by Will Self
‘It looks rather like a grooming session to me,’ Hamble cut in.
‘No, no “euch-euch”, not at all. We muzzle one another, we stare into one another’s eyes without fear of reprisal; and we kiss – our teeth you know are so much smaller than yours – for minutes at a time. And furthermore, Raymond, we only mate love with exogamous partners. The idea of mating love with close group members is anathema to humans. Utterly taboo. Where can there be romance when you mate any female whose swelling attracts you “huuu”? Where can there be any tenderness “huuu”? And how can you feel any real distinction between adults and sub-adults when you so promiscuously mate with your own offspring “huuu”?’
Hamble, not exactly put out, but confused by this symmetrical paradox, fluttered to himself: How can there be any romance or adulthood when you don’t?
Simon was high now, and the images of his past, his caressing human past, were coming back to him with hateful acuity. How could he have thought that he had lost his ability to suspend disbelief in human sexuality? Or perhaps – and this made his hackles rise – perhaps it was precisely his failure to apprehend what was most sacred, most important, most inherently human in life – the physical expression of love, that had precipitated Simon into this nightmarish realm, with its dope-smoking apes and doctoring chimpanzees.
The doctor in question reappeared at this point, and Busner was none too pleased to see that Hamble was sharing a joint with Simon. He clenched his fist as he knuckle-walked into the room. “HoooH’Graa,” he greeted them, then signed, ‘Really, Raymond, I don’t think hypomania and marijuana consort happily, do you “huuu”?’
‘I don’t know about that “euch-euch”. ’ He footed the joint from Simon’s outstretched toes. ‘I thought it might help to unpack more of this poor chimp’s delusion, and fumigate our gesticulation, which really has been most representative for me. Anyway,’ he dropped off his chair and crawled over to Busner, ‘we’re too long in the tooth to fission over such a thing “huuu” Zackiekins?’ The two alpha males commenced grooming one another with rare artistry, while Simon slumbered in his chair, a rhodomontade of defiantly human rutting cries resounding in his tortured brow.
They left the Set soon afterwards. Hamble inscribed a copy of his book about travelling in Amazonia – In Deep Shit – to Simon, who fluttered that he had a copy already, albeit under another title and in a parallel world.
The cab was waiting for them, and as they pulled away down the rutted track, the last thing Simon saw was Hamble, in exactly the same pose he’d been when they arrived; behind the hawthorn hedge in his garden, his big muzzle creased with good humour, his gingerish sideburns catching the rays of the setting sun.
For the whole journey back to London Simon was plunged in a torment of recollection. Sarah’s small blonde head tilted back. His hand smoothing over her head fur. Her sharp little canines bared in ecstasis. Her small hands tugging softly on his engorged cock. And those peculiar human vocalisations, uttered in the heat of mating. “There-there, there-there … There. There.”
When they got back to Redington Road Simon shut himself up in his room and put on the video of Battle for the Planet of the Humans. It was the one of the film cycle that amused him most; and paradoxically allowed him to capture the tenor of his lost identity, hold it fast for a few seconds. He liked the risible setting of the film, the battle for the planet taking place in what looked like a Milton Keynes shopping mall. There was that ticklishness and there were the zombie-like humans themselves – massing on aerial knuckle-walkways to overwhelm their chimpanzee masters – and all so implausibly portrayed. The film’s designer hadn’t troubled concretely to imagine intelligent, domesticated humans. So, like chimpanzees, they were naked from the waist down and shoeless.
Some of the lines in the film – the last of the cycle – sent Simon into tooth-clacking fits of laughter. In particular, when the beastly chimps have cornered the super-intelligent offspring of the humans who escaped from the future in the penultimate film (Escape from the Planet of the Humans), the head badchimp – as Simon couldn’t help ascripting him – wrung his hands. ‘Seeing him is like watching some awful bacillus and knowing you’ve got it trapped “wraaaa”!’
Then, at the very end, when the hordes of humans are overknuckling the entire complex – so seventies that – the same character blazons the immortal signs: ‘This will be the end of chimpanzee civilization, and the world will become a planet of the humans “wraaaa”!’
If only, thought Simon, staring at the screen while moodily puffing a Bactrian. Ifonly. The effects of Hamble’s weed – which was very strong – had faded, leaving behind solely a hardened conviction that he must meet with his exalpha Jean, that he had to come muzzle-to-muzzle with his infants. If there was a full correspondence between this world and the world as it had been before the disastrous night at the Sealink, then the only chimps who could help him were from his fissioned group.
Busner broke Simon’s reverie. He pant-hooted outside the door and receiving no recall, entered. “HoooH’Graa”, he vocalised, then signed, ‘Well, Simon what did you think of your day out, instructive “huuu”?’
‘Definitely, Dr Busner. It did me a power of good administering a thrashing to that creature, and as for Hamble, well, I liked him “grnnn”. He seemed utterly unconcerned about the notion that I consider myself human and the world I perceive a ludicrous delusion –’
‘ – Well, yes,’ Busner chopped in, ‘but do remember Hamble is very eccentric.’
‘Other than that it’s been “hooo” the same.’
‘The same “huuu”?’
‘Sometimes I feel half-able to acknowledge the reality of things as they are – but then the past comes flooding back “hooo” – it’s incredibly disturbing. But one thing I signed at Hamble’s house I’m convinced is the truth. I have such a clear and unmistakable memory of my middle infant “hooo”. I must meet with my ex-alpha, only she can help me to discover the truth. Please Dr Busner, it’s been over two months now, can’t I see my infants “huuu”, please?’
Simon crawled to where Busner squatted and presented to him with utmost, grovelling deference. The radical psychoanalyst – as he liked to denote himself – laid a hortatory hand on the lanky chimp’s ischial scrag and inparted the bewhiskered rump, ‘There – there “chup-chupp”, Simonkins, don’t worry, my poor fellow, I was impressed with your conduct – and your conducting –today. I think that some good may be served by having a session with your old group. Your ex-alpha is amenable, so I’ll “huh-huh-huh” see what I can do to arrange it as soon as possible. But there’s something else I want to put to you –’
‘What’s that “huuu”?’
‘I was pant-hooted just now by your old consort’s ally Tony Figes. He signs that there’s an opening tonight at the Saatchi Gallery. He seemed to think it was an exhibition that would particularly entwine you.’
Simon broke from the grooming and turned to muzzle Busner. ‘Are you suggesturing that we should go “huuu”?’
‘Well “euch-euch”, certainly not if you don’t feel able to deal with it. There will, no doubt, be a lot of chimps you know there, but on the other hand …’ Busner went on signing sinistrally ‘… it’s only down the road, within knuckle-walking distance, and as always, if you feel an episode or seizure coming on we can leave. I think it might be a good idea. After all, it’s another handhold back up the tree to recovery “h’huuu”?’
Chapter Nineteen
The evening was cold and blustery. But Simon and Busner did knuckle-walk down Fitzjohn’s Avenue and through Swiss Cottage to Boundary Road; although in contrast to that morning there was little mating activity for them to observe. However, things were considerably different when they reached the vicinity of the gallery. From two hundred and twenty-four metres away, despite the gloom, Busner could see that the junction of Abbey Road and Boundary Road was packed with the art crowd of chimps, rutting, screeching, grooming, networking and queuing to g
et into the Saatchi Gallery.
Busner pulled upright and turned to muzzle Simon. “‘Huuu” are you sure you’ll be able to cope with this? There will be a lot of chimps there you know –’
“Hooo”, Simon recalled, then countersigned, ‘Surely I won’t be able to recognise them, there’s such a big crowd, and they’re chimpanzees “clak-clak-clak”!’
‘Yes, Simon, but remember they will certainly recognise you. You haven’t been seen in public since your show and your breakdown has been reported in the press. I think you can safely “euch-euch” assume that we will attract attention.’
What Busner was really counting on was that Sarah Peasenhulme, Simon’s ex-consort, would turn up for the opening as well. Certainly that had been the gist of the gesticulation between Busner and Figes. ‘She’s having a sort of consortship with Ken Braithwaite, the performance artist,’ Figes signed on the ‘phone, ‘but she’d love to mate with Simon again and feel his ischial scrag. Do you think he’s prepared to get it “huuu” up for her, Dr Busner?’
Busner countersigned he had no way of knowing, but that Simon seemed more and more accepting of his chimpunity. It wasn’t an overhead sign, for on the knuckle-walk down from Hampstead Simon moved with greater fluidity than Busner could remember. The atrophy in his feet and legs was slackening and he’d left his jacket undone despite the cold wind, surely an acknowledgement of his own preference for real as against fake fur?
The two chimps were dominant enough to push their way through the outer eddies of the crowd and penetrate the large, spike-topped grey steel doors at the entrance to the gallery compound. From there a smooth ramp horse-legged away to the entrance of the gallery proper. Set in the crook of the ramp was a full-size model of a fire engine. Simon, his scut moving ahead of Busner’s muzzle through the shaggy mêlée, ignored it. From his purposeful manner Busner deduced that coming to this familiar place was reassuring him.
Not so reassuring were the enquiring pant-hoots that floated to Busner’s ears from the fusing art chimps. Simon had been recognised and the Chinese caresses were doing the rounds.
Busner gave their invitations to the gallery female on the door, who seeing Simon presented her scrag, then asked them both to autograph the book. Despite the no-smoking sign above her head, she didn’t show the former artist to stub out his Bactrian. Simon marked his name with a flourish, erect at the desk, proud and disdainful. A few chimps clustered there and a couple of them presented to him, and he automatically bestowed reassuring pats on their vibrating scuts. “H’huuu,” Busner vocalised when they had moved on. ‘Did you know those chimps, Simon?’
‘I don’t think so,’ he countersigned. ‘Perhaps they’re art students.’
Busner had been to the Saatchi Gallery before, but the sheer size of the place took him aback anew. The vestibule was large enough to contain the entirety of Levinson’s Cork Street haunt. Crawling to the right down a broad, short flight of stairs, they entered a room with an area as big as an aircraft hangar – and almost as high. The floor was painted with the same thick grey emulsion as the ramp outside and the walls were blanched. The lighting was so comprehensive and monotonous that its source was irrelevant. There were some sculptures placed here and there on the aestheticised bled, and a few canvases hung from the voided walls. But it wasn’t these that struck Busner and Simon – it was the bombinating mob of chimpunity.
For, if the entrance to the gallery had been crowded, the interior was absolutely packed. One might have signed that all of chimpanzee life was here, were it not so manifestly untrue. Rather, all of trendy, arty London was here. They were all wearing their best threads, they were all drinking the champagne on offer, they were all gesturing wildly, preening, posing and displaying.
The females wore shortie dresses, bustiers, blouses and swelling-protectors in a bewildering number of styles – all absolutely à la mode; and the males were just as fashionably garbed. The jackets and shirts of both genders were mostly open to reveal their chest fur, and in many instances a pierced teat, or even two. There were chimps garbed in leather, in vinyl, in what looked like gold leaf, in PVC, in chiffon and in black serge; which was – Busner’s delta, Isabel, had recently inparted him – this season’s black serge.
Observing this over-caparisoned horde, Busner was driven to put his finger on what bothered him. “H’huuu?” he vocalised.
Simon turned tail, ‘Why are they all so dressed up?’ The former artist looked at his therapist. The poor old ape, he thought, he’s really a fish out of water at this sort of gig. For the first time since he had come under Busner’s care, Simon felt their relationship was definitely pivoting. He was so accustomed to Busner helping him, grooming him, inparting, and providing a constant massage, that the novelty of being in a situation where he could bestow some hortatory grooming and informative prodding brought him out.
‘ “Euch-euch” Dr Busner, you have to appreciate this scene,’ Simon flourished, ‘as an expression of the – how can I put it “huu”? – of the dominance order operating amongst the disparate elements of the art world. They are all so over-dressed, because that’s one of the few ways they can gain any attention, any preening, from their “euch-euch” hierarchical superiors – or subordinates, or peers –’
‘That’s what I assumed. ’ Busner chopped the air and the two chimps squatted, cradling one another’s scrotal sacks, whilst the seraglio of simians whirled past.
‘After all,’ Simon continued, placing the signs carefully in Busner’s groin fur, ‘they can’t very well carry their reputations around with them on their “h’hee-hee” backs – now can they, Busnerkins “huu”?’
‘Please,’ Busner gently kneaded, ‘as our grooming has become so mutual, won’t you denote me Zack “huu”?’
‘Of course, Zackiekins “chup-chupp”, I am honoured that you acknowledge my ascent up the hierarchy. Now, as I was signing, the reputations of these artists – if that’s what they are – are also so arguable, that they require continual interpretation and “gru-nnn” adjustment by a large party of critics “grnn”. The critics have their own hierarchy, and the hierarchy that exists between them and the artists’ party is also highly fluid – subject to continual flux. That’s why “chup-chupp” they’re all dressed up, and displaying and presenting and grooming and mating, for all the buggers are worth “h’hee-hee-hee”!’
Busner giggled as well, when Simon inparted this last ticklecism. Then, finding themselves by the drinks table, both chimps took a rented glass of champagne and continued knuckle-walking around the edge of the exaggerated room. This main part of the gallery was hung with a series of large, garish canvases. These depicted scenes of ordinary life in Middle America – car washing, barbecueing, frisbee playing and the like – but all skewed to one side, as if the viewer – or painter – were astigmatic. There was this distortion, which produced a sense of Lynchian unease, and there were also the hyperreal colours and jagged brush strokes, squaring the effect.
‘Not bad,’ Simon gestured, ‘not bad at all, what did you sign this was ascripted “huu”?’
‘It’s a show of young American artists, Simon,’ Busner replied.
They had circumnavigated and scooped up another rented glass of champagne when Simon, who was taking the lead on this patrol, halted, his scut quivering, the fur on his rump erect. Busner rushed to get soothing fingers in his protege’s fur. “‘Huuu” Simon, what is it?’
“HoooGrnnn,” Simon called apprehensively, then signed, ‘I may be wrong, Zack, but I think I recognise those two chimps at the top of the stairs.’
Busner followed Simon’s gaze, and saw two non-identical twin bonobos. ‘The two bonobos there “huu”, is that who you mean?’
‘Yes, that’s right, those are bonobos, are they “huu”? I’ve seen signs of them, but no one’s shown me exactly what they are.’
‘Who do you think those bonobos are, Simon “huu”?’ Busner’s signing was the lightest of caresses.
‘I think “h
’hooo” that they’re two friends of Sarah, denoted the Braithwaites. Ken and Steve. One of those notices on my show, that you gave to me in the hospital, implied that Ken had been mating Sarah. It’s weird …’ Simon fell motionless. Busner tweaked him ‘What “huu”?’
‘I imagine I ought to feel jealous seeing Ken – if it is Ken, but for some reason I don’t, I’d just like to muzzle him and see who presents to who “huu”?’
Busner regarded Simon sceptically. He understood, of course, what Simon was aiming at. Given the perverse human practice of monogamy, presumably the mating of a longstanding alpha, beta, gamma; or even a consort, or even – and Busner clacked internally at this absurdity – a temporary nestmate, would be cause for emotional distress. But while this entwined the anti-psychiatrist – as he liked to style himself – all the more inveigling was Simon’s recognition of the bonobos.
The two chimps continued to observe the Braithwaites. The bonobos were bipedal at the top of the stairs, and a procession of chimps was presenting to them in a most unusual and cursory fashion, hardly dipping their rumps, barely bestowing a touch, certainly not bothering to groom. ‘What are bonobos “huu”?’ Simon inparted after a while.
‘They’re simply the race of chimpanzees who inhabit Africa, Simon. ’ Busner countersigned.
‘You mean to sign they’re blacks “huu”?’ Busner’s knowledge of human sub-species was now good enough for him to be unfazed. ‘That’s right, Simon,’ he countersigned. ‘They’re “grnn” analogous to the black human sub-species.’
