The Blue Lizard

Translated by Katie Shireen Assef


For some days now, he had been in the habit of observing, before sunset, a lizard that lay almost motionless on the trunk of a tree: very gradually the scales on its back, bristly as little thorns and arranged in a ringlike pattern, turned from shades of silver to a solid blue, and remained that color until the sun had disappeared. Was this detail sufficient to state that the lizard belonged to a new species, a species as yet unclassified? It was perfectly clear in the eyes of the Comte de Saint-Julien, naturalist and disciple of Linnaeus, that this was no chameleon. All the chameleons he had studied thus far in the royal collection had two rows of tiny spines that began at the snout, passed just above each eye, and, following the curve of the head, met with other spines to form a kind of hood; moreover, the back and even the tail were covered with small spikes. To say nothing of the eyes, which in chameleons moved independently of each other, and were as though sunken in the skin, and dulled. None of these traits characterized that color-shifting lizard with its bright eyes, observed on the tree trunk before sunset. It certainly could not be said to be any type of chameleon.

The small oviparous quadruped kept appearing on the same tree each day at the same hour, always exhibiting the same change of color: its body went from silver to blue, then faded with the setting sun. One day, the Comte decided to capture the lizard and, once shut away in his scientific study, he began to examine it in the most minute detail. It seemed that within the body of the little creature there had multiplied, as though by some design of natural citation, attributes belonging to various types and species of lizard: indeed, it had a flattened, triangular head, jaws covered in scales, thin, inward-facing teeth, and curved claws on its five little toes—all traits of the rather common grey lizard; and yet the scales, observed in the seclusion of the study, now appeared of a green tinged with yellow and even with some white, bringing to mind the stellion lizard frequently found near the Egyptian pyramids. It also had, like the lizard called the cordylus, a belly covered in scales and a tail as long as its body, likewise covered in scales but of a sharper kind, resembling those of the Brazilian lizard known as the quetz-paleo. The base of the tail was light brown, like that of the lizard called the algira. But although it shared something in common with each of these lizards, it fully resembled none of them.

The Comte de Saint-Julien, who in his day had contributed, through a detailed academic paper drawing on his travels, to the classification of both the mabuya lizard, prevalent in North America, and the Brazilian teguixin lizard, thought that this new specimen, complex and variegated as it was, might one day find its place in the manuals of natural history under the common name of blue lizard. And so, he set about drafting a description of the creature, highlighting the aforementioned similarities and differences with regard to its skin, limbs, eyes, tail, and stomach. He then undertook, with the proper instruments, a meticulous anatomical examination of its internal organs, noting their form and functions. It was late at night when the naturalist began writing an account of his observations in a letter to the Abbé de Tournus, with whom he had long corresponded on scientific matters. In the room, the oil lamp’s flame created a play of shadows on the walls, revealing in turn figures of men and animals, trees stirred by the wind, drifting clouds. Every shadow seemed almost immediately to bring to the naturalist’s mind these resemblances. True, this was all a distraction, but on the other hand, he thought, why not rest a little and let himself enjoy this dance of flame and shadow?

And it was in the midst of this innocent and necessary distraction that the Comte suddenly realized how all the shadows were gradually taking the shape of lizards, following and surpassing each other, chasing circles around each other, coupling. Then, as if a gust of wind had warped the lamp’s flame, the shadows collapsed, leaving at the center of the wall one perfectly distinct, unmoving figure. Compelled by that curiosity unique to the naturalist, he approached the wall: What he saw was not a shadow at all but a living, palpitating lizard, eyes protruding from the small triangular head, which, as he watched, was slowly becoming suffused with blue light. How could it have slipped into the room? Looking closer, the Comte realized that this lizard had precisely the same dimensions and shape as the specimen he had just dissected. It must, he thought, be an almost identical one that had scurried after its captured doppelganger and hidden until now in some nook. And it was just then, when this explanation ought to have allayed every uncertainty, that a doubt flickered in the mind of the naturalist, at first almost arbitrarily, unbidden, then more clearly and insistently. A doubt, or perhaps the shadow of a most foolish question. It was dawn when the Comte left the study for his bedroom, where he struggled to fall asleep. The next day the lizard had vanished from the wall, but the shadow of doubt had not faded from his mind; rather, it began to extend its dominion over the Comte de Saint-Julien’s thoughts, each day claiming more territory until it became no less than a torment and an obsession. It cannot be, he told himself; it is madness to think so. And he recalled his youthful arguments against such lingering superstitions, when it was his own experiments that had dispelled the remaining beliefs pertaining to the nature of the salamander, and definitively proved that fire consumed even that fabled creature, like any other animal. But now, in old age, doubt had found an easy breach, bringing with it unanswerable questions. Why had this second blue lizard, which by all evidence ought to have faded after sunset, appeared in the night on the wall of his study, illuminating the room more brightly than the dim flame itself? Was that blue, then, not the effect of the sun’s waning light? And even supposing that the vision of blue—and of the lizard itself!—had been no more than a product of the naturalist’s fatigue, why, after he had rubbed his eyes vigorously, washed his face, and summoned his senses to full alertness, was the creature still there: motionless, glowing, as though questioning him? Certainly, he told himself, he could repeat the experiment, capture at sunset the blue lizard that appeared on the tree trunk, dissect it, and watch the play of shadows upon the wall, taking care that neither faculty of sight nor reason should tire. But another part of him firmly rejected the idea. The doubt was surely ridiculous, the very hesitation absurd. At the same time, he felt as if paralyzed: from now on, he feared, every new observation of lizards might lead to a confirmation of the doubt—that restless speculation of the mind—rather than its dissipation. Days passed and the naturalist’s experiments languished until they ceased altogether, replaced by a growing preoccupation with ancient beliefs concerning the salamander.

His final work, in stark opposition to his youthful writings, was devoted precisely to the mysterious virtues of the salamander. Only many years later would one be able to read, in the Natural Histories, of a certain blue lizard, found in Africa, so named simply for the predominant color of its skin.


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Antonio Prete (b. 1939, Copertino) lives in Siena, Italy. “The Blue Lizard” is extracted from his collection L'ordine animale delle cose (The Animal Order of Things).

Katie Shireen Assef lives in Marseille, France. Her fiction and translations from French and Italian have appeared in 3:AM, The Dial, Blue Arrangements, and elsewhere.