Yann Martel - The High Mountains of Portugal

Through connections, he finds a buyer for his car where he wants one, in New York City. “I’ll deliver it myself,” he tells the man from Brooklyn on the phone.

He doesn’t say that he will be taking a slight detour via Oklahoma on his way down.

He cancels all his future appointments — with Senate committees, with family and friends, with his doctor (his heart isn’t so good, but he packs a supply of medication and a renewal for his prescription), with everyone. He writes letters to those to whom he doesn’t speak in person or on the phone.

“You suggested I bust loose,” he tells the Whip.

“You sure took my words to heart. Why Portugal?”

“Warm weather. My parents came from there.”

The Whip looks at him steadily. “Peter, have you met another woman?”

“No, I haven’t. Not even close.”

“All right, if you say so.”

“How could I have met a woman in Portugal while living in Ottawa?” he asks. But the more he denies a romantic connection, the less the Whip seems to believe him.

He doesn’t tell anyone about Odo, neither his family nor his friends. The ape remains a luminous secret in his heart.

He happens to have a dental appointment coming up. He spends his last night in Canada sleeping in a motel, and the next morning he has his teeth cleaned. He says good-bye to his dentist and he drives away.

It’s a long drive through Ontario, Michigan, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri to Oklahoma. He doesn’t want to tire himself too much, so he does it over five days. Along the way — from a corner store in Lansing, Michigan, from a diner in Lebanon, Missouri — he calls the Institute for Primate Research to make sure they are aware of his imminent arrival. He speaks to the young woman who told Lemnon about the phone call, the one that distracted him and allowed Peter to visit the chimpanzee compound. She assures him that all is ready.

After a last night in Tulsa, Peter makes his way to the IPR, arriving mid-morning. He parks the car and wanders over to the pond. On the main island, two people are having what looks like a sign-language lesson with a chimpanzee. A group of three apes lazes about in the centre, on the ground. Sitting among them is Bob, attending to a chimpanzee, inspecting its shoulder. Peter calls out and waves. Bob waves back, gets up, and heads for a rowboat that’s resting on the shore. The ape he’s with follows him. It leaps with ease into the rowboat and perches on a bench. Bob pushes off and rows over.

Halfway across the pond, when the boat turns, the chimpanzee, whose view was blocked by Bob, sees him. It hoots loudly and pounds the bench with a fist. Peter blinks. Is that…? — yes, it is. Odo is larger than he remembered. The size of a big dog, only wider.

Before the boat has reached the shore, Odo leaps out, bounces once off the ground, and sails through the air towards Peter. He has no time to react. The ape slams against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. Peter falls over, landing inelegantly on his backside and sprawling flat on his back. He feels large wet lips and the smooth hardness of teeth against the side of his face. He’s being attacked!

Bob’s laughter comes through to him. “My, my, he’s certainly taken to you. Gentle, Odo, gentle. You all right?”

Peter can’t answer the question. He’s shaking from head to toe. But he feels no pain. Odo has not bitten him. The ape has instead moved off and settled right next to him, pressed against his shoulder. He starts playing with Peter’s hair.

Bob kneels next to him. “You all right?” he asks again.

“Y-y-yes, I think so,” Peter answers. He slowly sits up. He stares with wide eyes and breathless incredulity. The strange black face, the thick, hairy body, the whole, warm animal literally breathing down his neck — with no bars between them, no protection for him, no safety. He doesn’t dare push the ape away. He just sits there, alert and paralyzed, his gaze hovering. “What’s he doing?” he finally asks. The ape is still plucking at his head.

“He’s grooming you,” Bob replies. “That’s a big part of chimpanzee social life. I groom you, you groom me. It’s how they get along. And it gets rid of ticks and fleas. Keeps them clean.”

“What should I do?”

“Nothing. Or you can groom him back, if you want.”

A knee is right there. He brings a trembling hand to it and strokes a few hairs.

“Here, I’ll show you how,” says Bob.

Bob sits on the ground and much more assertively starts grooming Odo’s back. With the edge of one hand, he pushes through the chimpanzee’s coat against the natural lie of the hairs, exposing their roots and bare skin. After doing this two or three times, he finds a good patch and sets to work with the other hand, scratching and picking out skin flakes, bits of dirt, and other detritus. All in all, a fussy, involving activity. Bob seems to forget about Peter.

Peter begins to regain his composure. It’s not disagreeable, what the creature is doing to his head. He can feel soft fingers against his skull.

He looks into Odo’s face. In immediate response the ape shifts his gaze to look at him. Their faces are maybe eight inches apart, eyes fully staring into eyes. Odo hoots lightly, the panted breath bouncing off his face, then folds out his lower lip, revealing a row of large teeth. Peter tenses.

“He’s smiling at you,” says Bob.

It’s only then that the young man, who is so good at reading the ape’s emotions, understands Peter’s. He puts a hand on his shoulder.

“He won’t harm you, sir. He likes you. And if he didn’t like you, he’d just leave you alone.”

“I’m sorry I got you into trouble last time.”

“Don’t worry about that. It was worth it. This place is bad. Wherever you’re going with Odo will be better than here.”

“Is Lemnon around?”

“No. He’ll be back after lunch.”

A stroke of good luck. Over the next few hours, Bob gives Peter a mini-course on Odo. He teaches him the basics about chimpanzee sounds and facial expressions. Peter learns about hoots and grunts, about barks and screams, about the pouting, puckering, and smacking of lips, about the many roles played by panting. Odo can be as loud as Krakatoa or as quiet as sunlight. He has no command of American Sign Language but does understand some English. And as is the case with humans, tone, gesture, and body language do much to convey meaning. The ape’s hands also speak, as does his posture and the lie of his hair, and Peter must listen to what they have to say. A kiss and a hug are just that, a kiss and a hug, to be enjoyed and appreciated and perhaps returned, at least the hug. The best face is one where Odo’s mouth is slightly open, his demeanour relaxed; this may be followed by one of the delights of chimpanzee language, the laughter, a bright-eyed, nearly silent panting, the mirth fully expressed without the grating HA HA HA of human laughter.

“It’s a complete language,” says Bob of chimpanzee communication.

“I’m not very good with foreign languages,” Peter muses aloud.

“Don’t worry. You’ll understand him. He’ll make sure of that.”

He’s potty-trained, Bob tells Peter, only the potty has to be within sight. Chimpanzees don’t tolerate continence for very long. Bob supplies four potties to distribute around Odo’s territory.

The cage that is to be Odo’s means of transportation and his nighttime nest doesn’t fit in the car. They take it apart and put it in the trunk. Odo will travel in the front seat.

At one point Peter goes to the restroom. He sits down on the toilet lid and puts his head into his hands. Was early fatherhood like this? He doesn’t remember feeling so overwhelmed. Bringing baby Ben home was a giddy experience. He and Clara didn’t know what they were doing — do any young parents know? But it was all right. They raised Ben with love and attention. And they weren’t afraid of him. He badly wishes Clara were with him now. What am I doing here? he says to himself. This is crazy.