Unai Elorriaga: Plants Don't Drink Coffee

Gur bowed to an imaginary audience’s applause and blew kisses right and left. Then he put the olive pit and the walnut back in his pocket.

“Now we have to find the spot, Gur.”

So Gur and Simon went to look for the spot, and moved from the twelfth to the thirteenth hole.

“What sort of length are we talking about here, Simon?”

“144 meters.”

“And width?”

“80.”

“This is going to be difficult.”

“It won’t be difficult, Gur. Not on a golf course.”

Simon said that his brother Abel had told him that there are great distances between the holes on golf courses.

“They call them fairways,” said Simon. “The distances between holes. Abel explained it all.”

The fairway that ran from the twelfth to the thirteenth hole was long, yes, but too narrow, because there were trees on both sides. Besides, there were little slopes here and there. It wouldn’t do for the purpose. Simon needed a flat surface.

They walked on until they reached the fairway between the thirteenth and the fourteenth holes. It was long and flat and wide, but it had a pond on one side. And two sand bunkers on the other, near the green. And Simon needed the green to be clear.

And then Gur and Simon reached the next fairway, the one that stretched from the fourteenth to the fifteenth hole. It was perfect for Simon’s purpose. And the stone wall was nearby, which would be useful if they needed an escape route.

But although the fairway looked long and wide enough, they had to measure it to make sure. And this was the reason why they had gone to the golf course in the middle of the night: to find the right place and measure it precisely. And since half their job was done, that is, since they had found the right place, they decided to take a rest before measuring it.

They sat on the grass and took out their sandwiches. Every time Gur and Simon ate sandwiches together they held the same competition: they’d spread out one newspaper each on the ground to gather their breadcrumbs. Each his own. That was the competition. Afterwards they would weigh the bread-crumbs. Simon carried a pocket-sized precision balance in his bag for this purpose only. First they weighed Gur’s bread-crumbs and then Simon’s. Gur’s were heavier, by far.

Gur bowed to the imaginary audience again and blew kisses right and left, and put his hand to his heart, and that meant he had won again: he had won the breadcrumb competition. This was Gur and Simon’s twelfth breadcrumb competition.

Simon put everything away in plastic bags and, turning to Gur, said “We’ll have to start measuring.” Then Gur stood up. And he walked toward an edge of the green and started measuring its length. They needed 144 meters. Their measuring tape was 1.5 meters long.

But Gur could never stay quiet for long, not even while working.

“Who invented tennis balls, Simon?”

“Some English guy, I’m sure.”

“And why did he make them hairy?”

“. . hmmm?”

“Why did he give them all wigs?”

“Maybe because of the cold.”

“I don’t think so,” said Gur. “It must be a question of aesthetics. Have you ever seen a hairless tennis ball? Have you ever removed the fuzz from a tennis ball?”

“No.”

“They are ugly. Very ugly. Embarrassingly so.”

“What’s underneath then?”

“Plastic. This very sad-looking plastic.”

“Sad?”

“Sad. This is the tragedy of tennis balls. Here and also in Wimbledon.”

“How many meters have we measured up, Gur?”

“Thirty-seven point five,” Gur could talk about tennis balls and measure lengths at the same time.

“We still need another hundred and something.”

“One hundred and six point five.” Gur was being precise.

“One hundred and six point five,” repeated Simon.

“Isn’t there a guard here, Simon? Can people just walk in here at night and do whatever crazy thing they want? Is there a guard, or what?”

“Only one.”

“Where?”

“In the clubhouse. Near the entrance to the course.”

“Doesn’t he ever walk around?”

“Rarely. Very rarely. He is this fat guy. Enormously fat. Abel told me. By the time he gets here we’ll be in Paris. And he carries a flashlight too, the dumbass. Abel told me.”

“We should leave the ladder by the wall. Just in case.”

“What? Are we afraid now?”

“Eighty-seven meters,” offered Gur.

“. .” Simon.

Gur was never out of breath. He went on:

“Have I told you, Simon, that I’ve had a call from Cambridge?”

“Cambridge? What for?”

“To give a talk.”

“What sort of talk are you going to give?”

“A talk. At the university. That’s what they’ve asked me to do.”

“But you’ve never been to university. What sort of talk can you possibly give?”

“I haven’t been to university, but my two brothers have. Fidel and Felix.”

“Fidel dropped out,” said Simon.

“But Felix didn’t. The Cambridge people asked for Felix, but I’ll go instead.”

“Lucky man, this Dr. Gur.”

“I’ll give it in Latin.”

“In Latin?”

“Or maybe in Greek. It’ll depend on the audience.”

They were measuring up the last few meters. When they reached meter 144 they made a mark on the ground, like the one they made when they started counting. The fairway was longer than 144 meters; it was at least 200 meters long. They had plenty of meters to spare. But they still had to measure its width: they needed eighty meters.

They started measuring, and Gur, of course, started talking again: “How is Erroman doing, Simon?” Simon’s face didn’t move, but he answered “Not well.” Then he continued: “We brought Tomas home with us,” and he said that while Erroman remained in the hospital they would keep Tomas at home with them, with Martina, Abel, and him. Then Gur asked “Who’s Tomas?” and Simon, sounding a bit surprised said: “Tomas, Gur, Tomas: Erroman’s son.” Gur reacted quickly. “Of course, Tomas, yes, Erroman’s son. The little kid.” Afterwards Gur and Simon were quiet for a while.

They had measured thirty-six meters by then. Thirty-six meters. Gur didn’t like the number three or the number six. He didn’t like eight either. They continued measuring.

“Do you know who I’m thinking about, Simon?”

“Who?”

“Jonathan Davies. . remember him?”

“How could I forget? He was out of this world, Jonathan Davies.”

“Clever.”

“And Tim Horan? Remember him, Gur?”

“Him too. He was an artist.”

“He was born in Darlinghurst, Tim Horan.”

“Done,” Gur made a mark in the ground. “Eighty meters exactly.”

They had finished measuring the width. The fairway was much wider than eighty meters. Simon and Gur needn’t look any further. They had found the place.

“Done,” said Gur.

“For today, yes, we are,” answered Simon.

They put everything back in the plastic bags and walked to the stone wall. Within forty-eight seconds they were on top of the wall; after one minute and forty-two seconds they were outside the golf course. It was time to go to bed. Although it was summer.

This time Simon spoke first. And Gur agreed with what he said:

“Next time we come here our mission will be to paint the lines.”

Sometimes the telephone at home is stained with chocolate. Other times it’s very clean. There is a cloth to clean the telephone. A wet cloth.

Sometimes the telephone rings. Mom told me what to say on the phone. There are three things I must say on the phone. The first one: No, he isn’t here. The second: Dad is in the hospital. The third: In San Fausto hospital. Those are the three things I must say when the telephone rings, nothing else.