by Rhys Hughes
Desperate to avoid his destiny, because he disapproved of altering his own behaviour, he tried again to escape his punishment. He said, “I’m a respected figure in academic circles. I assure you that if you proceed with this operation, the authorities will hunt you down. And if not them, my colleagues. And if not them, my students. Do you appreciate this?”
The leader replaced his hat. “But how will they find us?”
“I’ll tell them to search for ruffians. Or if not them, hoodlums. Or if not them, thugs.”
“That’s all very well, but we’re none of those.”
Merton narrowed his eyes and almost screamed, “I perceive that you are!”
The leader shook his head soberly. “Dear me, no. We are all very cultured. A select band of sophisticates. We belong to the most exclusive clubs and drink the rarest vintages. We are, as a matter of fact, among the most refined gentlemen in this town. We just ensure we don’t do it very well!”
Merton completely closed his eyes and actually screamed. Casual observers on the riverbank, had there been any, might have imagined a giant swan was responsible for the sound. Then they would have chided themselves for drinking too much vermouth and hurried home. Or else they would have dawdled — but very badly. The worse the dawdle, the less convincing it was, the sooner to bed. Something was thrown out of the barge into the water. A modest object, but many women had loved it. Once.
He was weak for years. He stayed in bed, the infant gibbon barely keeping him alive, while his friends arranged his affairs. He needed them to regularly feed and tend the ape, but they became too busy with his other duties, so they found him a wife. A shy myopic girl named Rosie. She went shopping every day for bananas. Sometimes she bought something for herself. The gibbon grew rapidly. Merton was eventually able to sit up in bed and read. He preferred cheap novels to textbooks. He felt fully removed from the arena of intellectual struggle, as if every thrust of every one of his arguments had resided in his groin. Without them he was useless. He wanted to loathe his assailants, but he had bluffed his speciality for too long.
He explained all this to Rosie, hoping for sympathy.
She sighed. “Some men have chips on their shoulders. Not you. What you have is a chimp on your pelvis instead.”
“It’s not a chimp. It’s a gibbon.”
“Same difference,” she retorted with a squint. “Tropical and hairy.”
“Not in the slightest. Vast contrast.”
But his protests were ignored. Rosie had her own ideas on everything. She shrugged and peeled a banana. This ritual was almost like a variation on fellatio, he decided. Then he thought about it more carefully and dismissed the comparison. When a variation strays too far from its theme, it becomes an independent thing. Gently feeding a banana into the mouth in his groin simply wasn’t a sexual act. It was just weird. But essential. He stroked Rosie’s hair as she knelt before him.
“Do you enjoy being my wife?” he asked.
“I’m far too shy to know about things like that. Aren’t I?”
He shuddered. Never again would he experience the joys of chasing and catching many girls at the same time. His philandering days were over. No woman worth having would want to be had by a man with an ape instead of a love muscle. Unless they were mad. Beautiful and mad. Rosie was neither and he tried to feel affection for her, but it was too difficult. A boring life now beckoned and there was no way of avoiding its call. He no longer had an existence that was the envy of the average man. He was no longer cuntwardly mobile. He was ruined.
He explained all this to Rosie, hoping for understanding.
“Maybe you were always ruined,” she remarked. “Maybe you were spoiled as a child.”
As a minor matter of small interest, this wasn’t true.
But the years continued to pass, and Merton’s physical health was gradually repaired. He was able to stand and walk about the house. He took his gentle exercise in very baggy pants. He made it a point of principle to run up the stairs. His gibbon pounded with the effort. The ape heart circulated his blood with primal pulses, savage beats like the rhythm of a jungle drum. The breath hissed in his nostrils with blowpipe sounds, sharp and accurate. And still he tried to hate the men who had done this to him, but that emotion remained a mystery.
One morning, alone in the house, he resolved to discover the limits of his stamina. Instead of pausing for a rest at the top of the stairs, he continued up the ladder that led to the garret. This room was rarely used. It contained a few empty wooden crates and a shelf of model boats, one of them a barge in the shape of a swan. There was a single window giving a magnificent view of the town and the river. Merton sat on a crate and panted with the exertion. He unbuttoned his shirt and wiped his forehead with a cloth. He felt very hot.
He thought it best to loosen all his clothing. The perspiration trickled down his back and thighs. He completely removed his shirt and undid his trousers. He sat there naked, sadly gazing down at his gibbon. It was appalling but also somehow fascinating. He reached out and touched it. A thrill ran through his body, revulsion mixed with excitement. The first stirrings of a powerful unknown emotion made his knees tremble. Was this rage, frustration, despair? Or was it real hatred at last? A second time he reached out and made contact with the ape, but this time more roughly. His touch resembled a slap. He withdrew his hand and struck the creature again.
It whimpered and this pitiful noise gave him all the encouragement he needed. He made his palm as flat as possible and brought it down smartly on his gibbon. The effect was immediate. He felt dizzy, ecstatic, delirious. He slapped again. And again. Many times. Losing count had never been this overwhelming before. He increased the force of each blow and felt a sense of commitment in the actual contact between his fingers and the hairy hide. It was right he should slap an ape. Absolutely. And he desired nothing more than to keep slapping it. So he did.
Emotions of unprecedented force began rising in him, surging, lapping, sometimes receding but always coming back with greater strength. He gasped. He relied on his gibbon to maintain the circulation of his blood. As he unsettled and bruised it with his blows, his own health suffered. But it wasn’t unpleasant. Rather it was like being roughed up by an ardent lover. He increased the tempo of his attacks. Jungle rhythms again. There was pain in the gibbon’s eyes now and its jaw chattered. A huge wave of desire flooded Merton’s body. He closed his fist and started beating his ape mercilessly. His mind reeled. He was learning to hate again. He felt that his skull was a sealed cooking pot under enormous pressure, ready to rupture at any moment, detonating his own eyes and his tongue, blowing off his ears and sideburns. This feeling was astounding, peculiar, transgressive…
He climaxed and collapsed. Oblivion.
He woke in darkness. The sun had set over the town. With a comfortable ache in every joint and guilt plucking at the elbows of his conscience, he stood and unsteadily climbed down the ladder out of the garret. He went downstairs. Rosie was waiting for him.
She said, “You’ve been up there all day.”
He cleared his throat and mumbled something. She was sitting on a chair, a bag of bananas on her lap. Then she added, “I heard you when I came back.”
“Did you?” he blurted with a blush.
“You weren’t spanking your monkey in the garret, were you?”
He breathed painfully. “It’s a gibbon. Not a monkey. Gibbons are apes.”
“Maybe it’s a monkey that doesn’t try very hard,” she retorted. “But let me tell you something. I read a pamphlet once. I was sitting in the doctor’s surgery waiting for a routine check-up and I read lots of pamphlets to kill time. They gave good medical advice. One pointed out that if a man spanked a grafted monkey too often, all sorts of bad things might happen to his health. Heart problems, blindness, insanity. I don’t think that a grown man with a wife should risk that.”
“I agree,” he lied. And then he shrugged.
Later that night, in bed, he lay awake and listened to
Rosie snoring next to him. He felt happy for the first time since the mutilation. He thought about what he had done and the tremendous sense of liberation it had given him. He already knew he was addicted. The consequences didn’t matter. The garret would become his new world. Just him and his ape.
There was a knock on the front door. Rosie opened it. A tall woman stood on the threshold and behind her loomed a giant swan with peeling red paint. It was mounted on wheels and a dozen men in hats pushed it. The woman was imperious, but not unpleasant. Her smile was brumal but genuine, and each eye smouldered with a kindness which was as warm as the reflection of a fire in a mirror of ice. She was beautiful and aloof, desirable but unobtainable.
“I’m calling on Professor Merton Toade,” she said.
Rosie stepped aside. “Come in.”
“Thank you. My followers will remain outside — they are gentlemen.”
Rosie ushered the visitor into the lounge and indicated a chair. But the tall woman declined to sit. Her mission was moral rather than social. She desperately needed to see the professor. That’s what she said, though her mannerisms weren’t urgent.
“It might be difficult to arrange,” warned Rosie.
“Why? Has he gone out?”
Rosie shook her head. “No. That’s the problem. He never goes out. He spends all his time in the garret. He first went up a decade ago. Three years later, he removed the rungs of the ladder — the only means of entry. He hasn’t come down since and I’ve never seen him in that time. I pass his food up in a bucket on a rope looped around a pulley. But who are you?”
The woman pouted. “Juliana Morgenstern.”
“The frostiest of all the beautiful heiresses in the realm?”
“Yes. Well no, actually. I’m a penniless tramp — but very bad at it.”
“I see. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
Juliana seemed to sag, as if the hollow icicle that sheathed her backbone had suddenly melted. Something was bothering her. On impulse, Rosie reached out and stroked her hair. She had forgotten exactly how to be shy. That’s what often happens when you stop practising your speciality. Juliana appreciated the caress. She angled her face and kissed Rosie’s hand. It was a warm kiss. The frost had turned to dew. They fell into each other’s arms. Rosie saw everything clearly, including their future together. She had also forgotten to be myopic. They hugged close for long minutes, not wanting to let go. Then Juliana found the emotional strength to pull away.
She had a confession to make.
She said, “I came here tonight to apologise to the professor. I was the one who arranged his castration. I hired those thugs (gentlemen) who wait outside. I paid them to detach the member from the man and graft a gibbon in its place.”
“That sounds perfectly reasonable,” replied Rosie dreamily.
“I did it to defend myself. I heard that I was in imminent peril of being wooed by Merton Toade. I don’t like men in that way, yet I knew his powers of seduction were so strong I’d probably succumb. I pledged at puberty only to allow myself to be bedded by women. I was desperate to maintain my vow. Hence the assault.”
“The gibbon was an inspired touch.”
Juliana laughed. “Not really. I had one spare. It was an orphan and I couldn’t be bothered to raise it, so I solved two problems with one flick of an unwashed wrist.”
“So why apologise now?” wondered Rosie.
“I suddenly realised I’d deprived the professor of the whole purpose of his life. I wanted to protect my own virtue, but maybe I went too far in also protecting every other woman’s.”
Rosie digested this and then said, “I don’t think there’s any need to be sorry. He has lost all contact with the real world. The garret is his womb. I’d take you up and show you, but it’s not practical. I think I know what he does there, and it’s not pleasant. He’s probably a physical wreck now, entirely in the grip of the ape-bashing vice.”
“We could go in the bucket,” suggested Juliana.
“Who would pull us up?” asked Rosie.
“My gentlemen! I wanted to return the professor’s barge. That’s why I mounted it on wheels and hired them to push it up the cobbled hill.”
“If you’re penniless, how do you manage to keep paying them?”
“With empty envelopes that are very poor at being empty,” explained Juliana.
“What’s your scheme?” enquired Rosie.
“Tie one end of the rope to the swan and let it roll back down the hill. The bucket will go up and us inside it! I have a box of matches to provide light. What do you say? It’s a risk, but it might be worth it. To satisfy our curiosity.”
“Very well. But how shall we get down?”
“My gentlemen will enter the house and take the place of the missing rungs on the ladder. They will lie lengthwise in the brackets, all twelve of them. A dozen steps should be enough for us to descend safely. Then they will detach themselves, the highest first, and follow us. A ladder whose rungs step on each other. What a concept! Come, I’m eager to see the condition of the professor.”
The scheme was put into operation. The pulley squeaked as the bucket was drawn up into the garret. As they rose higher, they exchanged bemused and horrified glances. Unnatural sounds were emanating from the space directly above their heads. A low rhythmic grunting, but it had nothing of the real jungle about it. An urban noise. An academic rumpus, pained but very precise. A rigorous fuss. They embraced for comfort and balance. The din grew steadily louder and it seemed they were entering a new atmosphere, a region of turbulence made all of hurt. Something outrageous was happening. They passed into the shadows and turned to face the source of the noise. A hulking shape.
They remained in their embrace in the swinging bucket. Their eyes adjusted slowly. In the furthest corner of the garret, the shape was busy with monstrous business. Its arm rose and fell with devastating force. Regularly. It was like abominable applause. Ironic. Juliana fumbled for her matches. She found the box, struck one and cast it at the shape. It landed short and flared. Now they saw everything. The room with its crates and shelves of model boats was such an inappropriate setting for what lurked there that they wondered at its authenticity. Perhaps it was artificial, another barge in the form of an animal. But then it blinked angry yellow eyes and bared its fangs. It had something bent over its knee. A hairy foot stamped out the match. It shifted its weight on the crate and paused for a moment, resting its arm.
The professor gasped, “Help me!”
Juliana called for her gentlemen. The note of urgency in her voice was such that they came immediately, forming rungs with their bodies. Safe again below, they all sat in a circle in the lounge. The sounds in the garret were almost inaudible now and might be mistaken for the gurglings of the plumbing, but they were there. The beating had recommenced.
Rosie said, “I’ve never seen a monkey spank a man before.”
Juliana answered, “It was a gorilla. How did that happen? I swear it started life as a gibbon. I guess it just wasn’t too good at being itself.”
“That must be it,” agreed Rosie. “For years.”
The barge in the shape of a swan had trundled all the way down the hill into the river. It was waiting for them. They left the house together and locked the door. The gentlemen carried them on their shoulders. It was time to drift away. Whichever way they went now, it would always be cuntwardly — the best direction. They turned their heads once, to look up at the window of the garret. It was dark and gave nothing away, but they knew that behind its innocent surface the tables had turned. And so had the worm, the milk, the lover in the grave, and every other suitable figure of speech, whether old or brand spanking new.
THUS ENDS THE TALE OF THE MONKEY THAT SPANKED THE MAN WHO SPANKED HIS MONKEY
The Small Miracle
The miracle itself was modest enough. As the last gust of winter blew his blanket onto the grass verge, Raymond stepped out to retrieve it. He realised his mistake at once, but it was too late. The n
urse had seen all. The wheelchair was locked away in the attic and the easy life was over.
At first he refused to acknowledge the cure. He kept to the paths and avoided the steps. Winding his way down to the lake, as he did every day, he gazed at the swans with a new sense of frustration. He was horribly free. He pretended to be in pain, but the act held less power than the previous reality.
A white road curved away from the hospital, sparkling with the promise of distance. His legs were remarkably strong. Years of immobility should have wasted his muscles, but the miracle had been complete. He could feel eyes branding his back as he walked. Trees lined the road, sinuous branches pointing at him.
A little way along, his progress was blocked by an iron gate. He was not astonished to discover it was locked. The road continued on the other side, wide and straight and unreal. He did not grip the bars with fevered longing. He would deny them the pleasure. “But what now?” he wondered. He needed advice.
Marcel would know. Marcel was blind, but he remembered angels. He had charted their positions in the sky with his lost eyes. They were metallic and never flapped their wings. They roared as they passed overhead, patterning the sky with vapour trails. But that was long ago and now they were just machines. He had grown old.
“How would you escape?” Raymond asked him over breakfast. Marcel did not reply at once. He had never entertained the question. It seemed certain, however, that an answer would be provided before the end of the meal. And indeed, as Marcel wiped the last crumbs from his mouth, he spoke with slow, heavy words:
“There is no hope. We are trapped here indefinitely. Climb the tallest tower of the hospital if you doubt me. From the window you will recognise the truth.”
The effect of this suggestion on Raymond was negligible. He would not climb any tower. Such a course of action was unthinkable. He shook his head violently from a sense of determination and fear, a gesture intended solely for his own benefit. But Marcel felt a slight breeze from this motion and knew what it signified. Then Raymond stood and departed.
