The Animal-Lover's Book of Beastly Murder
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Authors: Patricia Highsmith
ADDITIONAL BOOKS BY PATRICIA HIGHSMITH
PUBLISHED BY W. W. NORTON
Strangers on a Train
The Price of Salt
(as Claire Morgan)
The Blunderer
The Talented Mr. Ripley
Deep Water
This Sweet Sickness
The Glass Cell
A Suspension of Mercy
Ripley Under Ground
A Dog’s Ransom
Ripley’s Game
Little Tales of Misogyny
Slowly, Slowly in the Wind
The Boy Who Followed Ripley
The Black House
People Who Knock on the Door
Mermaids on the Golf Course
Ripley Under Water
Small g: A Summer Idyll
Nothing That Meets the Eye: The Uncollected Stories of Patricia Highsmith
ADDITIONAL TITLES FROM OTHER PUBLISHERS
Miranda the Panda Is on the Veranda
(with Doris Sanders)
A Game for the Living
The Cry of the Owl
The Two Faces of January
Plotting and Writing Suspense Fiction
Those Who Walk Away
The Tremor of Forgery
The Snail-Watcher and Other Stories
Edith’s Diary
Found in the Street
Tales of Natural and Unnatural Catastrophes
The Animal-Lover’s Book of Beastly Murder
Patricia Highsmith
W. W. N
ORTON &
C
OMPANY
N
EW
Y
ORK
L
ONDON
For my cousin
Dan Coates
of Box Canyon Ranch,
Weatherford, Texas
Chorus Girl’s
Absolutely Final Performance
T
hey call me Chorus Girl—shouts of “Chorus Girl” go up when I stand and swing my left leg, then my right, and so on. Before that, however, maybe ten, twenty years ago, I was “Jumbo Junior,” mostly “Jumbo.” Now it’s Chorus Girl entirely. My name must be written on the wooden board at the front of my cage, along with “Africa.” People stare at the board, sometimes say “Africa,” then start calling me “Chorus Girl!—Hey, Chorus Girl!” If I swing my legs, a small cheer goes up.
I live alone. I never saw another creature like myself, in this place at any rate. I remember when I was small, though, following my mother everywhere, and I remember many creatures like myself, much bigger, a few even smaller. I remember following my mother up a sloping wooden board on to a boat, the boat a bit unsteady. My mother was led and prodded away, back the same board, and I was on the boat. My mother, wanting me to join her, lifted her trunk and bellowed. I saw ropes flung about her, ten or twenty men tugging to hold her back. Someone fired a gun at her. Was it a deadly gun or a dope gun? I will never know that. The smell is different, but the wind was not blowing toward me that day. I only know my mother collapsed after a little while. I was on the deck, screaming shrilly like a baby. Then I was shot with a dope gun. The boat finally moved, and after a very long time during which I mainly slept and ate in semidarkness in a box, we arrived in another land where there were no forests, no grass. Into another box I went, more movement, another place with cement underfoot, hard stone everywhere, bars, and foul-smelling people. Worst of all, I was alone. No little creatures my own age. No mother, no friendly grandfather, no father. No play. No baths in a muddy river. Alone with bars and cement.
But the food was all right, and there was plenty of it. Also a nice man took care of me, a man named Steve. He carried a pipe in his mouth, but almost never did he light it, just held it between his teeth. Even so he could talk and I could soon understand what he said, or at least what he meant.
“Kneel, Jumbo!” and a tap on my knees meant to get down on my knees. If I held my trunk up, Steve would clap his hands once in appreciation, and toss some peanuts or a small apple into my mouth.
I liked it when he got astride my back and I would get up, and we would walk around the cage. People seeing this would clap their hands, especially little children would clap.
Steve kept the flies off my eyes in summer by means of a string fringe which he fixed around my head. He would hose the cement floor, the shady part, so I could lie down and keep cool. He would hose me. When I became bigger, Steve would sit on my trunk and I would lift him into the air, being careful not to tip him, because he had nothing to hold on to except the end of my trunk. Steve took special care of me in winter also, making sure I had enough straw, even sometimes blankets if it was very cold. One particularly bad winter, Steve brought me a little box with a cord attached which blew warm air on to me. Steve nursed me through an illness caused by the cold.
The people here wear large hats. Some of the men carry short guns on their belts. Once in a while one pulls a gun and fires it into the air to try to scare me or the gazelles who live next door to me and whom I can see through the bars. The gazelles react violently, leap into the air, then huddle together in a far corner of their cage. A pitiable sight. By the time Steve or one of the caretakers arrives, the man who fired the shot has put his gun back in his belt, and looks like all the other men—who are laughing and won’t point out the man who did it.
This reminds me of one of my pleasanter moments. There was a red-faced fat fellow about five years ago who on two or three Sundays fired his loud gun into the air. It annoyed me, though I would never have dreamt of showing my annoyance. But the third or fourth Sunday when this particular fellow fired his gun, I quietly took a snoutful of water from my trough and let him have it full force through the bars. I hit him in the chest and he went over backwards with his boots in the air. Most of the crowd laughed. A few of the people were surprised or angry. Some threw a few stones at me—which didn’t hurt, or missed entirely, or hit the bars and bounced in another direction. Then Steve came trotting up, and I could see that Steve (having heard the shot) knew exactly what had happened. Steve laughed, but he patted the shoulder of the wet man, trying to calm him down. The man was probably denying having fired the shot. But I saw Steve give me a nod which I took for approval. The gazelles came forth timidly, staring through the bars at the crowd and also at me. I fancied they were pleased with my action, and I felt proud of myself that day. I dreamt even of seizing the wet man, or a man like him, of squeezing his soft body until he died, then of trampling him under my feet.
During Steve’s time with me, which must have been thirty years, we would occasionally take a walk in the park and children, sometimes three at a time, would ride on my back. This was at least amusing, a nice change. But the park is anything but a forest. It is just a few trees growing from rather hard, dry soil. It is almost never wet. The grass is close cut, and I was not allowed to pull any grass up, not that I much wanted to. Steve managed everything, managed me, and carried a stick made of woven leather with which he prodded me to make me turn in a certain direction, kneel, stand up, and at the end of the outing stand on my hind legs. (More cheering.) Steve did not need the stick, but it was part of the show, like my turning in a couple of stupid circles before standing on my hind legs at the end. I could also stand on my front legs, if Steve asked me to. I remember my temper was better in those days, and I would avoid without Steve’s telling me the low branches of some of the trees so the children on my back would not be knocked off. Given a chance, I am not sure I would be that careful any more. What have people, except Steve, ever given me? Not even grass under my feet. Not even companionship of another creature like myself.
Now that I am older, my legs heavier, my temper shorter, there are no more rides for children, though the band still plays on summer Sunday afternoons—“Take Me Out to the Ball Game” and lately “Hello, Dolly!” Sometimes I wish I could take a walk again, with Steve again, wish I could be young again. And yet, what for? For more years in this place? Now I spend more time lying down than standing up. I lie in the sun, which doesn’t seem as hot as it used to. The people’s clothing has changed a little, not so many guns and boots, but still the same broad-brimmed hats on the men and some of the women. Still the same tossed peanuts, not always shelled, that I used to stick my trunk through the bars for so eagerly when I was younger and had better appetite. Still the same popcorn and sweet Cracker Jack. I don’t always bother getting on my feet Saturday and Sunday. This infuriates Cliff, the new young keeper. He wants me to do my stuff, as in the old days. It is not that I am so old and tired, but I don’t like Cliff.
Cliff is tall and young, with red hair. He likes to show off, cracking a long whip at me. He thinks he can make me do things according to certain jabs and commands. There is a sharp point of metal on his stick, which is annoying, although it doesn’t break my skin by any means. Steve approached me as one creature to another, making acquaintance with me and not assuming I was going to be what he expected. That is why we got along. Cliff doesn’t really care about me, and does nothing to help me against the flies in summer, for instance.
Of course when Steve retired, I continued to go through the Saturday and Sunday rounds with the children, once in a while with adults on my back. One man (another trying to show off) dug his spurs into me one Sunday, whereupon I put on a very little speed of my own accord and did not duck under a low branch but deliberately trotted under it. It was too low for the man to duck, and he was swept neatly off my back, landed on his knees and howled with pain. This caused a lot of disturbance, the man groaned for a while, and what was worse Cliff took the man’s side, or tried to placate the man, by yelling and prodding at me with the pointed stick. I snorted with rage myself—and was gratified to see the crowd fall back in terror of me. I was nowhere near charging them, which I’d have liked to do, but responded to Cliff’s prods and headed back to my cage. Cliff was muttering at me. I took a snoutful of water, and Cliff saw it. Cliff retreated. But he came back after nightfall when the park gates were closed, and gave me a whipping and a lecture. The whipping did not hurt at all, but must have exhausted Cliff who was staggering when he finished.
The following day Steve turned up in a wheelchair. His hair had become white. I had not seen him in four or five years, perhaps, but he was really the same, with his pipe in his mouth, the same kind voice, the same smile. I swung my legs with joy in my cage, and Steve laughed and said something pleasant to me. He had brought some small red apples to give me. He came in his wheelchair into the cage. This was pretty early one morning, so there was hardly any of the public in the park as yet. Steve said something to Cliff and gestured towards Cliff’s pointed stick, so that I knew Steve meant that Cliff should get rid of it.
Then Steve made a sign to me. “Up! Lift me up, Chorus Girl!”
I knew what he meant. I knelt, and stuck my trunk under the seat of Steve’s wheelchair, sideways, so he could grab the end of my trunk with his right hand and with his other hand press against my head for balance. I did not get to my feet for fear of toppling Steve’s chair, but I lifted him off the cement by quite a distance. Steve laughed. I set the chair down gently.
But that was years ago, Steve’s visit. It was not his last visit. He came two or three times in his wheelchair, but never on the two days of the week when there were the most people. Now I have not seen Steve in about three years. Is he dead? This possibility makes me sad whenever I think of it. But then it is equally sad to expect, to hope for Steve to appear some morning of the quiet days, when just a few people straggle in, and Steve is not among them. Sometimes I raise my trunk and bellow my chagrin and disappointment because Steve doesn’t come. It seems to amuse people, my bellowing—just as my mother bellowed on the dock when she couldn’t reach me. Cliff pays no attention, only sometimes puts his hands over his ears, if he happens to be near.
This brings me close to the present time. Just yesterday, Sunday, there was the usual crowd, even more than usual. There was a man in a red suit with a white beard ringing a bell in his hand, walking about talking to everyone, especially to children. This man appears every now and then. People had peanuts and popcorn to give me through the bars. As usual, I held my snout through the bars, and my mouth was open also, in case someone aimed a peanut correctly. Someone threw a round object into my mouth, and I thought it was a red apple until I crunched on it, whereupon it started stinging my mouth horribly. I immediately took some water into my trunk, rinsed my mouth and spat. I had not swallowed any of the stuff, but the whole inside of my mouth was burning. I took more water, but it did little good. The pain made me shift from foot to foot, and at last I trotted around my cage in agony. The people laughed and pointed. I became angry, furious. I took as big a snoutful of water as I could manage and walked rather casually to the front of my cage. Standing a little way back from the bars so I could hit them all, I forced the water through my snout with all my power.
No one quite fell, but more than twenty people staggered, fell back against each other, choking and blinded for a few seconds. I went to my trough and took on more water, and not a moment too soon, because the crowd had armed itself also. Rocks and sticks came flying at me, empty Cracker Jack boxes, anything. I aimed at the biggest man, knocked him down, and used the rest of the water to spray the whole assembly again. A woman was screaming for help. Others retreated. A man pulled his gun, shot at me and missed. Another gun was being drawn, although the first man who had shot was at once jumped on by another man. A bullet hit me in the shoulder, not going through but rather skimming the surface. A second bullet knocked off the end of my right tusk. With the last of my trough water in my snout, I attacked one of the gunmen squarely in the chest. It should have been enough to break his bones. At any rate he flew backward and knocked a woman down as he fell. Feeling I had won that set-to, in spite of my burning mouth, I withdrew prudently to my sleeping quarters (also of cement) where no bullets could hit me. Three more shots rang out, echoing in empty space. I don’t know what they hit, but they did not hit me.
I could smell blood from my shoulder. I was still so angry, I was snorting instead of breathing, and almost to my own surprise, I found myself barricading the entrance to my sleeping quarters with the bales of hay which lined the place. I pulled the bales down from their stacks against the walls, shoved and kicked them, and with my trunk managed to boost one up on to the top of the heap of eight or nine, thereby closing the doorway except at the very top. This was bulletproof, anyway. But the bullets had ceased. Now I could hear Cliff outside, shouting to the crowd.
“Take it easy there, Chorus Girl!” Cliff’s voice said.
I was familiar with the phrase. But I had never heard the fear, like a shaking, in Cliff’s voice before. The crowd was watching him, of course. Cliff had to show himself powerful, able to control me. This thought plus my dislike of Cliff set me off again, and I butted my head against the barricade I’d made. Cliff had been pulling at the top bale, but now the whole heap fell on him.
The crowd gave a cry, a scream of shock.
I saw Cliff’s legs, his black boots kicking underneath the bales.
A shot sounded, and this time I was hit in the left side. Cliff had a gun in his hand, but it was not his gun that had gone off. Cliff was not moving now. Neither was I. I expected another shot from the crowd, from someone in the crowd.
The crowd only stared back at me. I glared at them, with my mouth slightly open: the inside of my mouth was still burning.
