‘Why?’
‘At the customer’s request.’
Bob made a face. ‘I know something about corpses, Lunde. If there’s so much as a thread of organic material inside that head it’ll rot and start to stink.’
‘That’s right. And that’s why the cranium is in that glass case.’
‘Oh?’
‘There’s a colony of carnivorous leather beetles inside that skull and they’ll eat it clean before I begin work.’
Bob stared at the cranium. He listened.
‘Oh no,’ Lunde said with a laugh, ‘you can’t hear them.’
‘OK. But isn’t there a simpler way?’
‘Oh sure, I could have freeze-dried the whole animal so the customer would get the complete thing.’
‘Then why not do that?’
Lunde lifted the lid of the glass case and held an eye up against an eyehole. ‘In the first place it’s expensive. Secondly, the animal has to be stored in a special freeze-dryer for months. And thirdly, as a rule the corpse will get eaten up by carpet beetles. And anyway, there’s something about making these shapes, something to do with feeling.’ Lunde held up his long, slender hands. ‘It’s as though the vision lies in the eyes and the fingertips, and without your even noticing it gets transferred to the work in question.’
Bob noticed a row of trophies on a shelf and, above them, a photograph.
‘Family?’ Bob asked.
‘Yes. Grandfather, father, me and my sister Emily. All taxidermists. My grandfather and father are dead, but my sister and I are still at it.’
‘Using the original techniques?’
Lunde shrugged. ‘When we get the chance. There aren’t many of us left who still do it.’ He chuckled. ‘Emily and I always say we should be stuffed ourselves, as examples of an endangered species.’
‘You never... feel like you just want to give up?’
‘Give up?’ Lunde gave Bob a long, thoughtful stare. ‘No. There’s always a reason to go on.’ He gestured toward the mannequin. ‘This here, for example. I have a feeling that this is going to be the best thing I’ve ever done. My masterpiece.’
Bob studied it. ‘Looks like a very fine wolf, Lunde.’
‘Wolf?’ An expression of pained sorrow crossed Lunde’s face. ‘Ah, I see I’ve failed already. This is supposed to be a Labrador retriever.’
‘Your masterpiece is, eh... a dog?’
Lunde smiled. ‘Oh yes, I know what you’re thinking. Why not a bear? Or a deer? But consider this: the demands posed by a Labrador are sky-high. Everyone’s seen one, everyone has a clear idea of what a Labrador should look like. The problem is, as usual, the eyes. These are samples from a manufacturer in Madrid.’ Lunde held up the glass eyes. ‘They aren’t bad. Just not very... lifelike.’
‘Those owl eyes in the store are lifelike.’
‘Yes, aren’t they?’ Lunde was in the grip of an almost childlike enthusiasm. ‘I made them myself. They’re ceramic. You get the feeling they’re watching you, don’t you?’
Bob bent forward and studied two photographs lying next to the dog mannequin on the workbench. ‘Is this it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Isn’t it a little, er... fatter than the mannequin?’
‘Oh definitely. The customer is a very wealthy family and I intend to give them the animal as they would remember it when it was young and slender. It’s called idealisation. We beautify the portraits, in just the way Van Dyck, Rubens and da Vinci did. The art isn’t in the resemblance.’
‘Then where does it lie?’
‘In the creation of the story.’ Lunde placed the eyes back into an envelope. ‘Ever heard of John Hancock? I don’t mean the one who signed the Declaration of Independence.’
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘No, he’s pretty much a forgotten figure. Let’s call him the father of modern taxidermy. He exhibited some birds at the Great Exhibition in London in 1851 and, of course, people were impressed by their anatomical accuracy. But as one of the judges remarked, the surprising thing was that one felt moved by the exhibits. Do you see? Hancock raised taxidermy to the level of art.’
‘You think a stuffed animal is a work of art?’
‘Let me show you.’
Bob followed Mike Lunde back into the store, where he took down two large books from a shelf on which two hares acted as bookends.
‘In Victorian England it was as common to have stuffed animals in the averagely affluent household as it was to have paintings,’ said Lunde, opening one of the books. ‘Things moved forward, and in the latter part of the nineteenth century Walter Potter developed so-called anthropomorphic taxidermy. He dressed the animals in clothes and posed them in comic situations, like humans.’
As Lunde turned the pages Bob studied the whole-page photographs in the book. One of rats in human clothing brawling round a poker table as another rat dressed in a policeman’s uniform comes storming in. Another showed a classroom full of rabbits sitting neatly at their desks. These montages had a certain cuteness, and at the same time a subtext Bob wasn’t immediately able to decode.
‘Exhibitions by Potter and by other taxidermists attracted larger audiences than popular theatre performances or athletics meetings. And then taxidermists began including bizarre details, such as a two-headed lamb, or a chicken with four legs. From which there is a direct line to this...’ Lunde indicated the second book. ‘The contribution of our own city, Minneapolis.’
The title on the cover was Rogue Taxidermy. He thumbed through it. A stuffed polar bear atop a sinking refrigerator. A squirrel holding up something that looked like a small heart.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Bob, ‘but isn’t this just... creepy?’
Lunde chuckled. ‘I agree, it is creepy. But not just creepy. These are artistic expressions. They’re stories.’
‘But... doesn’t it do something to you, spending so much time in the company of dead animals?’
Lunde thought about it. ‘I don’t know. I mean, chefs do the same thing. The difference is that we try to bring the dead back to life. It’s what you might call an existential challenge, and it probably does have some effect on you. All those hours, sitting alone, trying to put a mask on death.’
‘Who did this?’ asked Bob, pointing to one picture. It showed an eagle sitting on a branch. One wing was holding a revolver pointed at its own head.
‘Ah, that’s by Anonymous,’ said Lunde. ‘That’s to say, that’s what they’re known as in taxidermy circles. He or she exhibits the work in some public space, most often at night, unsigned, and that’s all we know. That eagle was exhibited in a tree right outside the picnic area in the Minnehaha Park. Caused quite a stir, of course, because the bald eagle is a protected species.’
Outside rain started falling. They both looked out into the street. The sounds changed. Car tyres hissed against the wet asphalt. Footsteps along the sidewalk sounded quicker. An animated conversation fell silent.
‘When you and Gomez were talking about loneliness,’ said Bob, ‘what did you discuss in particular?’
‘Well, all sorts of things,’ said Lunde as he replaced the books on the shelf. ‘Why it is that loneliness is so troubling. None of our most basic physical needs require the presence of several or even one other human being. Breathe, eat, work, get food, get dressed, fall ill and recover, shit, piss, sleep. From nature’s point of view, we are fully capable of living long, full and wholly satisfactory lives entirely on our own. In many cases better lives than the ones we get when we enter into a union and voluntarily or involuntarily allow our lives to be guided by the needs of others. And yet no one asks themselves whether the ending of Robinson Crusoe, when he gets rescued, is a happy ending or not. Think about it. I mean, he’s managed to organise things pretty well on that island — what guarantee does he have that the life he gets when he goes back to living with other people will be as good? He’s losing his freedom, his daily swims, a territory that’s all his own with limitless access to food, no working hours, no boss. And for what? But we don’t even wonder about it, we just take it for granted that we’re willing to give up all this for just one thing: the company of other people.’