Twenty-five years. And with people like this moon-eyed incompetent to look after him. It was a shock. “You mean to tell me you’ve had no training?” Beatrice demanded, the outrage constricting her throat till she could barely choke out the words. “None at all?”
The girl gave her a meek smile and a shrug of the shoulders.
“You’ve had nutritional training, certainly — you must have studied the dietary needs of the wild chimpanzee, at the very least…” and she gestured disdainfully at the bags of junk food, of salt and fat and empty calories.
The girl murmured something, some sort of excuse or melioration, but Beatrice never heard it. A sudden movement from the front room caught her eye, and all at once she remembered Konrad. She turned away from the girl as if she didn’t exist and focused her bright narrow eyes on him, the eyes that had captured every least secret of his wild cousins, the rapt unblinking eyes of the professional voyeur.
The first thing she noticed was that he’d finished with her notes, the remnants of which lay strewn about the room like confetti. She saw too that he was calm now, at home already, sniffing at the afghan as if he’d known it all his life. Oblivious to her, he settled into the armchair, draped the afghan over his knees, and began fumbling through the pockets of his overcoat like an absent-minded commuter. And then, while her mouth fell open and her eyes narrowed to pinpricks, he produced a cigar — a fine, green, tightly rolled panatela — struck a match to light it, and lounged back in an aureole of smoke, his feet, bereft now of the plastic galoshes, propped up luxuriously on the coffee table.
It was a night of stinging cold and subarctic wind, but though the panes rattled in their frames, the old house retained its heat. Beatrice had set the thermostat in the high eighties and she’d built the fire up beneath a cauldron of water that steamed the walls and windows till they dripped like the myriad leaves of the rain forest. Konrad was naked, as nature and evolution had meant him to be, and Beatrice was in the clean, starched khakis she’d worn in the bush for the past forty years. Potted plants-cane, ficus, and dieffenbachia — crowded the hallway, spilled from the windowsills, and softened the corners of each of the downstairs rooms. In the living room, the TV roared at full volume, and Konrad stood before it, excited, signing at the screen and emitting a rising series of pant hoots: “Hoo-hoo, hoo-ah-hoo-ah-hoo!”
Watching from the kitchen, Beatrice felt her face pucker with disapproval. This TV business was no good, she thought, languidly stirring vegetables into a pot of chicken broth. Chimps had an innate dignity, an eloquence that had nothing to do with sign language, gabardine, color TV, or nacho chips, and she was determined to restore it to him. The junk food was in the trash, where it belonged, along with the obscene little suits of clothes the girl had foisted on him, and she’d tried unplugging the TV set, but Konrad was too smart for her. Within thirty seconds he’d got it squawking again.
“Eee-eee!” he shouted now, slapping his palms rhythmically on the hardwood floor.
“Awright,” the TV said in its stentorian voice, “take the dirty little stool pigeon out back and extoiminate him.”
It was an unfortunate thing for the TV to say, because it provoked in Konrad a reaction that could only be described as a frenzy. Whereas before he’d been excited, now he was enraged. “Wraaaaa!” he screamed in a pitch no mere human could duplicate, and he charged the screen with a stick of firewood, every hair on his body sprung instantly erect. Good, she thought, stirring her soup as he flailed at the oak-veneer cabinet and choked the voice out of it, good, good, good, as he backed away and bounced round the room like a huge India-rubber ball, the stick slapping behind him, his face contorted in a full open grin of incendiary excitement. Twice over the sofa, once up the banister, and then he charged again, the stick beating jerkily at the floor. The crash of the screen came almost as a relief to her — at least there’d be no more of that. What puzzled her, though, what arrested her hand in mid-stir, was Konrad’s reaction. He stood stock-still a moment, then backed off, pouting and tugging at his lower lip, the screams tapering to a series of squeaks and whimpers of regret.
The moment the noise died, Beatrice became aware of another sound, low-pitched and regular, a signal it took her a moment to identify: someone was knocking at the door. Konrad must have heard it too. He looked up from the shattered cabinet and grunted softly. “Urk, he said, “urk, urk,” and lifted his eyes to Beatrice’s as she backed away from the stove and wiped her hands on her apron.
Who could it be, she wondered, and what must they have thought of all that racket? She hung her apron on a hook, smoothed back her hair, and passed into the living room, neatly sidestepping the wreckage of the TV. Konrad’s eyes followed her as she stepped into the foyer, flicked on the porch light, and swung back the door.
“Hello? Miss Umbo?”
Two figures stood bathed in yellow light before her, hominids certainly, and wrapped in barbaric bundles of down, fur, and machine-stitched nylon. “Yes?”
“I hope you don’t…I mean, you probably don’t remember me,” said the squatter of the two figures, removing his knit cap to reveal the stiff black brush cut beneath, “but we met a couple weeks ago at Waldbaum’s? I’m Howie, Howie Kantner?”
Agassiz, she thought, and she saw his unsteady grin replicated on the face of the figure behind him.
“I hope it isn’t an imposition, but this is my father, Howard,” and the second figure, taller, less bulky in the shoulders, stepped forward with a slouch and an uneasy shift of his eyes that told her he was no longer the dominant male. “Pleased to meet you,” he said in a voice ruined by tobacco.
She was aware of Konrad behind her — he’d pulled himself into the precarious nest he’d made in the coat tree of mattress stuffing and strips of carpeting from the downstairs hallway — and her social graces failed her. She didn’t think to ask them in out of the cold till Howie spoke again. “I–I was wondering,” he stammered, “my father’s a big fan of yours, if you would sign a book for him?”
Smile, she told herself, and the command influenced her facial muscles. Ask them to come in. “Come in,” she said, “please,” and then she made a banal comment about the weather.
In they came, stamping and shaking and picking at their clothing, massive but obsequious, a barrage of apologies—“so late”; “we’re not intruding?”; “did she mind?”—exploding around them. They exchanged a glance and wrinkled up their noses at the potent aroma and high visibility of Konrad. Howard Sr. clutched his book, a dog-eared paper edition of The Wellsprings of Man. From his coat tree, which Beatrice had secured to the high ceilings with a network of nylon tow rope, Konrad grunted softly. “No, not at all,” she heard herself saying, and then she asked them if they’d like a cup of hot chocolate or tea.
Seated in the living room and divested of their impressive coats and ponderous boots, scarves, gloves, and hats, father and son seemed subdued. They tried not to look at the ruined TV or at the coat tree or the ragged section of bare plaster where Konrad had stripped the flowered wallpaper to get at the stale but piquant paste beneath. Howie was having the hot chocolate; Howard Sr., the tea. “So how do you like our little town?” Howard Sr. asked as she settled into the armchair opposite him.
She hadn’t uttered a word to a human being since Konrad’s companion had left, and she was having difficulty with the amenities expected of her. Set her down amidst a convocation of chimps or even a troop of baboons and she’d never commit a faux pas or gaucherie, but here she felt herself on uncertain ground. “Hate it,” she said.