Great Apes
Page 19
Tony knew them all – of course. He’d met them at the Sealink, or out with the Braithwaites, who were closer to them in both age and aesthetic. Tony found them – at least collectively – more than a little affected, if not absurd. They were now hanging about the place, all either dressed to the nines, or looking like dossers, ostentatiously not grooming one another. There were a couple offemales among them – both attractive, both with magnificently pink, bulging swellings – and yet none of the males made any attempt to display to them – let alone mate.
This ‘Like, chimp, we don’t groom’ act was constantly being undercut by the nervous and repetitive presenting they all indulged in. They’d try to restrain themselves, but when – as now – someone like Jay Jopling, the dealer and prestigious owner of the White Cube, swung into the room, they would all begin to grunt, and shuffle backwards towards him, arses frantically waggling.
They tried – Tony Figes reflected – to prevent themselves, but they couldn’t. For all their vaunted membership of the avant-garde, whatever that was, they were just like everybody else, addicted to the pecking order and the superior’s arse-lick – however cursory.
But neither Tony, nor more importantly George, was worried about the Conceptualists. They had a certain – albeit grudging – respect for Simon and his work. As for the mental breakdown, Tony supposed they would in their normal, perverse way regard it as being cool. No, the worrying chimps were those like Vanessa Agridge, the pushy hack from Contemporánea who had just knuckle-walked into the gallery. The glossy manipulators of the press were going to have free range when they got an eyeful of this stuff. Tony pulled himself together. The liquor had calmed his body, and the coke had honed his mind. He would try to poke some sense into the critics he knew, and when Sarah swung by, he’d look after her, keep her under his wing.
George Levinson was gesticulating with the art critic of The Times, a bigoted New Zealander denoted Gareth ‘Grunt’ Feltham. ‘They are, of course “gru-nn” explorations of the chimp body, the essence of chimpness. Freud, after all, said that the ego is first and foremost a bodily ego “huuu”?’
‘ “Wraaf”! I’m not so sure about that, Levinson. It would seem to me “euch-euch” that the soul comes into all of this, and here we see paintings that exploit the bodies of chimps – and furthermore make a mockery of their souls. “HoooGraaa,” he pant-hooted forcefully, while aiming a mock blow at George’s head, then resumed his imperious signing.
‘ “Euch-euch” you know, I’ve always had my reservations about your chimp Dykes’s work and I have to sign, Levinson, that this sort of thing confirms them. ’ He gestured with one of his large, hairy hands at the work in front of them, Flat Pack Stops at Ebola. ‘ “Waaa” what does he mean by this – this cheap, essentially degrading vision “huu”?’ Feltham was furiously agitated and he now proceeded to lift back his head and unleash from behind canines winnowed by decay and yellowed by tobacco, a series of spine-tingling hoots and barks: “HoooooGra! Wraaaf! HoooooGra! HooooGra! Wraaaaf”!
Whereupon other critics, throughout the gallery, also put their rented glasses on the floor, braced themselves and began to vocalise, “HoooooGraa! HoooooGra!” The air was thick with their vinous exhalations, and George felt quite queasy, regretting the drinks and lines he’d had with Tony. Some of the critics even began drumming on the walls and floors, until solicitously requested not to by the gallery females. But amidst all the vocalising, George couldn’t really tell if any kind of fusion was emerging.
There were now well over fifty chimps in the gallery. Critics, collectors, dealers, artists and their hangers-on. Thankfully, George noted, the ratio of females in oestrus was fairly high, and quite a lot of attention was taken up with displays of one kind and another, but unrelated to the show itself. Indeed, after the vocalising had died down Feltham stopped applying pressure to George and shamelessly thrust his index finger into the ischial scrag of a passing female. She slapped his hand away, and Feltham brought it to his nostrils. “Gru-nn Gr-unn,” he sniffle-grunted, then signed, ‘She can’t be more than a week off, excuse me, will you, Levinson – not exactly your bag “huuu”?’
George shucked off the insult, he couldn’t be bothered to fight with the burly critic over such crassness. Later though, he was thrilled to see the burly critic mating the female at the far end of the gallery, his corduroy jacket riding down over his scut as he panted and tooth-clacked, and judging by the weary expression of the female – whose muzzle was pressed hard into the carpeting – not managing to effect climax in either party.
George looked once more at Flat Pack Stops at Ebola. As with Simon’s other paintings there was an infant at its centre. In this case the poor mite was haemorrhaging horribly from mouth and anus, the blood pouring down its coat and on to the flat pack in question, which was – according to the stencilled lettering on its side – for assembly into an attractive, freestanding wine rack. Simon had caught the feel of an aisle at the Swedish furniture supermarket, Ikea, perfectly. The bland irradiation of overhead lighting, the bays full of flat packs for assembly into tables, chairs, shelving units and stereo cabinets. In this environment, constructed, as it was, to determine a prefabricated choice, the imposition of violent, contingent death was obscene.
Particularly the form of death Simon had chosen to portray. Drawing on accounts of the outbreak at Ebola in Central Africa, he had envisioned the effects of the flesh-dissolving virus, massively speeded up, on a group of furniture shoppers. The figures of the adult chimps were distressing enough, the blood, excrement and bile had worked into their coats and they slumped here and there against the flat packs, cradling one another’s heads. But the sight of the infant on the wine rack was revolting.
“Hooo,” George cried quietly and turned to confront the gallery. He saw Sarah Peasenhulme swagger in through the door, flanked by the Braithwaites. Immediately all three were surrounded by yammering chimps, some of whom presented to Sarah, while others tried to display to her. She was still in the full flower of oestrus, her swelling massive and pinkly gleaming, as if a party balloon were rammed between her thighs.
Some of the crowd mobbing her were toting camcorders, clearly intending to get some signs from her on tape. George decided he’d better intervene. He bounded quickly up, hugging the wall so as to avoid the mêlée. When he was within a few hands of Sarah he drummed the reception desk and vocalised, “Wraaaaaf!” It was the most ferocious vocalisation anybody could ever remember him making, and his fierce expression and bared canines belied – for once – his ridiculous oval Oliver Peeples fashion eyewear, his shot-silk jacket by Alexander McQueen, and the faux swelling-protector Tony Figes had signlessly derided.
The group fissioned slightly and George was able to get inside the hackled huddle, grab Sarah’s arm and bodily haul her out. ‘ “Hoooo” come on, Sarah,’ he inparted, ‘you don’t want to be doing with these chimps.’
‘ “H’huuuu?” George, what is it? Why are they so aggressive?’
‘Have you see Simon’s canvases, Sarah? Did he show them to you “huu”?’ George led her the length of the gallery, aiming for the back office.
‘Some, George. He let me in the studio a couple of times. I recognise that one of the King Kong figure in Oxford Circus … and that one of the crashing plane. Is it the subject matter “huu”? Is that what they’re worked up about “huu”?’
‘Yes, that, and of course Simon’s breakdown … And I imagine – given the utter prurience of the press and the rest of this bloody carnival – your being in oestrus doesn’t help.’
It wasn’t helping. Even in the short time it took them to knuckle-walk to the far end of the gallery, George and Sarah acquired more attention. A chimp denoted Pelham, a feature writer for the Sundays, was displaying to Sarah, waving a copy of the Evening Standard about. More impressively, Flixou, the sculptor, a massive, tough chimp of legendary strength and sexual prowess was blatantly importuning as well; panting, squealing and grabbing sheets of newspaper aw
ay from Pelham. It looked very much as if there was going to be a serious scrap between the two males.
‘ “Err-herr-herr” George, I don’t want this, I don’t want to be here … It’s, it’s …’ Her fingers went up above her head to grasp and describe the scene; the agitated chimps grooming, drinking, gesticulating and mating. ‘Like a bloody zoo!’
‘Well “gru-nn”, that could be seen as success of a kind. At least, I think Simon would be pleased to know he’s caused such a stir. But Sarah, why don’t you go on to the Sealink and I’ll join you there as soon as I can “huu”? “HoooGraaa!” he pant-hooted to Tony Figes, who was nearby gesticulating with the Braithwaites. Figes flagged down and came to join them. ‘Tony, ifyou’ve seen enough of this, would you take Sarah in hand, she’s not happy.’
‘You’re right, George, let’s get her out of here.’
The party of chimps moved back up the gallery, the two bonobos once more taking the flanks and this time dealing viciously with anyone who attempted to solicit Sarah. They reached the door without incident and pushed through it on to the street. Ken Braithwaite went to the kerb and began pant-hooting to attract the attention of a taxi. One pulled up within seconds, without its hire sign lit, and disgorged two chimps. They were arriving for the private view, although they were not the sort of chimps who normally attended these things. One was a large, rather flabby, but well-preserved male, wearing an old fashioned, double-breasted dinner jacket. The other a slight brunette, who looked dowdy in a once fashionable Lurex top and matching swelling-protector.
“HoooGraa!” Sarah pant-hooted, then waved to her group, ‘It’s Dr Busner, the Quantity Theory chimp, he’s taken on Simon’s case, and that’s Dr Bowen, the senior registrar at Charing Cross. “HooGraa” Dr Busner, “Hoo-Graa”.’
Busner finished paying the cabbie and crawled over to them. ‘ “HooGraa” it’s Sarah,’ he signed, ‘isn’t it “huuu”, Simon Dykes’s consort?’
‘That’s right and this is George Levinson, Simon’s dealer. ’ Sarah made the other introductions. Bowen joined them and for a few seconds there was a confused round of presenting and partial grooming. The art chimps didn’t really know what to make of the psychiatrists, where to fit them into the hierarchy. Something of a stand-off emerged from the confusion ofquivering scuts and mock-grooming; Sarah ended up with her fingers in Dr Bowen’s fur while George and Tony attempted to out-grovel one another in front of the distinguished psychiatric practitioner.
‘Well, Mr Levinson,’ Busner signed after a while, ‘I’m looking forward to seeing these paintings. Do you imagine that they could give me any probings as to Mr Dykes’s bizarre condition “huuu”?’
‘I hardly know, Dr Busner, I hardly know … They are quite a departure for Simon, not at all like his earlier work. They’re very … very graphic–’
‘I see, and the subject matter “huu”?’
‘Well, the body, Dr Busner, the body of the archetypal chimp constrained, crushed and distorted by the pressures of modern, urban life. ’ George was warming to his theme, his fingers gesturing with a smooth tempo. ‘I think Simon has done something “chup-chupp” quite remarkable with these paintings, although whether the critics will be prepared to give a hand to it I cannot sign.’
‘Well – well, we shall see. Jane, would you like to swing in “huu”?’
Dr Bowen broke from Sarah, giving the younger female a reassuring pat on her rump. ‘But Dr Busner,’ Sarah signed, ‘how did you find Simon, do you think he’s improving “huu”? What are you going to do for him “huu”?’
Busner came over to Sarah and bestowed some rather clumsy caresses on her head. ‘Now, now, so many questions. I do “gru-nn” appreciate how upset you must be, Ms Peasenhulme, but it’s far too early for me even to attempt a diagnosis. Your consort’s condition is intense, but I have no reason to believe – as yet – that it isn’t treatable. I adopt, as you may know, an holistic and psycho-physical approach to what are denoted
With that Busner gave a valedictory pant-hoot to the assembled chimps, drummed on a metal litter bin, gathered Bowen in his scut and entered the gallery.
Nothing had happened in the secure room for some hours now. Simon Dykes, the artist, lay in nest cradling his tousled head. Through that head raced a vile cavalcade of images. The material of his paintings; bodies thrown about, bodies burnt, bodies mashed and macerated, all confused and consorting with the unacceptable apes; the grinning, tooth-clacking visions who disputed with him as to their own reality. He moaned and rocked, moaned and rocked.
The beast-claiming-to-be-Sarah had signed that the private view for his show was taking place tonight. If I were insane, Simon plaited the musing with the moaning, I wouldn’t care about this, I wouldn’t be able to comprehend this – would I? But I do and can. I can imagine the shit they’ll sling at me … the shit they’ll sling at me… . like the shit I sling at the beasts.
Who are they? Simon framed a view of the Levinson Gallery filled with chimpanzees. A preposterous vision, the animals with their scraggy rumps, their bandy, old men’s legs, their ears bracketed with field mushrooms. They all gesticulated at the paintings with their wiggling fingers, full of twisted import – and they all shoved their arses in each others muzzles, their digits in each other’s fur. They formed a writhing, zoic rug, a pathetic travesty of the appreciation of art – or was it?
For the first time since his breakdown, it now occurred to Simon that perhaps the content of these hallucinations, these delusions of the bestial masking the human, were made up, constructed from the materials of his own mordant obsessions. What, after all, were the apes, if not distorted versions of the body? That they were all body – all embodiment, was the only certainty. For the rest of what they signed was clearly nonsensical – or inadmissible.
These thoughts seemed to Simon to possess the true assay of insight. They calmed him. A hidden observer, able to penetrate the gloom of the secure room, and sympathetic to the madchimp, might have noticed a relaxation of Simon’s limbs at this point. He gave several long nest grunts, rearranged himself as comfortably as he could and waited for the monkeys to come with his sedative stab.
Supposing the opening had been tonight? Where would Sarah be now? George Levinson couldn’t possibly have arranged a third dinner of any kind – not with his client sectioned on a mental ward. No, Simon guessed that Sarah would have attended, with Tony Figes and the Braithwaites, no doubt, and then probably gone on to the Sealink for a drink. The vision of Sarah in the Sealink, Sarah demure, Sarah touchable, coiled in Simon’s gut, curdling whatever kind milk had been there. In its place he felt a tense spring of lustful jealousy. He remembered the particular look of Sarah’s eyes when she was aroused, pupils dilating into astonished empowerment. He remembered the dispensation of her limbs when she moved over him, lowered herself on to him. He groaned and fretted. Where was she now? Was she thinking of him?
She was. Sarah was thinking of Simon, but as she was also thinking about Ken Braithwaite’s cock, which was slamming into her with quite explosive energy, her thoughts were thus scattered, a little diffuse.
The two chimps had begun mating halfway down the stairs from the main bar to the toilets of the Sealink Club. Ken hadn’t so much displayed to Sarah, as signed concerning the possibility of a fuck. Indeed, it was this off-handedness – the signs glibly flipping from his fingers – that decided her to accept. Mating with Ken would be – she felt – as neutrally reassuring as being covered by the Reverend Peter.
So it was. Sarah braced herself by the turn in the stairs. Ken entered her with consummate ease, her swelling so slack, so wet, that it sucked him in. Ken was transported. His slim body bucked and writhed over her, while his fingers inparted her blonde scruff, ‘Your “gru-nn” swelling, your “gru-nn”
swelling, your swe-ll-ing …’ until the squeals and pants of copulation got going in earnest.
A number of chimps scampering up and down the stairs had to hand themselves over the jerking pair, but they made no remark. It was considered bad form to point to mating activities in the club and this was usually adhered to.
Ken came with great alacrity – withdrawing so rapidly from Sarah that the hooked barb of his cock rasped her internally in just the fashion calculated to bring her off. She squealed, her teeth clacked. She felt the plash of Ken’s spunk fall across her back fur. “EeeeWraaa!” she shrieked, then twisting herself round signed, ‘ “Hooo” Ken, d’you think Simon’s going to be all right “huu”?’
‘Who can sign, Sarah, who can sign. But at least if he troubles to think about it he’ll know that you’re in good hands.’
Zack Busner felt dreadfully constricted in his old dinner jacket. The stalls at Covent Garden weren’t really air-conditioned to anything like the right levels and as the day had turned out hot and muggy, the temperature was well up in the eighties. He tried to concentrate on the stage, but Turandot had never been an opera he liked and having come in only at the second act the action was confusing. Weren’t the vocalisers meant to be Chinese? If so, why were they dressed in Ruritanian costumes? Really, thought Zack, modern opera productions often put the less into artlessness. Even Peter Wiltshire’s stabs at shifting time, genre and mise-en-scène often appeared contrived to Busner.
At least if he ignored the sur-titles running across the screen above the stage, he could listen to the mellifluous pant-hooting and soaring screaming of the vocalisers; and Charlotte seemed to be enjoying herself, grunting contentedly and passing her fingers gently over the ragged bulge of her subsiding swelling.