Free The Game by A. S. Byatt Page B

which does not conform. I am making a detailed study of the habits of these two species of caiman. But the individual caiman is of interest in himself, and because of what he adds to our knowledge of his species. This one, for instance, will have stomach contents not
precisely
the same as any other. We are delighted both by the inevitable recurrence of patterning – the veining of a leaf – and the fact that no two leaves, no two faces, no two alligators are ever the same. In the case of faces, we are trained to observe differences – though we are less skilled in the case of people not of our own race. But what I have to teach myself isto attend so sharply to these creatures as to pick up differences even in their scale formation.’
    The caiman was raising itself to its feet. It lifted a slow, clawed foot, amongst folds of skin, and then rested, in mid-motion: the camera insisted, for a moment, on the ticking pulse of life in the soft skin of its throat, under its immobile stare. Then, heavy and slow, it began to walk away, raised, almost strutting, on its disproportionately thin legs, its huge tail stretched out like a weight behind it. Simon explained that it was an illusion to think that they dragged themselves; they walked, as the crocodilians had walked in the early days of the earth, though some of those had leaped on two legs. ‘Living fossils,’ said Simon. ‘A form of life that really flourished in another climate, and on the whole couldn’t adapt. But again, the individual fate – the fate of the species, or of the individual creature – is different from what may seem laid down by general laws of change or fate. We don’t know why almost all reptiles died. Nor do we know why these did not.’
    The camera rested for a moment on a whole floating group of the animals, thick bodies floating indistinguishably together.
    ‘Reptiles are fairly well classified,’ said Simon. ‘I spend time studying the water, too.’
    He was shown, dipping jars, measuring, paddling a little farther along the creek, dipping, measuring. They saw his face, peering mournfully at them over the side of the boat, shadowed by beard-stubble, with the ungainly shoulders hunched behind it. He gave a snort of discomfort. Cassandra tied a knot in a gold chain. Julia said:
    ‘Cassandra, who takes the photographs?’
    ‘I have asked myself that.’
    ‘I mean, it must be somebody bloody good with a camera. They don’t seem to mention whoever it is. It’s funny, how it’s all presented as though there aren’t any other
people
there, isn’t it? I mean, most of these explorer bods have whole
teams
of bearded workers, don’t they? And Indians, and chaps with bales on their heads.’
    ‘Hudson,’ said Cassandra. ‘No camera. Whoever it is, it’s good, I agree. So good – so fluid – it all seems unreal, somehow. I mean, unreal, because so much an image for man observing – his origins? His animal nature? The roots of life? I don’t know what he thinks he’s doing.’
    ‘No, but it is all a bit self-conscious, Cass, you’ve hit it exactly. A bit
produced.
I mean, he’s pretending to be a naked hermit, but we can all
see
it’s been put together with fantastic skill for the telly – all those magnifications and things.… I mean, it makes all the appeal he has somehow dishonest.…’
    ‘Has he appeal?’ said Cassandra.
    ‘Oh,
enormous.
He’s a sort of popular symbol of what’s got crowded out of our urban lives. In certain circles. A nature image in their very own drawing-rooms. He doesn’t go in much for fertility, unfortunately. He’s got a vogue. Women think he wants cuddling and domesticating.…’
    ‘My undergraduates like him.’
    ‘
Simon
,’ said Julia, and laughed.
    ‘I know.’
    ‘That means – there is someone out there – to whom he talks.… Someone whose idea all this is, perhaps. What does he do when the camera’s off him?’
    ‘Charm snakes,’ said Cassandra. ‘We shan’t ever