Peter feels panic simmering within him. I can't do this. I should just call the whole thing off. He lowers his window and waves at Bob. "Good-bye, Bob. Thanks again. You've been a tremendous help."
The drive from Oklahoma City takes longer than the drive to it. He goes at a moderate speed so as not to alarm Odo. And whereas from Ottawa to Oklahoma City he jumped from human colony to human colony--Toronto, Detroit, Indianapolis, St. Louis, Tulsa--on the way to New York City he avoids as many urban centres as he can, once again to spare the ape.
He would like to sleep in a proper bed and enjoy a shower, but he is quite certain that no motel owner will rent a room to a half-simian couple. On the first night, he turns off the road and stops the car next to an abandoned farmhouse. He assembles the cage, but he isn't sure where to place it. On the roof of the car? Sticking out of the trunk? A little ways off, in the ape's "own" territory? Finally he puts the cage, its door ajar, next to the car and leaves the front passenger window rolled open. He gives Odo a blanket, then he lies down on the back seat. When night falls, the ape comes in and out, making considerable noise, leaping into the back seat a few times, practically landing on Peter, until he settles in the foot well of the back seat, next to him. Odo doesn't snore, but his breathing is powerful. Peter does not sleep well, not only because he is overtly disturbed by the ape but because of nagging worries. This is a large, powerful animal, unrestrained and uncontrollable. What have I got myself into?
Other nights they sleep on the edge of a field, at the end of a dead-end road, wherever it's quiet and isolated.
One evening he has a closer look at the papers Lemnon gave him. Included among them is a report that gives an overview of Odo's life. He was "wild-caught as a baby" in Africa. No mention is made of the Peace Corps volunteer, only that Odo next spent time with NASA, at a place called Holloman Aerospace Medical Center, in Alamogordo, New Mexico. Then he went to the Yerkes National Primate Research Center, in Atlanta, Georgia, then to the Laboratory for Experimental Medicine and Surgery in Primates, LEMSIP for short, in Tuxedo, New York, before being sent to Lemnon's Institute for Primate Research. What an odyssey. No wonder Bob said Odo was a rolling stone.
Peter lingers on certain words: "medical"..."biology"..."laboratory"..."research"--and especially "experimental medicine and surgery." Experimental? Odo was shunted from one medical Auschwitz to another, and this after being taken from his mother as a baby. Peter wonders what happened to Odo's mother. Earlier in the day, while grooming the ape, he noticed a tattoo on his chest. Only in that area can the dark skin be made out beneath the thick coat, and there, in the upper-right-hand corner, he found two wrinkled digits--the number 65--inscribed on unacceptable paper.
He turns to Odo. "What have they done to you?"
He moves over and grooms him.
One afternoon in lush Kentucky, after filling up, he drives to the far end of the recreation area behind the gas station so they can eat. Odo gets out of the car and climbs a tree. At first Peter is relieved; the ape is out of the way. But then he can't get him to come down. He's afraid that Odo will reach over into another tree and then another and be gone. But the ape stays put. He only gazes at the forest on whose edge he is hovering. He seems drunk with joy at being in such a leafy haven. A chimpanzee afloat in a sea of green.
Peter waits. Time goes by. He has nothing to read and he doesn't feel like listening to the radio. He has a nap in the back seat. He reflects on Clara, on his disenchanted son, on the life he is leaving behind. He walks to the gas station to get food and water. He sits in the car and contemplates the layout of the gas station, its main building that was once brightly coloured but is now faded, the expanse of asphalt, the coming and going of cars and trucks and people, the recreation area, the edge of the forest, the tree in which Odo has ensconced himself, and then he sits there and just watches Odo.
No one notices the chimpanzee in the tree except children. While grown-ups busy themselves with trips to the restrooms and with fuelling up their cars and their families, children look around. They grin. Some point and try to alert their parents. A random, blind gaze is all they get. The children wave at Odo as they drive off.
Five hours later, as the day is coming to an end, Peter is still looking up at the chimpanzee. Odo isn't ignoring him. In fact, when he's not distracted by activity in the gas station, Odo looks down at him with the same relaxed interest that Peter shows looking up at him.
When dusk comes, the air cools a little and still the ape does not come down. Peter opens the trunk of the car and pulls out his sleeping bag and Odo's blanket. The ape hoots. Peter gets close to the tree and lifts the blanket in the air. The creature reaches down to grab it. He climbs back into the tree and wraps himself up cosily.
Peter leaves fruit, slices of bread spread with peanut butter, and a jug of water at the foot of the tree. When it gets dark, he lies down for the night in the car. He is exhausted. He is worried that Odo will flee during the night or, worse, attack someone. But he falls asleep with a last, pleasing realization: It is likely the first time since his African childhood that Odo has slept under the stars.
In the early morning, the fruit and bread slices are gone and the jug is half empty. When Peter emerges from the car, Odo comes down from the tree. He raises his arms towards him. Peter sits on the ground and they embrace and groom each other. Peter gives Odo a breakfast of chocolate milk and egg salad sandwiches.
At two other gas stations along the way, the same tree-dwelling scenario is repeated. Peter twice has to call the airline to change their reservations, at a cost each time.
During the day, as they drive across America, he finds himself at regular intervals turning his head to glance at his passenger, astounded again and again that he's in a car with a chimpanzee. And he senses that Odo, who is otherwise much taken by the landscape going by, does the same thing, turns his head at regular intervals to glance at him, astounded again and again that he's in a car with a human being. And so, in a constant and mutual state of wonder and amazement (and a little fear), they make their way to New York City.
Peter grows nervous as they approach the metropolis. He worries that Lemnon has played a trick on him, that at Kennedy Airport he will be stopped and Odo taken away.
The ape stares at the city, his jaw slack, his eyes unblinking. On a side road on the way to Kennedy, Peter stops the car. Now comes the hard part. He must inject into the ape a powerful animal sedative called Sernalyn, prescribed by the veterinarian. Will Odo attack him in retaliation?
"Look!" he says, pointing away. Odo looks. Peter jabs him in the arm with the syringe. Odo hardly seems to notice the prick and in a few minutes falls unconscious. At the airport, because of the nature of his cargo, Peter is allowed to go to a special bay to unload the ape. He assembles the cage and with considerable effort heaves Odo's limp body onto a blanket on the floor of it. He lingers, his fingers hooked around the metal bars. What if Odo doesn't wake up? Where will that leave him?
The cage is put on a dolly and wheeled into the labyrinth of JFK. Peter is accompanied by a security guard. When the customs official has gone through all the papers and verified his flight ticket, Odo is taken away. Peter is told that, if the captain gives his permission, he will be able to go in the hold during the flight to check on him.
He races away. He goes to a car wash, cleans the car inside and out, drives to Brooklyn. The prospective buyer proves to be a difficult man who magnifies every fault in the car and dismisses every quality. But Peter didn't practice politics for nearly twenty years for nothing. He listens to the man without saying a word, then restates the agreed-upon price. When the man makes to argue further, Peter says, "That's fine. I'll sell it to the other buyer." He gets into the car and starts it.
The man comes up to the window. "What other buyer?" he asks.
"Just after I agreed to sell it to you, another buyer called. I said no, because I made a commitment to you. But it's better for me if you don't want it. I'll get more money that w
ay." He gets the car into gear and starts reversing out of the driveway.
The man waves. "Wait, wait! I'll take it," he yells. He quickly pays up.
Peter flags down a taxi and returns to Kennedy. He pesters the airline with his worries about Odo. They assure him that, no, they won't forget to load the ape onto the plane, and that, yes, he will be loaded in the top hold, which is pressurized and heated, and that, no, there have been no reports of him stirring, and that, yes, he gives all signs of still being alive, and that, no, Peter can't see him just yet, and that, yes, as soon as the plane is at cruising altitude they will inquire about Peter going to see him.
An hour into the flight, the captain gives his permission and Peter goes to the back of the plane. Through a narrow door, he enters the top hold. The light is turned on. He spots the cage right away, tethered to the wall of the plane with straps. It's set apart from the first-class luggage. He hurries to it. He is relieved to see Odo's chest rising and falling evenly. He puts his hand through the bars and feels the warm body. He would go inside the cage to groom him, but the airline has added its own padlock to the door.
Except for the odd trip to the restroom or for a meal, Peter stays next to the cage the whole flight. The flight attendants don't seem to mind him being there. The veterinarian told him that a chimpanzee can't overdose on Sernalyn. Twice during the flight he gives Odo an extra jab. He hates doing it, but he doesn't want the ape to wake up in such a noisy, strange place. He might panic.
Enough of this, Peter thinks. He promises that he will never subject Odo to such egregious strains again. The ape deserves better.
A flight attendant enters the hold half an hour before the plane is due to land. He must return to his seat, she tells him. He does as he is told and promptly falls asleep.
When the plane bumps to a landing early in the morning at Lisbon's Portela Airport, he groggily looks out the window, and it is he who feels panic racing through him. His heart jumps about his chest. His breathing is laboured. This is all a mistake. I'll just turn around. But what about Odo? Lisbon surely has a zoo. He could abandon the ape in his cage at the entrance, an animal foundling.
An hour after all the other passengers have picked up their luggage and moved on, he is still waiting in the arrivals area. He spends most of that hour in a cubicle of a restroom near the luggage carousel, weeping quietly. If only Clara were with him! She would steady him. But if she were around, he wouldn't be in this ridiculous predicament.
Eventually a man in a uniform finds him. "O senhor e o homem com o macaco?" he asks.
Peter stares at him dumbly.
"Macaco?" the man says, making to scratch his armpits while going oo, oo, oo, oo.
"Yes, yes!" Peter nods.
As they walk through secured doors, the man chats amiably in Portuguese to him. Peter nods, though he doesn't understand a word. He remembers from long-ago conversations between his parents that this is what Portuguese sounds like, a slurred mournful whisper.
In the middle of a hangar, the cage is resting on a luggage cart. Some airport workers are standing around it. Again Peter's heart jumps in his chest, but this time with gladness. The men are chatting about the macaco with evident interest. Odo is still unconscious. The men ask questions, to which Peter can only shake his head apologetically.
"Ele nao fala portugues," says the man who brought him in.
Sign language takes over.
"O que o senhor vai fazer com ele?" says another man, his hands waving in front of him, palms up.
"I'm going to the High Mountains of Portugal," Peter replies. He cuts a rectangle in the air with a finger, says, "Portugal," and points to the top right of the rectangle.
"Ah, as Altas Montanhas de Portugal. La em cima com os rinocerontes," responds the man.
The others laugh. Peter nods, though he doesn't know what has amused them. Rinocerontes?
Eventually their work duties call. His passport is examined and stamped; Odo's papers are signed, stamped, and separated, one set for Peter, one set for them. There. A man leans against the luggage cart. The foreigner and his macaco are good to go.
Peter blanches. In the frenzy of the last two weeks, there is one detail he has forgotten to address: how he and Odo will get from Lisbon to the High Mountains of Portugal. They need a car, but he has made no arrangements for buying one.
He puts his palms face out. Stop. "I need to buy a car." He shakes his fists up and down, mimicking hands on a steering wheel.
"Um carro?"
"Yes. Where can I buy one, where?" He rubs thumb and forefinger together.
"O senhor quer comprar um carro?"
Comprar--that sounds right.
"Yes, yes, comprar um carro, where?"
The man calls over another and they discuss. They write on a piece of paper, which they hand to Peter. Citroen, it says, with an address. He knows citron is French for lemon. He hopes this isn't an omen.
"Near, near?" he asks, cupping his fingers towards him.
"Sim, e muito perto. Taxi."
He points to himself, then away and back. "I'm going and then I'm coming back."
"Sim, sim." The men nod.
He hurries away. He has brought with him substantial Canadian and American cash, in addition to traveller's cheques. And he has his credit card, for extra surety. He changes all his money into escudos and hops into a taxi.
The Citroen dealership is not very far from the airport. The cars are strange, roly-poly things. One has lovely lines, but it's expensive and too big for his needs. Finally, he decides on a very basic model, a dorky grey contraption that looks like it was made from tuna cans. It has no frills at all, no radio, no air conditioning, no armrests, no automatic transmission. It doesn't even have roll-down windows. The windows are cut in two horizontally and the lower half hinges up to rest against the top half, like a flap, held up by a clip. Nor is there a hardtop roof, or a glass rear window, only a piece of sturdy fabric that can be detached and rolled back, flexible transparent plastic window included. He opens and closes a door. The car feels rickety and rudimentary, but the salesman expresses great enthusiasm for it, praising it to the sky with his hands. Peter wonders at the name, which isn't a name at all, only an alphanumeric code: 2CV. He would prefer an American car. But he needs a car right away, before Odo wakes up.
He interrupts the salesman with a nod--he will take it. The man breaks into smiles and directs him to his office. Peter's international driver's licence is inspected, papers are filled out, money is taken, calls are made to his credit card company.
An hour later he drives up to the airport, a temporary licence plate taped to the inside of the car's rear window. The transmission on the car is clunky, with the gear stick poking straight out of the dashboard, the engine is noisy, and the ride is bouncy. He parks the car and makes his way back to the hangar.
Odo is still sleeping. Peter and the airport employee wheel the cage out to the car. They transfer the ape to the back seat. Right then, a problem arises. The cage, even folded up, doesn't fit in the tiny trunk of the 2CV. There's no question of strapping it onto the soft roof. It has to be left behind. Peter is not bothered. The thing is a nuisance, and besides, Odo hasn't used it at all. The airport man is amenable to taking it.
Peter checks one last time that he hasn't forgotten anything. He has his passport and papers, he's pulled out the map of Portugal, his luggage is jammed into the trunk, the ape is in the back seat--he's ready to set off. Only he's exhausted and thirsty and hungry. He steadies himself.
"How far to the Altas Montanhas de Portugal?" he asks.
"Para as Altas Montanhas de Portugal? Cerca de dez horas," the man answers.
Peter uses his fingers to make sure he has understood. Ten fingers. Ten hours. The man nods. Peter sighs.
He consults the map. As he did in the United States, he decides to avoid large cities. That means turning away from the coast and driving through the interior. Past a town called Alhandra, there is a bridge across the Tagus.
After that, the map promises settlements that are so small they receive the minimal cartographic designation, a tiny black circle with a blank centre.
A couple of hours later, after only a quick stop at a cafe in a place called Porto Alto to eat and drink and buy supplies, he can keep his eyes open no longer. They come upon Ponte de Sor. It's a pleasantly bustling town. He eyes a hotel longingly; he would happily stop there. Instead he drives on. Back in the countryside, he turns off onto a quiet side road and parks next to an olive grove. The car looks like a grey bubble about to be blown across the landscape. He leaves food next to Odo. He thinks to lay his sleeping bag across the front seats, but the seats are too far apart. Nor do they recline to any extent. He looks at the ground next to the car. Too rocky. Finally he gets in the back and works Odo's heavy body onto the floor of the car. He lies across the back seat in a fetal position and promptly falls into a deep sleep.
When Peter awakes late that afternoon, Odo is sitting right next to his head, practically on it. He's looking around. No doubt he's wondering what new trick the humans have pulled on him. Where is he now? Where have the big buildings gone? Peter can feel the warmth of Odo's body against his head. He's still tired, but anxiety revives him. Will Odo be angry and aggressive? If he is, there's no way Peter can escape him. He lifts himself slowly.
Odo embraces him with both arms. Peter embraces the ape back. They remain interlocked for several seconds. He gives Odo some water to drink and feeds him apples, bread, cheese, ham, all of which disappear in quick, full mouthfuls.
Peter notices a group of men a ways off, walking in their direction along the road. They're carrying shovels and hoes on their shoulders. He moves to the driver's seat. Odo hops into the passenger seat next to him. He starts the car. Odo hoots at the rumble of the engine but otherwise stays put. He turns the car around and returns to the road.
Like most emigrants, his parents departed the High Mountains of Portugal in a state of want, and they were determined that their children would have different, better lives in Canada. As if stanching a wound, they turned their backs on their origins. In Toronto, they deliberately avoided fellow Portuguese immigrants. They forced themselves to learn English well and passed on neither their native language nor their native culture to their son and daughter. Instead, they encouraged them to move in wider circles and were delighted when each married a non-Portuguese.