Yann Martel - The High Mountains of Portugal

One morning, as they are cleaning up after breakfast, Odo appears beside them in the kitchen holding a book.

“What have you got there?” Peter asks.

Odo hands it to him. It’s an old Portuguese hardcover of an Agatha Christie murder mystery, the cover garish, the pages limp and yellow. The title is Encontro com a morte .

“Would that be A Meeting with a Dead Man ?” asks Ben.

“Or A Meeting with Death ? I’m not sure,” Peter replies. He checks the copyright page, which gives the correct title in English. “Ah. It’s Appointment with Death . Maybe we should improve our Portuguese by reading it.”

“Why not?” Ben says. “You first.”

Peter fetches the dictionary and the three of them settle on the floor, the father and the ape easily and comfortably, the son less so, and more warily. Peter reads aloud the first paragraphs, practicing not only his comprehension but his pronunciation:

‘Compreendes que ela tem de ser morta, não compreendes?’

A pergunta flutuou no ar tranquilo da noite, parecendo pairar por um momento até se afastar na escuridão, na direção do Mar Morto.

Hercule Poirot deteve-se um minuto com a mão no fecho da janela. Franziu o sobrolho e fechou-a num gesto decidido, impedindo assim a entrada do nocivo ar noturno. Hercule Poirot crescera a acreditar que o melhor era deixar o ar exterior lá fora, e que o ar noturno era especialmente perigoso para a saúde.

Odo is enthralled. He stares at the page, at Peter’s lips. What is it that the ape likes? The sound of his strong accent? The novelty of extended speech pronounced in a modulated voice, rather than the monosyllables of regular talk? Whatever it is, while Peter reads aloud, Odo sits still, listening intently, tucked up against him. Peter senses that Ben is also intrigued, perhaps by the Portuguese too, but more likely by his father’s interaction with the ape.

Peter reads three pages before he gives up.

“So, how is it?” Ben asks.

“I understand it in the main, but it comes through a fog.” Peter turns to Odo. “Where did you find this book?” he asks.

Odo points to the window. Peering out, Peter sees an open suitcase in the courtyard. He guesses its provenance: the junk-filled animal pen. He and Ben walk down, Odo in tow. Odo has a special fondness for suitcases he has unearthed, the mystery of them, what they open to reveal — which, most often, is bedsheets and old clothes. This one, however, at a glance, proves to hold an odd mix of things. Peter and Ben return one by one the contents that Odo has strewn about: a square of red cloth, some old coins, a knife and a fork, a few tools, a wooden toy, a pocket mirror, two dice, a candle, three playing cards, a black dress, a flute, and an oyster shell. There is an envelope that is closed but not sealed. It seems empty, but Peter opens it, just to check. He is puzzled to find some coarse black hairs. He touches them — they are stiff and dry. He would swear they were Odo’s. “What game are you playing?” he asks the ape.

Peter is about to close the suitcase when Ben says, “Wait, you missed this.”

He hands him a single sheet of paper. The sheet is sparsely covered, only four lines of a squarish black handwriting:

Rafael Miguel Santos Castro, 83 anos, da aldeia de Tuizelo,

as Altas Montanhas de Portugal

Peter stares. Memory is nudged, facts are tentatively recalled, connections made, until a remembrance bursts into focus: Rafael Miguel Santos Castro— Grandpa Batista’s brother? Above, to the right, appears a date. 1 Janeiro, 1939. That timeline seems about right, his death then at age eighty-three. The letterhead announces Departamento de Patologia, Hospital São Francisco, Bragança . He is chilled. After Clara, he wants nothing more to do with pathology ever again. Nonetheless, his eyes can’t help but read the two lines written beneath Rafael Castro’s basic information:

Encontrei nele, com meus próprios olhos,

um chimpanzé e um pequeno filhote de urso.

The words are unmistakable: I found in him, with my own eyes, a chimpanzee and a small bear cub. Beneath are a semi-legible signature and an official stamp that states the pathologist’s name clearly: Dr. Eusebio Lozora.

“What’s it say?” Ben asks.

“It says…” Peter’s voice trails off as he opens the envelope again and rubs the black hairs between his fingers. He glances at the contents of the suitcase. What story is this suitcase trying to tell? What is his maternal great-uncle Rafael’s pathology report — if that is what it is — doing in this house? He has made no inquiries about the family home. The discovery of his tenuous link to the village will generate noise and attention, which he doesn’t care for. He does not feel like a returning native. More pertinently, like Odo, he is happy to live in the present moment, and the present moment has no past address. But now he wonders: Could this be the house? Could that be the explanation for its dereliction and its availability?

“Well?” his son prompts.

“Sorry. It seems to be some sort of pathology report. This doctor claims — how shall I put it? — that he found a chimpanzee and a bear cub in a man’s body. It’s what it says. Look, it’s the same word: um chimpanzé .”

“What?” Ben shoots Odo an incredulous glance.

“Clearly, there is a metaphor here, a Portuguese idiom, that I’m not understanding.”

“Clearly.”

“What’s also strange is the name of the deceased. This is a puzzle for Dona Amélia perhaps. Here, let’s bring the suitcase upstairs.”

“I’ll do it. Don’t strain yourself.”

They head for Dona Amélia’s. Peter brings along the family photo album, which Odo is happy to carry. Dona Amélia is at home. She greets the two men with gracious calm, smiles at the ape.

“Minha casa — a casa de quem?” Peter asks her.

“Batista Reinaldo Santos Castro,” she answers. “Mas ele morreu há muito tempo. E a sua família”—she makes a sweeping motion with the back of her hand, accompanied by a quick blowing motion—“mudou-se para longe. As pessoas vão-se embora e nunca mais voltam.”

Batista Santos Castro — it is so, then. Unexpectedly, without any effort, the transient renter has found the house where he was born.

“What’d she say?” Ben whispers.

“She said that the man who lived in the house died a long time ago and his family — I didn’t understand her exact words, but her gesture was pretty clear — his family left, went away, abandoned the village, something like that. People leave and they never come back.” He turns to Dona Amélia again. “E seu irmão?” he adds. And his brother?

“O seu irmão?” Dona Amélia suddenly seems more interested. “O seu irmão Rafael Miguel era o pai do anjo na igreja. O papá! O papá!” she emphasizes. His brother is the father of the angel in the church. The daddy! The daddy!

The angel in the church? Peter hasn’t a notion what she’s talking about, but at the moment he’s interested only in the family connection. He takes the photo album from Odo and opens it, prepared to throw away his anonymity.

“Batista Santos Castro — sim?” he says, pointing at a man in the first photo in the album, the group shot.

Dona Amélia seems astounded that he should have a photo of Batista in his possession. “Sim!” she says, her eyes opening wide. She grabs the album and devours the photo with her eyes. “Rafael!” she exclaims, pointing at another man. She points again. “E sua esposa, Maria.” Then her breath is cut short. “É ele! A criança dourada! Outra foto dele!” she cries. It’s him! The Golden Child! Another photo of him! She is pointing at a small child, a mottled speck of sepia peeking from behind his mother. Peter has never seen Dona Amélia so excited.