by Yann Martel
He fetches his watch from the bedroom. It's not even eight o'clock in the morning. He looks at the table in the living room. There are no reports to be read, no letters to be written, no paperwork of any kind. There are no meetings to be organized or attended, no priorities to be set, no details to be worked out. There are no phone calls to make or receive, no people to see. There is no schedule, no program, no plan. There is--for a workingman--nothing at all.
Why then keep the time? He unstraps his watch. Already yesterday he noticed how the world is a timepiece. Birds announce dawn and dusk. Insects chime in further--the shrill cries of cicadas, like a dentist's drill, the frog-like warbling of crickets, among others. The church's bell also portions up the day helpfully. And finally the earth itself is a spinning clock, to each quadrant of hours a quality of light. The concordance of these many hour hands is approximate, but what does he gain from the censorious tick-tock tut-tut of a minute hand? Senhor Alvaro, in the cafe, can be the guardian of his minutes, if he needs them. Peter places his watch on the table.
He looks at Odo. The ape comes to him. Peter sits on the floor and begins to groom him. In response Odo plucks at his hair, at the fuzz balls on his cardigan, at his shirt buttons, at whatever is pluckable. He remembers Bob's suggestion that he crush a dried leaf on his head to give the ape a grooming challenge.
Grooming confounds Peter. The ape is so proximately alien: in his image--but not. There's also the living heat of him, felt so close up, the beating of the ape's heart coming through to his fingertips. Peter is spellbound.
Nonetheless, as he picks seeds, burrs, dirt, specks of old skin off Odo's coat, his mind wanders into the past. But quickly the past bores him. With the exception of Clara and Ben and Rachel, his past is settled, concluded, not worth the sifting. His life was always a happenstance. Not that he didn't work hard at every lucky turn, but there was never any overarching goal. He was happy enough with his work as a lawyer in a legal firm, but jumped ship when presented with the opportunity of politics. He preferred people to paper. Electoral success was more accurately electoral luck, since he saw any number of good candidates fail and mediocre ones succeed, depending on the political winds of the day. His run was good--nineteen years in the House, eight election wins--and he attended well to the needs of his constituents. Then he was kicked upstairs to the Senate, where he worked in good faith on committees, unfazed by the headlines-driven turmoil of the lower chamber. When he was young, he never imagined that politics would be his life. But all that is swept away now. Now it doesn't matter what he did yesterday--other than be bold enough to ask Clara on a date so many years ago. As for tomorrow, beyond certain modest hopes, he has no plans for the future.
Well, then, if the past and the future hold no appeal, why shouldn't he sit on the floor and groom a chimpanzee and be groomed in return? His mind settles back into the present moment, to the task at hand, to the enigma at the tip of his fingers.
"So, yesterday at the cafe, why did you throw that cup to the ground?" he asks as he works on Odo's shoulder.
"Aaaoouuhhhhh," the ape replies, a rounded sound, the wide-open mouth closing slowly.
Now, what does aaaoouuhhhhh in the language spoken by a chimpanzee mean? Peter considers various possibilities:
I broke the cup to make the people laugh more.
I broke the cup to make the people stop laughing.
I broke the cup because I was happy and excited.
I broke the cup because I was anxious and unhappy.
I broke the cup because a man took his hat off.
I broke the cup because of the shape of a cloud in the sky.
I broke the cup because I wanted porridge.
I don't know why I broke the cup.
I broke the cup because quaquaquaqua.
Curious. They both have brains and eyes. They both have language and culture. Yet the ape does something as simple as throw a cup to the ground, and the man is baffled. His tools of understanding--the yoking of evident cause to effect, a bank of knowledge, the use of language, intuition--shed little light on the ape's behaviour. To explain why Odo does what he does, Peter can only rely on conjecture and speculation.
Does it bother him that the ape is essentially unknowable? No, it doesn't. There's reward in the mystery, an enduring amazement. Whether that's the ape's intent, that he be amazed, he doesn't know--can't know--but a reward is a reward. He accepts it with gratitude. These rewards come unexpectedly. A random selection:
Odo stares at him.
Odo lifts him off the ground.
Odo settles in the car seat.
Odo examines a green leaf.
Odo sits up from being asleep on top of the car.
Odo picks up a plate and places it on the table.
Odo turns the page of a magazine.
Odo rests against the courtyard wall, absolutely still.
Odo runs on all fours.
Odo cracks open a nut with a rock.
Odo turns his head.
Each time Peter's mind goes click like a camera and an indelible picture is recorded in his memory. Odo's motions are fluid and precise, of an amplitude and force exactly suited to his intentions. And these motions are done entirely unselfconsciously. Odo doesn't appear to think when he's doing, only to do, purely. How does that make sense? Why should thinking--that human hallmark--make us clumsy? But come to think of it, the ape's movements do have a human parallel: that of a great actor giving a great performance. The same economy of means, the same formidable impact. But acting is the result of rigorous training, a strenuously achieved artifice on a human's part. Meanwhile Odo does--is--easily and naturally.
I should imitate him, Peter muses.
Odo feels--that he knows for certain. On their first evening in the village, for instance, Peter was sitting outside on the landing. The ape was down in the courtyard, examining the stone wall. Peter went in to make himself a cup of coffee. It seems Odo missed his departure. Within seconds, he raced up the stairs and flew in through the door, eyes searching for Peter, an inquisitive hoo on his lips.
"I'm here, I'm here," Peter said.
Odo grunted with satisfaction--an emotional wave that rippled over to Peter.
And the same yesterday, during their walk in the forest, the way Odo raced along the path, looking for him, clearly driven by the need to find him.
There is that, then, the ape's emotional state. From this emotional state certain practical thoughts seem to follow: Where are you? Where have you gone? How can I find you?
Why Odo wants his presence, his in particular, he doesn't know. It's another of his mysteries.
I love your company because you make me laugh.
I love your company because you take me seriously.
I love your company because you make me happy.
I love your company because you relieve my anxiety.
I love your company because you don't wear a hat.
I love your company because of the shape of a cloud in the sky.
I love your company because you give me porridge.
I don't know why I love your company.
I love your company because quaquaquaqua.
Odo stirs, waking Peter from his grooming hypnosis. He shakes himself. How long have they been on the floor like this? Hard to tell, since he's not wearing his watch.
"Let's go see Senhor Alvaro."
They walk to the cafe. He not only wants a coffee, he also wants to organize regular deliveries of food. They sit on the patio. When Senhor Alvaro steps out, Peter orders two coffees. When these are brought out, he stands up and says to Senhor Alvaro, "Posso...falar...com voce um momento?"
Of course you can speak with me for a moment, the cafe owner signals with a nod. To Peter's surprise, Senhor Alvaro pulls up a chair and sits at the table. Peter sits back down. There they are, the three of them. If Odo produced a deck of cards, they could play poker.
Though his language is halting, his message is easy to seize. He sets up with S
enhor Alvaro weekly deliveries of oranges, nuts, raisins, and especially figs and bananas. The cafe owner makes him understand that, in season, he will have no problems getting apples, pears, cherries, berries, and chestnuts from fellow villagers, as well as all manner of vegetables. Eggs and chickens, if his macaco cares to eat these, are available year-round, as well as the local sausage. The small grocery store always has canned goods and salted cod, as well as bread, rice, potatoes, and cheeses, both regional and from farther south, and other dairy products.
"Vamos ver do que e que ele gosta," says Senhor Alvaro. He gets up and returns from the cafe with a plate. It has a chunk of soft white cheese on it, drizzled with honey. He places it in front of the ape. A grunt, a quick grasp of the hairy hand--honeyed cheese all gone.
Next Senhor Alvaro brings out a large slice of rye bread on which he has dumped a can of tuna, oil and all.
Same thing. In an instant. With louder grunts.
Lastly Senhor Alvaro tries strawberry yoghurt on the ape. This takes a little longer to vanish, but only because of the gelatinous consistency of the delicacy and the hindrance of the plastic container. It is nonetheless scooped out, licked out, slurped up in no time.
"O seu macaco nao vai morrer de fome," Senhor Alvaro concludes.
Peter checks the dictionary. No, indeed, his ape won't starve to death.
Voracious, then--but not selfish. He already knows this. The lovely cut flowers so graciously left on the table by Dona Amelia? Before devouring them, Odo extended a white lily to him.
They return home, but the day beckons. He stocks the backpack and they depart, for the plateau this time. Once they reach it, they turn off the road and strike out into the open. They enter an environment that is, technically, as wild as the jungles of the Amazon. But the soil is thin and impoverished and the air dry. Life treads carefully here. In the folds of the land that are too shallow to shelter forests, there is thicker, spinier vegetation--gorse, heather, and the like--and man and ape have to navigate the maze-like channels in the vegetation to cross it, but out on the savannah, amidst the High Mountains of Portugal proper, only a golden grass abounds, for miles and miles, and on this grass it is easy for them to walk.
It is a land more uniform than the sky. A land where the weather is met directly because it's the only thing happening.
Standing out, both literally and in their effect on them, are the strange boulders they noticed on their way to Tuizelo. They stretch as far as the eye can see. Each boulder reaches three to five times the height of an average person. To walk around one takes a good forty paces. They rise, as elongated as obelisks, or sit, as squat as balls of geologic dough. Each is on its own, with no smaller rocks around it, no cast-off intermediaries. There are only big boulders and short, rough grass. Peter wonders about the origin of these boulders. The frozen ejecta of ancient volcanoes? But how strange the spread, as if a volcano flings chunks of lava like a farmer throws seeds on the ground, with a concern for an even distribution. These boulders are more likely the result of a grinding glacier, he surmises. Being rolled under a glacier might explain their rough surfaces.
He likes the plateau very much. Its openness is breathtaking, intoxicating, exciting. He thinks Clara would enjoy it. They would trek through it hardily. Many years ago, when Ben was small, they went camping in Algonquin Park every summer. The landscape there couldn't be more different from this one, but the effect was similar, a bathing in light, silence, and solitude.
A flock of sheep appears out of the ether, timid, yet as forward-charging as an invading army. At the sight of him, and even more so of Odo, the ovine battalion splits into two around them, giving them a wide berth. For a few minutes the sheep become an amateur orchestra playing the one instrument they know: the bell. Their distracted conductor strides up, delighted to come upon company. He starts on a long conversation, entirely unbothered by the fact that Peter does not speak his language and is accompanied by a large chimpanzee. After a good chewing of the fat, he leaves them to catch up with his flock, which has disappeared as earnestly as it appeared. The silence and the solitude return.
Then they come upon a stream, a noisy fluvial baby swaddled in grass and granite. The stream babbles and bubbles as if it has just woken up. Once crossed and left behind, it vanishes from their senses. Once again the silence and the solitude return.
Odo is taken by the boulders. He sniffs at them with great interest, then often looks around sharply. Has his nose told his eyes something?
Peter's preference is to walk between the boulders, midway, at a distance that allows for perspective. Such is not Odo's impulse. The ape walks from boulder to boulder in a straight line, as if connecting dots in a greater design. A boulder is sniffed, walked around, contemplated, then left behind for the next one, dead ahead. This next boulder might be nearby or far away, at an angle of deflection that is acute or wide. The ape decides with assurance. Peter is not averse to this manner of rambling about the plateau. Each boulder presents its own artistic shapeliness, its own texture, its own civilization of lichen. He wonders only at the lack of variety to the approach. Why not strike out for the open seas, between the shoals? The captain does not brook the suggestion. Unlike in the forest, where each enjoys his liberty, on the plateau the ape inveighs Peter to stay close, grunting and snorting with displeasure if he wanders off. He obediently falls into step.
After one particularly intense sniff at a boulder, Odo decides to conquer it. He scales up its side without effort. Peter is mystified.
"Hey, why this one? What's special about it?" he cries.
The boulder doesn't look any different from any other, or, rather, it looks as mundanely different as they all do from each other. Odo looks down at him. He calls out quietly. Peter decides to give climbing the boulder a try. The feat is trickier for him. He doesn't have the ape's strength. And though the height does not seem great from the ground, as soon as he has climbed a few feet he becomes afraid that he'll fall. But he doesn't fall. The many pockmarks and cracks in the boulder ensure his safety. When he is within reach, Odo grabs him by the shoulder and helps him up.
He scrambles to the middle of the boulder's crown. He sits and waits for his heart to stop knocking about his chest. Odo acts like a vigil on a ship, scanning the far horizon but also scrutinizing their closer surroundings. Peter can tell from his excited tension that he's enjoying the activity. Is it the height, with nothing around to block his view? Has some childhood memory of Africa been evoked? Or is he looking for something specific, a signal from the land, from the distance? Peter doesn't know. He settles down for the duration, remembering Odo's tree-dwelling escapades in Kentucky. He takes in the view, looks at the clouds, feels the wind, studies the varying light. He attends to simple, domestic tasks, since he brought the camping stove--the making of coffee, the preparing of a meal of macaroni and cheese. They spend a pleasant hour or so on top of the boulder.
The climb down is more harrowing than the climb up for him. For Odo, backpack dangling from his mouth, it is a casual amble down.
When they get back home, Peter is exhausted. Odo makes his nest. Nest-building is a quick, casual affair, whether for a nap or for the night. It involves no greater effort than the spinning of a towel or a blanket into a spiral, with a few items thrown in when it is a nighttime nest. Tonight Odo adds one of Peter's shirts and the boots he has worn all day. Odo also varies where he sleeps. So far he has slept on top of the wardrobe; on the floor next to Peter's bed; on top of the chest of drawers; on the living room table; on two chairs brought together; on the kitchen counter. Now he builds his nest on the living room table.
They both go to sleep early.
At dawn the next day Peter tiptoes to the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee. He settles with the steaming cup in front of Odo, watching him sleep, waiting.
Time passes, like clouds in the sky. Weeks and months go by as if they were a single day. Summer fades to fall, winter yields to spring, different minutes of the same hour.
Contact with Canada lessens. One morning Peter enters the cafe and Senhor Alvaro hands him a piece of paper. The message is never more than a name, usually Ben's or Teresa's. This time it's the Whip's. Peter goes to the phone at the end of the counter and dials Canada.
"Finally," the Whip says. "I've left three messages in the past week."
"Have you? I'm sorry, they didn't get to me."
"Don't worry about it. How's Portugal?" His voice crackles with distance. A far-off fire on a dark night.
"Good. April is a lovely time here."
The line suddenly becomes terribly clear, like a hot, urgent whisper. "Well, as you know, we're not doing well in the polls."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah. Peter, I've got to be frank. A senator's most fruitful work may very well take place away from the upper chamber, but a senator is nonetheless expected to sit, at least occasionally, in that chamber."
"You're right."
"You haven't been here for over nine months."
"I haven't."
"And you haven't been doing any Senate work."
"Nope. Neither fruitful nor otherwise."
"You just vanished. Except your name is still on the Senate roster. And"--the Whip clears his throat--"you're living with--uh--a monkey."
"An ape, actually."
"The story's made the rounds. It's been in the papers. Listen, I know it was really hard with Clara. Believe me, I feel for what you went through. But at the same time, it's hard to justify to Canadian taxpayers paying your salary as a senator to run a zoo in northern Portugal."
"I completely agree. It's outrageous."
"It's become somewhat of an issue. The party leadership is none too happy."
"I formally resign from the Senate of Canada."
"It's the right thing to do--unless you want to come back, of course."
"I don't. And I'll return my salary since the time I left Ottawa. I haven't even touched it. Been living off my savings. And now I'll have my pension."
"Even better. Can I get all that in writing?"
Two days later there's a new message at the cafe: Teresa.
"You've resigned. I read it in the papers. Why don't you want to come back to Canada?" she asks him. "I miss you. Come back." The tone of her voice is warm, sisterly. He misses her too, their regular phone calls that were not so long-distance, their dinners together when he lived in Toronto.
