The Musical Brain: And Other Stories (26 page)

After a few sleepless nights of fretting over this problem, the priest reassures
himself. His doubt becomes transparent and dissolves, like the memory of a nightmare
yielding to the onslaught of day. After all, the house will be real, very real
(that’s the idea), it will manifest the possibilities he has chosen, and be
beautiful and harmonious, insofar as his good taste allows. His doubts will be
buried, or rather walled up, by the obduracy of matter.

So the construction of the house begins, and its reality shines like an authentic
wonder, or the promise of a wonder, in that poor district where nine out of ten
families live crammed in one-room tin shacks, shared not only by the numerous
offspring of promiscuity and ignorance, but also by dogs, chickens, and pigs. The
locals come to admire, although they don’t really understand, nor do they criticize.
Criticism would exceed their intellectual capacities, which have atrophied through
lack of use, like their understanding. But even if the purely intellectual distance
were overcome, understanding would still be beyond their reach because the project
is an act of charity performed for their benefit (although with a delayed effect),
so it includes them, it’s a part of them, and understanding it would mean
understanding themselves, and, in a way, ceasing to be poor.

The teams of builders, technicians, and craftsmen come from the city. The priest
refrains from employing local workers, even though it would be beneficial for the
region, because he’s worried about the delays and imperfections that might result
from their lack of expertise. Although he’s working for the future, and, in a sense,
for eternity, there is a certain urgency. It’s a paradox worthy of Oscar Wilde (and
worthier still of Thomas Aquinas): eternity has to be secured not in the short term
but immediately. And the job has to be done well.

It’s a lightning operation, reminiscent of prestidigitation or magic. But, of course,
that’s not how it actually works, because walls don’t go up by themselves or by the
power of a spell; they are subject to the step-by-step progression of reality. So,
between the morning’s discussions of logistical problems and the evening’s review
and forward planning, in the middle of the day the priest has quite a lot of time on
his hands, which he spends exploring the town and its environs, an activity in which
he has hardly engaged until now, what with the hectic demands of planning and
supervising the early stages of the building. The task of getting to know his flock
and assessing their material and spiritual condition is an essential part of his
ministry, which he has been relinquishing for the sake of the future. He only takes
it up now because he has time to spare; he wouldn’t have done so otherwise, secure
in the knowledge that he is working to ensure that his successor (indeed the whole
series of his successors, since the house is intended to serve for a long time) will
not have to defer that task.

He’s saddened by what he sees: at close quarters, the poverty is more shocking than
he’d imagined. Perhaps, he thinks at first, it’s because of the contrast between the
visions that have occupied his mind these last weeks—architectural visions of
beauty and comfort—and the incredible deprivation in which those poor people
live. But it’s not just that, although the difference may have heightened the
impression. What it means to live without a bathroom, without furniture, crammed
into a tiny space, sleeping on bug-infested straw mattresses, under roofs of damp
thatch that smell of rot is something that can be grasped without recourse to any
kind of contrast. Hunger, malnutrition, and illness are the currency of the exchange
between children and adults, young and old, men and women. As the priest approaches
the doorways of the dark shacks, nauseating odors check his steps; in a paroxysm of
horror and pity, his fantasy fills in what he can’t see. The visible is barely half
the problem. The other half is ignorance, resulting from an intricate knot of causes
and effects: innocent, animal vice; the lack of long-term prospects; the stunned
incapacity to see beyond day-by-day survival; the death of hope. His heart bleeds.
The domain of charity opens out before him, a wasteland bathed by the angelic light
of religion. He’s ready and waiting for the sharp plowshare of compassion to open a
deep furrow in him.

But that furrow will not be opened for some time yet, so much time that he will not
be the one to receive the wound. At the mere thought of this, he is seized by a
doubt. He knows that the reasoning on which he has based his enterprise is sound,
and not only sound but just, and yet the heart has its reasons . . . His heart bled
to see the distressing deprivation that surrounds him, and, bloodless now, it
contracts in a spasm of anxiety as he realizes that with the money he is spending on
the building of the house he could relieve much of that suffering. He could, for
example, build a complex of small houses equipped with all the basic amenities
necessary for a hygienic, civilized existence; half the population of the area, or
more, would be well housed, and there’d be money left over for a school, a clinic .
. . But then the priest’s house would remain a depressing, dilapidated pile; at
best, he’d be able to do a few repairs, with scraps of money pilfered from charity.

And in that case (here the priest, like someone who has reached the top of a slope
and begun the easier descent, resumes his well-rehearsed argument), in that case,
his successor might come to shirk the holy duties of charity, invoking the satanic
proverb: “Charity begins at home.” Or, even if he wasn’t quite so bold, he could
still consider the complex of neat little houses built by his predecessor and say:
“It’s all done.” That would be a prodigious error, because the work of charity is
never all done, not to mention the fact that to satisfy the housing needs of so many
people with a fixed budget, one would have to use cheap materials and unskilled
workers, and as a result the little houses in question would already be starting to
need repairs by then. No, it certainly wouldn’t be all done; those ignorant people,
raised amid filth and neglect, without a sense of civic virtue, would actively
contribute to the deterioration of their homes. So it is essential to ensure that
the charitable work of supporting, educating, and civilizing will continue. And the
best way to do that is to leave a perfectly appointed residence for many priests to
come. Once that task is accomplished, the priest will be able to give away all that
he has, because he won’t need anything for himself. And the only reason he can’t do
it straightaway is that he’s already giving—in secret, which is the best way
to give.

This self-granted consolation allows him to return to work on the splendid house, the
house of the future, with fresh energy. And in the days that follow, he has no time
to fret over the conditions of the needy, because, as the structure nears
completion, his tasks have multiplied; in a sense, they’re just beginning, because
the walls and the roof are barely a skeleton and must be covered with all the things
that make a house habitable. He has already decided which rooms will have marble
floors (all those on the
piano nobile
except the
main library and the rooms in the western wing), and where the floors will be wooden
or tiled. Bluish-gray tiles of nonslip volcanic rock for the service areas, the
kitchens, and the laundries; Slavonian oak, in boards of various widths and
parquetry, for the first floor and the attic rooms. For the grand ceremonial
staircase, pink Iranian marble, which will also cover the columns in the salons.
White Carrara marble for the steps up to the main entrance and down from the rear
gallery. The use of marble requires a certain sensitivity and tact: it’s a material
that can have an inhibiting effect because of its associations with solemnity or
courtly grandeur, but that is precisely why some people like it: because it makes
them feel important, as if they’d entered a world in which momentous decisions are
being made. The priest attempts to reconcile these opposite reactions by choosing
restful forms for the bases of the columns and the sweep of the staircase, in order
to impress without intimidating.

For the private bathrooms he has towel racks made to measure from a light, warm wood.
The shared bathrooms, which are scattered around the house, away from the bedrooms,
are floored with black and white tiles, which create an atmosphere of childlike
innocence. He supervises the polishing, tests the waxes, and already he’s
considering carpets.

The next step, although it has been under way for some time, is finishing the walls,
in one of the three classic fashions: wood paneling, wallpaper (or hangings), and
paint. In choosing the woods for the paneling from catalogs and samples, he runs the
gamut from humble peteribi to precious cedar. The carvings of flowers, vegetables,
animals, fish, scrolls, and capricious geometrical figures, which correspond over
large distances so that instead of clearly echoing one another they seem vaguely,
unplaceably familiar, are copied from old models and produced by craftsmen in
various cities. They begin to arrive along with the wallpaper and hangings, some of
which have been ordered from catalogs, while others have been custom-made. The salon
walls begin to take on color as they are hung with damasks, brocades, and silks; the
hexagonal coffers of the ceilings are covered with old gold leaf so as to hold the
light. For the walls of certain bedrooms, floral wallpapers are suitable, while for
others a uniform color is best: the pinkish bister of parchment or the midnight blue
of Bengal cotton. On the rare occasions when the effect of the wallpaper (not in
isolation but in conjunction and contrast with the other papers) is deemed
unsatisfactory, it is removed and replaced. Harmony and variety must be reconciled,
and monotony avoided without yielding to distracting excesses. The difference that
the pictures and furniture will make must also be borne in mind. For the walls of
the ancillary spaces, the paint selected is a creamy latex blend in neutral tones,
but not so neutral as to exclude the hint of a metallic or watery sheen.

From a certain point on, once the boring installation of the plumbing, heating,
wiring, and sewage is completed to the priest’s satisfaction, and the floors,
ceilings, walls, doors, and windows have been duly covered and adorned, he feels
that one phase is finished, and he can now begin to concentrate on the next. His
focus has always been, and always will be, his successor in the parish, in
accordance with the plan that moved him to act in the first place. Not for an
instant does he lose sight of his objective: to build a house that will satisfy all
the needs of its inhabitant, who as a result will not have to spare a moment or a
thought for himself, and will be able to dedicate his energies entirely to the
welfare of others. In a way, he is building a monument to Charity. But he is also
building a house, and must, unavoidably, apply himself to the practical questions
that keep arising. For the moment, he is moderately satisfied to have finished what
might be called the “shell”; now he can move on to the contents. What he has
achieved is no mean feat, because that “shell” has two surfaces: the outer surface
made up of façades, roofs, slates, awnings, balconies, shutters, cornices, chimneys,
window frames, and moldings; and the inner surface: paintings, paneling, coffered
ceilings, floors . . . Inside the shell, there will be further layers, each with its
inner and outer surface, even if he considers all the spaces as forming a whole,
which is what he plans to do; layers that will gradually bring him closer (while
also taking him farther away), closer to a center that still seems very remote. And
that center—it strikes him now with the force of a revelation—is Charity,
devotion to others. That’s why any approach to it will also be a distancing: because
what he has staked on this enterprise, with supreme generosity, is his own death.

In any case, the phase that is now beginning comprises innumerable complications and
seems, at the outset, infinite. Since he’s intending to have the house fully
furnished and equipped, with every last teacup and towel in place, ready to be lived
in as soon as it’s finished (although he’s not actually preparing it for himself but
for an unknown successor, who won’t arrive until some time after his death, possibly
years later), he will have to get the whole thing finished and attend to every part,
great or small, of that whole. It would be an exaggeration to speak of “infinity,”
because there’s a limit to what can fit in a house; the house itself is that limit.
But, in accordance with his previous reasoning, the asymptotic approach to the
center, to the smallest and most central item (the coffee spoon, the adaptor plug),
seems never-ending. The furniture in each of the many rooms, the decoration, the
useful objects provided for every occasion in daily life . . . And yet that
proliferation has an advantage over the design and building of the structure: it
facilitates more flexible variations with which to satisfy the needs of the future
inhabitant who is the constant focus of his thoughts.

Now is the time to pat himself on the back for having multiplied the interior spaces:
their number allows for the satisfaction of different, even incompatible, tastes and
proclivities: thus a penchant for modern, comfortable design, and even for
avant-garde experiments (in moderation), need not preclude stateliness in the French
or English manner, or medieval austerity, or the rustic simplicity of straw-seated
chairs and camp beds . . . All this is easier to say than to do, of course; but it’s
a spur to ingenuity and inventiveness in furnishing.

The catalogs of the finest suppliers pile up on the priest’s desk, but he is not
satisfied. Thonet, Chippendale, Jean-Michel Frank, and Boulle, launched on their
elliptical orbits, converge and coincide, pursuing harmony in diversity. Antique
dealers on three continents pack and dispatch their treasures. From the far end of a
room, an Empire bed with golden lion’s feet responds to a heavy curtain of green
velvet with crimson tassels. Wreathed in his tiny aura, a decorative, almost comic
Ganesh in an Indian plaster relief presides over a large rug with blue djinns
against a cream ground. The little Louis XV chairs and pedestal tables, so fragile,
as if held up by a puppeteer’s invisible threads, welcome the florid morning light
pouring in through the picture windows . . . Gradually the house fills up, like a
puzzle patiently assembled. There is a danger of ending up with something like a
bazaar or a showroom. The priest is aware that he is subject to forces pulling in
opposite directions: one toward diversity, to ensure that the future occupant, of
whom nothing can be known since he doesn’t yet exist, will find some point or line
to his taste; the other toward coherence, which is what will make the house an
attractive whole. His best efforts are devoted to reconciling these demands, which
is why he adopts a timeless design frame, somewhere between Victorian and art deco,
within which striking or exotic touches will function as details: noticeable,
pleasing, but also discreet.