Read Online Beatrice and Virgil by Yann Martel - Free Book Online
Authors: Yann Martel
Tags: Fiction, Literary, General, Fiction - General, Psychological, Psychological fiction, Authors, Animals, English Canadian Novel And Short Story, Taxidermists
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sound. We sell, but we also rent mounted specimens. We fix. We attend to what is dirty, dusty, discoloured, damaged, broken, shrunken, chipped, shorn, worn, torn, fallen in, fallen out, missing, afflicted by insects. We clean and dust--dust is the eternal enemy of the taxidermist. We sew back. We comb and brush. We oil antlers and polish tusks and ivory. We repaint and shellac fish. We repair and renew habitat groups and dioramas. There is no detail we overlook. We guarantee everything we do and provide complete after-sale care at a reasonable charge. We are a reputable firm with a long list of satisfied customers, from the most discerning individuals to the most demanding institutions. We are, in a word, a complete, one-stop taxidermy shop."
All said in one go, effortlessly, his arms at his sides, with no tics or twitches to distract, like an actor on a stage. He would do well in his amateur theatre group, Henry thought. He noted the repeated use of we . He wondered if the plural pronoun behind Okapi Taxidermy--we are, we make, we do--was the small-business equivalent of the royal we, meant to create an impression grander, more convincing, than a lonely old man who still had to work for a living.
"That's very impressive. How's business?"
"It's dying. The taxidermy business is a dying business, has been for years, like the materials we work with. No one wants animals anymore, except for a handful of token domesticated species. The wild ones, the real ones, they're all going, if not already gone."
At that moment, listening to his tone of voice and observing the set of his face, Henry got a clue about the man, an insight into his personality: he had no sense of humour, no cheerfulness. He was as serious and sober as a microscope. Henry's nervousness left him. That would be how he would deal with the man: he would stay on his solemn level. Henry wondered about the play the taxidermist had sent him. The contrast couldn't be greater between this over-serious giant and a bantering dialogue about a pear. But sometimes art comes from a secret self. Perhaps all his lightness went into his writing, leaving him drained of it in person. Henry suspected that what he was seeing was the taxidermist's public face.
"I'm sorry to hear that. It's clearly a business you love."
The taxidermist made no reply. Henry looked around. An impulse of pity made him think he should buy a stuffed animal. He had noticed the platypus, tucked away on a shelf, but it wasn't for sale. It was appealingly mounted on a dark wood base, floating two inches above it, webbed feet outstretched, as if the strange little animal were swimming along a riverbed. Henry wanted to touch its bill but refrained. Among the displays of skeletons, there was a remarkable skull. Hovering under a glass dome at the end of a golden rod, it had the appearance of a holy relic. The bones shone bright white, and there was power to that whiteness, as there was to the stare of the large eyeball sockets. Henry made his way back to the front of the store, Erasmus at his side.
"How much are the tigers, out of curiosity?" he asked.
The taxidermist moved to the counter, pulled open a drawer and brought out a notebook. He flipped through some pages.
"The female and the cub, as I said, are from Van Ingen and Van Ingen. In addition to being fine specimens, superbly mounted, they're also antiques. Together with the male, that would be..." The taxidermist cited a figure.
Henry whistled in his head. At that price, if those animals had wheels, they'd be a sports car.
"And the cheetah?"
The notebook was again consulted. "It sells for..." and the taxidermist stated another figure.
Two wheels this time: a sleek, powerful motorcycle.
Henry looked at a few more animals.
"This is all fascinating. I'm glad I came. But I don't want to keep you any longer."
"Wait."
Henry froze. He wondered if all the animals had also tensed.
All said in one go, effortlessly, his arms at his sides, with no tics or twitches to distract, like an actor on a stage. He would do well in his amateur theatre group, Henry thought. He noted the repeated use of we . He wondered if the plural pronoun behind Okapi Taxidermy--we are, we make, we do--was the small-business equivalent of the royal we, meant to create an impression grander, more convincing, than a lonely old man who still had to work for a living.
"That's very impressive. How's business?"
"It's dying. The taxidermy business is a dying business, has been for years, like the materials we work with. No one wants animals anymore, except for a handful of token domesticated species. The wild ones, the real ones, they're all going, if not already gone."
At that moment, listening to his tone of voice and observing the set of his face, Henry got a clue about the man, an insight into his personality: he had no sense of humour, no cheerfulness. He was as serious and sober as a microscope. Henry's nervousness left him. That would be how he would deal with the man: he would stay on his solemn level. Henry wondered about the play the taxidermist had sent him. The contrast couldn't be greater between this over-serious giant and a bantering dialogue about a pear. But sometimes art comes from a secret self. Perhaps all his lightness went into his writing, leaving him drained of it in person. Henry suspected that what he was seeing was the taxidermist's public face.
"I'm sorry to hear that. It's clearly a business you love."
The taxidermist made no reply. Henry looked around. An impulse of pity made him think he should buy a stuffed animal. He had noticed the platypus, tucked away on a shelf, but it wasn't for sale. It was appealingly mounted on a dark wood base, floating two inches above it, webbed feet outstretched, as if the strange little animal were swimming along a riverbed. Henry wanted to touch its bill but refrained. Among the displays of skeletons, there was a remarkable skull. Hovering under a glass dome at the end of a golden rod, it had the appearance of a holy relic. The bones shone bright white, and there was power to that whiteness, as there was to the stare of the large eyeball sockets. Henry made his way back to the front of the store, Erasmus at his side.
"How much are the tigers, out of curiosity?" he asked.
The taxidermist moved to the counter, pulled open a drawer and brought out a notebook. He flipped through some pages.
"The female and the cub, as I said, are from Van Ingen and Van Ingen. In addition to being fine specimens, superbly mounted, they're also antiques. Together with the male, that would be..." The taxidermist cited a figure.
Henry whistled in his head. At that price, if those animals had wheels, they'd be a sports car.
"And the cheetah?"
The notebook was again consulted. "It sells for..." and the taxidermist stated another figure.
Two wheels this time: a sleek, powerful motorcycle.
Henry looked at a few more animals.
"This is all fascinating. I'm glad I came. But I don't want to keep you any longer."
"Wait."
Henry froze. He wondered if all the animals had also tensed.
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