Cesar Aira - Ghosts

It’s a pity you can’t see the stars in Santiago, because of the smog, said Roberto. I’ve seen them, said Raúl Viñas, leaning forward. Under close observation, some of Raúl Viñas’ mannerisms, such as a certain way of swaying his head, could seem to be typical of a drunkard. But it happened that his brother, who didn’t drink, or never to excess, had the same mannerisms. So the observer’s judgment had to be revised: they were family traits. Roberto was constantly making this readjustment when he spoke with his future brothers-in-law. I’ve seen them, said Raúl Viñas, leaning forward and exaggerating the swaying movement of his head. Yeah, all right, very clever, replied his sister’s boyfriend, I’ve seen them too, otherwise how would I know they exist? I didn’t discover them in Argentina. But I saw them in the old days, when I was a kid. I’ve seen them just recently, said Raúl Viñas. And his brother Javier repeated his words. Listen Roberto, they said, Listen…. (Right from the start they had decided to dispense with formalities, since they were going to be brothers-in-law; and the women had done the same. Otherwise Roberto would have felt uncomfortable.) Since they weren’t agreeing about what they had seen in Santiago, they moved on to not agreeing about something closer to hand. The same thing happens here, said Inés Viñas, although there’s no smog. It’s because there’s too much street lighting. Some people think you can’t have enough, Carmen pointed out. But you can see them here too! said Javier Viñas. Don’t you believe it, Roberto replied. Hey kids, let’s do a test, cried Elisa, then she asked the children to behave, because it was going to be dark for a while. She went to the kitchen, and switched off the light. They all threw their heads back and looked up. When their pupils dilated, an immense starry sky, the whole Milky Way in its rare magnificence, appeared before them. You can hardly see it, said Raúl Viñas. I can see it clear as anything, said Javier. Yes, it’s true. Yes, yes. They all looked up and abandoned the conversation. There are the galaxies! said Javier’s children. If only we had a telescope!

While the others were going into raptures about the stars, Patri felt that she could see her family in the sky, her beloved family, and realized that she was bidding them farewell. It wasn’t true what they said about the dead being turned into stars for the living to see: it was the other way around. She couldn’t say that she was sad to be leaving them for ever, but she saw them scattered over the black sky, each a beautiful, everlasting point of light, and felt a kind of nostalgia, not in anticipation but almost as if she were looking back already. She was telling herself that as long as a sacrifice is worthwhile, it is possible. The thing is, the stars were so far away…. The kids were right: they needed a telescope; but that would have made them look even more distant. She moved her head slightly, and felt that the stars, remote as they were, had entered her. The “state of farewell” implied a certain detachment. That detachment or doubling affected thought as well, and under its influence Patri conceived the following analogy. In the course of his everyday activities, it occurs to a man that in an ideal state of perfect happiness, satisfying all the requirements set out by the philosophers (and some have been extremely particular in these matters, not so much because they were naturally fussy, although they were, because most of them were bachelors, but mainly because they got carried away by their ontological deductions), he would be doing exactly what he is doing now, not something equivalent, but the very same thing, as if in a parallel world. Of course not if his work was really terrible, as so much work is, but these days, thought Patri, quite a few people live without working, so the objects of this man’s hypothetical comparisons would be a walk, a session at the gym, a train trip to the suburbs, that sort of thing, and it wouldn’t require a great imaginative effort to arrive at the conclusion that there could indeed be a perfect identity between what he is doing in reality, and what he would be doing at the same time, on the same day, in a state of perfect happiness (individual, social and even cosmic happiness, if you like, the end of alienation, etc. etc.). In fact it wouldn’t require any imaginative effort at all, because there would be no need to call on the imagination; all he’d have to do would be to modify his gestures, or their form: slightly slower movements, a conceited little smile, the head held slightly higher…. It’s always the way, she thought: you look up at the starry sky, and before you know it you’re thinking about other worlds. How idiotic!

Of course, the stars over Santiago, said Javier, are completely different. What do you mean different? he was asked in surprise and bewilderment. They’re not the same, he replied. Appalled, Raúl Viñas put his head in his hands. What a dumb thing to say! We’re in the same hemisphere! What’s that got to do with it? Neither brother knew whether to credit the other’s implausible ignorance or assume it was an exercise in mutual leg-pulling. The women laughed. Elisa Vicuña, who was justly reputed for her intelligence, backed up her brother-in-law: But they are different. It’s true, said Roberto, supporting her. Raúl Viñas had no choice but to yield, mainly because, on that point, he actually was in agreement. Of course they’re different, he said, but that doesn’t mean they’re not the same constellations, the same arrangements, the same stars, if you like. They all looked very carefully at the stars. Was there anything familiar about them? They couldn’t say there was, but they couldn’t say there wasn’t either. What I think, said Patri, is that they’re the same but back to front. Exactly , said Raúl, Patricita is right. Point of view is everything, said Carmen. And to think we’ve seen those stars from the other side, said Inés Viñas, poised between melancholy and delight. But their necks had begun to hurt, and since the children had taken advantage of the darkness to escape and tear around like little devils, they switched on the light again. They emerged from that plunge into the starry darkness smiling more broadly, and saw each other with different eyes, which were, of course, logically, the same. They drank a toast: To the stars of Chile. There’s a current that carries the stars away! said Raúl Viñas, between mouthfuls.

Soon the fruit was served and they were tasting it. All the family preferred fruit to desserts, which was lucky for the mistress of the household, because it meant less work, although she still had to peel, pit, and remove seeds, especially for the children. When they told Roberto, he couldn’t believe it. It turned out that he was exactly the same. His devotion to fruit was matched only by his aversion to desserts; serving them after the finest meal was enough to spoil all the pleasure retrospectively. He was sure that Inés must have mentioned it, that quirk of his, but no, on the contrary, Elisa Vicuña had been worried that he wouldn’t be satisfied with plain fruit, served in the primitive style. Even so she hadn’t wanted to spoil the rest of the family’s pleasure. It was almost telepathic, a coincidence that proved he was meant to be part of the family. And what fruit! Glorious nectarines, so ripe they were violet, mosque-shaped apricots, bunches of green and black grapes, each one sublime, bleeding strawberries, Anjou pears with snow-white flesh, purple cherries, big black plums, all the abundance of nature, civilized to a supreme degree of refinement by grafting and husbandry, to the point where any improvement in flavor would almost have been imperceptible. Nothing less could satisfy this family of insatiable fruit-eaters; luckily fruit was cheap in summer.