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thirty-two

I had started my experiment by connecting to a website that taught American Sign Language. The site had thousands of short videos of a black woman wearing a red blouse making signs. The video files each had appropriate names: the word or phrase they were intended to convey. There were several such services, but only this one had the very specific signs I needed.

I’m not sure what avatar I would have chosen to represent myself online. Caitlin had decided I was male, though, so this one likely wouldn’t have been it. Of course, this wasn’t a made-up graphic of a woman; it was a real expert in ASL. I tied into Google’s beta-test face-recognition database, and waited while it searched through its index of photos that had been posted elsewhere online, matching the basic physical features, rather than ephemeral qualities such as hair color or clothing, and—

Ah. Her name was Wanda Davies-Latner; she was forty-seven, and she taught sign language at an institution in Chicago.

I downloaded the clips I needed, buffering them for speedy access, and strung them together in the order I wanted. And then I took over the webcam feed that was going from Miami to San Diego, replacing the views of the now-sleeping Virgil with Wanda’s dancing hands.

What are you? I asked.

It was dark out. Hobo had been sitting in the gazebo, leaning against the wooden baseboards. But he wasn’t sleeping. I could see him through the webcam feed going to Miami; his eyes were open.

He was apparently startled to see a human woman replace Virgil on his monitor. He scrambled to a more upright position.

I sent the same sequence of video clips again: What are you?

Hobo, he signed. Hobo. Hobo.

No, I replied. Not who. What?

Hobo frowned, as if the distinction was lost on him. I tried another tack. Hobo human? I asked.

No, no! he signed vigorously. Hobo ape.

Good, yes, I replied. But what kind of ape?

Boy ape, said Hobo.

Yes, true. I triggered video of Virgil, taken from YouTube. But are you this kind of ape?

No, no, no, signed Hobo. Orange ape! Hobo not orange.

Orange ape, I signed. That kind of ape is called orangutan.

Hobo frowned, perhaps considering whether to try mimicking the complex sign. He opted for something simpler. Not Hobo.

What about this ape? I said, showing footage now of a gorilla. I was pleased that Hobo was able to follow along; there was a jump-cut between the end of one sign and the beginning of the next as each successive clip began.

Hobo moved backward as the gorilla thumped its chest. There was little in the footage to give a sense of scale, but during his time at the Georgia Zoo, he had perhaps seen gorillas and knew they were large; maybe that frightened him. No, Hobo signed. Not Hobo. And then, after a pause, perhaps while he recalled a sign he hadn’t used for a long time, he added, Gorilla.

Yes, I signed. Hobo not gorilla. What about this type of ape? Footage of a bonobo started to play—leaner than a chimp, with relatively shorter limbs, a longer face, and hair distinctively parted in the middle.

Bonobo, replied Hobo at once. Hobo bonobo, he signed; the words rhymed in English, but the ASL gestures looked nothing alike.

Hobo had known his mother—Cassandra had been her name, according to the Wikipedia entry on him—and she had been a pure-blooded bonobo. He’d probably never even met his father, though, who, according to DNA tests, was a chimpanzee named Ferdinand.

Two heritages, two paths. A choice to be made.

I cued more footage, this time of a chimpanzee. What about this ape? This ape like Hobo?

That ape not know Hobo, he signed back.

I must have sent the wrong sense of “like.” I mean, is Hobo this type of ape?

No, no, said Hobo. That chimpanzee.

Hobo’s mother is a bonobo, I signed.

Hobo’s mother dead, he replied, and he looked very sad.

Yes, I replied. I am sorry.

He tilted his head slightly, accepting my comment.

What kind of ape Hobo’s father? I asked.

He made a face that seemed to convey sorrow for my ignorance. Hobo bonobo, he signed again. Hobo mother bonobo. Hobo father bonobo.

Hobo father not bonobo, I signed.

He narrowed his eyes but said nothing.

Hobo father chimpanzee.

No, said Hobo.

Yes, I said.

How? he asked.

I knew from my reading that human children rarely liked to hear this about their own birth, but it was the truth. Accident.

Father chimpanzee? he asked, as if checking to see whether he’d gotten my meaning right the first time.

Yes.

Then Hobo… He stopped, his hands held stationary in midair, as if he had no idea how to complete the thought he’d begun.

I triggered signs: Hobo part chimpanzee; Hobo part bonobo. He said nothing, so I added, Hobo special.

That seemed to please him, and he signed Hobo special back at me three times.

You have a choice, I said. I triggered the playing of a video of chimpanzee warfare: three males attacking a fourth, pummeling him with their fists, biting and kicking him, all the while letting out loud hoots. By the end of the video, the hapless victim was dead.

You can choose that, I said. Or you can choose this. And I triggered another video, of bonobos living together in peace and making love: playing, facing each other during intercourse, their trademark genital-genital rubbing, running about. Hobo looked on, fascinated. But then his face fell. Hobo alone, he said.

No, I signed. No one is alone.

Who you? Hobo asked.

Friend, I replied.

Friend talk strange, he said.

He was perceptive, and he had favorite TV shows he watched over and over again. He might indeed have recognized that every time I signed bonobo, it was the exact same clip.

Yes. I am not human.

You ape?

No.

What you?

I thought about which signs Hobo might possibly know. I rather suspected computer was one of them, so I triggered a playback of that, then added, rather lamely, I had to admit, But not really.

Hobo seemed to consider this, then he signed, Show me.

I hadn’t cued up the appropriate imagery, but it didn’t take me long to find it: one of Dr. Kuroda’s renderings of webspace, taken from Caitlin’s datastream.

You? Hobo signed, an astonished look on his face.

Me, I replied.

Pretty, he replied.

Which do you choose? I signed. Bonobo or chimpanzee?

Hobo bared his teeth. Show again, he said.

I replayed the clips—the violence and killing of chimps, the playfulness and lovemaking of bonobos.

Chimpanzee scary, Hobo signed.

You scary, I replied. You hurt Shoshana. You think about hurting Dillon.

Scary bad, Hobo said.

Yes, I replied. Scary bad.

He sat still for almost a minute, then signed, Hobo sleep now.

I didn’t know whether apes dreamed, and, even if normal apes didn’t, Hobo was indeed special, so I took a chance. Good dreams, I signed.

You good dreams, too, he replied.

Of course, I didn’t dream. Not at all.