Jon Bilbao - Still the Same Man

The chimpanzee was indeed very relaxed. He’d slowly curled into himself, and now his chin was resting on his chest. He looked like he was just about to fall asleep. His hands were resting on his knees with his palms facing up, allowing the others to appreciate how extraordinarily long his fingers were.

“I thought you were Manco and Beluga, two friends of ours who come here sometimes.”

“What’s the monkey called?” asked the professor’s wife.

“Gagarin. Like the astronaut.”

“Gagarin.” She repeated.

“That’s right. It’s the name they gave him in the circus. At first he didn’t much like it. Me neither. But we’ve both gotten used to it. Isn’t that right, Gagarin?”

The chimpanzee threw him a sleepy glance then closed his eyes again.

“You worked in a circus? What did you do?” she wanted to know.

“That was a long time ago, ma’am,” said the man. “Gagarin did what monkeys do. I cleaned and did a little of everything.”

“Did you act? Can you do anything?”

“Darling,” said the professor. “Don’t bother the man.”

The stranger laughed, a sort of broken snort through his nose. The kind of laugh you could easily mistake for an irritated sigh. He stopped stroking the chimpanzee and offered him the half onion.

“Here, buddy.”

Gagarin opened his eyes, grabbed the onion slowly, and took a bite. He had enormous, yellow fangs. They could hear him chewing.

“No, ma’am, I didn’t act. I wouldn’t have known where to start.”

“Did you look after Gagarin?”

“That I did do, yes. And I liked looking after him a lot. We became real good friends.”

“Did you rub him down with onions?”

The man laughed again.

“Hear that, Gagarin? This good lady is asking if I used to rub you down. No. I learned that later on.”

“Did you escape together from the circus?”

The answer took so long in coming that they all thought he wasn’t going to give one. The man petted the chimpanzee, who was polishing off his half onion.

“Those sons of bitches told us they weren’t earning enough money and that they were going to sell to the animals. So we left.”

“Gagarin looks very tired.”

“He is, ma’am. Gagarin’s no spring chicken, and we’ve walked a long way today.”

Just like his owner’s, the monkey’s face was covered with wrinkles. The lines of his face sunk downward, as if it were collapsing, sliding off in sheer exhaustion. His eyes were watering.

“And he seems very sad,” the professor’s wife added.

The stranger nodded slowly.

“You’re right about that. We’re both real sad. Isn’t that right, my friend?”

“Why are you sad?” Joanes interjected.

“Gagarin’s lost his girl. She escaped three days ago. The two of us have been looking for her ever since.”

Joanes reacted without surprise. He’d already noticed some moments earlier that Gagarin’s collar was exactly the same as the one worn by the chimpanzee he hit.

“How did she escape?”

“Lolita was very smart. And a bit naughty, too. She worked out how to get her chain off.”

The man stopped short and gave his pet a few pats on the back.

“I’m sorry, Gagarin. I mean she is ver y smart.”

The monkey gazed into the distance with what they all understood to be a pining look.

“Are we to understand that this Lolita is also a chimpanzee?” asked the professor.

“That’s correct,” answered the stranger.

And then he asked, “Do you mind if I make use of the fire, friends?”

“No. I guess not,” replied Joanes.

From the odds and ends hanging from his backpack, the man picked out a grease-incrusted metal grill with four little support legs. He also took a pan, which he filled with water from the plastic jerry can that he was using as a canteen. Next he delved around in the backpack and took out a packet of instant soup. Carrying all of this, he moved over by the fire. He fueled it with more wood, placed the grill over the flames and the pot on top of the grill, and then sat down to wait for the water to boil. The chimpanzee stayed where he was, still linked to his master by the chain and dozy after the massage and his frugal dinner.

Joanes studied the stranger. He was an old man, or almost old. He could have been any age between fifty and seventy; his disheveled appearance made it hard to tell. Not only was his face covered in wrinkles, it also had fresh cuts and scars and infected mosquito bites on it. Two wide, gray bags hung from under his eyes. He watched the flame intensely. He looked as though he could’ve happily sat there in silence for the rest of the night.

“What do you three do?” the professor’s wife asked him. “What do you do with your monkey friends?”

“I don’t understand, ma’am.”

“What she means,” Joanes clarified, “is what do you do for a living.”

“We do the odd show for the tourists. Things we picked up in the circus. We earn a little cash that way.”

Joanes looked at the chimpanzee, who was dozing on the floor with his legs curled up. Just like the monkey he’d hit, this one had lost some hair on several parts of his body, and in other parts the hair was gray. He was a sorry sight. Old and weary. You could see his ribs. Joanes couldn’t picture him dressed up in a tutu or a clown’s hat, scampering up streetlamps and capering about for the entertainment of tourists, who could have their picture taken with him for a few more pesos afterward, as a keepsake.

He could, however, imagine him wandering around Yucatán alongside his lady companion and his keeper. The two monkeys, each linked to their master by a chain. Walking ahead of the man, pulling him along if he was tired, looking out for any small morsel of food. And if they found something, no matter how hungry they were, the monkeys had to give it to their master, who would decide between eating it himself or leaving it to them. And they’d be wise to offer it to him first, because it didn’t take much of an imagination to guess that the man’s cane wasn’t just a prop but also served as an agonizing weapon to keep them in check.

He imagined, too, the chimpanzees being forced to steal on behalf of their master, sneaking into houses through windows and making off with whatever they could. And he imagined them searching for larvae and worms under fallen tree trunks and rocks at night while their master slept, and poking sticks into anthills and putting whatever they caught in their mouths. And he also imagined them hugging one another for warmth and comfort, doing their best not to make a sound with the chains so their master wouldn’t wake up and start beating them.

“Where are you from?” asked the professor. “Mississippi? Louisiana?”

The man gave him a long, blank look.

“Tuscaloosa, Alabama,” he answered, his accent suddenly twice as strong.

“And how long have you lived in Mexico?”

“A lifetime, my friend.”

Letting a few seconds pass to show that he appreciated the weight of this answer, the professor continued his interrogation.

“And you and your. . colleagues usually work in this area?”

“On the coast. Where the tourists are.”

“In winter, too?”

“There are always tourists here.”

“I understand. Fewer during the hurricanes, isn’t that so?” said the professor, pointing to the boarded up windows, behind which the wind continued to rage. “Then the tourists leave. We leave. You might have already guessed.”

“Guessed what?”

“That we’re tourists.”

“Yes. I’d guessed as much.”

“Don’t you want to know why we’re here?”

“None of my business.”

The water in the pot had begun to boil, and the man poured in the instant soup. He pulled out a spoon from one of his pockets, rubbed it with the edge of his shirt, and stirred the mixture to dissolve the lumps. Then he took the pot with his bare hand without showing the slightest sign of pain, despite the fact that it must have been piping hot. He blew on the meager soup and took a sip. His wrinkles seemed to smoothen a little.