The Penguin Book of the British Short Story

by Philip Hensher

  ‘Do you want me to measure him?’ the man asked.

  ‘What, now? In the tank?’

  The man nodded.

  ‘No, don’t worry. You’re okay. I wouldn’t want to get Cooper all wet for nothing.’

  ‘It’s no trouble.’

  ‘No really. It’s fine,’ I said.

  ‘But how do you know I’m not lying to you?’

  ‘I trust you.’

  ‘Would you know a forty-litre monkey when you saw one?’

  ‘No, but at a guess, I’m sure that he’s about …’

  ‘Not about. Exactly. He’s exactly forty litres. I’ll show you.’

  The man scooped Cooper up in his arms. The baboon wrapped his long arms around the man’s neck. His blue shirt became smeared with Vaseline.

  ‘It’s really okay. I believe you,’ I said.

  The man ignored me and went into the bathroom. He pointed to the water level, which was exactly on the zero position, and then lowered the monkey in. I expected him to freak out, but instead, he went limp, as if dead.

  ‘How come he’s like that?’ I asked.

  ‘If he moved around, he might splash water out of the tank. Instant disqualification. Getting them to be still can be even harder than getting them large,’ he said.

  Cooper grasped the man’s index fingers and remained still as the water covered his throat, his mouth, and then his whole head. When the water level cut a line across the baboon’s forearms, the man let him go. Cooper pulled his arms down below the surface. The water made a soft plopping sound. The man ducked down to look at the monkey through the tank. He clapped his hands twice, and Cooper stuck his arms out to either side, pressing against the glass and holding himself below the water.

  His hair stayed flat against his body. Air bubbles clung to the corners of his eyes and to his nostrils. His black-ringed eyes darted around while his head stayed still, as if the monkey was just a suit, and there was something alive inside it, something that didn’t like water.

  ‘There, you see?’ the man said.

  I looked at the water level. ‘It says thirty-nine,’ I said.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ he snapped, but then he looked at the meniscus and gasped. It was a sound of pain, of betrayal. His intake of breath and the way he stared at the baboon were loaded with hurt.

  The baboon stayed beneath the surface of the water. The man looked him up and down and around the tank, looking for a reason for the reading. He walked around the tank, looking for spilt water.

  ‘Is he waiting for some kind of signal to come up?’ I asked. Cooper’s eyes were frantic.

  The man ignored me, still trying to see a reason why the reading would be low. He scrambled around the tank, his hands wrestling each other.

  ‘Should I clap or something?’ I asked.

  The man looked at me, and then at the monkey, and clapped twice. The baboon let go of the sides of the tank and rose up. His head broke the surface and he wheezed for breath, panic over his face, as if he knew he was guilty of something awful.

  The man grabbed his wrists and dragged him out. He was being much less delicate with Cooper than before he went in the tank.

  ‘What did you do?’ he snapped. ‘What did you do?’ The baboon shook some of the water off of his oiled skin. ‘Did you make yourself sick?’

  ‘Bastard monkey,’ he spat.

  ‘Surely it’s not his fault,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, you think?’ The man smiled, and then turned nasty. ‘What the hell do you know about monkeys, huh?’

  I shrugged my shoulders, and the man turned his attention back to the monkey. He dropped Cooper to the ground, and the baboon bounded across the room. The man muttered to himself as he grabbed a paper sack from the floor. He poured something that looked like muesli into a bowl, and then squeezed a bright yellow liquid over it. He dumped the bowl on the floor while he used both hands to unscrew a large tub, out of which he scooped two spoonfuls of a gelatinous substance. He mixed this into the bowl, all the while muttering to himself. He took the bowl to a cabinet, which was full of droppers and bottles like a medicine cabinet. He put drops of this in and a sprinkling of that, and popped a capsule of something else in, then stirred it all up and slid it across the floor to the baboon.

  The baboon looked at the bowl, and then at the man. He turned away and slunk into the cage.

  ‘Oh, you’re not hungry,’ he said. ‘Maybe you’re happy being a thirty-nine-litre monkey? Is that what you’re telling me? Why are you doing this?’

  The man looked like he was caught between crying and bleeding from his ears.

  ‘I should probably go,’ I said. ‘Thanks for showing me your monkey.’

  ‘Is that some kind of joke,’ the man turned to me. ‘Thanks for showing me your thirty-nine-litre monkey? Is that what you’re trying to say?’ His fists were bunched.

  ‘I’m not trying to say anything. I think you’ve got a lovely monkey, whatever volume he is.’

  I don’t know what I’d said to him, but he went crazy. His face flushed bright red and the tendons in his neck went taut. He actually reached his arms out towards me and stretched his fingers, as if he were going to strangle me. I backed away towards the door, preparing myself to sprint.

  But then a cloud seemed to pass behind his eyes. He began tapping the side of his left palm and whispering to himself. And this had an immediate calming effect. He took a deep breath.

  ‘I apologise for displaying inappropriate emotion,’ he said.

  ‘That’s … okay,’ I said.

  The man locked up Cooper’s cage, shoulders hunched, and his posture repentant. He spoke to Cooper in a soft voice. I could not hear the words, or see the baboon’s face, but the shuffling sounds in the cage calmed, giving me the impression that they were making their peace. ‘Let us sort out a new pet for your girlfriend,’ the man said as he stood up and ushered me to the door, huffing air through his nose.

  The air in the shop, which had been thick when I first entered, was fresh compared to the poisonous fug of Cooper’s room. ‘Look around,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a very good deal.’

  I paced around the shop, sidestepping to get through the tight spaces between display shelves, and looked at the eyes of cockatoos and kittens and rabbits and snakes. Nothing made an impression on me. My mind was blank. I couldn’t shake the image from my head of Cooper beneath the water, his hands pressed against the glass sides of the tank.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘You’re the expert. What do you think my girlfriend would like?’

  At this, the muscular plates of his face slid around an expression of pure delight. ‘Yes. Yes!’ He said, jabbing a triumphant finger into the air. ‘I have it.’ And he went through a beaded curtain into a back room, coming back moments later with a small cage covered in a thick, dark cloth.

  The man lifted up the corner of the cloth and urged me to peer inside. I could see nothing in there at first, but as I pressed my nose against the metal bars, my eyes adjusted and I could see, sat on a smooth branch, a small possum-like creature. Its long tail was wrapped around the branch, and as I inhaled, it turned its enormous eyes to me.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘What is it?’

  ‘She is a Madagascan nightingale lemur. Very rare. At dusk, she sings a song that would send lions to sleep.’

  ‘That’s perfect,’ I said. ‘Thank you.’

  We were discussing the price, when the man put one palm up in the air, and the index finger of his other hand to his lips. ‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Do you hear that? She is about to start singing.’

  JON MCGREGOR

  The Remains

  Friskney

  Are believed to still be intact. Are understood to be within an area of approximately seventeen square miles. Are believed to have been concealed. Are either partially or completely buried. Are likely to be without clothes or jewellery or other possessions. May not be suitable for visual identification. Will be treated as a critical evidential scene. Have be
en the subject of much intrusive and unhelpful press speculation. Continue to be a key focus of questioning. Will be located using a combination of aerial surveillance and ground-penetrating radar. May be beautifully preserved, tanned and creased and oiled, by the action of the rich peated ground. May be laid in a resting position with legs together and hands folded and head turned gently to one side. Are of course still a concern to everyone in the department. May be intact. Have continued to be a topic of periodic speculation from time to time over the years. May be crammed into a box or bag or case. May need to be identified by recourse to dental records. May be wholly or partially lost due to action by animal or animals. May be wrapped in a silken winding sheet and buried with jewellery and other possessions pressed neatly into the folded hands. Must be in a location known to person or persons as yet unidentified. Could well be recoverable given the relinquishing of certain key details known to person or persons unknown. May have been visited from time to time by the perpetrator or individuals known to the perpetrator. Are either partial or complete. May ultimately need to be recovered using a team from the forensic archaeology department. Are not currently a priority in this challenging period of strained resources. Have yet to be found. Continue to be the subject of an open case file. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by water. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by earth. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Will not give you what you need. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have no further purpose to serve. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have been destroyed by fire. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Will not bring her back. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Are gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Is gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Are gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Is gone. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be found. Have yet to be.

  ZADIE SMITH

  The Embassy of Cambodia

  0—1

  Who would expect the Embassy of Cambodia? Nobody. Nobody could have expected it, or be expecting it. It’s a surprise, to us all. The Embassy of Cambodia!

  Next door to the embassy is a health centre. On the other side, a row of private residences, most of them belonging to wealthy Arabs (or so we, the people of Willesden, contend). They tend to have Corinthian pillars on either side of their front doors, and – it’s widely believed – swimming pools out the back. The embassy, by contrast, is not very grand. It is only a four- or five-bedroom north London suburban villa, built at some point in the 1930s, surrounded by a red-brick wall, about eight feet high. And back and forth, cresting this wall horizontally, flies a shuttlecock. They are playing badminton in the Embassy of Cambodia. Pock, smash. Pock, smash.

  The only real sign that the embassy is an embassy at all is the little brass plaque on the door (which reads: ‘THE EMBASSY OF CAMBODIA’) and the national flag of Cambodia (we assume that’s what it is – what else could it be?) flying from the red-tiled roof. Some say, ‘Oh, but it has a high wall around it, and this is what signifies that it is not a private residence, like the other houses on the street, but rather an embassy.’ The people who say so are foolish. Many of the private houses have high walls, quite as high as the Embassy of Cambodia – but they are not embassies.

  0—2

  On 6 August, Fatou walked past the embassy for the first time, on her way to a swimming pool. It is a large pool, although not quite Olympic size. To swim a mile you must complete eighty-two lengths, which, in its very tedium, often feels as much a mental exercise as a physical one. The water is kept unusually warm, to please the majority of people who patronize the health centre, the kind who come not so much to swim as to lounge poolside or rest their bodies in the sauna. Fatou has swum here five or six times now, and she is often the youngest person in the pool by several decades. Generally, the clientele are white, or else South Asian or from the Middle East, but now and then Fatou finds herself in the water with fellow Africans. When she spots these big men, paddling frantically like babies, struggling simply to stay afloat, she prides herself on her own abilities, having taught herself to swim, several years earlier, at the Carib Beach Resort, in Accra. Not in the hotel pool – no employees were allowed in the pool. No, she learned by struggling through the rough grey sea, on the other side of the resort walls. Rising and sinking, rising and sinking, on the dirty foam. No tourist ever stepped on to the beach (it was covered with trash), much less into the cold and treacherous sea. Nor did any of the other chambermaids. Only some reckless teenage boys, late at night, and Fatou, early in the morning. There is almost no way to compare swimming at Carib Beach and swimming in the health centre, warm as it is, tranquil as a bath. And, as Fatou passes the Embassy of Cambodia, on her way to the pool, over the high wall she sees a shuttlecock, passed back and forth between two unseen players. The shuttlecock floats in a wide arc softly rightwards, and is smashed back, and this happens again and again, the first player always somehow able to retrieve the smash and transform it, once more, into a gentle, floating arc. High above, the sun tries to force its way through a cloud ceiling, grey and filled with water. Pock, smash. Pock, smash.

  0—3

  When the Embassy of Cambodia first appeared in our midst, a few years ago, some of us said, ‘Well, if we were poets perhaps we could have written some sort of an ode about this surprising appearance of the embassy.’ (For embassies are usually to be found in the centre of the city. This was the first one we had seen in the suburbs.) But we are not really a poetic people. We are from Willesden. Our minds tend towards the prosaic. I doubt there is a man or woman among us, for example, who – upon passing the Embassy of Cambodia for the first time – did not immediately think: ‘genocide’.

  0—4

  Pock, smash. Pock, smash. This summer we watched the Olympics, becoming well attuned to grunting, and to the many other human sounds associated with effort and the triumph of the will. But the players in the garden of the Embassy of Cambodia are silent. (We can’t say for sure that it is a garden – we have a limited view over the wall. It may well be a paved area, reserved for badminton.) The only sign that a game of badminton is under way at all is the motion of the shuttlecock itself, alternately being lobbed and smashed, lobbed and smashed, and always at the hour that Fatou passes on her way to the health centre to swim (just after ten in the morning on Mondays). It should be explained that it is Fatou’s employers – and not Fatou – who are the true members of
this health club; they have no idea she uses their guest passes in this way. (Mr and Mrs Derawal and their three children – aged seventeen, fifteen and ten – live on the same street as the embassy, but the road is almost a mile long, with the embassy at one end and the Derawals at the other.) Fatou’s deception is possible only because on Mondays Mr Derawal drives to Eltham to visit his mini-market there, and Mrs Derawal works the counter in the family’s second mini-mart, in Kensal Rise. In the slim drawer of a faux-Louis XVI console, in the entrance hall of the Derawals’ primary residence, one can find a stockpile of guest passes. Nobody besides Fatou seems to remember that they are there.

  Since 6 August (the first occasion on which she noticed the badminton), Fatou has made a point of pausing by the bus stop opposite the embassy for five or ten minutes before she goes in to swim, idle minutes she can hardly afford (Mrs Derawal returns to the house at lunchtime) and yet seems unable to forgo. Such is the strangely compelling aura of the embassy. Usually, Fatou gains nothing from this waiting and observing, but on a few occasions she has seen people arrive at the embassy and watched as they are buzzed through the gate. Young white people carrying rucksacks. Often they are scruffy, and wearing sandals, despite the cool weather. None of the visitors so far have been visibly Cambodian. These young people are likely looking for visas. They are buzzed in and then pass through the gate, although Fatou would really have to stand on top of the bus stop to get a view of whoever it is that lets them in. What she can say with certainty is that these occasional arrivals have absolutely no effect on the badminton, which continues in its steady pattern, first gentle, then fast, first soft and high, then hard and low.

  0—5

  On 20 August, long after the Olympians had returned to their respective countries, Fatou noticed that a basketball hoop had appeared in the far corner of the garden, its net of synthetic white rope rising high enough to be seen over the wall. But no basketball was ever played – at least not when Fatou was passing. The following week it had been moved closer to Fatou’s side of the wall. (It must be a mobile hoop, on casters.) Fatou waited a week, two weeks, but still no basketball game replaced the badminton, which carried on as before.