Beatrice and Virgil by Yann Martel Page A

nowadays with sound systems. The description I give of the wind is just to give the sound designer an idea. I imagine Virgil and Beatrice standing motionless and this wind being heard very distinctly for a good minute or two, a soft, rich wind. Then the landscape will be projected and after that the stripes."
      He returned to his text:

      "Collar is another province," the taxidermist informed Henry.
      "Yes, I understood that."

      "And then we'd hear Virgil's howl, starting with his alone, then augmented by other howler monkeys' howls and projected through the sound system. I want a great and terrible symphony of howls."
      "Why does the Shirt have stripes? Why that detail? It reminds me of--"
      The doorbell tinkled. Without a word or gesture to Henry, the taxidermist stood up and left for the showroom. Henry sighed and looked at Virgil and Beatrice.
      "Does he always interrupt you like this?" he asked Virgil.
      Henry remembered the bell in the Flaubert story, when the stag comes up to Julian, just before it curses him. Except that bell must have tolled rather than tinkled. Henry got up and went to look at the newly finished deer head. He could hear the taxidermist speaking to someone in the other room. Henry drank more water at the sink, holding a new glass with both hands. He examined the rabbit. It still had its ligaments, which is why the skeleton hadn't fallen to pieces. The ligaments looked like thin spaghetti.
      The taxidermist returned. He removed his apron. "I must go," he said curtly.
      "That's fine. I should be going, too."
      Henry gathered his coat.
      "When will you come back?" the taxidermist asked.
      He's so damn up-front and direct, with questions that are orders, Henry thought.
      "Why don't we go to the zoo together? We have our choice." The city enjoyed the luxury of having two zoos and Henry liked zoos. It was where he'd started his career, in a way. "I'm sure you'd have a fascinating take on live animals. I spent weeks researching--"
      "Zoos are bastard patches of wilderness," the taxidermist cut in as he put on his coat. "The animals there are degenerate. They shame me."
      Henry was taken aback. "Well, zoos are a compromise, that's for certain, but so is nature. And if it weren't for zoos, most people would never see real--"
      "I go only when I have to, for work, to see a live specimen."
      Henry could hear in the taxidermist's voice the judge's gavel coming down again. The taxidermist was directing him out of the workshop with broad, imperative gestures.
      I   will   get him to bend, thought Henry.
      "I see zoos as embassies from the wild, each animal representing its species. In any case, let's meet at the cafe up the street. The weather is so nice now. How about this coming Sunday at two o'clock? That's what I have time for." Henry put a firm edge to his last words.
      "All right. Sunday at two at the cafe," the taxidermist agreed tonelessly.
      Henry was relieved. "I have a question," he followed up smoothly as they passed through the showroom. "It's been on my mind since I read the opening scene from your play: why this minute description of a common fruit? It seems an odd start."
      "How did you put it?" replied the taxidermist. "'Words are cold, muddy toads trying to understand spirits dancing in a field'?"
      "Yes. I said 'sprites'."
      "'But they're all we have.'"
      "'But they're all we have,'" Henry repeated.
      "Please," the taxidermist said, opening the front door of the store and ushering Henry out. "Reality escapes us. It's beyond description, even a simple pear. Time eats everything."
      And with that, leaving Henry with the image of Time eating a pear into oblivion, the taxidermist practically slammed the door in Henry's face. He locked it, turned the cardboard sign hanging from its frame from open to closed, and disappeared back into his workshop. Henry took no offence at the lack of ceremony bordering on rudeness. He must behave like this