The High Mountains of Portugal (30 page)

He settles in his sleeping bag on the table. Odo stays on the roof till it's dark, then returns through the window, his shape cut out by the moonlight. He grunts with pleasure at discovering that he has the mattress in the bedroom all to himself. Soon the house is quiet. Peter falls asleep imagining that Clara is lying next to him. “I wish you were here,” he whispers to her. “I think you'd like this house. We'd set it up really nicely, with lots of plants and flowers. I love you. Good night.”

In the morning, a delegation stands before the house, the
tomorrow
crew, led by Dona Amélia. Armed with buckets, mops, and rags, with hammers and wrenches, with determination, they have come to fix the place up. As they set to work, Peter tries to help, but they shake their heads and shoo him away. Besides, he has his ape to take care of. They are nervous about having him around.

He and Odo go for a walk. Every eye, human and animal, turns to them and stares. The gaze is not hostile, not at all; in every case it comes with a greeting. Peter again marvels at the vegetable gardens. Turnips, potatoes, zucchini, gourds, tomatoes, onions, cabbages, cauliflowers, kale, beets, lettuce, leeks, sweet peppers, green beans, carrots, small fields of rye and corn—this is cottage-industry gardening on a serious scale. In one garden, the ape pulls out a head of lettuce and eats it. Peter claps his hands and calls Odo to him. The ape is hungry. So is he.

They stand before the village café. Its patio is deserted. He does not want to risk entering the café—but surely it would be all right to be served outside? He consults the dictionary, then lingers beside a table. The man behind the counter comes out, eyes wide and alert, but with an amiable mien.

“Como posso servi-lo?” he asks.

“Dois sanduíches de queijo, por favor, e um café com leite,” Peter pronounces.

“Claro que sim, imediatamente,” the man replies. Though he moves warily, he wipes down the table nearest them, which Peter takes as an invitation to sit down.

“Muito obrigado,” he says.

“Ao seu serviço,” replies the man as he returns inside the café.

Peter sits down. He expects Odo to stay seated on the ground beside him, but the ape's eyes are fixed on his metal chair. Odo climbs onto the one next to him. From there, he peers at the ground, rocks the chair, slaps its arms, generally explores the uses and capabilities of the peculiar device. Peter glances into the café. The patrons within are looking at them. And outside, people are starting to gather in a wide circle. “Steady, steady,” he mutters to Odo.

He moves closer to Odo and makes a few grooming gestures. But the ape seems in no way distressed or under strain. On the contrary, as attested by his bright expression and lively curiosity, he's in good spirits. It's the people around who seem in need of social grooming, so to speak.

“Olá, bom dia,” Peter calls out.

Greetings come back.

“De onde o senhor é?” asks a man.

“I'm from Canada,” he replies.

Murmurs of approval. Lots of Portuguese immigrants in Canada. It's a good country.

“E o que está a fazer com um macaco?” asks a woman.

What is he doing with an ape?
It's a question for which he doesn't have an answer, neither in English nor in Portuguese.

“Eu vive com ele,” he replies simply.
I live with him
. That's as much as he can say.

Their order arrives. With the alertness of a bullfighter, the man places the coffee and the two plates on the side of the table farthest from Odo.

The ape loudly grunts and reaches across to take hold of both cheese sandwiches, which he devours in an instant, to the amusement of the villagers. Peter smiles along. He looks at the server.

“Outro dois sanduíches, por favor,” he asks. He remembers that the café is also a grocery store. “E, para o macaco, dez…” He makes a long shape with his hands, which he then peels.

“Dez bananas?” the man asks.

Ah, it's the same word. “Sim, dez bananas, por favor.”

“Como desejar.”

If the villagers were amused by Odo eating both sandwiches, they are even more mirthful at his reaction to the bananas. Peter thought he was buying a supply that would last a few days. Not so. The chimpanzee, upon seeing the bananas, grunts ecstatically and proceeds to eat every single one, peels flying off, and would have eaten the two new sandwiches if Peter had not quickly grabbed one of them. As a chaser, he downs Peter's cup of coffee, first dipping his finger into it to test the temperature. When he's licked the cup clean, he dangles it from his mouth, playing with it with his tongue and lips, as if it were a large mint.

The villagers smile and laugh. The foreigner's
macaco
is funny! Peter is pleased. Odo is winning them over.

At the height of the merriment, in an act that Peter senses is meant to show that he is fully participating in the general social relaxation, Odo takes the cup in his hand, stands high on his chair, shrieks, and throws the cup to the ground with terrific force. The cup shatters into small pieces.

The villagers freeze. Peter lifts a placating hand to the server. “Desculpe,” he says.

“Não há problema.”

And to a wider audience Peter adds, “Macaco amigável é feliz, muito feliz.”

Amigável
and
feliz
—but with an edge. He pays, adding a handsome tip, and they take their leave, the crowd carefully parting before them.

When they return to the house on the edge of the village, it is transformed. The windows are fixed; the plumbing works; the gas stove has a new tank; every surface has been thoroughly cleaned; pots, pans, dishes, and cutlery—used, chipped, mismatched, but perfectly functional—are stacked on the shelves of the kitchen; the bed has a new mattress, with clean sheets, two wool blankets, and towels lying folded on it; and Dona Amélia is setting a vase bursting with bright flowers on the living room table.

Peter puts his hand over his heart. “Muito obrigado,” he says.

“De nada,” says Dona Amélia.

The mutual awkwardness of dealing with the cost of things is swiftly dispatched. He rubs his thumb and forefinger together, then points at the gas tank and the kitchenware and towards the bedroom. Next he looks up the word “rent”—it's a strange one:
aluguel
. In each case Dona Amélia proposes a sum with evident nervousness, and in each case Peter is convinced she has made a mistake by a factor of three or four. He agrees right away. Dona Amélia makes him understand that she would be willing to do his laundry and come once a week to clean the house. He hesitates. There isn't much to clean—and what else will he do with his time? But he thinks again. She will be his link to the rest of the village. More importantly, she will be Odo's link, the ape's ambassador. And it occurs to him that the villagers of Tuizelo are probably not a wealthy lot. By employing her, he will pump a little more money into the local economy.

“Sim, sim,” he says to her. “Quanto?”

“Amanhã, amanhã,” says Dona Amélia, smiling.

Now the next order of business. He needs to get himself and Odo organized. There is the question of formally opening his bank account and arranging for regular wire transfers from Canada, of getting a permanent licence plate for the car. Where is the closest bank?

“Bragança,” she replies.

“Telephone?” he asks her. “Aqui?”

“Café,” she replies. “Senhor Álvaro.”

She gives him the number.

Bragança is about an hour away. Which should he worry about more: bringing the ape to an urban centre or leaving him here alone? These administrative chores need doing. And either way, whether in the town or in the village, he has no real control over Odo. Whatever he does, he must rely on the ape's cooperation. He can only hope that Odo will not stray far from the house or get into trouble.

Dona Amélia and her group of helpers leave.

“Stay, stay. I'll be back soon,” he says to Odo, who at the moment is playing with a crack in the stone floor.

He leaves the house, closing the door, though he knows Odo can easily open it. He gets in the car and drives away. Looking in the rear-view mirror, he sees the ape climbing onto the roof.

In Bragança he buys supplies—candles, lanterns, kerosene; soap; groceries, including cartoned milk that doesn't need refrigeration; sundry household and personal items—and does his business at the bank. The licence plate he will receive in the mail, at the café.

At the post office in Bragança, he makes two phone calls to Canada. Ben says he's pleased that his father has arrived safely. “What's your number?” he asks.

“There's no phone,” Peter replies, “but I can give you the number of the café in the village. You can leave a message there and I'll call you back.”

“What do you mean, there's no phone?”

“I mean just that. There's no phone in the house. But there's one in the café. Take the number.”

“Do you have running water?”

“Yep. It's cold, but it runs.”

“Great. Do you have electricity?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I don't.”

“Are you serious?”

“I am.”

There's a pause. He senses that Ben is waiting for explanations, justifications, defences. He offers none. His son therefore continues in the same vein. “How about the roads—are they paved?”

“Cobbled, actually. How's work? How's Rachel? How's good ol' Ottawa?”

“Why are you doing this, Dad? What are you doing there?”

“It's a nice place. Your grandparents came from here.”

They end the call with the grace of people learning how to dance on stilts. They promise to talk again soon, a future conversation being a relief from the one they're having.

He has a bubblier conversation with his sister, Teresa.

“What's the village like?” she asks. “Does it feel like home?”

“No, not when I don't speak the language. But it's quiet, rural, old—pleasantly exotic.”

“Have you discovered the family home?”

“Nope. I'm just settling in. And I wasn't even three years old when we left. I'm not sure it makes much difference to me whether I was born in this house or that house. It's just a house.”

“Okay, Mr. Sentimentality—how about scores of long-lost cousins?”

“They're still hiding, waiting to pounce on me.”

“I think it would help Ben if you built the place up a bit. You know, tell him you're watering the genealogical tree and tending its roots. He's totally perplexed by your sudden departure.”

“I'll try harder.”

“How are you feeling about Clara?” she asks in a soft voice.

“I talk to her in my head. That's where she lives now.”

“And are you taking care of yourself? How's your ticker?”

“Ticking away.”

“I'm glad to hear that.”

When he returns to Tuizelo, Odo is still on the roof. He hoots loudly upon seeing the car and cascades down. After many hoots of greeting, he drags bags of supplies into the house, walking erect with a side-to-side swaying gait. This helpful intent results in the bags splitting and their contents scattering. Peter gathers everything and brings it into the house.

He sets up the kitchen. He moves the table in the living room to a more pleasing spot, does the same with the bed in the bedroom. Odo watches him the whole time without making a sound. Peter feels slightly nervous. He still has to get used to this, to the ape's gaze. It sweeps around like the beam from a lighthouse, dazzling him as he bobs in the waters. Odo's gaze is a threshold beyond which he cannot see. He wonders what the ape is thinking and in what terms. Perhaps Odo has similar questions about him. Perhaps the ape sees him as a threshold too. But he doubts it. More likely, to Odo, he is a curio, an oddity of the natural world, a dressed-up ape that circles around this natural one, hypnotically attracted.

There. Everything is in its place. He looks about. Again he feels that he has come to the end of a sentence. He frets. He stares out the window. It's late afternoon and the weather looks to be changing for the worse. No matter.

“Let's go exploring,” he says to Odo. He grabs the backpack and they head out. He doesn't want to deal with the villagers' insistent attention, so they turn up the road, towards the plateau, until he finds a path that leads back down into the forest. Odo advances on all fours, his gait plodding but easy, his head slung so low that from behind he looks headless. Once they enter the forest, he becomes excited by the great oaks and chestnuts, the clusters of lindens, elms, and poplars, the pine trees, the many shrubs and bushes, the explosions of ferns. He races ahead.

Peter moves at a steady pace, often overtaking Odo as he dawdles. Then the ape canters up and hurtles past him. Each time he notes how Odo touches him as he goes by, a slap against the back of his leg, nothing hard or aggressive, more a verification.
Good, good, you're there.
Then he lingers again and Peter gains the lead once more. In other words, Peter walks through the forest while Odo swings through it.

Odo is foraging. Bob from the IPR told him about this, how, given a chance, the ape would raid the larder of nature for shoots, flowers, wild fruit, insects, basically anything edible.

It starts to rain. Peter finds a large pine tree and takes refuge under it. Its protection is imperfect, but he doesn't mind, as he has brought a waterproof poncho. He puts it on and sits on the layer of pine needles, his back against the trunk of the tree. He waits for Odo to catch up. When he sees the ape racing along the path, he calls out. Odo brakes and stares at him. The ape has never seen a poncho before, doesn't understand where his body has gone. “Come, come,” he says. Odo settles on his haunches close-by. Though the ape doesn't seem to mind the rain, Peter takes out a second poncho from his backpack. In doing so, he lifts his own. Odo grins.
Oh, there's the rest of you!
He scoots next to him. Peter places the poncho over the ape's head. They are now two disembodied faces looking out. Above them the tree rises in a cone shape, like a teepee, the space broken up and fractured by branches. The pine smell is strong. They sit and watch the falling rain and its many consequences: the drops of water that swell up at the end of pine needles before falling, as if thoughtfully; the forming of puddles, complete with connecting rivers; the dampening of all sound except the patter of the rain; the creation of a dim, damp world of green and brown. They are surprised when a solitary wild boar trots past. Mostly they just listen to the living, breathing silence of the forest.