The Visitor at the Zoo

VII

The biped woke himself up, tossing and muttering, from a peculiarly unpleasant dream. Something had happened to his body, his face had gone all soft and squashy, his limbs stiff … The horror of it was that everyone around him seemed to take this as entirely normal, and he could not tell then what was wrong.

He came fully awake and sat up in bed, clanking his jaws and rumpling the feathery spines along his side with his fingers. He had been dreaming, he realized suddenly - dreaming of himself as he had been before the change.

He sat for a moment, dully thinking about it. He felt a dim sense of betrayal, as if he had somehow foresworn his loyalty to that human body, once so familiar, which now seemed like an improbable nightmare. It disturbed him a little that his feelings could change so radically, in a matter of weeks. If that could happen, where was there a bottom to anything?

He got out of bed, feeling his good spirits return with the healthy responses of his body. After all, there was no use looking backward. He was himself, as determined as ever, and - he stiffened with realization … how could he have forgotten? - this was the morning of his final accounting with Griick.

Yawning nervously, he went into the living room and switched on the wall television. It was not time for the news yet. He glanced out the window, past the temporary fence, a dozen yards away, that the workmen had put up yesterday. The lawns and paths were empty in the early sunlight; there was a flutter of wings in one of the distant aviaries, then stillness again.

Now that the time was so near, he was beginning to feel anxious. He had half expected Griick to try to drug him once more, and had slept every night with a barricade across the doorway; but except for the fence, which kept anyone from coming near the cage, nothing had been done to interfere with him. He dragged the table and bookcase out of the way and wandered into the office space.

As he crossed the room, Emma’s face appeared in her doorway. “Good morning,” she said timidly.

He turned on the television. It was not time for the news yet.

As he entered the office area, Emma’s face appeared in her doorway. “Good morning,” she said timidly.

“Good morning, Emma,” the biped answered, mildly surprised. His attention was not on her. He was thinking about the pressconference to come.

The female ventured a step or two out of the doorway. “Today is Wednesday,” she observed.

“That’s right, Wednesday.”

“This is the day you are going to prove you are Herr Naumchik.”

“Yes,” the biped said, surprised and pleased.

“Then you will be going away.”

“I suppose I will, yes.” What was the creature getting at?

“I shall be all alone,” Emma said.

“Well,” said the biped awkwardly, “I expect you’ll get used to it.”

“I shall miss you,” Emma said. “Good-by, Fritz.”

“Good-by.”

She turned and went back into her room. The biped stared after her, touched and vaguely disturbed.

From the living room sounded a chime, then a hearty voice, “Eight hundred hours, time for the news! Good morning, this is Reporter Walter Szaborni, at your service. Seven hundred are known dead in a Calcutta earthquake! Two members of the Council of Bavaria have been accused of improper conduct! These and other stories-”

Hurrying into the living room, the biped picked up the control box that lay beside the chair and pressed the channel selector. In the wall screen, the ruddy-faced announcer vanished and was replaced by a beaming elderly lady, eccentrically dressed, who sat at the keyboard of a piano. “For my first selection this morning,” she announced in a heavy Slavic accent, I shall play Morgenstem’s ‘Dawn’ …” Click! She gave way to a muscular young man in a cream-colored leotard, who sat on the floor rotating himself on one buttock. “Just easily back, he said, and then forward -” Click!

“… We bring you the latest development in a case that has all Berlin talking,” said an invisible voice.

THE biped caught his breath: the screen showed a view of the Zoo grounds, moving at a walking pace toward the main building. With a curious shock, turning and looking out the window, past the incurious faces of a few people who stood at the railing, the biped realized what he was about to see. Out there in the early sunshine, walking slowly across the lawn, was a man with a tiny television camera.

“… who claims to be Martin Naumchik, a reporter for ParisSoir,” the voice was saying. At the same moment, the outer door rattled. The biped vacillated a moment, then left the screen and hurried into the office space. It was the keeper with his cart.

“Otto! Have you any message for me?”

“No message. Eat,” said Otto, unloading trays from his cart.

“But, is the press conference really going to be held? Is anyone here yet?”

“Plenty of people,” Otto grunted. “All in good time. Eat.” He walked away.

But eating was out of the question; the biped pushed the food around with his fork, took a bite or two, then gave it up and walked restlessly back and forth in his inner room until, after what seemed hours, the door opened and Otto returned.

As he ran into the office space, the biped caught sight of Emma peering out of her doorway again. Ignoring her, he demanded, “Are they ready for me now?”

“Yes. Come,” Otto said. The biped smoothed down his spines and followed.

There were crowds outside the gallery, and in the corridors as well; the biped glimpsed Prinzmetal going by with a harried expression. Outside the penthouse dining room, there were men wearing earphones, crouching over metal boxes covered with switches and dials. A white-uniformed Berlin policeman stood guard by the entrance. Ignoring him, Otto opened the door and leaned in for a moment, blocking the way with his body. He spoke to someone inside, then closed the door again. “Wait,” he told the biped.

After a few moments the door opened again and a pale, sweaty face appeared. It was a young man the biped had never seen before. “All right, bring it in. Quickly, quickly!”

“Always in a hurry, aren’t you?” Otto grumbled. “Very well, go, then.” He gave the biped a push.

Inside, the pale young man seized the biped’s arm. “Go straight in, don’t keep them waiting!” Beyond him, past the backs of several men who were standing close together, the biped glimpsed Griick’s rotund figure behind a table. “And now,” the Director’s voice said nervously, “I present to you the biped, Fritz!”

The biped walked stiffly forward in the silence. The big room was packed with people, some standing with cameras, the rest seated at tables arranged in arcs all the way back to the far wall. Griick gave the biped an unreadable look as he approached. “Tell them your story, Fritz - or shall I say Herr Naumchik?” He bowed and stepped back, leaving the biped alone.

The biped cleared his throat with an unintended squawk, which caused a ripple of laughter around the room. Frightened and angry, he leaned forward and gripped the edge of the table.

“My name is Martin Naumchik,” he began in a loud voice. The room quieted almost at once as he spoke, and he could feel the listeners’ respectful attention. Gaining confidence, he told his story clearly and directly, beginning from the moment he had seen the young man with the camera outside his cage. As he talked, he looked around the room, hoping to see familiar faces, but the lights were so arranged that he could barely make out the features of those who were looking at him.

When he finished, there was a moment’s silence, then a stir, and a forest of hands went up.

“You, there,” said the biped, pointing helplessly at random. A woman rose. “Who told you to say all this?” she demanded. She had a sharp, indignant face, glittering eyes. A groan of protest went up around her.

“No one,” said the biped firmly. “Next! You, there … yes, you, sir.”

“You say you took a degree at the Sorbonne in 1999. Who was the head of the German department there?”

“Herr Winkler,” the biped answered without hesitation, and pointed to another questioner.

“Who was your superior on ParisSoir when you worked at the home office?”

“Claude JLhrichs.”

MOST of the questions were the same ones he had answered before, many of them several times, at previous interviews; repeating the same responses over again made him feel a trace of discouragement. When would there be an end? But the attitude of the listeners cheered him: they were respectfully attentive, even friendly.

A tall, red-bearded man stood up. “Let me ask you this, Hen Naumchik. What is your explanation of this incredible thing? How do you account for it?”

“I can’t account for it,” the biped said earnestly. “But I’m telling you the truth.”

There was a murmur of sympathy as the tall man sat down. The biped opened his mouth to speak again, but before he could do so the mellifluous voice of Dr. Griick was heard. “That ends our little question period, thank you very much, gentlemen and ladies.” Griick came forward, followed by two keepers who quickly took the biped’s arms and started to lead him away.

The biped, at first taken by surprise, began to resist. “I’m not finished!” he shouted. “I appeal to you, make them release me!” In spite of his struggles, the keepers were dragging him farther away from the table. “Make them release me! I am Martin Naumchik!”

They were at the door. Behind them, an angry hum was arising from the audience. There were shouts of “Shame! Bring him back!” Over the growing uproar, Griick’s voice was vainly repeating, “One moment, ladies and gentlemen! I beg your indulgence! One moment! One moment!”

The keepers thrust the biped outside; the door closed. The biped ceased to struggle. “Will you behave yourself?” demanded one of the keepers, straightening his collar.

Otto appeared through the crowd, his face as stolid as ever. “Go on, if I want you I call you,” he grunted. “Fritz, come.”

The biped followed him docilely, but his heart was thudding with excitement and indignation. “Did you hear it?” he demanded. “Did you hear how that man cut me off, just when-?”

“Not me,” said Otto. “I don’t concern myself with such things. I was sitting down and having a smoke.” Avoiding the crowd, he pushed the biped toward a rear stairway. They walked down two flights, then crossed a library exhibit, threading their way between the tables and brushing through red banners that urged, “Read a book about animals!” This part of the building was almost deserted; so was the gallery.

As soon as Otto unlocked the outer door, the biped heard Griick’s voice booming from within. His excitement increased again: he ran into the living room. In the television screen, Herr Doktor Griick’s red, perspiring face stared wildly. “Gentlemen and ladies, if I may have your kind attention! Gentlemen and ladies!”

The voice of an invisible commentator cut in smoothly, The hall is still in an uproar. The Herr Doktor is unable to make himself heard.

The biped danced with excitement in front of the screen, clasping his hands together. Outside, beyond the fence, a crowd was gathering, but he ignored it. The sound from the television had a curious echoing quality, and he realized after a moment that Emma must have her set turned on next door, too.

The noise was subsiding. Griick shouted, “Gentlemen and ladies - you have heard the biped’s statement! Now permit the Director of the Zoo to make a statement also!”

There were scattered cheers. Silence fell, broken at first by coughs and the shuffling of feet. When it was complete, Griick spoke again.

“Let me ask you to think about one question, he said. Where is Martin Naumchik?”

He glanced from side to side. The silence deepened. “Where is Naumchik, this enterprising newspaperman, who has scored such a triumph?” A mutter arose; the camera swung to show restless movement in the room, one or two people rising; indistinct voices were heard.

“Is he wandering the streets of Berlin, with an animal’s soul inside his body?” Griick persisted.

“Then why is he not seen? Isn’t this a curious question, gentlemen and ladies? Doesn’t this make you wonder, doesn’t it arouse your interest? I ask again, where is this famous Martin Naumchik? Is he hiding?” He stared out at the camera, eyes gleaming behind his rimless glasses.

The biped clenched his fists involuntarily.

“Suppose that I now tell you we are all the victims of a clever hoax?” Griick demanded. There were hisses, groans of protest from the audience. “You don’t believe it? You are too thoroughly convinced?”

A deep voice echoed up from somewhere in the audience. After a moment the camera swung around: it was the tall, red-bearded man who had spoken before. His voice grew clearer. “… this farce. Why did you hurry the biped out of sight - why isn’t he here to speak for himself?” Cries of approval; the red-bearded man looked selfsatisfied, and folded his arms on his chest.

Dr. Griick appeared again. “My dear Herr Wilenski - that is your name, is it not? - do you realize that if I am telling you the truth-” he carefully smote his plump breast - this biped is a very valuable animal, very high-strung and nervous, which must be protected? Am I to endanger his health? Do you think I am such a fool?” A little laughter; scattered shouts of approval.

The red-bearded man popped into view again, aiming his finger sternly. “What about the biped’s charge that you drugged him? What have you to say to that?”

Then Griick’s earnest face, in close-up: “Somehow the animal got hold of a piece of soap, Herr Wilenski. The keeper who was responsible has been-”

(“Soap?” echoed Wilenski’s voice.)

“Yes, soap. The sodium and potassium salts in soap have a toxic effect on these bipeds. You must remember that they are not human beings, Herr Wilenski.” He raised one plump hand. “Let me continue.” Mutterings from the audience. “But first let me say this to you, Herr Wilenski, and to all of you - if I shall not convince you that we have to do here with a hoax, a dirty publicity scheme - if you shall have listened to me and still believe that in that poor biped’s body there is the soul of a human being - then I solemnly promise you that I will release Martin Naumchik!”

Sensation in the hall. The biped closed his eyes and groped weakly behind him for the chair. His relief was so great that he did not hear the next few words from the screen.

“-we here at the Zoo were just as much in the dark as you, you may believe me! How could such a thing occur? We did not believe the biped’s story for a moment - yet, what other explanation could be found? We were at our wits’ end, gentlemen and ladies - until we had the lucky inspiration to search the biped’s cage! Then! Imagine our ( shock, our horror, when we found … this!”

The camera drew back. Griick, half turning, was extending his hand in a dramatic gesture toward a machine that lay on a little table behind him. An assistant wheeled it closer. It was, as far as the biped could make out, nothing but a solid-state recorder, the same kind of machine Opatescu had used …

A cold feeling took him in the chest. He leaned forward uneasily.

“Under the blankets of the biped’s bed,” Griick’s voice went on, “we found this recording machine concealed!”

“How did it get there?” boomed Wilenski’s voice.

Griick’s face turned; his expresion was solemn. “We are still investigpting this, he said. And you may believe me, that when the guilty individuals are caught, they shall be punished with the full severity of the law! But at this moment, I can say only that we are highly interested in questioning the keeper who was discharged. He stepped closer to the small table, laid his hand on the recorder. Now, I want you all to listen to what we found in this concealed machine! Listen carefully!”

He switched on the recorder.

After a moment, a man’s deep voice spoke. “Listen and repeat after me. My name is Martin Naumchik … I was born at Asnieres in 1976 …I am a newspaperman. I work for ParisSoir. My superior there is Monsieur Claude Ehrichs …”

A distant murmur came through the glass. The biped turned his head involuntarily, and saw a little knot of people clostered around the aerial of a portable TV. Fists were being shaken. Voices drifted over, faintly: “Charlatan! Hoaxer!”

With a sense of doom, the biped turned back to the screen. The camera was panning now over the faces of the listeners. He saw shock and surprise give way to cynical understanding, disgust or anger. People were beginning to stand up here and there throughout the room; some were leaving. The biped saw the red-bearded man, shaking his head, move off toward the aisle.

“Wait! Wait!” he called. But the man in the screen did not hear.

The room was emptying. The monotonous voice of the recorder had stopped. Griick was standing idly looking out over the room, with a faint smile of satisfaction on his lips. Wenzl leaned over to speak to him; Griick nodded absently. His lips pursed: he was whistling.

And so, said the voice of the announcer breathlessly, in this dramatic revelation, the mystery of the human biped is explained! All honor to Herr Doktor Griick for his dignified handling of this difficult situation! We now return you to our studios.

The screen flickered, cleared. The biped hit the control button blindly with his fist; the image faded, dwindled and was gone.

“Ssss! Fritz the faker! Ssss!” came the voices from outside.

THE uproar in the Aviary redoubled the moment Wenzl strode in. Toucans opened their gigantic beaks, Rapped their wings and screamed. The air was full of fluttering smaller birds, flash of tail feathers, red, yellow, blue. Macaws left off hitching themselves along their wooden perches, beak, claw, beak, claw, to flutter against the invisible air fence shrieking, “Rape! Rape!” Wenzl strode past them, his death’s-head face like a pale shark swimming down the green corridor of the Aviary.

At the far end of the building, two under-keepers stood to attention. All was in order here. Wenzl crossed the short open entranceway, making a path through the sluggish crowds, and went into the Primate House.

Shrieks, roars and the thunder of shaken bars greeted him as he stepped through the doorway. Capuchins hurtled forward over one another’s backs, clustering at the bars, showing their sharp yellow teeth, shrieking their little lungs out. Proboscis monkeys dropped out of their tree-limb perches, blinking and chattering. The baboon, Hugo, leaped against his bars with a crash, shoved off and somersaulted in midair, flashing his blue behind; the two chimps rattled the bars and squealed together.

Wenzl moved along the row of cages, attentive and calm. He passed through another open en trance to the Reptile House.

Here all was quiet. Wenzl’s glance softened for the first time The Galapagos tortoise, big as wheelbarrow, was slowly munching a head of lettuce in his cruel jaws. The boa constrictor was coiled sluggishly around a conspicuous lump in its gullet. Foul diamondbacks hissed, clattered faintly, slithered off into their rocky den.

In its floodlighted cage, the grass snake hung in graceful festoons. Its tiny head swayed toward Wenzl; the pink tongue flickered out. Wenzl paused an instant to regard it with pleasure. Then he moved on.

In the Terrestrial Mammal House, there was a crowd around the rhinoceros wallow, where Prinzmetal was giving the rhino an injection. Finished, he climbed over the rail and joined Wenzl, mopping his brow with a tissue.

“Successful?” Wenzl demanded.

“Oh, yes, I think so,” said Prinzmetal in his soft, unassuming voice. He will be all right.

“It is necessary for him to be all right.”

“Oh, well, he will be.” They walked through the exit together, turned right, opened a door marked “No Admittance.”

A slender, flaxen-haired young keeper was hurrying toward them, carrying a pail of fish.

“Schildt, why are you not feeding the sea lions?” Wenzl demanded severely.

“Just going now, sir!” said the unfortunate keeper, stiffening to attention.

“Then what are you waiting for? Go!”

“Yes, sir!”

Wenzl, as he strode along beside Prinzmetal, took a tiny notebook from his breast pocket and with a tiny silver pencil, sharp as a bodkin, made a minuscule entry in it. Prinzmetal watched him with one soft brown eye, but made no comment.

“Have you seen the papers?” Prinzmetal asked, as they rode up in the elevator.

“Yes,” said Wenzl. They got out. Wenzl hesitated, then followed Prinzmetal into the latter’s washroom.

“What papers did you mean, exactly?” he asked.

Prinzmetal, looking surprised, straightened up from the basin where he had begun washing his hands. “Oh - there it is, on the table. The Zeitung. On the third page. There’s a story about a baby in Buenos Aires that understands what you say to it in French, Spanish and German. Three months old.”

“Yes.”

“And the curious thing-what struck my attention-”

“Is that child’s French nurse maid underwent an attack of amentia at the same time,” said Wenzl, biting his words.

“Yes,” Prinzmetal said, forgetting to wash.

“She is incontinent,” said Wenzl.

“Yes.”

“She understands nothing, must be fed, can only make childish sounds. But the child understands French, German and Spanish.”

“So, you saw the paper,” said Prinzmetal.

“And you, did you see this in the Tageblatt?” Wenzl asked, almost unwillingly. He took a folded newspaper from his breast pocket. “A man and his wife in Tasmania each claims to be the other.”

“I heard also, on the television, that while laying a cornerstone in Aberdeen, the mayor changed into a naked young girl, who ran away crying,” said Prinzmetal “But who knows what those fellows make up and what is true?”

“Supposing it should all be true?” Wenzl asked, folding his paper neatly and putting it away.

“It would be interesting,” said Prinzmetal, turning his attention to his soft, hairy hands, which he began to scrub with care.

“And?”

“It is our duty to report to the Director anything that might he of importance to the work of the Zoo,” said Prinzmetal, as if reciting a lesson.

“On the other hand,” said Wenzl deliberately, “It is useless, and even has a harmful effect, to take up the Herr Doktor’s time with baseless newspaper scandal.”

The two men looked at each other for a moment with complete understanding in their eyes. “After all,” said Prinzmetal, drying his hands, “what would be the good of it?”

“Exactly,” said Wenzl, and folding his newspaper precisely lengthwise, he dropped it into the waste can.