“What do you three do?” the professor’s wife asked him. “What do you do with your monkey friends?”
“I don’t understand, ma’am.”
“What she means,” Joanes clarified, “is what do you do for a living.”
“We do the odd show for the tourists. Things we picked up in the circus. We earn a little cash that way.”
Joanes looked at the chimpanzee, who was dozing on the floor with his legs curled up. Just like the monkey he’d hit, this one had lost some hair on several parts of his body, and in other parts the hair was gray. He was a sorry sight. Old and weary. You could see his ribs. Joanes couldn’t picture him dressed up in a tutu or a clown’s hat, scampering up streetlamps and capering about for the entertainment of tourists, who could have their picture taken with him for a few more pesos afterward, as a keepsake.
He could, however, imagine him wandering around Yucatán alongside his lady companion and his keeper. The two monkeys, each linked to their master by a chain. Walking ahead of the man, pulling him along if he was tired, looking out for any small morsel of food. And if they found something, no matter how hungry they were, the monkeys had to give it to their master, who would decide between eating it himself or leaving it to them. And they’d be wise to offer it to him first, because it didn’t take much of an imagination to guess that the man’s cane wasn’t just a prop but also served as an agonizing weapon to keep them in check.
He imagined, too, the chimpanzees being forced to steal on behalf of their master, sneaking into houses through windows and making off with whatever they could. And he imagined them searching for larvae and worms under fallen tree trunks and rocks at night while their master slept, and poking sticks into anthills and putting whatever they caught in their mouths. And he also imagined them hugging one another for warmth and comfort, doing their best not to make a sound with the chains so their master wouldn’t wake up and start beating them.
“Where are you from?” asked the professor. “Mississippi? Louisiana?”
The man gave him a long, blank look.
“Tuscaloosa, Alabama,” he answered, his accent suddenly twice as strong.
“And how long have you lived in Mexico?”
“A lifetime, my friend.”
Letting a few seconds pass to show that he appreciated the weight of this answer, the professor continued his interrogation.
“And you and your. . colleagues usually work in this area?”
“On the coast. Where the tourists are.”
“In winter, too?”
“There are always tourists here.”
“I understand. Fewer during the hurricanes, isn’t that so?” said the professor, pointing to the boarded up windows, behind which the wind continued to rage. “Then the tourists leave. We leave. You might have already guessed.”
“Guessed what?”
“That we’re tourists.”
“Yes. I’d guessed as much.”
“Don’t you want to know why we’re here?”
“None of my business.”
The water in the pot had begun to boil, and the man poured in the instant soup. He pulled out a spoon from one of his pockets, rubbed it with the edge of his shirt, and stirred the mixture to dissolve the lumps. Then he took the pot with his bare hand without showing the slightest sign of pain, despite the fact that it must have been piping hot. He blew on the meager soup and took a sip. His wrinkles seemed to smoothen a little.
“I suppose you’re also here because of the hurricane,” said the professor.
The man eyed him over the pot, which he was slurping into noisily.
“This is nothing but a little drizzle. Now Wilma, Wilma was a hurricane. Dean, too. This is. .”
He made a gesture with his hand, as if something unimportant were floating away into the air.
“I understand,” said the professor. “But this little drizzle has put a stop to your search for your colleague.”
The man assented as he stirred what remained of the soup with his spoon.
“Where did it happen? Where did you lose her?”
“In Tu lu m.”
“Really, well, there’s a coincidence! We’ve come from around there, too. Our hotels,” said the professor, “were in Cancún.”
He paused to let the information sink in. Then he added, “How long have you and the chimpanzees been together?”
“What’s it to you?”
The professor shrugged his shoulders.
“It’s the first time I’ve ever met anyone like you.”
“A black man?”
The expression on the professor’s face didn’t move an inch.
“An ex — circus employee who’s traveling Mexico in the company of two chimpanzees.”
The man finished off his soup. He placed the pot to one side, wiped the spoon again with his shirt, and put it back in his pocket.
“A long time. Years.”
“You must be very upset at the loss of your female companion.”
The man wet his index finger and thumb with saliva and used them to remove the grill with a single, slick movement.
“Of course we’re upset. Tomorrow we’re going back to the coast to look for her.”
“Tomorrow? This little drizzle will have stopped by then?”
“Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow. . whenever we can, we’ll go back. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m a little tired.”
The others gave a consenting nod as the man got up. He picked up the pan and pushed the grill with his foot, leaving it next to his backpack. They all watched as he unrolled a rubber matt and laid out a patched up sleeping bag on top of it. Fully clothed, without taking off his boots or untying the chimpanzee’s chain, he laid down on top of the sleeping bag. Before going to sleep, he double-checked that all his belongings were within reach, especially his cane and the machete. His shuffling stirred the monkey.
“Good night, Gagarin. Sleep well.”
The professor leaned in toward Joanes.
“Let’s talk,” he whispered. “In the other room.”
“Just say whatever you have to say.”
“It’s better if we do it in private.”
“Just tell me what it is you want to say,” repeated Joanes.
The professor looked at the stranger and the chimpanzee. He gestured toward them with his eyes.
“Here? Are you sure?”
A second later, Joanes picked up the flashlight.
“Don’t be long,” said the wife.
Joanes walked to the adjacent room, tailed by the professor. He opened the metal door, taking care that it creak as little as possible. Once they were both inside, he closed it again. They remained standing, one in front of the other, in the middle of the little room. Joanes held the flashlight down at his side; it cast shadows over both of their faces.
“Well then?”
“I understand that our situation hasn’t exactly improved over the last couple of hours. You need your telephone more than ever now, in case you need help getting out of this place.”
“I thought I’d made myself clear.”
“Perfectly clear. But I still need to know what’s happened to my son, urgently,” said the professor, who underscored his words with wild, hacking gesticulations. “You must understand. If there’s something about me that displeases you, if I’ve offended you in some way, or if you simply don’t like me, at least think of my wife. Try to imagine what she must be going through.”
Joanes didn’t say a word but simply looked at him in disdain, and so the professor took a deep breath and went on.
“It’s better if we resolve this by talking. Just the two of us. You and I. Much better.”
“It’s already resolved. There’s nothing more to say.”
“No,” said the professor firmly. “It is not resolved. Not by far. How could you possibly think it’s been resolved? I want that telephone. I need it, now,” he said, holding out his hand for Joanes to turn it over.