The Savage Garden

selection had run its course, spent its load. All life on earth had now entered an era of 'conservative heredity' in which the power of adaptation in organisms had slowed to the point of being almost nonexistent. This theory permitted a return to the old idea of the absolute fixity of living species, with man at the top of the pyramid, as intended by God.

    Where better to search for proof of this than among the anthropoids, the order of great apes whose existence now haunted man like some ancestral ghost? It was a matter of reliable record that two types of orangutan inhabited Borneo, living side by side, even nesting in the same trees. The mayas tjaping (as it was called by the locals) was a larger animal, with a square head flanked by fatty cheek pads. The mayas kassa was slighter, its face narrower, more delicately featured.

    From the presence of orangutans on the neighboring island of Sumatra—the only other place on the planet where they were to be found—one could safely conclude that all orangutans shared a common heritage reaching back to a distant epoch when a land connection existed between the two islands. The big question— and one that her father believed answered itself—was this: given the separation of the Bornean and Sumatran orangutans hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of years previously, why had the two populations not evolved independently of each other according to the Darwinian model? By all accounts, they were the same, right down to the subtle differences of physiognomy between the two types of orangutan, both of which were also present on Sumatra.

    This wasn't to say Darwin was wrong—there was too much evidence in favor of his evolutionary theory— simply that he was no longer right. The power of heredity had evidently increased since the primordial era to the point that living organisms were now fixed and immutable.

    The logic was sound, even to her mother's skeptical ears, or she wouldn't have consented to accompany her husband to one of the least hospitable corners of the planet.

    There was only one problem.

    After a few months on Borneo, her father had identified only one type of orangutan—the mayas tjaping, big and square-headed. Some had fatty cheek-expansions, while others didn't, but this distinction seemed to be no more than a feature of age in the male of the species. It was looking increasingly likely that the sound logic was based on unsound evidence. There was only one way to tell.

    It was on their trip to Sumatra that her father almost lost his mind, and on a couple of occasions his life (Dutch authority in the northern province of Aceh extending no further than the range of their guns from a handful of forts). During his time there, he shot, skinned and prepared the skeletons of more than fifteen orangutans. They, too, were all of one type—a different type, smaller than the mayas tjaping, with narrower faces and hair of a paler hue than their Bornean cousins. For that was what they clearly were: cousins, and several times removed.

    Her father must have recognized the deep irony of his predicament, but he refused to accept it. Only after they had all returned to Borneo, and after another spate of slaughter, was he forced to concede the inevitable: the findings of his fellow naturalists who had visited the Malay archipelago before him were flawed, and by following in their footsteps he had not only failed in his mission to challenge Darwinian thinking, he had actually lent weight to it.

    There were indeed two types of orangutan, but one type inhabited Borneo, the other Sumatra. Geographically divided, the species had adapted itself according to the demands of two different environments. And there was no reason whatsoever to assume that this wasn't an ongoing situation.

    His only consolation came from his wife. Signora Docci's long- suffering mother tried to make him see that he had made an important contribution to the sum of zoological knowledge. He might even have identified a new subspecies of primate. There was certainly a strong case to be made for this. Most in his position would have leapt at the chance of laying claim to a part of the Tree of Life, even if it was just one small bifurcation at the end of a branch.

    Not her father.

    On their return to Italy, he resigned his post at the university, destroyed all his papers relating to the expedition and turned his attention to archaeology, immersing himself in the lost culture of the Etruscans. He kept only two mementoes of his time in the East Indies, but strangely they were the most significant reminders of his failure—the orangutan skulls in the study cabinet, manifestly different: one Bornean, the other Sumatran.

    Adam had barely spoken a word during Signora Docci's account of her childhood adventure, more than content to be carried along by her colorful tales and the soft, measured tones of her voice. When she, too, fell silent, his power of speech did not return.

    Signora Docci gave an apologetic smile. 'I'm sorry. I have bored you.

    'No. You haven't. It's interesting.'

    'The reminiscences of an old lady? I doubt it.'

    'Really. It must have been a fascinating time, man struggling to come to terms with who he really was . . . is.'

    'Oh, I doubt we ever will.' She took a sip of wine. 'Men like my father went in search of Eden, but they found a far more savage garden.'

    Adam hesitated, uncertain about raising the subject. 'The scar on Antonella's forehead . . .'

    Signora Docci smiled. 'I should have known you'd see it. The crest on the skull from Borneo . . .'

    'Yes.'

    'Who knows? I'm not superstitious, but maybe it is punishment for what he did to those poor creatures. It was a massacre. And after they were dead, he desecrated their bodies.' She glanced off into the night, then up at the pale sickle blade of a moon. 'Or maybe it was my punishment—for failing to stop him.'

    'You were too young.'

    'Don't underestimate the power of a daughter over her father.' She paused, pensive. 'I knew some of them—quite well in fact, and I stood by and watched. There was one . . . near Marop ... a female, a mother. I called her Sabinetta. She used to break off branches and throw them at us every time we went near. When they finally shot her, she wedged herself in the fork of a durian tree and men had to go up to bring her down.' She gave a small smile. 'They didn't go, not at first, they thought she was pretending. They do, you know. And they're strong, very strong. There are lots of stories, stories with pythons, crocodiles . . .'