The Zoo Page 3
‘Shhh.’ Papa shakes his head, blinks and winces.
The door opens. The worried man returns in a blur, busy as an angry wasp.
‘Hurry,’ he says. ‘Quick, quick.’ He claps his hands. ‘You must not keep the Deputy waiting. Come. Come. Hurry. Hurry.’
Then we are rushed down the corridor to another door. The worried man exits, closing the door on us.
It is all very strange. For, although we have gone fifty metres down the corridor, turned a corner, and mounted a small flight of stairs, we are back ino the room that we have just left. The very same. Same walls. Same colours. Same size. Same rug. Same enamelled lampshade. Same painting of loyal workers at the Heroic Tractor Factory. There’s the same desk and chair, a sofa, and a low table stacked with papers. Next to a small square barred window, there is a wash-basin and to its side a steel rail, draped with a crisp white towel.
On the desk, there is a stack of Herzegovina Flor cigarette packets, a large white china ashtray with a cherrywood pipe, like Uncle Vlad’s, a pale green glass bottle of Borjomi mineral water and a drinking glass, on a fat book called Pharaoh by Boleslaw Prus, next to a copy of The Combat History of the 2nd Guards Tank Army from Kursk to Berlin: Volume 1: January 1943–June 1944. I happen to notice it is opened at page 103.
Only this time we are not alone. A very short, plump man is washing his hands at the sink. First we admire his back, muscled like a wrestler’s, stretching the seams of his taut jacket. When he turns to face us, drying his hands on the towel, we see, a fat, round, pale yellow face, with bulging eyes and rimless pince-nez. He is bald on the scalp with short silver hair to the sides. He wears a shiny, light blue suit, white shirt with a crimson cravat. There is a strong smell of cologne. The hands are white and pudgy with shiny nails.
He looks at us with cold disappointment, as if we were his lunch, but not the dish he’d hoped for.
I have seen his picture somewhere. Maybe in the newsreels, or in a newspaper. He looks comical. Perhaps he is a well-known actor, or famous circus clown.
There are several questions I want to ask him. And they all come out, in a rush, together.
‘Are you famous? Are you a dwarf?’ I ask. ‘Or just very short? What’s that you smell of? Are you wearing women’s perfume? How do your glasses stay stuck on your face?’
But he just shakes his head in pained, eye-rolling silence.
Papa kicks my ankle, which is his secret code for me to hush.
‘You are Doctor Roman Alexandrovich Zipit? And this smiling, loose-tongued buffoon is your simpleton son, Yuri, who acts as your assistant?’
‘Exactly, Comrade,’ says Papa.
‘Do you know who I am?’
Father pauses, then, soft and submissive, as if reassuring a dangerous animal, he whispers, ‘I believe you may be Marshal First Deputy Bruhah, Minister of Internal Affairs of the Socialist Union.’
‘Perhaps,’ the stranger concedes. ‘But, if I were that person, you must forget ever meeting me.’
‘I must.’
‘Absolutely.’ Comrade Maybe-Bruhah reaches out to shake Papa’s hand. ‘Greetings, Comrade. We have not met. Not now, not ever.’
Papa shrugs, mute, and makes a stupid, gaping smiley face.
‘And yet you must wonder why you are here … For no purpose whatsoever … To meet nobody … in a place that does not exist … in the middle of the night …’
Papa gulps silent like a fish in a tank.
‘You are here to give medical treatment to a Comrade.’
‘A human being?’ asks Papa. ‘A person?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not an animal?’
‘Absolutely,’ says might-be-Bruhah. ‘All of our country’s leaders are human beings, excluding a couple, who are so close you’d hardly notice the difference …’
‘Ah, but I am a veterinarian,’ says Papa. He sounds cheerful now, spying his escape hole. ‘Alas, I cannot help. I specialise in Big Mammals. Elephants and large Ungulates. Those are my forte. I do not treat people. I am not qualified. You would need to consult a doctor. Of human medicine.’
‘Doctors are not to be trusted.’
‘No?’
‘Many are Cosmopolitan …’
‘Cosmopolitan?’ asks Papa.
‘Jewish. Zionist Nationalists. Many are Amerikan spies. There is a conspiracy to kill off our leadership. There are many arrests. You will read about it shortly in the papers.’
‘I did not know …’
‘Now this patient will only trust himself to the care of veterinarians.’
‘Indeed?’ Papa frowns.
‘Because veterinarians have a sound and complete medical training. But they lack the treachery, bourgeois tendencies and Cosmopolitan habits. They are not in a conspiracy to murder our nation’s leaders.’
‘Yes?’ Papa sounds surprised by this account of his profession.
‘You will think you recognise the patient.’
‘I will?’
‘Yes. At first, you will think you know him. But this is dangerous and wrong-headed. Then you will promptly realise you have never seen him before, and have no notion who he is. Because he does not resemble anyone you know. Not in the slightest.’
‘Yes?’ says Papa.
‘You will discuss this unknown, nameless man’s condition with nobody but me. Between ourselves, we will call him … Comrade Elephant …’
‘Yes?’
‘Because he is a Very Big Mammal indeed, of the type you’re specialised to treat. And because he is very powerful, very wise, and very kind, except when he is angry. And because he rarely forgets, and seldom forgives.’
‘Very well …’ Papa concedes. ‘But may I first see his medical history?’
‘This patient has no medical history.’
‘But everyone has some medical history,’ Papa protests. ‘If only by being born.’
‘The Comrade is an elephant of exceedingly high standing. If he had a medical history, he would have experienced some sickness. That could be misconstrued as weakness, a failing in his vitality and power, a limit to his capacity.’
‘Still, any notes would be invaluable.’
‘All notes were lost or destroyed a month ago. Besides, they never existed.’
‘Then, the doctors who treated him before? They will surely remember.’
‘Unfortunately, those doctors barely exist. His personal physician was Marian Vovsi.’
‘How do I reach him?’
‘With difficulty. Since he is dead. He died of heart paralysis. He did not survive the pressing questions of my curious colleagues …’
‘There’s no one else?’
‘There was a Professor Otinger.’
‘The Cardiologist?’
‘But now he is under arrest. Anyway, his heart gave way.’
‘His colleagues?’
‘Doctors Spielman, Groshtein and Kogan-Geiger are being held for criminal investigation …’
It sounded as if being a doctor had itself become a fatal medical condition.
*
Comrade Nobody-we-know leads us down the long corridor. There is an endless patterned carpet laid over the gleaming wood-block flooring. The air smells of scorched cabbage and beeswax. The walls and ceiling are panelled with darkened wood.
After we have walked perhaps fifty metres we turn into a doorway.
Then Maybe-Marshal knocks on the heavy, wood-panelled door and, receiving no answer, leads us into the room.
Of course, it is the same room. The small room we have come to expect, and have visited twice before. Everything is as it was – the basin, the rug, lampshade, painting of the tractor factory, table, books, cigarette packets, bottle of mineral water.
But the air is warmer and the smells riper and richer. There are the scents of warm, damp bedding, vomit, chlorine disinfectant and stale pee.
The patient lies sprawled on his back on a sofa. He wears a white night-shirt, risen up above the knees, to reveal his hairless le
gs, whitish with a pale blue sheen.
His eyes are closed. His breath is quick and shallow. He releases a regular snore, mixing rasping in-breath with rattling out-breath. His face is grey. His lips are purpled.
If you were to ask me if I recognise him, I’d say I can’t be sure. But I would remark that he bears some strong resemblances to Comrade Iron-Man.
Yes. In some ways he definitely looks like him –
The Great Father.
Kind Uncle Josef.
The Man of Iron.
The Genius.
The Inspirer.
The Gardener of Human Happiness.
Architect of Joy.
The Repository of All Hope.
Himself.
General Secretary of the Communist Party.
Saviour of Our Nation.
Except … this Sick-Man has a badly scarred face and is a scrawny, titch of a fellow with a bent left arm.
His face wears a tired, mean, wrinkled, foxy expression. While the Great Father of Our Nation, as the posters show, always wears a look of calm, kind nobility on his smooth-skinned face.
So I guess the Sick-Man might be in some way connected to share the family face – Comrade Iron-Man’s older brother, cousin, or perhaps his father.
Papa has a sharp intake of breath. He stands over the man and blinks with concern. He sniffs the man’s quick, shallow breath. He lays his head to the man’s chest, to listen to his heart. He clutches the man’s left wrist, and watches the second-hand of his wrist watch.
‘Sphygmomanometer,’ Papa demands, and I root around in his leather case for the blood-pressure cuff and mercury tube.
Papa bends and stretches and unbends the man’s four limbs in turn.
‘Write, Comrade Assistant …’ Papa hands me his notebook and his silver propelling pencil. I think he is trying to demonstrate my usefulness and a need for my presence.
‘Unknown Male. Approximately seventy-five years old,’ he dictates. ‘ … No distinguishing features … None whatsoever … Smallpox scarring to right and left cheek … Left arm stiffened. Historic damage to joints and musculature. Shorter than right arm. Webbing to left foot. Second and third toes fused … One and a half metres in height … Severe hypertension. Tachycardia. Irregular cardiac rhythm … Low oxygenation of toes, fingers, limbs and face …’
Then, to all Papa’s comments I add a scribble, of my own observation –
‘Stinks like a goat.’
‘So?’ demands Comrade Could-be-Bruhah, when Papa at last stands back, rubbing his palms together, to show he concludes his examination. ‘What is the patient’s condition?’
‘In my opinion …’ says Papa, ‘as Chief Veterinary Officer to The Kapital Zoo, with Special Responsibility for Large Mammals, chiefly Ungulates, particularly Elephants, both African and Indian, the patient has arteriosclerosis, limiting the blood supply to his brain. We would expect him to suffer dizziness, poor memory, poor concentration, confusion, irrational outbursts, frustration, anger.
‘Overlaying this chronic condition, he has recently suffered an acute ischemic event, such as is commonly termed a minor stroke … due to a small blood clot or a bleed in his brain.
‘He seems to have stabilised, and may be out of immediate danger … but there is the perpetual risk of a recurrence, probably more severe, perpetually life-threatening. There is a need for sedation and immediate rest … he should avoid any work and stress … If the patient were an elephant of advanced years, I would say the prognosis is poor, and that we should expect a further crisis. But as he is a human being, I cannot be sure. The morbidity pattern is species-specific … But it is certain he must abstain absolutely from tobacco and alcohol …’
At this remark, the patient flicks open his eyes wide and glares up at Papa. It is as if he has been listening all along. And doesn’t like to be told what to do, or instructed to abstain from his pleasures.
The Sick-Man finds his voice. And what he says is sudden, fast, fluent and vulgar.
Papa, himself, always shuns bad language. Not just because it is ugly to the ear. But because it is inexact, illogical and repetitive. Also unfriendly, uncomradely, un-Socialist and non-progressive. Plus an insult to the human spirit.
He says cursing always retards history, rather than advancing humanity, and always makes more enemies than friends.
Papa says you only have to translate swearing into normal language to see how little sense there is in it. And how unscientific it all becomes.
I don’t recall all the bad words, and worse words that the patient uses. And in what order. Besides, there are some I’d never heard before. So I can only guess the meaning. But it’s a sorry bundle of remarks, all tied together by lies and meanness –
‘I am intimate with your mother, by her slack rear entry.’
‘She sells her body in railway stations.’
‘Her private parts are well known, from Minsk to Smolensk.’
‘Her vagina is more capacious than Krubera Cave.’
Forgive my loose translations.
His remarks are exaggerations or complete untruths. I think he’s saying hurtful things just to insult poor Papa.
He is talking of our dear Granny Anya, and not in a way that we – her family – remember her.
Papa just widens his eyes and gulps.
The patient continues, growling –
‘And I don’t know you from a pig’s arsehole … What kind of goat-fucking, sheep-humping retard are you, anyway?’
I can see Papa is surprised by the harsh, accusing turn the consultation has taken. But when you work in a zoo, with elephants, hippos and rhinos, you get used to your patients showing massive ingratitude, and throwing spontaneous tantrums on a huge scale.
So Papa remains composed. He announces his name, patronymic, rank and veterinarian specialism, but he is turned oddly pale and speaks with a stammering hesitancy. To which the patient replies –
‘Go back to the farmyard, Quack, I’ll take a second opinion.’
The patient has turned his gaze from Papa, sideways on Maybe-Bruhah.
‘See to it, Lev. You donkey’s dribbling arsehole.’
So the patient says. I rephrase, and drop some terms, to avoid offence. But you can probably still catch his drift.
‘Koba,’ says Bruhah, ‘any other medical man will say the same.’
‘He implies I am not fit to govern. The insolent Cosmopolitan, Zionist quack …’
‘No, Koba. He says you have suffered an attack. So you need rest.’
Then the patient twists his head to take me in. He stares long, then frowns.
‘What are you smiling at? Are you an imbecile?’
I shrug. I sniff.
‘Is he a sprite?’ the Sick-Man demands. ‘Is he a Leshi?’
As it turns out, this is an unkind remark, because, as I happen to know, from the stories Papa read to me at bedtime when I was younger, Leshi are shape-shifting woodsprites. They capture people, carry them back to their cave, then tickle them to death.
The only way to defend yourself against a Leshi is to turn all your clothes inside out, and wear your shoes on the wrong feet.
I protest. I say I am Yuri Zipit and that, appearances apart, I am a normal, terrestrial being, of the human species, aged twelve and a bit.
He nods. He winks, and taps the side of his nose confidentially.
‘Don’t worry,’ he tells me, gesturing to the others, ‘you can tell me everything shortly. These are only Temporary, Unnecessary People. I can make them disappear. I can disinvent them, whenever I wish. Or send them to work in a mine in The Cold Lands.’
‘But, Koba …’ says Bruhah.
‘Go fuck yourselves …’ the patient invites.
He winks at me again. But his friendship seems a dark, scary place. I’m not sure I want to enter in.
‘Koba …’ Bruhah urges. ‘You need rest.’
‘The boy will stay with me. He can fetch me what I want. He will see to my needs.’
It’s a secret code. But I know exactly what he means to tell me.
Shhh …
Mind your mouth. Don’t slouch. These are grave times. Be warned. Pay close attention. Stop gibbering like a demented gibbon. Mind your manners. Stay on your guard. Don’t confide in strangers. Change your underpants. Keep your lips sealed. If people ask you awkward questions, act simple-minded. Go to the lavatory when you can. You don’t know when the chance will come again. Don’t prattle on like a total idiot. Above all, don’t mention politics, or voice opinions off the top of your head.
4. COMRADE ELEPHANT
So, there we are. Alone together. Just the two of us. Comrade Elephant and myself. In a small room. In the dead of night. Facing each other. In silence.
And, while I gather he must be a big and important beast, I can’t be sure who he is exactly. We haven’t been properly introduced. At the zoo, at least, he would bear some instructive sign or label.
Shango, Elephant – Loxodonta africana: Order – Proboscidea: Do not feed: On no account attempt to touch.
Questions are jostling to get asked in a hurry, elbowing each other in my mind, wrestling to come out first. Then, the pressure builds up, so they all squirt out in a loud, messy rush –
‘Do you know you’re dying, old man?’
‘Why are your cheeks so scabby?’
‘How did you smash up your arm?’
‘Does no one ever answer you back?’
‘Do you happen to know where my Papa has gone?’
But the sick-fellow is deaf to my curiosities. He simply ignores every question I ask. He only has a mind for his own concerns.
‘Shhh …’ he says. ‘Idiot child …’ And scowls as he swats the air, as if my words are an unpleasant smell he could simply waft away.
His look reminds me of an Iguana lizard. The head stays still. It betrays no emotion. The only feeling shows in the slow, dull, dark brown eyes that follow your movements precisely, like a predator, without warmth or pity.