The worst thing is that right now—when, thanks to my power, I can see the possibility of doing something for the good of swinehood and swinish values—I feel an increasingly perverse attraction for—an outright dependence on—symphonic music, Flemish painting, white flannels, French cheese, old silent movies, Rolls-Royces . . .
But I promise you, Mom, I promise you that if I am elected . . .
YOU’VE MADE PROGRESS, VISKOVITZ
I knew I was a genius even before I came into the world.
In the darkness of the womb, when my brothers were still shapeless embryos, excrescences on the placenta, I’d already found the way to the exit and started out a few weeks ahead of time. I knew I was destined to have an exceptional life, and I didn’t want to waste any of it.
“You, Visko,” my father announced, “are probably the most intelligent rodent who ever lived. They have worked in the laboratory for decades, using a process of artificial selection, to create a phenomenon like you. And your very name, V-I-S-K-O-V-I-T-Z, is an acronym for Very Intelligent Superior Kind of Very Intelligent and Talented Zootype. Take pride in it.”
“I am reasonably proud of it, Papa.” Even before I was weaned I’d already figured out that by using acids or coagulative action I could derive rennet from my mother’s milk and thus several varieties of aged cheese: both soft and string, and Taleggio, crescenza and provolone. In those days I’d also begun to exercise my musical talent on the wires of my cage and to pursue an interesting line of research in harmonic progressions, as well as the modal variations most in tune with the screams of pain emitted by the rats in the other sections. I succeeded in resolving their dissonances with felicitous counterpoint into a decently euphonious mode.
When they tried to measure my mental capacity, they soon realized that it was an impossible task. In the maze I never went down a blind alley. And as for their other crude aptitude tests, I knew the solutions before they even formulated the problems. How on earth could they measure me?
In those trials the lowest score, which defined the unit of stupidity, had been obtained by Zucotic, an extraordinarily obtuse subject produced by repeated inbreeding of the most imbecilic progeny of the laboratory. Ironically, that cretin’s cage was next to mine, and the researchers seemed to give him the same kind of attention they gave to me, as if stupidity were a virtue comparable to genius. The oddity didn’t end there. When we were assigned the mates most genetically qualified to couple with us, it was immediately clear that in she-rats intelligence and beauty weren’t coded into the same genes. My partner, Jana, was a graceless mole-brained alloglot, whereas Zucotic’s partner, Ljuba—from her rodentian incisors to the last scales on her tail—was the most perfect form that the most imaginative mind (mine, that is) could conceive. So, while I was stuck listening to Jana dither disquisitively on the subject of ratiocination (she thought it meant reasoning like a rat), just one of her capacious incapacities, in the next cage beauty was being served up to idiocy.
Nor did I enjoy any greater recognition from the other lab rats. In our community, intelligence and culture were failings, not virtues. These wretches had suffered firsthand the brutality of the experimental method, and they had no faith in the promises of science or of reason in general. They dreamed of reaching the Sewer, the mythic place announced by a self-styled prophet who had emerged from a toilet bowl. A Shangri-la far from the villainies of civilization and progress. It was blessed with darkness and rot in which everything dissolved into a putrilaginous aromatic broth.
Given this state of affairs, the lab rats didn’t put much faith in the usefulness of genius. But I knew with certainty that my intellect had been conceived for a purpose, that it was part of a transcendental power, call it what you will: history, the collective unconscious of topiform rodents, Divine Will . . .
It was a question of patience; my time would come.
And so it did.
One day Petrovic, a gigantic super-rat produced by genetic engineering, overpowered the mesh of his cage and, turning the handles from the outside, also freed the rats of Surgery, Pharmacy and Anatomy. A shapeless multitude of tortured and deformed wretches began to swarm across the tiles. No one— ab invidia—felt like liberating us privileged ones in the psychology department. It was only later, when it became clear that not one of those incapables had the slightest idea how to find the way to the sewer system or any other form of redemption, that it dawned on them: they had to turn to me.
“All-knowing V-I-S-K-O-V-I-T-Z, lord of the labyrinths, guide us,” they implored me with unctuous flattery.
The laboratory corridors were arranged like a maze, so it was clear that I was the chosen rat, anointed to lead the exodus. What other purpose could there be for all those months of unraveling intricate puzzles, running through dark passageways, solving abstruse problems? Could I in good conscience turn away from my responsibility and refuse to guide my people?
“Forward march!” I squeaked and set off. I confidently started down the first corridor on the left and the second on the right.
During my experience with mazes, I had noticed that the most frequent solution to every problem of orientation was to take the first left and the second right. It wasn’t necessary to be a genius to grasp that this would continue to be the solution.
And so it was.
After those two turns we found ourselves in the latrine. As soon as I realized that above us was a lever very like the ones I used to press down during my aptitude tests, everything became clear. I gave this lever a push, and the waters parted miraculously before my people. Every rodent was sucked toward our destination. A few minutes later we were splashing in the manna of the prophecy.
My companions looked around in amazement, overcome by the allure of this landscape. After years of sterile surroundings and medicinal doses, they were delighted by this impure and contaminated Nature, by this miasmic pool, by these moldy forests, by all this ordure. Parting the effluvia, I officially took possession of this territory in the name of my people. I gave a short celebratory speech and, using simple words suitable for this audience, sought to explain the juridical foundation on which I meant to build our society of rats. Without ever mentioning the term “eugenics,” I nevertheless tried to make them see how advisable it would be for the future good of our people for me to have a “liaison” with all the super-she-rats present and to beget a super progeny worthy of representing our people.
But my words were suddenly interrupted by an attack of indigenous rats that sowed panic and confusion in our ranks. The bravest of us put up an honorable resistance, but soon the defeat was total.
Rat that I am, I slunk away.
It was soon clear that this place, far from being the promised land, was instead overrun by a barbaric horde of enraged vermin, even bigger than our super-rats and who, without any regard for Justice or Beauty, lived by the brutal law of the tooth. It is also true that this did not seem to deter the rats of the exodus from successfully adapting to the new surroundings. For them, accustomed to the systematic violence of man, that of their own kind was a lover’s caress. What benefit could a soul as sensitive as mine gain from this unruly mob?
But that couldn’t be the end of my journey. Not chaos and degradation. It wasn’t by chance that these sewers were also laid out like a maze. And where there is a maze, there is always—I repeat, always—a point from which to infer the solution. Obviously it was in that maze that my reward was waiting for me.
To escape notice I covered my fur with slime, and I assumed a dull and anonymous expression, after which I set out. I took the first left and the second right, and then again and again. But my efforts were in vain. Apparently in this place no direction made more sense than any other. No amount of distance covered led to anything. Using reason was no help. In that broth it was impossible to discern forms, substances or values. Everything had been corrupted into decadent triviality, fatuous uniformity, garbage. At last I reached a drainpipe that was discharging a dense concentrati
on of printed pages, periodicals, bindings. I tried to climb up to the source of this knowledge. I spied the opening and made my way up the conduit down which it was pouring. And I found myself in the . . . university library.
I set up camp there. I spent about a month in this peaceful reflective place, leading the life of a bookworm in complete solitude, roaming far and wide in that immense maze of corridors, ideas and theories. In a short while I devoured all the great works of Western civilization, leaving aside only the hardest bindings.
The big questions continued to torture me. The whole universe seemed nothing but a series of mazes that led only to other mazes: plumbing, hallways, canals, streets. How far would I have to travel before I found a way out? All the routes seemed the same. They all curved back on themselves, they had no beginning or direction or end. I kept on searching. But I ran into other mazes: the subway, the street system, water mains, air vents . . . And yet I was certain there was a place where I would be freed from that endless cycle of going back and forth. I knew that when I finally stuck my nose in that place, I would find Revelation, Deliverance, the Summum Bonum.
Once again I took the first left and the second right. And again and again.
One day at last, while I was downheartedly making my way along a drainage ditch as dark as my soul, I spied an unusual murine form hanging from the ceiling pipes. It was a winged rodent with a mysterious air, and its behavior was as strange as its physiognomy. It was upside down, facing me, and its unblinking eyes seemed to be indicating something, giving me a direction. Apparitions of this kind have their raison d’être. I put myself in the same upside-down position. I observed and I reasoned. Thanks to this reversal of my outlook and to the increased blood flow to my brain, the solution was immediately revealed to me. Its elegance was evident: from that exact point it would be enough to take the first left and the second right, the first left and the second right . . . All the way to my destination, the Place, Topos.
And so it was.
It was only a question of time until, as I foresaw, I reached the way out. I followed it, pressing on until the light dazzled me.
And I easily found the way into the Department.
“From the tag on his neck I’d say he’s one of ours,” one of the researchers said. “But the data have become unreadable.”
“Put him through the tests again.”
So that is how I came to reside very close to where I’d started from. In the cage next door.
I didn’t have to wait long for the Great Reward to make her entrance. Her coat and eyes were as bright as Revelation, as dazzling as Knowledge. Ljuba came up to me with little steps, curling her tail, slithering, stretching her body hair by hair, hesitating. How beautiful she was! She was as seductive as an intuition, as disconcerting as an antiphrasis, as shy as truth. Stupid as a poem.
“I am V-I-S-K-O-V-I-T-Z,” I explained to her.
AND WHAT DID SHE SAY, VISKOVITZ?
With Ljuba it was love at first sight. She was the most beautiful parrot of the Caribbean. So I went to call on her without a second thought. I looked into her eyes and said, “I love you.”
“I love you,” she replied. It was the beginning of a great passion. Our love nest was the whole jungle, the mad ardor of youth was burning under our feathers, the sky itself wasn’t big enough to hold it. We sang, we danced, we made love to the rhythm of the rumba, the mambo, the conga, the merengue. So one day I made up my mind and asked her, “Will you marry me?”
“Will you marry me?” she shot back.
“Of course, my love.”
“Of course, my love,” she answered.
So I built the most beautiful nest in the archipelago, and there we spent our honeymoon. Holding her close, I said to her, “I’d like to have children.”
She replied that she would like to have them, too. Two of them were born—darling children—never a cross word, never disobedient, always ready to return our affection.
What else could anyone want from life?
Some sort of surprise. And so I began seeing another she-parrot. One day I confessed to Ljuba. I said to her, “I have a lover.”
“I have a lover,” she replied.
“My lover is Lara,” I continued.
“My lover is Lara,” she confessed.
What could I say to that? I was dumb as stone. My wife with my lover. If you put it like that it could seem almost like good news, but it soon became clear that this triangle couldn’t go on. But I went to Ljuba and said, “Choose. Either me or her.”
“Her,” she answered.
Then I went to Lara and delivered the same ultimatum. “Either me or her!”
“Her!”
“Damn you,” I said.
“Damn you,” she squeaked back.
I was completely fed up with being the butt of these refrains. Was it possible that life ran along such superficial plot lines? How could I get past this predicament? In my desperation I decided to seek the advice of an enlightened mind, a parrot who had gained renown as a master of wisdom and as a spiritual guide.
“Master,” I blurted out. “What can we do to get beyond these cut-rate answers, to escape this humdrum, this mediocrity? Tell me, master, what must we do?”
“Do,” the sage answered.
THE LESS SAID, THE BETTER, VISKOVITZ
Our leader, who was also our teacher, always said to us, “You can tell a well-behaved fish by his language. He is never vulgar, he always looks you straight in at least one eye and, above all, he always tells the truth.”
He was telling us this as he swam along his complex route, alternating the rhythm of the strokes of his tail and of his dorsal fin, because dance is the only way in which most fish can communicate. A language ill adapted to those who are impatient or short of breath. He would then catch my eye and inevitably add, “Viskovitz, repeat what I just said.”
I would answer that question with silence. Life had already taught me that silence is the only way a fish can tell the truth and tell it politely. And I was a well behaved fish. I’ll try to explain myself better.
If, to say the word “hydroelectric,” you have to rise and sink in the water six times and touch your anal fin with a gill, it is ichthyologically impossible to keep looking at your interlocutor. Moreover, there is little likelihood that the meaning of your movements will be understood by him. Perhaps he will take them to mean “eel” and be offended. It’s nobody’s fault, it’s the fault of language, and it is thence all the problems of us fish arise. Take my name— Viskovitz. It requires approximately ten minutes to pronounce it correctly. Eventually I used it as an exercise to lose weight. And there was also this: it could be mistaken for “Certainly, if it’s okay with your cousin,” or “Kiss me all over, nymph,” or even something like “A mathematical series is perfect when each term is the limit of a progression or of a regression and each progression and regression contained in the series has a limit within the series itself.”
The confusion is increased by the fact that there are as many languages as there are schools of fish and as many dialects as there are fish. That not only makes it difficult to speak but equally difficult to be silent. Even a simple act like swallowing a cuttlefish could be misunderstood; someone could see it as a metaphor. In some cultures the black ink of the cuttlefish represents “evil,” “deceit,” “the illusoriness of life.” The cuttlebone, on the other hand, “soul” or “purity.” That’s why I only eat herring and prefer to chew them far from a crowd.
At the root of all the fragmentation that characterizes ocean life is the difficulty of teaching language to a fish. I’ll explain myself better. If you point with your mouth at a sole and then with your body draw an “S” in the water, your pupil will usually understand that “S” means sole. You can do the same with a herring, gudgeon or a spiny lantern fish. But try to use the same system to explain to that fish the concept of “incommensurability” or “classicalness” or simply “truth.” The fish will swear that he gets it, but you
can be sure that he understands something quite different, like “low tide,” “diver” or “tiny bubbles.”
My kids always asked me, “Papa, how are fish born?”
To that question I replied with silence. There are those who pride themselves on finding the right words in those delicate situations and on being able to speak in a natural tone of voice. Easier done than said.
I mean I wasn’t even dreaming of explaining certain things—it would have taken months. I simply picked the first female in heat who happened along and showed the kids how it’s done, even though I already had a large family. Because among fish, at least among us sticklebacks, sex is never embarrassingly intimate or daring. The female lays eggs in the nest, and the male fertilizes them without even touching her. It is enough for him to look at her color and to delight in the little dance she does for him. Actually it’s not even necessary for there to be a female. Studies conducted by humans have demonstrated that her image on a cardboard cutout is enough to get a male to fertilize the eggs. Even if the eggs aren’t really there. Not only that—we continue to incubate the nonexistent eggs and oxygenate them with our tails. This doesn’t mean we’re stupid, mind you. It means that nature prefers to err on the side of plenty rather than on the side of scarcity. If sex and reproduction didn’t respond to an innate language and were left to the misunderstandings of fish language, fish would think that you’re talking about Cuban dances or I don’t know what. Naturally there are extreme cases, like that of Zucotic, who has given names and an extensive education to those nonexistent fish. But that is truly a case at the far end of the spectrum.
You're an Animal, Viskovitz Page 5
