My arrival at the zoo only confirms this expansive wave of irritation. Yessica won’t tire of bad-mouthing God knows who all afternoon, presumably some superior who ordered her to clean the toilets. The staff from the company in charge of hygiene is on strike again and this time they didn’t even send an emergency replacement. At one point I approach her with intentions of solidarity, to offer a hand, but it turns out I only lend her my ear, scarcely a pleasure. I’ve never seen so much shit in one place, she says. It’s incredible, as if they all agreed to come and crap here. I wonder, she says challengingly, gloved hands on her hips, raising her voice as if she wants those who have been here before us to know we’re talking about them and apologise: Don’t these wretches have bathrooms in their own homes? I’m an idiot, she mutters, her eyes red, about to burst into tears. It’s my fault, I should have refused.
I walk past the nursery, I think about the iguana and the fact that I’m now faced with two deceptions for the same reason. Even Esteban hasn’t escaped the tone of the day. He comes and goes along the corridors of the reptile house, cupped hand protecting his left cheek, without paying any attention to his little creatures, as he calls them when he’s in a good mood. The despondency is justified in his case. I find out he’s just come from the dentist, the guy took out the wrong molar and now he’s in twice as much pain. Because of the infection that’s still there and because of the needlessly exposed gum. At break time, seeing Canetti limp towards me clutching a coffee, I pretend not to notice, scratching my neck, and set off towards the bears. I’d definitely rather avoid him today.
Without stopping, I gesture to Iris to come and find me, although I’m not sure whether she notices. A few minutes pass and when I’m starting to convince myself that she didn’t see me at all, I feel someone touch my shoulder by the elephants’ palace, scaring me slightly. Iris smiles, her lips retracted, rather dismal. We walk round the lion pit, Hércules and Corazón, the decrepit male and the blind female. So sad, says Iris, and I’m not sure what she’s referring to.
The time we spend together seems like a preamble to something serious she has to say but it doesn’t come out. She doesn’t look at me, her eyes dart in all directions, a broom bush, two posing flamingos, nowhere at all. I think about her father, I think the worst. I can’t bear to ask her. Finally she speaks: I’m bringing forward my return home. I’m leaving next week. I’m sorry and I was right: His bones are gone, he can’t even get out of bed any more. I’d like to console her, I’d hug her, I just stroke a hand. I search for her eyes, she seeks out the ground. Someone else would ask how it passed from the lungs to the bones. I can’t get the words out. It seems worse than worse. I feel bad, for her, for her father, for not knowing how to act. We say goodbye at the entrance to the reptile house. Still silent, until she turns round and says quickly, without looking at me: It’s a lie, a complete lie.
Another three hours of work and I have to pull at the same ball of wool a thousand times to try to unravel Iris. Which part is the lie? I wait for her at the exit and we start walking together towards the Fénix. At a kiosk we buy an ice cream each, strawberry for me, pineapple for her, and there’s no need to ask anything, she spills it all out herself. Draco wrote to her from the south, he says he’s working in a wine cellar and he met someone. A Belgian girl. Belgian? Yes, Belgian. They’re saving up for an expedition to Antarctica. Iris talks and with each phrase she shakes her head, out of incredulity, but also with irony. She repeats in a sarcastic tone: Antarctica. I try to imagine Draco and this girl navigating between ice floes, on a sledge, wrapped in sheepskin, sheltering in an igloo, and all around them, white, white, white. At the hotel door, Iris explains as if it were necessary: My father is much better. I embrace her and finally she cries.
Back in el Buti, the issue is how to get rid of the iguana. I take advantage of the fact that Herbert, his mood much improved, is playing with Simón, throwing pieces of Styrofoam, and I climb onto the chair to grab the box with the packaged animal. Be right back, I say to the air, determined to put an end to the matter without hesitation and throw the creature out with the rubbish. As I descend the stairs, I’m struck by a vivid thought, a command that forces me to turn back. I discard the box down the lift shaft and with the animal enclosed in my fist I go up to find Herbert and Simón. Perhaps it’s because of what Iris told me this afternoon, the fruits of her lie, it must be something like that. I call them over. I try to proffer explanations I don’t have, I immediately feel I’ve said too much. I open my hand, exposing the body. Simón looks down at it, without conviction, Herbert draws his face close with a morbid fascination. I conclude: Animals are like plants and people, they live for the time they have to live, then they disappear. I don’t say die. And Simón, who finally peels his eyes away from the green iguana that is now far from green, increasingly grey, stares at me and takes all the time in the world to fabricate a smile, at first timid, hesitant, barely a stretch of the lips, which as the seconds pass broadens into an infectious little laugh.
We discuss what to do with the body. Herbert wants to light a small bonfire, Simón insists on keeping it, I impose my decision to bury it. We descend in a slow procession, they act as escorts, I’m in the middle with the deceased. On the pavement, we consider our options: trees, flower beds, the fig tree in a neighbouring lot. We take a vote and the paradise wins. Without being asked, Herbert assumes the role of gravedigger. He uses his hands to scrape a well the size of a grapefruit, more than enough. I take charge of depositing the iguana in the pit and all of us, after a brief pause, a minimal, silent homage, with no speech or farewell, cover it with earth. Simón takes care of flattening the grave with his feet but there is still a slight mound, barely perceptible, blending in with the protuberances of the tree roots, which leave nothing smooth.
The dream of Eloísa and her greedy cunt returns. Playing cards this time, aces and kings, clubs, diamonds and hearts. She rolls them up and slips them in and I have to guess which card will come out. It’s just a question of luck.
Thirty
Friday arrives. Eloísa tells me to meet her at one in the afternoon. On the dot, she writes in the last of seven messages she sends me the night before. She also says: All ready, I got gloves. I don’t reply, I concentrate on the drawing of the snake, the huge tome lying between my legs. The idea of the robbery is spinning round my head and even though it only ever sounds unreal to me, just another story, sometimes I become more practical and try to visualise it. I think of the consequences, the laws and the social aspects, about the benefits too, the money I could use for I don’t really know what. The most sensible thing would be to give up before it’s too late. When my eyes start to close and I no longer have a firm enough hand to carry on tracing the boa with its million scales, I grope for the mobile and two seconds before I regret it I text: Fine.
I’m punctual, as Eloísa asked me to be; at five minutes past I ring the bell and it’s clear she’s been waiting for me. The iron gate slides back with a sigh to let me through. Her head appears at the back of the garage above the car roofs. She waves without speaking, nor does she say anything when we are face to face, she gives me a quick kiss and a manly pat on the shoulder. I can see her properly now we are entering the kitchen. Her hair is wet, combed slickly back, just out of the shower. She’s dressed in a red vest top that clings to her body and dark blue jeans, also tight. She isn’t wearing a bra. If I didn’t know her I’d say she looked reliable and determined. It’s as if the role of thief in which she’s about to make her debut should be underpinned by a change of appearance, to give her courage and throw people off the scent. She asks if I want coffee, she doesn’t offer me alcohol as she usually does, I suppose staying sober is part of the plan. I accept half a cup and as I drink I think that, in this mini gang we have formed, she would be the boss and I the henchman.