The guinea pig sits at one end of the cage, frozen with fear.
At the other end, lies the snake. A six-foot python—small for its species, but taller than the average human being. Its scales glitter in the sun.
It is rumoured that pythons can swallow an entire person—though I doubt they could swallow Manfred. That would be the equivalent of swallowing two, perhaps three human beings.
Manfred leans against the cage, shaking the ice cubes in his tumbler. He takes a sip and sighs. I can’t decide whether he’s satisfied, or scared.
Droplets of whiskey glisten on his bristly moustache, like the dew on the elephant grass early in the morning.
“Nice, fat parting gift,” Manfred says, addressing the snake. He laughs, baring his large, stained teeth—they look like Scrabble pieces in his mouth.
The guinea pig hasn’t moved. It doesn’t even try. But then there’s nowhere for it to go.
I tell Manfred he should flee, that he should hide for a while until all of this blows over. But he doesn’t reply. He knocks back the rest of his whiskey, chucks the ice in the grass, and wipes his moustache on his tie dye shirt.
He says, “A guinea pig every other week. Or three to five mice. But she likes the guinea pig best.”
Manfred’s khaki shorts are so tight around his crotch I worry they will tear when he reaches into his pocket for his wallet. He takes out a stash of bills and hands it to me. “If you need more,” he says, “call Francesca.”
The sirens are approaching quickly. Ten minutes ago, they sounded like the faint whining of a mosquito. Now, they’re like a pandemonium of parrots. It won’t be long before they’re here.
The snake makes a move, slithering between the rocks towards the guinea pig.
I look at Manfred, who stares at the python who, in turn, fixes the dark, beady eyes of the rodent through its narrow slits.
“Please, Manfred,” I beg. “Run.”
But all he says is, “And don’t forget to scrub the cage once a week. One part bleach to ten parts water.”
The snake strikes, rendering the guinea pig unconscious.
Outside the compound, car doors slam and boots grind the gravel. There’s banging and shouting at the gate.
Manfred says, “I hate goodbyes.” And he wraps his arms around me in a tight embrace. I sink into his belly. Two or three of me could sink into that belly.
The python coils around the guinea pig, tightens its grip each time its prey exhales, squeezing the air out, bit by bit.
“Oh, come on,” Manfred says when he notices my eyes watering. “No need to get emotional now!”
There are gunshots, and the gate is kicked down. Armed men rush towards us, ordering us to kneel and put our hands on our heads. Manfred lifts his arms, unveiling a hairy stomach.
The men are surprised at his lack of resistance. “We’ve got him!” a skinny one spits into his phone.
I don’t know why, but Manfred smiles and winks at me. There’s a glaze of sweat on his scalp, underneath the grey hair and dandruff.
The snake opens its jaw wide to swallow the guinea pig.
And that’s when Manfred decides to run. As fast as his surprisingly skinny legs will take him. As fast as a man in Birkenstocks could possibly run.
He’s headed for the banana grove, and the river beyond. The men take aim and shoot. They miss and Manfred keeps running and I think, He’s going to make it!
But then a bullet hits him in the neck and Manfred goes crashing down, face first, into the red earth. He slides a few feet and his legs bend backwards, flopping over his body, all the way to his shoulders, and then snap back.
When I crouch down next to Manfred, he’s still breathing. His pale blue eyes open, the pupils dilated. Through the flow of blood from his mouth, Manfred gurgles, “Don’t… forget…”
He doesn’t finish his sentence.
I grab his hand and tell him not to worry, that I’ll take good care of the snake. “One guinea pig a week,” I say, choking back tears. “One part vinegar to ten parts water.”
But I fear it’s too late, and that Manfred may have died without the comfort of knowing his snake would be alright.
