The High Mountains of Portugal

by Yann Martel

  They walk down the corridor. A last observation forces itself upon him as he looks left and right, something he didn't notice on his way in: He's struck by the chimpanzees' great diversity. He assumed that one chimpanzee would pretty much look and be like the next. It is not so, not at all. Each ape has its own body shape and bearing, its own coat of hair with its own colour and pattern, its own face with its own tone, complexion, and expressions. Each, he sees, is something he hadn't expected: an individual with a unique personality.

  Bob sidles up to Peter at the door of the compound, looking worried and discombobulated. "We sell them," he whispers, "but not for that--"

  Lemnon waves him away. "Git, git!"

  They return to the car. Peter comes to a quick agreement with Lemnon. He will be back in a week or two, as soon as he can; he needs time to make the necessary arrangements. He promises to mail a cheque for a thousand dollars as a deposit. Lemnon agrees to get all the papers ready.

  As the car drives away, Peter turns and looks out the rear window. Lemnon still wears his triumphant smirk. Then he turns to Bob and his expression changes. Bob is evidently about to be fully dressed down. Peter feels bad for him.

  "Had a good visit?" the driver asks.

  Peter sits back in a daze. "It was interesting."

  He can't believe what he has just done. What will he do with a chimpanzee in Ottawa? He lives in an apartment, five floors off the ground. Will the other residents accept having a large, unwieldy ape in their building? Is it even legal to own a chimpanzee in Canada? How will the ape take to Canadian winters?

  He shakes his head. Clara has been dead for just over six months. Did he not read somewhere that people who are grieving a major loss should wait at least a year before making important changes in their lives? Has grief caused him to throw away all good sense?

  He's a fool.

  Back at the hotel he tells no one, neither the Oklahomans nor his fellow Canadians, about what he has done. Nor does he tell anyone in Ottawa upon his return the following morning. He spends that first day at home alternating between denial and disbelief, and completely forgetting about it. The next day he hits upon an excellent idea: He will buy the chimpanzee after all, and donate it to a zoo. He's quite certain the Toronto Zoo doesn't have chimpanzees, but another zoo--Calgary?--will surely take the animal. It will be a stupidly expensive gift, but he'll make it in Clara's name. That will make it worth every penny. There, the matter is settled.

  He wakes up early on the third morning. He stares at the ceiling from his pillow. Odo looked right into him with his reddish-brown eyes, and Peter said to him, I'm coming back, I promise. That wasn't a promise to drop him off at a zoo; it was a promise to take care of him.

  He has to go through with it. Dammit all, he doesn't know why, but he wants to go through with it.

  Once the first, central decision is made, all the ones that follow are easy. He mails the deposit cheque for Odo to Lemnon.

  It's obvious that they can't stay in Ottawa. In Oklahoma, science was the excuse to keep the ape in a cage. In Canada, it would be the weather. They need a warmer climate.

  It's good to think in terms of "they" again. Is it pathetic? Instead of throwing himself at another woman right away, on the rebound, as the expression goes, as if he were a ball in a pinball machine, is he doing worse by throwing himself at a pet? It doesn't feel that way. Whatever term might be given to their relationship, Odo is no pet.

  Peter never thought he would move again. He and Clara had never talked about it, but they didn't mind the cold weather, and the idea was that they would stay in Ottawa into their old age.

  Where will they go?

  Florida. A lot of Canadians retire there, precisely for the purpose of fleeing Canada's winters. But the place means nothing to him. He doesn't want to live between a strip mall, a golf course, and a sweltering beach.

  Portugal. The word illuminates his mind. He's of Portuguese origin. His family emigrated to Canada when he was two years old. He and Clara visited Lisbon once. He loved the tiled houses, the luxuriant gardens, the hills, the streets of rundown European charm. The city felt like a late-summer evening, a mix of soft light, nostalgia, and slight boredom. Only Lisbon, like Ottawa, is no place for an ape. They need a quiet spot, with lots of space and few people.

  He recalls that his parents came from a rural area--the High Mountains of Portugal. A return to his roots? He might even have distant relatives there.

  The destination fixes itself in his mind. His next step is to deal with his attachments to Canada. He considers what these attachments are. At one time they were everything: his wife, his son, his granddaughter, his sister in Toronto, the members of his extended family, his friends, his career--in a word, his life. Now, other than his son, he is surrounded by material relics: an apartment with stuff in it, a car, a pied-a-terre in Toronto, an office in the West Block on Parliament Hill.

  His heart beats with excitement at the idea of getting rid of it all. The apartment is now unbearable to him, imprinted as it is in every room with Clara's suffering. His car is just a car--the same with his studio apartment in Toronto. And his job as a senator is a sinecure.

  Distance might improve his relations with Ben. He isn't going to spend the rest of his life waiting around Ottawa for his son to find more time for him. His younger sister, Teresa, has her own life in Toronto. They talk on the phone regularly, so no reason why that should stop. As for Rachel, his granddaughter, for all he now sees of her or hears from her, he might as well live on Mars. She might be tempted to visit him one day, lured by the appeal of Europe. That's a valid hope.

  He takes a deep breath. It all has to go.

  With alarming glee, he sets about throwing off the chains that hold him down, as he now thinks of them. Already, when he and Clara moved from Toronto to Ottawa, they rid themselves of many personal possessions. Now, in a frenzied week, the rest goes. Their apartment in Ottawa--"Such a good location!" the agent beams--finds a buyer quickly, as does his place in Toronto. Books are carted away to a used bookstore, furniture and appliances sold off, clothes given to charity, personal papers donated to the National Archives, and knick-knacks and baubles simply thrown away. He pays off all his bills, closes his utility and phone accounts, and cancels his newspaper subscription. He gets his visa for Portugal. He wires a Portuguese bank and makes arrangements for opening an account. Ben helps dutifully, all the while grousing about why on earth Peter would pick up from his ordered life and leave.

  Peter walks away from it all carrying nothing but a suitcase of clothes, a family photo album, some camping gear, a guidebook to Portugal, and an English-Portuguese dictionary.

  He books their flight. It appears that it would be easier if he and the ape fly directly from the United States to Portugal. Fewer borders to cross with an exotic animal. The airline tells him that, provided he has a cage and the animal is calm, they will carry it. He consults with a veterinarian on how to sedate a chimpanzee.

  Through connections, he finds a buyer for his car where he wants one, in New York City. "I'll deliver it myself," he tells the man from Brooklyn on the phone.

  He doesn't say that he will be taking a slight detour via Oklahoma on his way down.

  He cancels all his future appointments--with Senate committees, with family and friends, with his doctor (his heart isn't so good, but he packs a supply of medication and a renewal for his prescription), with everyone. He writes letters to those to whom he doesn't speak in person or on the phone.

  "You suggested I bust loose," he tells the Whip.

  "You sure took my words to heart. Why Portugal?"

  "Warm weather. My parents came from there."

  The Whip looks at him steadily. "Peter, have you met another woman?"

  "No, I haven't. Not even close."

  "All right, if you say so."

  "How could I have met a woman in Portugal while living in Ottawa?" he asks. But the more he denies a romantic connection, the less the Whip seems to believ
e him.

  He doesn't tell anyone about Odo, neither his family nor his friends. The ape remains a luminous secret in his heart.

  He happens to have a dental appointment coming up. He spends his last night in Canada sleeping in a motel, and the next morning he has his teeth cleaned. He says good-bye to his dentist and he drives away.

  It's a long drive through Ontario, Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri to Oklahoma. He doesn't want to tire himself too much, so he does it over five days. Along the way--from a corner store in Lansing, Michigan, from a diner in Lebanon, Missouri--he calls the Institute for Primate Research to make sure they are aware of his imminent arrival. He speaks to the young woman who told Lemnon about the phone call, the one that distracted him and allowed Peter to visit the chimpanzee compound. She assures him that all is ready.

  After a last night in Tulsa, Peter makes his way to the IPR, arriving mid-morning. He parks the car and wanders over to the pond. On the main island, two people are having what looks like a sign-language lesson with a chimpanzee. A group of three apes lazes about in the centre, on the ground. Sitting among them is Bob, attending to a chimpanzee, inspecting its shoulder. Peter calls out and waves. Bob waves back, gets up, and heads for a rowboat that's resting on the shore. The ape he's with follows him. It leaps with ease into the rowboat and perches on a bench. Bob pushes off and rows over.

  Halfway across the pond, when the boat turns, the chimpanzee, whose view was blocked by Bob, sees him. It hoots loudly and pounds the bench with a fist. Peter blinks. Is that...?--yes, it is. Odo is larger than he remembered. The size of a big dog, only wider.

  Before the boat has reached the shore, Odo leaps out, bounces once off the ground, and sails through the air towards Peter. He has no time to react. The ape slams against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. Peter falls over, landing inelegantly on his backside and sprawling flat on his back. He feels large wet lips and the smooth hardness of teeth against the side of his face. He's being attacked!

  Bob's laughter comes through to him. "My, my, he's certainly taken to you. Gentle, Odo, gentle. You all right?"

  Peter can't answer the question. He's shaking from head to toe. But he feels no pain. Odo has not bitten him. The ape has instead moved off and settled right next to him, pressed against his shoulder. He starts playing with Peter's hair.

  Bob kneels next to him. "You all right?" he asks again.

  "Y-y-yes, I think so," Peter answers. He slowly sits up. He stares with wide eyes and breathless incredulity. The strange black face, the thick, hairy body, the whole, warm animal literally breathing down his neck--with no bars between them, no protection for him, no safety. He doesn't dare push the ape away. He just sits there, alert and paralyzed, his gaze hovering. "What's he doing?" he finally asks. The ape is still plucking at his head.

  "He's grooming you," Bob replies. "That's a big part of chimpanzee social life. I groom you, you groom me. It's how they get along. And it gets rid of ticks and fleas. Keeps them clean."

  "What should I do?"

  "Nothing. Or you can groom him back, if you want."

  A knee is right there. He brings a trembling hand to it and strokes a few hairs.

  "Here, I'll show you how," says Bob.

  Bob sits on the ground and much more assertively starts grooming Odo's back. With the edge of one hand, he pushes through the chimpanzee's coat against the natural lie of the hairs, exposing their roots and bare skin. After doing this two or three times, he finds a good patch and sets to work with the other hand, scratching and picking out skin flakes, bits of dirt, and other detritus. All in all, a fussy, involving activity. Bob seems to forget about Peter.

  Peter begins to regain his composure. It's not disagreeable, what the creature is doing to his head. He can feel soft fingers against his skull.

  He looks into Odo's face. In immediate response the ape shifts his gaze to look at him. Their faces are maybe eight inches apart, eyes fully staring into eyes. Odo hoots lightly, the panted breath bouncing off his face, then folds out his lower lip, revealing a row of large teeth. Peter tenses.

  "He's smiling at you," says Bob.

  It's only then that the young man, who is so good at reading the ape's emotions, understands Peter's. He puts a hand on his shoulder.

  "He won't harm you, sir. He likes you. And if he didn't like you, he'd just leave you alone."

  "I'm sorry I got you into trouble last time."

  "Don't worry about that. It was worth it. This place is bad. Wherever you're going with Odo will be better than here."

  "Is Lemnon around?"

  "No. He'll be back after lunch."

  A stroke of good luck. Over the next few hours, Bob gives Peter a mini-course on Odo. He teaches him the basics about chimpanzee sounds and facial expressions. Peter learns about hoots and grunts, about barks and screams, about the pouting, puckering, and smacking of lips, about the many roles played by panting. Odo can be as loud as Krakatoa or as quiet as sunlight. He has no command of American Sign Language but does understand some English. And as is the case with humans, tone, gesture, and body language do much to convey meaning. The ape's hands also speak, as does his posture and the lie of his hair, and Peter must listen to what they have to say. A kiss and a hug are just that, a kiss and a hug, to be enjoyed and appreciated and perhaps returned, at least the hug. The best face is one where Odo's mouth is slightly open, his demeanour relaxed; this may be followed by one of the delights of chimpanzee language, the laughter, a bright-eyed, nearly silent panting, the mirth fully expressed without the grating HA HA HA of human laughter.

  "It's a complete language," says Bob of chimpanzee communication.

  "I'm not very good with foreign languages," Peter muses aloud.

  "Don't worry. You'll understand him. He'll make sure of that."

  He's potty-trained, Bob tells Peter, only the potty has to be within sight. Chimpanzees don't tolerate continence for very long. Bob supplies four potties to distribute around Odo's territory.

  The cage that is to be Odo's means of transportation and his nighttime nest doesn't fit in the car. They take it apart and put it in the trunk. Odo will travel in the front seat.

  At one point Peter goes to the restroom. He sits down on the toilet lid and puts his head into his hands. Was early fatherhood like this? He doesn't remember feeling so overwhelmed. Bringing baby Ben home was a giddy experience. He and Clara didn't know what they were doing--do any young parents know? But it was all right. They raised Ben with love and attention. And they weren't afraid of him. He badly wishes Clara were with him now. What am I doing here? he says to himself. This is crazy.

  Bob and he go for a walk with Odo, much to the ape's delight. Odo forages for berries, climbs trees, asks (with a grunt and his arms raised, like a child) to be carried by Peter, who obliges, lurching and stumbling about until he's ready to drop. The way Odo holds on to him with his arms and legs, he feels he has a hundred-pound octopus on his back.

  "I can give you his collar and his twenty-foot leash if you want, but they're pointless," Bob says. "If he's in a tree, he'll just pull you up like you're a yo-yo. And if you happen to be on a horse, he'll pull your horse up too. Chimpanzees are unbelievably strong."

  "So how do I restrain him?"

  Bob thinks for a few seconds before answering. "I don't mean to get personal, sir, but are you married?"

  "I was," Peter replies soberly.

  "And how did you restrain your wife?"

  Restrain Clara? "I didn't."

  "Right. You got along. And when you didn't, you argued and you coped. It's the same here. There's very little you can do to control him. You'll just have to cope. Odo likes figs. Placate him with figs."

  During this exchange, Odo has been poking around a bush. He comes out and sits right next to Peter, on his foot. Brazenly, he feels, Peter reaches down and pats Odo's head.

  "You gotta get physical," Bob says. He squats in front of the chimpanzee. "Odo, tickle-fest, tickle-fest?" he say
s, his eyes open wide. He begins to tickle the ape's sides. Soon the two are wildly rolling about the ground, Bob laughing and Odo hooting and shrieking with delight.

  "Join in, join in!" Bob shouts. The next moment Peter and Odo are thrashing about. The ape does indeed possess Herculean strength. There are times when he lifts Peter clear off the ground with arms and legs before crashing him back down.

  When their roughhousing is over, Peter staggers to his feet. He's dishevelled, one of his shoes has come off, his shirt has lost two buttons, the front pocket is torn, and he's covered in grass, twigs, and soil stains. It was an embarrassingly juvenile episode, unbecoming of a man of sixty-two years--and utterly thrilling. He can feel his fear of the ape draining away.

  Bob looks at him. "You'll do fine," he says.

  Peter smiles and nods. He declines the collar and leash.

  When Lemnon appears, there is only the commercial transaction that needs to be completed. Peter hands over the bank draft, which Lemnon inspects carefully. In return, he gives Peter various papers. One form states that he, Peter Tovy, is the legal owner of the male chimpanzee, Pan troglodytes, Odo. It is notarized by a lawyer in Oklahoma City. Another form is from a wildlife veterinarian; it gives the ape a clean bill of health and guarantees that Odo is up to date on all vaccinations. Yet another is an export permit from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. They all look properly official, with signatures and embossed stamps. "All right, I guess that's it," Peter says. Lemnon and he don't shake hands, and Peter walks away without saying another word.

  Bob places a folded towel on the front passenger seat. He bends down and hugs Odo. Then he stands and motions to him to get into the car. Odo does so without hesitation, making himself comfortable in the seat.

  Bob takes hold of the ape's hand and holds it to his face. "Good-bye, Odo," he says, his voice strained by sadness.

  Peter gets in the driver's seat and starts the engine. "Should we put his seatbelt on?" he asks.

  "Why not," Bob replies. He reaches over and works it across Odo's waist. He snaps the buckle in. The shoulder strap is too high, running across Odo's face. Bob puts it behind his head. Odo does not mind the arrangement.