Yann Martel - The High Mountains of Portugal

Amidst a swirl of medical terms, after the waxing and waning of hope over every treatment, after the twisting, groaning, and sobbing, after the incontinence and the vanishing of all flesh, his beautiful Clara lies in a hospital bed, wearing a horrible green hospital gown, her eyes glazed and half-shut, her mouth open. She convulses, a rattle comes from her chest, and she dies.

He becomes a spectre on Parliament Hill.

One day he’s speaking in the Senate. A fellow senator has turned and is looking up at him with a scrutiny that is more intense than simple interest should warrant. Why are you looking at me like that? he thinks. What’s the matter with you? If he leans forward and blows into his colleague’s face, his breath will have the effect of a blowtorch and the skin of his face will peel off. It’ll be a grinning skull that will be looking up at him. That will deal with your stupid expression .

His reverie is interrupted by the Speaker of the Senate, who says, “Will the honourable member continue on the topic at hand, or…?”

The trailing off of the Speaker’s voice is significant. Peter looks down at his papers and realizes that he has no idea what he’s been talking about — no idea, and no interest in going on even if he did remember. He has nothing to say. He looks at the Speaker, shakes his head, and sits down. His colleague, after another second of staring, turns away.

The Whip comes round to his desk. They are friends. “How’s it going, Peter?” he asks.

Peter shrugs.

“Maybe you should take a break. Bust loose for a while. You’ve been through a lot.”

He sighs. Yes, he needs to get out. He can’t take it anymore. The speeches, the endless posturing, the cynical scheming, the swollen egos, the arrogant aides, the merciless media, the stifling minutiae, the scientific bureaucracy, the microscopic betterment of humanity — all are hallmarks of democracy, he recognizes. Democracy is such a crazy, wonderful thing. But he’s had enough.

“I’ll see if I can’t find something for you,” the Whip says. He pats him on the shoulder. “Hang in there. You’ll make it.”

A few days later the Whip comes back to him with a proposal. A trip.

“To Oklahoma ?” Peter responds.

“Hey, great things come from remote places. Who’d ever heard of Nazareth before Jesus showed up?”

“Or of Saskatchewan before Tommy Douglas.”

The Whip smiles. He’s from Saskatchewan. “And it’s what came up. Someone bailed out at the last minute. The State Legislature down there has invited Canadian Members of Parliament to visit. You know, the knitting and maintaining of relations, that sort of thing. You won’t have much to do.”

Peter isn’t even sure where Oklahoma is, exactly. A marginal state of the American empire, somewhere in the middle of it.

“Just a change of air, Peter. A little four-day holiday. Why not?”

He agrees. Sure, why not. Two weeks later he flies to Oklahoma with three Members of Parliament.

Oklahoma City is warm and pleasant in May, and their hosts display gracious hospitality. The Canadian delegation meets the governor of the state, state legislators, and businesspeople. They are shown around the State Capitol, they visit a factory. Each day ends with a dinner. The hotel where they are lodged is grand. Throughout the visit, Peter talks about Canada and hears about Oklahoma in a relaxed fog. The change of scenery, the change of air, even — soft and moist — is soothing, as the Whip predicted.

On the eve of their last full day, a day that has been left open for the recreation of the Canadian guests, he notices a tourist brochure about the Oklahoma City Zoo. He has a fondness for zoos, not because he’s particularly interested in animals, but because Clara was. She was on the Board of Management of the Toronto Zoo at one time. He expresses the wish to visit the Oklahoma City Zoo. The legislative assistant who is their go-to person at the State Capitol looks into it and comes back to him with profuse apologies.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Usually the zoo is open every day, but it’s closed at the moment because of major renovations. I could check to see if they’d let you in anyway, if you’re interested.”

“No, no, I don’t want to be a bother.”

“There is a chimpanzee sanctuary south of town, in Norman, at the university,” she suggests.

“A chimpanzee sanctuary?”

“Yes, it’s an institute for the study of — of monkeys, I guess. It’s not normally open to the public, but I’m sure we can make that happen.”

She does make it happen. The word “senator” works wonders on American ears.

The next morning a car is waiting for him in front of the hotel. No one else in his delegation is interested in joining him, so he goes alone. The car drives him to the Institute for Primate Research, as the place is called, an outpost of the University of Oklahoma in the middle of empty, brushy countryside ten or so kilometres east of Norman. The sky is blue, the land is green.

At the institute, at the end of a winding gravel driveway, he sees a large, vaguely menacing-looking man with a beard and a big belly. Next to him stands a lanky younger man with long hair and bulging eyes; clearly, from his body language, he is a subordinate.

“Senator Tovy?” says the larger man as he steps out of the car.

“Yes.”

They shake hands. “I’m Dr. Bill Lemnon, director of the Institute for Primate Research.” Lemnon looks beyond him into the car, whose door is still open. “You don’t have much of a delegation.”

“No, it’s just me.” Peter closes the door of the car.

“What state are you from again?”

“The province of Ontario, in Canada.”

“That so?” His answer seems to give the director reason to pause. “Well, come with me and I’ll explain to you briefly what we do here.”

Lemnon turns and walks away without waiting for him to fall into step. The unintroduced subordinate scampers along behind.

They walk around a bungalow and a few sheds until they come to a sizable pond shaded by giant cottonwood trees. The pond has two islands, one with a cluster of trees. In the branches of one of these, he sees a number of tall, skinny monkeys swinging about with extraordinary grace and agility. The other island is larger, its tall grasses, bushes, and few scattered trees dominated by an imposing log structure. High poles support four platforms at different heights, connected by a web of ropes and cargo-net hammocks. A truck tire hangs from a chain. Next to the structure is a round hut made of cinder blocks.

The director turns and faces Peter. He seems bored with what he is about to say even before he has started.

“Here at the IPR, we are at the forefront of studying primate behaviour and communication. What can we learn from chimpanzees? More than the man on the street might think. Chimpanzees are our closest evolutionary relatives. We share a common primate ancestor. We and chimpanzees parted company only about six million years ago. As Robert Ardrey put it: We are risen apes, not fallen angels. We both have large brains, an extraordinary capacity for communication, an ability to use tools, and a complex social structure. Take communication. Some of our chimpanzees here can sign up to a hundred and fifty words, which they can string together to form sentences. That is language . And they can make tools to forage for ants and termites or to break open nuts. They can hunt cooperatively, taking on different roles to catch their prey. They have, in short, the rudiments of culture. So when we study chimpanzees, we are studying an ancestral reflection of ourselves. In their facial expressions…”

It is interesting enough, if delivered somewhat automatically, without any warmth. Lemnon looks annoyed. Peter listens with a distracted ear. He suspects the assistant at the legislature oversold him. She probably didn’t mention that the visiting senator wasn’t from the U.S. Some of the chimpanzees appear on the larger island. At that moment he hears a voice calling.