Yok Page 2

  “Of course you haven’t,” said Hare. Wolle Hare was fascinated. The young fox, from what Hare understood, had had a promising sports career ahead of him. He had gone to high school at some rinky-dink school down in south Yok, and thus remained “undiscovered” longer than what seemed possible. Three months ago Fox and his father—an unpleasant bear who reeked of alcohol—were up in Lanceheim to discuss a contract with the Lasers, the district cricket team. According to Fox, that was the first time he had set his paw outside the Yok city line.

  Father and son had been on their way out of the club’s office when one of Wolle & Wolle’s talent scouts saw him. The rest, as they say, was history.

  “Have you read the screenplay properly?” Wolle Hare asked, sipping the whiskey.

  “I didn’t understand that much,” Fox admitted.

  “No? I thought it was a thriller. Bang-bang, action, and car chases?”

  “Well . . . it was mostly a lot of dialogue.”

  “You need that sort of thing when you’re filming, I assume,” said Wolle Hare.

  “I know that.”

  “Do you know the lines by heart?”

  “By heart? No. Was that the idea?”

  “I’m sure it will be fine anyway,” Hare answered, as he did not want to make Fox unnecessarily nervous.

  The car moved slowly in the aggressive traffic. The seats smelled of old leather, there was gravel on the mats on the floor, and someone had stuffed a paper tissue in the ashtray in the door. Wolle Hare would tell his secretary to use a different car service next time. Back in the days when he needed to look powerful, he would call a limousine. Now he could use comfortable cars.

  They were en route to La Cueva on saffron yellow Puerta de Alcalà. Wolle Hare was proud of knowing the restaurateur of the six-star restaurant. There were many stories told about Dragon Aguado Molina; Hare had heard them all, but assumed Molina spread them himself. All advertising was good advertising. As far as Hare was concerned, anyone who prepared a béarnaise sauce with as much sensitivity as Dragon Aguado Molina could have whatever secret life he wanted.

  “Do you think that was the idea?”

  “What?”

  Wolle was lost in thought.

  “That I should learn it all by heart? I’ve never been good at memorizing.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be a problem,” Wolle Hare repeated.

  The limo turned off of South Avenue and onto a narrow, raspberry-colored street that was typical Yok, with trash on the sidewalks and graffiti on the walls of the buildings. Wolle shook his head imperceptibly. He had still not made up his mind whether Fox was dumb or if it was simply a lack of experience that made him appear dim-witted.

  La Cueva was located in a free-standing three-story building set off from the adjacent buildings on Puerta de Alcalà by two narrow alleys where yellow green tufts of grass struggled against clay and stone in hope of the sun’s attention. Pink roses climbed across the facade up to the windows on the second floor; the outside door was completely surrounded by the blossoms and two old-fashioned gaslights stuck out from the dense foliage.

  Wolle Hare was the first out of the limousine. He looked up at the sky.

  “Well, at least we’re not too early,” he said, mostly to himself.

  Fox Antonio Ortega got out on the other side.

  “Has Father arrived, do you think?”

  “I guess we’ll have to go in and see,” said Wolle.

  Fox’s father, José Bear, was waiting in the bar. Judging by his gaze and unruly paws he had already consumed a couple of drinks, which did not surprise Wolle. Bear had put on a light blue shirt and his best suit: dark brown and double-breasted. In the dark restaurant he presumably thought no one saw the long tears in the lining or the mud on the seams of the trousers, and if he kept the jacket buttoned the oil stains on the shirt remained invisible.

  “There you are!” José Bear cried out. “I’ve been waiting!”

  La Cueva had been furnished at the beginning of time with heavy, red and brown furniture. Now the furniture was old and worn, which was part of the restaurant’s charm. Outside the small, low-sitting windows in the Little Bar the daylight was gradually disappearing, and in another half hour the velvet curtains, motley rugs, and dark red leather couches would look truly elegant.

  Against this shabby backdrop the food stood out as more spectacular.

  “Where’s the movie mogul?” Fox’s father asked.

  Wolle Hare raised one eyebrow.

  “He hasn’t arrived yet? Have you asked in the restaurant?”

  Hare was right; while José Bear was drinking in the bar, Rex Pug had been sitting alone at a table set for four, waiting.

  Pug got up when they appeared. He was a legend in his industry, and his smile was blinding white when he greeted them, each one just as fervently.

  “Fox Antonio Ortega,” said Pug with feeling, “you are even more handsome in real life.”

  “Now, now,” José Bear retorted. “No homo fantasies, if I may. We’re here to talk money.”

  Which was not Pug’s understanding at all of why he had invited Ortega to dinner at La Cueva. But the film producer had as much experience as forbearance, and fired off another one of his perfect smiles and refrained from correcting the fox’s father.

  Dinner was consumed under unexpectedly congenial circumstances. Wolle Hare assumed the role of good-natured catalyst and observer. Fox Antonio Ortega focused on the food, and the few times he thought about saying something, his father was already talking.

  Rex Pug was in a brilliant mood as always and he entertained with anecdotes from the world of film. Wolle had known the film producer for many years, but had never heard him sound so witty. Pug was behind many of the successes on the silver screen in the past two decades, and he not only knew everyone worth knowing in the film industry, he knew a lot of animals you really didn’t need to know.

  José Bear concentrated on one thing at a time. When there was food on the table he ate. When there was wine in his glass he drank. And when there was neither food nor wine he explained the principles of what he thought a business arrangement should look like. He talked about percentages here and percentages there, royalties on revenue from popcorn and ticket sales, salary floors and ceilings, fixed and variable bonuses, compensation for expenses and allowances for inconvenient work hours. Who knew where he got all this from. Maybe someone had given him advice in advance? Maybe he had stolen a book from the bookstore and browsed through the chapter headings?

  When dessert was finished and José Bear had set forth all the demands he could think of, he got up on unsteady legs and explained that he had to hurry to another meeting. Without further apologies he left the restaurant quite unexpectedly.

  “Your father is truly a colorful character,” Pug ventured to say in the silence left behind by Bear’s departure.

  “Well,” Fox Antonio Ortega answered meditatively, “it was probably just that light blue shirt against the brown jacket that made you think that.”

  With coffee Rex Pug could finally get down to business. When Pug had seen Fox Antonio Ortega gazing down from the advertising pillars in his Luigi Barcotta suits, it was clear that a new star had been born. By a quirk of fate, Pug had a screenplay sitting on his desk, and the hero role was seemingly tailor-made for Fox. He had sent over this screenplay, and now he was eager to hear what Fox thought.

  “I haven’t learned it by
heart,” Fox began, casting an anxious glance at Wolle Hare. “But I read it all.”

  “And?” Pug asked.

  “Well, I don’t know. He . . . Was he in love with her?”

  Pug nodded. The hero in the screenplay was undeniably in love with the heroine.

  “But,” Fox replied, “why doesn’t he say so?”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “Well,” said Fox Antonio Ortega, becoming eager. “If he had told her right away that he was in love with her, he wouldn’t have had to go through all that, right?”

  “No, of course,” said Pug. “But then there wouldn’t be a movie.”

  “I see,” Fox replied, looking sincerely surprised. “No, maybe not. Will you excuse me a moment? Wolle, do you know where the restroom . . . ?”

  Wolle Hare pointed toward the restrooms, and Fox stood up. When he was out of hearing range Rex Pug leaned over the table and whispered, “Is he a little slow?”

  Wolle shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.”

  “Well, I’ve made stars out of idiots before,” Pug reminded himself. “Many times. But this . . . Can he act?”

  “No idea,” said Wolle. “But judging by how he performs during photo shoots, I would have to say no.”

  “Can he even memorize lines?”

  “Does he have to? Isn’t someone standing there whispering from the side? Or else can’t you add a voice afterward?”

  “I understand that as yet another no,” said Pug drily.

  “I only promised to bring you two together,” said Wolle Hare. “And I’ve done that.”

  Rex Pug sighed. “All that glitters is not gold.”

  To get to the restrooms at La Cueva guests had to pass a large, round window through which the restaurant kitchen could be seen. On his way there Fox had no time to stop and be impressed by the stoves and chefs, given the urgency of his errand, but on his way back he had more time. He stopped, stared, and way in the back, in the shadow of an exhaust hood—by the door to the pantry—he saw her.

  Beatrice Cockatoo, according to Fox Antonio Ortega, was the most beautiful stuffed animal the factories had ever produced. She was white as a cloud in a blue sky. Her yellow comb stood up from her head like a plume on royalty. Her crooked black beak gave her face dignity, and the yellow spot on her cheek enticed him in a way he could not explain.

  Ortega remained standing, enchanted, just staring through the glass. He did not notice at first when a waiter placed himself alongside and followed his gaze. He started, and blushed almost imperceptibly. The waiter smiled.

  “That’s Beatrice Cockatoo,” he said. “She’s the dragon’s daughter. My advice? Forget you ever saw her.”

  But that was a piece of advice Fox could not follow. Overwhelmed by what he had seen, he did not care about the damper that had settled over the mood at the table when he returned. Furthermore, he did not notice that the previously so agreeable Rex Pug bid a hasty good-bye out on saffron yellow Puerta de Alcalà without a word about the future. In Fox Antonio Ortega’s heart there was only room for the image of Beatrice, and as if in a trance he staggered home through the dangerous streets of Sors with an infatuated smile on his lips.

  He returned to Puerta de Alcalà the following evening. This was not something he consciously decided, he just did it. He was drawn back, he explained to me. He stood in the shadows on the other side of the street for several hours, hoping to catch a glimpse of her in a window. When he felt the cool foreboding of the Evening Storm in his fur, he crossed the street and entered the restaurant, ordered a glass of milk in the bar, and ignored the bartender’s look. He went to the restroom several times during the evening, and each time lingered outside the round window in the door to the kitchen, but she wasn’t there. When he went home his disappointment was as great as his determination. He had to see her again.

  For four evenings Fox Antonio Ortega repeated the procedure, but on the fifth evening he was turned away at the door. A hyena in a pinstriped suit stopped him on his way in.

  “Unfortunately,” said Luciano, “this evening we’re only letting in dinner guests.”

  “Then I’ll order something to eat,” Fox replied.

  “Dinner guests with a reservation,” said Luciano, closing the door right in the fox’s long nose.

  Crestfallen, the beautiful Antonio Ortega remained standing outside the closed door. At last he shrugged his shoulders and was about to return to his place on the opposite sidewalk when a small package fell on his head.

  “Ouch.”

  It hurt, and it was only when he bent down to pick up the package that he saw the lovely red silk ribbon. What he had thought was a stone appeared to be a small present. He looked up at the facade, but no windows were open. He picked up the package, taking in its aroma. It was feminine, subtle but enticing at the same time, and involuntarily Fox inhaled deeply. As he carefully unwrapped the paper he released even more perfume, and without being certain, he knew it was Beatrice Cockatoo who had thrown the package out to him.

  Inside was a yellow piece of paper on which was written in neat handwriting: “Greenhouse. Gazebo.” Even though Fox understood that the message was for him, he did not understand there was more to it than that. He was filled with the heady perfume, with the possibility that the piece of paper had been wrapped and thrown out the window by the beautiful Beatrice, and as he walked home through the empty streets it was not with the feeling that he had missed something.

  The next day Fox worked at a photo shoot, and he casually told one of the photographers about the note.

  “Did you find the greenhouse?” the photographer asked.

  “Find it?”

  When it occurred to Fox Antonio Ortega that of course he ought to have looked for a greenhouse, he rushed out of the photo shoot and down to the bus. He rode to grass green Yiala’s Arch, and ran three kilometers to Puerta de Alcalà.

  Behind La Cueva there was a well-tended courtyard, and at the back was the lovely greenhouse the message had referred to. If Fox realized he was snooping around in a gangster boss’s backyard, he might have been more careful. Now he went into the greenhouse and looked around. Pots of herbs stood on tables in long rows, and the aroma of basil and mint was so overwhelming he had a hard time thinking. He searched for a “gazebo,” the other word on the piece of paper. As he did not know what sort of thing that was, he doubted he would find it. Not far from the herbs was a gooseberry bush, and Antonio Ortega took a berry. As he chewed—the berry was perfect, not sour or overripe—his glance fell on a slate standing on a dusty table next to a cracked mirror. Fox also saw that there was a piece of chalk next to the slate, and he could not refrain. He swallowed the gooseberry, went up to the slate, and drew a sun. With his paw he rubbed it out, and wrote “gazebo.” It was just an impulse, and when a space opened in the ground under the table, he recoiled in fear. The dark hole led down to an underground tunnel. He thought he recognized the same marvelous perfume from the package wafting out of the hole, and that gave him courage. He climbed down a narrow ladder and began walking in the darkness, below the ground, in the direction back toward the house. The darkness was soon so dense he could not see his own paws, and for that reason he walked right into a door. Instinctively he fumbled ahead, found the handle, and opened it. On the other side was a modest room where the glow of a table lamp emitted enough light that he could see a worn armchair where, exhausted, he sank down.

  At the
next moment the door on the opposite side opened, and Beatrice Cockatoo made an entrance. She staggered, panting. “You came!” she exclaimed.

  And the next moment the happiness that shone in her eyes changed to terror.

  “You must never come here again. He’ll rub you out. My dad can make bad things happen. Really bad things.”

  She ran over to the armchair, and he got up. She gave him a quick, fleeting hug, took a step back, and looked him in the eyes. Then she repeated her warning, and asked him to go.

  “But . . . I have to see you again,” he said.

  “Of course,” she answered.

  “My name is Fox Antonio Ortega,” he said. “You are the most beautiful stuffed animal I have ever seen.”

  She giggled. “You are the most beautiful stuffed animal I’ve ever seen,” she answered. “Now leave.”

  “If I haven’t heard from you by tomorrow evening, I’ll come back,” he said.

  “Go now,” she repeated with a smile.

  Unwillingly he left her, going back the same way he’d come.

  Beatrice Cockatoo is not the protagonist of this story, and her significance for me, and the story, only has to do with her significance for Fox Antonio Ortega. But because she was already the center of Fox’s life, I want to devote some time to her.

  By chance—which I will return to—I gained access to Cockatoo’s diaries, and the best way to describe her character and the special circumstances under which she lived at one time is to quote directly from her diary. Here is an extract from a day a few months before she met Fox Antonio Ortega for the first time:

  Dear Diary,

  Daddy said I may never ever mention Stavros Panther again. I promised I will never ever do that. Daddy is furious, but he’s still pretty nice to me. He says it’s not my fault, it’s all Panther’s fault. I don’t know if that’s completely true, but of course that doesn’t matter. In a couple of weeks Daddy will have forgotten everything, that’s how it always is.