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A Simian Fairy Tale
“Monkeys, who very sensibly refrain from speech lest they
should be set to earn their livings.” Kenneth Graham, ‘The Golden Age’
In one of London’s
finer neighborhoods, on the top floor of a darkly decaying Gothic house, in a
smaller room set aside for servants years ago and now used mostly for storage,
a woolly monkey named Percival LaFarge sat idly atop an old trunk, enjoying a
brief respite, munching on a filched banana tart. Happy enough not to be
wearing the inelegant cap, velvet jacket and plus fours he was obliged to cavort
around in five afternoons and one evening a week, he scratched his plump belly
and used the end of his long tail to destroy several ancient spider webs
clinging to the draped furniture.
When the dust cleared and he’d finished sneezing, the monkey
spotted an old metal box whose lock appeared ripe for the picking.
Most of London by now, knew of Percival LaFarge’s incredible
gift for human-like gab, never suspecting that the seemingly impossible trick
was NOT due to the cleverness of his master, the reclusive Hugo Hicks, whose gift
as the finest ventriloquist – a talent he claimed to have picked up from a band
of roving gypsies - in all Europe was an absolute fabrication. This secret was
known only to himself and his sister Harriet (called Harry) who lived with him,
their peripatetic parents having been killed by bandits in Egypt years before, leaving the
siblings impoverished.
Needless to say, it was essential no one realize
that Percival LaFarge’s speaking ability was the real thing lest he be removed from the brother and sister's care and shut up in a laboratory to be studied or worse, dissected.
Afternoon teas with Percival at which the monkey discoursed
on a variety of subjects at five pounds a head (10 pounds for High Tea) had
become so popular that Harry had happily quite her job and given herself over
to designing outfits for an occasionally reluctant Percival to sport – he loved
the jaunty red fez with black tassel best and it was often difficult to get him
to switch hats to accommodate the rest of his stylish outfits.
Very important talks were currently in the works for Percival to star in a stage
production WITH music – Cole Porter had been approached - as well as an
illustrated book, a project which had captured the interest of Salvadore Dali. The
brother and sister had also exchanged exploratory telegrams with film
star Charlie Chaplin. Though of course, silent film would defeat the whole
purpose of Percival’s chatty charm, but Chaplin felt this could be overcome in
some way.
How this fairy tale came about:
Percival LaFarge realized very early on that humans being
what they are, keeping his gift of gab a secret would be paramount to his
continued good health. But when he’d first stumbled through a broken window and
into the lives of that sad, woebegone pair of humans living in that big empty
house near the Thames, it had seemed like fortune had finally smiled on him. The kind-hearted young
woman who’d found him battered and bruised, wounds incurred while fleeing from a bunch of raucous boys down a dark alley, gasped with horror at his condition. The quick-witted simian was no stranger to rough handling, but it seemed a good idea at the moment to play up his condition for all it was worth.
After much lamentation, ‘Oh, poor thing, poor thing,”
encouraged by Percival’s (slightly exaggerated) piteous cries, the young woman
gently treated and bandaged him. “Oh
look how thin he is, Hugo. He must be famished, poor thing.”
“Yes, so you said. Someone’s pet, do you think?” said a tall
young man in a frayed dressing gown. “Or maybe a runaway from the circus?” He
gave Percival an assessing look. “Didn’t we see some handbills recently?
DeWhite's Circus of Incomparable Delights.” But at the sound of the dreaded
name, the monkey had let out a shriek and covered his eyes – piteously. He had
found that with humans, ambiguity never did any good.
“Oh my goodness, Hugo That must be it. That horrible circus.
We can't send him back. Look how he shakes.”
“Well, we can’t keep him, Harry. He’s a Woolly Monkey. Class: Mamalia, Order: Primate, Family: Atelidae, Genus: Lagothrix,
Species: Simia lagotricha. It’s not as though he were a dog or even a cat.”
He adjusted his eye glasses and looked more closely. “Not a bad specimen of his
type, I’d say. They keep a stuffed pair at the museum.”
At this, Percival was
seen to role his eyes. Piteously.
“I don’t care,” said Harry, “he’s in a terrible
state. We don’t have much, Hugo, but what we have we can certainly share with
this sad creature. I insist.”
When it came to his sister, Hugo could be amiable and if it
pleased her to keep a monkey in their dark gloom of a house, then so be it. It
was the liveliest he’d seen Harry in months. He went down to the kitchen and
returned with a crust of bread and a bit of fruit which the monkey, with
squeaks of ecstasy, quickly made a feast of.
“It’s best not to get too attached though, someone will probably
come looking for him.” said Hugo and left the room. He still had several hours of
work to put in, studying notes he’d brought home that afternoon. His part time
job at the university cataloguing rare species of lichens for a book the head
of the department, a famous botanist, was currently writing, only brought in the
barest minimum of income but it suited Hugo's meager talents. His love of plant-life and the decrepit
greenhouse up on the roof were the reasons he fought tooth and nail with their
creditors to keep the family home from being sold. To that end, Bianca had been
forced to take a job as companion and general dogsbody to an old and rather unpleasant French countess.
Percival LaFarge to the rescue:
LaFarge had always been extremely cautious while in
captivity, but he now realized that perhaps, the time had come to do something
with this cumbersome talent of his. After his escape from the brutish circus animal
trainer who’d bought him from a seedy first mate who’d stolen him from the
cabin of the deceased sea captain who’d captured him in Brazil, the primate was
looking for a change of pace.
Essentially a pragmatist with the occasional bout of optimism thrown in for good measure,
a tight-lipped Percival had, for a full week, observed the fatigue and worry
which plagued the brother and sister and resolved to do something to repay
their kindness to him. One evening, having decided on a course of action, he shocked
the pair almost out of their wits by introducing himself and commenting on the terrible
weather.
After much swooning (on the part of the sister) and
incredulous sputtering (on the part of the brother) a plan was hatched at the
wily Percival’s instigation.
The monkey was happy enough now to pretend that his chatter
was all due to Hugo’s manipulation. The
story would be given out that the young man’s incredibly realistic and
heretofore undiscovered ‘talent for ventriloquism’ was something he’d never
revealed before simply because he had not thought it necessary.
With the cunning of his species, Percival knew that their
intended audience would want to believe him to be speaking but choose to think
that it was all due to Hugo even as their eyes and ears told them otherwise – humans,
he’d found, were always ready to deceive themselves. No one would suspect a monkey might be truly capable of speech. In fact, if questioned, Percival himself
would have shrugged his little shoulders and pretended that no one else in his
large jungle family had ever spoken a word - the truth being quite the
opposite.
Six Months Later:
Word about the monkey’s propensity for charming conversation
while sitting prettily at a tea table (he had his own petite china tea set) in
a red fez, bow-tie, paisley waistcoat, little tweed jacket and corduroy plus
fours, soon got around and before too long, even the Queen herself had
requested a special Percival performance. The brother and sister’s success was thus assured. The benefits of a reigning monarch’s approbation were incalculable –
the Queen was actually heard to titter. “We are amused.”
The architecturally gothic horror of a house was saved from the indignity of being sold at auction. Hugo and Harry paid
their bills, renovated the greenhouse, brought in comfortable furniture, had the walls replastered, papered and/or freshly painted and settled in, for the first time in years, to enjoy
their lives. There had even been enough left over for Hugo to purchase the rare plants he coveted.
The plot thickens:
Matters would take an unexpected turn when a year into their
ruse and the public having showed no inclination of tiring (children throughout
Britain were now often spotted carrying Percival monkey dolls and sales of
Percival monkey clothes had never been better), the crafty simian attracted the attention of Martin Cavendish, a suspicious reporter who, in the guise of a gentleman began courting the naive
Harriet, attempting to insinuate himself into the lives of the brother and
sister, promising his editor a front page exclusive.
Harry, in the first giddy days of imagining her
spinster status coming to an end, talked freely (perhaps too freely when
prodded by a glass or three of champagne) about Percival LaFarge and what the
dear monkey meant to her and her brother.
One evening when a tear in the hem of her gown necessitated
Harry’s leaving the room for a few moments and Hugo had just excused himself to
fetch a bottle of brandy - brother and
sister being understandably reluctant to hire much staff – Cavendish used
the time to investigate the large salon (in which the family received company) for any interesting papers, photos, notes or journals. Surely there must be something, some proof. He had, as yet, been unable to search Hugo's study.
At the precise moment when he looked behind a large Matisse portrait of Percival LaFarge, feeling for
hidden crevices, the hall door opened and Percival sauntered in holding, with
as much disdain as it was possible for a monkey to express, an egg yolk yellow
waistcoat, “Harry if you expect me to actually be seen in public in this
execrable - !” But he got no further, caught off guard, the monkey took one
look at the startled Cavendish and let out an intense oath (learned in his
sea-faring days).
A white faced Cavendish, in his turn, found himself leaning
against a wall for support all the while pointing a finger and gasping, “I knew
it, I knew it!”
What happened next, happened so quickly that by the time Hugo
and Harry returned, out of breath, alerted by the commotion and scream, it was all
over.
“What is the meaning of this!?” said Hugo attempting calm, glancing up at Percival who, wearing nothing but blue jodhpurs, was at the moment hanging from the chandelier
by one long arm and an even longer tail. The monkey squealed in agitation and did
his own pointing - at a large sack which had been flung on the floor.
“That bloody creature bit me!” shouted Cavendish forgetting there was a lady in the room. “He bit me. Look!” He held out a hand and showed them a jagged scratch on his thumb.
“Oh, Martin, I'm so sorry. I can’t imagine – “ she
stopped, her look of initial concern turning to suspicion. “Where did this come
from?” she asked, picking up the burlap sack.
Percival’s screeching rose to a crescendo and Hugo suddenly
realized what the monkey was trying to tell him. “Okay, Percy, I've got it," he
said. The monkey instantly quieted down though an unintelligible muttering
could still be heard roiling about in his throat.
"What about the sack, Cavendish?" asked Hugo. "Harry did you bring a sack in here? I certainly didn't."
"No," said his sister in a barely audible voice.
“It was on a table," said Cavendish. "Maybe I knocked it to the floor when the
monkey attacked me. Monkey bites are nothing to laugh at,” he added when he
noticed Hugo’s grin.
“You’ll have to do better than that, old chap.” said Hugo.
“Never mind,” said the disgruntled reporter gingerly wrapping a handkerchief around his wounded hand, “That bloody monkey can talk. Try and get out of that one. I heard him. Just now. Clear as day."
“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Harry, folding the sack
mechanically, giving her hands something to do.
“Please watch your language, Cavendish.” Said Hugo coldly,
don’t make me have to knock you to the floor."
The crystal teardrops on the chandelier tinkled softly as
Percival swung back and forth, keeping a close eye on events below. This was a
side of Hugo he’d never seen before. It was interesting.
“I'm sorry, Harriet," said Cavendish,"but this is news. I suspected there was
something strange about that b – that blasted monkey all along and I was right. All right, here’s my
proposition, I want to be the first to write the story. Give me an exclusive and I'll see that my paper pays you both plenty."
“How could you, Martin, how could you?” said Harry in a choked voice.
Slightly shame-faced, Cavendish mumbled a few words but Hugo interrupted. "I don't know what you think you heard here today but whatever it was, it was certainly not a talking monkey." He poured himself a brandy. “Look, why
don’t we sit down and talk this over calmly.” He made himself comfortable on the sofa and gave the
appearance of a reasonable man making a reasonable request.
“You can’t fob me off," said Cavendish, "I know what I heard. You will have to give
him up now anyway." He held up his injured hand. "You can’t keep a dangerous beast in the middle of London. So let me write
up my story, interview the three of you and then we’ll see what’s what.
You’ve had a good run. But you can’t stop the truth coming out now.”
Percival let out a screech. Startled, the angry reporter
looked up and said, “Come down and tell me that to my face, you ugly little freak. They’re going to lock you up and probably cut you open and won’t that give me a laugh."
“Martin!” said Harry with an anguished cry.
Percival swung from the chandelier to the top of a bookcase and out
through an open window, grabbed at the vines and climbed up towards the roof.
“Aren’t you going
after him?” asked Cavendish making a movement towards the window.
“There’s no need,” said Hugo. “We couldn’t catch him if we
tried. I don’t think he’ll go far.”
“Hugo, do you think I ought to – ?” asked Harry, giving
Martin a dark look of loathing.
“Oh yes, you wouldn't want to lose your meal ticket,” said Cavendish
with a sneer. At which point, Harry stepped forward and slapped his face, hard.
Hugo pretended nothing untoward had occurred. “Don’t worry, if I know Percy he's just feeling a bit sulky. He'll be back."
With a hand on his cheek, Cavendish sat on the nearest chair,
“Why don’t I wait with you then?”
“I think you’d better leave,” said Harry, steely voiced.
“No, I don’t think so, Harry, my dear. That gabby monkey of
yours will make for the biggest sensation the world has ever seen. After this
I’ll be able to write my own ticket.”
“An excess of hyperbole,” said Hugo as he poured a brandy
and handed it to Cavendish. “You can’t prove a thing.”
“Maybe I’d better not drink this,” said Cavendish with
raised eyebrows. “I wouldn’t want it to cloud my senses.” He poured the drink
into a vase of flowers and watched the water turn a reddish purple.
"How melodramatic you are," said Hugo, grinning. "You don't supposed I'd try to poison you?"
But Cavendish just lit a cigarette.
The explosive denouement:
Upstairs, Percival opened the metal box he’d found weeks ago
and retrieved the object he’d known would come in handy some day. He did
what needed to be done with a few deft movements of his long thin fingers then
climbed out the window and back down the
way he’d come.
In the salon, brother, sister and craven reporter made
for a cheerless evening tableau.
“This is so preposterous,” said Harry after a few
minutes. “No one will believe you no matter what you write. Everyone knows
that Hugo is a wonderful ventriloquist. Percival is one of the most beloved
animals in all England. But. He. Doesn't. Really. Talk."
“How stupid do you think I am? Yes, you had me fooled at first,” said Cavendish with a
nod. “But some things here and there didn’t make sense to me. I have a good
reporter’s nose. And what I heard this afternoon – with my own ears – proved that I was right. I'm staying here until I get the truth."
Two shots rang out.
“Percy, what have you done?!” cried Harry jumping up from her chair.
“He tried to put me in a sack,” said the monkey, placing the derringer on a table top.
"I'd better go find a shovel," said Hugo.
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