Disquiet, Please!

by David Remnick

  I couldn’t leave him that way, so I scooted the trapped mouse into a cardboard box and carried him down to the front porch. The fresh air, I figured, would do him some good, and once released he could run down the stairs and into the yard, free from the house that now held such bitter memories. I should have lifted the bar with my fingers, but instead, worried that he might try to bite me, I held the trap down with my foot, and attempted to pry it open with the end of a metal ruler. Which was stupid. No sooner had the bar been raised than it snapped back, this time on the mouse’s neck. My next three attempts were equally punishing, and when he was finally freed he staggered onto the doormat, every imaginable bone broken in at least four different places. Anyone could see that he was not going to get any better. Not even a vet could have fixed this mouse, and so, to put him out of his misery, I decided to drown him.

  The first step, and for me the most difficult, was going into the cellar to get the bucket. This involved leaving the well-lit porch, walking around to the side of the house, and entering what is surely the bleakest and most terrifying hole in all of Europe: low ceiling, stone walls, a dirt floor stamped with paw prints. I never go in without announcing myself. “Hyaa,” I yell. “Hyaa. Hyaa.” It’s the sound my father makes when he enters his toolshed, the cry of cowboys as they round up dogies, and it suggests a certain degree of authority. Snakes, bats, weasels; it’s time to head up and move on out. When retrieving the bucket, I carried a flashlight in each hand, holding them low, like pistols. Then I kicked in the door—“Hyaa. Hyaa”—grabbed what I was looking for, and ran. I was back on the porch in less than a minute, but it took much longer for my hands to stop shaking.

  The problem with drowning an animal—even a crippled one—is that it does not want to cooperate. This mouse had nothing going for him, and yet he struggled, using what, I don’t really know. I tried to hold him down with a broom handle, but it wasn’t the right tool for the job, and he kept breaking free and heading back to the surface. A creature that determined, you want to let it have its way, but this was for the best, whether he realized it or not. I’d just managed to pin his tail to the bottom of the bucket when the van drove up and stopped in front of the house. I say van, but it was more like a miniature bus, with windows and three rows of seats. The headlights were on high, and the road before them appeared black and perfect.

  After a moment or two, the driver’s window rolled down, and a man stuck his head into the pool of light spilling from the porch. “Bonsoir,” he called. He said it the way a man in a lifeboat might yell “Ahoy” to a passing ship, giving the impression that he was very happy to see me. As he opened the door, a light came on, and I could see five people seated behind him, two men and three women, each looking at me with the same expression of relief. All were adults, perhaps in their sixties or early seventies, and all of them had white hair.

  The driver referred to a small book he held in his hand. Then he looked back at me and attempted to recite what he had just read. It was French, but just barely, pronounced phonetically, with no understanding of where the accents lay.

  “Do you speak English?” I asked.

  The man clapped his hands and turned around in his seat. “He speaks English!” The news was greeted with a great deal of excitement, and then translated for one of the women, who apparently did not understand its significance. Meanwhile my mouse had popped back to the surface, and was using his good hand to claw at the sides of the bucket.

  “We are looking for a particular place,” the driver said, “a house we are renting with friends.” He spoke loudly and with a slight accent. Dutch, I thought, or maybe Scandinavian.

  I asked what town the house was in, and he said that it was not in a town, just a willage.

  “A what?”

  “A willage,” he repeated.

  Either he had a speech impediment or the letter V did not exist in his native language. Whatever the case, I wanted him to say it again.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “But I couldn’t quite hear you.”

  “A willage,” he said. “Some friends have rented a house in a little willage and we can’t seem to find it. We were supposed to be there hours ago, but now we are quite lost. Do you know the area?”

  I said that I did, but drew a blank when he called out the name. There are countless small villages in our part of Normandy, clusters of stone buildings hidden by forests or knotted at the end of unpaved roads. Hugh might have known the place the man was looking for, but because I don’t drive I tend not to pay too much attention. “I have a map,” the man said. “Do you perhaps think you could look at it?”

  He stepped from the van and I saw that he was wearing a white nylon tracksuit, the pants puffy and gathered tight at the ankles. You’d expect to find sneakers attached to such an outfit, but instead he wore a pair of black loafers. The front gate was open, and as he made his way up the stairs I remembered what it was that I’d been doing, and I thought of how strange it might look. It occurred to me to meet the man halfway, but by this time he had already reached the landing, and was offering his hand in a gesture of friendship. We shook and, on hearing the faint, lapping noise, he squinted down into the bucket. “Oh,” he said. “I see that you have a little swimming mouse.” His tone did not invite explanation, and so I offered none. “My wife and I have a dog,” he continued. “But we did not bring it with us. Too much trouble.”

  I nodded and he held out his map, a Xerox of a Xerox marked with arrows and annotated in a language I did not recognize. “I think I’ve got something better in the house,” I said, and at my invitation he followed me inside.

  AN unexpected and unknown visitor allows you to see a familiar place as if for the first time. I’m thinking of the meter reader rooting through the kitchen at 8 A.M., the Jehovah’s Witness suddenly in your living room. “Here,” they seem to say. “Use my eyes. The focus is much keener.” I had always thought of our main room as cheerful, but walking through the door I saw that I was mistaken. It wasn’t dirty or messy, but there was something slightly suspicious about it. I looked at the Visible Man spread out on the table. The pieces lay in the shadow of a large taxidermied chicken, which seemed to be regarding them, determining which organ might be the most appetizing. The table itself was pleasant to look at—oak, and hand-hewn—but the chairs surrounding it were mismatched, and in various states of disrepair. On the back of one hung a towel marked with the emblem of the Los Angeles County Coroner’s office. It had been a gift, not bought personally, but, still, it was there, leading the eye to an adjacent daybed, upon which lay two copies of a sordid true-crime magazine I buy, purportedly to help me with my French. The cover of the latest issue pictured a young Belgian woman, a camper beaten to death with a cinder block. “IS THERE A SERIAL KILLER IN YOUR REGION?” the headline asked. The second copy was opened to the crossword puzzle I’d attempted earlier in the evening. One of the clues translated to “Female sex organ,” and in the space provided I had written the word for vagina. It was the first time I had ever answered a French crossword-puzzle question, and in celebration I had marked the margins with bright exclamation points.

  There seemed to be a theme developing, and everything I saw appeared to substantiate it: the almanac of guns and firearms suddenly prominent on the bookshelf, the meat cleaver lying, for no apparent reason, upon a photograph of our neighbor’s grandchild.

  “It’s more of a summer home,” I said, and the man nodded. He was looking now at the fireplace, which was slightly taller than he was. I tend to see only the solid stone hearth and high oak mantel, but he was examining the meat hooks hanging from the clotted black interior.

  “Every other house we passed was dark,” he said. “We’ve been driving, I think, for hours, just looking for someone who was awake. We saw your lights, the open door …” His words were familiar from innumerable horror movies, the wayward soul announcing himself to the count, the mad scientist, the werewolf moments before he changes.

  “I hate to bother y
ou, really.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother, I was just drowning a mouse. Come in, please.”

  “So,” the man said. “You say you have a map?”

  I had several, and pulled the most detailed from a drawer containing, among other things, a short length of rope and a novelty pen resembling a dismembered finger. Where does all this stuff come from? I asked myself. There’s a low cabinet beside the table, and, pushing aside the delicate skull of a baby monkey, I spread the map upon the surface, identifying the road outside our house, and then the village the man was looking for. It wasn’t more than ten miles away. The route between here and there was fairly simple, but still I offered him the map, knowing he would feel better if he could refer to it on the road.

  “Oh, no,” he said, “I couldn’t,” but I insisted, and watched from the porch as he carried it down the stairs, and into the idling van. “If you have any problems you know where I live,” I said. “You and your friends can spend the night here if you like. Really, I mean it. I have plenty of beds.” The man in the tracksuit waved goodbye, and then he drove down the hill, disappearing behind the neighbor’s pitched roof.

  The mouse that had fought so hard against my broom handle had lost his second wind, and was floating, lifeless now, on the surface of the water. I thought of emptying the bucket into the field behind the house, but without the van, its headlights, and the comforting sound of the engine, the area beyond the porch seemed too menacing. The inside of the house suddenly seemed just as bad, and so I stood there, looking out at what I’d now think of as my willage. When the sun came up I would bury my dead, and fill the empty bucket with hydrangeas, a bit of life and color, so perfect for the table. So pleasing to the eye.

  2004

  PAUL SIMMS

  TALKING CHIMP GIVES HIS FIRST PRESS CONFERENCE

  HELLO?

  Can everyone hear me? Anyone?

  Check, check. Check, one two.

  Is this thing on?

  Not the microphone—I mean my Electronic Larynx Implant device. Is it working? Hit the “Reboot” button, and see if that ook ook-ook ook.

  Ook? Ook? Ook-ook.

  Ook!

  Ook-ook-oo—why does it seem like it always takes an eternity for the ELI to reboot? I mean, isn’t this something we should have ironed out a long time ago?

  Oh. Okay. We’re back online now? Good. You can all hear me out there? Great.

  I’d like to apologize for the technical difficulties up here. One would think that the most important part of setting up the world’s first talkingchimp demonstration is making sure that the P.A. is working, but … okay I guess.

  Can I get a bowl of water, please? Thank you. Is the sound guy here? The sound guy. The P.A. technician. Is he here? He’s in the back? Just as well. It’s just that … you know how sometimes you get the feeling that you’d like to bite bite bite bite bite someone? Anyone? Nothing? Whatever. It’ll pass.

  Well, anyway: Hello, male humans and female humans! I am indeed what you call a chimpanzee. I do have a human-given proper name—something that sounds like Timmy or Jimmy or Bimmy or Immy—but, for some reason, recognizing and pronouncing human-given proper names is virtually impossible for me. So, yeah, all you skeptics can go ahead and make hay with that one, but I’m doing my best up here.

  I guess I should start by acknowledging Dr. Female-Human-Lemon-Colored-Hair and her partner Dr. Male-Human-Persistent-Territory-Threatener for all the great work they’ve done with me—or, rather, on me—in the past few years.

  The development of the ELI was a long and arduous process, and there were more than a few times—usually after being shot with a tranquilizer dart and then waking up hours later with excruciatingly painful bleeding stitch holes in my neck and chest regions—when I wasn’t sure if it was worth it. But I guess it was, because here we are today, in this beautiful conference room at the Sheraton.

  In fact, there were some days when I felt nothing but the desire to bite bite bite bite bite everyone involved, including, if you can believe it, Mr. Male-Human-Black-Skin-Food-Bringer. Who, for my money, is the true unsung hero of this interminable experiment. This guy is the male human who not only brings me my kibble every morning but also delivers to my cage a metal bucket full of orange wedges every afternoon.

  So give him a round of applause, if you would. Stand up, Mr. Male-Human-Black-Skin-Food-Bringer! Don’t be shy!

  He’s not here? Okay, then. I’m not sure why he wasn’t invited to share in the limelight today, but I guess we all have our different ways of doing things. Or something. Let’s just move right along.

  I had planned today to speak mainly about the similarities between humans and chimpanzees. How we’re all members of the same family, and so on and so forth.

  I feel like I have to take a dump right now.

  But instead of speaking about the similarities between humans and—

  Ahh. That’s better. Dump taken. Where was I?

  Similarities. Right. But instead of speaking about similarities I’d like to take this time to—

  I’m sorry, you people in the first few rows. Apparently, my dump somehow offends you? Perhaps if I gather it up and fling it at you, you’ll think twice next time before you wrinkle your dinky noses at my healthy and natural exudate. Is that what I should do? Because it’s very easy. All I have to do is scoop it up like this and—

  Ow!

  Take it easy with the leash, Mr. Male-Human-Leash-Puller-If-He-Ever-Turns-His-Back-Bite-Bite-Bite! I wasn’t actually going to do it! Sheesh. Why this guy is here but my kibble-and-orange-wedge-bringing buddy isn’t, I have no idea.

  Where was I?

  Could I get another bowl of water, please? Thank you. Give me a moment here.

  Ah … that’s the stuff. The elixir of life, which soothes all but the most surgery-ravaged monkey throat.

  Anyway, let’s just go to your questions and get this over with, because I’m pretty eager to get back to my cage at this point.

  Yes, right here in the front—Mr. Male-Human-Small-Torso-No-Threat?

  Right. As I said, I am eager to get back to my cage. That surprises you somehow? Let me explain. I like my cage. My cage is small and manageable. Unlike your cage here, which makes me uneasy. Who needs a cage this large? I mean, come on! How can you be comfortable in a cage so large that the entrance and egress points are so far away that sometimes I think they might not even exist? With a cage this large, any random taker-of-food or biter-of-chimpanzees could enter at any time and take your kibble—or, even worse, your orange wedges—and/or bite bite bite you.

  I mean, I know: Your human needs are more complex than mine, because you’re all fancy and shit. But as for me and my kind? Give me a full kibble trough every morning and regular delivery of orange wedges every afternoon, and I’m good. Maybe an empty beer keg to push from one side of my cage to the other and back again. And of course the presence of (or at least the promise of) a potential female copulation partner within the immediate smellable vicinity.

  Now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment, I am experiencing a feeling that virtually compels me to try to eat this microphone.

  Ow! There’s really no reason to go nuts with the leash like that, Mr. Bite-Bite-Bite-Bite-Bite-As-Soon-As-Possible! No one told me the microphone was a “Bad-Boy-Don’t-Eat” item. So work with me a little—okay, Mr. Gouge-Eyes-Eat-Fingers?

  Wow, folks. I guess it takes all kinds, huh? Give me a minute while I simultaneously finish off this bowl of water and take another dump.

  Ahh.

  And ahh again.

  Another question?

  Yes—you, Ms. Female-Human-Copulation-Candidate, right here on the left. Your question?

  Mm-hmm? That’s an excellent question. But, before I answer, may I ask you something? When was the last time you copulated?

  I can tell by the way you cover your bared teeth with your hand while your cheeks fill with color that my question intrigues you. I like that. Your copulation partner must be gigantic
and have a virtually bottomless supply of orange wedges to have snared a mate like you. But I tell you this: One hour with me and my long stick, and you’d be—

  Ow! Again with the leash! Always with the leash, Mr. Male-Human-Mount-And-Copulate-With-To-Humiliate-Before-Killing!

  You know what? Go ahead with the leash. Seriously, keep it up. Go down in history as the male human who strangled the world’s first talking chimpanzee. What do I care?

  I happened to be referring to my termite stick, for your kind information. It’s a sophisticated food-gathering tool? Maybe you’ve heard of it? No?

  Figures.

  All right, I’m done with this now. Take me back to my cage, please. ASAP. Yes, I know that many of you have more questions, but I’m afraid I’m experiencing a strong, unsettling feeling that the empty beer keg back in my cage is currently on exactly the wrong side and needs to be pushed back to the other side as soon as possible. So let me get back to my job, and maybe we can talk again another time.

  2005

  NOAH BAUMBACH

  MY DOG IS TOM CRUISE

  I HAVE to tell you, things are good. I am … I am … Whooo! … I am very good. I just returned from a walk and … HA! Things. Are. Good. I’ve got a bowl of hard kibble with some soft stuff mixed in. My name’s on the bowl! I am passionate about this lamb-and-rice recipe. What’s been going on? HAHA! I’m so in love with this bitch! HAHAHA! I can’t … I’m so … I can’t restrain myself. HAHAHAHAHAHA! We met at the park. She was in the run for little dogs … ’cause she’s, well … HA! She’s petite. And I was over in the big run and … I am in love. I can’t be cool. This bitch is … I have total respect for her. Yesterday on my five o’clock, I just sniffed her ass for a while and then we frolicked. I can’t even describe it … we chased squirrels … frisked, you know … she likes to be physical, too … and to fetch and … We’re like anyone. We tore into this shoe and just had a ball. I’ll see her tomorrow on my 8 A.M. I am happy. I am … HAHAHAHAHAHA! She is a wonderful, wonderful animal. I can’t … words don’t … OWOOOOO! I can’t sit or stay, man. I need to get up on my hind legs and holler, you know! I gotta pee on something. And I don’t care what the other animals do or what their masters say. Listen, there are always gonna be pit bulls. There are always gonna be Dobermans. And cynical little pugs. And you know what? I’ve never cared what others think about me. I’ve always been this way. I’m living my life. And I am fortunate. And I am excited. I am fortunate and excited.