Firefly by Severo Sarduy Page B

opened it with a resounding kick.
    The room had a high vaulted ceiling and a circular floor with inlaid bronze lettering. At the apex of the cupola was a brilliant porphyry dove. More doves decorated the rest of the ceiling, progressively diminishing in size and intensity of color from the tops of the walls to the zenith, the highest ones reduced to faded freaks, formless dull amoebae.
    Red-and-purple tapestries covered the walls.
    In their dense weave, amid bits of thread coming loose at the edges, stains from the humidity, holes, and burn marks, were scenes Firefly could not comprehend: a chubby white blond woman, naked, her skin iridescent, was licking the hard orange bill of a gigantic duck with greasy blue feathers, standing tall and proud like a billy goat. Down the neck of the bird slid fresh raindrops or dew; in his eyes shone a spark of desire more human than animal.
    Framing that twisted coupling were garlands of orchids and sprays of royal poinciana blossoms, among which weird rollicking hybrids performed acrobatic feats: pairings of dissimilar beasts, grotesque graftings that defied understanding and parodied reason.
    Atop the pistils of an open flower, alighted a flying shrimp with bat’s wings and a crown; between two leafless branches soared a mouse with fins, driven by a boat propeller.
    In the tapestry’s upper-right-hand corner, as if breaking free from the woof and weft, a hummingbird reigned in fixed flight.
    Seated on the little wicker chairs found in rural or impoverished churches, sullen old men trembling with impatience waited in silence, several of them in dril cien suits and straw hats that they spun nervously in their laps when they were not crossing and uncrossing their legs.
    Firefly remained motionless behind the door, which had swung shut, contemplating that viscous spectacle: The rectangular glass window deformed the faces, flattening cheekbones and noses, as if someone had taken sandpaper to them.
    â€œAbout time, little madam, about time,” exclaimed the most pallid and potted of the old crocks. “All the blessed night waiting for you. And now that you’re here at last, you’ve come, if I understand correctly, empty-handed. Isn’t that the case?”
    A dry little cough made him shudder.
    â€œNot at all, gentlemen, not at all,” the scrawny girl answered, feigning offense. “Surprises await. But please, a little patience.”
    â€œSurprises? At this point?” replied the elderly man with a hint of incredulity. “So, where are they?”
    â€œFor the time being,” the withered girl responded as she backed away, “keep your eyes on the waterfall, that always calms thenerves. And have some coffee with a nice glass of cold papaya wine.”
    She let out a cackle and stepped toward a folding screen set up on the other side of the room.
    A large curved window of thick glass, like a jeweler’s loupe, interrupted the succession of tapestries and their grim copulations, and distorted the view of what lay beyond: a Japanese garden, complete with squares of raked sand, bonsai trees, and a waterfall, the whole of it stretched like elastic at the edges, bulging in the center, and excessively illuminated by footlights of all colors.
    Despite the glass window, the chatter in the room, and the cushiony covering on the door, Firefly could hear water splashing faintly.
    Evaporation created a perpetual rainbow, smooth and motionless, above the polished rocks and the dwarf bushes that embraced the extremes of a little wooden bridge lacquered in red.
    A sudden squeal of hinges suggested the inverted tower they were in had a hidden, surely minuscule, entry on the side opposite the spiral staircase.
    There was silence.
    Steps behind the folding screen. Firefly could make out a few voices in the distance, unrecognizable.
    More silence.
    In the room, someone getting up knocked over one of the little chairs, which smacked sharply against the floor like