“We can go and see the hut if you like,” Ismael suggested. “If we go via the colonnade by the church we can be there in less than five minutes.” We had no alternative but to accept.
“This is the same way we came the day they took that photo of us, do you remember?” I said to lsmael as we went up the hill. My tone was conciliatory. Deep down I wanted to excuse myself for the injustice we had done him. He was not a nice person, but neither was he someone with an unhealthy obsession with lizards.
He said only: “Yes, you’re right.” He had put on his dark glasses by then.
Ilobate, Muino, Pepane, Arbe, Legarra, Zumargain, Etxeberi, Ostatu, Motse… we walked past the houses we had seen so often in our childhood and reached the stone steps. They were just the same as in the photo: old, serious, full of cracks.
“I stood here, on the top step. Albino María stood there, right next to me,” said Ismael, standing on one corner of the third step and mopping with a white handkerchief at the sweat brought on by the climb.
It was a mocking insinuation aimed exclusively at me: “Why don’t you say now that Albino María went mad because of me?” That was what those words meant.
“What are you two doing up there? It’s getting late!” called my friend from the shade of the church cemetery. He understood how uncomfortable I felt being alone with Ismael.
“We’re coming. But don’t worry, we’re nearly there.”
The hut was behind the church, in the middle of a field surrounded by barbed wire. Built of white-painted cement, it was about thirty feet by nine in area and about nine feet high. The small windows were covered with wire netting. The iron door was painted green.
“The hut is divided into two sections. In one I keep the lizards that have nearly recovered. In the other I keep the ones that are still sick,” Ismael told us once we had gone through the gate in the fence.
“And what happens then? What do you do with the lizards once they’re completely cured?” asked my friend.
“I look for a clean river and release them near there,” replied Ismael, taking out the key to the hut from his pocket.
We smelled the stench the moment he opened the door. It was really disgusting, sickening.
“Oh, the smell!” said Ismael when he saw us covering our mouths and noses. “It’s not very pleasant, is it? I don’t even notice it anymore. What do you think? A lovely sight, eh?” he added, taking off his sunglasses.
No, it wasn’t a lovely sight. It looked more like a warehouse for storing rotting vegetables and apples and not even the leafy branches placed in one corner modified that impression. Moreover, it was horribly hot inside.
“Where are they?” asked my friend, like me looking at the floor.
“Don’t look at the floor. Look at the walls,” said Ismael.
There they were, clinging to the cement walls. I saw five on the left wall, three on the right, and one more on the ceiling. Their throats puffed in and out. From time to time they opened their disproportionately large mouths and out flicked a black thread, their tongue.
“I’ve seen enough, I’m going outside,” I said. My desire to throw up was getting stronger by the minute.
“Wait a moment, let’s go and see the cages in the other part.”
I flatly refused. I went out into the field and my friend followed.
“Well, I don’t find them disgusting,” said Ismael, coming over to us. He put on his sunglasses again. “Nature is an absolute unity, a totality, and that’s why I love all animals. Lizards, for example, remind me of birds, because I know that they’re almost the same thing. You mustn’t forget that the first bird was born of a lizard. I know you don’t feel the same, but…”
“No, we don’t feel the same,” my friend broke in, heading for the fence. His stomach was churning too.
“Let me just shut the door and I’ll come with you. I have to pick up my car from the garden.”
“Any moment now he’ll start spouting about theology,” my friend whispered. He was rather angry. It had been a dirty trick taking us to that place just before lunch.
Fortunately, Ismael didn’t persist in explaining his concept of nature and we walked back in complete silence. We reached my uncle’s house just as the clock was striking half past two.
“Here ends the story of the lizard. Try using a bit less imagination next time,” Ismael said from the window of his red Lancia.
“We’ll try.”
He reversed out of the garden. A few seconds later he had disappeared from view.
“At last!” said my friend. We didn’t go back into the house straightaway. We wanted to get a bit of fresh air and forget the disgust provoked in us by the stench of the lizards.
“Oh well, there’s nothing we can do!” said my friend, thinking out loud. It seems we did go a bit overboard with our hypotheses. But it doesn’t matter, it’s good to make a fool of yourself once in a while. I think we let ourselves get carried away by our passion for stories. And anyway, basically, we were right. There is something a bit sinister about Ismael.”
“I quite agree,” I said. But I felt distinctly depressed.
“Martini time!” called my uncle from the living room window.
“The more I see of your uncle, the more I like him. A couple of minutes with him and we’ll have forgotten all about the lizards.”
“Yes, you’re right. It’ll be a really good lunch. And I’m sure Mr. Smith will have some interesting stories to tell.”
We were not mistaken. Lunch with the two ex-emigrants flowed by on a wave of jokes and anecdotes, and my friend and I could only marvel — once again — at how full our elders’ lives seemed to have been.
Around five o’clock — returning once more to the program — with our cognac and coffee before us, we settled down to talking about literature: What exactly was originality, where did plagiarism start and end, what should the function of art be?… and that was the moment Mr. Smith chose, as he put it, to give us a surprise.
“Ah, my friend,” he said to my uncle, “my opinions are not as strict and severe as your own. I’m also in favor of intertextuality. I agree with these young men.”
“Really? I don’t believe it!”
“Well, it’s true. And I’m going to give you the proof right now.”
Our eyes lit up. Mr. Smith’s tape recorder was on the table.
“Wait a second,” I said. “If you record the story on there, you’ll erase the one about Amazonas. Uncle, have you got a blank tape?”
“Yes, I have,” he replied, a little puzzled, for we hadn’t yet told him about the previous night’s adventures.
“Don’t worry! One side of the tape is still blank,” said Mr. Smith to reassure us. And he began to recount in English, with a Dublin accent, a story entitled “Wei Lie Deshang, a fantasia on the theme of Marco Polo.” The time has come, then, to insert yet another parenthesis, because I find it impossible to continue my search for the last word without first transcribing this story. I did my best to make the translation a good one. Now let’s see the result.
Wei Lie Deshang
A fantasia on the theme of Marco Polo
WEI LIE DESHANG was not like the other servants at the palace that Aga Kubalai, the latest governor of the city of Kiang’Si, had had built on a small island in the bay, and he never resigned himself to his fate. While the others complained about their lot, he reflected in silence; while their eyes flowed with tears, his eyes, full of hatred, remained coldly watchful.