The City Jungle (8 page)

Chapter Eleven

A Fool

H
OME AGAIN IN HIS GLASS HOUSE, Peter was overcome by that exhaustion to which at times he was prone.

He rolled listlessly on the floor, and creeping limply to his bed, lay still. His face, his shrewd eyes exhibited a sorrow that was shocking.

The stag, his ride, everything seemed forgotten. Eliza knew these attacks; they filled her with anxiety. She sat rather dejected after the failure of her efforts to interest Peter in some grapes or a piece of orange.

Suddenly she started. An elderly gentleman was standing beside her, saying, “Perhaps you should give Peter a glass of red wine.”

She rose. “How did you get in here? It is forbidden.”

“Forbidden?” replied the stranger. “Pardon, I did not know that.”

Eliza looked at him and she felt less afraid.

The gentleman was dressed entirely in black, there was black crepe on his hat, and on his pale and kindly face a shadow of deep melancholy. Eliza could not recall where she had seen this face.

“No, it is not allowed,” she said, but her voice was now mild and somewhat bewildered, “and I must ask you . . .” She hesitated.

The stranger looked at her as if each of her words made him curious.

She began again. “If . . . if everybody were allowed in here, just imagine . . .”

“But my son visited little Peter so often,” said the gentleman. He was silent and seemed to be struggling with something that prevented him from speaking. Then Eliza realized that this was Rainer Ribber's father.

Tears came into her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She took her handkerchief and wiped them away, but fresh tears kept welling out.

The gentleman went on speaking. “Rainer loved the little fellow so dearly. . . .”

Eliza was sobbing aloud, crying into her pocket-­handkerchief. She could not utter a word.

“He loved all the creatures here in the zoo very dearly,” his father continued.

Another silence.

“He loved all creatures everywhere,” said his father with a sigh. “Not only the prisoners in here, but those that live outside in freedom.” He interrupted himself, repeating with a strange emphasis, “Freedom! But it was these poor captives that possessed his whole heart.”

“Oh,” cried Eliza, “he was such a dear fellow.”

“Even as a little boy,” Rainer's father went on, talking to himself. “We had canaries, but he wouldn't stand for it. Even as a little boy. The idea of keeping a poor little bird in a tiny cage! Rainer would be quite filled with despair when he saw it.” He sighed again. “Yes, yes, the child . . . the child. Perhaps he was extravagant in some ways, but I am no longer any judge, for he brought us up, brought up his own parents to feel as he did.”

“He was such a nice, likeable lad,” said Eliza again, softly.

“He found you, too, extraordinarily sympathetic, Miss Eliza.”

Eliza dried her tears and even tried to smile. ­Rainer's father knew her name. It was almost a kind of bond between them, she felt.

He pointed to the chimpanzee who was asleep in his bed, his hands over his face. It looked as if Peter were pressing back some dull pain or heavy sorrow in order not to suffer unbearably.

“He always pitied that poor little fellow so much. . . .”

“Pitied him?” Eliza would not have contradicted for anything. “But nobody needs to pity Peter, he gets along very well. He's happy.” She waxed enthusiastic.

“Do you think so?” answered Rainer's father. “You are devoted to him, nobody can deny that, and my son thought so much of you—but just look at the little creature now, does he look very happy?”

Eliza glanced at him, and for a moment she was taken aback. “But Peter is asleep,” she objected. “You can't really tell. . . .”

“Perhaps you are right,” said Rainer's father very slowly, “perhaps, but I am accustomed to accept my son's judgment in such matters. And it seems to me that my son was right. You know, he always used to say that that little sleeper was as disturbing as a hopeless cry.”

Then it occurred to Eliza that Rainer had visited the cage that last evening to see Peter asleep. She averted her head.

Beside Peter's bed, Rainer's father was talking in a low voice. “What it is, I don't know, but now I understand my son. I am very close to him now, very close. An animal like this reveals himself very clearly when he's asleep. It is not as if Peter were grieving at being far from his tropical forest, without brothers or sisters, alone in an artificial existence. He has amusements, of course, he has everything possible. But everything possible is only a substitute and no substitute can ever make up to him for nature.”

Eliza's eyes flew open.

“He can't tell you what he lacks, poor speechless Peter,” Rainer's father continued, turning to her. “He can't explain it even to himself. But he feels that the most important thing of all is lacking. What I call—I heard it first from my son—the roots of his existence. The nourishing sources of his vital energies are lacking.”

Eliza shrugged her shoulders. “Your son was a dear fellow, a very dear fellow, but he was always extravagant.”

“You are right!” his father agreed. “You are right! The rest of us always call a soul like Rainer's extravagant.” He began to soliloquize. “But everything noble, everything merciful, every liberating force was brought into the world by people who were extravagant just as you were extravagant, my Rainer! Where would the world be today were it not for the people we call extravagant? Can you deny,” he asked, touching her arm with a finger she barely felt, “that the premonition of an early death is hovering over this chimpanzee? Can you deny that this chimpanzee has submitted with perfect gentleness, with infinite patience, with a resignation of which few humans would have been capable?”

“What do you mean? An early death? For Peter?”

Rainer's father became harsh. “You know just as well as everybody else that chimpanzees, like other captives, are subject to premature death.”

“I'm doing everything,” Eliza protested in terror, “everything I can. . . .”

“Nobody questions that,” interrupted Rainer's father. “You make a real effort. Of course. So does the curator. So do many of the keepers. Of course they do. But first you capture all these creatures, these innocent unsuspecting helpless creatures. Then you make them suffer the torture of transportation. Then you subject them to the torture of being caged. And after all that, you begin to be kind to them.” He laughed, a short sharp laugh. “Oh, this
garden,
this
garden
. . .”

Eliza stared at him bewilderedly. “Good heavens, you mean that this garden should not exist?”

“Oh yes, this garden has to exist! Too many ­people demand it, declare that it is useful, instructive, a cultural necessity, a joy to young and old! Too many ­people maintain that! But not I, not I! As for me, I have not even dared say that there never will be any true culture until people no longer find joy in caged animals, there will be no true culture until people no longer think of this garden as a place of enjoyment, but as a place of horror. . . .”

Eliza shrank back. The strange gentle old man, who really did not seem strange to her at all, Rainer's father, seemed to be insane.

He seemed, too, to read this feeling on her face. “No, Eliza,” he said, “I am not insane. I did not know the truth about this garden until I wandered through it with my son's farewell letter and recalled his words, which are verified so terribly at every turn.”

“A farewell letter?” Eliza trembled.

Rainer's father nodded silently.

“Did he know then . . . ?” she asked, and began to tremble so violently that she had to support herself against the bars of the cage.

Rainer's father bowed his head and was silent for a long time. His head still bowed, he began to speak at last in an infinitely weary voice.

“‘Man is tormented and torments the animals.' That is what he wrote in his letter. I know it by heart, I've read it here so many times every day. Oh yes, the letter came, but it was all over by then. . . .” He could not go on.

“Terrible,” murmured Eliza.

“Yes indeed!” He raised his voice a little. “'Tis true 'tis terrible, and terrible 'tis true.” Then he added the incomprehensible word “Polonius.”

“He also wrote: ‘Can I say as other men say—
What do I care?
No, it's impossible!' And he wrote: ‘I feel all the sufferings of God's creatures, but all their sufferings are too much for me!' Too much, poor boy, poor dear boy!” His father was weeping with quiet, strangely dry sobs, that shook his body and forced a kind of twittering whistle from his breast. But presently he recovered his composure. Simply, like a man who has no part in what he relates, though his face was ashen-gray, he continued. “‘If none of the beasts of prey will take me,' he wrote, ‘and the beasts of prey are unhappy and broken, if none of them will take me, I will go to the elephant. He has a little pet that he protects, and can be made very angry. He is strong.' Yes, those are his words. ‘I will give myself to him as a sacrifice, an atonement for everything, for all. . . .'”

“No!” cried Eliza.

“‘For everything, for all,'” repeated Rainer's father. He laughed, a soft laugh. “A fool!” nodding emphatically as if in affirmation of his judgment. “Yes, indeed, a fool! A fool whom God has punished! Everybody will say so! That is why the letter must remain secret! Shh! Shh!” He laid his index finger on his pale thin lips. “I'd laugh myself,” he tittered, “even I, if he weren't my son.” His titter twisted into a stifled sob. “My only son, who made me what I am. . . .”

Without another word he departed.

Chapter Twelve

Father and Son

T
HE EARLY MORNING SUN ILLUMINATED the orangutan's house. The bright May sun. Strong, warm, bursting buds.

Yppa sat holding Tikki, her baby, at her breast. The bright light of the sun penetrated to Yppa with diminished force through the panes in the glazed roof and walls.

Inside it was warm and humid from the partially throttled steam. In this way an effort was made to imitate and find a substitute for the humidity of the jungle. But the empty room, fenced off by solid bars, did not in the least resemble the jungle, and in spite of its size, remained just a narrow cage. The sole effect of the moist air was to prevent Yppa and Tikki from being cold. Other­wise the air which was sealed in had nothing in common with the tropical warmth of their native forests.

But the sun . . . Yes, Yppa recalled a piercing dazzling light, a vast fire which had meant sun to her in days long past. What was this feeble glimmer to her now?

But Yppa no longer noticed the difference. Some sense of it remained in her nerves, pulsed in her blood, shrouded her whole existence. But this feeling itself was now so deeply shrouded that she hardly ever suffered because of it.

She had no thought but for Tikki whom she was holding in her arms. She lived only for Tikki. She was happy that this permitted her to forget the feelings in her heart.

From time to time she thought of Zato, her companion in this cage, her mate, Tikki's father.

He had disappeared during the night on which Tikki had been born.

Yppa guessed that he was close at hand, for in the course of the days and nights she had occasionally caught Zato's scent.

She did not know what had happened to him, and worried about it now and again, but not for long. Her whole attention was centered on the little creature at her breast. But whenever she imagined the meeting between Zato and Tikki she trembled with fear.

At present she was sitting in a careless posture, letting her glance rove dreamily here and there as the baby suckled. Always, when she could feel the little thing's diminutive lips at her breast, she passed into this twilight state and was soothed to the point where she might be said to be happy.

That was Vasta's impression, too. She crouched in the tiny crack where she always sat. Yppa had never yet noticed the mouse nor had Vasta ever ventured to address Yppa.

She was afraid of the mother orang's hands, those terrible hands that looked so human. She trembled at the sight of those fingers that could grip so cleverly, and would certainly be able to reach into Vasta's crack. But today her dark little beady eyes were fastened curiously on Yppa. Vasta's cobwebby but rigid whiskers vibrated nervously as, at last, summoning all her courage, she finally asked Yppa a question. “Are you happy?”

Yppa had heard apparently, as a slight twitch of her features showed. But she did not answer.

Vasta waited a while. “I saw how you despaired,” she whispered. “And I felt so sorry, so terribly sorry for you.”

The mother orang fixed her glance on the glass roof as she covered Tikki with her hands. She seemed to hear nothing.

“I watched you so long,” the mouse warmed up to her subject. “So long. I know that I am as nothing compared to you, that a blow from your finger could crush me to death, but I felt such pity . . .” She stopped short, terrified.

The inner wall had been pushed back noiselessly.

Zato entered the cage. Huge, powerful, his manner was unfathomable and mysterious.

Yppa did not move.

Even Vasta, who was overpowered by curiosity, did not stir from her place.

The inner door was opened still wider, disappeared in the wall. Once more the entire cage was open to view.

With his arms Zato seized the bare branches of the strong dead tree and swung himself forward until he stood before Yppa. He looked at her. There may have been tenderness in his eyes and manner. Only he himself could know—though perhaps Yppa divined it too.

She did not stir. But she lowered her glance.

Zato sat down in front of her. Perfectly still. He remained in that position for an hour, two hours.

It was too long for restless little Vasta, and she slipped away. She felt somewhat offended, for she had never been so snubbed in all her life.

Zato sat for hours until Yppa gathered courage to look into her mate's eyes. Then she was no longer afraid for Tikki or herself.

They remained thus for a long time, facing each other, deaf to the keeper's allurements, as indifferent to the proffered fruit and tidbits as if they had been blind.

Zato picked up some of the straw that covered the floor and let the wisps slide between his fingers aimlessly.

Yppa did the same, but only with one hand. The other held Tikki. He was asleep.

At last, toward midday, when the house containing their cage was deserted, Zato picked up one of the bananas that had been tossed in and offered it to Yppa with a slow, almost solemn gesture.

Slowly and solemnly Yppa accepted the luscious fruit.

Then Tikki awoke and clambered up on his mother's shoulder, awkward and childish. He turned his old man's face toward Zato and immediately an expression of unbounded astonishment passed over it.

Cautiously Zato reached for him. He took him from his mother who surrendered him quietly. Holding the thin little body reclining in his hands, Zato bent over it and fondled Tikki carefully, but with passionate devotion.

In a few moments Zato got up, holding the little thing in one hand close to his face; with the other he seized a branch and in one enormous swing reached the farther, most distant corner of the cage.

Yppa did not move but her constantly watchful glance followed every step and gesture Zato made.

He sat in his corner turning Tikki round and round at arm's length as one examines a piece of cloth.

This game lasted a long time. Tikki, not understanding it at all, nevertheless seemed not to mind in the least and readily surrendered himself to his father's hands, trusting Zato who again held him close to his face when Tikki stretched his little arms and tried to reach him.

Of course Tikki grew restless after a while. He was hungry and wanted his mother. Zato would not let him go.

Yppa noticed that the little one was hungry. She got up and went to him. Before she could reach him Zato sprang up and swung past her to the other corner of the cage.

His action was perfectly gentle and he showed no sign of ill-temper or anger. But his manner bespoke absolute determination. He did not want to give Tikki back.

For a little while Yppa did not disturb him. Then she approached again. At her very first step Zato changed his place, circled around Yppa and crouched as far away as possible in a corner.

This was repeated several times. The gigantic orangu­tans kept circling restlessly around their cage, constantly eluding one another. Both perfectly serious, imperturbable, almost solemn.

The afternoon visitors watched these proceedings with amusement and took them for a game of teasing.

Once Tikki looked over Zato's shoulder at Yppa and stretched out his thin little arms to her longingly. Zato covered the little one's head with his soft, powerful hand, hid Tikki in his breast, against his neck and fled into another corner.

Everybody laughed.

“A family idyll,” they said.

But it was no idyll.

When by strategem they had succeeded in separating Zato from Yppa the night before the birth, he too had known what hours of pain lay before her. They were closely bound to one another in expectancy, ­anxiety, fear and hope. Suddenly Zato found himself alone and he was very much upset.

Of one thing he was certain: Yppa had no part in it. One thing he sensed quite clearly, Yppa was just as much in the power of whatever force had brought them here and kept them captive as he.

His spirit was so broken by what he had been through that he felt all resistance to be vain. He had become too timid and weakly to feel rage or anger. Gentle and submissive, he sat all day long alone and waited.

From time to time he believed that all was lost, and that he would never see Yppa again. Then he was plunged in melancholy.

But there were moments, too, when Tikki's soft squeakings reached Zato's listening ear. That encouraged him again and he waited more patiently.

Patience, heroic endless patience never forsook the orangutans.

At last they permitted Zato to enter the big cage again. He went from the small cage where he had been lured and driven and where he was isolated by a partition from Yppa, back into the large cage. The hole that had been closed so long was again opened. Zato immediately slipped through. But then there was that iron door that divided the big cage in two. Zato confronted it, trembling, tense, did not stir from the spot, staring incessantly at the coffee-brown iron surface. Then that pitiless obstacle too disappeared without a trace, and Zato saw Yppa, saw for the first time his son.

Now he had seized him, now he had taken Tikki to himself, now he was filled with just one purpose—come what might, they would never again separate him from Tikki, never again. He would let no one hold Tikki but himself, he would not let him out of his arms for a ­single moment.

Yppa finally gave up trying to reach Zato directly. She did not for a moment consider an open struggle with him. She knew that Zato was the stronger. Moreover her instinct told her that Tikki would be in ter­rible danger if she attempted to seize him by force.

So she began to draw close to Zato very slowly, hardly perceptibly, as she thought. But Zato saw her. He always let her approach to within a certain distance and then by retreating showed her how futile it was.

Yppa sat down and buried her face in her hands in desperation.

“If only night would come! If only we were alone!” thought Zato.

But they were not alone.

Twilight settled slowly down and the visitors had to leave the orangutans' house and the zoo.

Nevertheless Zato and Yppa were still not alone.

The keeper had noticed some time before what was going on and had already summoned the curator. The two men were standing in front of the cage.

“Be a nice fellow,” the curator coaxed, “be nice, eh? You're such a nice fellow, aren't you, and you love your little son so much, don't you? Anybody can see how much you love him. But just remember that the little one can't live on love. He's hungry. He must go to his mother. Be a nice fellow. Let the baby go to his mother. . . .”

The curator stopped and waited a little while before beginning again. He spoke a long time in a very tender voice.

Zato's distrust increased with every word that he heard but could not understand.

He turned his back on the two men outside the cage, turned his face to the wall in a corner and waited.

“If we could use a noose on the old fellow,” began the keeper.

“Impossible!” the curator replied. “He'd injure the young one seriously if he didn't kill him.” To the ­keeper's questioning glance he replied, “Not intentionally, of course. Only in his first struggles, when he felt the noose, or by some accidental twist . . .”

“If we could hold his hands . . .” the keeper began again.

“Can't be done.” The curator dismissed it with a wave of his hand. “It would be all right, if we were sure of succeeding at the first try. But who is going to ­guarantee me that?”

He walked to the door. “Remove every bit of fruit from the cage and watch carefully while you're doing it, but be quite calm about it, Andreas.”

With that he left. Meanwhile Andreas cautiously removed the grapes, oranges and bananas from the straw with a long-handled shovel.

When the curator again visited the orangutans' house, Zato had turned around and sat, leaning against the bars, with Tikki clasped under his chin, apparently plunged in thought. Tikki dangled, completely exhausted and only half-conscious, from his father's hands. Zato noticed everything. His drowsy appearance was mere simulation. Never had his distrust been so intently watchful as at that moment. But he was hungry and his stomach was caving in for lack of nourishment.

The curator was carrying a bunch of fresh bananas.

Without saying a word, he went up to the bars and handed Zato one of the yellow fruits. He knocked lightly on the iron bar with it and held up the banana.

“Ah, why not eat it?” thought Zato. “Yes, eat it, then we'll be left alone, and then . . .”

He stretched out his arm and, seizing the banana, peeled it with his fingers and teeth. Devouring it with one gulp, he again stretched out his arm with a mute demand that meant “More!” He ate a second, a third.

Suddenly there was no more strength in his arm, it dropped almost before he could raise it, as if it were paralyzed. Even the hand that held Tikki was relaxed and dropped down. Zato's head sank upon his breast. His whole body slumped down, and slid from the wall against which it had been leaning. Zato lay outstretched in the straw, unconscious.