The Counterfeit Murder in the Museum of Man_ A Norman De Ratour Mystery - Alfred Alcorn [53]
His hands, semaphores of articulation, moved gracefully, even enthusiastically, but I could tell he was starting into one of his philosophical funks.
“I sometimes wonder, Norman, if we drink, like Oscar Wilde said, to make other people more interesting.”
“Is that why you drink?” I managed, putting my own drink down.
“Not around you, certainly. But I do drink too much.” He gave his version of a laugh. “I wonder if there’s an AA group around that would have me?”
“Check at Sign House. Just because you can’t verbalize vocally doesn’t mean you’re not susceptible to alcohol. Perhaps even more so. I mean alcoholism is another kind of …” I searched for a word and came up with “otherness.”
Alphus turned to Ridley with a scoffing look they share. “Otherness. I’ve been reading about otherness lately. Everybody claims it these days. But you know, they don’t know what otherness is. I mean real otherness. It isn’t just that people look down on me as an ape, an animal. But I am profoundly different. I am a different bloody species. Try that for otherness.”
Ridley, who had begun to slur his signing, said, “But you are one of us.”
I groped for some word that might bridge the gap. I realized it is one thing to be an ape and quite another to know it. I leaned forward. “Yes, Alphus, but your essential … beingness is as authentic as that of anyone else. We are all God’s creatures.”
He shook his head. “We are all winners or losers in the great lottery called evolution.”
“Yes, but Father O’Gould thinks it is through evolution that all beings share in the spark of divinity.”
“Easy for him to say. He’s not a five-foot hairy ape with bow legs and arms that reach to the floor.”
“Your arms don’t reach to the floor.”
“Just about. All I have to do is lean forward a little. Let’s face it, Norman, most people see me as little more than a big monkey. I’m not a real person. I’m a freak, a hairy, ridiculous freak.”
I sipped some of my drink and met his eyes. “Don’t ever, ever think that. Whatever you are, you are real.”
“A real freak.”
“Only in the sense that you are amazingly remarkable. Otherwise, I see you as a regular guy.”
That brought him up short and his expression began slowly to change. He spelled out guy with letters.
I nodded.
“Guy,” he signed to Ridley. “I am a guy. One of the guys.”
“One of the good guys.”
“You don’t have to be human to be a guy, do you?”
“Not in the least.”
“You know, Norman, you’re a good guy, too.”
The evening wore on, the snare drum booming faintly and then louder and louder, and then again. I was well into the pitcher of martinis I had mixed. The bottle of malt had suffered grievously at their hands. At which point, as I think I remember, I stood up and toasted Alphus and his remarkable life. Which I tried to sign, not quite achieving the word remarkable, which I spoke aloud. I added, “In fact, your life is so remarkable, you should write your memoirs.”
Ridley got up and danced a little jig. He put down his glass and signed, “To Alphus and his memoirs,” then picked up his glass and drank.
Alphus drank, but remained skeptical, at least from his expression. Finally, he signed, “No one wants to hear about the miserable life of an ape.”
Ridley, his gestures vehement, disagreed. “The world loves to hear about misery. Especially interesting misery. And your misery has been uniquely interesting.”
“I can’t type,” Alphus signed. “Only slowly.”
“You can dictate to me,” Ridley signed back. And turned to me for affirmation.
I nodded. “You just have to be sure to, well, you know, be honest.”
Alphus looked