Gerald Durrell - THREE SINGLES TO ADVENTURE

It was half grown, very tame, and it sat there with an aloof and regal expression on its face while we bargained with its owner. The bargaining was protracted, for the owner had noticed the acquisitive gleam in our eyes when we first beheld the beast, but at last the capybara was ours. He was housed in a large, coffin-shaped crate with a wire mesh front that seemed strong enough to withstand any onslaughts he might make upon it. We showered him with choice fruits and grasses, which he accepted with royal condescension, and congratulated ourselves on having acquired such a lovely animal. We gazed at him spellbound while he ate, tenderly pressed a few more mangoes through the bars and went upstairs to sleep. We lay in the dark for a while, talking about our wonderful new specimen, and then eventually dozed off. At about midnight it began.

I was awakened by a most curious noise coming from the garden beneath our window; it sounded like someone playing on a Jew's harp accompanied rather erratically by someone else beating on a tin can. I was lying there listening to it, and wondering what it could be, when I suddenly remembered the capybara. With a cry of 'the capybara's escaping!' I leapt out of bed and fled downstairs to the garden, barefoot and in my pyjamas, closely followed by my drowsy companion. When we reached the garden all was quiet; the capybara was sitting on its haunches, looking down its nose in a superior manner. We had a long argument as to whether or not it was the capybara that had been making the noise; I said it was and Smith said it was not. He insisted that the creature looked too calm and innocent, and I maintained that that was exactly why I thought it was the culprit. The capybara just sat in its moonlit cage and stared through us. There was no repetition of the sound, so we went back to bed, arguing in fierce whispers. No sooner had we settled down than the noise started again, and, if possible, it sounded louder than ever. I got out of bed and peered out of the window. The capybara cage was vibrating gently in the moonlight.

"It is that blasted animal," I said triumphantly.

"What's he doing?" inquired Smith.

"God knows, but we'd better go and stop him or he'll have the whole place awake."

We crept downstairs and from the shelter of a convenient cluster of bushes we surveyed the cage. The capybara was sitting by the wire looking very noble. He would lean forward and place his enormous curved teeth round a strand of wire, pull hard and then release it so that the whole cage front vibrated like a harp. He listened until the noise had died away, and then he raised his large bottom and thumped his hind feet on the tin tray, making a noise like stage thunder. I suppose he was applauding.

"Do you think he's trying to escape?" asked Smith.

"No, he's just doing it because he likes it."

The capybara played another little tune.

"Let's stop him, or he'll wake everyone."

"What can we do?"

"Remove the tin tray," said Smith practically.

"He'll still get that harpsichord effect with the wire."

"Let's cover the front of the cage up," said Smith.

So we removed the tray and covered the front of the cage with sacks, in case it was the moonlight that was making the animal feel musical. He waited until we were in bed before he started twanging again.

"What can we do?" said Smith, distraught.

"Let's go to sleep and pretend we can't hear him," I suggested.

We lay down. The twanging continued. Somewhere a door slammed, feet pattered along the passage and there was a knock at our door.

"Yes?" I inquired.

"Meester Durrell," came a voice from outside, "I think some animal of yours it is escaping. It is making a large row in the garden.

"Is it really?" I asked in surprised tones, raising my voice above the twanging.

"Thanks so much for telling us. We must go and see."

"Yes. It is making row, you know."

"Yes, I can hear it. So sorry you've been troubled," I said sweetly.

The steps pattered off down the passage, and Smith and I looked at one another. I got out of bed and went to the window.

"Shut up," I hissed.

The capybara continued his solo.

"I've got it," said Smith suddenly, "let's take him down to the Museum; the night-watchman can look after him until tomorrow."

This seemed to be the most sensible thing to do, so we got dressed. As we did so two other members of the household came to tell us that one of our animals was escaping. We were obviously not going to be the only ones who would be glad to see the back of the capybara. We went down into the garden, covered the cage with more sacks and then staggered off down the road with it. The capybara was annoyed at being disturbed and showed it by running backwards and forwards along the cage, making it tilt up and down like a see-saw.

It was only half a mile to the Museum grounds, but we had to rest three times on the way, and while we rested the capybara played soothing tunes to us. We had rounded the last corner, and the Museum gates were in sight when we bumped into the policeman.

We all stopped and looked at each other with suspicion. To the policeman it must have looked as though these two dishevelled gentlemen were carrying a coffin through the streets at a time of night when they should have been in bed. He noted that bits of our pyjamas were sticking out from under our clothes, he noted our hunted expressions, and, above all, he noted the coffin we were carrying. Just as he was noticing this the capybara gave a strangled grunt, and the policeman's eyes widened: apparently these ghouls were on their way to bury some unfortunate alive. He had obviously arrived just in the nick of time. He cleared his throat.

"Good night," he said uncertainly, "can I help you?"

At that moment I discovered how difficult it is to explain satisfactorily to a policeman why you are carrying a capybara through the streets at one o'clock in the morning in what appears to be a coffin. I looked blankly at Smith, and he looked back equally blankly. Summoning up all my courage I smiled winningly at the arm of the law.

"Good night, constable. We're just taking a capybara to the Museum," I said, realizing as I did so how very peculiar it sounded. The policeman shared my opinion.

"Taking a what, sir?"

"A capybara."

"What is a capybara?" asked the policeman.

"A sort of rodent," said Smith, who always took it for granted that everyone had some sort of zoological knowledge.

"A kind of animal," I explained hastily.

"Ah," said the policeman with well-simulated interest, "an animal? May I see it, sir?"

We put the cage down and unwound yards of sacking. The policeman shone his torch inside.

"Ah!" he cried, meaning it this time, "a water haas"

"Yes," I said thankfully, "we're taking it to the Museum. It's making too much noise outside our hotel, and we can't sleep."

When it was all explained, and the capybara had twanged musically to add force to our story, the policeman was charming, even helping us carry the cage the last few yards to the Museum and shouting for the watchman. But a deep silence enveloped the Museum, and it soon became apparent that there was no watchman there. Standing round the cage, and raising our voices above the capybara's concerto, we discussed the matter. It was the policeman who found a way out.

"You could take the water haas to the abattoir," he suggested; "I know there is a night-watchman there."

We accepted his advice, and after he had shown us the way to the slaughterhouse we set off, our burden seesawing gently.

To get to our destination we had to pass the boarding house, so we paused for a rest.

"Let's leave him here and go to the slaughterhouse first," I said.

"We don't want to carry him all that way if they won't have him."