by Will Self
Busner took him in hand, pressed him on past the gate to Balliol; they crossed Broad Street, skipping between the parked cars, and Simon gave way to another small cackle attack when he saw the stone heads of chimpanzee philosophers, on top of the pillars that bounded the Sheldonian enclave. Socrates with outsize canines, Plato with a nasal bridge, Heraclitus supporting a lithic laurel wreath on his nonexistent forehead.
Outside the panelled door of Grebe’s study Busner called, “HoooH’Graaa!” and when there was a pant-hoot from within the two chimps entered. Simon found himself moving across the Persian carpet in a low crawl, turning and pushing his scrag into the muzzle of a wizened chimp who was tenanting a large armchair and sipping a crystal sherry glass filled with thick brown fluid. As ever Simon was taken aback – literally – by the way his body automatically understood which apes he should present to.
Grebe put his glass of shit down on the octagonal table and bestowed a welcoming caress on the long back of the chimp who was presenting to him. Grebe had observed Simon’s progress from the door carefully and noted the odd atrophy of the chimp’s legs, also the air of automatism about his deference. When Busner approached and the two senior chimps presented to one another, Grebe gave shape to his immediate impressions. “Euch-euch,” he vocalised, then signed, ‘So, Busner, is there heautomorphism of some kind here “huuu”?’
Busner, amused by the accuracy of this probing, leapt up beside Grebe and gave the academic a cuddle, inparting as he did so, ‘No, actually that’s not the case “chup-chupp”. He appears to see us as we are; and although the furniture of the delusion remains, as it were, in place, “huh-huh-huh” his perception of his own body as human is undoubtedly vitiated. Observe him now …’
Having presented, and grasping that his subordinate position in the hierarchy released him from the obligation of an extended groom, Simon was now ranging along Grebe’s bookcases pulling a volume half out with a hand here and a foot there. ‘The trip appears to have done him good, my little Grebeling “chup-chupp”. That’s some of the first footling I’ve seen him do and just now he produced a ticklecism – of sorts. Furthermore, while we were getting on the train in London he pushed a metaphoric representation at me – the first piece of allusion he’s signed “gru-nnn”.’
Grebe, his right hand cradling Busner’s scrotal sack, gestured with the other, ‘I hate “chup-chupp” to be so precipitate, Busnerkins, but I’m more than a little peckish, this’ – he indicated the glass – ‘may refresh, but it doesn’t sustain. Do you “chup-chupp” feel that Mr Dykes will be able to cope with hall “huuu”?’
‘I don’t see why not “grnnn”, he’s coped thus far.’
‘Good, in that case why don’t we adjourn for third luncheon, then come back here and gesticulate later “huuu”?’ Grebe checked his watch again. ‘I can give you until about three-thirty, then it’s back to the quadrumanous querulousness of my undergraduates.’
Simon was subdued during lunch. The dark immensity of the Exeter College hall was clamorous with the pant-hooting of the undergraduates, who weren’t so much squatted as clustered along the long tables. From the dark oak panelling the painted eyes of noblemales, scholars and prelates blearied into the gloom. Simon stared at these portraits of robed apes, apes in armour, apes whose scruffs were ruffed up under ruffs, and marvelled at the accuracy with which each curl and lock of fur had been rendered. He longed to quit his position – at the very corner of the podium-sited high table – and swing up on the ancient handholds that studded the walls, so as to see whether the quality of the brush strokes would be as good on closer examination.
Other brush strokes bothered Simon as well. Grebe had given no delineation to his fellow dons as to why Simon should be present – although he had presented Busner, who was, of course, known by reputation to all. Despite this they had enfolded him in their hairy bosom. His immediate neighbour – a physicist denoted Kreutzer – continually turned to Simon and inparted some observation about the college, or the weather.
The dons also passed a decanter of claret on an apparently interminable round. As soon as it was emptied a servitor would bound on to the podium, retrieve it and bound off; returning from the cellars in a matter of seconds with it refilled. After the decanter appeared by his elbow for the fourth time, Simon declined it for the fourth time as best he could, gesturing to Kreutzer, ‘I haven’t been “u-h’-u-h”’ well, I’m afraid, I’m not sure wine at third luncheon will “hooo” agree with me.’
Kreutzer, eyebrow ridges raised so precipitately they threatened to fall off his head, peered at Simon quizzically. ‘Really “huuu”? I’m not sure it altogether agrees with me, but surely the dispute is “hee-hee” the thing.’
The bibulous chimp then lifted his full glass to his drooling mouth and downed half of it in one pull, the fluid gushing out from between canines stained with previous indulgence. His muzzle still sopping, his fingers walked on, ‘In the old days “grnnn”, you would be asked as a matter of course when you squatted at high table, are you a two-bottle chimp, or a three-bottle chimp “huuu”?’ For some reason he seemed to find this very funny and went off into a great clacking and gnashing fit of laughter.
The other dons must have been watching this throw-away sign, because they too broke into laughter. In the dimness of the hall their gaping mouths dangled in the gloom, their outsize teeth lanced from their furry muzzles. For the first time that day Simon felt utterly remote and disembodied. He longed to leap up, swagger from the hall, leave the college, go to the Cornmarket and get a bus out to Tiddington, then knuckle-walk to the Brown House. But could he bear encountering his infants? Infants whose muzzles might well be unrecognisable without a shave?
But this fugue of hysteria – its notes of corporeal dis-ease already beginning to mount the scale – was shut off abruptly. Despite the clamour at high table, a greater row was erupting in the body of the hall. The undergraduates, whose demeanour throughout third luncheon had been rambunctious, were becoming violently restive. They got upright on the benches and pant-hooted so loudly that their lips funnelled. They drummed on the tables vigorously, so that the china and cutlery crashed and rattled.
Simon, observing Kreutzer’s gnarled and mighty ears vibrating with the cacophony, expected him and the other dons to respond to this riot with an enforcement of dominance. And knowing chimpanzee society, Simon foresaw violence. But to his surprise the dons only added to the clamour, mounting the high table and proceeding to charge up and down it, their gowns flared, their ischial scrags refulgent.
So horripilated were the distinguished academics that they swelled to almost twice their actual size. But what amazed Simon – as ever – was their incredible fleetness of foot. By God, these apes are snappy movers! he thought. Not one glass was overturned, nor plate disturbed, as horny, scholarly foot after naked horny, scholarly foot planted itself neatly on the damask.
The undergraduate chimps’ brouhaha subsided when one of their number, having been passed a large glass vessel, swaggered upright to the end of the central table opposite the dons’ podium and stood there uttering loud, discordant pant-hoots, “HooooGra! HooooGra! Hoooo-Gra!” Novocal filled the hall. Simon took the opportunity to gain Kreutzer’s attention, “HooGra,’” he cried, then signed, ‘What on earth is going on, Dr Kreutzer “huu”?’
‘You really aren’t an Oxford chimp, are you “huuu”?’ the don countersigned.
‘No, no, I studied fine art at the Slade. ’ The physicist squinted at Simon, his muzzle wrinkled with distaste. It was, Simon reflected to Busner later, as if I’d told him I was a ballet dancer.
‘Well “aaaaaa”, this is, my artistic friend, a sconcing. There are certain rather archaic traditions that we like to preserve here at Exeter, and one of them is that a forfeit must be paid if any undergraduate shows signs of particular subjects while in hall. “HooooRaaaarg”!’ This last, roaring pant-hoot coincided with the undergraduate chimp’s giant beaker being filled by a servitor with a
draught of dark ale. Meanwhile, the other undergraduates had formed a hispid huddle around the swaggering young ape.
‘ “Huuu” what subjects exactly?’ Simon enquired of his companion.
Kreutzer again gifted his disdainful muzzle. ‘The usual, politics, religion, any kind of shop whatsoever –’
‘Shop,’ Simon countersigned, ‘meaning academic subjects “huu”?’
‘Of course “wraff”.’
‘But that would cover just about anything it’s possible to gesture –’
‘No, no,’ Kreutzer’s fingers fiddled sarcastically, ‘There’s still sport – or the weather!’
This fingering was cramped by the undergraduates, who commenced beating loudly and with a mounting rhythm on the table tops. The student who was being sconced began pouring the ale into his mouth. Simon, his curiosity piqued, could not forbear from inparting Kreutzer, ‘Is this “huuu” the penalty? Drinking a draught of ale?’
‘It’s three pints – and if you think it’s easy, give it a go yourself ‘ ‘aaaaa”!’
Even from where he sat some twenty feet away, Simon could see the chimp’s scruff rise and fall as he ingurgitated the beer. He was an impressive specimen and the contents of the beaker were disappearing rapidly. ‘Good sconce!’ several of the dons blazoned, then cried, “HoooGraaa!” to urge the chimp on. All looked to be going well for the penalised undergraduate – he was down to the last half-pint or so – when Simon saw that his scut was quivering, elongating. Then, without further warning, the chimp started spraying uncontrollably and spinning at the same time. First his spluttering scut, then his guttering pink penis appeared, as he whirled and twirled. Piss and liquid shit splattered the other undergraduates in wider and wider arcs. Finally, the incontinent dervish fell off the table and was borne out of the hall by his fellows.
The dons, far from being disgusted, were positively buoyed up by this perverse ceremonial. Their excited cries and exaggerated gesturing took minutes to die down. Eventually, when he could discern anything in the blur of bristling hands, Simon saw that Kreutzer was putting the finger on him. ‘You’re visiting Grebe, aren’t you “huuu”?’ the physicist pointed out.
‘That’s right,’ Simon countersigned.
‘Well, this’ll put the pervert in a good mood – he’s partial to some shit at third luncheon “hee-hee-hee”!’
Simon didn’t have time to take in this mark, because Busner appeared next to him and made it clear that it was time to leave. Simon presented to his third-luncheon companion, but Kreutzer bestowed the most cursory of caresses on his proffered rump. The three-bottle chimp was intent on the port, which was coming rapidly down the high table towards him.
The day, grey until now, was wavering into insipid sunlight as the three chimps knuckle-walked back across the front quad and into the back. Grebe bounded ahead and when Busner and Simon reentered his study after handing themselves up the spiral stone stairs, he was squatting in his armchair, the dun decanter already aloft. ‘Shit “huuu”?’ the philosopher enquired.
‘I won’t, thanks,’ Busner countersigned. ‘Simon “huu”?’
‘I’m sorry – what was that “huu”?’ Simon’s muzzle was uncomprehending.
‘Would you like some shit “huu”?’ The decanter was waggled so that its viscous contents slowly sloshed.
‘ “HoooGrnnn” if it’s all the same to you, Dr Grebe, I don’t think I will.’
Busner expected some kind of outburst from Simon when he was confronted with Grebe’s coprophilia. Busner himself was partial to the occasional glass of shit, but Grebe was an aficionado, who he knew for a fact kept an extensive personal midden in the college cellars. Surely Simon, with his conviction that he was human, would find this aspect of chimpanzee behaviour insupportable?
The answer came soon enough, because Grebe had done his own research. Sipping his shit judiciously, his upper lip questing, prehensile, he lifted his feet and toed Simon a line. ‘Mr Dykes, I would have thought you, as a human, would have found my coprophilia disturbing – if not repulsive. I understand that your conspecifics, both in the wild and in captivity, show a marked aversion for their own excreta, often travelling some distance from their nesting sites to perform their bodily functions and then “euch-euch” burying the result.’
Simon turned from the bookcase to muzzle the philosopher. The journey from the Busner group home, the bizarre scenes in the hall at third luncheon and now Grebe with his coprophilia – it was a day of contrariness. For Simon, although more present in the world of chimpanzees, more at ease, nonetheless felt his humanity as strongly as ever. It was convenient – he reasoned – to walk on all fours as they did. So diminished was the scale of this realm, that to have done otherwise would have been to court a skull-drubbing. Likewise, it was a matter of mere conformity not to wear nether garments or shoes and to pick at one’s ischial scrag from time to time, freeing troublesome winnets and dag-tails. Signing came easily enough to Simon – but then why shouldn’t that be the case; human signage –”speech” – was as much gestural as vocalised. But eating shit? No. Never. This, like the chimps’ high-speed multi-rutting, was the stuff of true bestiality. Furthermore, Simon realised that his lack of aversion to Grebe and his diarrhoeic decanter was a function of just this fact: it was animal ordure – not human crap. Despite being liquidised, imprisoned in crystal and placed on a table, it was no more repugnant than the brown shot of rabbit shit, scattered across a hillside.
So, Simon gave Grebe a knuckle sandwich: ‘That’s right. We only “euch-euch” shit where we should shit – to do otherwise would be unhygienic. Human coprophiliacs are regarded as perverts. But, if I’m not misdirected, Dr Grebe, I gathered from one of your colleagues at high table that you are seen in that light yourself “huuu”?’
Busner kept hand in glove at this juncture – if Simon was due for a thrashing it might as well come from Grebe as anyone else. But Grebe, instead of punishing this impertinence with violence, chose to do so gesturally. He tipped his muzzle back so as to stare at the ceiling, and apparently concentrating on the mouldings, proceeded to unleash a flurry of dexterity.
‘Mr Dykes, you would do well to remember how we view “euch-euch” the spectacle of humanity. To quote the Cauda Caudex, one of the earliest treatises to deal with the animals:
“HoooGrnn,” Simon pant-hooted apprehensively, then signed, ‘Dr Grebe, I take your point, but surely the
Grebe took another slug of shit before answering. Busner saw he was enjoying the gesticulation – that he was learning things and had more to inpart. Busner was also impressed by his protégé – Simon’s passionate defence of his own delusion was in and of itself a most fascinating ramification.
Grebe vaulted from his armchair and swung to his work table, where he snatched up a piece of paper. This he passed to Simon, signing, ‘I think you may find this interesting, Mr Dykes “h’huuu”? You see, I anticipated your question and e-mailed an ally in London regarding this very matter, knowing that Bu
sner was bringing you here – a Dr Phelps at the School of Oriental and African Studies. Perhaps it would “grnnn” interest you to see his reply “huu”?’
Simon took the print-out and read the following:
HooH’Graaa. Dear David,
About humans. I asked the acknowledged expert on English signs with African origins and he wrote:
The earliest attestations of ‘human’ indicate that this is the ‘native name in Angola’.
In Kimbundu (an Angolan signage) it is ki-humanze, in Fiot (a signage of Cabinda) it is ki-hpumanze, and in the Kikongo signage as gestured in Zaire it is ki-hpumanzi (the ki- is a noun-prefix).
When I asked if these signs meant anything, he wrote: All these signs are glossed simply as ‘human’, with no other meaning given.
Hope this helps. H’Hoooo, Nigel.
Simon remained signlent after reading this missive. There was tenable froideur coming from Phelps’s note, an apprehensive icicle that poked into Simon’s state of conviction. Seeing it written down like this, in dry academic signage, Simon could almost believe it; put on acknowledgement like a hat – then take it off. Put it on – take it off. But if he put it on and took it off too often, like a real hat it would leave behind a phantom sensation; and then he’d really have lost all vestige of humanity.
Simon roused himself, scratched his ischial scrag. He was wearing a jacket borrowed from Busner today, a tweed thing – all Busner’s jackets were tweed, saving his human suit for black-tie engagements. It itched Simon’s ischial scrag if he didn’t tuck it up a little, expose what he had begun to think of – purely as a matter of habit – as his beautiful, effulgent arsehole. Better, Simon reasoned, to have one’s arsehole shining out when engaged in a debate such as this.
He got upright, swaggered a little, and waved Phillips’s note in the air. “HoooGrnn,” he vocalised, then signed, ‘Dr Grebe, you wanted to gesticulate with me concerning my notions of human signage – shall we proceed “huuu”?’ Grebe, taking yet another gulp of his crapulent cocktail, sprang bipedal. The few remaining hairs traversing his scalp were erect, forming a peculiar, saggital crest.
