I’m going to die today, says Tosca early in the morning. She asks me to move closer, she speaks in my ear so that Benito can’t hear. She crosses her index finger over her lips, making it clear that it’s a secret between me and her. I’m about to respond, to say something that doesn’t come out; I limit myself to arching my eyebrows and squeezing out a smile to reproach her for the thought. I hurry to prepare the syringe, I look for the vein and inject the morphine right to the last drop.
From the world of snakes, I was transferred to the farm. In the open air, unobserved, much more pleasurable. When Yessica found out, she caused a minor row, arguing that she’d asked to change sector a while ago and her seniority should put her before me. I tried to explain that they assigned me without asking, if it were up to me I’d have no problem staying, but it was pointless, she was indignant. Since I moved to my new post, she’s stopped greeting me. There’s been no further mention of the iguana. The subject comes to me every now and then like a ghost and I get it into my head that sooner or later some evidence is going to appear to incriminate me. I wonder whether my judgement day will come.
Working in the farm is very different. There are days when no one comes. Many people avoid the place, probably because it only has ordinary animals they’ve seen before. It’s also true that a short diversion is required to find it, leaving the main path and climbing a ramp. I spend most of my time alone, sitting on a plastic stool under the shade of a straw roof. My companion is a short, heavyset boy, very introverted and fanatical about the job. He definitely prefers dealing with the goats, the donkey and the cow to dealing with humans. To begin with, I struggle to get used to the smell, that mix of dung and fodder that contaminates the air. Now that I’ve grown accustomed to it, sometimes I close my eyes, breathe deeply and smell something potent that fills me with vigour.
Behind the pens there’s an L-shaped construction with barred windows, air conditioning and long tables for packed lunches. Sometimes I go in and spend a few minutes refreshing myself but the relief has its snag: the transition from the cold to the heat makes me dizzy. The really terrible days are when there’s a birthday party. The place becomes an insufferable clamour, which affects the animals’ moods. In some cases they break out and have violent fits: bites, kicks, rebellions. I don’t have to take care of anything, two girls come especially for that, but all the same it’s impossible to block it out. There are unmanageable brats who slip under the fence and find it funny to mount a sheep, pull a pig’s tail, throw stones at hens. Then I do have to intervene. Initially I find it difficult, but I soon become tougher and am able to issue frightening shouts. I see Iris everywhere, I mistake her, I imagine her, in some way I miss her.
One Friday afternoon, I open the flat door and I can’t understand what I’m seeing: Simón is tied to a chair by his feet and hands, round his waist too, secured to the backrest by a rope. I come out of my daze and make a sign with my hand asking him for an explanation but he can’t talk either, in his mouth there’s some cloth, a piece of something. I return to the corridor, I lean out into the stairwell, nothing, my head fills with impossible hypotheses. Simón looks me in the eye, inexpressive, with no trace of suffering, nor does he look like he’s been crying. I want to believe it’s some kind of strange joke, in bad taste, I think about el Buti’s brother’s gang. I walk over to him and the first thing I do is remove what is preventing him from speaking, one of my socks rolled into a ball, and he goes crazy, he shakes his head biting the air, he wants me to block his mouth again. I understand less and less. I ignore him, crouching to free him from his tethers, and he protests loudly. At that moment, Herbert comes out of the bathroom with a plastic bottle filled with water and a green and black slice of pipe, a garden hose. Before he appears, before discovering that I’m here, addressing Simón, he says: Confess, it’s your last chance. The phrase remains unfinished. On seeing me, as well as falling silent, Herbert blushes. I interrogate him in silence, not annoyed, disconcerted. We’re playing, Herbert intercepts me and I slap a leg rehearsing a strike I’m not going to give him. It’s a joke, he says. I’m about to say: This is no game, it doesn’t look like fun, you might hurt yourselves. But Simón’s cries deafen me. Herbert explains the obvious, the inconceivable: He likes being tied up. I stroke Simón’s head, I try to dissuade him but he doesn’t want to hear it, he rejects me, he kicks, he screams like a savage, he unleashes a new fury. That’s what I mean, Herbert insists and raises his shoulders as if saying it’s not his fault, he has nothing to do with someone else’s whims. I move away a few steps, I allow it without being sure, defeated by the circumstances. Simón calms down as Herbert reties his feet and I cease to hear him altogether with the sock between his teeth.
I drop my things on the mattress, I enter the bathroom and splash my face, my cheeks are flushed, I feel ashamed. I’d like to do something to repair the situation, to go back in some way. I don’t know how. I let a couple of minutes pass and go out with the intention of being firm. Everything is the same, Simón tied up, eyes on the ground, waiting to be tortured, Herbert standing with the bottle and the hosepipe, it’s clear that he doesn’t feel like continuing to play his role in my presence. I try to think of some phrase to befriend Simón, to make him understand. His satisfied and defiant expression suggests I’d best not try. With no way out, I look for an excuse to escape: Be right back, I say, I’m going to the supermarket.
With a sachet of milk, a tin of green beans and a bag of bread in my basket, I stay standing for a while in front of the drinks and liqueurs aisle. An accumulation of superimposed images fills my mind, of those nights in the kitchen at Open Door getting drunk alone: the slits in the oilcloth on the table that I opened with my longest nail, the pile of papers scribbled with illegible notes, the thick glass I filled and emptied without pause, my throat on fire. I stretch out my arm and grab a bottle of gin by the neck, which I hold close to my body as I take it to the checkout.
I return to the building undecided about how to act. How to put an end to the domination game. I even wonder whether it’s just a boys’ thing that I have no reason to suppress. It could be, I think, and for a while I deceive myself. Right, Simón, it’s over. It’s that simple, it’s a matter of giving a good loud shout and that’s it. I rehearse my tone on the stairs, I gather my courage, but there’s no need. The chair, the rope and the cords have been cast aside, the torture session is over, Herbert and Simón have returned to car races. I don’t know what to say, whether to mention the subject again or let it go. As I hesitate, I serve myself the first measure of gin.
Herbert leaves, Simón falls asleep without eating and drunkenness knocks me out until after midnight. I wake suddenly, the other way up. Between my headache and a very precarious awareness, Tosca appears to me. Monstrous and augmented. And what I remember isn’t the morphine injection I didn’t give her but what she said this morning: I’m going to die today. Limbs numb, I have no strength to stand, I try to masturbate in search of encouragement but that doesn’t work either. Another swig of gin, now from the bottle, and I sit up agonising. I face the stairs with as much impetus as I can, I descend in slow motion. Too late, I realise that I’m in my knickers. Benito opens the door, face more swollen than ever, eyes surrounded by dark circles, haggard. He doesn’t need to say anything, I’m about to embrace him, sympathising, but the movement is truncated by a howl from Tosca that hangs paralysed in the air: Beeeniiiiii.
Tosca welcomes me with a reproach: Do you want to kill me? I tell a half-truth: I fell asleep. And I add a stupid excuse: I had a terrible day. Tosca frowns, my breath gives me away. No one says anything about seeing me semi-naked. I stretch my T-shirt and cover myself as best I can. Before I inject her morphine, Tosca uses me as a confidante once more. Like this morning, she wants to tell me something in secret. Come here, she asks, and I obey. You thought I’d carked it, didn’t you? It’ll come, girl, it’ll come, you need to have a bit of patience.