Cesar Aira - Ghosts

Did you know, said Elisa, that we have ghosts on this site? Real ghosts? they asked. Well, they’re never real, are they? But you can see them, every day, at siesta time. And other times, added Patri. Yes, other times too. The conversation moved on to ghosts. Everyone could contribute an experience, a memory, or at least something they had heard. It was the ideal subject for storytelling.

Raúl Viñas told the story of the ghost who was walking along and, distracted by the sight of a plane flying over, fell into a well. In the well there was a hare, and they struck up a conversation. The hare (a male hare, while the ghost, as it happened, was the ghost of a woman) had also fallen in by accident, and had stayed there, not because he couldn’t get out (it wasn’t a very deep well) but to rest. Were you watching the plane flying over too? asked the ghost. No, said the hare, I was running away. Uh huh? said the ghost, her curiosity piqued. What from? The hare shrugged his shoulders, difficult as that may be to imagine. He went on to explain that in fact he was always running away, from everything, so in the end he didn’t really distinguish between reasons for flight. But you should, advised the ghost. Why? said the hare. Why run away more quickly from what seems to be more dangerous, and more slowly from what seems a lesser threat? That would be a grave mistake, because you can always judge wrongly, and even if you don’t, the lesser threat could turn out to be fatal. The ghost concurred, and said reflectively that it had been rash of her to offer advice on a subject she knew nothing about. Understandably enough, since her specialty — appearing — was the opposite of flight. The hare sighed, envying his chance companion’s lot: how wonderful not to have to worry about preserving your life! Except that you have to start by losing it, the ghost remarked wisely. Ah, but then…. You see…. No, sorry, but you’re mistaken…. Allow me to…. They were so absorbed in their philosophizing that they didn’t notice the arrival of a hunter, a bad sport as we shall see, and inept too, who looked over the edge of the well, and seeing a defenseless hare at his feet, cocked his shotgun (that sinister “click” finally brought the hare and the ghost back down to earth, but all they had time to do was freeze), and fired: bang. Since he was a poor shot, he hit the ghost, who of course he hadn’t seen. Transparent as air, blood spurted from a wound on the left side of her chest. The hare had no time to pity her, since, like the classic moral at the end of a fable, he had leapt out of the well with a single bound, and was already far away, fleeing as fast as he could.

Javier Viñas told the story of the old watchmaker who could tell what time it was by observing the positions of ghosts, which led him, by association, to depressing reflections on the decline of his trade. All things analog were losing ground, and the tendency seemed to be irreversible. It saddened him to hear people say “Eleven fifty-six, seven thirty-nine, two-o-one” as they walked past his poky little shop. Nobody said “it’s just gone twenty to two” because even a child would have replied, “You mean one forty-one? Or one forty-two?” Now his only clients were little old men like himself with some broken-down antique, an Omega, a Vacheron Constantin, or a Girard Perregaux, and he was no longer surprised when one of them decided that it wasn’t worth repairing, and walked past the next day with a Japanese watch on his wrist. Soon no one would know that the hour is made up of two halves. Already the ticking of a watch was a thing of the past: the heart was an outmoded organ. Because the ticking of a watch was “like” that of the heart; in other words, they were analogs. And analog watches were the old ones, the ones with hands. It was true that there were also imitation analog watches, with hands, which operated digitally, but that was ostentatious or condescending, and gave the old watchmaker little hope. He spent the day sitting still, feeling depressed, stiller and more depressed each day, staring at the back wall of the shop, where two ghosts showed the time, all day long. They were two child-sized ghosts, so punctual and patient that the watchmaker found it natural for them to be there, showing the time. And the stiller he became, the more natural the slow, sure movement of the ghost-hands seemed. But he shouldn’t have been so complacent. Because one afternoon, the ghosts came down from their places and said to him with a mischievous smile: Time passes, you stupid old miser, technology changes, but not human greed, and “backwards” people like you just spread gloom, which has spoilt life for ghosts. Aren’t you ashamed? The old watchmaker was so astonished, he couldn’t even open his mouth. He felt himself being swept up by an impalpable force, into the air, and carried to that place by the back wall where the ghosts had shown the time. Now he was showing it, his body marking the hour, as on the first clock faces, before the invention of the minute hand. Meanwhile the real ghosts had vanished.

Not to be outdone, the women told ghost stories too. Inés Viñas told the story of a portraitist who abandoned his art as a result of specializing in ghost portraits. The ghosts materialized only to pose and then disappeared again. It was frustrating for the artist not to have any enduring reality with which to compare his work. But that was not the worst thing. The worst thing was that the ghosts rationed their visibility in a rather drastic manner, and didn’t even materialize in their entirety; only the feature that the artist was copying at a particular moment appeared, and not even that: just the line, the mere brush-stroke…. They duplicated his work so perfectly that the exasperated painter broke his brushes, stamped on his palette, kicked the easel over, and bought himself a Leica. Which only made things worse, much worse.

As for Carmen Larraín, she told them about Japanese ghosts. In the Celestial Empire, when an elder died, there was a general reckoning of where he had left the bones on the plate every time he ate fish. If the positions formed a satisfactory circle, he went to Paradise. If not, he became a ghost whose task was to teach the children good table manners. And those who did not succeed in that mission, she concluded, became ikebana instructors.

Finally, instead of telling a story, Roberto made an observation: ghosts, he said, are like dwarves. Thinking about them in abstract terms, you could come to the conclusion that they don’t exist, and depending on the kind of life you lead, you can go for months or years without seeing one, but sooner or later, when you least expect it, there they are. That’s just a result of life’s general conditions, the chances and coincidences that make up existence; for example, it can happen that in a single day, you see two dwarves, or two dozen, and then you don’t see any more for the rest of the year. Now looking at it from the other side, from the dwarf’s point of view, the situation’s very different, because the dwarf is always present to himself, as he is: 44 inches tall, with his big head, and his short, bandy legs. He is the occasion that prompts casual passersby to say, that night: “Today I saw a dwarf.” But for him, dwarfhood is constant, continual, and merits no special remark. It’s perpetual appearing, occasion transformed into life and destiny.

Isn’t Patricita going to tell us a story? they asked, looking at her; it was true that she hadn’t said a word. The children had approached the table and were listening to the stories with gaping mouths. Patri thought for a moment before speaking: I remember a story by Oscar Wilde, about a princess who was bored in her palace, bored with her parents, the king and queen, bored with the ministers, the generals, the chamberlains, and the jesters, whose jokes she knew by heart. One day a delegation of ghosts appeared to invite her to a party they were giving on New Year’s Eve, and their descriptions of this party, which included the disguises they would wear and the music to be played by the ghost orchestra, were so seductive, and she was so bored, that without a second thought that night she threw herself from the castle’s highest tower, so that she could die and go to the party. The others pondered the moral. So the story doesn’t say what happened at the party? asked Carmen Larraín. No. That’s where it stops. Must have been a bit of a surprise for the girl! said Elisa, giggling. Why? Because ghosts are gay, of course! Raucous guffaws. That Oscar Wilde, he’s priceless! said Roberto, choking with laughter. They all thought Elisa Vicuña’s reply was a great joke, in the surrealist mode. An inspired one-liner. Patri, however, only laughed so that they wouldn’t think she was upset; the idea had shocked and distressed her. At that moment, the children were pointing at the moon, which had been rising in the sky, partly hidden by the neighboring buildings, partly eclipsed by the absorbing conversation. They all looked up. It reminded them that they were dining outdoors. It was a very white full moon, without haloes, the kind of moon you could spend your life watching, except that in life the moon is always changing.