Great Apes (46 page)

The evening was cold and blustery. But Simon and Busner did knuckle-walk down Fitzjohn's Avenue and through Swiss Cottage to Boundary Road; although in contrast to that morning there was little mating activity for them to observe. However, things were considerably different when they reached the vicinity of the gallery. From two hundred and twenty-four metres away, despite the gloom, Busner could see that the junction of Abbey Road and Boundary Road was packed with the art crowd of chimps, rutting, screeching, grooming, networking and queuing to get into the Saatchi Gallery.

Busner pulled upright and turned to muzzle Simon. “‘Huuu” are you sure you'll be able to cope with this? There will be a lot of chimps there you know –'

“Hooo”, Simon recalled, then countersigned, ‘Surely I won't be able to recognise them, there's such a big crowd, and they're
chimpanzees
“clak-clak-clak”!'

‘Yes, Simon, but remember they will certainly recognise
you
. You haven't been seen in public since your show
and
your breakdown has been reported in the press. I think you can safely “euch-euch” assume that we will attract attention.'

What Busner was really counting on was that Sarah Peasenhulme, Simon's ex-consort, would turn up for the
opening as well. Certainly that had been the gist of the gesticulation between Busner and Figes. ‘She's having a sort of consortship with Ken Braithwaite, the performance artist,' Figes signed on the ‘phone, ‘but she'd love to mate with Simon again and feel his ischial scrag. Do you think he's prepared to get it “huuu” up for her, Dr Busner?'

Busner countersigned he had no way of knowing, but that Simon seemed more and more accepting of his chimpunity. It wasn't an overhead sign, for on the knuckle-walk down from Hampstead Simon moved with greater fluidity than Busner could remember. The atrophy in his feet and legs was slackening and he'd left his jacket undone despite the cold wind, surely an acknowledgement of his own preference for real as against fake fur?

The two chimps were dominant enough to push their way through the outer eddies of the crowd and penetrate the large, spike-topped grey steel doors at the entrance to the gallery compound. From there a smooth ramp horse-legged away to the entrance of the gallery proper. Set in the crook of the ramp was a full-size model of a fire engine. Simon, his scut moving ahead of Busner's muzzle through the shaggy mêlée, ignored it. From his purposeful manner Busner deduced that coming to this familiar place was reassuring him.

Not so reassuring were the enquiring pant-hoots that floated to Busner's ears from the fusing art chimps. Simon had been recognised and the Chinese caresses were doing the rounds.

Busner gave their invitations to the gallery female on the door, who seeing Simon presented her scrag, then asked them both to autograph the book. Despite the no-smoking
sign above her head, she didn't show the former artist to stub out his Bactrian. Simon marked his name with a flourish, erect at the desk, proud and disdainful. A few chimps clustered there and a couple of them presented to him, and he automatically bestowed reassuring pats on their vibrating scuts. “H'huuu,” Busner vocalised when they had moved on. ‘Did you know those chimps, Simon?'

‘I don't think so,' he countersigned. ‘Perhaps they're art students.'

Busner had been to the Saatchi Gallery before, but the sheer size of the place took him aback anew. The vestibule was large enough to contain the entirety of Levinson's Cork Street haunt. Crawling to the right down a broad, short flight of stairs, they entered a room with an area as big as an aircraft hangar – and almost as high. The floor was painted with the same thick grey emulsion as the ramp outside and the walls were blanched. The lighting was so comprehensive and monotonous that its source was irrelevant. There were some sculptures placed here and there on the aestheticised bled, and a few canvases hung from the voided walls. But it wasn't these that struck Busner and Simon – it was the bombinating mob of chimpunity.

For, if the entrance to the gallery had been crowded, the interior was absolutely packed. One might have signed that all of chimpanzee life was here, were it not so manifestly untrue. Rather, all of trendy, arty London was here. They were all wearing their best threads, they were all drinking the champagne on offer, they were all gesturing wildly, preening, posing and displaying.

The females wore shortie dresses, bustiers, blouses and swelling-protectors in a bewildering number of styles – all
absolutely
à la mode;
and the males were just as fashionably garbed. The jackets and shirts of both genders were mostly open to reveal their chest fur, and in many instances a pierced teat, or even two. There were chimps garbed in leather, in vinyl, in what looked like gold leaf, in PVC, in chiffon and in black serge; which was – Busner's delta, Isabel, had recently inparted him –
this
season's black serge.

Observing this over-caparisoned horde, Busner was driven to put his finger on what bothered him. “H'huuu?” he vocalised.

Simon turned tail, ‘Why are they all
so
dressed up?' The former artist looked at his therapist. The poor old ape, he thought, he's really a fish out of water at this sort of gig. For the first time since he had come under Busner's care, Simon felt their relationship was definitely pivoting. He was so accustomed to Busner helping him, grooming him, inparting, and providing a constant massage, that the novelty of being in a situation where
he
could bestow some hortatory grooming and informative prodding brought him out.

‘ “Euch-euch” Dr Busner, you have to appreciate this scene,' Simon flourished, ‘as an expression of the – how can I put it “huu”? – of the dominance order operating amongst the disparate elements of the art world. They are all
so
over-dressed, because that's one of the few ways they can gain any attention, any preening, from their “euch-euch” hierarchical superiors – or subordinates, or peers –'

‘That's what I assumed. ' Busner chopped the air and the two chimps squatted, cradling one another's scrotal sacks, whilst the seraglio of simians whirled past.

‘After all,' Simon continued, placing the signs carefully
in Busner's groin fur, ‘they can't very well carry their reputations around with them on their “h'hee-hee” backs – now can they, Busnerkins “huu”?'

‘Please,' Busner gently kneaded, ‘as our grooming has become so mutual, won't you denote me Zack “huu”?'

‘Of course, Zackiekins “chup-chupp”, I am honoured that you acknowledge my ascent up the hierarchy. Now, as I was signing, the reputations of these artists – if that's what they are – are also so arguable, that they require continual interpretation and “gru-nnn” adjustment by a large party of critics “grnn”. The critics have their own hierarchy, and the hierarchy that exists between them and the artists' party is also highly fluid – subject to continual flux. That's why “chup-chupp” they're all dressed up, and displaying and presenting and grooming and mating, for all the buggers are worth “h'hee-hee-hee”!'

Busner giggled as well, when Simon inparted this last ticklecism. Then, finding themselves by the drinks table, both chimps took a rented glass of champagne and continued knuckle-walking around the edge of the exaggerated room. This main part of the gallery was hung with a series of large, garish canvases. These depicted scenes of ordinary life in Middle America – car washing, barbecueing, frisbee playing and the like – but all skewed to one side, as if the viewer – or painter – were astigmatic. There was this distortion, which produced a sense of Lynchian unease, and there were also the hyperreal colours and jagged brush strokes, squaring the effect.

‘Not bad,' Simon gestured, ‘not bad at all, what did you sign this was ascripted “huu”?'

‘It's a show of young American artists, Simon,' Busner replied.

They had circumnavigated and scooped up another rented glass of champagne when Simon, who was taking the lead on this patrol, halted, his scut quivering, the fur on his rump erect. Busner rushed to get soothing fingers in his protege's fur. “‘Huuu” Simon, what is it?'

“HoooGrnnn,” Simon called apprehensively, then signed, ‘I may be wrong, Zack, but I think I
recognise
those two chimps at the top of the stairs.'

Busner followed Simon's gaze, and saw two non-identical twin bonobos. ‘The two bonobos there “huu”, is that who you mean?'

‘Yes, that's right,
those
are bonobos, are they “huu”? I've seen signs of them, but no one's shown me exactly what they are.'

‘Who do you think those bonobos are, Simon “huu”?' Busner's signing was the lightest of caresses.

‘I think “h'hooo” that they're two friends of Sarah, denoted the Braithwaites. Ken and Steve. One of those notices on my show, that you gave to me in the hospital, implied that Ken had been mating Sarah. It's weird …' Simon fell motionless. Busner tweaked him ‘What “huu”?'

‘I imagine I
ought
to feel jealous seeing Ken – if it is Ken, but for some reason I don't, I'd just like to muzzle him and see who presents to who “huu”?'

Busner regarded Simon sceptically. He understood, of course, what Simon was aiming at. Given the perverse human practice of monogamy, presumably the mating of a longstanding alpha, beta, gamma; or even a consort, or even – and Busner clacked internally at this absurdity – a
temporary nestmate, would be cause for emotional distress. But while this entwined the anti-psychiatrist – as he liked to style himself – all the more inveigling was Simon's recognition of the bonobos.

The two chimps continued to observe the Braithwaites. The bonobos were bipedal at the top of the stairs, and a procession of chimps was presenting to them in a most unusual and cursory fashion, hardly dipping their rumps, barely bestowing a touch, certainly not bothering to groom. ‘What are bonobos “huu”?' Simon inparted after a while.

‘They're simply the race of chimpanzees who inhabit Africa, Simon. ' Busner countersigned.

‘You mean to sign they're
blacks
“huu”?' Busner's knowledge of human sub-species was now good enough for him to be unfazed. ‘That's right, Simon,' he countersigned. ‘They're “grnn” analogous to the black human sub-species.'

‘So, presumably there's such a thing as bonoboism “h'hee-h'huu”?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Well “h'hee-hee”,' the former artist bared his lower teeth with merriment, ‘that certainly explains a lot.'

‘Like what “huu”?' Busner was perplexed.

‘Like why there aren't a lot of them at this opening. Some things – as I've had reason to sign before – just don't change.'

With this finger flourish, Simon got bipedal and swaggered up the stairs to where the Braithwaites were. Busner hurried after his scut. However, in the few seconds that had elapsed as they mounted the stairs, the Braithwaites had
vanished into the crowd of openeers. Simon leapt in the air, but all he could see was a setose sea of chimpanzee heads, bobbing up and down towards the vanishing point of artifice. ‘They've regained the safety of the crowd. ' Simon waved to Busner – then he froze. “‘Hooo” this is peculiar …'

This part of the gallery was as null and void as the other – although not as great a waste. Scattered around its un-coloured inexistence were various chimpikins. They weren't exactly statues – being constructed so far as Simon could see from plastic or latex – but nor were they conventional chimpikins. The lifesize figure nearest to them was arrested in mid-stride, attempting to depart its own plinth. White-coated, and brandishing a test tube, its scruff gave way not to a simian countenance, but an enormous, mutant, massy head. ‘That,' Simon gestured facetiously to Busner, ‘is how I often “h'hee-hee” imagine you!'

The other chimpikins were equally aberrant – a potato-headed figure, a Bugs Bunny mutant and a dodo. But strangest of all was the forlorn little figure of an infant human. This creature had also been transmuted by its creator. It was covered with a most inhuman coat of patchy fur, and had hind paws with prehensile digits, one of which it was using to give itself an interminable mainline fix with a two-millilitre disposable insulin syringe.

Simon and Busner knuckle-walked around all of them huuing softly as they went, until, gaining the far end of the gallery, they paused by the cross-breed junior junky to apply pressure to an exegesis. “‘H'hoo” most suitable material, Simon, wouldn't you agree “h'huu”?'

‘“Gru-nnn” I suppose you're right about that, Zack. These are all obvious remarks on the queering – as it were – of the natural pitch; the distortion of our bodily sense in response to the anti-natural way we, as chimpanzees, now live. ' Busner, although surprised by his protege's admission of conspecifity, nonetheless held his hands, only flourishing, ‘Not dissimilar to your own recent work “h'huuu”?'

‘True enough,' Simon countersigned, ‘like my apocalyptic paintings these chimpikins are alluding to some crucial loss of perspective, occasioned by the enforcement of a hard dividing line between chimp and beast.'

While this gesticulation had been going on, unnoticed by either Simon or Busner, a bent little freckle-faced chimp, wearing an obvious toupee and a white linen jacket, carefully hoicked to expose his scrag, had come up beside them. Seeing Simon fall signlent, this chimp presented his arse to them, flicking, “‘HoooH'Graaa” Dr Busner, I'm honoured to abase myself before you, Simon, it does me good to see you out and about again, please allow me the pleasure of cradling your pendulous scrotum. ' This, the chimp duly did.

Feeling an oddly familiar palmar sensation, Simon stared straight into the muzzle of this joyful subordinate, a muzzle on which two mouths gaped, one with teeth, the other sealed up with scarring. It was, Simon acknowledged, Tony Figes. ‘ “HoooH'Graa” Tony! Dr Busner inparted you might be here, what do you think of these “huu”?'