by Enrique Laso
The Taxidermist
Enrique Laso
Translated by Valeria Lagos Terrizzano - Gordon Downie
“The Taxidermist”
Written By Enrique Laso
Copyright © 2015 Enrique Laso
All rights reserved
Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.
www.babelcube.com
Translated by Valeria Lagos Terrizzano - Gordon Downie
“Babelcube Books” and “Babelcube” are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
The Taxidermist
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
The Taxidermist
"And must this world of yours die with you,
the old life in this new order, all yours?
Are the anvils and crucibles of your soul working
for the dust and for the wind?"
Antonio Machado
I have not the slightest idea what leads a young man to want to be a taxidermist these days. All I can say, is that from my earliest childhood, I had shown an enormous, uncontrollable passion for the conservation of the bodies of the most common insects. I suppose one poetic explanation could be what the person this story is dedicated to once said to me: "we are simply souls destined to preserve the beauty of this world, inevitably condemned to decadence and, ultimately, to filth". Undoubtedly, it's a possibility. Although my own interpretation puts forward, as the true motivation, an unstoppable curiosity, a wish to know intimately the inside of bodies and, beyond that, the somewhat childish sensation of immense power, of an almost divine control, given by the capacity to stop at will the decaying process that nature has in store for every living creature.
The origin of this calling can be traced back to when I was just five or six years old and I was devoted to catching the cheerful dragonflies who, innocently, landed on the banks of the river in which I bathed during the summer holidays. I remember myself with a hand-made butterfly net, mercilessly waiting for one of those poor insects to be unlucky enough to fall within my very restricted reach. Later I would return home, proud of my treasures - three or four dragonflies - and I would devote the rest of the afternoon, until dusk, to patiently analysing and classifying them and, eventually, sticking a needle in their thoraxes to fix them firmly on to a large, white corkboard.
But I am not the subject of this tale. What I really want to do is talk about my mentor: my master, tutor or whatever you may want to call him. It is only now that he has departed, that I can speak about him: that I feel obliged to talk about him. I could have done it in a simple, brief manner, but then it would be deeply unfair to the person who gave so much to me, and who has forged my spirit in such a definitive way, for the rest of my life. And it is important that you, the reader, read these pages so that you may know the true reason that led me to write them. Otherwise you may get the completely wrong impression about the most fascinating man that I have ever met: that I will ever meet.
I
The first time I went to his house, I must have been sixteen or seventeen years old and he was probably about seventy. For me it was a real honour that a man of his prestige had accepted my proposal to interview him, with the purpose of finishing a sixth form assignment which I had intentionally centred around taxidermy. I had phoned him a week earlier and he, showing mild interest but wasting no time with small talk, had given me an appointment for the following Saturday at midday. I imagine it was unusual for him to receive phone calls from young men wishing to know more about his work, and perhaps that had aroused his curiosity.
It was early November and I remember that Saturday being a glorious day. Despite the fact that it had rained almost every day the previous week, that day was sunny and warm, one of those days that are so welcome during the autumn. I had to take a bus because his house was about ten kilometres out of the city. When the bus reached the last stop, the driver told me that I had to climb the steep hill leading to the cemetery, at the foot of the mountains, and that the house I was looking for was the next-to-last one, heading up from the graveyard. I slowly climbed the slope, peeping inside the houses scattered on either side of the poorly paved road, carefully trying to choose my opening words in order to give a good first impression. Not seeing anyone around puzzled me, and at one point I had the feeling of walking into a wasteland, a place where men had ceased to exist. I grew increasingly uneasy, and only when I saw a shiny plaque with beautifully engraved letters did my fears begin to fade away.
José Vaquerizo Yepes
Taxidermist
The plaque was firmly bolted to an iron railing, painted green, that surrounded the house. The house itself was a solid building, probably about forty years old, whose thick walls showed a certain lack of care: the whitewash that was meant to coat them was blistered in areas, due to the damp. I did not find a doorbell to ring, so I stood for a good while looking at the iron gate until I discovered that it was not locked or padlocked in any way. I tried to open it with the utmost care, but the hinges were a bit rusty and the gate did not yield unless pushed and pulled with some force. It was then that I noticed the precarious system they had devised to give warning of the presence of a visitor: a long, thick piece of wire connected the gate with the top of a small bell, which started to ring when any sudden movements were made by anyone opening the gate. Startled by the shrill noise of this rudimentary doorbell, I froze, one foot on the threshold of the private property I was trespassing on. Soon a woman came out. She was of average height, overweight and her gait was clumsy and somewhat mechanical, and she shouted irritably from the top of the stairs that led to the dwelling:
-
"What do you want? Have you come here just to annoy us?"
Shocked, I took some time to answer, and was already regretting the fact that the first impression I had given was bad. I was briefly tempted to turn and flee downhill, never to come back, inventing some typical answers to the questionnaire I was due to submit the following week. But the woman that had so far seem so rude and stern, suddenly smiled warmly.
"I'd forgotten... You must be the young student Don José is expecting, aren't you?" she said, her voice notably smoother.
"Yes... that's me", I stammered.
"Come on in then, don't just stand there like a halfwit".
I followed the woman, who went round the house on a pebbled path, flanked on the right by the house itself and on the left by a wild garden, with many fruit trees: orange, lemon, medlar and even a tall fig tree, whose generous shadow covered a small swimming pool, its blue green water covered by countless dry leaves.
"We only clean the swimming pool in the summer. I would like to drain it, but Don José says he prefers it this way" the woman said, after verifying my inquiry.
We got to the end of the house and then turned right, still skirting round it. Then I was stunned for a moment: the plot opened towards an area of about one thousand square metres, which had so far been hidden by the house. There were several pebbled paths crossing it towards the far end of the fence, and encircling numerous bushes and tall pine trees. It looked as though they had tried to drag over a bit of the forest, that started only a few yards further up or, rather, that the house had been built in the forest, the only discordant element among the wild nature.
"Beautiful," I declared, almost without thinking.
The woman gave me an unclassifiable look, as if surprised by my comment, and kept walking with that mechanical gait, which appar
ently was due to an inability to bend her knees properly. I could see then that the trees surrounded an open area, which had been paved with terrazzo tiles. In the centre there was a nice marble fountain spouting a discreet jet of water. Next to the fountain, there was a group of deck chairs and a couple of small wrought-iron tables. In one of those chairs a man was resting. Despite the newspaper he was holding before his eyes, he seemed to be snoozing. We stopped about five yards away from him.
"Don José, Don José! the young man you were expecting has arrived".
The man raised his head, covered by a simple, brown corduroy cap under which there was, despite his age, a good mop of grey, tousled hair. Very slowly, he placed the newspaper on one of the tables and gave a kind, curious look. His eyes were small, but so intensely blue that they seemed to overflow on his wrinkled, tanned face.
"Are you Enrique?"
"Yes, sir," I nodded, laconic and nervous.
"That's fine. Sit down, please. I've been looking forward to meeting you", he said, after a long pause. Then he looked up to the sky, as if trying to remember something. "Of course... would you like something to drink? Coffee, tea, lemonade..."
"I don't want to be too much trouble," I replied as I sat down.
"Oh... please, it's no trouble at all..."
"In that case, a lemonade would be lovely."
"Adela, I beg you, make us a good lemonade, and please bring us some pastries."
Adela went away, but before leaving she gave me a wink, in a gesture of cheerful trust that, although it puzzled me a bit, I must admit also comforted me.
"It's curious, isn't it?" Don José said, once Adela was inside the house.
"Excuse me, what is curious?"
"Your interest in taxidermy. I was under the impression that nobody was into it any more, let alone someone as young as you."
"Well, sir, to be honest..."
"No, no, no..." he interrupted, waving his hands in the air. "Please, don't be so formal. Just call me José, if you don't mind. I'd prefer that. I'll call you Enrique. I think it will be more comfortable for both of us."
José had a slightly deep voice, and he vocalised perfectly, as if he was a radio speaker who had smoked for years. He smiled stealthily, trying to get his audience's (in this case, me) instant complicity.
"Ok, José".
"Excuse me, you were saying..."
"Well, to be honest with you," I continued, feeling a bit unsure, because this lack of formality seemed forced at this point, "it's not just that I like it, it's a real passion for me. The truth is, I can't explain it very well, and also it is a passion that I sort of keep secret."
"I see. I imagine it's not easy being different," said José, leaning slightly towards me.
"No, it's not."
José was dressed informally, with white chinos, a cream coloured jumper and a beige shirt of which only the collar could be seen under the V necked jumper. He looked like a tennis player from the 20s, and his clothes, along with his slow, precise movements, lent him an aristocratic air that, in my opinion, he liked to accentuate just for his own pleasure.
"Don't worry. We are all different, in a sense. Make that difference your own strength".
That strange man had charmed me in just a few minutes. I felt a confused admiration towards him and at that point, I could not tell whether it would be a passing emotion or whether it would stand the test of time.
"You may start whenever you are ready," he said, pointing at the small notebook I had with me, which my right hand was holding so tightly that the wire binding was marking my flesh.
"Of course!" I exclaimed, as if awaking from a short dream.
José subjected me to long, scrutinising, penetrating looks, as if his blue eyes could see beyond mine and find a part of my soul, or of my thoughts, at their hidden depths.
"I haven't spoken to any young person for years. What's more, I haven't spoken to any stranger for months," he declared, lifting one eyebrow with a mysterious expression and smiling for himself, as if surprised.
I decided to leave the notebook on the wrought-iron table, because I thought he wanted to talk about the meeting itself, before we moved on to the questionnaire. Not doing so could have been taken as a sign of pure selfishness, and I thought it would be much more polite to extend the introduction than getting straight to the point. Besides, it was Saturday and I was in no hurry at all. At that point Adela returned, carrying a tray with two glasses, a great crystal jug of lemonade and a dish full of homemade pastries, which certainly whet my appetite, or maybe my gluttony.
"Here is everything, Don José," said the woman, in a good mood. "And for you, young man, I have brought a good lot of pastries, you look very thin to me."
"Adela, please, don't bother our guest."
"Very well, Don José, I'll leave you alone then," she grumbled as she went back to the house.
"She's a good woman, albeit a bit bossy. She has been with me for over forty years, and I often think that my life without her would have been a complete disaster. Believe it or not, we are almost of the same age, but I look increasingly more like a corpse while she still looks healthy and vivacious."
It was true that Adela did not show her years. At most, one would say that she was a vigorous looking fifty-something. Her wrinkle-free, smooth face was slightly reddish and her eyes, somewhat bulging and mischievous, gave her a young air only belied by her mechanical gait.
"I think she's very nice."
José filled the glasses with lemonade and gave me one of them. Then he made a gesture with his, like a toast, which I immediately reciprocated.
"Here's to beauty..."
I kept the glass against my lips for a few seconds, trying to unravel the meaning of that toast, which he had wanted to be an intimate, peculiar phrase, almost like a password spoken aloud, only understood by those who share the code and can make sense of it. In the end, I decided to take a good, long drink.
"This lemonade is excellent."
"I think Adela makes the best lemonade in the Mediterranean. And she makes it with lemons picked right here."
I briefly thought of the fruit trees that had welcomed me and whose intense aroma I could almost smell from there, although slightly mixed in with the pine trees' resin and the lavender that grew all over the place.
"And the fig tree?"
"You've noticed it, eh? Just a whim. I love figs and in the summer its leaves cast a long shadow over the swimming pool, which makes it really pleasant to be in. There's no more fruit now, the few that were left have been eaten by the birds, but if you come next August, we may have a fig feast."
He said all that as if it were the most natural thing in the world, but I'm sure it was a deliberate statement. We had just met, but I could see that I was making as good an impression with him as he was with me. I felt at home in that place, far from the city and so quiet, in the company of a man who had reached the top of the profession I was completely mad about. However, that invitation for almost ten months later took me completely by surprise.
'José, how come you had not spoken to a stranger in such a long time? And so, why did you accept my proposal?'
He smiled with that brief, fleeting smile of his that was just a twitch of the corner of his lips, but the satisfaction of which was betrayed by the way his little blue eyes lit up with a certain smug air. He then looked around and slowly opened his arms, with a measured, controlled elegance, in a gesture practiced hundreds of times to reach perfection.
"I have not had much social intercourse for many years. I've never been awfully jolly, but my job forced me to deal both with extreme solitude and with the most boisterous relationships in equal measure. I have always preferred the former."
"So, you have chosen to be alone?" I asked, innocently.
"Well, you could say that. Although it's also a bit of a sentence. A sentence I deserve! I accepted your visit because I felt like talking to somebody, and also I sensed that you were really passionate about taxidermy.
I was curious..."
He leaned forward again to take the dish with pastries, which he offered with a wink.
"They're delicious," he said, moving the plate forward.
I picked one at random and bit it. The taste of the country flour, of the vanilla extract, of the free-range eggs and the brown sugar flooded my senses and very nearly knocked me out for a moment. I was sure that this was not the last time I'd visit that place, and that any excuse to return would be good.
"These are the best pastries I've ever had," I stated with total honesty.
"Well, you'll have to congratulate Adela once again..."
José stopped talking, as if the phrase was going to continue but it had withered on his lips and he could no longer finish it. His blue eyes went momentarily blank, stuck on the trunk of one of the closest pine trees. His silence lasted for a good while, and I respected his mutism, although I felt uncomfortable in this situation.
"I'm sorry... excuse me Enrique...," he said, coming back from his daydream and rubbing his temples with his fingers. "On occasions, it's as if the past jumped on me and tried to pull me back. It's something that young people like you cannot understand, because your past is too recent."
"I can come back another day, if you want," I suggested.
"No, no, please... It's just that... The truth is, when I heard you speak about the pastries with such emotion, I was suddenly taken back to when I was your age, fifteen or sixteen, and then... Well, don't worry about it," he finished, but his voice had become gloomy, melancholy and his eyes still kept the imprint of images only his imagination could see.
"Well, yes," I said, trying to bring the conversation back to its normal route, "I love taxidermy, but the truth is that I don't really know a lot about it. I'm kind of self-taught."
José's face lit up again and he started rubbing his hands as if he was going to start a hard job.
"Ah, the good old days! I also taught myself, but to be honest that made me waste a lot of time... and I ruined a good lot of pieces in the process..."