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?"
"Yes. Vertical stripes. The sun is setting." He searched through his papers. "They've been talking about God and Virgil's faith and the day of the week. They're not sure what day it is. I'll read that scene. Found it."
He started off once again:
He looked up. "In the opening scene, in describing the pear, they also talk about bananas. Beatrice knows a lot about bananas. But the important thing here is that Virgil is sniffing the air."
Henry nodded. The taxidermist continued:
"They're starving," he explained.
( The animals stand, Virgil leaning against Beatrice, their nostrils flared, their ears twitching, their eyes wide open.
Daylight has reached its last hour. The earth and the trunks of the trees are burnished red by the setting sun. Sweeping through the land comes a wind, a most gentle of cavalry charges. It's a fragrant wind, smelling of soil and root, of flower and haystack, of field and forest, of smoke and animals, but also carrying, by virtue of the distances it has covered, the very smell of vastness, a smell moist and cavernous. It's a beautiful wind, an exciting wind, a giving wind. Riding upon it is the collective news of all nature.
In a province dismissed as flat and featureless, upon a clear and cloudless sundown, the Shirt, by means of a simple road, has tricked the two animals into climbing atop a low hill and then has dropped the blindfold before their eyes so that they might see what is to be seen, a landscape that opens up like a philanthropist's wallet.
It starts with a clearing of untended grass, on whose edge, next to the road, the animals are standing. The shrubs and trees nearby are shapely, with full heads of shimmering leaves, and their long shadows are printed onto the land by the orange sun. Next to the clearing is a bright green pasture. Beyond it lies a tilled field of rich brown earth whose furrows make it look like fat corduroy fabric. And there are more fields beyond, a sweep of swells and undulations that stretches out as far as the eye can see. A few hills sprout sprigs of forest, some fields lie green for sheep and cattle, others lie fallow, but most are cultivated, revealing soil of such glossy, mineral wealth that the land sparkles in the sun like an ocean. These endless furrows are waves, and teeming in them is the plankton of the land-bacteria, fungi, mites, all manner of worms and insects-and speeding and jumping about them are the fish of the earth, the mice, moles, voles, shrews, rabbits and others, ever on the lookout for sharkish foxes. Birds chirp and screech as excitedly as gulls above the seas, beside themselves with the living riches over which they hover and to which they have access with an easy buckling of the wings. And access these riches they do. Virgil and Beatrice see countless birds soaring and plummeting and rising up again, their wings beating, the life in the soil scrambling, and all of it-all of it-doused with sprays of wind.
Before long, the light grows dimmer, the hues deeper, and darkness begins to fall upon the land. While the windcontinues to conduct its usual barter, one spore for one smell, the Shirt now appears marked with immense blue and grey stripes that traverse it from north to south.)
The taxidermist lifted his eyes and spoke. "I imagine these stripes being projected not only on the back wall but right across the stage and onto the spectators. The whole theatre will be printed in blue and grey stripes."
"What about the landscape?"
"It will also be projected onto the wall, like the posters about Virgil. The stage will be bare, except for the tree to the side. The most prominent feature will be the huge back wall, probably curved, like the wall for a diorama."
"And the wind?"
"Loudspeakers. They do amazing things nowadays with sound systems. The description I give of the wind is just to give the sound designer an idea. I imagine Virgil and Beatrice standing motionless and this wind being heard very distinctly for a good minute or two, a soft, rich wind. Then the landscape will be projected and after that the stripes."
He returned to his text:
"Collar is another province," the taxidermist informed Henry.
"Yes, I understood that."
"And then we'd hear Virgil's howl, starting with his alone, then augmented by other howler monkeys' howls and projected through the sound system. I want a great and terrible symphony of howls."
"Why does the Shirt have stripes? Why that detail? It reminds me of-"
The doorbell tinkled. Without a word or gesture to Henry, the taxidermist stood up and left for the showroom. Henry sighed and looked at Virgil and Beatrice.
"Does he always interrupt you like this?" he asked Virgil.
Henry remembered the bell in the Flaubert story, when the stag comes up to Julian, just before it curses him. Except that bell must have tolled rather than tinkled. Henry got up and went to look at the newly finished deer head. He could hear the taxidermist speaking to someone in the other room. Henry drank more water at the sink, holding a new glass with both hands. He examined the rabbit. It still had its ligaments, which is why the skeleton hadn't fallen to pieces. The ligaments looked like thin spaghetti.
The taxidermist returned. He removed his apron. "I must go," he said curtly.
"That's fine. I should be going, too."
Henry gathered his coat.
"When will you come back?" the taxidermist asked.
He's so damn up-front and direct, with questions that are orders, Henry thought.
"Why don't we go to the zoo together? We have our choice." The city enjoyed the luxury of having two zoos and Henry liked zoos. It was where he'd started his career, in a way. "I'm sure you'd have a fascinating take on live animals. I spent weeks researching-"
"Zoos are bastard patches of wilderness," the taxidermist cut in as he put on his coat. "The animals there are degenerate. They shame me."
Henry was taken aback. "Well, zoos are a compromise, that's for certain, but so is nature. And if it weren't for zoos, most people would never see real-"
"I go only when I have to, for work, to see a live specimen."
Henry could hear in the taxidermist's voice the judge's gavel coming down again. The taxidermist was directing him out of the workshop with broad, imperative gestures.
I will get him to bend, thought Henry.
"I see zoos as embassies from the wild, each animal representing its species. In any case, let's meet at the cafe up the street. The weather is so nice now. How about this coming Sunday at two o'clock? That's what I have time for." Henry put a firm edge to his last words.
"All right. Sunday at two at the cafe," the taxidermist agreed tonelessly.
Henry was relieved. "I have a question," he followed up smoothly as they passed through the showroom. "It's been on my mind since I read the opening scene from your play: why this minute description of a common fruit? It seems an odd start."