Leaning against the trunk of the paradise near us, where we buried the iguana, there’s a broken mirror. In pieces. The part that’s still intact is shaped like a shark fin. Or a wave, wide at the base, pointed at the crest. I observe it for a moment, I measure it up without touching, I crouch down and my reflection turns into another me, berserk and fragmented, asking for shelter. I make a decision. I climb the stairs with the mirror under my arm. Transporting it is uncomfortable and somewhat dangerous. I don’t always remember to stretch my neck to avoid pricking myself. I think that if I trip, my natural impulse would be to block the fall with my hands and so the sharp edge would embed itself in my jugular or if I was lucky slice off an ear. A stupid death, a bit like Jaime’s, but even more so, because of the manner of it and the spectacular nature of the bleeding. I think about Simón telling the story twenty years from now. Tragicomic.
It must be two, three in the morning. I have no way of finding out. My mobile says 17.33, I’ve never known how to set the time. I pace round the room with a new, unfamiliar restlessness I can’t identify. I walk in circles, figures of eight. My gaze drops and the sight of my hairy legs reminds of the pink razor I bought at the kiosk a week ago. I spend a while looking for it until I discover it under the wardrobe, intact, unused, still in its clear plastic wrapping. On the label there’s a fantasy aeroplane flying over a beach with flowers and palm trees. Travel to the Bahamas with your best friend, it says. To take part in the competition you have to cut out as many of the brand’s logos as you can, amass points, send them in the post and wait for the draw at the end of the summer. I wonder what the deal is with the best friend, whether it’s a manner of speaking, or whether whoever wins has to demonstrate in some way that this is her best friend and not just anyone. In my case, I’d have to choose between Iris and Eloísa, the problem is who would keep an eye on Simón. Tosca, Sonia, yes, more likely, we’d have to see what Mercedes said. I could also check whether in special cases they would allow a son instead of a best friend.
Sitting on the toilet, I soap my legs with cold water ready to shave them for the first time in quite a while. At least since Jaime’s death. Partly because the hair has been growing with less vigour recently and doesn’t annoy me. I do it carefully, taking my time. When I finish, I debate whether or not to shave my pubic hair. I move on to my armpits. I examine them in the mirror and I have to contort myself to see properly, accommodating my body to fit this capricious, quiet wave shape. Done. Clean, I feel strange, lighter, unprotected. On my knees, I now notice above my ears two clusters of white hairs sticking out in curls. Nowhere else on my head, just there. The novelty is not so much the white hairs but the quantity. I’ve found the odd white one before, here and there, lost, premature, without company, as if in a panic about the passage of time. But this is different, it’s not one or two or five, more like a dozen on each side. I spend a while combing them with my fingers and suddenly, because some part of me must be resisting, but above all because I have the urge to do some pruning, I decide to cut my hair. The scissors Herbert left here a couple of days earlier are to hand. He brought them to cut dinosaurs out of a magazine he found on the street. I begin rather timidly, with the mirror behind my neck, a rear-view mirror, layering the ends at the back. I continue with the sides, where the white hairs are, and the fringe. I cut prudently, I try to chop the same amount each time. Until without meaning to, lack of concentration or rage, the scissors slip from my hand and pull out a clump almost from the root. The incident paralyses me, I contemplate the bare patch, unable to decide whether it could go unnoticed. Something inside me starts to ponder a decision that initially seems like madness and gradually becomes the solution. An idea that my hand takes it upon itself to make irreversible with three violent snips. In less than five minutes my head is covered by a fine pelt of hair that must be no longer than three centimetres. The problem is that I’m limited by my joints, as well as the curves of the mirror, which prevent me from having a full view, condemning the cut to irregularity. I’m about to wield the razor and bring the matter to a close by shaving myself entirely, but a certain vision of the future stops me. Shaved, it strikes me that I would stop being me to a certain extent, would become a caricature of myself. And that must be the frightening part, being more me than I already am. In any case, I restrain the impulse in time and a few hours later, mid morning, Herbert will take care of evening out my new hairdo. In front of the mirror, I realise that he handles the scissors like a pro, much better than me. Simón says nothing, I think he likes it.
When she sees me, Yessica exaggerates her surprise, covering her mouth with her hands. Oh, she says, you look like a guy. Esteban notices too and tries to encourage me. It’s great, a bit unusual, but it’s great, he says, pointing at his own head. Iris releases one of her cackles, spying on me from the sardine stall. I put on the zoo cap to avoid more comments.
A quiet afternoon until the matter of the iguana re-emerges. The truth is that I was beginning to forget it, I’m slightly surprised without quite being worried. Yessica says that Esteban wants to see me, I should look for him out back. I discover that they’re going to begin an internal investigation. It’s not up to me, he says, rules. Because I was there the day the animal disappeared they’re definitely going to want to speak to me. But I shouldn’t worry, it’s a formality. I nod in silence as I wonder who will be interrogating me. There’s no way I can be found out, I left no clues of any kind, the creature is well buried twenty blocks from here. The only people who could incriminate me, and it would be a betrayal, are Herbert and Simón.
From then on, the iguana in all its forms occupies my head relentlessly. The situation as I see it, that is to say, depending on my mood, seems serious at times and at others, more often, a minor anecdote. And what if I tell the truth, confess? I try to imagine Esteban’s reaction, I doubt he would be able to understand, to become my accomplice. I elaborate a speech to explain what happened, the word impulse comes to my mind. I had a sudden impulse, Esteban, I don’t know what got into me, I would begin by saying. I’d tell him about Simón, about the poison beads, the fright of seeing him in hospital, under analysis, I’d say, in an attempt to move him, and that the need surged in me to provide him with a companion while I wasn’t there. I could mention Jaime, the father who died a few months ago, the trauma of the move, so many changes at once, and more arguments to soften the blow. I know it was madness, almost as if someone else had done it in my place. The problem is that if I managed to touch Esteban and get him on my side, he would certainly suggest I return the iguana without reporting me. The death is inadmissible. I’d carry on lying about that. It escaped and that’s it. It’s even more believable than the burial, animals escape when they change environment. But I would only be able to cover up for so long; I feel like I’m in a labyrinth. I think about all this while, on the other side of the rail, with the yellow python curled up in the background, protected by the shadow so that none of the bosses can see her, so she says, Yessica paints her nails an angry red, those nails that are so long I imagine them giving painful caresses. Running down a neck, an arm, a prick, the very idea produces a shudder in me that I repress by gritting my teeth.
During the break, I bump into Canetti, more taciturn than ever. I’m thinking about quitting, I tell him. His reaction is delayed, his eyes glued to the embers of the cigarette dying between his fingers. I’m knackered, says Canetti and starts moving his shoulders as if saying what do I care. He talks about his pains, about all his misfortunes. What a shitty life, he sighs. I stop him short. I repeat: I want to quit. And he steps back as if I were about to slap him. It arouses his full interest: resignations, dismissals and working relationships are a very sensitive topic for him. He doesn’t try to dissuade me nor does he encourage me to do it, he limits himself to advising me. He knows a lot about the subject: agreements, rights, regulations. He lists advantages and disadvantages: The important thing is to have a strategy. If you send a letter of resignation you lose, like in war, that’s how he puts it. He takes a drag, releases smoke from his nose and mouth and continues: It’s always better for them to fire you. And he adds, lowering his voice: You have to forge your own escape route, understand. Pull stunts, cause a racket without anyone noticing. Canetti’s nature is too strong for him and despite so many losses, all those miserable years, as he calls them, the rebel seed has been kept alive in him ever since it occurred to him to hatch an illness to which in some way he ended up falling victim. A kind of silent, solo revolution, neither utopian nor idealistic, but practical and mocking, that of a fainthearted martyr.
At the end of the day, I see Esteban passing between the tables and sunshades. He walks rapidly towards the lake next to a zoo employee dressed, like me, as an explorer, speaking into his walkie-talkie and gesticulating with his free hand, giving to understand that whoever is at the other end is an imbecile. This is my opportunity to clarify matters, we’ll see what happens afterwards. I take a step forward but I pause in the attempt, one foot in the shade and the other in the sun. Esteban notices my aborted impulse, and my indecision; for that reason he raises an arm and waves above his head at me, showing no hint of stopping, as if he already knows and prefers not to hear me say it.
After a week of silence, Eloísa rears her head again. She sends me two identical messages one after the other. I’m sorry, she writes, I’m really mental. And a third, at dawn: You kno I love u.