The City Jungle (13 page)

He stopped. “Yes, it's a good thing that we came here,” he said. “This is a place where a poor devil can see the injustice and the cruelty of the world plainly enough. You can see how people stroll past suffering, tortured creatures and don't care any more for them than that. Aren't even amused by them. And—do you know, Mieze, that kind of comforts me.”

Mieze clasped his arm and they hurried away.

Hella's moans and Brosso's dull roaring sounded behind them.

Max turned. “Yes, go on roaring. You're right!” And he added with the ghost of a smile, “But what good does it do to be in the right, what good does roaring do, when nobody pays any attention to it?”

Chapter Eighteen

“He Wants No More of It”

Z
ATO THE ORANGUTAN AWOKE from his long stupor.

When Yppa observed that her mate was beginning to show signs of life she held Tikki tight in her arms and fled into the farthest corner of the cage. For several hours she had watched for Zato's revival. She was afraid he would be violent. Again and again she had been terrified by the thought that Zato would tear his little son from her arms, would attack her in a fit of rage and abuse her.

Now Zato had moved. Yppa fled as far away as she could get and sat cowering in her corner, peering through half-closed blinking eyes, shyly, at the body stretched out on the floor. With her arms and hands she hid Tikki as well as she could.

“Why haven't they taken Zato away?” she wondered. “Why haven't they put back the wall that separated us when Tikki was born?”

Zato groaned softly. After a while his arms groped slowly and uncertainly in the air.

Then he sat up.

He stared straight ahead of him. Everything seemed to swim before his eyes—those eyes that were like those of a drunkard or a man dying for sleep.

Hour after hour he stared thus.

When the keeper came and tossed him fruit he did not stir. He remained motionless when the curator appeared and talked to him through the bars.

“Well, my boy,” said the curator in a friendly voice, “sleep it off? Have a good rest?”

Zato sat as if he had heard and seen nothing.

“You must understand that it was necessary, my friend,” continued the curator, “so that your little son would not starve. You were so obstinate, there was nothing else to do. Now treat your family nicely and we'll do the same to you.” The curator turned to the keeper. “Let's go. He'll pick up overnight. Even a human head would ache a little after coming out of that kind of veronal debauch.”

But Yppa trembled at the thought of the night. She felt dreadfully certain that Zato was sitting there so silent and indifferent because he was controlling himself, pretending. Terrified, she was convinced that Zato was only waiting for darkness to leave her alone with him. Then he would attack her and the child, would choke her, and kill poor Tikki. She did not dare move, but she was a little comforted by the fact that Tikki was sleeping on her breast and so made no noise that might excite Zato.

From the time that darkness settled down until morning broke, she continued in a state of panic that robbed her of her breath, then became a more and more relaxed anxiety.

Zato had not once changed his position. He had not made a sound.

When the first feeble light permitted her to distinguish objects Yppa glanced at her mate. He was sitting in the same place: he had not moved. As it grew lighter, just before sunrise, Yppa gathered courage to turn her head cautiously and stare curiously at Zato. His head had sunk down upon his breast. After the fashion of unhappy orangs, he had laid his face in both hands. He seemed to be asleep. But Yppa knew that Zato was awake.

She was terribly tired. In her state of total exhaustion she no longer had the strength to be worried. She no longer cared what happened to her or to Tikki.

Thus the morning passed and half of the afternoon.

Tikki became lively and Yppa let him do as he liked. When she observed that the little thing avoided his father she let him run free.

The second night passed without any change. Zato seemed to sink deeper and deeper into himself. He did not take the slightest notice of Yppa or of Tikki. The fruit that was tossed him lay dried up or rotting. He had not even glanced at it.

In time his condition began to worry the curator. He stood before the bars, talking kindly to the orangu­tan. But after all they were utter strangers. Zato did not hear the man, or if he heard, did not understand him. He did not give him a thought.

The curator spread rare and tempting fruits before the orang. Zato left them untouched.

Once Yppa approached Zato, timidly, tenderly. Timidly she held out Tikki to him, like one ready for sacrifice.

Zato did not move.

“Tikki is here,” she whispered, “right beside you, Tikki whom you love so much.”

In vain. The words fell upon deaf ears.

The little one resisted violently, trying to avoid his father and clinging to his mother with every sign of terror.

Hours later Yppa again went to Zato, and sitting down at his side put her arm around his shoulder. She sat perfectly still beside him. But Zato's rigidity did not relax for a moment. Yppa might just as well have embraced a block of wood. She was frightened. She picked up the fruit, picked it up piece by piece from the floor and held it before Zato's mouth. He did not refuse, he did not resist. He was inaccessible, hard and strange, as lifeless as the walls. Yppa ate a little to arouse his appetite. He did not even see her.

That night she slept beside him, pressing her body softly against his, stroking, caressing him. But there was not the slightest response, not the slightest sign that he was aware of her. Her gentle appeals remained unanswered. She could embrace only one side of his body, nestling close to his ribs and thigh. He did not change his position, sitting with his hands over his face, his head sunk low upon his breast.

Next day a scene took place that shocked Yppa. It shocked the curator too. He was standing outside the cage with Dr. Wollet. He had brought choice fruit and was talking again very gently.

Suddenly Zato got up. His limbs stirred very slowly, almost solemnly. His eyes were fastened on the curator. His big dark eyes had seemed sad even before. But what an expression was in them now! An expression of the most intense pain, the patience of martyrdom, an expression of farewell that was already directed from the hither side of life, from the beyond. It shocked the two men who saw it.

They were silent. Dr. Wollet struggled to keep back the tears that were smarting in his eyes.

Zato accepted a banana and peeled it. Slowly. ­Solemnly.

“Thank God,” said the curator very softly, “he's going to eat at last.”

With a voice choking with emotion Dr. Wollet replied, “He will not eat again.”

Zato carried the banana to his mouth. Then he broke and mashed it and dropped it on the floor. He took some grapes, and put them to his lips as if he were going to kiss them. Then he clenched his fist and squeezed the grapes so that the juice oozed between his fingers.

Always that expression of ultimate pain and knowledge.

A shudder passed over Zato's gigantic body.

Dr. Wollet turned away, he could not bear it. “He will never eat again!” he repeated in a low voice.

“Nonsense!” declared the curator. “Even a human being has to eat no matter how bad he feels. Certainly an animal must.”

“But, but,” cried Dr. Wollet, “how can you say that? Think of the dogs that won't eat another mouthful after their masters die, but follow them to the grave.”

“Stop,” the curator interrupted. “I know your hobby! The animal belongs to a higher order than man. But in spite of your love of animals, you'll never make me . . .”

“Not higher in any sense!” Dr. Wollet replied. “But not lower either. Not much lower! The lower characteristics in us and in them just about balance. As for the human mind, that sublime and godlike mind—there may be some significance in the fact that animals do not lie, are honest and are quite without a sense of guilt.”

The curator raised his hand to allay and to dismiss. “Your hobby is carrying you to absurdity at a gallop!”

“Don't laugh!” Dr. Wollet became emphatic. “How can you look at that and laugh?” He motioned with his head toward the cage.

“I'm not laughing,” the curator protested. “I perceived before you did that this is a serious case.”

Zato sat hunched over, hiding his head in his hands.

“So savage a determination to end matters,” continued Dr. Wollet pointedly, “so grim and persistent a renunciation of life, is found but seldom among humans. And when it is found, it is only among exceptionally elementary natures!”

“As if it were an everyday occurrence among animals,” cried the curator.

“This whole garden,” said Dr. Wollet angrily, “this whole garden is filled with elementary tragic figures! The whole world is filled with the tragedies of dumb creatures in which the human always gets the better of the beast!”

The curator's shrugging shoulders betrayed his impatience.

Dr. Wollet said nothing for a few moments. Then he spoke quietly, in a calmer tone, only the frequent catches in his voice betraying how disturbed he was.

“This orang,” he said, “who was drugged and captured, who was dragged from his jungle into this ter­rible prison of stone and iron, this orang found one little remnant of joy, perhaps of happiness. In any case he found some faint consolation for all he had lost in his mate—and in his child.”

“He would have starved it to death,” the curator interrupted.

“Perhaps . . . who knows? But he was drugged again, and that little shred of courage, that tiny trust that let him live was snapped. It dissipated like a little drop of water that you brush away unawares with your sleeve.”

“It was done in the interest of the baby, in the interest of the mother,” said the curator nervously. “And it was in his own interest, too, that we gave him veronal.”

“Possibly. But he doesn't understand your expedients, and he doesn't understand veronal. He doesn't trouble himself about what you call his best interests. He has had enough of the mysterious craft that makes his life wretched. He wants no more of it.”

Dr. Wollet was close to the truth. Zato wanted no more of it.

Neither Yppa's tenderness and imploring appeals, or Tikki who hopped about comically, existed for him. Zato took no nourishment and seldom stirred from his place. One day he lay stretched out on the floor, cold. A peaceful sleeper.

Yppa was alone with her child.

Chapter Nineteen

The Miniature Reporter

V
ASTA THE MOUSE CARRIED THE melancholy news to every cage in the zoo.

When she came to Hella she found Mibbel the lion with her. Hella was pacing about nervously in a circle, with Mibbel trotting leisurely after her. He would tease Hella by nestling his light short-maned head against her shoulder, her flanks, her chin, whatever he could reach. But whenever he touched Hella she drew back angrily and seemed on the verge of an outburst. Mibbel did not notice or did not want to notice anything. He continued to purr contentedly and to chat while purring.

Vasta sat in her crack in the wall, astonished at ­Mibbel's urbanity, her clever inquisitive eyes fixed on him.

“Really, Hella,” Mibbel was purring, “you should hear Brosso some time. You have no idea of all that he's been through. I can't even begin to imagine it all.” He rubbed his head against her shoulder. She bounded lightly away to avoid his caress, changing the direction of her walk. “All Brosso's experiences are so exciting,” he purred. “It was wonderful to be together with him, although I'm very happy to be allowed to stay with you again.” He pushed his head affectionately against her flank. Hella drew back and continued pacing. Mibbel followed her. “A splendid old boy, this Brosso,” he purred, “you ought to see and hear him. Yet he's friendly and gentle. Of course, he's lost a great deal of his strength. A great deal. What a powerful fellow he must have been! Even today he is strong enough to . . .”

Hella faced about and began to trot. Three or four steps in one direction, three or four in the other, with Mibbel close beside her. “Well, perhaps Brosso will come to stay with us, too,” he said. “That would be wonderful! What splendid entertainment! None of us has ever been through the things he's experienced.”

Hella threw herself on the floor. “I think,” she muttered, “I think I've been through enough, more than I care for!” She sighed deeply.

Mibbel was dancing around her. “Oh, you mean the cubs,” he said lightly and not very sympathetically. “The cubs! I understand what you mean. But don't be sad. There's no sense to it and it doesn't help at all.”

“You never knew them,” growled the lioness.

“No,” he said hastily, “no, I didn't know them. I only saw them a couple of times as they passed by. Nice boys, very nice. . . .”

A piteous howl was her answer. “Nice? They were charming, they were fascinating, and so clever! Nice! It's easy to see that you never knew them.”

“Well, it's not my fault; I would have liked to see them. I wanted to be together with you and them,” Mibbel protested.

“Not your fault?” repeated Hella. “Who knows?”

“Forget the little fellows,” urged Mibbel, “there's nothing else to do. We must all of us learn to forget if we want to live.”

“Forget?” snarled Hella angrily.

Zealously he tried to pacify her. “You managed to forget the cubs you had before.”

Hella started up. “You heartless creature! Do you really believe that?”

Mibbel fled to the bars in one terrified bound.

Hella was furious. “I always remember all of my children! You, you heartless wretch, think I don't because I say nothing. But they are all of them in my heart, all of them, always, forever. . . .”

“Why do you grieve?” wailed Mibbel. “They're all right. They're gone, of course, but they're all right. I feel positively certain of it!”

“Ugh!” Hella's contemptuous grunt was accompanied by a disdainful toss of her head. Then she went to the back of the cage and lay down against the wall.

Vasta took advantage of the silence that followed to whisper her news to the lioness. Hella listened attentively, pitying Zato.

“Think of Yppa,” said the mouse. “Now she is all alone.”

“She has her child,” replied Hella.

“But she has lost her mate,” warned the mouse. “Remember that when you become angry at Mibbel. He's alive, he's well and strong, he is handsome and he loves you.” With that she slipped away. She was in haste.

Hella remained for a long time lost in thought. But when Mibbel slunk up to her, meekly and cautiously, he perceived from the beating of the tassel on her tail, and from her manner, that she was in a friendlier mood.

“Are you still angry at me?” he asked. She looked at him as he snuggled against her side. “I am stupid,” he purred. “You are right, that business about the children was hateful. . . .”

Hella laid her beautiful head between her forepaws. “Oh, my good friend,” she said softly, “it is not a ­question of forgetting. You can't forget even if your memory is as short as ours seems to be. But we must learn gentleness and patience if we want to live.”

Vasta carried the news to the bears' cage.

She often visited the big brown clumsy fellows. They were good-natured and playful, always fond of their joke, and they never grudged the mouse a bite from their abundance. Vasta was on friendly terms with the bears.

This time she was the witness of an exciting scene.

Krapus, the tall strong bear, was sitting on his haunches, craftily watching Karl, the keeper, who was cleaning out the cage.

Driven to the back of the cage by Karl, the other bears one by one relinquished their places with angry growls and suddenly bared teeth.

Karl was cross with them. He poked his broom at their noses, between their eyes, in their flanks. If he came too near the bears did not wait for the blow. Tripps, the thin little bear, shambled nimbly out of the way. Papina, who would presently have cubs, toddled out of reach. Halpa, the girl bear, was frightened and betook herself to safety.

All of them knew keeper Karl's humors. His many tokens of friendliness no longer meant anything to the bears. They were vengeful with all the strength of their good natures, and dangerously cunning in their thirst for vengeance. Karl miscalculated this. He was in one of his surly morning moods. He swaggered around like a bully, taking out his temper on the bears.

Only Krapus remained steadfastly and stubbornly in his place. He sat up on his haunches, as if waiting for a signal to begin the battle, or for the right moment to attack. He would not be dislodged by keeper Karl. But Karl appeared to have little desire to challenge ­Krapus. He was in a bad humor, he knew very well why the bears were aroused. But that threatening glimpse of Krapus' plump power was so fatefully imposing as to penetrate even Karl's surliness. He wanted to avoid the furious beast and, bridling his own temper, turned to leave the bears' cage.

At that instant Krapus sprang forward and struck at Karl with the full force of his fury. The three other bears watched with intense interest. Obviously the attack had been planned, obviously they all knew of it and were merely waiting to pounce on the keeper the moment he fell to the ground.

Karl would have gone down without a word, but with a fractured skull, if Krapus' furious paw had ever reached him. But the terrible blow fell short and whisked through the air as Krapus lost his balance and fell.

Then Karl's rage became a frenzy without let or hindrance, delivering him from that oppressive feeling which had weighed on his heart all morning.

Before Krapus could stumble to his feet, Karl attacked him with the broom, striking him on the nose with the iron handle, three, four, five times, catching him always on the same sensitive spot.

“You beast, you!” cried Karl in a husky voice. “You dirty beast!”

His courage gone, Krapus fled. Then, racked with pain, he tried desperately to defend himself. He stood up, thirsting for vengeance, but another terrible blow on his nose brought him low.

Karl did not stop beating him until his rage had cooled, and Krapus, completely vanquished, had crept into a corner, hiding his nose between his paws.

“You wait, you dirty rascal!” muttered Karl before leaving the cage. “I'll show you yet!”

In their fear the other bears pretended to be innocent and peaceable, but Karl did not believe them.

“You damned rascals!” he shouted. With that he left them.

Vasta had watched, greatly disturbed.

Papina, the bear who was going to have cubs, sidled over. “Tell me, little friend,” she said, “you are free, you are more fortunate than we, tell me, is there no help for us?”

Vasta considered, and for answer told them what had happened in the orangutans' cage.

“Oh,” cried Halpa, “there is no help for us captives. He is too strong and He is cruel. He knows no mercy!”

But Vasta had flitted away.

She ran to the regal tiger. She loved his majestic beauty, his proud strength. She respected his noble reserve, the disdainful hauteur that made him a soli­tary. She admired the impenetrable, unfathomable quality of his nature. She would feel terribly unstrung when with condescending kindness he spoke to her. At such times she was aware of the enormous gulf dividing him from her.

Opomo, the splendid young regal tiger, lay quietly in the middle of his cage. His forepaws stretched out, his head thrown back, he was gazing through the bars at the green and blooming garden. He was no longer conscious of the iron bars, they seemed to have become a part of the garden, black streaks striping the bright green of the trees and grass. They could not be removed, they belonged inseparably to his world.

He had never known any other. Some three years before he had entered this cage. He had left his mother very early. The things she told him when he lay against her breast as a little cub he no longer remembered. He remembered only the affectionate games they had played together. His mother too had been born behind the bars, and behind the bars she had grown up. Where she was at present he had no idea, and indeed, thought of it very seldom and never for more than a moment or so.

Ever since leaving his mother he had been almost always alone. Once he had had a mate. For a short time he admired and loved her passionately. One night she disappeared mysteriously from his side and for a brief period he mourned her.

For a long time the cage with its strong iron bars, the walls that enclosed him, had seemed to him simply a part of an unalterable fate to which he had resigned himself. When he was quite young he used to hurl himself furiously, to the point of exhaustion, against the bars and the walls. Now that was all passed. He had become dull, he thought of nothing. He stared into space and saw nothing. The garden outside seemed simply a bright green dissolving effect. Like insubstantial shadows human beings sauntered past his cage.

Vasta sat still in her hiding-place, worshiping Opomo. The tiger's careless, soft, powerful grace possessed a fascination for Vasta. She could never free herself from the thrall of his beauty. Each time she resolved to visit the tiger she was torn between fear and temptation. Once she was safely in her hiding-place in his cage it required an effort to compose herself.

Opomo had snuffed her scent. He turned his head in her direction, otherwise remaining motionless. But he began to purr very softly.

A brief pause—then suddenly he questioned her. “What news, little one?”

“The great father ape, Zato, is dead,” Vasta instantly answered.

The tiger, trembling, bounded up—and then at once lay down again. “Tell me about it!” he commanded.

Overwhelmed with terror, Vasta had fled. The tiger's command fetched her back. Stammering and trembling, she made her report. She knew practically the whole story. She even knew of the orangutan's homesickness.

As she reached this part of her story the tiger got up. With that springy tread in which his whole body was involved the tiger paced around the cage, betraying increasing agitation.

“Homesickness,” he groaned, “homesickness! Can that longing, that blind aimless longing that tears me to pieces, that drives me almost insane, can that be homesickness?” He stood still, with lowered head, while from the bottom of his heart came a roaring moan—“Homesickness!”

“Night and day it torments me! Before the sun rises, and in the last hour of twilight. When I lie sleeping, I dream, I dream! Wonderful dreams! I think that I am yearning for my dreams!

“Homesickness!” He began to rave. “There must be something somewhere, some land, I don't know where! Trees, tall grasses! There must be! There must! That's what I see in my dreams! Oh, the slinking along, the watching, the spring at something alive that crumples under your claws. The warm blood that spurts out—in your mouth, in your eyes!” He raved on. “Must I spend my whole life here, in this miserable, stinking, horrible prison . . . my whole life! Must I never experience the things I experience in my sleep, in my dreams—such pale unreal things! A prisoner! A prisoner! Now I know what I am—a prisoner!”

Vasta had slipped away. In the distance she heard the tiger whom she loved so dearly. Her tiny little body was quaking with nervousness. She felt herself in the grip of the violent storm which her news had unchained. That is why she hurried to the two black panthers whom she seldom visited. She was afraid of them. But she felt that she must bring them the news, she wanted to see how they would receive it.