Tender is the Flesh(39)

The inspector gets up slowly. He puts the form in his briefcase and says, “No, thank you. I’ll be on my way.”

He sees the inspector to the door and holds out his hand. The man’s hand doesn’t grasp his; it’s limp, lifeless, so that he has to make an effort to shake it, to support the hand that’s like an amorphous mass, a dead fish. Before turning away, the inspector looks him in the eye and says, “This job would be pretty easy if everyone could just sign and not do anything else, don’t you think?”

He doesn’t say anything. What he thinks is that it’s an impertinence, even if he does understand. He understands the powerlessness felt by this young inspector who needs something out of the ordinary to happen so his day will be worthwhile, this inspector who’s suspicious about the whole scene and has to resign himself to not doing his job, this inspector who’s clearly not corrupt, who never would have accepted a bribe, who’s an honest man because there are a few things he doesn’t understand yet, this inspector who reminds him so much of himself when he was young (before the processing plant, the doubts, his baby, the series of daily deaths), and thought that complying with regulations was what mattered most, when in some inaccessible corner of his mind, he was glad about the Transition, glad to have this new job, to be part of this historic change, to be thinking about the rules that people would have to comply with long after he had disappeared from the world, because the regulations, he’d thought, “are my legacy, the mark I’ll leave behind”.

He never would have imagined he’d break the very law he established.





8




When he’s sure the inspector has left and that the man’s car is past the gate, he goes back to his room, unties Jasmine and hugs her. He hugs her tight and puts his hand on her belly.

He cries a little and Jasmine looks at him. Though she doesn’t understand, she touches his face gently, and it’s almost like a caress.





9




He has the day off.

He makes some sandwiches, grabs a beer and some water for Jasmine. Then he gets the old radio, the one he listened to when Koko and Pugliese were still alive, and he takes Jasmine to the tree where the dogs are buried. The two of them sit in the shade, listening to instrumental jazz.

The station plays Miles Davis, Coltrane, Charlie Parker, Dizzy Gillespie. There are no words, only the music and the sky, its blue so immense it shimmers, and the leaves of the tree barely moving, and Jasmine leaning silently against his chest.

When Thelonious Monk comes on, he stands up and slowly brings Jasmine to her feet. He holds her carefully and begins to move, to sway. At first Jasmine doesn’t understand and seems uncomfortable, but then she lets go and smiles. He kisses her on the forehead, on the mark where she’s been branded. They dance slowly, though it’s a fast song.

They spend the rest of the afternoon beneath the tree and he thinks he can feel Koko and Pugliese dancing with them.





10




He wakes to Nélida’s call.

“Hi, Marcos, how are you, dear? Your father’s a tad out of sorts, nothing serious, but we need you to stop by, today if possible.”

“I don’t think I can make it today, tomorrow’s better.”

“You’re not understanding me. We need you to come in today.”

He doesn’t answer. He knows what Nélida’s call means, but doesn’t want to say it, he can’t put it into words.

“I’ll leave now, Nélida.”

First he takes Jasmine to her room. He knows it’ll be a while before he’s back so he leaves enough food and water for the whole day. Then he calls Mari and tells her he won’t be coming in to the plant.

He speeds to the nursing home. Not because he thinks it’s going to change things or because he believes he’ll see his father alive, but because the speed helps stop him from thinking. He lights a cigarette and drives. But he starts to cough hard, and tosses it out the window. The cough doesn’t subside. He feels something in his chest, like there’s a stone in there. He thumps on it and coughs.

Then he pulls over to the side of the highway and rests his head on the steering wheel. He sits there in silence, trying to breathe. The entrance to the zoo is right next to him. He looks at the sign. It’s broken and stripped of paint, and the animals drawn around the word “zoo” are almost impossible to make out. He leaves the car and walks to the entrance. The sign sits on a lintel arch made of uneven stones. The arch isn’t very high up and he climbs onto the stones and stands behind the sign. He starts to kick the sign, to hit it, to move it until he’s able to push it over onto the ground. The sign hits the grass with a dull sound, a thud.

Now this place has no name.

When he arrives at the nursing home, Nélida is waiting for him at the door. She gives him a hug. “Hi, dear, I don’t have to say it, do I? I didn’t want to tell you over the phone, but we needed you to come in today, to take care of the paperwork. I’m so sorry, Marcos, I’m so very sorry.”

All he says is: “I want to see him now.”

“Of course, dear, I’ll take you to his room.”

Nélida leads him to his father’s room. There’s a lot of natural light in the room and everything is in its place. On the night table sits a photo of his mother holding him in her arms when he was a baby. There are pill bottles and a lamp.