by Will Self
‘So, presumably there’s such a thing as bonoboism “h’hee-h’huu”?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Well “h’hee-hee”,’ the former artist bared his lower teeth with merriment, ‘that certainly explains a lot.’
‘Like what “huu”?’ Busner was perplexed.
‘Like why there aren’t a lot of them at this opening. Some things – as I’ve had reason to sign before – just don’t change.’
With this finger flourish, Simon got bipedal and swaggered up the stairs to where the Braithwaites were. Busner hurried after his scut. However, in the few seconds that had elapsed as they mounted the stairs, the Braithwaites had vanished into the crowd of openeers. Simon leapt in the air, but all he could see was a setose sea of chimpanzee heads, bobbing up and down towards the vanishing point of artifice. ‘They’ve regained the safety of the crowd. ’ Simon waved to Busner – then he froze. “‘Hooo” this is peculiar …’
This part of the gallery was as null and void as the other – although not as great a waste. Scattered around its un-coloured inexistence were various chimpikins. They weren’t exactly statues – being constructed so far as Simon could see from plastic or latex – but nor were they conventional chimpikins. The lifesize figure nearest to them was arrested in mid-stride, attempting to depart its own plinth. White-coated, and brandishing a test tube, its scruff gave way not to a simian countenance, but an enormous, mutant, massy head. ‘That,’ Simon gestured facetiously to Busner, ‘is how I often “h’hee-hee” imagine you!’
The other chimpikins were equally aberrant – a potato-headed figure, a Bugs Bunny mutant and a dodo. But strangest of all was the forlorn little figure of an infant human. This creature had also been transmuted by its creator. It was covered with a most inhuman coat of patchy fur, and had hind paws with prehensile digits, one of which it was using to give itself an interminable mainline fix with a two-millilitre disposable insulin syringe.
Simon and Busner knuckle-walked around all of them huuing softly as they went, until, gaining the far end of the gallery, they paused by the cross-breed junior junky to apply pressure to an exegesis. “‘H’hoo” most suitable material, Simon, wouldn’t you agree “h’huu”?’
‘“Gru-nnn” I suppose you’re right about that, Zack. These are all obvious remarks on the queering – as it were – of the natural pitch; the distortion of our bodily sense in response to the anti-natural way we, as chimpanzees, now live. ’ Busner, although surprised by his protege’s admission of conspecifity, nonetheless held his hands, only flourishing, ‘Not dissimilar to your own recent work “h’huuu”?’
‘True enough,’ Simon countersigned, ‘like my apocalyptic paintings these chimpikins are alluding to some crucial loss of perspective, occasioned by the enforcement of a hard dividing line between chimp and beast.’
While this gesticulation had been going on, unnoticed by either Simon or Busner, a bent little freckle-faced chimp, wearing an obvious toupee and a white linen jacket, carefully hoicked to expose his scrag, had come up beside them. Seeing Simon fall signlent, this chimp presented his arse to them, flicking, “‘HoooH’Graaa” Dr Busner, I’m honoured to abase myself before you, Simon, it does me good to see you out and about again, please allow me the pleasure of cradling your pendulous scrotum. ’ This, the chimp duly did.
Feeling an oddly familiar palmar sensation, Simon stared straight into the muzzle of this joyful subordinate, a muzzle on which two mouths gaped, one with teeth, the other sealed up with scarring. It was, Simon acknowledged, Tony Figes. ‘ “HoooH’Graa” Tony! Dr Busner inparted you might be here, what do you think of these “huu”?’
Tony Figes, looking up at Simon’s guileless muzzle, decided to play it the way he visibly wanted for the moment, and not finger to the fact that the last time they had been in touch was at the shebeen off Cambridge Circus, only hours before Simon’s breakdown. He calmly countersigned, ‘They’re not uninteresting. I saw what you were showing Dr Busner here, and I agree with you. These chimpikins – and it’s particularly remarkable that the artist has seized on the human in this context – are, as it were “grnnn” modern therianthropes, chimeras constructed from chimpanzees, animals and aliens – the fauna of the future. Like the therianthropes of traditional chimpanzee cultures, it’s not so preposterous to imagine them fulfilling some sacredotal purpose “huu”?’
Simon, Busner noted, was far from being put out by Figes’ manipulation. On the contrary, eyebrow ridges raised, fur pleasingly erect, the sometime ape man let out a spontaneous pant-hoot, “H’hooo,” then applied more pressure. ‘What sort of sacredotal purpose, Tony “huuu”?’
‘Well, our hunting activities may be circumscribed by the way we, as chimps, now live; but I think Lévi-Strauss’s observations on the subject “gru-nnn” remain as true today as when neolithic artists first applied ochre to the walls of Lascaux. You will “chup-chupp” recall that he pointed out that the beginnings of all chimpanzee art are in the impersonation – and depiction – of animals “huuu”?’
Simon had become distracted. With the reference to Lévi-Strauss a circuit was completed in the former artist’s brain, his delusion had traversed the three-minute memory loop; what had been around had never gone away. And without in any way accepting his furry limbs; his slim, pink cock; his blackened face and bony brows; his protuberant green eyes and bouffant head fur, Simon Dykes found himself able to work a room for the first time in months.
Over there, swaggering, waving a brace of catalogues in the air and gesticulating with his inimitable arrogance, was a large, white-bearded male with thinning head fur and a pronounced goitre on his neck. It was – Simon knew with certainty – Gareth ‘Grunt’ Feltham, the opinonated art critic of The Times. And with him was his occasional sidekick – a truth Feltham underlined as Simon watched, by kicking him – Pelham, the feature writer. Pelham was as scrawny in his simian incarnation as he had been in his human one. As scrawny – and gifted now with physical rather than psychic mange.
And there, that huge chimp – who was starting to move on a squatting female, shoving aside her plain black Bella Freud swelling-protector to effect panting insertion – was Flixou the sculptor, Simon’s sometime professional rival.
The recognition of Flixou pushed Simon up on to another platform of this absurd game. The arrival of several females in the vicinity, several females in oestrus, was provoking the mating activities. A couple of them were resplendent, protectorless and flaunting engorged perineal areas the size and dazzle of plastic washing-up bowls. A couple more had hardly come on, their slickening flesh only on the turn, bulging from behind their groin fur. And there was one more female, a female with blonde-tinged head fur; a young, delicate female wearing a Selena Blow swelling-protector over her withering pink flower. Simon flared his nostrils – even from twenty feet away he could tell that this one, although nearly at the end of her oestrus, was still recepetive.
Looking full into her muzzle, her heart-shaped muzzle, and seeing her flawlessly thin yet floppy lips curl back to reveal canine teeth that were oddly pointed – even for a chimpanzee – Simon knew it was Sarah. He let out a great, roaring pant-hoot, “HooooRaaargh!” Both Busner and Figes jerked to attention. Simon was on the verge of bounding over to Sarah to do he knew not what, when he saw that others were there already.
The Braithwaites, to be precise. Both Ken and Steve were displaying to Sarah in a decidedly unorthodox way. Skittering bipedally between the chimpikin art works, revolving, dancing, turning back-flips, the bonobos were entrancing to watch. Other males, scenting that a popular female still in oestrus – although late on – had arrived at the opening, were keen to encounter her opening. There were males in Shandong silk jackets; males in Paul Smith jackets; males in Levi’s denim jackets; and all of them had erect, quivering pink cocks; and all of them had erect, quivering ischial pleats. And they all paraded around her, importuning her, desperate to cover her; screaming, waa-barking and drumming on the floor.
> As Simon watched a loose dominance hierarchy was arrived at, with Ken Braithwaite at the head of the queue. Sarah, peering back at Simon over her shoulder, squatted down. Ken Braithwaite twitched aside her swelling-protector and commenced mating her with characteristic chimpanzee nonchalance. Not even bothering to put down his rented champagne glass the ape thrusted, panted and eventually tooth-clacked. Reaching climax in a matter of seconds, he withdrew, flourished, ‘Thank’s for the “huh-huh” fuck, Sarah,’ and swaggered away. Steve Braithwaite followed him, snuffling at the fresh come in his fur.
Without waiting for the next male in line to cover his former consort, his adorable nestmate, Simon let out a second roaring pant-hoot, “HooooRaaargh!” and sprang towards the copulatory conga-line. Tony Figes waved to Busner, ‘Do you think he’ll “hooo” be all right “huu”?’ and the former television personality went some way to snapping one of his infrequent jokes, when he countersigned, ‘In this case it’s probably mate – or break “h’hee-hee”!’
They watched as Simon skidded to a halt on the lack-of-industry floor-covering. Flixou, the sculptor, had managed to break into the chain of would-be copulators and was preparing to mount Sarah. Simon grasped the situation and went straight for him. “Aaaaieee!” he screamed and delivered a swingeing blow to the back of Flixou’s neck. The sculptor – whose most celebrated work, to date, had been an enormous block of ice, sited on the South Bank and denoted simply A Waste of Ice – reeled back. Before he could recover himself Simon had delivered a raking smack across his muzzle. This drew blood, and rather than stain his Jasper Conran jacket, Flixou accepted defeat. He presented to the ape man, who bestowed a reassuring pat on his rump, as simultaneously he smoothly entered Sarah.
“EeeeWraa!” she squealed, as his familiar cock lunged into her.
“Huh-huh-huh” Simon panted as he thrust, while inparting her back fur, ‘ “Hoo” Sarah, Sarah, this is so “chup-chupp” strange!’ He smoothed the ruff of blonde fur from the apex of her round head down to the bunched muscle of her back. He reached one hand beneath their gyrating hips and grabbed hold of the front of her swelling, feeling the engorged flesh, with its cocktail of lubricants, scrunge between his fingers. “Huh-huh-huh!” Another three plunges and they both started clacking to a climax: “Huh-huh-clak-huh-clak-huh-clak-” then, as one soul, tortured by pleasure, they achieved an orgasm the like of which hadn’t been heard at the Saatchi Gallery for some days. “EeeeeeeWraaaa!” they squealed. Chimps as far off as the next room fell signlent and turned to see what the rumpus was all about.
Zack Busner was delighted by this turn of events, and reasoning that Simon, having covered Sarah so successfully, would certainly take time for a proper post-coital grooming session, moved off on some-threes, his rented glass aloft, to see if there was any champagne left.
By the drinks table there was a gaggle of chimps who were paying no attention to the mating chains getting underway in the upper gallery. Busner recognised one of their number, a tall individual with light-brown head fur and rather feminine hips. Busner, adjusting his own bifocals on his nasal bridge, identified the chimp by his ridiculously trendy oval Oliver Peeples eyewear and even more absurd faux swelling-protector. It was, of course, George Levinson.
George was conducting the group, his large hands chopping the air. As he broke in Busner caught the signs ‘Of course Jews are like other chimps – only more so –’ then Levinson saw him and presented low. ‘ “H’hooo” Dr Busner, what a pleasure to see your revered scrag at this event. Tony Figes showed me that Simon might be with you “h’huu”?’
Busner bestowed a pat on Levinson’s large rump. ‘ “H’hooo” Mr Levinson, you must have been absorbed in your conducting – didn’t you hear that marvellous copulation squeal “huu”? That was Simon mating his old consort –’
‘Sarah “huu”? What excellent news, what excellent news. I suppose this means he’s on the mend “huu”? That your rather unorthodox methods, Dr Busner, have borne fruit.’
One of the huddle gathered around Levinson had been watching intently, and he now presented to Busner as well. ‘ “H’hooo” Dr Busner, isn’t it “huu”?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I admire your beautifully effulgent ischial scrag, your rump is like the morning star, and your maverick philosophy is a beacon of intrigue in a dull world. I am, sir, your most obedient subordinate.’
Busner, delighted by this abject grovelling, bestowed several pats on the proffered rump and also kissed it. ‘Thank you for kissing my arse,’ the chimp gestured, getting bipedal, ‘you probably don’t remember me but we groomed briefly at the Cassell Clinic last year.’
Busner took a closer look at the chimp, who was young – only in his early twenties – with very black fur, a very white muzzle, and extravagantly permed head fur which didn’t really suit him. ‘ “H’huuu”? No, I can’t altogether sign I do,’ he countersigned. ‘What’s your name “huu”?’
‘Alex Knight,’ the chimp demarcated. ‘I’m a television producer. I was making a documentary on gesticulating cures – hence my presence at the Cassell –’
‘ “Gru-nnn” I do resign you now, yes, Bernard Paulson highlighted you, indeed he did. What can I do for you “huuu”?’
The television producer abased himself a little more, conscious that what he was going to sign might constitute overstepping the mark. ‘ “HooGrnn” I understand, Dr Busner, that you’re treating the artist, Simon Dykes “huu”?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘And that since his breakdown he’s been suffering from the distressing delusion that he’s “huuu” human?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s also the case, although only this evening he’s been showing remarkable evidence of recovery, breaking into mating chains, very much back in the swing –’
‘But he still visualises himself as human “huu”?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid that the core of his delusion remains “euch-euch” intact. But show me, Knight, why is this of interest to you “huu”?’
‘Purely speculatively, Dr Busner, purely speculatively, I wondered whether you – and Mr Dykes, naturally – would be interested in gesticulating the possibility of making a television documentary “huu”?’
‘A documentary “huu”?’
‘That’s right. Obviously dealing with the therapeutic relationship you’ve developed with him – and by extension with your entire existential-phenomenological philosophy of mental disorders “gru-nnn”.’
Busner looked intently at the chimp’s muzzle. The television producer seemed guileless enough and he’d been highlighted by Paulson, whom Busner trusted. But the factor that really nipped at him was Knight’s casually displayed knowledge of his philosophy. Perhaps this was a chimp Busner could do business with. ‘ “H’hooo” Mr Knight, I don’t as a rule hold much of a brief for television. In my experience, all too often it bowdlerises as much as popularises. However “hooo” certain circumstances have arisen which mean that I might be interested in such delineations. Have you a card “huuu”?’
Knight didn’t have a card, and had to prod others in the group for pen and paper to scrawl down his numbers. Busner took the slip, footed him, signing, ‘I think you may confidently expect to have a pant-hoot from me in the near future, Mr Knight … ‘ He was going to wave through, worried he might have had his hand on the matter, when there came a series of loud pant-screams from the upper gallery: “HoooWraaa! HoooWraaa! HoooWraaa!” pant-screams that unmistakably belonged to Simon.
It had only been a few minutes since they fissioned, but it was time enough for Simon to get himself into trouble. After covering Sarah the two of them had squatted together and Simon received the most satisfying, most soothing groom since his breakdown. His ex-consort’s little fingers expertly palped, tweaked and kneaded his groin fur, teasing out the drying semen and vaginal secretions, stroking his still-jolting cock. ‘ “Gru-unnn” Simon, it’s so good to be in touch with you, my love,’ she inparted, �
��and you seem so much better “chup-chupp”. I’ve been so worried about you –’
‘ “Grnnn” I am better, Sarah “chup-chupp”, it’s true. I can’t show you how or why, but the world doesn’t seem so strange any more. Why, even the sight of Ken Braithwaite covering you just now didn’t seem to disturb me –’
‘But, but, why should it, Simon “huu”? Your position in the hierarchy remains secure.’
Simon looked into her green, vertically slit eyes, they were animal – true enough – but quite devoid of malice or fecklessness. He combed the blonde scruff and reparted, ‘It would be difficult to manipulate all of this for you – but anyway, it didn’t bother me “grnnn”.’
The bonobo in question knuckle-walked up at this point, and with him were the rest of the posse, the glossy happy chimps, Steve, Tony Figes and Julius, the barchimp from the Sealink Club. A slim female – but bigger than Sarah, with longer tufts of blonde head fur – scampered up as well, screeching over her shoulder at two males displaying in her scut. “H’hooo,” Simon vocalised, then gestured, ‘Hello, Tabitha, still being chased by the males “huuu”?!’
‘ “H’hooo” Simon!’ She planted a sloppy kiss on his muzzle, ‘How good to touch you!’ Julius gave him a kiss as well and held Simon’s scrotal sack for a while.
‘ “H’hooo” my chimp,’ Simon signed.
‘ “H’hooo” my chimp,’ Julius countersigned, ‘can I assist you to a refreshing beverage “huu”?’ The two old allies heaved with signless laughter.
Julius had, Simon noted, shaved himself a new inverse goatee, more extensive and more sharply angled than the one he’d had before. ‘“H’huu” new inverse goatee, Julius?’
‘Yes “hee-hee”,’ the barchimp giggled, ‘courtesy of Gillette – it’s the best a chimp can get! “H’hee-hee-hee”!’
With such high spirits all round and such fervid grooming underway as the glossy happy chimps effected their refusion as a group, it was little wonder that Simon didn’t demur when Steve Braithwaite gestured, ‘Fancy a line, Simon “huu”?’ They all crawled off to the toilets.
