A Beautiful Truth - Couverture souple

5

What do you see when you look at me.
   The Girdish Institute had its origins in the 1920s, when William
Girdish made a trip to Buenos Aires. He had heard of a large private
zoo owned by a wealthy woman in that city, and it was there that
he saw his first chimpanzees. He was beguiled by them and endeavoured
to learn as much as he could about their nature and habitat.
   He heard stories from the staff and zookeeper and witnessed their
obvious empathy and charming curiosity, and he bonded with one
in particular.
   At dinners in the US he would tell stories from this place, like
the one about the chimp who developed an attraction to one of
the pretty cooks of the household. This chimp would watch her
in the kitchen from his cage with obvious desire, and over time
she grew unsettled by his attention. She asked one of the staff to
erect a barrier to his view, and boards were nailed to the outside of
his cage. The man with the boards who took away the sight of his
beloved was attacked a year later. The chimpanzee had harboured a
grudge all that time, and found an opportunity when the man was
doing repairs to the door of his cage.
   Girdish set about gathering his own collection of chimps and
other primates, bringing them over to one of his properties in
Florida, near Jacksonville. He was a gentleman amateur, the only
son of a land-owning family, and he had property throughout
the South.
   He believed that much could be learned from primates, chimps
in particular, that they were a link to our past and could explain
much of our behaviour. In this respect he was ahead of his time,
and there were few in the world who knew as much about apes
as he did. He travelled and sent envoys to Africa and housed a
growing collection of apes and monkeys in and around the greenhouse,
observatory and staff buildings of that property.
   He established the institute and started a breeding program.
   He developed a philosophy of what the ideal research subject would
be in terms of health, size and character. He and his colleagues
steadily developed tests, both mental and physical, which slowly
confirmed, in demonstrable scientific terms, how closely we were
linked to these creatures.
   When he died in the 1940s he left a large endowment and his
work was carried on. Through the development of breakthrough
drugs the institute attracted funding from the federal government
and from companies around the world.
   The old observatory and staff buildings were kept and it
was here that behavioural studies remained and the field station
developed. The new main building expanded and the biomedical
studies became the lucrative focus of the institute. But the beating
heart for many was the field station.
   The original buildings had an Art Deco quality, soon hidden
by various additions. There were the sleeping quarters, which had
expanded over time, a winter playroom and a large safe area where
cognitive tests took place. There were kitchens, offices, bedrooms,
a garden which supplied some of the produce for the chimps, and
numerous old rooms whose purposes changed over time.
   David Kennedy eventually became director of the field station,
and oversaw its expansion. Since the late 1970s you could say that
this part of the institute mimicked the life of a man. Its early days
were of directionless and unlimited enthusiasm and were shaped
over time by conflict, financial reality and the needs of others. When
David realized his personality, where his true interests lay, the field
station took its present shape. But while curiosity sometimes dies
and old enthusiasms seem foolish, the nature of the field station
prevented it from ever being static, and passion never diminished.
Even when the population settled, nothing was ever settled.
   In vivid memory, his family were Podo, Jonathan, Burke and Mr.
Ghoul. Bootie, Magda, Mama and Beanie. Fifi and her open heart.
All the names he didn’t want to give them and the sadness that he
didn’t want to see.
   David tells his assistants, when they first arrive, that they can
never choose favourites. Observe, but never judge. He knows that
it is an ideal—as if any ape can look without assessment: fruit is
never fruit, it is either ripe or rotten. People are never people.
He had an assistant once whose logs were always coloured by
her distaste for promiscuity. It was never simply Jonathan mounts
Fifi; there was always a hint of morality, a suggestion of wantonness
or assault. He sat her down and said do you have a boyfriend. She
was twenty-nine and had been married for seven years.
   He said when you go home tonight and you find whatever way
you find to encourage your husband to hold you, make sure that
you forgive him.
   His staff have come and gone in numbers. He has grown, he
hopes, more compassionate with age.
   It’s a guideline, a piece of advice that David repeats, despite
himself. Try not to choose favourites, try not to dislike some of
them.
   He brings prospective assistants out to one of the towers and
tests how quickly they can distinguish between the chimps. If
they have that rudimentary skill, he gives them twenty minutes to
observe a group. If the group seems peaceful and pensive and the
kids have fun, a bad observer will say they were peaceful and pensive
and the kids had fun. A good observer will say the alpha slept, as
did two of the females. Male chimp C sat near the moat as if on
guard, and the juveniles alternately rested and played. Male chimp
B, before he lay down, bowed to male chimp A (though asleep).
The females stayed closer to male chimp B as they rested. Female
chimp C would look towards sleeping male chimp B whenever the
juveniles made noise, instead of reprimanding them directly or
looking to the alpha, suggesting a possible shift in power.
   Small things are big, every movement matters, morals blind us
to seeing the bigger picture, and if you don’t have the empathy to
watch for these things, get out of here.
   But, at some level, it really was impossible not to judge. Their
talk over lunch was always about personalities. Who was mean and
what was wonderful.
   Do you have a favourite, David.
   He could rarely think of Podo without imagining some beloved,
long-reigning king.
   Something about Fifi, who weighed two hundred pounds,
made him think of Farrah Fawcett.
   And he had never met a chimpanzee as gentle as Mr. Ghoul.

6

Looee was quiet and still for over a month, waking only to feed
or if he felt Judy moving away. His lips quivered whenever she
put him down, though he was neither feverish nor cold. She knew
he needed the feel of her body and she felt his panic when she
saw him shiver. She rested him on her shoulder when she cooked.
Applesauce, candied carrots, everything warmed by stove, mouth
or hand till it held the heat of a body surprised by love. She crushed
bananas, scooped the purée with the tip of her little finger, felt the
tickle of his pink boy’s tongue as he sucked, the pull inside at her
feet, groin and heart.
   Walt got sick and said I think I caught whatever it was he
caught, and Judy looked after them both. Walt was ever brave
before the wailing train of life’s horrific surprises, but he wasn’t
good with the flu. Judy he said, and nnn he said, and I feel sicker
than, and he rarely finished a sentence. He wondered whether it
was right to be sharing a bed with a chimpanzee and he dreamt of
eating prunes on a wavy sea.
   New life was in the house. Two arms, two legs, grasping fingers,
inquisitive hunger, a shock from a dream that freezes the limbs,
subsidence into adorable sleep, and mouth on skin, he needs me I
need him to need me I need him. I’m tired. She slept.
   She kept the fire burning into May and the house acquired a
sweeter, nuttier smell that was unpleasant to visitors. The bedroom
grew layers of terry cloth and tissue and she kept the bathroom hot
in case Looee needed warmth and wet for his lungs. Walt was hot,
Walt was cold, Walt was grateful and uneasy and finally hungry and
better. He explored the changing house and watched her cook with
their new friend over her shoulder.
   He’ll hold your finger like a baby.
   I know.
   This house is hotter than inside a moose he said. Maybe it’s
time to crack a window.
   The cloud of rheum, the film of incomprehensible memories,
was lifting from Looee’s eyes, and looking down was Judy. The
more his eyes cleared, the more curious and intimate Judy got.
Walt bought some toys like a ball and a doll and a bone. He
wondered what the hairy little guy could do.
   These were the days that Judy, months later, remembered when
she sat on the living room floor and pondered the strangeness of
her life, how none of it seemed strange till now, and now there was
nothing strange, this was her little Looee. She fed him formula, not
plain old milk as Henry Morris had suggested. He was fifty percent
bigger in four months and Dr. Worsley was correct in figuring he
was smaller than normal when he had come to them. He figured he
was possibly a year, year and a half, who knows.
   The loss of a mother and the travel from Africa typically killed
most chimps his age, but Judy’s presence saved him. Questions
naturally occurred to them about where he came from, what
ground, what air, but Henry and the circus had moved on. When
you plant a sapling, sometimes you don’t care where the seed was
from. They decided that as far as Looee was concerned, this was
where he came from, right here.
   He slept in their bed for the first several months. Walt would
sometimes be awakened by Looee running his fingers through his
hair or playing with his lips and trying to pry his mouth open
with those little fingers of his, I’ll be darned. They always woke up
with him in the middle of the bed—he never liked anyone coming
between him and Judy.
   The difference between Looee and a less hairy baby was that
he could move a lot better. He could support his weight, hang on
to things and climb. He never left Judy, but she could usually rest
her arms.
   And he did enjoy a tickle.
   Walt thought back to the laughing chimp in the circus and
figured Looee’s laugh was different. Looee’s laugh was real. You’d
get him on the bed and when you’d wedge your fingers into his
little armpits he smiled with his lower lip more than with his upper
and then he started this little chuckle like the uck in chuckle or the
ick in tickle but softer and Christ it was funny and cute. And he’d
stand up and squeeze your nose then throw himself down again
and away you’d go with more of a tickle on his belly and thighs,
Walt and Judy’s four hands on their little hairy piano.
   He had pale hands, black fingernails, a pale face and feet, and
a little white tuft of hair on his rump that Judy liked to pat before
she put his diaper on. The hair on his body was a little wiry, though
Judy found ways to soften it up. There was a little boy’s body under
there.
   He was squirmy in their bed and they didn’t sleep well for
a long time. Walt set things up for the future. It was a large old
house, with a couple of spare bedrooms that Judy had long ago
decorated with insincere finality. Solid desks for future business,
beds that only existed to display her latest linens. Walt took a big
oak wardrobe, laid it on its back and made a sort of crib.
   They were happy to see that room change. Walt took a
chainsaw to the mattress and resized it so it would fit in the flatlying
wardrobe, and why they thought the walls of a crib would
contain a chimpanzee was part of a daily chorus of I didn’t think
of that.
   He caused quite a fuss later when he had to sleep in his own
bed. He jumped on the dresser and kicked Judy’s makeup, jumped
down and halfway up Walt to hit his chest, and sometimes he
removed his diaper, smeared his mattress and returned with a look
that said you can’t expect me to sleep there it’s disgusting. He would
walk to Judy with his palm up and whimpering, and she was quite
susceptible to that. But Walt prevailed and Looee later loved his
bedroom and bed.
   He hung around Judy’s neck or back throughout the day
watching everything she did. He slept a lot, but wouldn’t sleep
unless she lay near, and Judy cursed the noisy floorboards whenever
she snuck away. His screams when he awoke had a visceral effect
on her—she had no choice but to drop whatever she was doing
because it felt like either the world was ending or his noises would
make it end.
   Sometimes he played on his own, but never beyond the
bounds of whatever room Judy was in and not for very long. He
was a toddler with the agility of an acrobat, so his play was usually
spectacular.
   She had to think of him constantly—that’s what occurred
to her over the years as she looked back; that’s what soon made
him more than a pet. He wasn’t self-sufficient, he always needed
company—not just the presence of bodies, but society; he needed
the emotional engagement of others. There was no denying him.
   You could step over Murphy on your way to doing other things
or tell him to shush if he was barking. With Looee you simply
couldn’t ignore him, and if he was complaining about something
it would have to be addressed with just as much care as with a
child. When Judy first used the vacuum cleaner, Looee screamed
and leapt onto her face. She had to turn it off, show him how the
power button worked and how the hose sucked up dirt. He was in
a heightened emotional state whenever it came out of the closet,
but he was soon able to turn it on, pull it around the house and
vacuum in his own way.
   The truth was that Walt and Judy woke up most mornings
with the happy suspicion that something today would be new.
Despite her tiredness there was a new sense of vitality in Judy,
and as much as she sometimes yearned for peace she couldn’t
imagine returning to their old routines or waking up to days
without these fresh concerns.
   You look rosier in the cheek said Walt. Let me kiss that.
   There was a loss of spontaneity in their lives but it was more of
a shift than a loss. They couldn’t decide out of the blue to drive to
Stowe for dinner or make love on the couch with that surprise of
skin and heart. Looee had an especially uncanny knack for knowing
when they were getting close to each other, sensing the change of
energy between their bodie...