The Musical Brain: And Other Stories by César Aira Page B

rich in information, and
that is how we learned that the Musical Brain was being exhibited next door, in the
lobby of the Spanish Theater. Otherwise, we probably wouldn’t have known, and would
simply have gone home to bed. The news was an excuse to finish with the dinner,
which all of us were finding tedious.
    The Musical Brain had appeared in town some time earlier, and an informal association
of residents had taken charge of it. The original plan had been to lend it out to
private homes, for short periods, following a procedure that had been used with
various miraculous images of the Virgin. Requests for those images had come from
people with illnesses or family problems, while the reason for borrowing this new
magical device was sheer curiosity (although perhaps there was also a touch of
superstition). Since the association had no religious framework, and no authority to
regulate the rotation, it was impossible to stick to a schedule. On the one hand,
there were those who tried to get rid of the Brain after the first night, with the
excuse that the music kept them awake; on the other hand, there were those who built
elaborate niches and pedestals, and then tried to use their expenses as a pretext
for prolonging the loan indefinitely. The association soon lost track of where the
Brain was, and those who, like us, had never seen it came to suspect that the whole
thing was a hoax. That’s why we were overcome by impatience when we found out that
it was on display just next door.
    Dad asked for the bill, and when it came he reached into his pocket and took out his
famous wallet, for me the most fascinating object in the world. It was very large
and made of green leather, marvelously embossed with complex arabesques, the back
and front adorned with glass beads that composed colorful scenes. It had belonged to
Pushkin, who, according to the legend, was carrying it in his pocket the day he was
killed. One of my father’s uncles had been an ambassador in Russia at the beginning
of the century and had bought many works of art, antiquities, and curiosities there,
which his widow had distributed among her nephews and nieces after his death, since
the couple had no children of their own.
    The Spanish Theater, which was part of a complex belonging to the Spanish Provident
Society, abutted the hotel. And yet we didn’t go straight there. We crossed the
street to where the truck was parked, walked around it, and then crossed back. This
detour was for my mother’s benefit: she didn’t want the diners at the hotel, in the
unlikely event that they should look out of the windows and actually be able to see
something, to suppose that she was going to the theater.
    We walked into the lobby, and there it was, placed on a box, an ordinary wooden one
that Cereseto (the manager of the theater) had disguised with strips of shredded
white paper, the kind used for packing. The presentation was quite effective: it was
like a big nest, and suggested both the fragility of eggs and that of objects packed
with care. The famous Musical Brain was made of cardboard and it was the size of a
trunk. It resembled a brain quite closely in shape, but not in color, because it was
painted phosphorescent pink and crisscrossed with blue veins.
    We formed a semicircle. It was one of those things that leaves you at a loss for
words. Mom’s voice interrupted our rapt contemplation.
    “What about the music?” she asked.
    “Yes, of course!” Dad said. “The music . . .” He frowned and leaned forward.
    “Maybe it’s switched off?”
    “No, it’s never switched off, that’s what so strange about it.”
    He leaned farther forward, so far that I thought he’d fall onto the Brain, then
stopped suddenly and turned to look at us with a conspiratorial grin.
    My sister and I came closer. Mom shouted, “Don’t touch it!”
    I felt an overwhelming desire to touch it, if only with a fingertip. And I could have
too. We were completely alone in the lobby. The