ID: Why do you do it?
JT: Uh… kay. Moving right along.
ID: I’m sorry. That’s a fair question. We believe it’s a mechanism to relieve tension, resolve conflict, and reaffirm friendship, although it also has to do with the size of the females’ clitorises and that they are sexually receptive regardless of estrus. Whether this shapes or reflects bonobo culture is a matter of scientific debate, but there are several related factors: food is abundant in their natural habitat, which means the females aren’t in competition to feed their babies. They form strong friendships and band together to “correct” aggressive males, thus keeping those genes from entering the pool, and so, unlike chimpanzees, male bonobos do not practice infanticide. Maybe it’s because no male has any idea which babies are his, or maybe it’s because the males who are allowed to breed don’t care and that trait is passed along. Or maybe it’s because the females would rip him to shreds. Like I said, it’s a matter of some debate.
JT: Do you think the apes know they’re apes, or do they think they’re human?
ID: They know they’re apes, but I don’t think it means what you think it does.
JT: Explain.
ID: They know they’re bonobos and they know we’re human, but it doesn’t imply mastery, or superiority, or anything of the sort. We are, all of us, collaborators. We are, in fact, family.
John clicked off his voice recorder and closed the lid of his laptop. He’d have loved to follow up on the family thing, but since she’d backtracked immediately he left it alone. It was also interesting that she’d later called the bonobos her family. Maybe he could coax her into opening up in a follow-up interview. They’d definitely made a connection-a connection that he worried might have crossed over into flirtation at one point, although with each passing mile he felt better about that. She was unquestionably attractive, slim-hipped and athletic with straight blond hair that fell almost to her waist, but her charm was frank and earnest: she wore no makeup or jewelry of any kind, and John doubted she recognized her own appeal. Friendly is what they’d been; maybe she’d eventually trust him with her messy family history. It was the sort of detail readers loved, although this piece already promised to have plenty of those. She’d made another interesting comment when she put on the gorilla mask and gave a proper demonstration of Monster Chase. After she “caught” Mbongo, they’d rolled around on the floor tickling each other and laughing (hers was full and high-pitched, his a nearly silent wheezing, but the expression on his face left no question that it was laughter). John was shocked at the level of roughhousing going on, having been given to believe that working with great apes was extremely dangerous. Even though he’d read that bonobos were different, he hadn’t expected her to be so physical with them. His surprise must have been evident, because when she stopped she said, “Over the years, they’ve become more human, and I’ve become more bonobo,” and in that moment he’d felt a flash of understanding, like he’d been allowed to peek briefly through the crack.
2
Isabel leaned through the doorway, her eyes scanning the dinner carts. Only two-year-old Lola reacted to her presence, glancing briefly in her direction. She was tiny, as bonobo babies are, and clung to Bonzi’s chest and neck, alternately mouthing her mother’s nipple and letting it slide from her lips.
The bonobos lolled on the floor in nests of carefully arranged blankets, watching
Bonzi was more precise about her nest than the others-she always used exactly six blankets, swirling them over each other and folding the edges under so there was a soft rim all the way around. Isabel, who was prone to a certain precision herself, loved watching Bonzi poke and fiddle with her nest, which had to be just so before she’d invite Lola in, slapping her hands to her chest and signing, BABY COME.
Jelani and Makena lay head to head on their blankets, reaching up with lazy and long-fingered hands to examine each other’s faces and chests and rid each other of imaginary bugs. When John Clayton, Seventh Earl of Greystoke, slid Miss Jane Porter’s filmy nightdress off her shoulders, they tipped up their chins and exchanged a languorous kiss.
Sam sprawled on his back with an arm behind his head and one leg crossed over the other. His foot bobbed, and he worked a watermelon rind, scraping the last of the sweet flesh off with his teeth. Mbongo had set up his nest across the room and wrapped a blanket firmly around his new backpack to keep Sam from noticing its suspicious girth. Mbongo had punctured his own bouncy ball almost immediately, and so had “borrowed” Sam’s. Mbongo flashed impressive canines, his gaze flitting nervously between Sam and his precious blanketed lump. He lifted a corner of the fleece and peered beneath, then hurriedly tucked the blanket back around it. He was enjoying his secret too visibly. It wouldn’t be long before Sam noticed.
Not wishing to disturb movie time, Isabel said nothing as she retrieved the empty carts. She rolled them out one by one and passed them off to Celia, a nineteen-year-old magenta-haired intern. When all the carts were in the kitchen, the two of them began to clear the remains of dinner. Celia stacked the plastic soup bowls while Isabel scooped up peels and stems, dumping the fruit and vegetable detritus into the disposal and running water over her hands.
Celia finally broke the silence. “So how did the big visit go today?”
“It was good,” said Isabel. “Lots of conversations. Lots of great pictures-the photographer’s camera was digital so I’ve already seen a bunch.”
“Anyone we know?”
“They’re from
Celia snorted. “Catwoman and Pigpen! Love it. So what did the apes think?”
“I only let John in. She had a virus, so I sent her over to Linguistics instead.”
“David and Eric were here? On New Year’s Day?”
“They have a fancy new spectrum analyzer. There’s no keeping them away from it.”
“And how did that go?”
Isabel smiled at the plate she was holding. “Let’s just say I owe them one. That woman is a real piece of work.”
“Ha! Did Pigpen know ASL?”
“His name is John. And no. I translated their responses.” After a moment’s pause, she added, “Mostly.”
One of Celia’s pierced eyebrows rose.
“Mbongo called him a ‘dirty bad toilet’ at one point,” Isabel explained. “I may have paraphrased that one a little.”
Celia laughed. “And what did he do to deserve that?”
“A game of Monster Chase gone hideously wrong.”
Celia picked up a plastic dish and held it at various angles, trying to determine whether it had been washed or licked clean. “In Pigpen’s defense, Monster Chase
“It was much worse than that. But we showed him how it’s done,” said Isabel. “Monster Chase, Monster Tickle, Apple Chase, we did it all. Much to the delight of the photographer.”
“Did Peter come in today?”
“No. I haven’t seen him,” Isabel said carefully.
At the previous night’s New Year’s Eve party, Isabel had been uncharacteristically thrown for a loop by a sorry excuse for dinner (four tiny cubes of cheese) and three strong cocktails (“It’s a Glenda Bendah!” the host, and husband of Glenda, had exclaimed as he thrust a glass of the iced blue concoction into her hands). Isabel didn’t normally drink-had in fact just purchased her first bottle of vodka so she’d have something on hand to offer guests- but this was the first social gathering of the people involved with the Great Ape Language Lab since Richard Hughes’s death, and everyone was working hard at the appearance of being merry. It was exhausting. Isabel tried to keep up, but when she staggered into the powder room and encountered her own flushed, intoxicated face in the
