The jaguar
by Keith Jardim
In memory of Fred Busch
I would like to be the jaguar of your mountains
And take you to my dark cave.
Open your chest there
And see if you have a heart.
Emperor Valley Zoo
Mid-afternoon sunlight filtered through the silk-cotton tree and onto the jaguar, setting its rosette coat ablaze. The cat, a big male, moved in an unbroken rhythm back and forth along its cage, whiskers almost brushing the dark iron bars. The end of the jaguar’s thick tail looped up a bit. His jaws were parted for the heat, and his tongue, tip curled to the roof of his mouth, floated over and under the air he sucked in and expelled with light gasps.
Roy watched Fiona lean over the waist-high fence, seven feet from the cage, stretching her back and neck toward the animal. He noted the ridges of her spine through her thin cotton top, and when the shirt slid above her jeans, he saw her smooth pale skin, the tiny footprints of freckles making their way down, he knew, to run across the right side of her hip, then up again, fading around her breasts in a splotchy sunset, like a birthmark disintegrating. Just above her hip, reaching for the back of her rib cage, was the bruise where he had gripped her last night while making love. It was blue-black and purple-tinged, like certain fleshy parts inside the jaguar’s mouth.
Fiona stared directly into the jaguar’s eyes. The cat stopped, instantly assessed Fiona’s new position, and returned her gaze with such gravitas — eyes unblinking in his steady large head, compact muscles and limbs tensed as if to throw himself through the cage, the fence, and onto her — that she straightened, stepped back, and took Roy’s arm. She tucked some loose strands of light-brown hair behind her ear.
“Why d’you suppose he reacted like that?” she asked, blue eyes startled.
The jaguar resumed strolling back and forth in its cramped cage. A fence sign gave the range of jaguars in the New World, and this one’s name: Lollipop. No other information was available.
“Maybe he likes you,” Roy said, still brooding over a tense conversation they’d had the night before. “Maybe you got too close. Like with De Souza?”
She released his arm. “But he was more beautiful than ever when he did that.” Fiona sighed with pleasure now.
“Really?” Roy frowned. The confines of the jaguar’s cage troubled him: it was cruelty, pure and simple. “How d’you suppose he’d look if he were a man?” Roy was a little taller than Fiona, but they were on an incline with Fiona upslope, so she was able to lower her head a bit, look Roy straight in the face, and ignore him. “Bet you’d want to interview him too,” Roy added.
“You are beginning to whine, dear,” she said in the playful voice she’d used earlier to deflate last night’s tension. “It’s time we visited the monkeys.”
Roy followed, feeling as if she were talking to a slightly troubled child. She half-spun to face him, giving her dazzling, genuine smile. He tried to resist, agitated that she could so easily change his mood. Fiona’s smile, as natural to her as brooding was to him, made a silent music in his head — the twirl and dip of Gaelic dances in spring, the merry, witty violins of Ireland, greenest landscape in the world, her childhood home.
Fiona laughed — an amused appraisal of the situation, perhaps, or maybe she was nervous. Roy glimpsed the inside of her mouth, her pink tongue, and was almost undone. “Come,” she said. “Come along, Jaguar Man.” She took his hand, and making deliberate eye contact, said, “Roy, I’d never compromise myself like that. De Souza is a creep. So forget it, all right?”
He wasn’t convinced. De Souza was a persuasive man. He wanted Fiona close by and had encouraged her to interview him. He had warned Roy that perhaps she was not only a journalist for the BBC. Possibly, based on recent scrutiny, Fiona was involved in surveillance work.
An elderly man, slim and shirtless with a scruffy beard, walked purposefully up from the alligator pond toward them. He wore a bright purple scarf, loose khaki shorts, and lace-less gray shoes. Halting a few feet from them he fingered his scarf, then crossed his long brown arms. His longish hair was matted, with dusty, sun-browned patches that would soon grow into clumps. He smelled of sweat and earth, but it was not unpleasant. His arms were decorated with silver watches strapped tightly from wrists to elbows. He addressed Fiona and Roy: “Good afternoon, Mr. Gentleman and Miss Lady. Dr. Edric Traboulay, at your service. This here cat you all was observing so intentionally is best referred to as Panthera onca, native to the shores of South and Central America. Very rarely do it harm humans, so please don’t be alarmed, Fair One.” The man was delighted with them, especially Fiona. He looked proud, licked his upper lip as if relishing the words he’d just spoken, and continued. “I taught zoology at the university — long ago.” He waved a hand past his head, as though dismissing a whole period of his life. “That was just after the colonial administration — the British, you recall?” He looked at Roy.
“Before my time,” Roy said, wary of the vagrant. “But of course I remember the queen’s visit.”
Dr. Traboulay kept his distance, as if sensing that stepping closer would defeat his purpose. In an impeccable Oxford accent, occasionally interspersed with island dialect, he began again. “Ah, the British! Of them I have such fond memories! Do you know it was through the good auspices of Dr. William Smith — the man who discover five, five of our island hummingbirds. Of the family Trochilidae. Count them.” Dr. Traboulay held up his right hand, fingers and thumb splayed, and began to count and name the hummingbirds, lowering each finger as he tapped it. “One, the Rufous-breasted Hermit, Glaucis hirsuta. Two, the Black-throated Mango, Anthracothorax nigricollis. Three, the Green Hermit, Phaethornis guy. Four, the Tufted Coquette, Lophornis ornatus. Five, the Blue-chinned Sapphire, Chlorestes notatus — yes!” He gasped, excited by the memory. “Smith was the boss-man of hummingbird, oui. It was because of that decent fellow that I had the good fortune to acquire a scholarship to pursue zoological studies at Oxford University. The British—” He stopped and scratched his head, overcome by a troublesome memory. “I was going to tell you about the expedition into the northern range of the island, but first...” He grimaced and rolled his eyes. “What was it, I wonder?” He looked at the clouds.
Roy and Fiona were both uneasy now. Roy reached for his wallet and mumbled, “It’s okay,” offering Dr. Traboulay several reddish notes with frolicking scarlet ibises.
“Oh, sir! You are too kind — but this is entirely unacceptable!” He raised his hand in protest. “First, I must tell you my story.” He turned away, deep in thought. Roy replaced the money in his wallet.
“Poor man,” whispered Fiona. “We should go.”
Dr. Traboulay was muttering to himself. He went to the jaguar cage and addressed the cat in Latin. “Pulvis et umbra sumus,” he said. The jaguar, still pacing, watched him expectantly.