I offer no opinion, nor do I contradict her. I prefer to let things follow their natural course, then I’ll see. I bet Eloísa gives up anyway, when faced with the delirium. A pause to chew and she returns to the subject: I have an idea, she says. Let’s make a bed for the fat bitch, she deserves it. She means incriminating Orfe by putting a necklace under her mattress, or in her wardrobe, Yes, better in the wardrobe, between the clothes, badly hidden, so they can find it easily. She looks at me expectantly, she wants me to give my approval, but I stay silent. I don’t feel like opposing her and I consent without meaning to.
On the way out of the pizzeria, Eloísa removes the wig, puts it inside the coat and hides the bundle behind a group of dense bushes at the foot of the bank. Another dog, this time stray and crouching. I’ll grab it on the way back, she says. Who’s going to take it? With no fixed direction, we snake through the dark streets lined with tall banana trees until we come out at a corner overpopulated with teenagers, in groups, alone, in couples, an obligatory meeting point for their nocturnal outings. It’s Saturday night, I take a while to remember. In Eloísa’s words: This is where the wannabes hang out because they don’t know what the hell to do. In that couple of blocks, the traffic, both in the street and on the pavement, has become a kicked anthill.
We move away, some boys shout I don’t know what at us from one pavement to the other. Eloísa answers them with a rough screech: Suck my tits. When it seems the night is taking us nowhere, Eloísa grabs me by the arm and leads me into a shopping arcade with the blinds down. Come on, she says, you won’t believe this. A broad aisle with shuttered premises on either side, we climb a stationary escalator, more shops, all of them shut, fishing gear, tattoos, lottery kiosks, model aeroplanes. We pause at the window of a place selling masks and disguises: witches, monsters, presidents. Bugger, says Eloísa, I should have brought mine. And for a moment I try to imagine her walking all those blocks in the fur coat and wig. No, I just can’t picture it.
Another escalator and, at the end of the corridor, a dark glass door with a neon sign: Shantytown. I slow my pace, wanting to go back. And Eloísa, who let go of me a while ago, sensing my resistance, takes me by the hand again and drags me to the entrance like a mother with a rebellious child. The guy on the door, in suit and trainers, draws back a plastic chain. Hi girls, that’s what he says and shows us his golden front teeth. I have to get rid of my keys first, then all the coins in my pockets so that I don’t set off the metal detector.
At first glance: a small stage with two towers of speakers, bodies and heads milling about, a circular dance floor with tiles that illuminate rhythmically, tables and chairs in corners against the wall, streamers, more bodies, a beach bar. It will take a couple of minutes for my eyes to get used to this new light, like a restless fog. Apart from a spotlight spinning on its axis, the rest, skirting boards, corners and outlines, are delineated by blue tubes that conceal everything that isn’t white. Eloísa moves ahead of me and asks for a bottle of beer, which is handed to her capped with two red cups, from a child’s party. There’s a three-for-two promotion. We make a toast: To us.
The DJ takes it upon himself to keep the night lively too. He directs the dancing, arranges choreography, signals to someone, a couple, a man, a single woman, the guy in the palm-tree shirt, you in the fuchsia miniskirt, he makes it clear with a laser pointer and issues instructions. A god of the night. Let’s see, let’s see the brunette shake her booty. Where are those sharks? Work it, hotties, work it, he says, his voice serious, quivering, mouth stuck to the microphone producing a series of aquatic sounds, like seal kisses. And now for this sweet cumbia. It’s going out with a subliminal message, so no one’s gonna be left with the horn.
More beer, I hurry down three glasses in one go. I lose Eloísa somewhere, I wander round several times in vain until I locate her on the dance floor. I avoid her, but she’s seen me, she stretches and catches my arm. I’d rape this guy, she says in my ear, pointing out a guy who won’t stop smiling. His friend takes advantage of the opportunity to approach me, he takes me by the waist. I have no means of escape. I move, I pretend I’m dancing. The guy sticks his mouth to my ear to speak. You’re so beautiful, he says, I don’t understand the rest. A gap between songs, I excuse myself with a flick of the hand and aim for the toilets with the bottle under my arm. On the way, I hear: Get me a …
I pee with my eyes closed. A cliff appears to me and an old-fashioned girl in petticoats with her legs up who shows me everything. In the background, a mass of flares lights up the sea. Where did that come from? On my way back, I see Eloísa jumping in the centre of a ring of three guys who are blowing her kisses and moving very close to speak to her. I look for the darkest corner and start drinking beer, without wanting to but without stopping.
Where are you going? Eloísa shouts at me, leaning over the rail a second before I disappear. I gesture to say I’m leaving. And I exaggerate the modulation so that she can read my lips: I’m zonked. Come on, she insists but this time I stand firm, I’m not going to give in. She lets me go and warns me with her index finger: Friday, don’t forget. Yes, yes, Friday.
Twenty-nine
The iguana is dead by morning. Stomach up, limbs rigid and splayed. It lived with us for nearly three weeks. I find it near the door, as if it had run out of breath during an escape attempt. It didn’t adapt, lack of humidity, too much heat, who knows. It’s also possible that it would have died if it had stayed with its siblings in the incubator, perhaps it was written in its genes. Luckily, I make the discovery before Simón wakes. I have time to wrap it in newspaper and put it in a box which I hide on top of the wardrobe. I’ll work out what to do later, how to tell him. I’ll invent something.
I put on some water for coffee. Now, after years of maté, I’ve started liking coffee. I’m hooked on the stuff during work breaks. I stay quiet, eyes on the soot-blackened kettle. Only that little snake of thick steam that leaves the spout with a strident whistle rouses me. Simón too, gradually moving into a sitting position, legs crossed, arms too, across that white, bulging abdomen, like a tiny Buddha. He surveys his surroundings with the typical disorientation of awakening, not so much lost as annoyed, contemplating the world indifferently, with no desire to understand it, as if reproaching its existence. But his disconcertedness quickly passes to whining and with his snivels everything swings back to the everyday: breakfast milk, a walk around the block if it isn’t raining, improvised lunch, the long hours of the afternoon with Herbert, television sometimes, treats to eat, night-time and the battle with sleep.
It’s a cloudy day, asphyxiating and gelatinous. A day that infects everyone equally with its dull oppression. Even Herbert, always so lively, turns up with a long face. As if he’s slept badly. I’ve never seen him like this, I’m about to ask him if something’s wrong, but I hold my words in time. I try to put myself in his place, best not to pester him. If he wants to talk, it has to come from him. I restrict myself to telling him that there are sausages and rice in the pan, that we’ve already eaten, he can help himself. Despite his bad mood, he issues a quiet thank you, through his teeth. I bump into Benito in the corridor, carrying buckets. He looks down at me from his great height, with a mixture of contempt and desolation. Hi, I say, and he responds with a grunt.