Beatrice and Virgil - Yann Martel [22]
The taxidermist moved to the counter, pulled open a drawer and brought out a notebook. He flipped through some pages.
"The female and the cub, as I said, are from Van Ingen and Van Ingen. In addition to being fine specimens, superbly mounted, they're also antiques. Together with the male, that would be..." The taxidermist cited a figure.
Henry whistled in his head. At that price, if those animals had wheels, they'd be a sports car.
"And the cheetah?"
The notebook was again consulted. "It sells for..." and the taxidermist stated another figure.
Two wheels this time: a sleek, powerful motorcycle.
Henry looked at a few more animals.
"This is all fascinating. I'm glad I came. But I don't want to keep you any longer."
"Wait."
Henry froze. He wondered if all the animals had also tensed.
"Yes?"
"I need your help," the taxidermist said.
"Ah, yes. My help. You mentioned that in your letter. What exactly did you have in mind?"
Henry wondered if the man was going to make him a business proposition. He had invested small sums here and there, mostly in ventures that had failed. Was he now going to find himself investing in a taxidermy concern? The thought intrigued him. He rather liked the idea of being involved with all these animals.
"Please come to my workshop," the taxidermist said, signalling with his wide hand the side door through which he had gone to fetch Henry's book. There was something commanding about the gesture.
"Sure," said Henry, and he walked through.
The workshop was smaller than the showroom, but better lit. A barred window cut across the back wall above a double door, letting in natural light. A faint smell of chemicals hung in the air. Henry noticed things quickly. A large, deep sink. A shelf with a row of books. Some sturdy work-tables and counters. The materials of the taxidermy trade: jars of chemical products; bottles of glue; a box of short iron rods; a large cardboard box of cotton batting; spools of thread and wire; a hefty plastic bag of clay; pieces and planks of wood. Neatly arranged tools lay on the tables, among them surgical scalpels; knives and scissors; pliers and pincers; boxes of tacks and nails; a measuring tape; hammers and mallets; saws and hacksaws; a file; chisels; clamps; modeling tools; small paintbrushes. A chain was hanging from the wall with a hook at the end of it. There were animals again, on shelves and on the floor, though far fewer than in the display room, and some were entirely disembodied, just a pile of hide or a mound of feathers, and others were works-in-progress. A mannequin made of wood, wire, and cotton batting for a round animal, a large bird likely, lay unfinished on a worktable. At the moment, the taxidermist appeared to be working on a deer head mount. The skin was not yet properly fitted on the fibreglass mannequin head and the mouth was a tongueless, toothless gaping hole revealing the yellow fibreglass jaw of the mannequin. The eyes had that same yellow glow. It looked grotesquely unnatural, a cervine version of Frankenstein.
A desk stood in the corner of the room opposite the door. On top of it, among various papers and items, Henry noticed a dictionary and an old electric typewriter--the taxidermist apparently had no interest in new technologies. The desk had one wooden chair. The taxidermist sat in it.
"Please," he said. He indicated the only other place to sit, a plain stool in front of the desk. Without worrying any further about Henry's comfort, he pulled a cassette player from a drawer. Henry sat down. The taxidermist set the player on the desk and pressed the rewind button. There was a whirr, a blocking sound, a moment of strain, then the rewind button popped up. He pressed the play button. "Listen closely," he said.
At first, Henry could hear only a grainy sound as an old tape rubbed against a tired head. Then another sound emerged, at first distant, then coming through in waves with greater clarity. It was a clamouring chorus of barked grunts. These went on for some several seconds until suddenly, from their midst,