The Taxidermist Read online

  "This craft of ours isn't taught in any old school," I declared, feeling witty and trying to brag with him.

  "I see, you think yourself a taxidermist already. How dare you!" he exclaimed, somewhat offended.

  I didn't know how to reply and so I held my tongue, screwing my eyes shut to stop the wave of shame that swept over me. I hung my head for a moment, like an ostrich trying to hide from reality, as if that childish ruse would prevent it from being there.

  "Don't look so sad, man! It's just a joke," José said, while he laughed cheekily, like a child after some mischief. His laughter was clean and lingered in the air with a ring of innocent purity, showing a youthful soul locked in a body withered by the passing years.

  "You scared me," I replied, red as a tomato and trying to recover from his harmless, merry quip.

  "To make up for it, I would like to become your teacher. What do you say to that?"

  Everything was happening too fast, and it took me a few seconds to answer. I had really planned that meeting with the secret intention of getting some tips; however, it looked as if my wishes would be more than fulfilled.

  "I'd be honoured, José. I don't know what to say... but it might be too much trouble..."

  "Nonsense. To be honest, I'm bored. I spend most of the day walking in the forest, remembering. It's time for me to return to the real world, and to use the little life I have left to look towards the future, instead of whiling my hours away trapped in a past that won't come back. With my modest collaboration, you will probably save yourself a tortuous path to perfection, and I will save you at least a couple of years of jobs only good for the bin."

  "But, how can I repay you?"

  "Come every Saturday morning. Put aside a couple of hours to be with this old man," he said, leaning forward to give me a friendly slap on the shoulder, "Talking to you for a while will be enough for me."

  II

  In the end, I submitted an un-original assignment, almost devoid of content and with the information mostly copied from an ancient encyclopaedia my father had. Despite all that, I got top marks. The subject was so unusual that the teacher probably felt a bit overwhelmed and any data, however shallow, must have looked like an extraordinary piece of information and worthy of a great expert on the matter.

  I spent that week feeling uneasy, wishing Saturday would come quickly and fearing a call from José giving any excuse to cancel our meeting, postponing it for a better occasion. Thankfully, that was not the case.

  Now I felt supported in my passion which, for those who knew about it, until then had been a mere teenager's whim. I would be taught by a genius, a talented man who had pieces exhibited in the best museums of the world, who had given conferences in the United States, France, Germany and England, and who had published two treatises and countless articles. And now, he was my teacher. I felt privileged for this courtesy he had shown me. Surely it didn't mean more than a pastime to him, but which let me rub shoulders with the top of the profession I wanted to devote myself to in the future. It was, I thought, comparable to a piano player being taught by Chopin, or a artist, by Picasso himself. I can remember walking about the corridors of my school with a smug, nearly haughty attitude that nobody could understand. That brief encounter with José had given me the self-confidence a youth needs at that difficult age, and had increased my enthusiasm towards the art of stuffing creatures. I, who had only so far invested my time in the conservation of insects and a couple of mice, would now be able to rise, led by a real authority, to the higher levels of the craft.

  On Friday, I missed my afternoon classes. I was so nervous I needed to keep walking about, reading or looking at shop windows in the city centre, in order to stave off a terrible stomach ache, similar to those caused by the anguish of one's first love. That night I could not sleep at all, and I spent most of it looking at the shadows projected by the scarce traffic on to my bedroom ceiling. Nothing else mattered and I felt my life was about to have any meaning only on Saturdays, a couple of hours a week, the rest of it would just become an unavoidable, pointless leftover.

  I took the same bus again, and the driver recognised me right away. The day had begun in a very different way than the previous week: the sky was dense, cloudy, and a soft, almost imperceptible rain wet the bus's windows, making them steamy inside. I thought the blurred, greyish view of the city looked romantic, a city I was leaving behind to find my own identity, for which I would have to fight.

  I climbed the steep hill that led towards the taxidermist's house in a very good mood, despite the dwellings on either side of the road being still vacant and wrapped in a bitter silence, only broken by my steps. I had to blink often because the rain, that had been soft, became harder in that area, egged on by the wind from the mountains, hitting my face like an endless stream of tiny harmless, but annoying, pebbles. At the top of the hill, where the forest began, right beside the cemetery, there was a dense fog, creating a beautiful, yet mysterious, scene. I walked faster, afraid of being swallowed by that leaden blanket at any minute. When I got to the gate, which was going to become as familiar as my own reflection in the mirror, I simply shook it to set their poor alarm system into action: the small bell tied to a wire. Soon after, Adela appeared from inside the house, covering herself precariously with a plastic basin.

  "Enrique, come in boy, you'll catch pneumonia out there!" she cried, from the stairs.

  I joined her at the top of the steps, showing my indifference to the weather conditions.

  "It's not that bad, woman. I just climbed the hill in no hurry at all."

  "Young people these days have no idea..." she said, shaking the container with one hand, while the other pushed me into the house.

  I was welcomed into a large, dark lobby. On the walls there were countless stuffed heads of deer and boars; clean, shiny skulls with their horns and several fangs, all luxuriously framed. I was instantly captivated, and for the first time, I became fully aware of the unrivalled masterfulness of the person who was going to teach me.

  "How... impressive," I could hardly speak.

  Adela took a bored, weary look at the walls and then shook her head with strong scorn.

  "I find it a bit scary... and disgusting, if you want the truth. I would take them all to the loft."

  I did not heed the woman's words and continued to look carefully at those incredible pieces, so exceptionally stuffed that it looked as though they were going to spring into action at any time. I was particularly attracted to a deer's head, hanging about seven feet high but looking down with a certain indifference and arrogance, as if it was watching us from its privileged position. When alive, it must have been a magnificent specimen.

  "This animal... I don't know..." I declared, charmed by the strength of that incredible artistic recreation.

  "I haven't looked it in the eye for years. It reminds me of a great-uncle of mine who had quite a bad temper," said Adela.

  I followed Adela's mechanical gait through a long corridor, on either side of which there were a succession of dark mahogany doors locked shut. At the end of it, a warm, twinkling light could be seen, trying to hypnotise us from afar.

  "From November through to February, we keep everything closed, to help keep the house warm. When you come in the spring, you'll see that the house looks quite different", the woman said, as if guessing my thoughts about the doom and gloom exuded by the corridor.

  "I'd love to come and see it."

  The long hallway finished in a huge room, of more than 400 square feet. To the left there was a long, rectangular dining table, with eight chairs around it, and a large cupboard full of kitchen tools, crockery and cutlery. Right opposite us there was a double door, which I deduced joined the living room with the kitchen. On the right there was a generous fireplace, flanked by two extremely tall and full bookshelves, with a double line of books per shelf, as could be seen through the few empty spaces. Beside the fireplace there was a low table surrounded by three comfortable-looking leather armchairs.
In one of them awaited José.

  "Enrique, I'm so happy to see you again!" exclaimed the taxidermist.

  I felt heartened by that sincere, spontaneous expression of cheer and his simple words made me truly happy.

  "José, I am really honoured..."

  "Enrique, I have told you already to not bother with formality. Sit down, please. The weather is terrible today and you must have caught cold. The fire will soon warm you up."

  "Would you a like a nice hot cocoa?" asked Adela, bending slightly forward.

  I felt a bit dizzy about being the centre of so much attention. I was not used to being treated like this, let alone from somebody I admired so much.

  "I don't think it would do me any harm at all," I answered, wittily.

  Adela chuckled and went back through the double door, while I sat down beside the fireplace, right opposite José. I soon felt the warmth from the flames in my body and a pleasant sensation that made me grab the chair's arms with unusual force.

  "I like these grey, melancholy days," José commented, while he moved the burning logs about with the poker.

  "Me too... and yet, just now, when I was coming here..."

  "The mist," said the taxidermist, with an almost mysterious ring in his voice.

  I was surprised that he'd guessed so accurately the reason of my apprehension, and I thought I discovered in him a sort of curious tendency towards clairvoyance, although it had probably more to do with intuition than with any supernatural gifts.

  "Yes, yes... I had a strange feeling, not unlike fear... Very strange."

  "It's understandable," he said, "The mountains, just above us, catch the clouds and don't let them go for hours, leaving them right above the cemetery. Your imagination must've been playing tricks on you".

  "Possibly" I guessed, feeling uneasy once again, as I recalled the dark clouds hovering over the graveyard, like a menace for anyone within their reach.

  José stared at me and his blue eyes, so clear the previous week, now looked somewhat opaque, and the colour had become an incredible violet.

  "Today the weather isn't quite right for it, but one of these days we can go for a walk in the cemetery. You'll be amazed."

  Hearing this last word brought to mind the deer head at the entrance, which had impressed me so much. I thought it would be a good idea to praise that beautiful work.

  "I love the deer in the lobby."

  "Which one?" asked the taxidermist, who had sat back in his armchair and was peacefully watching the flames dancing in the fireplace.

  The most formidable one, the one that is hung the highest, on the left. It's almost alive."

  José exhaled silently, like someone so used to praise that they're not easy to please. He waited without speaking, thinking of an answer, digging inside himself as if there he'd find a concise phrase, the perfect line with which to respond to my comment.

  "It's not bad, actually... But the truth is that it's a common piece. The best of those exhibited in the lobby, but by no means a work deserving any special attention."

  "But then...why does it have such a place of honour?" I asked; I felt a bit offended by his answer, as if somehow it had belittled my praise.

  Once again, the taxidermist gave me a long look, his purple eyes reflecting the fire that made the room so nicely warm. There was a silent request in those eyes, like he was yearning for me to understand without him having to utter a word.

  "Don't get mad. You're too young to get mad at any little thing, in particular if it has to do with this decrepit old man," his voice sounded rusty, worn out, sagging under the weight of the years. "It's still early days, but if you persist and keep coming here, do not doubt that I'll show you works that will make you rub your eyes, because you will truly not know whether it's dead or alive."

  Adela appeared as if from thin air, and with her machine-like gestures she left two large cups of steaming hot cocoa on the table. She noticed the silence that hung between us.

  "I'll leave you to your thoughts, but it wouldn't be a bad idea to have that cocoa rather soonish, because it's best drunk that way, quite hot" she stated, as if scolding us.

  The woman left as quickly as she had turned up, and I used that moment to take one of those large mugs. The mere aroma would have been enough to feed me for days. José ignored his and stayed stunned, his eyes glued to the fireplace.

  "You're talking about the loft," I ventured, trying at once to be shrewd and to recover the pride wounded with his earlier comment.

  The taxidermist stirred in his chair, but didn't move his eyes from the hearth. I seemed to have struck a chord: my phrase had caused some effect, although I wasn't yet sure what it was. In any case, I felt better for that small victory.

  "This Adela... she cannot keep her gob shut..." he muttered, resignedly.

  "It's not really her fault. She made an innocent comment, which I have now linked to what you said," I explained with a touch of arrogance.

  "Yes, I meant the loft. But it's too soon yet for you to go up and see it. You'll have to earn it. It'll be a kind of reward, once you get to a certain level of skill."

  José had spoken in a cold voice and the expression of his face had become strangely bitter. Melancholy, caused by a distant memory, kept him away from me, although physically he was only a couple of yards from my body.

  "I really hope to deserve that reward very soon. I'd love to see your best works..."

  "You're impatient, Enrique. A taxidermist must have absolute control over time. He must learn to master it, to forget its existence forever, to get round it."

  "I'm afraid I don't follow you..."

  The taxidermist took his eyes from the fire for a moment and made a gesture with his head, with that elegance that seemed like second nature to him, trying to convey calmness and serenity. He intentionally kept silent for a few more seconds, seconds that I felt stretched forever.

  "Imagine I stuffed one of the pieces you've seen in the lobby, in an hour..."

  "That's not possible..."

  "Possible... It may be possible, but it would surely have been a botched job, a monstrosity that the passing years would just finish off. How long do you think it took me to finish the deer that you liked so much?" he asked in a sharp voice.

  I felt a bit embarrassed because I could not give a plausible answer to his question. Several options paraded in my mind, and I finally chose one at random and blurt it out, bracing myself for the certain rebuke.

  "Three weeks...?"

  "Maybe. Enrique, to be honest, I can't remember. It could've been three weeks, or two, or six... I don't know. The measure wasn't time, the measure was the piece in itself, the final result that I wanted to obtain. Some jobs I'm still working on after years and years, and even now I have not achieved the goal I set for myself, I'm still not satisfied. Do you understand? Time must be left out of the parameters of a true taxidermist."

  José immersed himself again in his placid silence. I, on the other hand, tried to reflect on his last few words. Time becoming dispensable seemed to me something almost magical, and certainly unachievable at the moment. My whole world revolved around time, I even measured my future possibilities in terms of minutes, hours, days or years. I planned the future based on a preset plan where every act, event, achievement or goal was perfectly determined.

  "But in this case, how can you commit with a client? We tell them to leave their trophy with us and we'll call them, eventually..." I suggested sarcastically.

  "When I left home and started working, what worried me the most was money. I had rented a workshop, I had to pay my flat's mortgage, I had to eat... It was only natural that I worked non-stop, leaving aside my dreams of being an artist, sacrificing pieces in which I only managed to preserve a small portion of their beauty. After a while, it got to me and I fell into depression. My job was as common as any other; I did it with the same indolence I would have exhibited had I worked delivering frozen fish to a supermarket..."

  "But I will need mone
y too. Taxidermy may be an art, but it must also be my livelihood."

  "That's why I have decided to teach you. I want to save you years of suffering, and I want you to be able to afford, from the very start, luxuries that took me years to be able to pay for."

  "That is, despite time not mattering at all," I declared, once again, quite caustically.

  "You have the stupid insolence of a teenager," the taxidermist replied, without rancour or malice, merely stating a fact, "Of course time matters! Can't you see my withered, senile body?" he queried, showing me his wrinkled hands, covered in dark spots. I have just asked you to forget about it when you are working on a piece, every time you start a new job. Your work will be your passport to immortality, Enrique. Never forget that.

  José had given me a lesson, and although I had not learned it yet, my mind had carefully stored that knowledge, slowly built over many a year. I felt in myself the urgency of he who still has a lot to discover, and the certainty that a fascinating world is waiting around the corner.

  "When will you begin teaching me?" I asked, anxious.

  "I am teaching you already," the taxidermist stated.

  III

  Five weeks went by without anything relevant happening. José was trying really hard to make me understand the real meaning of the word "patience". There were days when we would just be quiet for an hour, watching the little birds who innocently came to drink water from the fountain at the back of the house.

  "I wish I had been able to capture that movement..." José would comment, without taking his eyes from the humble sparrows, who fearlessly sat a few inches away from us.

  "But that's impossible. Our mission is to try to achieve that, but a lifeless piece can never equal a living being," I replied, trying to be reasonable.

  "An artist mustn't impose limits on himself. That would kill his imagination.

  But it can also lead to frustration".

  José sat up, and all the little birds flew away in fear. He walked slowly around the small fountain. I could appreciate his slender, bony frame, his deliberately refined gestures, his snowy, tousled hair, funnily piled up on the back of his head...