Great Apes (23 page)

Bowen went on teasing some particles of what looked like Gentlemale's Relish from Busner's belly for some time before asking, ‘Had you considered Ganser's, Zack?'

‘ “Chup-chupp” interesting idea. But then, his answers aren't strictly speaking
irrelevant
– which is the absolute hallmark of Ganser's, as you know – they're more oneiric, more dream-like. It's funny though, whatever the symptomatology of this – it is beautifully coherent. Perhaps the
human delusion will turn out to be like Ganser's or Tourette's; and once it's recognised for the first time, become both easily and constantly identified.

‘ “Gru-aaa” anyway, it's past second-lunch time, and I have this bloody tedious lecture to give at UCL this afternoon. I'll collect the lads and crawl on. D'you know where my epsilon got to?'

‘He went off with Whatley – I'll help you find them.'

“HooooGraa!” Busner drummed against the electronic doors of the hospital, which, being broken, were jammed open with milk crates. The doors shuddered with the force of his valediction. He turned and slowly knuckle-walked to the Volvo, where Gambol was waiting at the wheel.

‘ “H'hooo” Zack! One more thing –' Bowen came scuttling after him. ‘Simon Dykes, you know his opening is tonight, at George Levinson's gallery in Cork Street.'

‘No tickling “huu”?'

‘I thought I might drop by – his consort is coming to see me this afternoon, she'll be able to get me – or us – on the list.'

‘Not a bad idea. I have tickets for
Turandot
, taking Charlotte, my alpha, she's having a fairly stressful oestrus, y'know. But I'm sure she won't mind me missing the first act …'

‘ “Wraaa”! Where the hell have you been, Gambol,' Busner waved as the big car eased its way out from the crowded precincts of the hospital, ‘and where the hell are the rest of the patrol “h'huu”?' Gambol chose to ignore the first part of his alpha's query, and focus whatever opprobrium was going on Erskine, Charles and Carlo.

‘They're over there, Boss. ' He pointed to where the sub-adults were slouching outside the bookie's. As their alpha watched, Erskine was footed a spliff by one of the bonobos and took a long pull on it. The Volvo squealed to a halt and Busner leant out the window.

‘ “Wraaa”! Come on, you apprentice delinquents, give these chimps back their marijuana and get in the car, we're late.'

They did so with utmost celerity, Erskine weeping with the effort involved in surreptitiously exhaling. Then the three of them huddled on the back seat, awaiting a lecture on the psychological effects of marijuana, or the woeful prejudice of bonoboism, or the depredations of London's public-transport system, or all three. But the Volvo motored back up the Fulham Palace Road, with signless and novocal reigning. Until, that is, they reached the Hammersmith roundabout, and Busner put the finger on Gambol once more. ‘You didn't reply “grnnn”, what were you signing with that creep Whatley about?'

Later that afternoon Jane Bowen was back at the nursing station, together with Sarah Peasenhulme. Sarah wore her best daytime swelling-protector, a neat little thing in silk chenille by Selena Blow. The capacious gusset was cool against the rawness of her perineum. She had come straight to the hospital from home – where she sometimes did some work – and Dr Bowen had been kind enough to ‘phone her, show her about the planned ‘phone link with Simon.

Perhaps, Sarah had thought as she dressed, Simon will be able to look at me, and maybe the sight of the swelling-protector will – she couldn't exactly manipulate the
thought, although her fingers shaped the signs in the act of fastening the eyelets at either hip, and below – perhaps he'll fancy me. Perhaps his lust will bring him round, bring him out of this.

‘Nice swelling-protector,' Jane Bowen signed. ‘Selena Blow, is it “h'huu”?'

‘Y-yes, I got it in the sale last year. Otherwise I wouldn't have been able to afford it.'

‘So, Simon isn't in the habit of buying you other clothes then? Clothes, sign, for the nestroom?'

‘Why do you ask “huu”?'

‘Well, my dear, you musn't be shocked. ' Jane Bowen moved closer and began to groom Sarah, smoothing the fur on the younger female's neck first one way and then the other, loosening grains of talcum powder. ‘But as part of this “chup-chupp” human delusion your consort has … Well, he finds the sight of legs covered with fur disturbing. I gather “gru-nn” that in the “human world” – as Simon describes it – the animals' bare legs are covered –'

‘With trousers “huu”?'

‘And skirts.'

‘And skirts “huu”?'

‘Quite so.'

Sarah was blushing, hardly aware of the older female's fingers in her fur. “‘Hoo-chup-chupp” I don't know, well … yes, he has bought me some skirts. Nothing really
kinky
, you understand. No tweed or wool, but I do have some simple cotton skirts. I dunno – I'd feel awfully strange wearing them here.'

‘Well, don't worry about that for now “grnnn”, Dr Busner did suggesture that Simon rest – but all the same
let's just see how he responds to you in your
nice
swelling-protector.'

Simon was curled up in nest, forcing himself to sleep, when the ‘phone began ringing once again. Fucking hell! He jerked upright. Fucking hell! The ‘phone brought with it the world of his madness, the world of his disgrace. Won't they fucking well leave me alone!

He sprang from the nest in a jumble of arms and legs, hurling himself on to the floor. Amazingly, he landed on all fours, knuckles either side of the instrument. He plucked up the receiver and pressed it to his ear. The screen resolved itself into a monkey's muzzle. ‘ “Clak-clak-clak” whaddya' want monkey “wraff” muzzle?' Simon signed and snarled, his big teeth clacking.

‘It's Jane Bowen, Simon, your doctor, I have another chimp here who'd like to sign with you.'

‘Who is it “huu”? “Wraaa!” I thought that old ape signed that I should be left in peace “hnnn”?'

‘Dr Busner, you mean “huu”?'

Simon was taken aback – and fell back on to his arse. ‘Busner – you mean the Quantity Theory chimp “huu”?'

‘He was involved with it, yes, together with other chimps. ' Jane Bowen was intrigued. Could this – Simon's recognition of Busner, a chimp he didn't know personally – be some vitiation of his agnosia, some pinion between his delusory world and the real world?

‘I've seen of him – and heard him. He used to go on stupid game shows in the seventies, didn't he “huu”? Bit of a charlatan, I always thought –'

‘ “Wraaaf”! What the hell d'you think you're signing
“h'huu”? Zack Busner is an extremely eminent chimpanzee – a great ape, in fact!'

Simon was stilled by the outburst, although he would have liked to continue taunting the monkey. Indeed, the act of taunting had made him feel more alive, more lucid, more embodied than he had since arriving at the hospital. But he feared the monkey. Feared she would come in. Feared she would touch him. ‘ “Hoooo.” I'm sorry, Your Medical Eminence,' the madchimp cowered ‘I didn't mean to disrespect your colleague. ' And without knowing why he did so, Simon found himself presenting his arse to the ‘phone.

‘That's all right, Simonkins, I quite understand,' Jane Bowen countersigned, and asign to Sarah, ‘he's comparatively lucid, I'll get him to gesticulate with you.'

‘Simon, Sarah is here, she wants to sign to you, I'll put her in front.'

Sarah? Simon dared to squint a little more closely at the screen, dared to imagine that he would see her adored features on its pitiful plasticity, the diamond visage, the widow's peak. But instead, one monkey muzzle was replaced by another. ‘Simon, darling,' Sarah signed. ‘ “Grnnn” it's me, it's Sarah, how are you, my love “huuu”? How are you?' His muzzle was so gaunt, his fur so lustreless and lank, but he was still her male. She pulled back from the ‘phone camera as much as the confined space of the nurses' station would allow, so that Simon could see her swelling-protector and imagine the delights it contained.

But what Simon saw was a chimpanzee wearing a blue T-shirt, and some sort of legless underpants, fastened by
straps to the animal's legs and furnished with a voluminous gusset; this had a great many ruffles and pleats that formed a whorl, like the petals of a rose, in the approximate region of the animal's genitals. The sight was both comic – and disturbing. ‘ “Hooo” whassthis “huuu”?'

‘Simon,' she resigned, ‘it's me, Sarah.'

‘ “Hoooo” whatever you are, I can't –' His free hand was up by his eyebrow ridges, shielding the sight, and yet he still signed, ‘I can't look at you.'

‘ “Hoo” Simon, “hoo” Simon, my poor love, I came to show you –'

‘What! “Hoooo” show me what, you – you
absurdity!'

‘Show you that George is going ahead with the opening.'

‘The opening “huu”?'

‘Your
opening. He's had all the canvases stretched and framed himself. He's opening your new show tonight.'

Sarah stared at her consort's features. He seemed to be digesting the news, had she been right to tell him? Would this bring him back him into shore, back into her, or push him out further on to the turbulent, dark lake of his derangement? “Hooo'Graa”! he suddenly cried and then terminated the pant-hoot.

Tony Figes had been squatting in Brown's Hotel all that hot afternoon. He often went into Brown's on dead midsummer afternoons such as these, when he had no copy to file, or no young male to range after. He liked the blend of chi-chi and old world about the hotel's décor, and he liked to watch the American chimps come and go, tugging their little suitcases behind them as they arrived, then tugging the same suitcases, engorged by purchasing, when they left.

The Americans were often obese – even the bonobos. Tony, who imagined himself – quite rightly – to be ugly, got a rush of corporeal
schadenfreude
every time he saw one of them, knuckle-waddling along in a bell tent of Burberry, or a garish, Hawaiian shirt. And fat bonobos! – there was progress. To have gone, in barely over a hundred years, from slavery on the plantation, to obesity in a classy London hotel. Well, if that didn't show the reality of the American Dream, what did?

He rustled and plumped his copy of the
Evening Standard
into a rough oblong, then dropped it on the coffee-table. Not much of a read for a newspaper, Tony thought, but then –
It's Not a Newspaper!
The advertising slogan tripped off his mental fingertips so easily, and so irritatingly. In the last few months the ubiquitous
Evening Standard
vans, with
their rapido design of red and white chevrons, had begun to sport the slogan, as had billboards and hoardings all over the city.
The Evening Standard – It's Not a Newspaper!
That this had become the paper's unique selling point was, thought Tony, a peculiar kind of justice.

As he knuckle-walked through the lobby, Tony Figes absent-mindedly plumped the side pockets of his rough silk, tunic-style jacket, checking for another oblong, the invitation to Simon Dykes's private view. Tony had pant-hooted George Levinson at second-lunch time, suggestur-ing that he arrive early at the gallery, so that they could twine around tactics. Tony liked Simon well enough – but his real loyalty was to Sarah. He didn't want Sarah upset by the press – or the punters.

As Tony scampered up Dover Street and round the corner into Grafton he tried to picture what lay ahead of him. George Levinson had embargoed any reproductions of Dykes's new paintings, and now Simon was hospitalised with this terrible breakdown, there had been no possibility of the artist himself doing advance publicity. All that had arrived with the invitation was a detail of one. This was printed with the technique used for novelty 3-D postcards, and showed an infant in free-fall towards the viewer, its fur fringed with flame. Turn the postcard this way and that, and the fringe of fire around the hurtling body would flare.

Tony had received the invitation at his home, the flat in the block on Knatchbull Road that he had shared with his mother since birth. He avoided the slobber of her ancient lap pony, and her query, ‘ “H'huu” what've you got in the mail “huuu”? To-ony!', to escape down the corridor, with its depressing, old-female smells, to his room. The room
was decidedly odd. One half was intact from his sub-adulthood; posters of glam-rock bands from the early seventies, Slade, T-Rex and the Sweet; a nestspread was patterned with Beatrix Potter animals; shelves lined with the Narnia books, old comics – mostly young female's titles,
Jackie, Bunty
, and so forth – and a few figurines of ballet dancers spun from glass.

But the other side of the room was distinctly male; dominated by a large knee-hole desk, covered with books, papers and a lightbox. Above the desk were shelves crammed with high-quality books of reproductions. There was a metal ashtray on the desk, full of the mutilated butts of Bactrian Lights, and by its side a piece of glass, smeared with fragments of cocaine. The miniature desktop set was caught in the spotlight of an Anglepoise lamp.

Tony chucked himself into the swivel chair by his desk, limbs bundled round his torso, like an infant in the prelude to a weaning tantrum. With one thick fingernail he slit the thick yellow envelope, engraved on the back, ‘Levinson Gallery. Fine Art', and the 3-D burning infant tumbled on to the desk.

How often – Tony thought to himself – it was the case that the infant was alpha to the male. This burning infant – what could it betoken? In the last few weeks before his breakdown, Simon had given strong hints that the new paintings dealt with themes of corporeality, of the basic
physical
integrity of chimpness. Whenever Simon dropped these hints, Tony countersigned, tried to draw him out. But it wasn't until the burning mite dropped on to his desk that Tony began to realise quite how shocking Simon's paintings might be.