Can you describe the smell?
He glanced at her, There were maggots.
She said, The research get published?
Scientific American. It won a Goetner, launched my career. I think the clincher was that we finished the year off with a re-enactment, a week of scavenging and gathering.
She was no longer thinking about how she felt, You ate the maggoty elephant?
Oh no. Too many potential diseases and parasites. Also we legally weren’t allowed to since most of the species were endangered. We simply weighed what we were able to hack off within 90 seconds—the average amount of time scavengers have at a kill. We calculated the caloric intake, balancing that against our output in searching for the meat.
She tucked her chin in. Thinking this hard, she walked more easily. She said, You were trying to get an accurate energy assessment of the lifestyle without allowing for the costs of parasites and disease?
He said, This was years ago. At the time those calculations had not—
Did you have guns?
Of course, he said.
She said, Then you would have been able to head directly toward what you were interested in, instead of sneaking up on it. No need to be watchful or sprint for safety. That would save a lot of—
Impatient with the speed of her words, she interrupted herself, For that matter, do you know how well their senses functioned? If they had, say, a better sense of smell and worse vision, the food they headed for would have been different from what you headed for. That food would be at a different distance, containing a different amount of calories.
In the years since his study had been published, he’d heard all these objections, but never so quickly and all from one person.
She stopped, waiting for his response.
Her gaze reminded him of one specific moment in Tanzania. Before dawn, he’d stumbled out of bed to walk the 20 feet from his tent to the poop-tent, scrubbing his face, when a lioness stepped out on the path in front of him—300 pounds of muscled predator heading home after a night of hunting, panting in the early morning heat. She jerked her head toward him, startled by the sight of a man in his boxers. By the time he could register what he was seeing, she’d shifted to a stop.
This was the moment he thought of, this eternal moment, their eyes locked, while they stood there, considering the distinct possibilities of the next instant.
Then she snorted out her nose and walked off, curving through the underbrush.
Frankie regarded him like the lioness had—not a predatory look, for the lion had not stalked him. A simple look of surprise at how foolish he’d been.
That whole year in Africa, he’d felt so alive, aware of his surroundings and his body’s physical struggles. He thought about those days a lot. They felt so much simpler than now (this morning his daughter had struggled to breathe, the medication’s speed measured in inhalations, his wife’s fear turning to fury and him cradling his own helpless hands).
He answered Frankie with honesty, We did not control for those variables.
She paused, then asked, Given that, what conclusion do you feel you can draw from your research?
He could have used archaeological jargon to make the findings sound more precise or impressive, could have mentioned how many times the study had been referenced in other researchers’ papers. Instead he stated in three simple words what he knew was true, the concept that the year of striving in the heat and sun had ironed into his body, an understanding deeper than any fact he had learned in school.
He said, Pre-humans were tough.
She blinked and went very still. Her expression internal.
She said, Laughter can rip my stitches.
He studied her, her complexion and stance. She’d managed the hallway more easily than yesterday. He’d never had a chance to threaten the lion.
He said, Ma’am, you disobey me again while we are with Goliath, I’ll make you guffaw.
Her eyes sharpened with attention.
Ok Door, open, he said and helped her into the interaction area.
DAY 6
Eight
Each time Frankie opened the door to her Foundation apartment, the E-musement system clicked on along with the lights. The system still cued to the past tenant’s preferences, her EarDrums broadcast the avatar’s voice at a volume loud enough to make her jump.
The broadcast itself was on the living room wall, a face the size of a platter addressing her in a concerned tone while lines of text scrolled along the bottom in different directions, shimmering and insistent: the stock market, local promotional offers, breaking news.
Luckily the avatar that the past tenant had selected was not like his bathroom calendar of shirtless women with wrenches. Instead, she was in her 40s, fully clothed and had kind eyes.
Frankie’s own media preferences didn’t load, perhaps some basic incompatibility. Judging from the general repair of the apartment, this home system might be a bootleg. Or maybe the problem was with her implant, which was well over six months old and beginning to have version-incompatibility problems with devices outside of her BodyWare.
Those first few days, she kept asking her Bindi to turn the E-musement off. Each time there’d be a pause, then her EarDrums would announce the system wasn’t responding. By the third day, the broadcast was bothering her so much she spent time searching for a physical override switch somewhere in the apartment—as though any system had such a switch anymore.
So, instead she turned the sound off on her EarDrums. The avatar continued to mouth important information, but soundlessly now. From the visuals it was apparent most of the stories concerned extreme weather events and cyberattacks. Perhaps these reflected the past tenant’s searches, or maybe they were actually the major news of the day. Frankie studied the scrolling ads and product placements to see if they were individualized or not. If they were, then the janitor had been interested in weight loss, dietary fiber and local massage parlors. The avatar was shown drinking from a Metamucil cup and holding a Weight Watchers pen.
Each morning, as soon as Frankie snuck her feet out of bed to place them on the floor, the avatar appeared, soundlessly saying good morning and then starting on her roundup of news. Her jaw chewed on the words, high-def images flashing behind her. The only way Frankie could turn the screen off was to take her feet off the floor and curl back up in bed.
In the end, her solution was to turn away from the wall as much as she could, keeping her back to the giant kindly woman who mouthed muted words of warning about extreme rainfall and widespread cyber-breaches. Sometimes when there was a large movement, Frankie glanced over involuntarily to catch the image of a palm tree bowing sideways in the wind or the swirling logo of Duke Energy with the word Blackout just below it.
*
Resting on the couch in Stotts’ office, there wasn’t much to look at. The room was empty except for the necessary. His jacket hung up, all clutter put away, the chair pushed into the desk, the result nearly as impersonal as a hotel room. Perhaps he’d learned this sort of order in the Reserves.
One of the only clues that this was Stotts’ office was the MomentsTM cube on the desk. The cube was bright and changing. In the dark office, Frankie’s eyes were drawn to it. Each Moment was a photograph that shifted to video for an instant, just enough time to show the flicker of water, the start of a gesture. The simple trick of a photo starting to laugh was endlessly effective—as if by staring hard enough, any scene could be brought to life.
Stotts’ wife was good looking, honeyed hair and a long neck. Even if Stotts hadn’t mentioned she was British, Frankie thought she might have guessed—eyebrows raised, mouth pursed, that BBC look of mild dismay. The Moments showed a typical plot: a few vacation photos of the young couple followed by an image of Stotts kissing the bride; the now-wife grinning sideways showing off her swollen belly, then Stotts cupping the newborn cl
oser in his arms. In every shot with the daughter, as she grew from baby to toddler to child, she stole the scene. Tess had big eyes and she stared out of the image deadpan. Her only motion was her mouth working on her binky.
In Stotts’ office, Frankie rested, staring at the Moments of Tess. Since these images were probably taken using the Lenses of her parents, through their eyes, Frankie could see exactly how Tess looked at her parents.
From inside the image, Tess stared that way at her.
*
Moving down the hall, Frankie asked Stotts, Have wild bonobos been observed to use tools?
He answered, Nope.
She asked, But wild chimps have?
Yup.
Then how come you aren’t doing this research with chimps?
Stotts answered, Two reasons, ma’am. First off, chimps have killed people. I really wouldn’t enjoy sitting next to them, teaching them how to make knives.
She grunted. Each day she walked more easily, but still appreciated his hand round her arm.
He added, Second, I need a species that’s likely to cooperate with each other.
She asked, Chimps don’t cooperate?
He asked, You know the classic experiment in cooperation?
She tilted her head.
He said, A big pile of food is put on a tray in front of a cage with two animals in it. The tray’s too far away to grab, but there’s a rope looped through the tray’s handles. Both ends of the rope are placed within reach. The rope isn’t tied to the tray, so if only one animal pulls, it will snake free. To get the food, they have to pull together. Elephants and gorillas master it quickly, as well as four-year-old children.
She asked, And chimps?
Stotts reached the locked door to the interaction area. He said, Ok Door, open.
Ushering her through the door, he answered, The stronger chimp fights the other chimp away from the rope in order to yank on it on his own. When the rope comes free, the stronger chimp screams in frustration and starts beating on the weaker chimp.
Every time?
After a few trials, they begin to understand. Given the choice of a teammate, some of them will pick one who’ll help. However even then, as soon as the food is pulled close enough to reach, both chimps drop the rope to grab the food, racing to eat more than the other.
What about the bonobos?
First they have sex, then they cooperate. Every time. It doesn’t matter who the partners are: younger and older, more powerful and less, male and female. Once the food is within reach, there’s no grabbing. The videos are great. A juvenile can actually reach into an adult’s mouth for a piece of fruit and the adult will keep its mouth open, waiting for the juvenile to figure out which piece it wants.
Stotts opened the door to the research room. The lights clicked on and the bonobo avatar appeared on the wall. Frankie shuffled forward, needing to sit, her legs trembling.
Stotts said, The results are so consistent, that one set of researchers actually tried to get the bonobos not to cooperate.
Behind him, the avatar translated, her face impassive, the words flashing by just below her face.
Frankie lowered herself into the seat. Although she worked hard not to show any weakness, Stotts didn’t let go until she was seated.
She asked, How?
Stotts said, They put one bonobo in a cage and another in a second cage, both cages connected to a common room. They piled the food up in the common room, then opened the door to the room for only one of the bonobos.
Frankie watched the avatar, trying to pick out individual gestures. The sheer speed blended it all together into one blurred motion, the visual equivalent of street Spanish. At this point, the only gestures she could recognize were Yes, No, Big and Bottle.
Stotts opened the door to the enclosure and called out, Hey Goliath, want to come down? I downloaded the new issue of Vogue.
From high in the climbing structure, Goliath began to descend.
Frankie asked, And what happened?
Stotts said, Well, the first bonobo would move toward the food, excited. Then the second bonobo—the one who was still locked in—would squeal and the first would knuckle right past the pile of food, to open the door for the second, without snagging even one piece of fruit on the way.
She imagined the scene Stotts was describing. She pictured the bonobo hurrying over to open the door: a bonobo version of Jeeves, or maybe Jesus. She pictured Miss Manners in a hairy sexual form.
She asked, Ok, so what does cooperation have to do with flint knapping?
He stood by the door, watching Goliath wander closer. He said, Deposits of rocks that you can use for flint knapping are rare, yet archaeologists have found the stone tools everywhere. To travel that far, the tools or rocks must have been traded many times between different groups.
He looked back at her and said, Chimps would never trade. If they met a new group, they would attack it.
She asked, And bonobos?
They’d have sex with the new group and then give the tools away.
Goliath knuckled in.
Stotts said to Frankie, Alright, time to be quiet.
She nodded.
Goliath climbed onto the desk, greeting Stotts with a happy peep. With Frankie, he just looked at her, a level considering gaze.
Stotts asked, You ready to try?
Goliath pumped his fist in the air.
The avatar translated, Yes.
Stotts sat down beside Goliath and demonstrated the correct knapping technique. Holding a slab of chert on his thigh, he struck it with the hammerstone. Plink and a chunk of rock dropped off, as easily as if it had been only glued in place. The glassy inside of the chert was revealed. He turned the slab and hit it again, carving it, his blows as relaxed as a blacksmith’s.
Although Goliath watched the knapping (flinching a little at each plink), he also at times studied Stotts and Frankie and the box with the banana in it.
Once the shard was carved, Stotts used it to cut the rope and open the box.
When Stotts started to eat the banana, Goliath held out his palm and flexed his fingers in a give-me gesture.
No, said Stotts. This is my treat, Goliath. You know that. I earned it. You can get a treat too, but only if you carve a rock like I did.
Goliath studied Stotts’ expression. Bonobo society wasn’t based on individual ownership or the ethic of hard work. There was no bonobo meme for scientific testing, no framework to understand why Stotts would want to withhold the food.
Goliath flexed his fingers again, holding out his hand.
No, said Stotts, busy shaking his head.
In response, Goliath moved his eyes. It was a stagey eye movement, the kind used in silent movies—the hero widening his eyes and pointing them to the closet where the villain hid. Goliath looked not at the banana, but at the rock shard and then back to Stotts’ eyes.
Nope, repeated Stotts, My banana.
Perhaps Frankie noticed Goliath’s eye movement and Stotts didn’t because she wasn’t allowed to talk, wasn’t distracted by speech.
She grunted to get Stotts’ attention and then pointed. Pointing is a gesture that first appears in humans at 12 months old, a developmental milestone: the baby straightening the index finger and aiming it, curling the other fingers and thumb in, as instinctive a gesture as it was for a hunting dog to freeze its whole body into a point, one paw to its chest, shivering in its focus.
While Stotts hadn’t understood Goliath’s eye flick, he comprehended Frankie pointing at the shard.
What, Stotts asked, He wants the . . . ? Ohh. Goliath, no, you can’t have the shard. You have to make your own. You know that.
Goliath considered this statement, then leaned forward to try to pull open the drawer that contained the rest of the food.
Stotts blocked the draw
er with his hip. He said, No, Goliath.
Goliath stared back, baffled.
It was possible that—while Stotts was attempting to teach Goliath how to bang rocks together—Goliath was wondering why humans were rude.
Nine
It wasn’t until 12th grade (the teacher drawing on the chalkboard the chemical structure of gibberellic acid, while Francine leaned forward to cough vomit onto the linoleum) that she was finally taken to see the school nurse.
The nurse, a kindly round woman named Mrs. McGonickle, took her temperature. When the thermometer beeped and showed no fever, she asked Francine if she’d eaten anything questionable today.
Francine shook her head and whispered she was going to vomit again. Mrs. McGonickle got a bucket and sat beside her, rubbing her back while Francine heaved. Her hand was warm and didn’t pause at any of the sounds. Since Francine hadn’t eaten for two days, the size of the bucket was a bit optimistic. Afterward Mrs. McGonickle handed her a wet paper towel and took the bucket away. Her actions said she’d seen this all before and that nothing in the world of illness bothered her. She returned, sitting there quietly for a moment before she asked, Sugar, what’s wrong?
Francine looked at the woman’s face and felt such a yearning to be a child again, to confess the problem and have an adult deal with it. The nurse was a medical person, perhaps talking to her would be allowed.
For once she tried to describe what she felt inside.
Color has a large and specific vocabulary, blue, cobalt, topaz. Using these words, a person can describe an exact wavelength of light with little effort or imagination, the listener able to glimpse the experience. Hearing, touch, taste and smell also have their own vivid descriptors. Loud. Sandy. Sweet. Musky. Pain, on the other hand—not considered one of the senses—has few words all its own. Like a beggar, it is forced to borrow concepts and phrases from the others; sharp, white-hot or pressure. In a way, this lack is understandable, since most people experience this sensation only rarely. However when pain does arrive, it feels so familiar. Time stops. Language melts away, the experience expressed through motion and sound: rocking, moaning and clutching. In the face of pain, each of us becomes a mute animal, suffering and alone.
Theory of Bastards Page 6