"How did you put it?" replied the taxidermist. "'Words are cold, muddy toads trying to understand spirits dancing in a field'?"
"Yes. I said 'sprites'."
"'But they're all we have.'"
"'But they're all we have,'" Henry repeated.
"Please," the taxidermist said, opening the front door of the store and ushering Henry out. "Reality escapes us. It's beyond description, even a simple pear. Time eats everything."
And with that, leaving Henry with the image of Time eating a pear into oblivion, the taxidermist practically slammed the door in Henry's face. He locked it, turned the cardboard sign hanging from its frame from open to closed, and disappeared back into his workshop. Henry took no offence at the lack of ceremony bordering on rudeness. He must behave like this with everyone, he guessed. It was nothing personal.
At least Erasmus was glad to see him. The dog was jumping up and down, yelping with joy.
Henry had meant to ask the taxidermist another question. On the Shirt, there wasn't only a monkey and a donkey and a tree and a country road and a picturesque landscape. There was also "a boy and his two friends". So there were people in the play too?
At home, Henry told Sarah about his second visit with the taxidermist.
"He's a real character. As surly as a badger. And his play, I can't figure it out. There are animal characters-a monkey and a donkey-and they live on this very large shirt. It's all quite fanciful, yet there are elements that remind me, well, that remind me of the Holocaust."
"The Holocaust? You see the Holocaust in everything."
"I knew you'd say that. Except in this case there's an emphatic reference to striped shirts, for example."
"So?"
"Well, during the Holocaust-"
"Yes, I know about striped shirts and the Holocaust. But Wall Street capitalists also wear striped shirts, for example, as do clowns. Everyone has a striped shirt in their closet."
"Perhaps you're right," Henry said.
He was irked. Sarah had long ago lost interest in the Holocaust, or at least in his creative involvement with it. And she was wrong. It wasn't that he saw the Holocaust in everything. It's that he saw everything in the Holocaust, not only camp victims, but also capitalists and many others, perhaps even clowns.
That Saturday, Henry and Sarah went shopping for the soon-to-come baby. Stroller, bassinet, a sling, the tiniest clothes-they bought these items with a smile stuck on their faces the whole time.
They weren't very far from the taxidermist's store. On an impulse Henry suggested that they drop by. Sarah agreed. It was a mistake. The visit went badly. Standing outside the store, Sarah granted that the okapi looked attractive. But as soon as they entered, Henry could tell Sarah didn't like the place. When the taxidermist emerged from his lair, she seemed to cower. Henry showed her around, pointing out details, trying to elicit an enthusiastic response. Sarah's remarks were short and she mechanically nodded her head in agreement to whatever Henry said. She looked tense. The taxidermist, for his part, glowered. Henry did all the talking.
They'd hardly got home before they started at each other.
"He's helping me," Henry said.
"What do you mean he's helping you? How? With that hideous monkey skull he tricked you into buying? What is that monstrosity? Yorick to your Hamlet?"
"I'm getting ideas off him."
"Of course, I'd forgotten. The monkey and the donkey. Winnie the Pooh meets the Holocaust."
"It's not like that."
"THE GUY'S A CREEP! DID YOU SEE THE WAY HE WAS LOOKING AT ME?"
"Why are you shouting at me? People always look at pregnant women. And what does it matter to you who I hang out with? I like his store. It-"
"IT'S A FUCKING FUNERAL PARLOUR! YOU'RE SPENDING YOUR TIME WITH DEAD STUFFED ANIMALS AND A SLEAZY OLD MAN!"
"Would you rather I spend my time in a bar?"
"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!"
"Will you stop shouting at me?"
"IT'S THE ONLY WAY YOU'LL LISTEN!"
And so it went, a full-blown row while bags full of baby things lay around them.
The next morning, Henry left early for his music lesson. Events conspired to improve his mood. First, his clarinet teacher surprised him with a gift.
"I can't accept this," Henry said.
"What are you talking about? It's from a good friend, an old student. He hasn't used it for a century. He wanted to get rid of it. I got it for practically nothing. What's the point of the thing never being used?"
"I'd like to pay you for it."
"Never! Over my dead body. You'll pay me by playing it beautifully."
Henry was holding in his hands the loveliest Albert system clarinet.
"And I think you're ready to try some Brandwein," his teacher added. "We'll start today."
Maybe my heavy black ox is starting to take off, Henry thought. He was playing all the time, after all. Two tricks helped him. The first was to devote a corner of his apartment exclusively to music playing, with the stand set up, the sheet music in order, the clarinet clean, and a cup in place in which to soak his reeds in warm water. The second was to practice often, but only in short bursts, no more than fifteen minutes. He usually practiced just before a commitment he couldn't miss. That way, if he played well, he stopped regretfully and eager to come back to it, and if he played poorly, he was forced to give up before dejection and exasperation had him wanting to throw the clarinet out the window. With this arrangement, he was practicing three, four times a day.
He had two faithful spectators: Mendelssohn, who was patiently fascinated in the way only cats can be, and the monkey skull, which he had set on the chimney mantel nearby. Their round eyes, the cat's and the skull's, were always on him when he played. Erasmus, the Philistine, would whine and howl, so Henry had to lock him in another room, usually with Sarah.
The weather also soothed Henry. It was a Sunday that was gloriously living up to its pagan name, a bold rebel burst of warm weather that announced the impending vanquishing of winter. Music was escaping from doors and windows that at long last could be left open, and everyone in the city was parading in the streets. Henry arrived early at the cafe to have a light lunch before his appointment with the taxidermist. A smart thing too, as the place was packed. He got a table right next to the wall, one chair in the sun, one in the shade. He had Erasmus as usual, but he didn't have his normal zip. The dog lay quietly in the shade of the table.
The taxidermist arrived exactly at two, as punctual as a soldier.
"Sunlight, warm wonderful sunlight!" Henry said expansively, his arms open wide.
"Yes," was the taxidermist's full reply.
"Which seat would you like?" Henry asked, rising a little to indicate that he was willing to move.
The taxidermist took the free seat, the one in the shade, without saying a word. Henry settled back. Outside of the confines of his store, the taxidermist looked out of place. He was overdressed considering the warm weather. When the waiter came over, Henry noticed that he addressed the question "What can I get you?" only to him and not to the taxidermist. And the taxidermist wasn't looking at the waiter, either. Henry ordered a latte with a poppy seed pastry.
"And you?" Henry asked.