Free Varamo by César Aira

Góngoras
been living there? Forty, fifty years? A hundred? Th ey had already been there when Varamo was a boy. Th ere must have been successive generations of
them, because there were always young Góngoras. If there were men, the sisters
kept them well hidden or received their visits very discreetly. Although Varamo
passed the house every night on his way to the café, he never paid attention to
it, perhaps because his perceptions were dulled by habit, or because, at that
point on the walk, the Voices were at their most intense and he was too
preoccupied to be looking at houses.
    Th e Góngoras started
chatting to him. Everything entered Varamo’s consciousness with a liquid
fluency: some pieces of information were absorbed in a linear and orderly
fashion, while others were twisted, folded, knobbled, but they all slipped in
with the same baroque lubrication, which made him suspect that they would slip
out just as easily. Th ere were only two
Góngoras, it turned out, two sisters in their sixties: solidly built,
well-preserved, dark-skinned Creole ladies. Th ey
laughed in response to his discreet inquiry: No, their mothers or grandmothers
had never lived there, just them. And they didn’t have daughters either. “We
didn’t get married because we were quite happy together, just the two of us,”
said one. Th e other nodded, and the one who had
spoken glanced at her, then said to Varamo: “My sister lost a leg in an
accident,” which might have been another reason why they hadn’t married; and
perhaps it explained their reclusive life, and all the ambiguous rumors about
them. “It’s not that we never see anyone else,” pointed out the one-legged
sister. And together they praised the fidelity of numerous old friends who
continued to visit them: “Why, just last night we had a little gathering; we
were chatting and listening to music till dawn.” And sure enough, there were
many signs of a lengthy party: ashtrays overflowing with butts, dirty glasses,
and the remains of sandwiches on plates. “Do you do all the housework on your
own?” asked Varamo. Th ey had a maid, they said,
but she was more like a member of the family, a daughter: Carmen Luna. “But
you’d know her by her nickname: Caricias.” No, the name meant nothing to Varamo. Th ey were surprised but said he’d recognize
her when she came back. “We got her out of bed, poor thing,” one of the sisters
added, tilting her head in the direction of the dining room, “to go and bring in
all those people.” Th e other one insisted,
looking intently at Varamo: “You used to play with her when you were children.”
“I don’t remember. Are you sure you’re not getting me mixed up with someone
else?” “No! Truly!” they exclaimed in unison. “You’re the son of that nice
Chinese lady.” “We knew your father, Tuñon de Varamo, and your aunt Ilolay.” To
complete these revelations, they added: “We thought you’d have kept up with
Carmen’s news, because she’s engaged to your friend Cigarro.” At this point
Varamo did remember something, though probably not what the Góngoras had in
mind. Although Cigarro wasn’t really his friend, they used to exchange a few
words outside the Ministry, and on a number of occasions the driver had referred
to a woman who was, so he said, “the last woman,” and he had mentioned the name
Caricias. Varamo had never given any serious thought to what he might have
meant. Th e expression seemed rather derogatory
(if it meant the last one he’d picked up), but perhaps it could also mean “the
last real woman”; and in a way her nickname, Caricias, Caresses, supported that
interpretation.
    Th e
interest the sisters were taking in him, and the conversation as a whole, began
to make sense in the light of his supposed friendship with the driver. After
expressing their concern for the future well-being of their maid and adopted
daughter, they got to the point. Cigarro’s job, was it secure? Wouldn’t it