Was this woman who had just delivered killer blows to the snake—not stopping at crushing it with the face of the shovel, but actually going on to behead it with the blade—the same sweetheart I’d always known? My waif-like Lara who was afraid of life? I perceived the intensity of her anger at that incredible moment as a measure of her love for me. It made me deeply gratified to see, with every blow she delivered to the snake, how much she feared for my life, and what a fight she would put up against any danger that threatened to take her lover away from her.

  After I pried the shovel out of her hands, she eventually grew calm again, as if waking up from a violent dream, and as suddenly as a tropical rainstorm, she broke out in tears, her shoulders shaking. We put our arms around each other and went inside the house, but the house no longer felt safe. Nor did the garden. Danger, it seemed, lurked everywhere, and could jump out at us at any moment. Each and every dark and hidden corner—beneath the bed, inside the closets, the towel hanging in the bathroom, beneath the bushes, among the cherry laurels, or the trellis—could have been an ambush in which a poisonous enemy might have settled, lying in wait for us.

  We made ourselves some coffee to pull ourselves together, sipping it without saying a word. Later, I gathered up the remains of the snake with the same shovel and threw them in the trash. Still feeling strangely shaken, I was unable to look at the crushed snake, but it was hardly something I would have requested Lara to do after all that she’d already done.

  She was sitting in the seat in the garden, looking off into the distance as she cradled her legs, which she’d drawn up around her chest. Her face was ashen. I realized then that we hadn’t spoken to each other that morning, not so much as a word.

  Just then, I heard the screams I’d been expecting, and with a sense of doom on the horizon. Screams and commotion rose up from the island—the screams and commotion that had grown all too frequent for us within a mere matter of a day. Someone had undoubtedly been bitten by a snake again, as snake-killing ceremonies such as ours were lately becoming more and more common at some of the houses. Lara looked at me with anxious eyes and asked, “What are we going to do?”

  “I don’t know!” I said. Snakes had taken over our island, and we were all but at a loss as to what to do about it.

  Late that afternoon, in a state of delirium, the elderly woman at Number 22 died in the arms of the helpless doctor. We buried her the next day next to our beloved carpenter as the islanders looked on, their faces having turned deathly pale with fear. The woman’s husband cried an endless stream of tears, unable to believe what had happened.

  The houses were teeming with snakes, and the doctor’s supply of serum and medication was simply inadequate. We could see no other choice but to wait for the ferry. Some had begun to speak of leaving this island behind, feeling that the place had become cursed. We were consumed with rage, though we had no clear target to pin the blame on.

  Although they had killed two snakes that had tried to enter the President’s house, his men remained uneasy, and stood guard around the clock. It was only the President and his wife in the house now, because his grandchildren had left the island with a farewell ceremony before being sent off on the ferry in time for the start of the new school year. We didn’t hear much from the President after that day. Even after all this precaution, exactly one week to the day after the first snake attack, the President, too, fell victim to a snake that bit him on the hand.

  As people told it, he had been gardening when it happened and was preparing to prune his shrubs. His men, who immediately rushed to his side upon hearing him scream, managed to save him with an assortment of pumps, medications, and serums they whisked in off the boat. Though he lay in bed with fever and pain for days, he had escaped the life-or-death point of danger. This development had clearly shown that those on the boat were well prepared, as well as the fact that they weren’t using their supplies for the benefit of the islanders. Even so, some of the islanders continued to defend him, turning a deaf ear to the opposition we’d managed to organize through the occasion.

  What a strange island we’d become. The meetings the President had held in the early days of his presence on the island, the pruning of our trees, the beatings of the grocer’s poor son, the insults we were subjected to, and the attacks on the seagulls had all been forgotten. As most remembered it now, everything had begun when those despicable seagulls had attacked us. It was as though a force from above had come and, as everyone slept, erased the memories of the island community overnight. On the few occasions when the three of us would have arguments with our neighbors, just as they would disagree with us whenever the subject arose—though they usually went easy on Lara and me—they would say peculiar things that seemed to place blame on the Writer. As they saw it, the frequently mentioned “he,” with his talk of gloom and doom, was the one who had caused these disasters.

  The fact was that the Writer had never had warm relations or any kind of close friendship with the islanders to begin with; he was, as they say, “in a league by himself,” and withdrawn. Obviously, though, he had a secret that saddened him and made him distant from other people; apparently there was some shadow of suspicion hanging over his life, which you could also tell occasionally from the expression on his face.

  So, my dear friend: this is how they spoke of you. Lara and I would defend you with all we had, protest that you were the most honest and most upstanding person we had ever known in our lives, but it was of no use. Nor am I saying these things merely for the sake of politeness. You really were the most honest and upstanding person we had ever known. I’ll never forget all that I’ve learned from you, what you taught me not only through your words, but also through your actions, your courage, and at times, your firmness of purpose, which was perceived by everyone else as arrogance. I suppose that if I’m to be completely truthful here, I should conclude many of my sentences with “Even if I don’t always apply what I’ve learned from you.” That’s because I know that you wouldn’t at all approve of what I call a literary trick, featured as Chapter 15. I know you’re going to think that I’ve damaged the integrity of the story, even in the midst of the stirring narrative about the snakes’ raid on the island, and that you’ll probably even get mad, shooting darts at me with your eyes.

  I know, believe me, I know, but I hope you’ll allow me to have played around with the style just a bit here. Because I mean, a writer gets kind of bored after all, wouldn’t you say? Narrate, narrate, narrate…always the same old sentences, the same old depictions, the same old images, the same old allegories, the same old metaphors. Events told in similar ways for centuries. What harm could there be in a little experimentation?

  I can just hear you saying, “Hey you! Instead of trying to describe the monotony of life on the island with a blank page, why don’t you say more about the foxes that came to the island in the previous chapter, you idiot!” And you’d be right; there’s certainly more to be said on that count.

  I HAD SAID that after the ten male and ten female foxes scampered off into the forest like a bolt of lightning, swinging their big, fluffy tails behind them, no one saw them again, right? According to experts in these matters and the information found in our encyclopedias at home, these foxes don’t behave in a collective and organized manner the way seagulls do, but live solitary lives that revolve around hunting. They’re said to have sly personalities, making use of every opportunity that arises before them, and eat up to a kilogram of food a day. This food consists of small animals, chickens, eggs, and even blackberries and strawberries. And, by the way, they frequently produce a lot of offspring.

  We haven’t been witnesses to their seagull egg—hunting skills, for which they were brought to the island, because we never saw them do that. The case would appear to be that they secretly steal those eggs and, without the awareness of the mother and father seagulls, make off with them and eat them. There were even those who asserted that the foxes had made significant headway in reducing the seagulls’ numbers.

  The foxes had come under much discussion around that time. Summoned by the President with an announcement distributed to each house, a few islanders touched upon the subject at another meeting that was held one evening at the café. And a good thing, too, because it turned out to be a wake-up call. The island community once again stood planted around the tables that had been placed together to form a square around the room, and the members of the executive committee each took their place.

  One of the seats reserved for them was empty, however. The Writer hadn’t come to the meeting. Lately, he was never out and about, and he was neglecting Lara and me even though he knew it upset us.

  Our musician friends were sitting in a corner of the garden, occasionally making sounds with their instruments and looking around as if they were in unfamiliar surroundings.

  I was happy to see that our guitarist friend had recovered as much as he had. The President must have approached the musicians before the meeting and asked them to play something. Whatever it was, it sounded alien to me, unlike anything else they’d ever played before. On listening a little more carefully, I was able to make out that it was some kind of anthem.

  The President, dressed in his immaculate white clothes, seated himself exactly in the middle with his usual authoritarian air. The only difference in his appearance since his arrival on the island months before was the gauze wrapped around his right hand. The musicians put down their instruments, and the meeting got under way.

  As the discussions proceeded, I recalled our first meeting there. The one where the executive committee was elected and all those bureaucratic rules were established. And another meeting where the President tried to convince the islanders to launch an attack on the seagulls. Everything looked the same on the surface, but how different it was: there was no longer the same trust, nor the same cheerfulness there used to be among the islanders. A shadow of sorrow had settled over everyone’s face. Neighbors were eyeing each other with suspicion. A heavy sadness and sense of doubt wandered throughout the atmosphere. The mood only grew all the more somber when the President invited everyone to stand for a minute of silence in memoriam of our beloved carpenter and the dear elderly lady who had died of snakebite. The seats at which these friends of ours once used to sit were left empty, their portraits placed on the table. Some shed tears in the midst of the silence.

  A few seagulls were flying about over the sea at that moment, and the islanders eyed them with hatred. The President made one of his usual epic speeches, made reference to “the enemies” and condemned the seagulls again, and tried to explain away the snakes as a result of a lack of civilized living on the island.

  As he saw it, the struggle waged against the seagulls had been a success, and now the struggle waged against the snakes would be won with the same resoluteness and determination. No one could make the islanders give up, was his summation of our communal resoluteness. “While a subversive or two who aimed to undermine the community’s morale and high spirits had come out of the woodwork,” he opined, “they had been unable to realize their traitorous ambitions and unable to upset the unity and common purpose of the island’s people.” Here, he meant the Writer and us. One or two people shot us nasty looks.

  The President had taken the necessary emergency measures in the struggle waged against the snakes as well, having placed an order via satellite telephone for enough snake poison for every house on the island. This toxin would be shipped in by ferry in two days, distributed to all the houses. The President’s words were met with applause. For the first time, a ray of hope glimmered in the eyes of most of us; let’s face it, most folks were constantly looking suspiciously beneath tables, clad in boots and gloves and with clubs in hand, on alert for another snake attack. They looked at the President with eyes full of gratitude. All they had to do was hang in there for just a couple more days, and the President would save them from this red and green plague upon the island, too, or so they thought.

  But just as they were letting themselves ease into the happy comfort of this news, a voice erupted from the back of the room, annoying them: “Aren’t you going to explain why snakes have taken over the island, Mr. President?”

  It was the Writer! He was skin and bones from all the weight he’d lost, his eyes sunken into their sockets. Standing there like a fugitive ascetic, he flooded the President with a barrage of questions before directing another stream at the islanders.

  Why had snakes invaded the island? Where had they come from after years of no sign of them? What could explain the way the snakes had managed to enter every house and multiply a hundredfold? What law of nature had caused this to happen? How on earth was it possible for this important matter to go undiscussed? Could it be that Mr. President—who was now squirming with obvious discomfort in his seat—had something to hide?

  The salvo of questions that rained like bullets on the meeting ended with the Writer’s final question:

  “Would you prefer to clarify the situation, or shall I?”

  As the President muttered something to the effect that there was nothing to be said, his men stepped toward the Writer, but he said that he was still a member of the executive committee and that he therefore had the right to speak. The men, their eyes hidden behind dark glasses, stopped with a motion of the President’s hand.

  Then, walking toward the very middle of the conference tables, the Writer spoke:

  “Look here, friends. Remember how it all began. Think back to the days of the past, that happy time on the island when we got along with the seagulls, just as we got along with all of the living creatures on the island. You must have forgotten about all that. You know, back when we would watch the seagulls soar through the sky, when we would carry on conversations with each other in peace, and when we would listen to the sounds our musician friends would create with their flutes and guitars in such a way that those sounds were like part of the very nature that surrounded us. Those days when we would walk without fear beneath the shade trees…”

  After searching the expressionless faces of the islanders as they listened to him, he continued:

  “Don’t you remember any of this? Before the arrival of this man, the pruning of our trees, the rules, the government, the notices distributed to our houses, and finally, the attack launched on the innocent seagulls.”

  At this point, an objection arose from Number 1, who by now had become one of the President’s most loyal followers: “What does any of this have to do with the snakes?”

  The Writer looked at him with calm composure and said, “It’s got plenty to do with it, my old friend, plenty indeed.” Turning toward the others, he continued:

  “You brought foxes to the island to reduce the seagulls’ numbers. Your enemy’s enemy, supposedly, was your friend. According to the President’s theories, you had no choice but to pit one enemy force against another. While the foxes quickly reduced the seagull population by eating their eggs, their own numbers multiplied. And as their numbers multiplied, not only did the seagull population shrink, but it also turns out we got more snakes.”

  “So what?” shouted a few neighbors as they shot another round of nasty looks.

  “Friends—don’t you get it? The snakes have increased because you’ve upset nature’s balance. Because in the past, the seagulls would hunt the snakes. As a result, the number of snakes on the island never grew beyond a certain limit. And we certainly never ran into any of the poisonous kind, meaning that they were living far away from us, keeping to themselves. When the foxes reduced the number of seagulls on the island, the snakes’ numbers grew and began to creep as far as into your houses. Which is to say, the foxes you’ve pitted against your enemy have become an entirely new threat that you failed to anticipate.”

  Silence hung in the air. I could almost hear everyone thinking “Could he be right?”

  WHAT YOU SAID had made sense, after all. In fact, even the notary gentleman stood up to say, “Our friend is right. Tinkering with nature’s balance always leads to disaster!” After that respected opinion was voiced, everyone seemed to have grasped the sad truth.

  Nor can I deny our surprise when we saw that the President, for his part, was not in the least taken aback by your words, even assenting with a nod of his head. How was it that the Shark could have paid any attention to words containing such reason? I would have thought that after your speech, he’d have stood up and hurled insults at you, called upon the islanders not to listen to you and given orders to his men to arrest you or something like that. But no, apparently his political maneuvering over the years had taught him to retreat on some points and hide his evil intentions behind a mask of complete innocence.

  THE PRESIDENT stood up, then said, “We have no choice but to accept that our friend here is right. I believe in being fair. A spade is a spade. The struggle we waged against the seagulls was a necessary one. Our paradise of an island could not have been handed over to those savage, pestilent creatures; besides which, we’ve always made these decisions by means of a vote and in a democratic manner. Isn’t that right, friends? Everything has been done in a way consistent with the principles of democracy, and the attack on the seagulls was carried out on the basis of a majority decision. But what are you going to do? Unanticipated results like this can ensue from any struggle. One assesses the situation and takes measures accordingly. What matters is that we remain firm, remain united, maintain our morale.”