Ghosts by César Aira Read Free Book Online

with him for quite a few
years, and they joined in the reminiscing. There was the time they had put up a
building, like this one, or even bigger, with materials and tools that were
hopelessly inadequate, especially the tools. You know the way there’s always
some liar exaggerating outrageously, he said. Well, it was really like that. But
in this case, the witnesses, including Carlitos Soria (The Bullshit Artist),
were not going to let him get away with lying. Which building? they asked him.
The one on Quintino Bocayuva. Oh, that one! They all remembered how terrible it
had been. Torture. Instead of.... just about everything,
really, they had had to make do with, well, anything at all, whatever came to
hand. Instead of wheelbarrows, they used some old baby carriages they found
dumped in a vacant lot. Instead of buckets, flowerpots (they had to block up the
hole in the bottom). And it was the same with everything else: a truly abject
scramble for makeshift solutions, which had scarred them for life.
    In less than an hour, and the time flew by because of the
interesting conversation, every last mouthful of food disappeared, including
the bananas and the peaches and the bread. There was really nothing strange
about that: the whole idea was to eat it up. With the wine, however, it was
different. In a sense, drinking it was not the whole idea. And yet that is
what they had been doing, and they continued: instead of coffee after the
meal, they had a glass of wine, or two. The drinking, in fact, had become
absolute. Inevitably, though, some drank more than others. The three adult
Chileans (young Abel Reyes was drinking Coca-Cola) were the
quickest, and so attained the highest level of stupefaction, to the point
where they could hardly say a coherent good-bye when the others began to
leave. And yet they still had some more drinking to do. They did it sitting
down, staring into space, smiling vaguely. The others finally vanished, and
the three of them underwent a kind of collapse. They felt as if they had
imbibed the whole world, but in tiny doses, or as if a joy outside of them
had begun to spin, sweeping them up. And, what is more, although they were
off their faces by now, it seemed they could go on drinking, go on filling
the glasses and lifting them to their lips. At least they still had that
feeling, like a giant smile inside each one of them.
    At four in the afternoon, just after the last of the builders had
gone, Elisa came down to see what state her husband was in. She had to look
around twice to find him, slumped as he was. She wasn’t too alarmed, but she did
check to see if there were any others left. And sure enough, the other two
Chileans were there. As it happened, Pocketman emerged from a brief spell of
unconsciousness and volunteered to help get her husband upstairs. She accepted:
Raúl Viñas had come around sufficiently for the two of them to suffice. Almost
restored to his normal lucidity by the climb, Pocketman offered to chain up the
gate from the outside, although he wouldn’t be able to lock it. After saying
good-bye, he went back down. The remaining Chilean, Castro, was still
sleeping, but when Pocketman gave him a shake, he woke up completely, if in a
bad mood, and since they were both going in the same direction, and a fair way
(they had to take the train), they headed off together, placidly, though not
entirely steady on their legs. Pocketman kept his promise of chaining up the
gate, so unless someone took the trouble of looking for the absent lock, the
building appeared to be securely shut. It wasn’t really, but there weren’t any
passersby. It was siesta time, the quietest and most deserted time of day, and
the hottest. The silence was complete.
    When the man of the house was peacefully unconscious in bed, covered
only with a fine sweat of wine, Elisa asked Patri if she could do her a favor, a
big favor (she stressed these last words with a certain irritation), and go
fetch the children, who