Wolf Hour

20 The Eyes, October 2016

It was three thirty and the bell over the door of Town Taxidermy rang.

Mike Lunde emerged from a door behind the counter with a pair of reading glasses pushed up on his forehead.

‘Detective Oz,’ he said, wiping his hands dry on his rough blue apron.

‘Lunde.’ Bob looked around. Apart from the animals the place was as deserted as it had been the previous time.

‘What can I do for you?’

Bob smiled and patted a white-tailed deer. ‘I was wondering if I could hang around here for a while this afternoon.’

Lunde gave Bob a look of mild astonishment.

‘We don’t have any other leads on Gomez,’ Bob explained. ‘This is the only place where we can expect him to show up.’

‘You’re welcome to stay,’ said Lunde. ‘But I wouldn’t hold your breath. I don’t have a definite appointment with Tomás.’

‘I know that.’

‘OK then. Coffee?’

Bob followed Lunde through the door behind the counter and into what was evidently a workshop. It was a large room with several workbenches, tools hanging on the walls. The smell, probably glue, reminded him of something from his childhood, recalling Christmas and sweets, only a little more pungent. Lunde moved four yellowish-white figures that looked like they were carved in polystyrene so Bob could sit down. One resembled a deer, the others were smaller mammals, maybe lynxes or wolves.

‘What are these?’

‘We call them mannequins,’ said Lunde as he poured coffee from a stained pot. ‘We order them and they come ready-cut like that.’

‘But that’s cheating.’

Lunde laughed and handed Bob a mug with NATIONAL TAXIDERMIST ASSOCIATION written on it. ‘I still need to file them down a bit, where you can see the crosses I’ve made. But yes, the days when we used formalin and the soft parts of the animal are over. Now it’s just the hide and the horns. And the teeth, if the customer requests it.’

Lunde walked over to the head and neck of a deer mounted on a stand. The hide around the nose and eyeholes was dotted with what looked like needle pricks. He pressed a small ball of clay into one of the eyeholes, opened a drawer in a plastic box and took out two eyes.

‘Plastic?’

‘Glass. These are special orders. I’m very particular about the eyes. Too particular, according to some of my suppliers.’ Lunde pushed an eye into the clay. Studied it, turned it a little. ‘The hart has oblong pupils that have to be positioned horizontally,’ he explained.

‘Why?’

‘So that they can take in the horizon in one look. They’re prey.’

‘They’re on the lookout for predators?’

‘Precisely.’

After he had inserted both eyes and added more clay around them and sculpted to shape, Lunde sat on one of the workbenches, picked up a hide and showed Bob a hole.

‘Bullet hole.’

Working from the inside, he cut the hole a little larger before starting to sew it closed. Burned off the end of the thread with a lighter.

‘It’s quiet here,’ said Bob.

‘Yes it is,’ said Lunde. He walked over to the deer mannequin, applied glue to the clay surrounding the eyes and fitted the hide over the head, pulling it forward over the head like a pullover.

‘Right now it looks more like an ass,’ he said as he lifted up the floppy ears. ‘But we’ll deal with that later.’

‘How long does it take you to, er... make an animal?’

‘That depends. Anything from a week to six months. A head like this is a lot less work than if you want the whole animal. A lot of the procedures take time. Flaying, salting, drying the skin. Then you have to find the right expression.’

He picked up a scalpel from the table and started cutting and pushing in the white skin around the eyes. ‘This one, for example, I need to give a look of ease and power. A so-called alpha male.’

‘Oh?’

‘That’s the way the client recalled the animal when he shot it, so that’s what he’s ordered.’

‘A hunter who wants to capture his moment of triumph over an animal that thought it was in control,’ said Bob.

‘Very poetic. And in this particular case, very accurate.’

‘And you can do it? Give the animal this type of authentic expression?’

‘Well,’ said Lunde, ‘of course, I don’t know if it’s authentic. What does an animal feel? I just have to use my imagination and end up, I’m sure, giving it a more or less human look. The thing is, anyway, to see it through the client’s eye. To show what the client wants to see.’

‘What if you don’t like what the client wants to see?’

Lunde shrugged. ‘I’m a barber. The customer decides the style. But, within limits, I have a certain degree of freedom to produce something that exceeds the customer’s expectations. Their pleasure is mine too.’ Lunde looked up. The bell above the door had sounded again. He went out, with Bob following three paces behind.

A woman was standing in the store. She and Lunde had obviously met before and they at once began talking about a job involving a dog. Lunde explained that he was waiting for new eyes, that he wasn’t satisfied with the ones that had been sent.

Bob returned to the workshop and to his coffee.

After a while Lunde returned and resumed work.

Bob closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the silence and the small sounds produced by Lunde’s work. It relaxed him, watching Lunde at work, seeing the result slowly taking shape. It was like medication. More calming than any pills.

‘So you like to watch too,’ said Lunde, as if he could read Bob’s thoughts.

‘Maybe I do. Why do you say too?’

‘Tomás. He used to sit there, like you. Not saying much, now and then asking a question about some technical aspect of what I was doing. Judging by his questions you would almost think he knew enough about taxidermy to do the cat himself. I told him that once. He said he didn’t know anything about the subject but that he was good with his hands.’ Lunde smiled. ‘But maybe he had hidden reasons, maybe he brought the cat along to steal some of my tricks.’

‘Hidden reasons,’ Bob echoed. ‘Like X-11.’

‘X-11?’ Lunde switched to a smaller scalpel.

‘Yes. I think he infiltrated X-11 in order to avenge the death of his family.’

‘Really?’

‘He spun them some tale about how he’d worked for a drug cartel south of the border and been sent over here because the police were after him. Because there was nothing that exposed Gomez’s story, X-11 believed it. He arranged for the killings of drug dealers in and outside X-11 by starting gang wars. When his bosses pulled him back from the front line he continued the vendetta against his own people.’

‘Without being exposed?’ Lunde stepped back to study his work.

‘One in four drug dealers die within four years. Think about it. In this country a prisoner under sentence of death has less chance of being executed than a crack dealer has of being shot dead in the street. Like the head of X-11 it means you’re used to natural shrinkage. They probably didn’t respond immediately, but once they made the connection they threw Gomez out. Looks like he stopped after that.’

‘Hm. Is this something you know, Oz, or what you might call speculation?’

‘Let’s call it an educated guess. If he stopped then I have to wonder why he started up again. Did he feel he hadn’t avenged his family’s deaths enough? Some kind of bottled-up anger that was somehow triggered? Like, for example, his cat dying. A lot of people just lose it when someone or something dies... you know, something close, much loved.’

‘I’m sure you’re right there.’ Lunde stepped back to the workbench and wiped off his scalpels.

‘What I find a little strange is that he messed it up so badly in Dante’s case,’ Bob continued. ‘The distance was no more than three hundred yards and the rifle case was for an M24 with telescopic sights, same as the snipers in Afghanistan used, same as the police.’

‘Maybe he hasn’t had much practice with that particular rifle?’

‘When you prepare something as carefully as Gomez did then you’re pretty certain you’re going to get it right. There was no wind to speak of, and the distance was too short for the temperature to make any difference. If he made the beginner’s mistake of failing to adjust for the difference in elevation then he would have shot too high, not too low.’

‘Maybe he was nervous and his hand shook. A lot of the hunters I get in here talk about what they call “buck fever”. Speaking of which, buck, I think we’re done with this for today.’ Lunde pulled off his gloves. ‘Which means it’s time for a little con amore work.’

‘Con amore?’

‘A labour of love. Come.’

Bob followed Lunde into a smaller workshop. There was just one workbench there, and the mannequin standing on it was quite different from the others in the larger workshop. ‘Taxidermy the way it used to be done,’ said Lunde as he stroked his hand over the hollow, wolf-like figure. ‘Wood, cotton and steel wire. I’ll dress this with treated skin the same as those back there, but here I’ll use the animal’s skull as well.’ He indicated a cranium resting on sawdust inside a glass case.

‘Why?’

‘At the customer’s request.’

Bob made a face. ‘I know something about corpses, Lunde. If there’s so much as a thread of organic material inside that head it’ll rot and start to stink.’

‘That’s right. And that’s why the cranium is in that glass case.’

‘Oh?’

‘There’s a colony of carnivorous leather beetles inside that skull and they’ll eat it clean before I begin work.’

Bob stared at the cranium. He listened.

‘Oh no,’ Lunde said with a laugh, ‘you can’t hear them.’

‘OK. But isn’t there a simpler way?’

‘Oh sure, I could have freeze-dried the whole animal so the customer would get the complete thing.’

‘Then why not do that?’

Lunde lifted the lid of the glass case and held an eye up against an eyehole. ‘In the first place it’s expensive. Secondly, the animal has to be stored in a special freeze-dryer for months. And thirdly, as a rule the corpse will get eaten up by carpet beetles. And anyway, there’s something about making these shapes, something to do with feeling.’ Lunde held up his long, slender hands. ‘It’s as though the vision lies in the eyes and the fingertips, and without your even noticing it gets transferred to the work in question.’

Bob noticed a row of trophies on a shelf and, above them, a photograph.

‘Family?’ Bob asked.

‘Yes. Grandfather, father, me and my sister Emily. All taxidermists. My grandfather and father are dead, but my sister and I are still at it.’

‘Using the original techniques?’

Lunde shrugged. ‘When we get the chance. There aren’t many of us left who still do it.’ He chuckled. ‘Emily and I always say we should be stuffed ourselves, as examples of an endangered species.’

‘You never... feel like you just want to give up?’

‘Give up?’ Lunde gave Bob a long, thoughtful stare. ‘No. There’s always a reason to go on.’ He gestured toward the mannequin. ‘This here, for example. I have a feeling that this is going to be the best thing I’ve ever done. My masterpiece.’

Bob studied it. ‘Looks like a very fine wolf, Lunde.’

‘Wolf?’ An expression of pained sorrow crossed Lunde’s face. ‘Ah, I see I’ve failed already. This is supposed to be a Labrador retriever.’

‘Your masterpiece is, eh... a dog?’

Lunde smiled. ‘Oh yes, I know what you’re thinking. Why not a bear? Or a deer? But consider this: the demands posed by a Labrador are sky-high. Everyone’s seen one, everyone has a clear idea of what a Labrador should look like. The problem is, as usual, the eyes. These are samples from a manufacturer in Madrid.’ Lunde held up the glass eyes. ‘They aren’t bad. Just not very... lifelike.’

‘Those owl eyes in the store are lifelike.’

‘Yes, aren’t they?’ Lunde was in the grip of an almost childlike enthusiasm. ‘I made them myself. They’re ceramic. You get the feeling they’re watching you, don’t you?’

Bob bent forward and studied two photographs lying next to the dog mannequin on the workbench. ‘Is this it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Isn’t it a little, er... fatter than the mannequin?’

‘Oh definitely. The customer is a very wealthy family and I intend to give them the animal as they would remember it when it was young and slender. It’s called idealisation. We beautify the portraits, in just the way Van Dyck, Rubens and da Vinci did. The art isn’t in the resemblance.’

‘Then where does it lie?’

‘In the creation of the story.’ Lunde placed the eyes back into an envelope. ‘Ever heard of John Hancock? I don’t mean the one who signed the Declaration of Independence.’

‘Can’t say I have.’

‘No, he’s pretty much a forgotten figure. Let’s call him the father of modern taxidermy. He exhibited some birds at the Great Exhibition in London in 1851 and, of course, people were impressed by their anatomical accuracy. But as one of the judges remarked, the surprising thing was that one felt moved by the exhibits. Do you see? Hancock raised taxidermy to the level of art.’

‘You think a stuffed animal is a work of art?’

‘Let me show you.’

Bob followed Mike Lunde back into the store, where he took down two large books from a shelf on which two hares acted as bookends.

‘In Victorian England it was as common to have stuffed animals in the averagely affluent household as it was to have paintings,’ said Lunde, opening one of the books. ‘Things moved forward, and in the latter part of the nineteenth century Walter Potter developed so-called anthropomorphic taxidermy. He dressed the animals in clothes and posed them in comic situations, like humans.’

As Lunde turned the pages Bob studied the whole-page photographs in the book. One of rats in human clothing brawling round a poker table as another rat dressed in a policeman’s uniform comes storming in. Another showed a classroom full of rabbits sitting neatly at their desks. These montages had a certain cuteness, and at the same time a subtext Bob wasn’t immediately able to decode.

‘Exhibitions by Potter and by other taxidermists attracted larger audiences than popular theatre performances or athletics meetings. And then taxidermists began including bizarre details, such as a two-headed lamb, or a chicken with four legs. From which there is a direct line to this...’ Lunde indicated the second book. ‘The contribution of our own city, Minneapolis.’

The title on the cover was Rogue Taxidermy. He thumbed through it. A stuffed polar bear atop a sinking refrigerator. A squirrel holding up something that looked like a small heart.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bob, ‘but isn’t this just... creepy?’

Lunde chuckled. ‘I agree, it is creepy. But not just creepy. These are artistic expressions. They’re stories.’

‘But... doesn’t it do something to you, spending so much time in the company of dead animals?’

Lunde thought about it. ‘I don’t know. I mean, chefs do the same thing. The difference is that we try to bring the dead back to life. It’s what you might call an existential challenge, and it probably does have some effect on you. All those hours, sitting alone, trying to put a mask on death.’

‘Who did this?’ asked Bob, pointing to one picture. It showed an eagle sitting on a branch. One wing was holding a revolver pointed at its own head.

‘Ah, that’s by Anonymous,’ said Lunde. ‘That’s to say, that’s what they’re known as in taxidermy circles. He or she exhibits the work in some public space, most often at night, unsigned, and that’s all we know. That eagle was exhibited in a tree right outside the picnic area in the Minnehaha Park. Caused quite a stir, of course, because the bald eagle is a protected species.’

Outside rain started falling. They both looked out into the street. The sounds changed. Car tyres hissed against the wet asphalt. Footsteps along the sidewalk sounded quicker. An animated conversation fell silent.

‘When you and Gomez were talking about loneliness,’ said Bob, ‘what did you discuss in particular?’

‘Well, all sorts of things,’ said Lunde as he replaced the books on the shelf. ‘Why it is that loneliness is so troubling. None of our most basic physical needs require the presence of several or even one other human being. Breathe, eat, work, get food, get dressed, fall ill and recover, shit, piss, sleep. From nature’s point of view, we are fully capable of living long, full and wholly satisfactory lives entirely on our own. In many cases better lives than the ones we get when we enter into a union and voluntarily or involuntarily allow our lives to be guided by the needs of others. And yet no one asks themselves whether the ending of Robinson Crusoe, when he gets rescued, is a happy ending or not. Think about it. I mean, he’s managed to organise things pretty well on that island — what guarantee does he have that the life he gets when he goes back to living with other people will be as good? He’s losing his freedom, his daily swims, a territory that’s all his own with limitless access to food, no working hours, no boss. And for what? But we don’t even wonder about it, we just take it for granted that we’re willing to give up all this for just one thing: the company of other people.’

‘But if we don’t need others, then why is loneliness so intolerable?’

‘What do you think?’

‘Biology. If we all thought it was fine to be alone, we wouldn’t want to reproduce ourselves.’

Lunde raised a finger to point to a glass case full of butterflies hanging on the wall behind him. ‘Some species meet up for the purpose of reproduction only.’

‘Economics, then. Cooperating with others gives everyone a better chance of survival.’

‘You and your economics. Economics doesn’t drive people insane. But loneliness does. Am I right?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Loneliness is a fairly novel experience for you, Bob, isn’t it?’

Bob didn’t reply. Again Mike Lunde smiled that smile that Bob seemed to recognise from somewhere, some faint childhood memory he couldn’t quite pull to the surface. The store bell jangled.

A man walked in. He was wearing a suit that looked straight out of one of the Downtown West skyscrapers. Bob waited as the customer explained that he wanted a hunting trophy stuffed — a black rhinoceros. He’d heard that Lunde was the best in the business. Lunde declined politely, explaining that he didn’t do rhinoceros. When the man insisted, and demanded an explanation, Mike Lunde said that he just didn’t work with threatened species. The customer got a little heated. He pointed out that he’d had permission from the Namibian authorities, it was one of the five animals a year they allowed. He added that he had an import licence for the animal. Lunde offered his congratulations, and it wasn’t easy for Bob to know if he was being ironic. He said the black rhinoceros was on the taxidermists’ blacklist, no pun intended. The man protested that it wasn’t illegal, he’d spent a quarter of a million dollars for the hunting rights at an auction in Dallas, that the money went toward the preservation of the black rhinoceros, and that he was prepared to pay well for a good taxidermist to do the job.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Lunde, gently but firmly. ‘But by all means, bring in another animal.’

The bell jingled angrily as the man left.

Mike Lunde sighed.

‘Couldn’t you have taken that job?’ asked Bob.

‘Maybe,’ said Lunde. ‘Ethical dilemmas always give me a headache. While I’ve got you here, would you mind helping me with the mother lynx?’

Together they manoeuvred down a lynx mounted on a branch that was attached to the wall. Lunde sprayed the lynx’s coat with something from a bottle. Bob went over to the glass case with the butterflies.

‘How old are these?’

‘My father’s butterflies? Forty, forty-five.’

‘It’s wonderful, the way the colour is preserved.’

‘My grandfather said that butterfly wings don’t fade like other dead bodies, that they’re like mementos of the dead. With each passing year the colour gets stronger.’

Bob nodded. Continued to study the butterflies while Lunde dried off the lynx with a tissue. Hesitated a moment. Then asked: ‘What makes you think I’m lonely?’

Lunde carried on drying for a few moments before replying. ‘It’s in the eyes. Always the eyes. I saw it the moment you entered the store. Your eyes expressed the same thing as Tomás. Loss. Anger. Desperation. Loneliness.’

‘Did you tell him that too? That you knew he was lonely?’

‘Tomás? He said so himself.’

‘What did he say about being lonely?’

‘Lots. That it was slowly driving him mad.’

‘And is he mad, do you think?’

Lunde shrugged. ‘It looks that way, don’t you think? Normal people don’t kill other people. Although, the same could be said of those that killed his family. I don’t think your guy is any better or any worse than anyone else, he’s just been unlucky. His world was shattered. He said that what tormented him most was that those idiots hadn’t killed him, the only one who could pose any threat to them.’

‘Yes,’ said Bob. ‘I know what he means.’

‘Give me a hand again here?’

After returning the lynx to its place they went back into the workshop and Lunde continued working. Bob fell asleep with his head against the wall. He dreamed. It was the same dream. He was holding a pistol and firing at a tiny head with a candyfloss halo of fair hair. And was woken by the sound of Lunde talking on his cell phone:

‘Yes, I’m just leaving now.’ Bob heard the twittering of a female voice at the other end and saw the broad smile on Mike Lunde’s face. ‘Meatballs? Mm, that sounds good.’

He hung up.

‘Sorry,’ said Bob as he sat up in the chair and wiped the dribble from the corner of his mouth. ‘I had a bad night.’

‘You were sound asleep. That’s good.’

‘I heard meatballs. With brown sauce, potatoes and mushy peas?’

Lunde smiled. ‘Yes, as it happens. How about you?’

‘Guess.’

Lunde leaned his head to one side and looked at Bob. ‘I’m guessing you’re going to eat alone, and you don’t care a damn where or what.’

‘Bullseye.’

Bob then noticed Lunde’s hesitancy. It was as though he was wondering whether to invite Bob home with him. Then perhaps he saw the warning signs in Bob’s eyes and let it drop.

‘One more thing,’ said Bob. ‘You said you didn’t know if Gomez has a phone, but he has your cell number, it’s printed on your business card. Given that he knows we’re looking for him, it could be he won’t take the chance of turning up here in person but he’ll ring you instead.’

Lunde nodded. ‘You could be right there.’

‘Can I borrow your phone for a few seconds?’

Lunde tapped in a code that opened it and handed it to Bob. Bob went online and downloaded an app.

‘Using this app, with just one tap on the keyboard you can record conversations on your phone without the other person knowing about it. It’s unbelievable what sound technicians are able to get out of the voice and the background sounds on such a recording.’

‘You don’t say?’ said Lunde. He looked down sceptically at his phone.

‘Anyway, the option is there, if you want it,’ said Bob. ‘And thanks, thanks for letting me hang out here.’

It had stopped raining by the time Lunde locked the store door behind him, but heavy clouds the colour of exhaust fumes still coated the sky. The sidewalks were beginning to dry. Bob breathed in the air. Remembered childhood, and how sharp every sensory impression was, how even the most insignificant of them could seem almost overwhelming, like the special smell, the humid taste of rain-wet asphalt. Now it smelled and tasted of nothing. He thought about eyes. How it’s the eyes that are the problem.