approach of night. Perhaps it hadn’t really, but at least the light was not so harsh. Elongated shadows hung in the air above them, and the sun was sinking toward their homeland.

The grown-ups helped themselves to two or three ice cubes each, which they put into the good glasses. They were abundantly served with soft drinks and wine, and began to drink immediately. What about the toast? asked Inés Viñas. The first drink’s for thirst, said her brother Raúl. Anyway, remarked Elisa, Roberto still hasn’t arrived. Well, said Raúl, accommodatingly, what about we drink an interim toast? Let’s just wait for the sweat to break out. His joke was a great success, because they had all noticed that almost as soon as the drink went down their throats, they were wet from head to foot. Apparently it was hotter than they had thought. Or perhaps their bodies had dehydrated without them realizing, and now had to go through a phase of re-adaptation. For a moment all of them, even the children, remained still, dripping with perspiration. The climate of Buenos Aires was different; it still had surprises like this in store, although they had been living in it for years. Elisa went back to the kitchen to start preparing the chicken. The children broke the spell, and began to shout and run around again. A big white piece of paper came floating through the still air from somewhere and fell onto the men. Javier Viñas shook it off, and then examined it. With a few precise movements he folded it into a boat; it was a skill he had perfected. He gave it to the children, who had never played with such a big paper boat and immediately wanted some water to float it in. How could we get enough water? asked Carmen. Put it in the pool, suggested Javier, and when they fill it up, it’ll float. So they did, for a bit of fun, and since fun always finds a way to go on, the older cousins climbed down the metal ladder into the pool, although they had been forbidden to do so, on the pretext that the boat had fallen on its side, and they wanted to leave it upright, waiting for the flood. Rock music emerged from a neighboring house.

When Elisa looked out from the kitchen, Raúl Viñas seized the opportunity to propose a first toast. He called his wife, and since there was a general desire to formalize the little ceremony, everyone, including the children, picked up their refilled cups and glasses. All eyes converged on the host, who had lifted his glass and was gazing absently at the wine. We’re waiting, said Javier. Raúl Viñas raised his eyebrows, as if he were about to speak, yet a few seconds of silence ensued. Could he have been thinking? Possibly, because when he finally uttered the toast, they were struck by its aptness. He said simply, “To the year.” And they all approved. If it had been a year of happiness, it was worth drinking to. And if not, it didn’t matter, because the three words had a deeper or higher meaning: the prodigious gift of a year’s time, loved and respected by all. But it had been a year of happiness, thought Patri, and in that sense the toast concealed a secret, not shared by the others, known only to them, Elisa, Raúl and Patri (the children didn’t count, although they were an essential component of the happiness). The others were left out, but they didn’t know. It was immediately suggested that the children should also propose toasts, and Patri was invited to open the proceedings, as the oldest member of the next generation, so, without much thought, she said: To my mom and dad. Then, thinking that the last word of the sentence might lead to confusion between her progenitor, “the best man in the world,” and Raúl Viñas, she added: “That is, Raúl Viñas.” This was considered very fitting; the grown-ups smiled. The children followed her example, each proposing a toast, “To my mom and dad, that is Raúl (or Javier) Viñas,” even baby Jacqueline, who babbled it out, parroting the words of her siblings and cousins. The adults listened seriously right to the end, smiling a little as well. Then they knocked back the wine. The conversations began again, with an extra degree of joy and liveliness.