Beatrice and Virgil - Yann Martel [32]
He gave Henry three pages. The first page contained the following information:
A 20th-Century Shirt
A Play in Two Acts
The second page:
Virgil, a red howler monkey
Beatrice, a donkey
A boy and his two friends
And the third page:
A country road. A tree.
Late afternoon.
The province of Lower Back,
in a country called the Shirt,
a country like any other,
neighbour to, bigger than,
smaller than, Hat, Gloves,
Jacket, Coat, Trousers,
Socks, Boots and so on.
"The story is set on a shirt?" Henry asked, puzzled.
"Yes, on the back of it."
"Well, either Beatrice and Virgil are smaller than bread crumbs or it's a very big shirt."
"It's a very big shirt."
"On which two animals are moving about? And there's a tree and a country road?"
"And more. It's symbolic."
Henry wished he had said that first. "Yes, clearly it's symbolic. But symbolic of what? The reader must recognize what the symbol stands for."
"The United States of America, the United Clothes of Europe, the Union of African Shoes, the Association of Asian Hats--names are arbitrary. We parcel out the Earth, give names to landscapes, draw maps, and then we make ourselves at home."
"Is this a play for children? Have I read it wrong?"
"No, not at all. Is your story for children?"
The taxidermist was looking at Henry directly, but he always did. Henry couldn't detect any irony in his voice.
"No, it's not for children. I wrote my novels for adults," he replied.
"The same with my play."
"It's for adults despite the characters and the setting."
"It's for adults because of the characters and the setting."
"Point taken. But again, why a shirt? What's the symbolism there?"
"Shirts are found in every country, among every people."
"It's the universal resonance of it?"
"Yes. Every day we put on shirts."
"We all live on the Shirt, is that what you're saying?"
"That's right. Coat, Shirt, Trousers, but it could have been Germany, Poland, Hungary."
"I see." Henry thought for a moment. "Why did you choose those three countries?" he asked.
"What--Coat, Shirt, Trousers?"
"No. Germany, Poland, Hungary."
"They were the first three countries to pop into my head," the taxidermist replied.
Henry nodded. "So the Shirt--it's just the name of the country?"
The taxidermist leaned forward and took his papers back. "That's what it says here," he said. "'A country like any other, neighbour to, bigger than, smaller than.'"
Henry decided to try constructive criticism. "I'm wondering if maybe something isn't being lost here. One of the important concerns when telling a story is making sure that what is in your head finds its way onto the page. If you want your reader to see what you're seeing, you have to--"
"It's a striped shirt," the taxidermist said, cleanly interrupting Henry.
"Striped?"
"Yes. Vertical stripes. The sun is setting." He searched through his papers. "They've been talking about God and Virgil's faith and the day of the week. They're not sure what day it is. I'll read that scene. Found it."
He started off once again:
He looked up. "In the opening scene, in describing the pear, they also talk about bananas. Beatrice knows a lot about bananas. But the important thing here is that Virgil is sniffing the air."
Henry nodded. The taxidermist continued:
"They're starving," he explained.
( The animals stand, Virgil leaning against Beatrice, their nostrils flared, their ears twitching, their eyes wide open .
Daylight has reached its last hour. The earth and the trunks of the trees are burnished red by the setting sun. Sweeping through the land comes a wind, a most gentle of cavalry charges. It's a fragrant wind, smelling of soil and root, of flower and haystack, of field and forest, of smoke and animals, but also carrying, by virtue of the distances it has covered, the very smell of vastness, a smell moist and cavernous. It's a beautiful wind, an exciting wind, a giving wind. Riding upon it is the collective news of all nature .
In a province dismissed as flat and featureless, upon a clear and cloudless sundown, the