“Go on,” he said.
“You’re very keen on lizards, aren’t you?” I began. But not in any accusatory tone, I said it brightly, playfully.
“What makes you say that? Because of the name I gave the bar?”
His tone was unpleasant, almost threatening. But I knew he was a coward, I’d known it ever since primary school. He was a little devil then, but not up to fighting anyone face-to-face.
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean the lizard in the photograph, the one you were holding to Albino María’s ear. What I want to know is did the lizard crawl inside his head or not?”
“What are you talking about? You must be mad!” he shouted, then stalked off and began washing up some glasses.
“You’ve offended him,” my friend said.
But Ismael was back with us again.
“I’d have expected better from you. Do intellectuals like you still believe rubbish like that? Frankly, I’m disappointed.”
Ismael was still talking very loudly. His every gesture spoke his scorn. The motorcyclists down the bar from us were looking in our direction. It was beginning to look as if a fight was in the cards.
“Don’t get so upset, Ismael,” I replied, imitating the Obaba accent. I felt euphoric. The two gins inside me were beginning to take effect.
“I’m in my own place and I can do what I like! And I won’t have anyone coming in here making stupid accusations!”
I decided then to adopt Obaba behavior patterns. I took his hand in mine, a gesture that meant I was on his side and loved him like a brother. After all, we were from the same place, weren’t we? We’d appeared in the same photo. Surely that was enough. How could he not trust me?
“You know perfectly well I’ve got nothing against you personally!” I said.
“We’re just interested in this one small thing. I’m treating Albino María’s deafness and I just wanted to know exactly what happened that day, that’s all.”
I was amazed at my friend’s deftness. That was without doubt the best way of approaching the subject.
The reaction was quick in coming. The anger in Ismael’s eyes subsided.
“Why do you want to know?” he asked.
“Well, according to Albino María’s mother, that was the day he started to go deaf.”
I was astonished at how good my friend was at lying.
“Okay, I’ll tell you the truth. Not that I think it will be of much use to you,” said Ismael, drying his hands on a cloth. “I don’t actually know what happened to that lizard. It’s true I had it in my hand… to play some practical joke, I suppose, so that the photograph would turn out funny, with everyone in front moving about and shouting.… I imagine that’s what I wanted. But I don’t know what happened afterward. I do remember that it slipped out from between my fingers. But I don’t think it got into Albino María’s head. To be frank, that simply doesn’t seem possible.”
“No, of course not. We don’t think it is either. But we were just passing and it occurred to us to pop in and ask, that’s all.”
My friend’s tone was conciliatory now.
“I was very naughty when I was little. Really naughty!” said Ismael, smiling.
“We all were in our own way. You’d never think it to look at me, but I actually burned down my grandfather’s house. Not on purpose, of course,” my friend confessed.
“Good grief!”
It was clear that such remarks were very much to Ismael’s taste. Perhaps they helped ease his bad conscience. After a brief farewell, we left the pub and walked back to the harbor parking lot. Back in the car, my friend and I — both a little disappointed — recalled what Balzac said: that life does not provide us with nice, rounded stories, that it was only in books that you found good, strong endings.
“We’ll never know what happened with that lizard,” I said.
That remains to be seen. Before we finally close the file on the subject, we have to talk to Albino María,” my friend replied.
“We could probably visit him tomorrow. He hardly ever leaves Obaba.”
“Let’s hope so.”
“Speaking of Balzac and good endings, what’s the best story you know? I mean, in your opinion, which story has the most satisfying ending?” I asked suddenly. There were scarcely any cars on the road at that hour and the solitude of the highway created a favorable climate for confidences.
“I’m not sure I could say just off the top of my head,” my friend answered.
“Well, if you like, I’ll tell you what Boris Karloff’s reply would have been. I bet you can’t guess what Boris Karloff thought was the best story in the world,” I said.
“No, I can’t, but I bet it was some horror story.”
It was the story about the servant from Baghdad.”
“Which story is that?”
“I’ll tell it to you if you like. With a cup of coffee in front of me, of course.”
“Okay. It’ll be good training for tomorrow’s session. With your uncle sitting in judgment, we need all the practice we can get.” We stopped at a highway café. Then, seated at a corner table, I recounted the old Sufi tale to my friend. And I did so in exactly the same words I’m going to use now to transcribe it. The story about the lizard and the last word of that story can wait.
The rich merchant’s servant
ONCE UPON A TIME, in the city of Baghdad, there lived a servant who worked for a rich merchant. One day, very early in the morning, the servant went to the market to do the shopping. But that morning was different from other mornings, for he saw Death there in the marketplace and Death looked at him oddly.
Terrified, the servant returned to the merchant’s house.
“Master,” he said, “lend me your fastest horse. Tonight I want to be far from Baghdad. Tonight I want to be in the far city of Isfahan.”
“But why do you wish to flee?”
“Because I saw Death in the marketplace and he gave me a threatening look.”
The merchant took pity on him and lent him the horse, and the servant left in the hope that he would be in Isfahan that night.
That afternoon, the merchant himself went to the marketplace and, as had happened before with the servant, he too saw Death.
“Death,” he said, going over to him, “what did you mean by giving my servant a threatening look?”
“What threatening look?” replied Death. “It was a look of pure amazement. I was simply surprised to see him here, so far from Isfahan, for it is tonight in Isfahan that I am to carry your servant off.”
Regarding stories
AFTER LISTENING to the story about the servant, my friend grew thoughtful. He stared into his coffee cup like someone trying to extract some meaning from the dregs.
At last he said: “I agree with Boris Karloff. It really is an excellent story.” And, as happens in all late-night conversations worthy of the name, that remark brought with it a rather metaphysical question, not at all easy to answer:
“But why is it good? What makes a story good?”
“I know a much better story than that,” exclaimed someone sitting near us, a man with a foreign accent.
Surprised at the presence of that unexpected witness, my friend and I turned around.
“It’s me,” the man said.
But we’d never seen him before in our lives. He was an elderly man with white hair and beard. Although he was bending toward us, almost crouching, he seemed extremely tall to me. He must have been over six foot five.
“I know a much better story than that,” he said again. His breath smelled of whiskey.