Саманта Швеблин - Mouthful of Birds

They cross in the night from the house to the garage. Corrales goes first, enjoying the slow walk toward success; Donorio follows, distrustful but curious. Finally, lagging, sensing the suitcase nearby, Benavides feels his fragile nerves gather into large and fibrous knots.

Corrales has the men enter in darkness, since he prefers the impact the sudden image will have when he turns on the light.

“Benavides, guide Donorio to you-know-what and let me know when he’s ready.”

Benavides stops in the center of the garage. Feeling his way in the darkness, guided by the sounds, Donorio comments:

“There’s a strange smell… as though of…”

“Here comes the light,” says Corrales, and in effect, with the tips of Benavides’s and Donorio’s shoes nearly touching the pool of thick blood, it appears in front of them, horrible, defiant, authentically innovative: the work.

What is violence if not this very thing we are witness to now? thinks Donorio, and a shiver runs from his legs to the nape of his neck. Violence reproduced before his eyes in its most primitive form. Savage. He could touch it, smell it. It was fresh and intact and awaiting a response from its viewers.

Corrales joins them.

“This is going to go over well,” says Donorio.

Corrales nods. Beside them, Benavides’s small body trembles. His weak voice speaks for the first time in Donorio’s presence.

“You don’t understand,” he manages to say.

“How could we not, Benavides?” says Corrales.

“It’s extraordinary!” says Donorio. “Horror and beauty! What a combination…”

“Horror, yes, but…” Benavides stammers, looking at his wife. “I mean that…”

“You’re going to be rich, famous! There is zero competition with a work like this one. The public will fall at your feet.”

“Trust him, Benavides, Donorio is the best there is.”

“Oh, no, Benavides here is the best,” concludes Donorio. “I’m just a curator, my part is minimal. The important thing here is the work, Violence , understand?”

“My wife.”

“No, Benavides, believe me, I know marketing and that won’t work. The title is Violence .”

A new anguish, uncontrollable. And Benavides confesses:

“I killed her. I killed her… then I just wanted to hide her.”

Corrales gives Benavides a few affectionate pats on the back, but his attention is directed purely and exclusively at Donorio’s instructions.

“It’ll be best if we conserve it in a cold environment. Do you have air-conditioning in the garage?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“I killed her!” Benavides falls to his knees.

“Good, then let’s start by refrigerating the place. I’m going to make a couple of calls.” Donorio takes a few steps toward the door but soon he stops and turns toward Corrales, full of sincerity. Benavides’s wailing obliges him to raise his voice: “I’m grateful to you for thinking of me. This is a big opportunity.”

“Me, I killed her, like this…” Benavides pounds his closed fists on the floor. “I killed her like this.”

“Donorio, ask for the phone and take care of what you need to do,” says Corrales as he walks the curator to the door.

“Like this, I killed her like this.”

Benavides drags himself over the floor in no particular direction, pounding against the floor whatever objects he finds. “Like that, like that!”

“Don’t amuse yourself here, Corrales,” says Donorio, already in the doorway. “There will be time later for contemplation and delight.”

“I understand perfectly. You go on and we’ll catch up with you.”

Donorio nods and goes out into the garden. When Corrales turns, a now listless Benavides is pounding on his wife’s body.

“I did it. Me,” Benavides mutters. Corrales stops him.

“Leave her be, Benavides! She’s perfect like that, don’t ruin her.”

“But I killed her…”

“Yes, Benavides, yes. We know it was you, no one is going to take that away from you,” says Corrales as he helps Benavides stand up. He adds: “Trust us with this, you’ll just see how you take your place among the stars.”

“The sky?” asks Benavides. “With my wife?”

He feels that something is wrong in his head, there’s something he can’t manage to understand, and his body falls, collapsing beside the suitcase.

In the light of a new day, Benavides wakes up and opens his eyes. For a moment he believes he is in his own bed, beside his wife, on a normal unhappy morning. But soon he remembers the truth and sits up. Where is his wife now? In the garage? Still in the suitcase? Has Donorio taken her? Corrales? He leaves the room. He’s been wearing the same clothes for two days now, and in the hallway’s harsh light he can see that parts of his clothes are taking on a grayish hue. Although he estimates he has slept for a prudent number of hours, he has not rested. He feels exhausted, and he realizes that once again he must scour the rooms in search of Dr. Corrales. After some time, once he has checked the study, the first-floor rooms, the entrance hall, the living room, the hallways around the winter gardens, Benavides—fortuitously, as on the previous day—comes across the kitchen and asks the women:

“Corrales?”

They reply in the negative.

This time Benavides will not go looking for him. Some men wait apathetically for others to command them. But he will solve this on his own, and at once. He will call a taxi and take his wife home. He’s already leaving the house and crossing the garden. Halfway to the garage he stops: in front of its open doors he sees a dozen men dressed in blue rushing about. On their backs gleams a logo printed on a white rectangle: “Museum of Modern Art. Installation and Transportation.” Benavides realizes that the garage has been entirely emptied out. That is, all the furniture, every item or object that once formed part of the household landscape, has been removed, and now, in a larger, empty space, alone, unique, original, sits the work. And there are Corrales and Donorio, attentive, cordial, open to the artist’s feelings:

“How did you sleep, Benavides?”

“That’s my wife.”

Corrales looks at Donorio, and in his voice is the slow melody of growing disappointment.

“I told you, Donorio, this kind of site-specific exhibit is not to the artist’s liking. We should have brought the work to the museum.”

“My wife.”

“I’ve been working in this field for years, Corrales. Believe me, the public will prefer it this way.”

“But she’s my wife.”

“But, Benavides, you are not an artist for the common man. Your work is directed at a select audience of intellectuals, minds that scorn even the innovations of the museum, men who appreciate something more, above and beyond the simple work. That is…”

Donorio’s arm gestures in a flourish toward the garage, while Benavides and Corrales await his conclusion.

“Context,” Donorio finishes.

“Beautiful, quite so… How absurd to question his strategy,” says Corrales.

“But she’s my wife,” Benavides repeats.

“Benavides, please, this subject has already been discussed. The subject is not ‘the wife,’ it’s ‘violence’… Let’s not go back over this, I beg you. We’ve agreed,” he sighs. “As I was saying: context. In any case, we’re going to add certain elements. Getting out of the museum is a novel way to go, but we must maintain standards, the right environment.”