The Miracle Cures of Dr. Aira

II

That winter, freed from the material necessities of life through a stroke of good fortune (he’d received a sum of money that had allowed him to take ten months off from his income-producing activities), Dr. Aira dedicated himself fully to the writing and publication of his works. His worry-free state could only be temporary because once the money ran out he would have to again find ways to get more; but for once in his life he wanted to give himself the chance to be fully absorbed in his intellectual work, like some kind of monk or wise man detached from the practical aspects of existence. If he didn’t do it now, at fifty, he never would.

One effect of his age was that he had lately begun to appreciate in all its magnitude the responsibility incumbent upon him as a creator of symbolic material (and who isn’t creating this, in one way or another, all the time?). Because this material was virtually eternal: it traveled through time and shaped future thoughts. And not only thoughts but also everything that would be born from them. The future itself, the block of the future, was nothing more than what was enclosed in and exemplified by these forms that emerged from the present.

Of course, the transformations the forms undergo during their voyage through time render their destinations fairly unpredictable. Work done in one field can end up exerting an influence on another, on any other, even the most distant and unrelated one. Hence, his efforts in the field of medicine could create, centuries later, new styles in fields as different from his own as astrophysics, sports, or fashion. But what importance does this have? The true cultivator of worlds sows his seeds in change itself, in the maelstrom. Be that as it may, the idea enveloped him in a daydream — innate to him, in fact — in which everything was transformed into everything else, through beautiful transitions like works of art.

Paradoxically, the opportunity that presented itself to him — because of the fact that it was an opportunity, particularly an opportunity to think, to elaborate his thoughts without stopping for practical considerations — brought with it an urgency for practical action, an urgency to make something. That’s what it was all about, because the other, theory, is what he had been doing his whole life, without the tyranny of necessity loosening its grip even for the few months he needed to transform theory into tangible objects. He was in the position of a poet who had written ten thousand poems and now had to seriously consider publishing them.

Things. Tangible things that could be held in a hand, placed in a drawer. The world was always praising “young people who make things,” and for good reason. Because ninety-nine percent of the value of things, of their intrinsic beauty, is derived from time. A comb is useful only for combing your hair (and not even this if you’re bald), but a two-hundred-year-old comb is sold as a precious object in an antique store, and a two-thousand-year-old comb is exhibited in a museum and is priceless. That’s why it’s worthwhile to make things in one’s youth, because these are the only things we have the possibility of seeing made more beautiful by the patina of time, if we live to an old age. Those we make later remain for future generations, and we miss out on them. Dr. Aira had missed the chance, and he bitterly lamented this fact. But to make things now, at fifty, might bring back some inkling of youth; perhaps it would place time on his side.

The first thing was to begin publishing his installments of the Miracle Cures. First of all, obviously, he had to write them. . But at the same time he didn’t need to write them because throughout the last few years he had filled an unbelievable number of notebooks with elaborations on his ideas; he had written so much that to write any more, on the same subject, was utterly impossible, even if he’d wanted to. Or better said, it was possible, very possible; it was what he had been doing year after year, in the constant “changing of ideas” that were his ideas. Continuing to write or continuing to think, which were the same, was equivalent to continuing to transform his ideas. That had been happening to him from the beginning, ever since his first idea. He had no other choice if he wanted to progress, for the subject was always the same: Cure through Miracles. His lack of dogmatism combined with his absolute conviction gave his mental elaboration on the subject a plasticity that held it in perpetual flux, which gave him an immeasurable relative advantage over the other miracle healers; on the other hand, it had prevented him from ever concretizing anything.

A related problem, which he had worked on laboriously, was his principled refusal to use examples. The established discourse in the genre was based on the exposition of “cases,” clinical cases, surprising cases, exceptional cases. . But since all cases were exceptional, even the most typical ones, any text written within that system was condemned to being merely a digression. It was assumed that one could end up with an exhaustive illustration of an idea through the strength of examples. But for the idea to have any value, other examples would have to be able to illustrate it, so how could one achieve anything exhaustive? Even worse, the method of using examples in itself imposed a hierarchy between the particular and the general, a situation that could not stand more wholly in opposition to the very essence of his system of cures.

In spite of this, he had to think of a form of exposition that would be attractive to the general public, and the tradition of using examples was too deeply rooted to avoid altogether. After mulling the issue over and over he had come up with a compromise solution: to put into effect a do-it-yourself-examples mechanism the reader would be in charge of. He would confine himself to one example, only one “case,” with which he would open the first installment (or rather number zero) and to which all the arguments would refer, thereby inverting the malevolent order of the general and the particular.

This passe-partout example had given him many headaches. Not its invention, which was easy, perhaps too easy, but rather the conviction that he would need to employ it. In order to avoid that ease, he stuck with the first one that popped into his head, and in the long run he had to admit that he had done the right thing. It was not a case in the strict sense of the word but rather a little fable, inspired by a pair of stretchy woolen gloves that were sold as “magic gloves”; he had a pair, which he wore when he went on strolls in the winter; their “magic” consisted of both of them being exactly the same, so either could be worn on the right or the left hand indistinguishably. In turn, all the pairs of gloves were the same, all one size, and they fit all hands, from a little girl’s to a truck driver’s; their adaptability, just like their trick of bilateral symmetry, was due to the elasticity of their knit, and therein lay all the magic. What he imagined was the existence of a unique pair of truly “magic gloves,” made out of thick red leather with angora fur lining — hence very thick — that would have the property of giving the hands that wore them (but only while they were wearing them) the sublime piano-playing virtuosity of an Arrau or an Argerich. . but they would be useless because one obviously cannot play the piano wearing gloves, and less so with such uncomfortable polar gloves. Hence, their miraculous charm would never coincide with any proof, and the underlying theory would be left untouched. Only by dint of useless miracles could one prevent a theory from degenerating into a dogma.

Choosing the “installment” format was a result of this kind of reasoning. He had come to it by retreating from more radical formats; for months he had played around with the idea of creating an album of collectible figurines, the figurines of the Miracle Cures, which would be sold in kiosks in sealed envelopes. . But the operational aspect created too many complications, and there were even some impracticalities on the conceptual side. So he rejected the idea of the album, as he had rejected many other possibilities that were as daring or more so. From these grand escalations of fantasies he would return to “degree zero”: the book. And he would take off again from there, because the format of the book, with its classic simplicity that nobody respected more than he, limited him excessively. All that to-ing and fro-ing had converged at a point in the middle, which was the collectible installment, published weekly. The frequency would dictate his work rhythm, and the advantage of this over a book was that he would not have to finish the entire oeuvre before beginning to publish; that last part was the most important, because he had not considered a definite end to his labors; he saw it, instead, as an open oeuvre, which could incorporate into a fixed format the changes in his ideas, perspective, and even moods.

His fantasies of being an avant-garde editor turned out not to be futile, as many of the ideas arising from them were incorporated into the format he finally chose; and the “installment” plan was very hospitable to all of them, an additional reason to opt for it.

Illustrations were one of those features he wanted to incorporate. The idea came from some plans he had discarded, such as the figurines (and others), but it was also a natural for installments. When has anybody ever seen installments without illustrations? Once he’d heard of a dictionary that had been published in installments, but besides this seeming too absurd to be true, a dictionary was ideal for illustrations, it carried them within, virtually, for a dictionary is a systematic catalogue of examples.

Needless to say, he himself would make them. He would never even dream of asking an artist to collaborate, so great was his horror of relinquishing absolute control over any aspect of his work. He was reasonably skilled at drawing, which he practiced every day; however, they always turned out abstract. Only by accident did his drawings ever represent anything. Nevertheless, he could, like anybody else, draw a comprehensible diagram, though he only did so when he was planning to fabricate something. Recently he had filled a notebook with plans and models for fantasy garments, some in color.

These garments, which in reality had nothing to do with the Miracle Cures, as they were imaginative and highly elaborate items of clothing conjured up with the exuberance of fantasy, nevertheless constituted an important part of the project. In order to explain how he made them (because he had also had to invent this explanation, ex post facto), he had to start with the value of a text, any text, and by extension, of the one he might write about the Miracle Cures. Reflecting on the roots of value, he reached the conclusion that it was necessary to include an autobiographical component. This should never be missing, and not out of narcissism but rather because it was the only mechanism that would allow the writing to endure; and he wanted, oh, how he wanted! for his writing to withstand time, this also not out of intellectual narcissism but because with time his installments would take on the value of antiques, a value in and of itself, independent of the uncertain values of truth or intelligence or style.

As opposed to other objects, texts withstand time only when they are associated with an author whose actions in life — of which their texts are the only tangible testimony — excite the curiosity of posterity. Such posthumous curiosity is created by a biography full of small, strange, inexplicable maneuvers, colored in with a flash of inventiveness that is always in action, always in a state of “happening.”

In any case, one day, out of the blue, while he was watching television, it occurred to him how delightful it would be to fabricate some garments, though more than garments they would be wire frames that would hold colorful fabrics — as well as wreaths, horns, halos, and bells — that he could wear at home to relax in or to energize himself or for any other purpose that might occur to him; the purpose didn’t matter because the goal of this one-man theatrical wardrobe was to provide an interesting anecdote. . The purpose would formulate itself, and it would fit perfectly into his aesthetic-theoretical-autobiographical system and contribute to the creation of his personal mythology. It didn’t matter what an enormous blunder this would be (even if in the privacy of his own family); at a certain point, he was willing to sacrifice himself for his work. Moreover, by taking this route he would reach a stage where the blunder, the fear of making a fool of himself, all of it, would be neutralized by being absorbed into the normalized and accepted figure of the Eccentric.

The fact that these garments, according to his idea of them, were a kind of architectural construction made of wire and fabric he would have to get into, meant he had to think up a way to equip them with a system of pleats that would allow him to sit down or walk around or even sit in the lotus position or dance. As a result, the drawings became more and more complex. Moreover, as they would be very large and bulky, and the apartment he lived in with his family was already crowded, he would have to plan for a second system of pleats that would allow him to store them in small stackable boxes, or ideally, in a folder.

The sketches he’d already made of these garments provided him with “ready-made” material he could use to illustrate the first installments; after that, he’d see. In any case, it wasn’t worth worrying about at this stage. First he had to focus on the texts, and the illustrations would naturally ensue from them. For now, it was enough to know that he would make them, and this knowledge was enough to fill his expectations with vague figures.

As far as the text went, all he had to do was cull from his thousands of manuscript pages and begin to create the great collage. He could start anywhere; no introduction was necessary because the subject was already well defined in the collective imagination. Indeed, the charm of this material was like that of versions of a well-known story. Let’s take one from the Bible, Dr. Aira said to himself, the one about Samson. . A funny story could have baldness as its central theme, which becomes a matter of state to the Philistines, and it would be funny because somehow or other everybody knows that Samson’s strength resided in his hair. The same thing was happening here: life, death, illness — there’s nobody who doesn’t know what they’re all about, which would allow him to create small, delightful variations that would seem like inventions even if they weren’t (thereby sparing the author the exorbitant effort of inventing a new story).

Writing was something he couldn’t do in a single block, all at once. He had to keep doing it, if at all possible, every day in order to establish a rhythm. . The rhythm of publication, so checkered due to the imponderables of the material aspects, could be regularized through the installment format, which also took care of the quantity of the product and its basic tone, that of “disclosure.” These symbolic rhythms materialized when they were used as a framework for the rhythm at which things actually occurred. For in the meantime, life, both public and private, was continuing, and this andante cantabile system prevented real life from transpiring as a marginal event; through this rhythm it recovered not only the general flow but also each and every anecdotal detail, even the most heterogeneous ones. In this way he could be sure he wouldn’t miss anything, nor would he fail to fully utilize anything. An episode like the one with the ambulance, which had left him very perturbed (so much so that it had been one of the triggers, along with his financial good fortune, for deciding to move into action), ceased to be merely one more “example” of Dr. Actyn’s persecution of him, and became a particularity of the Universe of facts where there were no hierarchies or generalizations.

Given these characteristics of Dr. Aira’s method, the publication would have to be encyclopedic. And although the word “Encyclopedic” should never be written down, the open-ended and infinite totality of installments was nothing but a general and complete Encyclopedia. Therein lay the secret of the Cures, the secret he was aiming for, and therein lay the key to his entire enterprise: to give it maximum visibility.

Seen from this angle — as the penning of an Encyclopedia of all things from all times — the work revealed itself as the ascetic practice of a Superman. . There was so much to do! His life would have to last a thousand years. . One of the ideas he had discarded in the course of his fanciful planning was to adapt the format of false publicity brochures selling prepaid access to healers. A lifelong monthly fee would allow members to benefit from a Miracle Cure whenever they might need one. Like all the other projects he was enthusiastic about briefly then dropped as soon as cold reason snuffed out the flames of his fantasy, this one had not passed without leaving its mark. Everything fit into the text, which was made of marks, and not only human marks.

Basically, the discipline of writing consisted of limiting oneself to writing, to that work, with all its parsimony, its periodicity, its use of time. It was the only way to quell the anxiety that could otherwise overwhelm him, anxiety due to the immeasurable and self-propagating nature of the things that filled the world and continued to emerge each and every step of the way. There was a contrast, which could be defined as “curative,” between the constant periodicity of writing, which was always a partial process, and the totality of the present and of eternity.

For many years it had been Dr. Aira’s habit to write in cafés, of which, fortunately, there were many in the Flores neighborhood. This unfortunate habit had combined with several practical imperatives until, during this period, he couldn’t write a single line unless he was sitting at a table at one of those hospitable establishments. The viciousness with which Dr. Actyn carried out his campaign against him put to the test his will to continue to frequent them, for they were public places, accessible to him as well as to his enemies. But he had no choice if he wanted to keep writing. A dark cloud of paranoia began to accompany him during each one of his outings. At moments he felt observed, and with good reason. There were no direct assaults, nor did he expect them. But indirect ones could take many forms, and during these writing sessions on the Camino Real or on Miraflores or San José streets, anything could happen, or could be happening without him noticing, while one of his frequent raptures of inspiration was isolating him from his surroundings. He was certain that Actyn could recruit any type of human, any formulation of the human, for his operations of vigilance and provocation; hence it was not a question of recognizing his adversary by his looks. . He could not even say, just by looking, if somebody was observing him, because in a café it is easy to sit in a strategic position, avert the eyes, or stare at a reflection — dissemble in a thousand ways. He had developed at least one sure method for finding out if somebody was observing him: it consisted of yawning while secretly spying on the one he suspected; if he yawned in turn, it meant his eyes had been on him, because the contagious property of yawns is infallible. Of course, somebody who just happened to be looking at him at that moment might have yawned; and anyway, proof didn’t do him much good, though at least he knew what to expect, which was enough for him.

Among the “practical imperatives” that forced him to go elsewhere to write was his wife’s superstitious disdain for his intellectual activities, disdain that had been slowly turning into horror ever since Dr. Actyn had mobilized the mass media in his campaign to destroy his prestige. More and more frequently she made a fuss, complaining that people recognized her, that they stared and pointed; she claimed that soon she would be too ashamed to leave her house. . She said it didn’t bother him because he could always pick up and leave, as had so many other husbands who had gotten carried away. It didn’t take much, not even an increase in hysteria. All a sweet young thing had to do was walk past him and he’d fall in love. . In fact, he wanted to love. His poor health no longer seemed like an obstacle. In fact, he wanted to love in sickness; suddenly this seemed to be the only true love.

Thinking about this, he asked himself a question: Why hadn’t Dr. Actyn, who had tried his hand at so many options, ever considered tempting him with a woman? He had set him so many traps that were so baroque, so elaborate, sometimes quite absurd. . but never the simplest and most classic. It couldn’t be due to ethical qualms, because he had done much worse things. Was this not, then, the decisive proof of reality? How could he possibly have failed to take that into account? Did he have too much respect for him? Did he consider him above such temptations? If so, how wrong he was! Because Dr. Aira’s thirst for love made this the temptation he was most likely to succumb to. He was perfectly capable of falling into that trap, even if he knew it to be a trap, because he trusted in the power of love. Would it not have been the perfect romance, the valiant adventure that would make manifest all his fantasies in the material world? In fact, he thought that losing that battle would be the same as winning the war. But for some incomprehensible reason, Actyn had abstained from attacking him along that flank. Did he fear that the missile of love would end up piercing him? Or was he saving it for when all else had failed?

Without love, Dr. Aira was condemned to perpetual installments. . But he had to think positively and concentrate specifically on the practical aspects. With the arrival of the winter solstice, he felt he had reached the point of no return. He should already be making models of the installments, drawing the diagrams, choosing the typeface, the paper. . They would be installments, that was settled. . But in hardcover. He could be reasonable, but not to such an extent; some of his madness must survive. He had considered a thick, very stiff cardboard for the covers that would make a nice contrast with the small number of pages they would contain, though he still hadn’t decided if there would be four or eight, but no more than that.

Nor had he figured out the costs. He would, needless to say, have to spend the minimum amount possible; in fact, he couldn’t talk about “costs” because there would be nothing to offset them, that is, against which to measure them. The project didn’t include selling the installments; to do that he would have to set up a company, register as a publisher, pay value-added tax, and a thousand other things he would never dream of doing. He would give them away; nobody could stop him from doing that.

The ideal thing would have been to operate with a dual monetary system, such as the one in Ancient China. There, they had official money for ordinary citizens and another for the poor, who were, of course, the vast majority of the population. The connection between the two, which never played out in reality, consisted of dividing the smallest unit of the official money — let’s say, a cent — into ten thousand units; that multiple was the sapek, the basic unit in the poor people’s system. A fistful of watermelon seeds cost a sapek. All business in the impoverished sectors was conducted with this money; the poor, the peasants, and children used no other, and these humble transactions met their survival needs. There was never any “exchange” because who would ever collect a million sapeks to exchange for one “cent” of the official money, a unit that had, on the other hand and on another level of life, a minute value, not even enough to pay for the cheapest item in a store, or the simplest dish in a restaurant? Whereas with much less money than that — under certain circumstances, a mere hundred sapeks! — a poor person could pay an entire month’s food, shelter, and all other necessities. And everybody was happy and well fed.