Beatrice and Virgil by Yann Martel Page A

animals were ordered. The winged were generally above the footed and the smaller above the larger, with the very large tending to crowd the back of the room. Beyond that, anything went. Strangely, this higgledy-piggledy arrangement, by dispensing with notions of distinction and grouping, created an overall impression of unity, a shared culture of animalness. Here, diverse but one, linked by a common bond, was a community.
      "I have your book here," said the man, emerging from a side door.
      The man had recognized Henry. He had a sharp eye. Henry hadn't done much media in years and the man's memory of his appearance couldn't be a fresh one.
      "And I have a card for you," Henry said automatically, though he had not meant to deliver it in person. "Would you like me to sign your book?"
      "If you want."
      "A pleasure meeting you," said Henry, extending his hand.
      "Oh, yes." The shopkeeper's soft hand enveloped Henry's.
      They exchanged items. Henry inscribed the book. He wrote the first thing that came to his mind:   To Henry, a friend of animals   . The man, meanwhile, opened the envelope and took a long time to read the card. Henry worried about what he had written. But it gave him time to observe the man. He was tall, well over six feet, with a wide, gaunt body, his clothes hanging from big bones. His arms were long, his hands large. His black hair was oiled and combed back, to be forgotten, and under a tall forehead he had a pale, flat, long-nosed, jowly face. He looked to be in his sixties. His expression was serious, the eyebrows knitted, the dark eyes staring. He didn't seem a naturally social being. The handshake had been awkward, apparently not a grace practiced often, and the signing of the book had plainly been Henry's idea, not his.
      Erasmus seemed intrigued by the man, although not in his usual over-friendly way. He got to his feet and inched forward, sniffing tentatively at the hem of the man's trousers, his legs spread out and tense, ready to scurry away should he smell anything alarming. Seeing that the man wasn't reacting with a smile or a greeting or even a glance in the usual way of people who are meeting a friendly dog, Henry tugged on Erasmus's leash and brought him back to him. Inexplicably, Henry was feeling nervous.
      "Is the dog a problem? I can easily tie him outside," he said.
      "No," the man replied, without lifting his eyes from the card.
      "You can ignore the card. I just wrote it quickly, in case I didn't find you."
      "That's fine." He closed the card and placed it in the book Henry had returned to him. He did not look to see what Henry had written in the book, nor did he have anything to say about what he had written in the card.
      "Is this your store?" Henry asked.
      "It is," replied the man.
      "An amazing place. I've never seen anything like it. How long have you been a taxidermist?"
      "Over sixty-five years. I started when I was sixteen and I've never stopped."
      Henry was taken aback. Over sixty-five years? The man must be in his early eighties, then. He certainly didn't look it.
      "These tigers are remarkable."
      "The female and the cub I was given by Van Ingen and Van Ingen, a firm in India, when they closed. The male is my work, from a zoo. He died of a heart defect."
      He spoke without the least hesitation, and his delivery was clear and certain. He was not afraid of silence, either. I don't speak like that, Henry thought. I speak both quickly and haltingly, in stumbles and incomplete sentences that trail off.
      "And all these animals are for sale?"
      "Nearly all. A few are museum items I've repaired that are drying. A small number are display items. The okapi is not for sale, nor is the platypus or the aardvark. But the rest, yes, they're for sale."
      "Do you mind if I have a look?"
      "Go ahead. Look as closely as you want. All the animals are alive--it's time that has stopped."
      Pulling Erasmus along, Henry started going around the