The Visitor at the Zoo

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THE WORLD vanished, leaving a greenish glow. The young man became aware of his body, cramped into the cushioned seat.

Around him in the great bowl, other figures were stirring.

His buttocks were numb and his head ached. He struggled to his feet. It was hard to become used to the silence, and the smallness of things.

Reeling, dizzy, he came out into the hot afternoon sunlight.

He passed the bakery with its gigantic, fragrant stereo-loaf forever swelling over the doorway. Three darkskinned men in funny little white hats and baggy white trousers came toward him, all talking at once in a foreign language.

A cat ran across the plaza, pursued by something small and green, with many scuttling legs. The sun was hot on the paving stones; heat waves swam in the air.

At the next corner, a crowd had gathered around a little man in green and a gigantic, barrelchested creature with sparse pinkish feathers, which the little man held by a leash. Coins tinkled in a cup. Prodded by its owner, the huge creature did a clumsy, shuffling dance. Its face was part human, part jelly-fish, moronic and blank. “Thank you, sir, thank you, lady,” said the little man, tipping his cap. Tinkle. “Thank you, sir.”

The young man kept walking. After all, in the cinema one saw bigger monsters than that.

He paused at the newsstand at the end of the plaza, bought the Berliner Zeitung and the Hamburger Tageblatt, folded the crisp sheets pleasurably under his arm. The next stall was a fruit stand. The young man passed it nearly every day, and sometimes bought bananas or oranges. But today it was different. In the middle of the stall was a mound of greenish-yellow ovoids, bigger than pears, with a sign: “Special! Just arrived from Brecht’s Planet! Unusual! Try one!” The price was 1 mark 10.

The young man’s mouth went dry with excitement. From Brecht’s Planet! He fumbled in his pocket. He had just enough.

The bored attendant took his money, handed him one of the greenish fruits. The young man held it carefully as he walked away. It was heavy, warm and waxy to the touch.

A phrase from his lost book came back to him: “Certain greenish fruits, which the bipeds eat with avidity …”

Never before had he felt so close to the planet of his birth. It had always been a little unreal to him, something one read about in books. Now, for the first time, he felt that it really existed, that it was made up of real stones and dirt, and had real trees on it bearing real fruit.

Catching sight of Frau Beifelder in the building lobby, her little red eyes watchful and suspicious as always, the young man instinctively slipped the heavy fruit into his pocket, but he kept his hand on it.

“Good afternoon, Frau Beifelder,” he said politely, crossing to the elevator. The old woman did not reply but merely narrowed her eyes still further.

The young man stopped the elevator at every floor, as usual, peering curiously at the closed red doors. Julia’s door stood ajar, but instead of stopping, he went on up in the elevator, fourth floor, fifth, sixth. He got out, trotted over to the little stair, climbed to the roof.

Berlin lay spread out around him in the hot summer sunlight. The curved threads of the Flugbahnen glittered against the blue. Over there, rising out of a cluster of lower rooftops, bulged the golden dome of the Konzertgebaude.

A cool breeze was blowing steadily across the roof, making the newspapers flap against his arm. The young man gripped them in annoyance, not wanting to relinquish the warm fruit in his hand. A few meters away, a ventilator was turning rapidly under its little black hood. The young man turned his attention to an airplane soaring over the blue-gray horizon. He sniffed the air with interest: Diesel fuel, ozone, hot concrete.

On the parapet a large butterfly or moth was lying feebly moving its blue-and-purple wings. The young man examined it curiously. It did not seem able to fly. When he prodded it with his finger, it merely went on with the slow, spasmodic movements of its wings.

Something landed with a faint thud behind him, and he turned to see another butterfly, identical to the first. It lay quivering for a moment, then began the same slow, feeble motions. Suddenly the young man realized that the air was full of them: tiny dark shapes drifting down, landing on the rooftops all around. There were a half a dozen at his feet, then twice as many. One struck him a limp, soft blow on the neck before it dropped to the roof.

Annoyed, the young man turned to leave; but although he picked his way carefully to the stair entrance, he could not avoid crushing several of the brittle bodies under his feet.

HE GOT OFF at the third floor again and opened the door cautiously. Julia kept it unlatched now, usually, because he had had so much trouble with keys. Inside, all was quiet.

Maggie, the cat, strolled up to greet him with a querulous sound. The young man dropped to all fours to touch noses with her. Her nose was wet and cold. She rubbed her face against his, arching her back and twitching her tail.

A moment later there was a sound from the bedroom and Churchill came out, looking dangerous. When he saw it was only the young man, the mad glare left his eyes. He waddled up and sniffed, then caressed the young man’s face with his ill-smelling tongue.

The young man got up and wiped his face with a tissue.

“Martin?” came a sleepy voice from the bedroom.

The young man went down the hall and peered in through the doorway. Julia was looking sleepily at him from the bed. “What time is it?”

The young man glanced at his wristwatch. “Nearly three o’clock. Are you feeling better, Julia?”

“Yes, I think so. Would you mind bringing me a drink of water?”

“Not at all, dear Julia.” The young man trotted into the kitchen and filled a glass.

He sat on the bed to watch her drink it, feeling rather peculiar. It was the first time he had ever been invited into her bedroom. Once before, he had happened to look in while she was undressing, and had seen her naked breasts, which interested him very much, but made him feel so odd that he had run out of the apartment. Now he could see their round shapes under the thin white nightdress she wore, and out of curiosity he touched one. It was soft and swinging, but had a hard protrusion of another color in the middle.

“Oh!” she said, looking startled; her hand went up to grasp his.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No … no, it’s all right, Martin. Touch them if you like.” She set the glass down and taking both his hands, guided them to her breasts.

“Dear Martin,” she said. He saw that her eyes were bright with tears.

“Dear Julia.” Leaning over, he kissed her. For a first attempt, it was not at all bad; the noses went to one side of each other, which he had always thought would be very difficult.

The woman’s breath caught; after a moment her arms went around him, held him tightly. The kiss continued, and after a short time, other interesting things began to happen.

When it was over, the young man lay on his back, exhausted and astonished. Julia was sitting up, brushing her hair and humming quietly to herself.

Suddenly the door-light flashed. They looked at each other. “Oh, dear, who can that be?”

“I’ll go and see.”

“Darling!” said the woman, holding out her hand to stop him, half weeping, half laughing: “First put your clothes back on.”

“Oh.” The young man kissed her again, because she looked so rosy and contented, then got dressed. The door-light flashed repeatedly. “All right, I’m coming, I’m coming,” he muttered.

In the hall stood a mediumsized man in a gray summer surcoat, puffing a cigar. “Well, Naumchik?” he said smiling.

“Yes?” asked the young man uncertainly.

“Don’t you know me? Tassen, of the Freie Presse - remember?”

“No. Herr Tassen? What do you want?”

“I was passing by,” said Tassen, looking him over with shrewd, friendly eyes. “So this is where you’re holed up? Mind if I come in a moment?”

“Well - I suppose not.” The young man backed away uncertainly, and Tassen followed him, looking around the apartment with interest.

THERE WAS a bellow from the bedroom, then the sound of claws scratching frantically against the closed door, followed by Julia’s muffled voice: “Churchill, stop it! Bad dog!”

Tassen cocked an eyebrow toward the sounds but made no comment. “Well, this is a cozy place, Naumchik. I won’t keep you a moment. You won’t mind if I sit down, I suppose?”

“Please.”

“Seen anything of Zellini lately?”

“Please?”

Tassen frowned, tapped his cigar into an ashtray. “Have you been back to Paris at all - since the - ?” He raised his eyebrows again.

“To Paris?” asked the young man, confused. “No.”

“I suppose you know they’ve tied a rocket to you?”

“Pardon?”

“Discharged you - given you the sack.”

“Oh. No, I didn’t know it.” Tassen drew on his cigar, staring at the young man. After a moment he asked, “Just what happened to you, anyhow, Naumchik? One moment, as far as I understand, you were a perfectly regular young newspaperman - then that biped business, and next, you were swinging from the ceilings in Elektra. I gather you’re all right now.”

“Oh, yes, perfectly.”

“Well?”

“Well?”

Tassen looked baffled and faintly annoyed. “Of course, if you don’t want to discuss it with me -”

“But I don’t remember.”

“Oh?” Tassen blinked. “What don’t you remember?”

“Anything - before Elektra.”

“I see. So that’s it. Then you’re not likely to tell me what you were up to with that biped, are you?”

“No.”

“I see that. Well, anyhow, Naumchik, it’s good to know you’re on your feet again. I take it you haven’t been doing any journalistic work lately?”

“No.”

“Want to do any?”

“I hadn’t thought about it,” the young man said.

“Not too easy for you to get a job on any of the Berlin papers, after that stunt, probably,” said Tassen. “But you might get some free-lance work. Do a feature on your experiences in Elektra - why not?” He stood up, took a card from his surcoat pocket. “Here’s my address. If I can be any help -”

With a cheerful wave, he was gone.

On the following day, the young man remembered the fruit from Brecht’s Planet, and decided to open it before it should spoil. The greenish-yellow rind was quite thin; inside was a rather sickly-looking yellow pulp. Julia ate a slice and pronounced it interesting. The young man, however, took one bite and immediately spat it out: the pulp was soft and unpleasant, with a distinct rancid flavor. The disappointment was so acute that he mourned for days.

The good weather lasted until October; then it turned blustery and cold, with snow and occasional flurries of sleet. On an evening in late November, the young man entered the bar of the Correspondents’ Club. He stood for a moment, shaking melted snow from his hat. The long mahogany bar was half deserted; the hooded bar lights were reflected in the mirrors, and the little green telephone lights glowed down the bar.

Emile, the bartender, a redfaced Saxon, raised an eyebrow in greeting as the young man approached.

“Good evening, Herr Naumchik. We haven’t seen you in some time.”

“No, I’ve been in Westphalia, Emile. Give me a double Long John.”

“Yes, sir.” Emile reached behind him for the bottle, poured a glass brimming full. He leaned nearer to remark, “There was a call for you earlier, Herr Naumchik. A lady.”

“Oh? Did she give her name?”

“No, sir. If she calls again, shall I say you are here?”

The young man reflected. “Might as well. I wonder who it is, Nina? Olga? What sort of a looking woman was she, Emile?” he asked, but the stout bartender had already moved away and was cupping an ear toward another customer.

“Hello, Naumchik, when did you get in?” A tall man wearing tweeds and a Tyrolean hat edged in beside him at the bar. He spoke in a thick English accent. By a short leash he held a slim, silkenhaired greyhound with great mournful eyes. The dog nudged his cold nose into the young man’s palm.

“Oh, hello, Potter.” The young man slapped absently at the dog’s muzzle. “Just this morning. Down, Bruno. Should have been two o’clock last night, but we were stacked up five hours over Templehof.”

“Terrible weather,” said Potter. “Anything to that regeneration story?”

“No, it was a frost, but I got a couple of columns out of it anyway. You look all right. I heard you’d broken your arm at Riga.”

“No, that was Merle,” said the man, motioning with his chin to a corner table, where a blonde young woman sat with one arm in a sling. She lifted her glass and smiled.

“Oh, too bad,” said the young man, returning the gesture.

“It’s all right. Makes her more manageable. Sometimes I wish they’d all break their arms, or legs, or something.”

A perspiring young man in black came by and clutched the Englishman’s arm. “Look here, Potter, do you know where I can find Johnny Ybarra?”

“No, no idea - have you tried the brothels?”

“All of them?” asked the sweating man despairingly over his shoulder as he hurried out. “Hello, Naumchik,” he added just before he disappeared.

Emile, who had been speaking into the hooded telephone at the end of the bar, looked up and raised his eyebrows. The young man nodded. Emile pressed a key, and the handset in front of the young man lighted up.

“Excuse me, Donald. Hello - oh, it’s you, Julia!”

The tiny face in the screen looked up at him with a smile. “How lucky to catch you, Martin! I called just on the chance of finding - Can you come for dinner?”

“Let me think. Yes - no, confound it, I’ve got to have dinner with Schenk. I’m sorry, Julia, I forgot.”

“It’s a pity. I’d love to see you, Martin.” She looked up at him wistfully.

“So would I. Maybe I could meet you somewhere tomorrow for cocktails …” The young man reflected that although Julia was a bit old for him, and he had no intention of starting that up all over again, still there was no getting around the fact that he had many pleasant memories of that little flat on the Heinrichstrasse, where he had written his first story on Julia’s little portable - “I Was Elektra’s Climbing Enigma,” by Martin Naumchik. How proud they had both been when they saw it printed in the paper! Everything since had stemmed from that … “How is Churchill?”

“I had to give him away, Martin. He was becoming so surly; he bit a good friend of mine. Too bad. But you still have Maggie?”

“Yes, Maggie is fine.”

Down the bar, three men in plastic surcoats were tossing coins into a metal tub which stood before a stereo of a plump young woman in Bavarian peasant costume. Each time a coin fell into the tub, the girl turned slowly around and lifted her skirts, displaying her bare bottom; each time this happened, the three men burst into roars of coarse laughter.

Potter touched him on the shoulder and mouthed, “Goodby;” the young man turned, waved.

“Well, Martin, do call me if you can.”

“Yes, I’ll do that. Tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon. You’re still at the Ministry?”

“Still there.”

“Fine, I’ll call you. Good-by.” The pathetic face in the telephone screen winked out. Sighing with regret and relief, the young man replaced the handset.

A PLUMP young man in a brown jacket took Potter’s place at the bar. He had a bristly, unkempt mustache and protruding blue eyes, and somehow managed to look both innocent and dissolute.

“Hello, Naumchik.”

“Hello, Wallenstein.”

The plump man signaled to the bartender. “Emile, a Black Wednesday. Listen, Naumchik, you may be just the man I want. You know Kohler, the fellow who runs that string of provincial weeklies?”

“Yes, what about him?”

“Well, it’s ridiculous - I owe the man a favor - I promised I’d cover that Zoo story for him tomorrow. Then what should happen, but UPI offers me a plush assignment in Oslo. Two months, all expenses, best hotels. Well, I mean to say! But I’ve got to leave in the morning or it’s no go. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Naumchik - take you just half an hour - I’d even throw in a bit out of my own pocket.”

“Hold on a minute, I’ve lost you. What Zoo story?”

“Oh, one of their bipeds has given birth, and Kohler wants to play it up for the farm audience. What do you say?”

“Well, I suppose there’s no reason -” the young man began, then suddenly stopped. What a curious sensation! Out of the depths of his memory floated the picture of a two-legged creature scrabbling against the glass wall of a cage, while he, outside in the cold air, looked with amazement at his pink, five-fingered hands. How odd. It was the first time in months he had even thought of it.

“Well? It’s agreed?”

“No, on second thought, I don’t believe it would be advisable,” said the young man.

“Not advisable? What do you mean? Come on, old fellow, I’ll put in ten of my own on top of Kohler’s twenty - now how’s that?”

Naumchik drained his glass quickly, set it down. “No, I’m sorry, he said. “I’ve just remembered, I’ve got to be somewhere else tomorrow.” He clapped the plump young man on the back. “Well, you’ll find someone, I’m sure. So long, Wallenstein.”

The plump man pouted at him. “Well, then, if you want to be a bastard.”

“I do,” said Martin Naumchik cheerfully. “Aren’t we all? Keep it clean, old man.” He walked out, whistling. On the threshold he paused to breathe deep. The snow had stopped. The stars were crystal bright over the roof tops.