The High Mountains of Portugal (25 page)

“And all the chimpanzees live on that island?” Peter asks.

“No. We bring them out here in small groups for experiments and sign-language lessons, and for a little rest and relaxation, as is the case with the group you see now.”

“Don't they try to run away?”

“They can't swim. They'd sink like stones. And even if they did get away, they wouldn't wander far. This is home for them.”

“Aren't they dangerous?”

“They can be. They're strong and they have a mouthful of knives. They need proper handling. But they're mostly incredibly sweet, especially if you're promising them candy.”

“Where are the other ones?”

Bob points. “In the main compound, there.”

Peter turns and starts walking towards the building, assuming it's the next stop on the tour.

Bob comes up behind him. “Oh! I'm not sure that's part of—of the visit, sir.”

Peter stops. “But I'd like to see the other chimpanzees closer up.”

“Well—um—we should maybe talk to—he didn't say—”

“He's busy.” Peter starts off again. He likes the idea of irking the almighty Dr. Lemnon.

Bob hops along, making noises of hesitation. “All right, I guess,” he finally decides, when he sees that Peter isn't going to change his mind. “We'll make it quick. This way.”

They turn a corner and come to a door. They enter a small room with a desk and lockers. There is another metal door. Bob pulls out a key. He unlocks the door and opens it. They go through.

If the island in the pond gave the appearance of a sunlit idyll, here, inside this windowless building, there is the reality of a dark and dank underworld. The smell hits Peter first, an animal reek of piss and misery, the tang of it made fierce by the heat. They are at the entrance of a rounded, tunnel-like corridor of metal bars that shreds the space around them, as if the bars were a grater. On either side of this corridor hang two rows of cubic metal cages. Each cage measures about five feet on either side and hangs in the air from a chain, like a birdcage. The front rows are set off from the back rows so that every cage is easily visible from the corridor, one closer up, the next a little farther in. The cages are built with round steel bars and are perfectly see-through, offering not the least privacy. Underneath each is a large plastic tray littered with the refuse of its inmate: rotting food, excrement, pools of urine. Some cages are empty, but many are not, and those that are not contain one thing and one thing only: a large black chimpanzee.

An ear-splitting explosion of shrieking and screaming greets them. Raw fear grips Peter. His breathing is cut short and he stands rooted to the spot.

“Quite the effect, huh?” shouts Bob. “It's because you're new and ‘invading' their territory.” With his fingers Bob signals the ironic quotation marks around the word “invading”.

Peter stares. Some of the chimpanzees have bounded up and are shaking their cages with fury. Restrained by horizontal chains, the cages swing only so much. It's the way the apes are suspended in the air, cut off from each other, from the very earth, that freaks him out. They have nothing to hide behind, hold on to, or play with, not a toy or blanket or the least bit of straw. They just hang there in their barren cages, the very image of incarceration. Hasn't he seen movies like that, where a new inmate walks into a penitentiary and all the inmates start to jeer and catcall? He swallows hard and breathes deeply, trying to master his fear.

Bob moves forward, occasionally hollering some comment or other, unconcerned by the mad ruckus. Peter follows him closely, walking in the exact middle of the corridor, well clear of the bars. Though he can see that the animals are securely confined—in cages and then behind bars—he's still afraid.

Every three or four cages there is a heavy-gauge chain-link fence that runs from the corridor bars to the wall and ceiling of the building, separating one set of cages from the next. Yet another layer to the confinement. Each of these fences has a door through it, at the back, next to the wall.

Peter points to a fence. “Aren't the cages enough?” he yells.

Bob shouts back, “It allows us to release some of the chimpanzees so they can be together in larger but separate spaces.”

Indeed, in the relative darkness of the compound, Peter notices on one side of the corridor four chimpanzees lolling about the floor, near the back wall. At the sight of him, they get up and start acting out. One makes to rush the bars. But at least they look more natural like that—on the ground, in a group, lively and dynamic. Bob gestures that Peter should squat down. “They like it when we're at their height,” he says in Peter's ear.

They both crouch. Bob puts his hand through the bars and waves to the chimpanzee that seemed the most aggressive, the one that made to attack them. After a moment of hesitation, the animal runs up to the bars, touches Bob's hand, then scampers back to rejoin the others at the back wall. Bob smiles.

Peter starts to calm down.
They're just doing their thing,
he tells himself. He and Bob stand up and resume moving down the corridor. Peter is able to observe the chimpanzees more steadily. They display various levels of aggression or agitation; they shake, they growl, they shriek, they grimace, they make forceful body movements. All are in an uproar.

Except one. The last prisoner at the end of the corridor sits quietly in its cage, lost in its own thoughts and seemingly oblivious to its surroundings. When Peter reaches its cage, he stops, struck by the creature's singular behaviour.

The ape is sitting with its back to its venting primate neighbours, presenting its profile to Peter. A straight arm casually lies atop a bent knee. Peter notices the coat of sleek black hair that covers the animal's body. It's so thick it looks like a costume. From it emerges hands and feet that are hairless and clearly very nimble. Of the head, he observes the receding, nearly absent forehead; the big saucer-like ears; the massive, overhanging brows; the perfunctory nose; and the smooth, bulging, pleasingly rounded mouth, with the hairless upper lip and the slightly bearded lower one. Because of their great size, these lips are highly expressive. Peter gazes at them. At the moment, with this particular specimen, they are in slight motion—fluttering, parting, closing, puckering—as if the ape were in conversation with itself.

The creature turns its head and looks him in the eyes.

“It's looking at me,” Peter says.

“Yep, they do that,” responds Bob.

“I mean, right into my eyes.”

“Yep, yep. Usually a sign of dominance, but this one's a very chilled-out dude.”

Still looking at Peter, the ape purses its lips, funnel-like. From them, making its way through the raucous noise of the compound to Peter's ears, comes a panted
hoo-hoo
sound.

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“It's a greeting. He's saying hello.”

The ape does it again, this time mouthing it without actually making the sound, relying on Peter's intent gaze rather than his assaulted ears.

Peter can't take his eyes off the ape. What an attractive face, the expression so vivacious, the scrutiny so intense. The large head is as densely covered with black hair as the body, but the face, in its essential parts, the upside-down triangle of the eyes and nose and the circle of the mouth, is bare, showing off smooth dark skin. Aside from some faint vertical wrinkles on the upper lip, the only wrinkles on the ape's face are around the eyes, concentric ones beneath each orbit, and a few wavy lines over the flattened bridge of the nose and between the prominent brows. The effect of these circles within circles is to draw attention to their dual centres. What colour are those eyes? Peter can't tell exactly in the artificial light of the compound, but they seem to be a bright rusty brown, nearly red, but of the earth. The eyes are closely set, the gaze steady. That gaze bores into him and holds him in place.

The ape turns its body to face Peter fully. Its stare is charged, but its posture is relaxed. It seems to be enjoying swallowing him with its eyes.

“I want to get closer,” Peter says. He is amazed that he has said this. Where has his fear gone? Just a minute ago he was quaking with terror.

“Oh, you can't do that, sir,” says Bob with evident alarm.

At the end of the corridor is a heavy wire door. There were two like it midway down the corridor, on either side. Peter looks around; there are no chimpanzees on the floor beyond the door. He steps towards it and puts his hand on the handle. It turns fully.

Bob's eyes open wide. “Ah, man, who forgot to lock that door? You
really
shouldn't go in!” he pleads. “You'll—you'll have to talk to Dr. Lemnon, sir.”

“Bring him on,” Peter says as he swings the door open and goes through.

Bob follows him in. “Don't touch him. They can be very aggressive. He might bite your hand off.”

Peter stands in front of the cage. He and the ape lock gazes again. Once more he feels a magnetic pull.
What do you want?

The ape squeezes its hand through the criss-cross bars and reaches out. The hand opens in front of Peter, narrow palm up. Peter stares at it, at the black leathery skin, at the long fingers. There is no question, no hesitation. He lifts his own hand.

“Oh boy, oh boy!” Bob whimpers.

The two hands wrap around each other. A short but strong opposable thumb reaches over and pins his hand down. The gesture comes with no grasping or pulling; there is no menace to it. The ape is simply squeezing his hand into its own. It's a surprisingly warm hand. Peter takes hold of it with both of his, one hand cupping it in a handshake, the other holding on to its hairy back. It has the appearance of a politician's glad hand, but fixed and intense. The ape's grasp tightens. It could crush his hand, he realizes, but it doesn't and he feels no fear. It continues to stare into his eyes. Peter doesn't know why, but his throat tightens and he feels close to tears. Is it that no one since Clara has looked at him like that, fully and frankly, the eyes like open doors?

“Where is this one from?” he asks without averting his eyes. “Does he have a name?”

Peter notices the switch in his pronouns, from
it
to
he.
It comes naturally. This creature is no object.

“His name's Odo,” Bob answers, rocking nervously from side to side. “He's a rolling stone. He was brought over by someone who was volunteering in Africa for the Peace Corps. Then he was with NASA, for testing in the space program. Then he went to Yerkes, then LEMSIP, before—”

A burst of shrieking comes from the other end of the corridor. The chimpanzees, who have mostly settled down, start up again. It's even more deafening than when he and Bob entered. Dr. Lemnon has returned. “BOB, YOU BETTER HAVE A DAMN GOOD EXPLANATION FOR THIS!” he bellows.

Peter and Odo let go of each other's hands. The consent is mutual. The ape turns and resumes his former position, his side to Peter, his gaze somewhat lifted.

Bob looks as if he'd rather climb into one of the hanging cages than return to the corridor. Peter goes out first. The full menace of Dr. Bill Lemnon becomes plain as he strides down the corridor, his angry features alternately illuminated and obscured by the spaced-out light bulbs, the din of the animals amplifying as he gets closer.

“
WHAT
ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?” he yells at Peter.

Any pretence at cordiality is gone. Lemnon is an ape asserting his dominance.

“I'll buy that one off you,” Peter says calmly. He points to Odo.

“Will you, now?” replies Lemnon. “Should we throw in four elephants and a hippo? Maybe two lions and a herd of zebras?
This isn't a pet store!
GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!”

“I'll pay you fifteen thousand dollars.” Oh, the terrible appeal of round numbers. Fifteen thousand dollars—that's considerably more than his car cost.

Lemnon stares in disbelief, as does Bob, who has crept back into the corridor. “Well, well, you must be a senator after all, if you're throwing that kind of money around. Which one?”

“That one there.”

Lemnon looks. “Huh. Can't get more omega than that bozo. He lives in la-la land.” He thinks. “Fifteen thousand dollars, you say?”

Peter nods.

Lemnon laughs. “I guess we are a pet store. Bob, you've got a great eye for customers. Mr. Tovy—I'm sorry,
Senator
Tovy—you can have your pet chimpanzee if you want. Only thing is, we don't have a money-back policy. You buy him, you get tired of him, you want to give him back to us—we'll take him, but it'll still cost you fifteen grand. You hear me?”

“It's a deal,” says Peter. He extends his hand. Lemnon shakes it, looking like he's enjoying the greatest joke in the world.

Peter glances at Odo. As he begins to move off, he sees from the corner of his eyes that the ape is turning his head. Peter looks again. Odo is staring at him once more. A quiet thrill goes through him.
He's been aware of me all along.
To himself as much as to the ape, he whispers, “I'm coming back, I promise.”

They walk down the corridor. A last observation forces itself upon him as he looks left and right, something he didn't notice on his way in: He's struck by the chimpanzees' great diversity. He assumed that one chimpanzee would pretty much look and be like the next. It is not so, not at all. Each ape has its own body shape and bearing, its own coat of hair with its own colour and pattern, its own face with its own tone, complexion, and expressions. Each, he sees, is something he hadn't expected: an individual with a unique personality.

Bob sidles up to Peter at the door of the compound, looking worried and discombobulated. “We sell them,” he whispers, “but not for that—”

Lemnon waves him away. “Git, git!”

They return to the car. Peter comes to a quick agreement with Lemnon. He will be back in a week or two, as soon as he can; he needs time to make the necessary arrangements. He promises to mail a cheque for a thousand dollars as a deposit. Lemnon agrees to get all the papers ready.