I thought again of my father’s grave. If what he said was true and it went on indefinitely, the second inscription on his headstone could read: Beijing, 2012. In which case Paris, where he had lived for most of his existence and I want to say the most important part of it, would be left off his grave. Dad himself told me that in China the snake is a symbol of healing and the continuation of life. In the spring it sheds its skin and it is as if it’s been reborn. Adult children fulfill this same function. They ensure the continuation of the story that began with their parents.

“I know it was your mother who asked you to destroy my snake. You owe her your loyalty and I will not stop you. In exchange, I want you fulfill my obligation to Zhou Xun. Choose the moment you want to, but do it. It is nothing less than a debt, what I left unfinished with her.”

Dad went over to the sofa and picked up from the floor the jar of poison that I’d hidden. Not even looking at me, he poured a little of the dark liquid into the habitat, drawing the shape of a triangle. Then he asked me to leave his study.

My mother never found out about that conversation. When she came home I only assured her that the poison had been given. Several days went by before the snake stopped moving, and when at last it did my father still did not remove it from his pagoda. The Chinese symbol of renovation remained motionless in his study for many months until the day Mom took it out, without warning or rationalization, terrarium and all. Despite what she’d firmly believed, getting rid of the snake was not enough to resuscitate her marriage. My father never saw another springtime. Instead of regaining his liveliness or at least returning to his old ways, he sank deeper into the grief that defined the final years of his life. The Daboia that he brought home never did harm us. The snake from Beijing, however, left him with a wound that no home remedy was able to heal.

About the Author

About the Author

One of the most talked-about writers of new Mexican fiction, Guadalupe Nettel has won the Radio France International award for best new writers from non-French-speaking countries, the Gilberto Owen National Book Award and the Antonin Artaud Award for her collection of short stories Pétalos (Petals), and the Premio Heralde and the Anna Seghers Prize for her novel El huésped (The Guest). For years she has contributed to a number of French- and Spanish-language literary magazines such as Lateral, Letras Libres, Paréntesis, La Jornada Semanal, L’atelier du roman, and L’Inconvénient. Her books have been translated into French, Portuguese, German, Italian, Dutch, Czech, Slovak, and Swedish.