Celia was also on her way to Lizard, despite Isabel’s protests that she would miss her exams and lose the semester. But Celia didn’t seem to care about that: she was more concerned about the impact leaving Lawrence would have on her protracted tormenting of Peter, which had started as soon as they learned the details of his research at the Primate Studies Institute. Isabel was almost relieved when Celia set about making his life miserable. She’d been half afraid Celia would flat out do him in.
Isabel didn’t ask the details, but Celia was proud of her progress and kept her up to date. And so Isabel knew, for example, that Peter was running over more than his fair share of dog poo these days. (“It’s a public service,” explained Celia. “I pick up turds from playgrounds and redistribute them to more deserving locations. Sharing the wealth, if you will.”) Isabel was also given to understand that enough unordered pizzas, chow meins, and burritos had been delivered to Peter’s door that his name had been added to the DO NOT SERVE list taped to the wall beside the telephone at virtually every takeout and delivery restaurant in the city.
Although Isabel made a point of discouraging Celia, she secretly admired her resolve. When Isabel herself had learned of Peter’s experiments at PSI, she fantasized about cornering him and telling him exactly what she thought of him, but in the end she couldn’t even pick up the phone to berate him from a distance. She had a near-pathological desire to avoid confrontation, which made the incident with Gary Hanson in Rosa’s Kitchen all the more startling in retrospect.
Celia, however, was of an entirely different nature. She showed no signs of letting up: the longer Peter didn’t call the police, the cockier she became. Her greatest achievement to date was the delivery of ten cubic yards of peat moss to the end of his driveway while his car was in the garage. Celia was apparently so committed to the cause she had persuaded Joel and Jawad to continue in her absence. Isabel hoped they might be a little less dogged in their efforts. It wasn’t that she felt Peter deserved respite; it was that the students were the closest thing she’d had to family since the abduction of the apes, and she didn’t want them to be locked up as well.
——
Francesca De Rossi called to tell Isabel that she, Eleanor, and Marty Schaeffer, a lawyer who had agreed to work pro bono for PAEGA, were on their way from the airport. They decided to meet at the hotel bar, since Marty, being one of the few people who had not yet tuned in to Ape House, wanted to watch the bonobos in action (the restaurant, despite complaints from patrons, declared itself family-oriented and continued to refuse to air the show).
About ten minutes later, Isabel headed downstairs to wait. To her surprise, James Hamish Watson was sitting in the corner. Many of the bar’s patrons—indeed many of the hotel’s guests—were camera crews, reporters, observers, and even work crews connected with Ape House. After speaking to Isabel for only a few minutes five days earlier, he had been swarmed by eavesdropping reporters. He had turned bright vermilion and scuttled off. Isabel had also beat a hasty retreat, but since she hadn’t divulged her identity, no reporters tried to follow her.
When she first arrived in Lizard, Isabel worried that someone would recognize her, since she had done many documentaries and news segments about the bonobos before the bombing. But no one at the Mohegan Moon ever gave her a second look. It finally dawned on her that with a new jawline, new nose, and virtually no hair, she looked very different than she had in what she increasingly thought of as her previous life.
Although she was surprised to see him back at the bar, it made sense. He’d already admitted he wasn’t allowed to watch Ape House at home, and whatever his wife might say about Ray and his role in the pornography business, Isabel was sure it was because of the apes.
Humans were fascinated and discomfited in equal parts by bonobo sexuality. Although the apes’ sexual encounters were brief, they were frequent, and their broad grins and facial expressions left little question that they were enjoying themselves. Almost everyone at the bar seemed to think that female-to-female genito-genital rubbing was hilarious, although there was unanimous agreement that the genital swellings themselves were disgusting. How could they walk around with those things? Surely they got in the way. The swellings swung from side to side when the females engaged in “hoka-hoka,” the Congolese term for this face-to-face activity. They were so bulbous and colorful that in the first few days of the show a large percentage of viewers apparently mistook them for testicles. Faulks Enterprises narrowly diverted this public relations disaster by labeling the activity with a flashing subtitle and, for added distinction, a Klaxon horn. It seems that the target audience—working-class heterosexual adult human males—were just fine with a bit of hoka-hoka once they realized what it was. Male-to-male contact, not so much. In the bar, the hoka-hoka usually initiated a series of cheers. The less common male-to-male rump and scrota rubbing, on the other hand, resulted in manly groans of disgust, accompanied by embarrassed sluggings of beer and flushing of cheeks. But it was the bonobos’ face-to-face copulation, group sex, oral sex, and masturbation that caused the most awkwardness, because it resembled human sexuality so closely. In public, even the rowdiest of spectators burst into nervous laughter or fell silent and averted their gaze. As often as not little red spots bloomed on the cheeks of the armchair scientists, whose faces bore determined expressions of “We will not look away. We are not shocked.”
It was this last group that most interested Isabel. Someone in the media had finally clued in to the fact that although the bonobos were no longer in a bi-species environment, they continued to pepper their conversations with ASL, and this—coupled with Bonzi’s extraordinary computer literacy (she took frequent breaks from shopping for a round or six of Ms. Pac-Man)—had resulted in a growing segment of viewers who were fascinated by the apes’ cognitive abilities rather than their sexual displays. Faulks Enterprises, never known to miss an opportunity, hired ASL interpreters around the clock and began providing subtitles that appeared in thought bubbles above the appropriate bonobo’s head.
Isabel worked her way toward James Hamish Watson, who was staring at the monitor in front of him and nursing a beer. When Makena put her arm around Bonzi and led her into a corner for a little hoka-hoka, the Klaxon horn sounded and the subtitle flashed. James Hamish dug into his pocket, slapped some cash on the counter, and made for the door. Isabel had not gotten within twenty feet of him.
Isabel considered following him out to the parking lot, but instinct told her to hold off. Instead, she sat at the bar, ordered an iced tea, and waited for Francesca, Eleanor, and Marty.
They arrived not long after and had just exchanged greetings when Isabel caught the opening strains of “Splish, Splash.”
“Here,” she said to Marty. “Watch.”
All around the room, conversation ceased and faces turned to the monitors.
Within Ape House, faucets at various places near the baseboard sprang to life. Some of the bonobos made for higher ground (Bonzi and Lola chose the play structure in the courtyard, while Sam simply hung by an arm from a doorjamb). Mbongo and Jelani both crouched to the side of a blast, leaned down to catch water in their mouths, and then blasted each other between the eyes before falling backward in paroxysms of silent, gleeful laughter. Makena squatted in front of a jet and positioned herself so that the stream hit her genital swelling. She moved back and forth, adjusting the angle, assisting the stream with her finger.
The floors sloped toward central drains, and the water cascaded toward and then over them, because they were largely blocked by trash—bits of food, waxed cheeseburger wrappers, fruit cartons, and plastic packaging. When the faucets finally turned off, the water was several inches deep. Makena lifted and dropped her arms a couple of times, splashing. Then she grew bored and joined Bonzi and Lola in the courtyard.
The soundtrack switched to another familiar leitmotif, the frenetic opening bars of “Wipeout.”
One of the first things the bonobos had done to the house was remove the
doors from the kitchen cabinets. Sam, Mbongo, and Jelani now used them every morning immediately after the automated hose-down and resulting flood. They started at the far end of the house and galloped down the hall with a cabinet door tucked under one arm. When they reached the water, they flung the doors to the ground, leapt on, and sailed across the room like the most graceful of surfers. When the doors slid to a stop—or especially if they collided with the opposite wall—they grinned and screeched and swaggered in fine fashion before grabbing their doors, loping back, and doing it all over again. They did this until the last bit of water had dribbled through the blocked drains and the cabinet doors remained disappointingly on the very places where they had been thrown. Jelani gave up before the others and went out to join the females; Mbongo and Sam made a few more attempts before believing the fun was truly over. When it became clear that it was, Sam wandered off like it was no big deal and Mbongo went to sulk in a corner.
“I … don’t even know where to start,” said Marty.
Francesca said, “It’s clearly unsanitary. Simply sloshing the place with water once a day is in absolute violation of the guidelines of the Association of Zoos and Aquariums.”
“Of which this place is not a member,” Marty pointed out.
“True. But we can absolutely prove that the apes are at risk of infection. Adding plain tap water to trash simply speeds the growth of bacteria.”
“And unfortunately Mbongo has been ordering mostly cheeseburgers, and then not finishing them,” said Isabel. Although Mbongo ate enough of his cheeseburgers that he was getting fatter by the minute, he had begun peeling off and discarding the bottom bun along with the pickles, which he usually flung against the walls.
“They’re toilet-trained, yes?” said Marty.
“They use toilets,” Isabel explained, “but they don’t clean toilets.”
Eleanor took over: “Never mind the bathrooms. The bacteria level in the food detritus alone must be hugely toxic. We can definitely argue that the pregnant one is in immediate danger. Any biologist and veterinarian will testify to that.”
“Which one is pregnant?” Marty asked.
Isabel pointed. “Bottom left square.”
“And the baby is due when?”
“Any minute.”
Makena was in the courtyard, lying on her back in the sunshine and flipping through a magazine, which she held with her feet. She signed to herself about its contents, which came up instantly as subtitles:
SHOE, SHIRT, LIPSTICK, KITTEN, SHOE.
She turned the page and continued to browse. SHIRT, FLOWER, SHOE, SHOE. Finally she got up and emitted a high-pitched squeak.
Bonzi was across the courtyard playing airplane with Lola. She paused with Lola overhead to peep peep in response.
Makena walked over and bumped her fists together in front of her chest. Then she did it again, accompanied by a volley of squeaks. Bonzi handed Lola to Makena, went to the computer, and ordered a pair of women’s shoes.
A buzz of amazement ran through the bar. Marty’s eyes widened, and he looked from Francesca to Eleanor to Isabel.
Isabel shrugged. “Makena likes to play dress-up.”
Marty put a hand over his eyes and gave his head a quick shake. After a moment, he dropped his hand. “Okay. I think the obvious line of approach is that this is animal abuse, based on sanitary issues.”
Marty continued. “That doesn’t mean Faulks will relinquish the apes, and if he does, it won’t necessarily be to Isabel. If we establish personhood, which I think we might be able to do if we can persuade a judge to let them testify—and that is a huge long shot, by the way—we can insist on guardianship and put you forward. But I need to think about this for a while.”
“Of course,” said Francesca.
“I gather their diet is also an issue?”
Isabel nodded. Mbongo was the one guilty of leaving leftovers to rot, but the only bonobo still making healthy food choices was Sam, who mostly ordered green onions, pears, blueberries, and citrus fruits. Bonzi had switched from hard-boiled eggs and pears to a near-exclusive diet of M&M’s. Jelani usually got pepperoni pizza and French fries. Makena and Lola grazed off everything that arrived, simply taking what they wanted from the others.
Marty picked up his briefcase and shook Isabel’s hand. As he and Eleanor made their way to the door, Francesca De Rossi gathered her things. She paused and momentarily laid her hand on Isabel’s arm. “It’s going to be okay,” she said.
Isabel composed her face into something resembling a smile and nodded. She was embarrassed to find herself wiping away tears.
“I’ll call soon,” said Francesca.
——
Within moments of their departure, a woman’s hand appeared on the back of the stool next to Isabel’s.
“Is anyone sitting here?”
“No. Go ahead,” Isabel said glumly.
“Thanks,” the woman said, sliding onto the stool. “Campari and soda,” she called to the bartender, who had his back to her. “And onion rings. Do you have onion rings?”
The bartender responded by tossing her a menu.
After scanning it, the woman said, “I’ll have the basket of fries.” She slapped the menu on the counter.
Within seconds Isabel was keenly aware of being watched. The feeling was unmistakable. She glanced over to find Cat Douglas regarding her closely.
“Oh my God. It’s you,” said Cat.
Isabel nearly choked. She waved desperately at the bartender, signaling for her tab.
Cat continued to stare. “It is. It’s you!”
Isabel’s cheeks got hot and she turned away. “I don’t know who you think I am, but you’re wrong.”
An outstretched hand appeared in front of her.
“Cat Douglas—remember? From The Philadelphia Inquirer?”
Isabel kept her face turned to the wall.
The hand was retracted and replaced a moment later by a BlackBerry displaying the picture of Isabel, oozing and battered in her hospital bed. “You can’t tell me this isn’t you. The nose looks good, by the way. Very nice work.”
“Oh dear God,” Isabel said. “Will you please leave me alone?”
Cat Douglas laid her phone on the counter, sighed, and pulled her lips into a smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. Her posture softened and she tipped her head slightly in an attempt to make herself look approachable. “Okay. I’m sorry. Let’s start over. What happened to you and the apes was horrifying, and obviously you have a totally unique perspective on it. I would really love to hear what you think of what’s going on here. Just a few quick ques—”
“I don’t give interviews.” Isabel spun her barstool so she was facing Cat and added, loudly, “And particularly not to people who would do something like this!”
She flicked the backs of her fingers against Cat’s BlackBerry, grabbed her purse, and left, registering with a sickening feeling that as a result of her outburst she was no longer invisible to the other bar patrons.
21
Ken Faulks sat in the boardroom, slumped deep in his Aeron chair and dragging a finger in greasy circles on the table’s gleaming surface.
It was approximately an hour before dawn. His executives, six men and two women, were sleepy and disheveled. Their shirts were crisp and clean, but from the collar up they were bleary and puffy.
Faulks lifted his finger from the table and observed the pattern he’d left on it. He leaned forward and breathed fog on it before using the underside of his silk tie to restore its perfect shine. He considered the end of his finger, and then ran it across his lips in a distracted fashion as his chief financial officer clicked through a series of PowerPoint slides. The red line on a chart zigzagged up and then sharply down.
“Bottom line,” said the beleaguered CFO, “is that even though we’re offering discounts on long-term subscriptions, viewers aren’t biting.”
“And short-term subscriptions?”
“Fine. Great. Brilliant, eve
n. But with only a day’s commitment the whole thing could go tits up in a ditch pretty much instantly.”
“Make them buy a week, minimum. Make the subscription renew automatically unless they opt out.”
“We can’t. Virtually all our sales are now in twenty-four-hour increments—businessmen at conferences, etcetera. They’re changing hotels daily.”
“What about computer subscriptions and home viewers?”
“They don’t want to commit.”
“Why?” Faulks demanded.
All eyes landed on one of the producers, who took note, sighed, and propped himself up. “The apes are having a lot of sex and spending up a storm, but basically that’s it. So far there hasn’t been a single altercation. There’s no drama. We have to kick it up a notch.”
“How?” asked Faulks, his gray eyes trained on the chart.
“Drama, fun, the unexpected. Fights, coalitions, betrayals. The kind of thing audiences expect from reality TV,” said one of the producers. “We need tension.” He stood abruptly and walked from the table. He propped his hands on his hips, inadvertently displaying sweaty armpits. “Jesus God. People always turn on each other. So do meerkats, for Christ’s sake—Animal Planet kept Meerkat Manor going for years. What’s wrong with these creatures?”
“How about audience participation?” someone suggested.
“And how the hell are we going to manage that?” said Faulks. “Throw a washed-up celebrity in with them for a week?”
There was an immediate, excited response:
“Ron Jeremy!”
“Carmen Electra!”
“Verne Troyer!”
“All three!”
The possibilities were glorious. They paused to consider. Even Faulks seemed lost in reverie.
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