He says he’ll cooperate with serious journalism with great pleasure, though certainly not as a favor to the widow, who, sincerely, deserves no such thing, twenty years younger than Tiflis but with quite a history all her own. “You saw the painting? The monumental nude. It’s her, she was the model. As you know, señor, he was an art collector. No doubt he found her at loose ends in some artist’s studio and she allowed herself to be bought, like a painting. Señor, I believe that Tiflis always secretly despised her, there’s no evidence that he allowed her to participate at all in his life, nor, when he shot himself, did he leave her anything material, a letter, or a child, only the dog—you saw it?—a chained maniac of a dog, exactly like the woman who owns it. Animals take after their masters, that is axiomatic.”

He says he’ll read over the judicial proceedings, as I’ve asked, he promises me that, but on my end I’ll have to dig into other things if I’m truly intent on this, and he’ll help me, though he’s skeptical. Because with Tiflis, just when you least expect it, you’ve entered another jurisdiction, the matter of the brotherhood and the rites of death will be revealed at the right moment, that will be for next time; first I have to see the case file; he’ll let me know when. I can go now, with confidence.

•

At the front desk Marcela left a note, not specifically for me: “Back at 4:00.” The boss is circling the hallways but doesn’t ask about the series or take any notice of me. On my desk is an envelope with a message scrawled by hand: “Greetings, Blanquita.” But nothing inside is from Piel Blanca, only more notes from Bibi.

The dog throws itself down on its master’s tomb and lets itself die.

The scorpion pricks itself with its own toxin and perishes.

The drone gives up its life for the privilege of fecundating the queen bee.

While the female and male spiders of a given species mate, the former eats the latter, and the latter does not cease copulating until he dies.

During the migration of a certain type of fish, upstream against the current, those that can’t manage to leap up the natural stone steps beat themselves against the rocks until they die.

Some insects will eat themselves if they’re helped to arch their bodies.

Even so, two or three knowledgeable figures have written that irrational beings do not commit suicide; their own conduct or their reactions—sadness and abandonment, aggressive automation, irritation, sexual instinct, fear—can bring about a sudden or slow death, but they don’t know they’re going to die and are even less capable of knowing how to kill themselves.