chapter Five
"I'd say his long tail, longer than the rest of him, the pride and joy of him, is as dextrous as a hand, with a grip like a constrictor's coil."
"But it also has fine motor control. He plays chess with it. Virgil--"
Henry raised a hand to stop the taxidermist. "A tail with a grip like a constrictor's coil, yet with a deftness of touch that allows him to move a pawn on a chessboard with it."
What other details would Beatrice notice? Henry wondered. He peered into Virgil's mouth.
"And he has good teeth--why does no one ever mention that? Or the detail I notice every day without fail: his lovely dark nails, shiny and slightly bulbous, so that the tip of his every finger and toe glistens like a large dewdrop." Henry was pleased to be speaking in Beatrice's voice.
"Excellent, excellent," muttered the taxidermist. He was writing as fast as he could.
"And I have yet to describe his most eye-catching attribute, that which earns him half his species name: his fur." Henry lightly ran his hand over Virgil's back. "It's soft, thick and lustrous, the back brick-red in colour, while the head and the limbs have more of a chestnut hue. In sunlight, when Virgil is in motion, climbing trees and jumping from one branch to another while I stand, four-footed and rooted to the ground, there is something of molten copper to his movements, a direct, unspoiled ease to even the simplest gesture, dazzling to watch."
"That's Virgil to a letter," exclaimed the taxidermist.
"Good." A conventional descriptive job, matching a concrete reality with its most obvious verbal counterparts, yet Henry too was pleased. It had been such a long time since he had made this kind of effort.
"And his howl?"
The taxidermist returned to the cassette player, rewound the tape and played it a second time. Erasmus immediately started up again in the next room. Henry and the taxidermist ignored him.
"The sound quality isn't very good," Henry said.
"No, it isn't. It was recorded more than forty years ago in the jungles of the upper Amazon."
The howl had that quality, of something coming from far away long ago. It had survived--it was there, coming through all the crackling--but Henry was as much aware of the span of time and gulf of distance over which it had improbably bounded as he was of the howl itself.
"I don't know. It's hard to put into words," he said.
The taxidermist played the howl a third time. Erasmus was properly howling himself in the next room.
Henry shook his head. "Nothing's coming to me at the moment," he said. "Sounds are hard to describe. And my dog is distracting me."
The taxidermist stared at him blankly. Was he disappointed? Piqued?
"I'll have to wait for the muse to whisper to me," Henry said. He felt a weight of weariness descending on him. "I have an idea. I'll think about the howl. In the meantime, in exchange, write something for me about taxidermy. Don't overthink it. Just dash some thoughts onto the page. That's always a good writing exercise."
The taxidermist nodded, but Henry wasn't sure if it was in agreement.
"And why don't you give me your play? I'll read it and tell you what I think."
The taxidermist's reply was short: "I don't want to." Henry heard the definite tone. The full stop in his refusal had resounded like the pad of a judge's gavel being struck. There would be no appeal, or even any explanation, about why he didn't want Henry to read his play.
"But take the cassette player with you. That way you can listen to the howl again while you're working on it."
Henry had not bargained on that.
"I noticed you were looking at the monkey skull mounted on the golden rod," the taxidermist continued.
"Yes, I was. It's striking."
"It's the skull of a howler monkey."
"It is?" Henry felt a quiver of horror.
"Yes."
"But not Virgil's?"
"No. Virgil's skull is inside Virgil's head."
Thirty minutes later Henry walked out of the store, an impatient Erasmus pulling at his leash. It was good to be out in the brisk air again. Henry was late for rehearsal but he entered the small grocery store anyway. He asked if he could have a dish of water for Erasmus. The man behind the counter kindly obliged.
"That's quite the store around the corner," Henry said to him.
"Yeah. It's been there since the dinosaurs went home."
"What's he like, the man who runs it?"
"Crazy old man. Gets into fights with the whole neighbourhood. Comes in here to do two things and only two things: to buy pears and bananas and to make photocopies."
"I guess he likes pears and bananas and he doesn't have a photocopier."
"I guess so. I'm amazed his business survives. Is there really a market for stuffed aardvarks?"
Henry didn't mention the expensive monkey's skull that was in the bag he had gingerly placed on the floor. Skull and glass dome had been packed so that they would arrive safe and sound at their destination. There was also the wolf, the still one, not the leaping one, that had interested Henry, but he had managed to check his impulse.
The man looked at what he had placed on the counter.
"Now there's a vintage piece of technology. Haven't seen a cassette player like that since I was a kid," he said.
"Old and reliable," Henry replied, picking up his precious cargo and heading for the door. "Thank you for the water."
In the taxi home, Erasmus collapsed on the floor and fell asleep right away. Henry thought about the taxidermist. He was not conventionally attractive, fell on the unhandsome side of ordinary, with an inexpressive face that did not project what it was thinking or feeling. Yet those dark staring eyes! His presence had a suffocating quality, but at the same time he radiated a certain magnetism. Or did that appeal come from all the glass-eyed animals surrounding him? Strange that someone so involved with animals should react so little--in fact, not at all--to a live one right in front of him. The taxidermist hadn't even glanced at Erasmus.
Henry thought of him again as a man with a mask. But he'd given the taxidermist a task, to write something about his trade. That should start to make him less of a sphinx. Henry reflected on his day. He had started it meaning only to drop off a card, and now he was loaded down with goods from Okapi Taxidermy and committed to returning.
As soon as he got home, he told Sarah.
"I met the most amazing man," he told her. "This old taxidermist. A shop like you wouldn't believe. All of creation stuffed into one large room. His name's Henry, as it happens. An odd fish. I couldn't place him at all. He's written a play and he wants my help."
"What kind of help?" she asked.
"Help writing it, I think."
"What's it about?"
"I'm not sure. There are two characters, a monkey and a donkey. They're quite focussed on food."
"Is it for children?"
"I don't think so. In fact, it reminded me of..." but Henry let his voice trail off. He didn't want to mention what the play reminded him of. "The monkey isn't popular," he said instead.
Sarah nodded her head. "So you've been roped into becoming a collaborator without even knowing what the story's about?"
"I guess so."
"Well, you seem excited. That's nice to see," said Sarah.
She was right. Henry's mind was racing.