Cesar Aira: Ghosts

It’s strange that they hadn’t bought any wine, isn’t it? Especially since some of the men were committed wine-drinkers. But there were two reasons why the builder’s young butler hadn’t even thought of buying any: first, they didn’t drink wine at lunchtime as a rule, except occasionally on a Saturday, when as well as knocking off early they had something to celebrate, like a birthday. The second reason was that Raúl Viñas bought all the wine himself at a store in the neighborhood, where they had a special bottling system, and recycled the bottles over and over, which worked out to be very practical and cheap. He had already laid in provisions for that day, and for the next day as well. It was an extra special occasion: for a start, they were stopping work early, so they could drink their fill if they wanted to. Afterward they would be going to their respective homes to get ready for the party that night, a big family do. There was also something to celebrate, of course, because it was the end of the year. Overall it had been a memorable year, a year of work and relative prosperity; they couldn’t complain about that. It could even have been called a year of happiness, although not straight away; they would have to wait some time for that to become apparent, in retrospect. It wasn’t over yet: there were ten hours left, to be precise. So Raúl Viñas was keeping fourteen bottles of red wine cool, with a system he had invented, or rather discovered, himself. It consisted of resolutely approaching a ghost and inserting a bottle into his thorax, where it remained, supernaturally balanced. When he went back for it, say two hours later, it was cold. There were two things he hadn’t noticed, however. The first was that, during the cooling process, the wine came out of the bottles and flowed like lymph all through the bodies of the ghosts. The second was that this distillation transmuted ordinary cheap wine, fermented in cement vats, into an exquisite, matured cabernet sauvignon, which not even captains of industry could afford to drink every day. But an undiscriminating drinker like Viñas, who chilled his red wine in summer just because of the heat, wasn’t going to notice the change. Besides, he was accustomed to the wonderful wines of his country, so it seemed perfectly natural to him. And, indeed, what could be more natural than to drink the best wines, always and only the best?

When Abel Reyes reached the top floor (curiously, climbing the stairs never seemed to cost him any effort: he let his mind wander, and before he knew it, he was there) he found his uncle’s children in the middle of their lunch. The caretaker’s apartment had been minimally fitted out, ahead of the rest of the building, to make it livable for Viñas and his family. But not much had been done, just the bare minimum. No tiles on the floor, no plaster on the ceiling, or paint on the walls; no fittings in the bathroom, or glass in the windows. But there was running water (although it hadn’t been running for long), and electricity from a precariously rigged-up cable. That was all they needed. There were two medium-sized rooms, plus the kitchen and bathroom. All the furniture was borrowed and rudimentary. The children were sitting around a homemade table, with chops and peas on their plates. They didn’t want to eat, of course. In front of Patri were four glasses, a bottle of soda water, and a carton of orange juice. She was looking severely at her half-siblings, who were looking at the glasses and whimpering. The idea was to make them understand that unless they ate, they wouldn’t get anything to drink. They were dying of thirst, they said. Their mother was making macaroons in the kitchen, and had switched off for the moment. Patri, being younger, had more patience; in fact, since she was still a child in some ways, she was patient to a fault, and rose to the children’s challenge, refusing to yield a drop. Trying all their options with a wicked cunning, they cried out to their mother. But Elisa didn’t respond, not just because she was in the kitchen; her mind was elsewhere. All of a sudden Patri filled the glasses with juice and soda and distributed them. The children drank eagerly. She finished her chop and peas, and had a drink as well. The baby girl, sitting by her side, wanted to leave the table. Patri picked her up and began to spoon-feed her. The others started getting rowdy. Juan Sebastián, the eldest, had eaten more than the others, but still not finished his meal. The older girl, Blanca Isabel, hadn’t even started, and was already asking for more to drink. The heat in the dining room was intense, but the light was very mild, because the window was covered with a piece of cardboard. The sun was beating on the cardboard, which was thick, but seemed to be slightly translucent. That summer light is incredibly strong.

What could you do to cool off up there? Well, nothing. It was pure heat, perfectly real and concrete. Beyond the shadow of a doubt. And yet, if not shored up by eternities of faith, it would have crumbled to a puff of ice-dust. Having drunk a glass of soda water and juice, not so much because she was thirsty, but to set an example for the children, Patri was suddenly covered in perspiration. Blanca Isabel, who didn’t miss a thing, said, Did you go for a dip? Thinking it wouldn’t have such a spectacular effect, Patri helped herself to another glass. Feeling she had done it to taunt them, Juan Sebastián leapt to his feet and ran to the kitchen to tell his mother, who paid him no attention. They all started crying out for more to drink. You’ll have to make do with tap water, because that’s all there is left, said Patri, showing them the remaining soda. She gathered up the glasses again to make orangeade, with the dregs, in equal quantities, but only for those who would eat. They made an effort, and she even had to cut the remains of Ernesto and Blanca Isabel’s chops into little pieces. Elisa looked out and asked if they had finished. The meat, said Patri, but not the peas. Sebastián was the only one who had polished off his meal, but what a performance it had been. His mother asked him if he wanted any more. He replied with a groan: he had eaten so much, he was full, stuffed. Patri distributed the glasses. The children emptied them in the blink of an eye. She left Jacqueline on her chair and went to the kitchen to get the grapes. It’s the same every day, she said to Elisa: they just don’t want to eat. It’s because of the heat, Elisa replied, poor things. She asked Patri if she wanted to finish the peas. Echoing the children, she said she couldn’t. But wasn’t Elisa going to have anything? She hadn’t even sat down. No, she said, she wasn’t hungry. Although, in the end, she ate the plate of leftover peas, because she hated to waste them. Patri went back into the dining room with the grapes and a clean knife, with which she cut them in half and took out the seeds. Each child received one grape at a time, and Jacqueline’s took a bit longer, because she had to remove the skin as well. Luckily she was good with her hands.

Abel went straight to the kitchen and put the bottle of bleach on the bench for his aunt. There was a big skylight in the ceiling, and at that hour of the day, the sun was shining straight into it. Elisa had covered it with a blue towel, which had been wet for a while. That might have afforded some protection from the heat, but in any case it was stifling, especially since she had been cooking. She asked Abel if he was going to stay and eat with the men. Well I’m not going to leave now, am I, he said, as if it were obvious. Have you told your mother? No, he hadn’t, why? Because she’ll be expecting you, she said. It hadn’t occurred to him. But Abel said he didn’t think she would, since he hadn’t told her about the half-holiday. She might have worked that out for herself, said Elisa. I don’t think so, I don’t think so, said Abel impatiently. His aunt didn’t really know his mother, he thought. She didn’t realize that his mother didn’t look after him the way she looked after her children, or even her nieces and nephews. Like all adolescents, he believed that any family was preferable to his own. The belief was entirely unfounded, but he held it all the same. Elisa had guessed all this, and let it pass. She asked him who they had invited for the New Year celebrations. Abel replied: his elder brother’s girlfriend and her family. And he launched into a detailed description of those potential relatives, making them out to be the epitome of all the virtues and powers. His brother’s future brother-in-law had an auto-repair shop, and Abel liked to portray him as a big shot, someone who could do just what he liked, whatever took his fancy, because he had the means. He ran through a detailed catalogue of the big shot’s properties, exaggerating outrageously. Because of some subtle bias in the subject, or subjects in general, property led on to food. Abel believed that he had very special tastes, worthy of careful study, without which they might seem a mere jumble of preferences. Elisa let him go on, but her mind soon wandered. There was no point feeling too sorry for him just because he was ugly and stupid. She made a suggestion: it would be best not to drink wine at lunch. They’re all going to end up trashed, those animals, she said. I never drink wine, said Abel, with a characteristic lack of tact (he was speaking to the wife of the biggest drunk in the family!). When Patri came in to get the grapes, they greeted each other with a kiss. She thought he was ridiculous, but was quite fond of him. They always laughed about him behind his back, because of his hair. Her hair and his were the same length, and even the same kind: slightly coarse, straight and black. When the girl went out, he chatted on and on with Elisa, until, fed up, she told him to go down, because the men would probably have started eating already.