chapter Four
The man was no good at small talk. Henry crouched and parked his stare on a wolf and waited. It was the taxidermist's turn to make an effort, he decided. Henry had come to him, after all, had walked all that way, and the man was wanting his help, he had claimed. And Henry was quite happy just to keep on looking. The wolf in front of him was in a running motion, its front legs lifted in the air, reaching for the ground ahead of it. The shoulders were hunched, the most expressive part of the animal's unstoppable forward surge. The right rear leg, having just pushed off, was now pointing straight back. So the whole animal was supported in the air in a completely natural pose by a single rear leg. Another wolf was standing against the wall, tall and still, its head turned to one side, observing something in the distance with idle curiosity, a picture of perfect animal poise.
"So, why don't you tell me a little about Okapi Taxidermy," Henry finally said.
That did it. He had touched on the right subject. The taxidermist delivered a speech. "At Okapi Taxidermy, we are professional natural-history preparators. Skins, heads, horns, hooves, trophies, rugs, natural-history specimens in every kind of mount, head to whole, we are experts not only in taxidermy but in osteology, that is, the treating and mounting of skulls, bones, and articulated skeletons. We are also masters in all the techniques and materials needed to build any habitat setting you might desire in which to display your mounted animal, from the simplest branch to the most complex diorama. We make mannequins of every kind for amateur taxidermists who might wish to mount a favourite or memorable animal on their own. We can also manufacture any kind of ornament or furniture made from animal parts. We supply every taxidermic need, from paint for fish mounts to eyes of all kinds to tools and padding and needles and threads and wood bases, to more specialized needs for natural-history dioramas. We custom-make display cases of all shapes and sizes, for mammals, birds, fish, and skeletons. We provide mechanical hares for greyhound races. We can preserve the cycle of life for you, whether the embryonic development of chicks or the life cycle of frogs or butterflies, real and preserved, or enlarged in plaster, if you wish. We can also make models of animals that interrupt the cycle of life: fleas, tsetse flies, common flies, mosquitoes, and the like. We are skilled at packing and crating any taxidermic work so that it will arrive at its destination safe and sound. We sell, but we also rent mounted specimens. We fix. We attend to what is dirty, dusty, discoloured, damaged, broken, shrunken, chipped, shorn, worn, torn, fallen in, fallen out, missing, afflicted by insects. We clean and dust--dust is the eternal enemy of the taxidermist. We sew back. We comb and brush. We oil antlers and polish tusks and ivory. We repaint and shellac fish. We repair and renew habitat groups and dioramas. There is no detail we overlook. We guarantee everything we do and provide complete after-sale care at a reasonable charge. We are a reputable firm with a long list of satisfied customers, from the most discerning individuals to the most demanding institutions. We are, in a word, a complete, one-stop taxidermy shop."
All said in one go, effortlessly, his arms at his sides, with no tics or twitches to distract, like an actor on a stage. He would do well in his amateur theatre group, Henry thought. He noted the repeated use of we . He wondered if the plural pronoun behind Okapi Taxidermy--we are, we make, we do--was the small-business equivalent of the royal we, meant to create an impression grander, more convincing, than a lonely old man who still had to work for a living.
"That's very impressive. How's business?"
"It's dying. The taxidermy business is a dying business, has been for years, like the materials we work with. No one wants animals anymore, except for a handful of token domesticated species. The wild ones, the real ones, they're all going, if not already gone."
At that moment, listening to his tone of voice and observing the set of his face, Henry got a clue about the man, an insight into his personality: he had no sense of humour, no cheerfulness. He was as serious and sober as a microscope. Henry's nervousness left him. That would be how he would deal with the man: he would stay on his solemn level. Henry wondered about the play the taxidermist had sent him. The contrast couldn't be greater between this over-serious giant and a bantering dialogue about a pear. But sometimes art comes from a secret self. Perhaps all his lightness went into his writing, leaving him drained of it in person. Henry suspected that what he was seeing was the taxidermist's public face.
"I'm sorry to hear that. It's clearly a business you love."
The taxidermist made no reply. Henry looked around. An impulse of pity made him think he should buy a stuffed animal. He had noticed the platypus, tucked away on a shelf, but it wasn't for sale. It was appealingly mounted on a dark wood base, floating two inches above it, webbed feet outstretched, as if the strange little animal were swimming along a riverbed. Henry wanted to touch its bill but refrained. Among the displays of skeletons, there was a remarkable skull. Hovering under a glass dome at the end of a golden rod, it had the appearance of a holy relic. The bones shone bright white, and there was power to that whiteness, as there was to the stare of the large eyeball sockets. Henry made his way back to the front of the store, Erasmus at his side.
"How much are the tigers, out of curiosity?" he asked.
The taxidermist moved to the counter, pulled open a drawer and brought out a notebook. He flipped through some pages.
"The female and the cub, as I said, are from Van Ingen and Van Ingen. In addition to being fine specimens, superbly mounted, they're also antiques. Together with the male, that would be..." The taxidermist cited a figure.
Henry whistled in his head. At that price, if those animals had wheels, they'd be a sports car.
"And the cheetah?"
The notebook was again consulted. "It sells for..." and the taxidermist stated another figure.
Two wheels this time: a sleek, powerful motorcycle.
Henry looked at a few more animals.
"This is all fascinating. I'm glad I came. But I don't want to keep you any longer."
"Wait."
Henry froze. He wondered if all the animals had also tensed.
"Yes?"
"I need your help," the taxidermist said.
"Ah, yes. My help. You mentioned that in your letter. What exactly did you have in mind?"
Henry wondered if the man was going to make him a business proposition. He had invested small sums here and there, mostly in ventures that had failed. Was he now going to find himself investing in a taxidermy concern? The thought intrigued him. He rather liked the idea of being involved with all these animals.
"Please come to my workshop," the taxidermist said, signalling with his wide hand the side door through which he had gone to fetch Henry's book. There was something commanding about the gesture.
"Sure," said Henry, and he walked through.
The workshop was smaller than the showroom, but better lit. A barred window cut across the back wall above a double door, letting in natural light. A faint smell of chemicals hung in the air. Henry noticed things quickly. A large, deep sink. A shelf with a row of books. Some sturdy work-tables and counters. The materials of the taxidermy trade: jars of chemical products; bottles of glue; a box of short iron rods; a large cardboard box of cotton batting; spools of thread and wire; a hefty plastic bag of clay; pieces and planks of wood. Neatly arranged tools lay on the tables, among them surgical scalpels; knives and scissors; pliers and pincers; boxes of tacks and nails; a measuring tape; hammers and mallets; saws and hacksaws; a file; chisels; clamps; modeling tools; small paintbrushes. A chain was hanging from the wall with a hook at the end of it. There were animals again, on shelves and on the floor, though far fewer than in the display room, and some were entirely disembodied, just a pile of hide or a mound of feathers, and others were works-in-progress. A mannequin made of wood, wire, and cotton batting for a round animal, a large bird likely, lay unfinished on a worktable. At the moment, the taxidermist appeared to be working on a deer head mount. The skin was not yet properly fitted on the fibreglass mannequin head and the mouth was a tongueless, toothless gaping hole revealing the yellow fibreglass jaw of the mannequin. The eyes had that same yellow glow. It looked grotesquely unnatural, a cervine version of Frankenstein.
A desk stood in the corner of the room opposite the door. On top of it, among various papers and items, Henry noticed a dictionary and an old electric typewriter--the taxidermist apparently had no interest in new technologies. The desk had one wooden chair. The taxidermist sat in it.
"Please," he said. He indicated the only other place to sit, a plain stool in front of the desk. Without worrying any further about Henry's comfort, he pulled a cassette player from a drawer. Henry sat down. The taxidermist set the player on the desk and pressed the rewind button. There was a whirr, a blocking sound, a moment of strain, then the rewind button popped up. He pressed the play button. "Listen closely," he said.
At first, Henry could hear only a grainy sound as an old tape rubbed against a tired head. Then another sound emerged, at first distant, then coming through in waves with greater clarity. It was a clamouring chorus of barked grunts. These went on for some several seconds until suddenly, from their midst, drowning them out, a new and distinctive shout erupted. It was loud and continuous, a robust howl that kept increasing in volume until it reached a prolonged and formidable roaring pitch, vaguely like someone waking up and stretching and letting off a mighty growl, only someone superhuman--Nimrod, a Titan, Hercules. It had a deep, throaty timbre, and it was very powerful. Henry had never heard anything like it. What emotion did it express? Fear? Anger? Lament? He couldn't tell.
Erasmus seemed to know. As soon as he heard the barked grunts he stiffened and his ears pricked up. Henry thought it was plain curiosity. But the dog seemed to be trembling. When the howl started, he burst into barking. He too was either afraid or angry. Henry bent down and picked Erasmus up and squeezed him to his chest to silence him.
"I'm sorry," he said to the taxidermist. "I'll just be a second." He hurried to the showroom and tied Erasmus to the leg of the till counter. "Shhh!" he said to the dog. He returned to the shop.
"What was that?" he asked, sitting on the stool again and pointing at the cassette player.
"It's Virgil," replied the taxidermist.
"Who?"
"They're both here."
He indicated what he meant with a nod of the head. In front of his desk, set next to the wall, stood a stuffed donkey with a stuffed monkey sitting on its back.
"Beatrice and Virgil? From the play you sent me?" Henry asked.
"Yes. They were alive once."
"You wrote that?"
"Yes. What I sent you is the opening scene."
"The two characters are animals?"
"That's right, like in your novel. Beatrice is the donkey, Virgil is the monkey."
So he was the author of the play after all. A play featuring two animals that have an extended conversation about a pear. Henry was surprised. He would have picked realism as the taxidermist's favoured style of representation. Evidently he was misjudging him. Henry looked at the dramatis personae standing next to him. They were exceptionally lifelike.
"Why a monkey and a donkey?" he asked.
"The howler monkey was collected by a scientific team in Bolivia. It died in transit. The donkey came from a petting zoo. It was hit by a delivery truck. A church was thinking of using it for a nativity scene. Both animals happened to arrive on the same day at my shop. I had never prepared a donkey before, nor a howler. But the church changed its mind and the scientific institute decided it didn't need the howler. I kept the deposits and the animals. That happened on the same day too, their abandonment, and the two animals came together in my mind. I finished preparing them, but I've never displayed them and they're not for sale. I've had them for some thirty years now. Virgil and Beatrice--my guides through hell."
Hell? What hell? Henry wondered. But at least now he understood the connection to The Divine Comedy . Dante is guided through inferno and purgatory by Virgil and then through paradise by Beatrice. And what would be more natural for a taxidermist with literary aspirations than to fashion his characters out of what he worked with every day? So of course he would use talking animals.
Henry noticed three pieces of paper taped to the wall next to the two animals. On each was text surrounded by a border:
"Are these part of your play?" Henry asked.
"Yes. They're posters. I have a scene where they would be projected onto the back wall as Beatrice is talking."
Henry read the posters again. "The monkey isn't popular, is he?" he asked.
"No, not at all," replied the taxidermist. "Let me show you the scene."
He started going through some papers on his desk. Without hesitation he had taken Henry's answer to be yes. Henry didn't mind. Beyond indulging the man out of politeness, he was intrigued.
"Here it is."
Henry extended his hand to take the papers. The taxidermist left Henry's hand hanging in the air and cleared his throat instead. Henry realized he was intending to read the scene aloud to him. After looking at the text for a moment, the taxidermist started:
Food again, thought Henry. First a pear, now a banana. The man is obsessed with food.
The taxidermist broke off his reading. "That's when the projector would be turned on and the posters would appear side by side in big letters on the back wall."
He returned to his play. He read in a steady, unaffected voice, laying out the words in an easy way. To each character he gave a different tone, so Beatrice the donkey spoke softly while Virgil the monkey expressed himself with greater animation. Henry found himself listening to them without being aware of listening to the taxidermist.
The taxidermist stopped again and looked up at Henry. He seemed to hesitate. "Well, how would you describe Virgil? What does he look like to you?" He got up abruptly and went to one of the workbenches. He brought over a powerful lamp. "Here, I have a light," he said, with resolve. He set it on the desk and directed its beam at the monkey. Then he waited.
It took Henry a moment to realize that the man was serious. He really did want him to describe the stuffed monkey. It dawned on Henry with amazement: this is the help he wants . It's not a matter of encouragement, or confession, or connections. The help he wants is with words. Had the taxidermist made the request to Henry ahead of time in his letter, he would have refused, as he had refused writing commissions of all kinds for years. But here, in this setting, next to the very characters, in the fire of the moment, something in Henry woke up and yearned to rise to the challenge.
"What does he look like to me?" Henry said. The taxidermist nodded. Henry leaned close to the animal, to Virgil, since he had a name. He felt like a doctor about to examine a patient. He noticed that Virgil was not sitting on the donkey, on Beatrice, the way the peacock in the other room was set on the hippopotamus, as a convenience in the absence of a table. He had rather been mounted so that he sat naturally on Beatrice. His rump, two legs and an outstretched arm were laid out in a way that fitted the shape of her back perfectly, and his long tail, curled at its end, flowed so that it rested snugly against her back and side, looking very much like a casually set anchor in case she made a sudden movement. His other arm was resting on a bent knee, hand open, palm up, in a relaxed pose. Virgil had his mouth open and Beatrice her head partly turned and one ear swivelled round. He was saying something and she was listening....
Henry thought for a moment. Then he started. "Off the top of my head, without any preparation or much thought, I'd say Virgil has the pleasing dimensions of a smaller dog, neither too bulky nor too slight. I'd say he has a handsome head, with a short snout, luminous reddish-brown eyes, small black ears, and a clear black face--actually, it's not just black--a clear bluish-black face fringed with a full, elegant beard."
"Very good," said the taxidermist. "Much better than what I have. Please continue." He had picked up a pen and was writing down what Henry had said.
"I'd say," continued Henry, "that Virgil's body is robust and well built, served by long, attractive limbs, flexible and strong--they look flexible and strong--with a powerful hand or prehensile foot at the end of each. His narrow hands have long digits, as do the feet."
"Oh, yes," the taxidermist interrupted. "Virgil plays the piano. He's a very good player. He can play on his own a Brahms 'Hungarian Dance' for piano four hands. As a final flourish, he curls up his tail and taps the last note with it, bringing down the house. And look at the patterns on his hands and feet."
Henry looked. He went on. "I'd say the palms of his hands and feet are black and covered"--he paused and examined them from different angles to get the play of light--"are black and filigreed with loops and whorls that look like the finest silverwork."
"That's absolutely right," said the taxidermist.