By Cesar Aira & Katherine Silver
Was it a nightmare—the results of a foul case of indigestion—or did anything actually frightening ensue after dinner within the Argentine city of Coronel Pringles?One Saturday evening a bankrupt bachelor in his sixties and his mom dine with a prosperous good friend. They talk about their forever hooked up acquaintances. They discuss a mysterious pit that spread out in the future, and the outdated bricklayer who occasionally walked to the cemetery to cheer himself up. frightened to teach off his worthy antiques, the host indicates his visitors outdated windup toys and takes them to respect an incredible doll. again at domestic, the bachelor comes to a decision to observe a few overdue evening television sooner than retiring. the inside track fast takes a flip for the more severe as, horrified, the newscaster reveals herself reporting concerning the lifeless emerging from their graves, leaving the cemetery, and sucking the blood of the living—all by some means, disturbingly such as the ceremonial dinner.
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Mother and my friend had spent the whole dinner spouting names. Based on this rapport, I assumed she had enjoyed the evening, but apparently that was not the case. She was in a bad mood when she got home, in the elevator she kept sighing impatiently, and when we entered the apartment she went straight to the bathroom to take her sleeping pill. Before going to bed she had time to complain one more time about how late it was and what a terrible time she’d had. I plopped into an armchair and turned on the TV.
Moreover, the company didn’t even belong to him anymore; his partner had cheated him and left him out in the cold. She backed up her statements with names and more names, the names of those who’d hired him and hadn’t paid him, the names of his creditors, the names of those who’d bought the few properties he’d still had and that he’d had to sell in order to pay off his debts. The names made the story believable though their effect on me was to provoke more admiration than conviction. I was impressed that my mother always had the names right on the tip of her tongue; it’s true, she had a lot of practice, because all her conversations (and presumably all her thoughts) revolved around the people of the town.
She was in a bad mood when she got home, in the elevator she kept sighing impatiently, and when we entered the apartment she went straight to the bathroom to take her sleeping pill. Before going to bed she had time to complain one more time about how late it was and what a terrible time she’d had. I plopped into an armchair and turned on the TV. She walked past me one last time carrying a glass of water on her way from the kitchen, said good night, and closed the door to her room. ” “It’s early.
Dinner by Cesar Aira & Katherine Silver