Beatrice and Virgil - Yann Martel [42]
"I get the idea." Henry chose another item from the list. "And this 'verbal expression'?"
The taxidermist found the scene:
The taxidermist stopped.
Henry nodded. "And '[ sic ] dramas'?"
"Sic is the Latin word for thus," the taxidermist replied. "It's used to indicate that a printed word is printed exactly as intended or is correctly copied from the erroneous original."
"Yes, I'm familiar with the use of sic ."
"Virgil has this idea for short plays where every word, every single word, would be qualified by sic , because every word, in the light of the Horrors, is now erroneous. There's a Hungarian writer who writes like that, in a way."
The taxidermist didn't search for the scene where Virgil presents his [ sic ] dramas, nor did he tell Henry which Hungarian writer he was referring to. Instead, he fell silent. They seemed to be in an intermission, so to speak. Henry decided to seize the opportunity and try again, but this time from a different angle, from the point of view of character development rather than plot and action. That might help the taxidermist with his play--and get him to talk about its genesis.
"Tell me, how do Beatrice and Virgil change over the course of the play?" Henry asked.
"Change? Why should they change? They have no reason to change. They've done nothing wrong. They're exactly the same at the end of the play as they were at the beginning."
"But they talk. They notice and realize things. They reflect in quiet moments. They gather up the items that go into the sewing kit. All these change them, no?"
"Absolutely not," the taxidermist said firmly. "They're the same. If we had met them the next day, we would have said they were no different from the previous day."
Henry wondered what his creative writing friend would have said at that moment. He had found three good words, more than that, in fact, but no story was coming from them.
"But in a story, the characters--"
"Animals have endured for countless thousands of years. They've been confronted by the most adverse environments imaginable and they've adapted, but in a manner absolutely consistent with their natures."
"That's true in life. I fully agree. I have no doubts about the organic workings of evolution. In a story, however--"
"It is we who have to change, not they." The taxidermist seemed flustered.
"I agree with you. There's no future without an environmental conscience. But in a story--here, take Julian in the Flaubert story you sent me. Over the course--"
"If Virgil and Beatrice have to change according to someone else's standards, they might as well give up and be extinct."
At that moment, it was Henry who gave up. "Yes, I see your point," he said, to placate the taxidermist.
"They do not change. Virgil and Beatrice are the same before, during and after."
Henry looked at the list again.
"Where's this '68 Nowolip--'" he was about to ask, to change the topic, but the taxidermist abruptly raised the palm of his hand in the air.
Henry shut up. The taxidermist got up and came round to his side of the desk. Henry felt a slight measure of apprehension.
"Only one thing really counts," said the taxidermist. It was nearly a whisper.
"What's that?"
The taxidermist slowly pulled the page from Henry's hand. Henry let it slide through his fingers. The taxidermist laid it on the desk.
"This," he said.
He took the lamp in one hand and with the other he ran his fingers against the direction of the fur at the base of Virgil's tail.
"This here," he said.
Henry looked. On the skin now exposed was a stitch, a suture, that circled the base of the tail. It looked purple, medical, horrible.
"The tail was cut off," the taxidermist said. "I reattached it."
Henry stared. The taxidermist put the lamp back on the counter and walked over to a table at the far end of the workshop. Henry reached and touched Virgil's fur, meaning to smooth it down,