chapter Seven
The man rose from his desk and walked to the sink. Crackle, crackle , went the glass under his feet. From a shelf under a counter, he produced a brush and a dustpan. He swept the floor clean. Then he picked up some rubber gloves and put them on. He bent over the sink. The silence did not weigh on him. Henry observed him and after a moment saw him in a different light. He was an old man. An old man stooped over a sink, working. Did he have a wife, children? His fingers were bare of rings, but that could be because of the nature of his work. A widower? Henry looked at the man's face in profile. What was beyond that blankness? Loneliness? Worry? Frustrated ambition?
The taxidermist straightened himself. The rabbit skeleton was in his giant hands. It was in one piece, each bone still connected to the next. It was very white and looked small and fragile. He turned it over, inspecting it cautiously. He might have been handling a tiny baby.
A one-story man, a di Lampedusa struggling with his Leopard , thought Henry. Creative block is no laughing matter, or only to those sodden spirits who've never even tried to make their personal mark. It's not just a particular endeavour, a job, that is negated, it's your whole being. It's the dying of a small god within you, a part you thought might have immortality. When you're creatively blocked, you're left with--Henry looked around the workshop--you're left with dead skins.
The taxidermist turned the tap on and rinsed the skeleton in a gentle stream of water. He shook the rabbit again and then placed it on the counter next to the sink.
"Why a monkey and a donkey? You told me how you got these two here." Henry reached out and touched the donkey. He was surprised at how springy and woolly its coat was. "But why these particular animals for your story?"
"Because monkeys are thought to be clever and nimble, and donkeys are thought to be stubborn and hardworking. Those are the characteristics that animals need to survive. It makes them flexible and resourceful, able to adapt to changing conditions."
"I see. Tell me more about your play. What happens after the scene with the pear?"
"I'll read it to you."
He removed his gloves, wiped his hands on the apron around his waist, and returned to his desk. He fished through papers.
"Here it is," he said. The taxidermist read aloud again, stage directions and everything:
"That's the end of the opening scene," he said. "Beatrice hasn't ever eaten a pear in her life, or even seen one, and Virgil tries to describe one for her."
"Yes, I remember."
He continued:
He stopped. That even, expressionless style he had of reading was really quite effective, Henry decided. He brought his hands up and quietly made the motion of clapping.
"That's excellent," he said. "I like that analogy between the sun and faith."
The taxidermist nodded slightly.
"And when Virgil says that talk is better than silence, and there's a long silence that follows, broken by Beatrice saying, 'It is,' I can see that working well onstage."
Again, no definite reaction. I should get used to it, Henry told himself. It was likely shyness.
"This sudden darkness--with Beatrice bursting into tears--that's also a nice contrast in tone with the lighter first scene. By the way, where is the play set? I didn't get that."
"It was on the first page."
"Yes, I know, they're in some park or forest."
"No, before that."
"There wasn't anything before that."
"I thought I had copied it," said the taxidermist.
He gave Henry three pages. The first page contained the following information:
A 20th-Century Shirt
A Play in Two Acts
The second page:
Virgil, a red howler monkey
Beatrice, a donkey
A boy and his two friends
And the third page:
A country road. A tree.
Late afternoon.
The province of Lower Back,
in a country called the Shirt,
a country like any other,
neighbour to, bigger than,
smaller than, Hat, Gloves,
Jacket, Coat, Trousers,
Socks, Boots and so on.
"The story is set on a shirt?" Henry asked, puzzled.
"Yes, on the back of it."
"Well, either Beatrice and Virgil are smaller than bread crumbs or it's a very big shirt."
"It's a very big shirt."
"On which two animals are moving about? And there's a tree and a country road?"
"And more. It's symbolic."
Henry wished he had said that first. "Yes, clearly it's symbolic. But symbolic of what? The reader must recognize what the symbol stands for."
"The United States of America, the United Clothes of Europe, the Union of African Shoes, the Association of Asian Hats--names are arbitrary. We parcel out the Earth, give names to landscapes, draw maps, and then we make ourselves at home."
"Is this a play for children? Have I read it wrong?"
"No, not at all. Is your story for children?"
The taxidermist was looking at Henry directly, but he always did. Henry couldn't detect any irony in his voice.
"No, it's not for children. I wrote my novels for adults," he replied.
"The same with my play."
"It's for adults despite the characters and the setting."
"It's for adults because of the characters and the setting."
"Point taken. But again, why a shirt? What's the symbolism there?"
"Shirts are found in every country, among every people."
"It's the universal resonance of it?"
"Yes. Every day we put on shirts."
"We all live on the Shirt, is that what you're saying?"
"That's right. Coat, Shirt, Trousers, but it could have been Germany, Poland, Hungary."
"I see." Henry thought for a moment. "Why did you choose those three countries?" he asked.
"What--Coat, Shirt, Trousers?"
"No. Germany, Poland, Hungary."
"They were the first three countries to pop into my head," the taxidermist replied.
Henry nodded. "So the Shirt--it's just the name of the country?"
The taxidermist leaned forward and took his papers back. "That's what it says here," he said. "'A country like any other, neighbour to, bigger than, smaller than.'"
Henry decided to try constructive criticism. "I'm wondering if maybe something isn't being lost here. One of the important concerns when telling a story is making sure that what is in your head finds its way onto the page. If you want your reader to see what you're seeing, you have to--"
"It's a striped shirt," the taxidermist said, cleanly interrupting Henry.
"Striped?"