“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 full-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 other taxidermists attracted larger audiences than popular theater 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 wasRogue Taxidermy.He thumbedthrough 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 notjustcreepy. 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 tires hissed against the wet pavement. 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, get sick and recover, shit, piss, sleep. From nature’s pointof 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 ofRobinson Crusoe,when he gets rescued, is a happy ending or not. Think about it. I mean, he’s managed to organize things pretty well on that island—what guarantee does he have that the life he will get 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 recognize 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 straightout 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 rhinoceroses. 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 license 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 thepreservationof 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?”
