The Taxidermist
Page 10
You are an exceptional being, and I congratulate myself for having had the honour of meeting you. Never forget your dreams. Never forget about me either.
José Vaquerizo Yepes».
The letter slipped from between my pale, trembling hands, and fell on the surface of the water, which rapidly drenched the paper and blurred the ink. That swimming pool seemed to want to swallow and wipe out forever all traces of the taxidermist: first by truncating his life, now by washing away his last words. I tried to catch the paper, and I nearly fell in to the water as I did so, but it was already beyond my reach, mixed with the dirt that was beginning to accumulate, and that probably no one would clean again.
I put the small key and the cheque in one of my jacket pockets, and I left the house to get to the car. I walked very slowly, hearing the taxidermist's voice resounding in my brain, reminding me over and over not to let him fall into oblivion, now that so few could keep him in the diffused, whimsical memory of the living.
Before closing the gate I turned around to look at the house's façade. My vision soon blurred: my tears were adamant on creating a stubborn, sad fog between my eyes and the wizened walls. I would come back the next day to look at it again, because, before I could enter the house again, I had to fulfil the wish the taxidermist had expressed in his final missive.
XIV
There I was, in the library, among the numberless books the taxidermist had left me, holding one in my hands, the missing one that would complete the collection: the 1825 first edition of Boitard's manual. José had always known that it was me who'd taken it, and yet, he'd never recriminated me openly for it. I put the volume carefully in the place it had always had, I took a look at what was now my collection and then I went back to the corridor.
I felt deeply overwhelmed by emotion. I would finally have access to the taxidermist's best works which, in addition, belonged to me by their creator's last will. I had in mind his comments about the praise I'd once given to the deer in the lobby, when he'd said that it was not even close to the perfection, the greatness of those in the loft. I also remembered that allowing me access to the loft was a sort of reward, of maximum acknowledgement that I'd had to earn. At that point, I wasn't sure of the merits that I might have possessed to deserve such a privilege.
I went through the room I already knew, from the one time I had in vain tried to visit the loft, and which was still as empty and sombre as before. Unhurriedly, I began to climb the steps of the stairs leading to the top floor. I held the little key tightly, afraid of it falling from my hands and getting lost in that magical, long awaited moment. The total darkness forced me to go one step at a time, feeling my way with the tip of my shoe on each one of them, until I finally got to the door. Clumsily, I put the key in the keyhole, which yielded in a brusque, sudden manner, as if it was on a spring. A waft of damp, stale air coming from the loft hit my face. I could feel the penetrating smell of camphor and other preservatives my nose could not identify.
Suddenly, the disturbing nightmares about that place that had haunted my teenage years came back to me. Despite knowing very well that I was alone in the house, I thought I heard some very slight footsteps on the floorboards. An irrational, childish fear gripped me, paralysing me. Slowly, I lifted my eyes, until then fixed on the keyhole, and little by little they grew accustomed to the shadows, only broken by a single ray of light, which I knew was coming from the small window I'd seen so many times on the façade. Before me there was a narrow corridor, where I could only guess at shadows of various shapes and sizes. At first, they felt threatening, and I was on the verge of turning tail and running away down the stairs, forever leaving behind the desire that had led me to be there. But, thankfully, I managed to defeat my fear and my instinct, and gradually those shadows became a spectacular exhibition of wonderfully mounted animals. They'd been put there one after the other, randomly, without any harmony and forming a group of apparently alive, but static wild fauna. There were golden eagles, griffon vultures, owls, bearded vultures, wolves, squirrels, an exceptional brown bear... I went down the corridor with amazed eyes, impressed and dazzled by so much beauty. I devoted at least a couple of minutes of delighted contemplation to each of the countless pieces: I would stroke them, studying the expression the taxidermist had chosen to freeze them in forever, admiring their penetrating, alert looks. Fascinated, I thought I would faint, my senses filled by a collection so extraordinary that it would undoubtedly arouse the envy of any of the best natural history museums in the world. I could see José dedicated to them for hours on end, displaying his unparalleled art, the supreme perfection only geniuses can infuse in their creations. The corridor turned to the left, into another space where more pieces were jumbled together. I nearly swooned when I discovered a magnificent Iberian lynx, serenely lying on its side, as if resting after a long hunting spree. Its head turned to one side, it seemed to look at me with languor and indifference, as if its exhaustion was above the certain menace implied by the presence of a human being. I got closer to it and respectfully brushed its fur. Other singular mammals fought for room in the narrow space: genets, mouflons, wild boars, badgers, shrews, beech marten, dormice, otters, foxes... It was an incredible, wonderful show, which filled my eyes with such extraordinary beauty I can still see it now, and I reckon I'll see it to my final day.
When I got to the end of the corridor, I thought, again, that I could hear footsteps, not far from where I was, on the other side of the wall made up of the animals put together, from top to bottom. I turned to the right, my heart beating in my chest like a crazy machine. This new corridor finished precisely in the part of the façade where the skylight was. I was momentarily blinded by its light and I went forward, scared, with my head down and my eyes half closed. Not a single piece was set on either side of this corridor. Instead, the taxidermist had set hundreds of dried rosebuds. Eventually, I raised my eyes. What I saw left me horrified, stunned. A woman was sitting on a chair, with the absent air of someone at peace with themselves. She was wearing a splendid black dress, simple and elegant, which highlighted the paleness of her white, apparently smooth skin. She was reading a book, held listlessly in her right hand. Her chin rested lightly on her left hand, whose fingers were stylised and well-cared for, finished off with pearly nails. It wasn't clear whether she was reading or whether she was looking obliquely ahead, feigning a somewhat forced, perfectly studied indifference. Her black hair was pulled back in a childish ponytail, which rested on one of her shoulders. The cleavage of the dress, though modest, allowed one to admire a long neck, its skin fine and unlined, and her mildly voluptuous collarbones. Her eyes, a deep brown colour, had the liveliness of a beautiful young woman, no more than twenty years old. An intense, disruptive heat was growing inside me. I instantly recognised that beautiful face, set for ever more by death. Although the black and white of those photographs over half a century old did not do justice to the delicate charm of the girl I had in front of me, I knew perfectly well who she was. She was the most exquisite, greatest work that I had ever seen, or that I would ever see. She was the creation of an unequalled master. Of an peerless monster. This was, undoubtedly, the mounted body of Elena that I had before my eyes, which had been waiting for me - anticipated in my most dreadful nightmares - for these long ten years.
XV
I run away from the house, forgetting about the books, about those wonderful pieces that were already mine, trying to forget that I had ever admired and worshipped the man who had been able to commit such a horrible act. In my mind, a single image: Elena's face. In my head, a single phrase: only the words of Adela's final, pointless plea.
I returned to my parent's sweaty and queasy. I tried in vain to hide my deep worry and my anxiety. Although my parents realised that something was not right, I did not reveal to them the terrible cause of my restlessness. I spent three days locked up in my room, besieged by thousands of bloodcurdling questions for which I had no answer: How could it be? Had José killed Elena, or had he
embalmed her once she'd died in a natural way? Why had they separated? What was really hiding behind the farewell letter Elena had written on the back of the picture I'd found inside the Boitard manual? I was also anguished, despite myself, by other, more technical questions: How had the taxidermist managed to mount a human being so perfectly? How had he managed to preserve the girl's fine, delicate skin? What had been his intention when he decided to give me that small key?
Several times I considered contacting Adela, to ask her opinion on the matter and decide together what to do about this. But in the end, I chose to do nothing. The days went past, and I imagined José's house shut down forever: nobody would look after the trees and the flowers, nobody would clean the swimming pool, the books forever forgotten on their shelves, the mounted pieces slowly withering, pestered by the worms, and Elena's body hopelessly decomposing. I imagined the taxidermist's personal universe rotting behind the border of its green fence, like an ephemeral extension of the cemetery that lay only a few yards away. I never went back to the house, trying to escape the certain decay of that world that would soon be no more than a sketch in time.
I left my job and once again took up my passion for taxidermy. The sum José left me as an inheritance allows me to live comfortably, devoting myself to what has been my only dream in this life. I do it in a slow, deliberate manner, without pressure, enjoying every commission, never hurrying. I do it the way the taxidermist would have liked me to. Every time I finish a piece, I think he looks at me proudly, from some undetermined place.
It is only now, when Adela has also passed away, that I have decided to write this story. I needed to do it. It's been only three years, but I have achieved a commendable reputation in this nearly-forgotten, unique art that few understand and even less share. Occasionally, I attend, anonymously, an exhibition that includes one of my pieces and I watch the visitors admire them in amazement. That encourages me, and makes me feel like I'm doing something important. It may well be that one of the animals I mount will soon be extinct, which is a terrible thing, but at least my work will remain to stop the passage of time for it, to allow others who will come after me to see it and to know that it once existed, that it was alive and that it filled this planet with its beauty.
This story is probably my way of embalming José Vaquerizo Yepes for posterity, and also a way to expiate his sins and mine. Since his death, I have met many people, but no one as exceptional, as brilliant. No one has treated me with as much generosity and respect either.
A few months after the death of the taxidermist, I was on the verge of leaving everything behind, of going back to the city where I'd become a professional in the finance area, to try and reach positions in that field. I was on the verge of forgetting myself, to be replaced by another artificially created self. I remember the afternoon when everything changed. I was in my room, tormenting myself, Elena's embalmed face fixed in my mind. Then I looked at the cork board where I had pinned a handful of blue dragonflies when I was a child. I took it and I threw it angrily from the balcony. After that, I cried for about an hour. When I finally decided to go out for a walk to clear my head, I came across the dead, dried dragonflies, beside the door of the building. They'd fallen off the cork and lost their pins. I felt sick. I felt an endless hate towards myself. Suddenly, a light breeze picked up the dragonflies and blew them up towards the sky. For a few seconds I thought I saw them fly again, flying to freedom, until I could see them no longer. At that moment I understood the taxidermist. At that moment, I decided that nobody should ever renounce the dreams that lead them to live on with hope and aspiration.
Your Review and Word-of-Mouth Recommendations Will Make a Difference
Reviews and word-of-mouth recommendations are crucial for any author to succeed. If you enjoyed this book, please leave a review , even if it is only a line or two, and tell your friends about it. It will help the author bring you new books and allow others to also enjoy the book.
Your support is greatly appreciated!
Are You Looking For Other Great Reads?
Your Books, Your Language
Babelcube Books helps readers find great reads. It plays matchmaker, bringing you and your next book together.
Our collection is powered by books produced at Babelcube, a marketplace that brings independent book authors and translators together and distributes their books in multiple languages globally. The books you will find have been translated so that you can discover terrific reads in your language.
We are proud to bring you the world’s books.
If you want to learn more about our books, browse our catalog and join our newsletter to learn about our latest releases, visit us at our website:
www.babelcubebooks.com