Yann Martel - Beatrice and Virgil

"It's not like that."

"THE GUY'S A CREEP! DID YOU SEE THE WAY HE WAS LOOKING AT ME?"

"Why are you shouting at me? People always look at pregnant women. And what does it matter to you who I hang out with? I like his store. It-"

"IT'S A FUCKING FUNERAL PARLOUR! YOU'RE SPENDING YOUR TIME WITH DEAD STUFFED ANIMALS AND A SLEAZY OLD MAN!"

"Would you rather I spend my time in a bar?"

"THAT'S NOT THE POINT!"

"Will you stop shouting at me?"

"IT'S THE ONLY WAY YOU'LL LISTEN!"

And so it went, a full-blown row while bags full of baby things lay around them.

The next morning, Henry left early for his music lesson. Events conspired to improve his mood. First, his clarinet teacher surprised him with a gift.

"I can't accept this," Henry said.

"What are you talking about? It's from a good friend, an old student. He hasn't used it for a century. He wanted to get rid of it. I got it for practically nothing. What's the point of the thing never being used?"

"I'd like to pay you for it."

"Never! Over my dead body. You'll pay me by playing it beautifully."

Henry was holding in his hands the loveliest Albert system clarinet.

"And I think you're ready to try some Brandwein," his teacher added. "We'll start today."

Maybe my heavy black ox is starting to take off, Henry thought. He was playing all the time, after all. Two tricks helped him. The first was to devote a corner of his apartment exclusively to music playing, with the stand set up, the sheet music in order, the clarinet clean, and a cup in place in which to soak his reeds in warm water. The second was to practice often, but only in short bursts, no more than fifteen minutes. He usually practiced just before a commitment he couldn't miss. That way, if he played well, he stopped regretfully and eager to come back to it, and if he played poorly, he was forced to give up before dejection and exasperation had him wanting to throw the clarinet out the window. With this arrangement, he was practicing three, four times a day.

He had two faithful spectators: Mendelssohn, who was patiently fascinated in the way only cats can be, and the monkey skull, which he had set on the chimney mantel nearby. Their round eyes, the cat's and the skull's, were always on him when he played. Erasmus, the Philistine, would whine and howl, so Henry had to lock him in another room, usually with Sarah.

The weather also soothed Henry. It was a Sunday that was gloriously living up to its pagan name, a bold rebel burst of warm weather that announced the impending vanquishing of winter. Music was escaping from doors and windows that at long last could be left open, and everyone in the city was parading in the streets. Henry arrived early at the cafe to have a light lunch before his appointment with the taxidermist. A smart thing too, as the place was packed. He got a table right next to the wall, one chair in the sun, one in the shade. He had Erasmus as usual, but he didn't have his normal zip. The dog lay quietly in the shade of the table.

The taxidermist arrived exactly at two, as punctual as a soldier.

"Sunlight, warm wonderful sunlight!" Henry said expansively, his arms open wide.

"Yes," was the taxidermist's full reply.

"Which seat would you like?" Henry asked, rising a little to indicate that he was willing to move.

The taxidermist took the free seat, the one in the shade, without saying a word. Henry settled back. Outside of the confines of his store, the taxidermist looked out of place. He was overdressed considering the warm weather. When the waiter came over, Henry noticed that he addressed the question "What can I get you?" only to him and not to the taxidermist. And the taxidermist wasn't looking at the waiter, either. Henry ordered a latte with a poppy seed pastry.

"And you?" Henry asked.

"I'll have a black coffee," the taxidermist said, staring at the tabletop.

The waiter left without saying a word.

Whether it had started with him not liking them or them not liking him, it was clear that by now the dislike was mutual. It was not hard to imagine that if there was a street association, the fancy bridal store owner, the natty jeweller, the sophisticated restaurateur, the hip cafe owner and the others would stand on one side of issues, while the old taxidermist, the man who had trucks bringing him the carcasses of dead animals, the man who never smiled or laughed, would stand on the other side. Henry didn't know what the issues were, but there would be issues, that was for sure. Sundays, rainy days, every day, politics gets into everything.

"How are you?"

"Fine."

Henry took a breath and put a firm lid on his high spirits. He would get only monosyllables out of the man if he didn't play it his way. One thing was certain: he wasn't going to mention the previous day's awkward visit with his wife.

"I was thinking," said Henry. "You describe Virgil in your play. You also need to describe Beatrice."

"I do."

"I was thinking that because I saw a donkey a few days ago."

"Where did you see a donkey?"

"At the zoo. I went on my own."

The taxidermist nodded, though without much interest.

"I thought of you when I saw it," Henry continued. "I had a good look at it. You know what I noticed?"

"What?" From the inside breast pocket of his coat, the taxidermist pulled out a pen and a notepad.

"I noticed that a donkey has an appealing terrestrial solidity-it's a good, solid animal-yet its limbs are surprisingly slim. It's as firmly yet lithely connected to the earth as a birch tree. And such lovely, round, compact hooves. And the legs tuck directly under the animal when it's standing still. When it's walking, the stride is dainty and short-stepped. The proportions of the head-the slim ears, the dark eyes, the nose, the mouth, the length of the snout-are very satisfying. The lips are strong and agile. The crunching and grinding sound a donkey makes when it's eating is very soothing to listen to. And its braying is as frank and tragic as a sob."

"That's all very true," the taxidermist said, jotting things down in his notepad.

"Some have a cross in their hair along the back and across the shoulders, exactly like a Christian cross."

"Yes. Coincidence." The taxidermist did not write that detail down.

"So what do they do, Beatrice and Virgil?"

"What do you mean?"

"What do they do in the play? What happens?"

"They talk."

"About what?"

"About many things. I have a scene with me right here. It takes place after they've gone off to look for food and each is afraid of having lost the other. Just after Beatrice goes off to find Virgil, Virgil comes back."

He looked around warily at the other tables. No one was paying them any attention. The taxidermist pulled out of his breast pocket some folded sheets. Henry thought he was finally going to have something to read. Instead, the taxidermist unfolded them in front of his face, leaned forward in his seat and cleared his throat. Even here, in public, he was going to read aloud. What a control freak, Henry thought, exasperated. The taxidermist started in a low voice:

"Virgil always has a sore back. And Beatrice always has a sore neck," the taxidermist informed Henry. "It's the stress. And she has a limp. The limp is explained later."

The waiter approached their table. The taxidermist stopped reading and held his papers under the table. The waiter placed their coffees and Henry's pastry on the table.