Theory of Bastards

THEORY

OF BASTARDS

But sometimes a tool may have other uses that you don’t know. Sometimes in doing what you intend, you also do what the knife intends,

without knowing.

—PHILIP PULLMAN

Most of the experiments in this novel are based on actual experiments performed by real researchers. Information about them is provided in the Appendix.

The characters, however, bear no resemblance to any real researchers. They are utterly created by my imagination.

DAY 1

One

When Frankie’s vehicle pulled in, she saw a whole group of them waiting for her, exactly what she hated. Dressed up, milling about, eager supplicants. Ten or eleven researchers in all, probably every Ph.D. at the Foundation.

When the door slid open and she stepped out, they blinked. A few glanced back inside the vehicle to search for another passenger, before returning to her. She didn’t look much like her press photos these days.

Dr. Bellows—the executive director—was more prepared. Perhaps he had heard rumors or maybe her request for a wheelchair had been enough. He stepped forward to clasp her hands, saying how delighted, how truly honored he was to have her here. He’d read all her papers. The chair was pushed forward and Frankie sank into it. The group of them made lots of noise, talking all around her, each adding their tidbit of information: the Foundation’s illustrious history, the past researchers, the freedom and facilities she would have. Frankie barely had to say a word.

They wheeled her along, into a courtyard with a large catered meal. A woman stepped in front for a moment, framing the shot with her fingers, ready to take a photo, calling out, Smile.

Jesus, Frankie said and held her hand in the way, Just take me to the animals. Let me see them. I haven’t agreed to this job yet.

The silence awkward. The apologies profuse. They moved her toward the exhibits. The crowds of tourists—pushing strollers and eating popcorn—parted like water in front of them. The exhibits were connected by a wandering path through landscaped gardens. They passed the gorilla and chimp enclosures. She did not even glance at them. The orangutans watched the parade go by, their jowly faces swiveling like radar dishes.

This level of attention being paid to her was relatively new. She’d heard afterward that the MacArthur committee was made up of very smart but busy experts. When asked to come up with names, they were likely to scan headlines, to Quark some searches. The press about her last study had hit during the spring, probably when they were making nominations. Up until then, she’d mostly been underfunded and ignored; she wanted very much to return to that. The desire wasn’t out of kindness—a wish to make others comfortable. No, 33 years old and fresh from this last surgery, she had no use for other people’s jealousy.

The doctors had been so careful in what they said, trying to be exact—85% chance of recovery, not from her disease, just the symptoms. Still she was so hungry for this opportunity. Waiting to see if the symptoms would return, there was the high-pitched hum of disbelief in her ears, like an extraterrestrial who’d finally cracked the door open, about to take that terrifying first breath. The medicine she craved was distraction.

They arrived at the bonobo enclosure, the area blocked off from the tourists. Today these animals were for her appreciation alone. Inside the plexiglass walls was a hill with a climbing structure on it and a small pond at the base of it, a few milk crates scattered about. Realizing something was up, the 14 bonobos were clustered near the glass, watching the path for whatever change was about to arrive, the crowd of them reminiscent of the researchers waiting for Frankie’s car.

In appearance, they looked like the chimps she’d passed, only the bonobos were a touch skinnier and less muscled. Their fur softer. Their lips red. Their eyes thoughtful.

Think of a video montage where a human turns into a wild beast—hair sprouting, brow slanting, jaw jutting. If the chimp is the final image, the bonobo is a second earlier.

In front stood one bonobo. Her stance was not a chimp’s: bandy-legged as a cowboy with the barrel-shaped chest heaved up, her torso ready at any moment to fall back onto all fours. No, she stood as a human does, comfortably upright, legs straight, her face turned to the researchers as though they’d just called her name.

And, unlike the rest of the bonobos, her body was balding and her head utterly hairless. Perhaps an autoimmune disease or the effect of aging. What little hair remained on her body was no longer thick enough to be called fur, closer perhaps to the sparseness of chest hair. She stood there, wiry and short, her skin the grey of putty, a naked Gandhi with jug ears, staring into Frankie’s eyes.

Actually all of the bonobos were looking at Frankie. Staring not at the whole group of researchers, but at Frankie, her face. As though they’d followed the coverage in the Wall St. Journal and New York Times—the upswing in genetic testing, the outings of public figures and past presidents—and were surprised to spot her here.

It took Frankie a moment to realize the animals must know all the researchers who worked here. She was the only stranger. Studies had shown even a sheep could recognize up to 50 faces.

Dr. Bellows began to speak, his voice awkward, The particular . . . umm . . . behavior you’d be researching, the behavior that bonobos are famous for, happens primarily before mealtimes.

As though making excuses for them he continued, The behavior is used to ease tensions, to calm down any conflict over the food. Would you like me to . . .

Feed ’em, she said.

Bellows nodded and a researcher obediently jogged off around the corner of the building.

Frankie waited. The animals continued to study her, in their half circle, positioned as though she was about to lecture them or they about to interrogate her.

She gestured with her chin at the bald bonobo’s confident stance. She asked, Alpha female?

Yes, said Bellows, She runs the show. That’s Mama.

Mama? Frankie asked, the rising lilt of her question making her sound like a needy child.

Mama, answered Bellows, letting the word fall heavy like the name of a mafia don.

From the silence around them, she guessed most of the researchers worked with other apes here at the Foundation and felt uncomfortable with what was about to happen.

She pointed her chin at the kiosk next to Bellows. It displayed a large photo of a bonobo waving hi. There was a panel with many buttons on it. She asked, What’s that?

He said, Ahh, some of the bonobos were raised with sign language. This is a way to communicate with them.

Really? asked Frankie.

Seated, she couldn’t see which two buttons he pressed but the avatar of a female bonobo appeared on the plexiglass between the humans and the bonobos—off to the side and a few feet up so she didn’t block the exhibit. Her hands gestured in sign language as she spoke the words, saying, Human. Hello.

Her voice was loud, the condescending cheer of a kindergarten teacher.

The bonobos didn’t glance at the avatar. Instead their dark eyes turned to Bellows.

Then behind them, a door opened up on the balcony, inside the enclosure, and a staff-person in coveralls stepped out, lugging two buckets of food.

The bonobos turned, mouths gaping at their unscheduled luck.

The males rose to their feet, legs apart to show off their abrupt erections, pencil-thin but impressive. The moment following was when Frankie watched with the greatest attention. Just as she’d been told, all the animals reached for each other, for whoever was closest. Not one of them stepped around another to get to a preferred partner.

Frankie’s eyes watered with gratitude. She blinked a few times, keeping her face turned toward the animals, hoping no one could see. Here was the distraction she needed, a worthwhile puzzle to dig into.

Meanwhile the rest happened, the part that the media was fascinated with: the wide variety of acts and positions, homosexual and hetero, the twosomes, the threesomes, the sheer creativity, oral sex, a hand job and what primatologists called penis-fencing. An imaginative juvenile began to hump the leg of an otherwise-occupied adult.

Dwarf hairy humans engaged in an orgy.

A researcher giggled nervously. Bellows’s head swiveled and the giggle stopped.

Within seconds, the first bonobo began to climax.

Ah, the female huffed loudly, Ahuh huh huh.

Damn, whispered a woman under her breath, somewhere behind Frankie, impressed either with the speed with which the bonobo had reached this point or its obvious intensity.

Then the rest of the females began to call, Ahh huh huh, their mouths open.

The males’ orgasms were less noisy and sounded a trifle disappointed in comparison.

The action stopped. They lay there, post orgasm, arms wrapped tenderly around each other. After a long quiet moment, one of them remembered the food and stood up. The rest followed, holding their hands out palms up, like beggars.

On the balcony, the staff-person was waiting. She picked fruit out of the buckets and began to lob pieces down to them.

Well, said Bellows, trying to recover his toothy smile.

For the first time since seeing the bonobos, Frankie turned to the humans. She said, Let me confirm some facts. They do this before every meal.

Yes, said Bellows.

Just that way? Copulating with whomever is closest?

Yes.

Then so far as any of you know, said Frankie raising her voice slightly to make sure they could all hear, It’s just as likely that an ovulating female will end up mating with the least healthy male as the most healthy one? She is just as likely to mate with the weakest and dumbest as the strongest and smartest?

Yes, responded the group.

Alrighty, said Frankie. I officially accept the research position here. I have three conditions.

One, she said, I want an apartment on the Foundation grounds, with its own kitchen.

Two, she said, You can write as many grants as you want using my name and resume and I hope lots of funding comes from those grants, but understand my reason for being here is to do research. I will not be trotted out to wine and dine any potential funders. I will not be bothered or contacted unnecessarily. If I am, I will leave.

Three, she added, I require the help of one researcher, part time. Someone to answer questions about the bonobos and assist me as needed.

Of course, of course, said Bellows, May I recommend . . . He started to gesture toward a tall bearded man. Frankie recognized him from several of the Foundation brochures and conference pamphlets. The man had been eyeing her since she arrived—possessive and hungry—like a dog watching a biscuit.

No, Frankie said and pointed instead to the only person she could see who wasn’t directly facing her—some guy who had hung back the whole time, looking like he wanted to be someplace else, probably doing his work. Pretty much the way she felt.

Him, she said.

DAY 2

Two

At 8 the next morning, the researcher she’d selected met her in the parking lot in front of the bonobo research building.

The way she looked today, she could star as the villain in a sci-fi movie: wheelchair, stretchy clothing and cavernous stare.

He, on the other hand, could play one of the Secret Servicemen standing in the background of any movie with the President. Buzzcut, white teeth and a rangy ease that said he could lope without effort for days.

Unlike most people, no Bindi glittered on his forehead, displaying its corporate logo. Instead he wore just an old Wrist-able. She hadn’t realized they still made them, the device as bulky as a watch. She wondered if his salary was that low.

He stepped forward to shake her hand, his smile wide, his hand warm.

Probably not the sharpest knife in the drawer, she thought.

David Stotts, he said. It’s an honor to meet you, ma’am.

I don’t like praise, she said. Don’t give me any.

He paused, considering her words, and nodded. He said, Sorry about that.

From the way he said this, she wasn’t sure if he was apologizing for his words or just sad she couldn’t appreciate praise.

She continued, Here’s how your work with me is going to go. You’ll assist me a little each day. Help me get around. Teach me about the bonobos. It won’t take much of your day and the amount will decrease gradually. You’ll still be able to do your own research. I will not waste your time.

At the moment in her bag was a jar of mayonnaise. Her meals the last few days consisted of a heaping spoonful of it. For a decade she had not been allowed this condiment—all the eggs and that oil. It was the richest joy in the mouth, the thrill of the forbidden. She licked it like ice cream, the mathematical accumulation of calories, no need to even chew.

Years ago she’d started dressing for herself, no one else. Currently she wore the sort of primary-colored smock and sparkly tights that suggested a child under five. Her favorites were clothes with embroidered animals on the breast and along the hem. It was her habit when concentrating to run her fingers over the grinning animals, feeling the smooth threads.

He wore a crisp button-down shirt and chinos—a uniform of anonymity.

His eyes lingered on a bright yellow chicken on her left breast. The Foundation had spent the last two months wooing her, trying to persuade her to do research here. Actual paper brochures FedExed daily, links to pertinent research papers and videos. Bellows left personal pleas on her Sim-mail. They’d never received a word back until two days ago when she’d Quarked to say she would arrive the next morning, no more notice than that.

The chicken had its beak open, its little sound bubble said Cheep.

Ma’am, he said, You clearly like to get to the point. Dr. Bellows asked me to say I might not be the best person for this job. I have only been working with the bonobos for six months and they are not what my degree is in.

His voice wasn’t purposeful and clipped like hers—a New Yorker cutting through traffic. The rhythm of his words ambled along instead—a rural Missouri road, no car in sight.

Don’t care, she said. If I require information you don’t know, you’ll learn it.

No reaction visible on his face. Again he nodded.

Good, she thought. He won’t be a problem.

She said, Bring me to the bonobos. Do the research you normally do. I’ll watch and occasionally ask questions.

Yes, ma’am. He stepped forward to push her wheelchair.

Army? she asked.

Ma’am?

You keep calling me ma’am. Were you in the Army or is this some sort of regional verbal tic?

The Reserves, he said. That’s how I paid for school. I served in Syria.

You served remotely?

No, I actually went there.

How many years?

Four. Called up twice.

She said, Hopefully working with me will be easier.

She meant this as a small joke. He made no comment.

He wheeled her into the research building attached to the bonobo enclosure. Inside, it looked like any office hallway, white walls and gray carpet, offices on either side. Thirty feet down the hall was a second door with locks on it. A bright sign declaring, No Admittance to Unauthorized Personnel.

Entering this hallway, she gestured for him to halt and she got up out of the wheelchair.

He was getting used to the rhythm of their interaction, his pause a bit shorter, Ma’am?

She said, I have to walk a little further each day. The wheelchair is just for a few days.

He looked at her and then down the hallway. His unstated question clear.

If I need to, I’ll sit down, she said. She inhaled through her nose and began to shuffle forward.

He walked alongside her, ready to catch her if necessary. He reduced his speed once to try to match her pace and then reduced it further. With that lanky body, he must engage in some marathon sport: running, biking, swimming. It took concentration for him to move this slowly, like watching a racehorse being walked to the gate. He looked down at his feet, might have been counting between each step.

Since the award, colleagues treated her differently. Some avoided her as much as possible and when they couldn’t, they seemed on edge, as though she’d just insulted them or questioned their credentials. Others focused on her, like she’d said something profound even when she hadn’t spoken. For this, her medical sabbatical, she’d been imagining Nepal or better yet Fiji. Some place far from everyone she knew, where she could retreat into insignificance, concentrate on work. There were, however, so many travel advisories, and they changed quickly. A few days ago, she’d decided Missouri was good enough. Compared to New York City, it was a foreign country: Republican, rural, creationist, poor.

Partway down the hall was a machine. It was colored brightly and looked a bit like the type of strength test found at a country fair, except displayed as its metric were various primate silhouettes from a bush baby all the way up to a mountain gorilla. Instead of a target to be hit with a mallet, there was a handgrip to squeeze.

Explain, she said.

He looked at her and then the machine. He said, It’s a way of comparing your strength to other primates. No need to try it.

The handgrip was similar to the hand-strengthening equipment that ex-jocks squeezed while talking on the phone.

She had a hard time bypassing any challenge. Also her feet felt a little far away. The idea of grabbing onto something solid was attractive. Stopping, she wrapped her fingers round its molded grip, inhaled and compressed the spring as hard as she could. Determination was a quality she did not lack. She watched the needle swing upwards from Bush Baby to Tarsier and past Tamarin.

It stopped at Ring-tailed Lemur—avg. weight, 5 lbs.

They both looked at the result, neither saying anything. She let her hand fall to her side.

She asked, How much do the bonobos weigh?

The females, he said, About 70 pounds.

She turned to him and at her expression, he stepped forward, took hold of the handgrip and squeezed. She could see the effort rising into his shoulder. Being in the military left its impact on a person’s posture and attitude. Stotts would stand out in a crowd, like a fox in a group of Pekingese. Alert, coiled and capable. There was the sense he wouldn’t slouch on the sofa watching a movie, unaware of what was happening behind him. He could not do less than his best.

The needle stopped at Macaque—avg. weight, 25 lbs.

Rather than look upset, his eyes were pleased. He said proud, Once I made it all the way to mandrill.

She glanced at his left hand, saw the wedding ring.

You have kids, she asked.

He turned to her, The sweetest four-year-old on the planet. Why?

She said, Seemed like you should.

Given her well-known research, comments about reproduction could be taken many ways.

He filed this statement away for consideration and gestured to the machine.

Humans, he said, Have a fair amount of muscle fiber, but we’re like . . . He paused, thinking, We’re like a bank account where you can’t take all the cash out in one day. The other primates can. Or at least that’s the current theory, why you hear of chimps being able to rip a human’s arm off. What they’re doing is withdrawing all their money. Occasionally you hear of a human exhibiting sudden strength—a mom lifting a car off her kid—but it’s rare.

He said, For other apes, it’s automatic. They can do it any day of the week. Just afterwards they’re very tired.

The word, tired, echoed in her ears and she touched her fingers to her sternum, feeling her breath.

He watched her. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. Perhaps he thought she felt fear.

He said, Bonobos are different from chimps. They don’t go to war with rival groups; they’ve never been recorded to kill. Even when they struggle for dominance inside their own group, there’s almost no violence, just a lot of yelling and slapping things around. Worst I’ve ever seen was a male getting bit. Three drops of blood and they were all so surprised. Every one of them came over to inspect the cut several times.

Stotts the ex-soldier said with respect, They are the most gentle creatures.

The locked door was now perhaps 15 feet away. She swung her foot forward, aiming for it.

When she spoke, her voice echoed in her head as though from another room, Why were you pleased with the results?

The results?

She said, The strength test.

Ahh, he said.

He looked at the door ahead and answered, Ma’am, I like challenges. I am twice the size of the bonobos and I’m strong for a human. Yet even the smallest female could beat me up. I respect these apes. They keep me awake.

He continued, Every day I try that machine and I never get close to their strength.

Even as slowly as he walked, he was now half a pace ahead, while he considered how to make this point clear, momentarily inattentive of her progress or pallor.

He said, We keep them caged here, but they aren’t like lab rats where we can force them to do what we want. They are smart and very strong. You have to ask, to persuade. In the enclosure and research room, the rules aren’t made by humans or bonobos. Instead they’re somewhere in between, some compromise we all constantly negotiate.

At the word negotiate, the static rose, engulfing her hearing. Her vision tunneled. She had practice at this, had already let her knees go, was falling with some control. She sat down hard on the floor.

Her gut and the incision jarred.

A harsh light, sound whistling, space empty. This type of pain, she didn’t mind that much. It didn’t last. She leaned into the light and waited it out.

From some faraway universe he called, Dr. Burk, you’re fainting. Put your head down.

She thought, No duh.

She felt him place one hand on the back of her head, folding her over, his other arm wrapped around her. Shivering, she could feel his warmth through her shirt.

Three

Frankie had been born in Hamilton, Ontario, and baptized Francine Burk. Francine was the name she went by until after college.

Her parents—Canadians—didn’t discuss politics, sex or bowel movements. Their voices were carefully modulated, every consonant clear as a bell. They took a brisk walk once a day and ate a well-cooked vegetable with dinner. As Protestants, they considered a visit to the doctor somewhat suspect, a lack of fortitude. Their only medicine was an occasional aspirin taken with a glass of water, preferably out of sight of anyone except an observant child. When asked, they always replied they were doing well, thank you. In Hamilton, they blended in seamlessly with their neighbors, perhaps that was the point.

When she was seven, however, her father took a job with an American company and they moved to Manhattan. The cultural change was surprisingly large. The word please was not half as common. Strangers voiced their opinions with gusto. She remembered a dinner party early on where her father was seated beside aged Mr. Schwartz who (when asked how he was) began describing his prolapsed hernia. Both of her parents strove to keep whatever feelings they felt within the range of what they considered allowable. Within this narrow range, her father’s expression was as shocked as if Mr. Schwartz had fondled himself at the table.

She was enrolled in second grade at P.S. 116 in Midtown. First thing that first day, the whole class got to its feet, placed hands on hearts and recited the Pledge of Allegiance in one voice. She wasn’t quite sure how she should act and so stood by her desk, her head lowered as though she were in church. Basically she was baffled. No one in Ontario ever pledged allegiance to anything and they were asked to sing O Canada so infrequently that, after the first stanza, most had to resort to indistinct humming.

She waited until recess to approach her new teacher, Miss Sanchez. In her crisp Ontario voice, Francine explained she was a citizen of another country and inquired what was the proper way to act while the rest of the class repeated the Pledge.

Put your hand on your heart and say the Pledge, said the teacher while putting her papers away.

Francine repeated for clarity, But I’m Canadian.

As fast as that Sanchez’s eyes flashed. She leaned in and stated in a no-nonsense adult voice that so long as Francine was lucky enough to be in this great country, she would recite the Pledge each morning and be grateful for the opportunity.

Later Francine learned Sanchez’s youngest brother had recently lost a leg in Iraq. Although easily a third of the students in the class were not citizens, every one of them was forced to pledge allegiance daily.

That afternoon it was Gerard from Haiti who taught Francine the preferred coping strategy.

From then on, she recited each morning along with the class, her hand over her heart, I led the pigeons to the flag . . .

This was her first lesson in the utility of lying.

*

After Frankie recovered from half-fainting, she had Stotts wheel her to the tourists’ area in front of the bonobo enclosure and leave her there. It had the best view of the animals and she could rest.

She sat there, watching with attention. In order to see around the hips and elbows of the people, she rolled forward until her knees were pressed against the glass. In the first few minutes, a six-year-old girl tried to wiggle between Frankie’s knees and the glass to get a better view of the bonobos. Frankie kneed her in the back just hard enough for the girl to regard her solemnly and then retreat.

A lot of the children ignored the bonobos in order to play with the sign-language kiosk. Whoever designed it had intended one person to press one button at a time, carefully building each sentence. Me human. Look stick. Stick on ground. Perhaps the designer had even imagined the bonobos responding by picking the stick up or signing back. A moment of interspecies communication.

Instead however the children clustered around the kiosk, slapping at the buttons, thrilled by the obedient toy, making the bonobo avatar on the plexiglass say sentences like, Stick stick stick stick stick stick human human human. Stick stick stick stick stick ground.

The voice was loud, even outside the enclosure. The bonobos ignored the avatar, aside from staying away from the immediate area near the speakers.

Frankie figured she could start working. She said, Ok Bindi, show desktop.

On her contact Lenses, appeared her desktop icons, arrayed around the periphery of her visual field—allowing her to still see the physical world in front of her. Applications on the left, files on the right, the trash can in the corner. Moving her right hand up so her Bindi could track it, she centered her index finger over the file for the 14 bonobos and double-tapped. The file opened up, centered in her vision. Her Bindi at this point monitored the area around her for any objects headed for her, clicking her desktop off in case of danger—too many cases those first few years of people stepping out in front of a moving car while on a Sim-call.

She flicked her finger through the pages. She wasn’t self-conscious, because half the adults around her were tapping and flicking and talking to their Bindis.

The photo for each bonobo had a passing resemblance to a mug shot: a close-up of the face with the name and description below, hairy perpetrators in jail. If she clicked on a photo and tugged on its corners, the photo expanded, so large and high-res she could see every skin pore. Unaided, she’d never be able to keep a face this close and in focus at the same time. The colors also popped: the brown of the eyes, the grey of the face, the pink of the lips.

The problem Frankie found was, after a day of work on her Lenses, reality appeared a little disappointing. In comparison to their photos, the bonobos themselves seemed less real. And her Lenses weren’t even the newest version. Technology had now reached the limits of human vision. Soon, she’d been told, the Lenses would bypass the eyes to connect straight to the visual cortex.

One by one, she stared at each photo, then pinched her fingers together, shrinking the photo down and flicking it up to the top of her Lenses, out of the way, so she could search for the bonobo who matched the photo.

Mama was easy to recognize because she was bald. Frankie assumed the juvenile who Mama held was Tooch, a two-year-old male, since he was listed as her youngest offspring. Tooch kept trying to sneak closer to the plexiglass, fascinated by the tourists. Mama stopped him each time, pursing her lips and making a noise in her throat that made him halt mid-stride. The fifth time he tried to sneak away, she simply picked him up by one foot and dangled him out in the air like a fish. Tooch squealed and wiggled and tried to climb his own leg, but soon gave up, hanging there limp, waiting for her to put him down. She lowered him into her lap where he sat, staring at the tourists with a wistful expression. Mama was not a mother to trifle with.

Of all the bonobos, the only one younger than Tooch was Id, a one-year-old female. She was easy to spot since she was tiny: all pencil-thin limbs, wispy fur and large eyes. She was bouncing maniacally on the trampoline of her mother’s belly. From the document, Frankie learned the mother’s name was Houdina. Her knees jumped involuntarily each time the baby Id landed. In comparison to Mama, Houdina was younger and hairier and didn’t seem to be half as tough. She grunted with each bounce and held up her hands, protecting her tender areas.

Frankie tried to identify the other bonobos from their photos but couldn’t. They all looked like hairy apes to her at this point. The only feature she could easily distinguish was gender since the nether regions were large and hairless and disturbingly on display. For most of the adult females, the area between the vagina and anus was hairless and swollen into something between a softball and a cantaloupe, advertising their potential fertility to all nearby males. The skin over this balloon appeared so tight and thin that, each time the females sat down, Frankie flinched.

After a while she gave up trying to tell which individual was which. She let herself watch them as a group, absorbing their actions, getting the feel for them, their bright eyes, their knuckled walk, the way they bathed in the pond, lying back in the water and letting their arms float, squirting water out of their mouths. Their voices reminded her of the finches she used to work with, high-pitched cheeps or squeaks.

They spent an enormous amount of time combing their fingers through each other’s hair, bored hairstylists