Now, if I could only do it again…
Hug now! signed the chimpanzee. Shoshana come hug now!
Shoshana Glick felt herself breaking into a big grin, just as she always did when she caught sight of Hobo’s wrinkled gray-black face. The chimp ran on all fours across the grass toward her and soon his long, powerful, hairy arms were encircling her and his big hands were patting her back. She lightly squeezed him and stroked his fur. After a moment, as was his habit, he tugged gently, affectionately, on her ponytail.
It had taken a while to get used to the ape’s hugs, since he could easily break her ribs if he wanted to. But now she looked forward to them. And although there were some advantages to communicating by sign language — it was easy to do in a noisy room, for instance — one of its drawbacks was that you couldn’t speak and hug at the same time. Once her hands were free, she signed, Hobo good boy?
Good yes, replied the ape, and he nodded his head; the signs had been taught to him with great difficulty, but he’d acquired the human habit of nodding on his own. Hobo good good. He held out his hand expectantly, the long black fingers curving gently upward.
Shoshana smiled and reached into the pocket of her cutoff jeans for the little Ziploc bag of raisins she always carried. She opened it and poured several into the deeply furrowed palm.
They were on the little grass-covered island, a circular piece of land about the width of a suburban house lot. The island was surrounded by a moat. Chimps had less body fat than a human on Atkins and sank in water; any moat wider than they could jump across was enough to contain them, and when the little drawbridge Shoshana had just crossed was raised, the researchers didn’t have to worry about Hobo going AWOL.
In addition to the towering statue of the Planet of the Apes Lawgiver, the island sported a half-dozen palm trees. A trio of electrically powered toy boats ran endless circles around the island, churning up the moat’s water to help keep mosquitoes from breeding in it. Still, some were flitting about. Hobo’s fur — a brown several shades darker than Shoshana’s own long hair — made it hard for the bugs to bite him. She slapped the side of her neck, wishing she were so lucky.
What you do today? she asked.
Painting, signed Hobo. Want see?
She nodded excitedly; it had been weeks since Hobo had put brush to canvas. Hobo held out one hand and she took it, interlacing her fingers with his. He walked using his other hand and his short, bowed legs, and Shoshana fell in beside him.
Pictures made by animals always fetched good prices — chimps, gorillas, and even elephants could paint. Hobo’s paintings were sold in high-end galleries or auctioned on eBay, with the proceeds going to help maintain the Marcuse Institute (after the mandatory kickback, as Dr. Marcuse called it, to the Georgia Zoo).
The island was artificial and shaped like a slightly squashed dome; Dillon Fontana said it pancaked about as well as a silicone breast implant did. At the center of the island was an octagonal wooden gazebo — the nipple, Dillon called it; that boy seriously needed to get laid.
Hobo did his painting inside the gazebo; the roof protected his canvases from rain. He deftly operated the latch on the screen door and then, in true gentlemanly fashion, held it open for Shoshana. Once she was through, he followed her in and released the door, letting its spring mechanism close it behind them before any bugs could get in.
In his waning years, Red Skelton — a comedian Shoshana’s grandmother had liked — had done a painting a day, selling them to help keep body and soul together. Hobo’s output was much lower but, unlike Skelton, he only painted when he felt inspired.
Shoshana owned one of Hobo’s originals. Dr. Marcuse had wanted to sell it, but Hobo had insisted it was a gift for Shoshana, and the Silverback had finally relented after Dillon had gently suggested it might not be wise to piss off the goose that laid the golden eggs. Shoshana smiled as she remembered that. As they often did when Hobo was present, in order to give him a linguistically rich environment, Dillon had been translating his words to sign language as he spoke, and Hobo had looked at him sadly, as if very disappointed in him, and had patiently signed back: Hobo not goose. Hobo not lay eggs. He’d shaken his head, as if astonished that this had to be said: Hobo boy!
That painting, which hung in the living room of Shoshana’s tiny apartment, was like all Hobo’s work: splashes of color, usually diagonally across the canvas, with blotches scattered about made by twirling a thick brush. It looked like something done either by a four-year-old or one of those 1960s modern-art types.
Shoshana expected to see much the same thing on the easel this time. She really was no judge of art; oh, she wasn’t as clueless as her grandmother, who had actually bought one of those Red Skelton monstrosities, but she couldn’t tell good from bad when it came to abstract painting. Still, she would praise it to the skies and reward Hobo with raisins, and—
And there it was, a canvas measuring eighteen inches by twenty-four, propped on the easel so that its long dimension was vertical in what they called—
That was the term, wasn’t it? Portrait orientation. And yet—
And yet it couldn’t be; it couldn’t possibly be, but…
Slightly off-center was an orange egg shape. On one edge of it was a white circle with a blue dot in its middle. And coming off the other side of the egg was a brown projection, curving down, just like—
“Hobo,” Shoshana began, speaking aloud. But then she caught herself, and signed, What is this?
Hobo made a pant-hoot then bared his teeth in disappointment. Not see?
Shoshana looked at the painting again. Her eyes could be playing tricks, and—
Playing tricks! Of course. She knew exactly where the observation camera was hidden in the gazebo. She turned to face it and flipped the bird at whoever was watching. “Very funny,” she said aloud, and then she spoke the words, “Ha ha.”
Hobo tipped his head quizzically. Shoshana turned back to him. Who put — Her hands froze in midair; he wouldn’t understand “put you up to this.” She made the “erase that” hand wave then started over: Dillon did this, right? Dillon made this painting.
Hobo looked even more wounded. He shook his head vigorously. Hobo paint, he signed. Hobo paint.
Chimps were good at deception; they often hid things from each other. And Hobo certainly didn’t always tell the truth, but—
But this was impossible! Chimps painted abstractly. Hell, some argued that they didn’t really paint at all. Rather, all they did was make a mess, and gullible researchers, and an even more gullible public, lapped it up. So maybe it was just a coincidence. Maybe his random slapping of the brush just happened to come out in this pattern.
Shoshana signed, What this? She loomed in close and stabbed her index finger at the white circle.
Eye, said Hobo, or maybe he just pointed at his own eye — the sign and the natural gesture were the same.
Shoshana felt her heart pounding. She moved her hand in a circular motion, encompassing the orange ovoid. What this?
He was enjoying the game now. Head! he signed vigorously. Head, head.
There was a table next to the easel. Shoshana took hold of its edge with one hand to help her keep her balance and with the other she pointed at the brown extension on the side of the oval farthest from the eye. What this?
The ape moved his long left arm toward Shoshana, reaching around to give her bundle of brown hair a playful tug. And then he signed, Ponytail.
She gripped the edge of the table more tightly and took a deep breath, then signed, Is picture me?