Free My Life Among the Apes by Cary Fagan Page B

said, “Get to the office.”
    BROODING BEHIND MY DESK, I recall a long-forgotten detail. I don’t remember whether it was in that first
National Geographic
or one of the television specials that came after. How an adult male chimpanzee named Mike stole the dominant male position. The previous alpha male, Goliath, was huge and powerful, and the smaller Mike was no match for him. But Mike found two empty petrol cans in Jane Goodall’s camp. He learned to bash them forward as he ran, making an awful racket that terrified the other chimps, including Goliath. When Mike finally stopped, Goliath came over and, grunting in supplication, reached out to groom Mike’s fur. Mike became the alpha male.
    All I need is some petrol cans to bash. I’m not sure if what I have in mind is equivalent, but it’s close enough. I pick up the phone.
    “Hoffstedder here.”
    “Stanley, it’s Allen.”
    “You figured out why your ATM numbers are down?”
    “I’m working on it. Listen, Stan, about that teller we let go. I’ve got a rep from the Civil Liberties Union coming here tomorrow. He’s asking about discrimination, unfair practises, even about going to the media. If I tell him what I really think —”
    “Are you squeezing my balls, Allen?”
    “No, of course not. But when he asks me —”
    “You’ll know what to tell him, won’t you? That the girl was incompetent and posed a risk to our clients and that we gave her the standard package. I don’t want to hear any more about it. Now on those ATM numbers, you check if a homeless guy’s been sleeping in your doorway at night, keeping the customers away. Happens all the time.”
    I hear the sound of the click at the other end.
    AT HOME, I SAY TO Lizette, “Are the kids never coming home for dinner? Maybe we should just set up a trust fund for them.”
    She dishes scalded rapini with feta, next to the sole on my plate. “We’re boring to them. It’s natural. And they’ve all promised to be home tomorrow. The only real problem is that you’re bored of me.”
    “Likely the other way around. I wouldn’t blame you. I feel like I’ve become nothing but my job.”
    “I have a present for you. Just a small one, so don’t get too excited.”
    “What is it?”
    “Look under your plate.”
    “I feel like I’m twelve,” I say, shifting my plate over. Underneath is a ticket. Jane Goodall at Convocation Hall.
    “It’s in an hour,” she says. “You better eat up.”
    “Just me?”
    “I’m sorry. I’m just not up to it right now.”
    “Sure.” I get up and kiss her. “Thanks.”
    I sit down again and we start to eat.
    THE LAST TIME I WAS in Convocation Hall was to receive the diploma for my undergraduate degree. About all I could remember was what a bad hangover I’d had. Now I look down to the stage to see Jane Goodall behind the slender Plexiglas podium. Behind her a large screen shows a series of video clips. She no longer looks like the slim woman washing her hair in an African stream. She is a handsome older woman, comfortably filled out, a quaver in her voice. A good speaker, if overly rehearsed, as if she has given this same speech a thousand times.
    After the talk, I buy one of her books and line up to have it signed. We shuffle forward, waiting for our turn at the table where she sits with pen in hand. As we get closer I feel increasingly agitated. At last it is my turn and as I move up she looks at me.
    It takes me a moment to speak. “Ms. Goodall, I’ve been an admirer of yours since I was a boy.”
    “Have you? How very nice.” She smiles wearily, as if she has met many like me and knows all our secrets. “Shall I sign it to you?”
    “No,” I say. “To a friend of mine. Kate Sulimani. I’ll spell it.”
    KATE SULIMANI LIVES IN A high-rise apartment in a cluster of six buildings off the Don Valley Parkway. An empty green space with a dry fountain in the middle. It looks like some invented city, Brasilia maybe. I look for the name on the