The One and Only Ivan. Katherine Applegate

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СКАЧАТЬ of my walls are glass. One of them is cracked, and a small piece, about the size of my hand, is missing from its bottom corner. I made the hole with a baseball bat Mack gave me for my sixth birthday. After that he took the bat away, but he let me keep the baseball that came with it.

      A jungle scene is painted on one of my domain walls. It has a waterfall without water and flowers without scent and trees without roots. I didn’t paint it, but I enjoy the way the shapes flow across my wall, even if it isn’t much of a jungle.

      I am lucky my domain has three windowed walls. I can see the whole mall and a bit of the world beyond: the frantic pinball machines, the pink billows of cotton candy, the vast and treeless parking lot.

      Beyond the lot is a freeway where cars stampede without end. A giant sign at its edge beckons them to stop and rest like gazelles at a watering hole.

      The sign is faded, the colours bleeding, but I know what it says. Mack read its words aloud one day: “COME TO THE EXIT 8 BIG TOP MALL AND VIDEO ARCADE, HOME OF THE ONE AND ONLY IVAN, MIGHTY SILVERBACK!”

      Sadly, I cannot read, although I wish I could. Reading stories would make a fine way to fill my empty hours.

      Once, however, I was able to enjoy a book left in my domain by one of my keepers.

      It tasted like termite.

      The freeway billboard has a drawing of Mack in his clown clothes and Stella on her hind legs and an angry animal with fierce eyes and unkempt hair.

      That animal is supposed to be me, but the artist made a mistake. I am never angry.

      Anger is precious. A silverback uses anger to maintain order and warn his troop of danger. When my father beat his chest, it was to say, Beware, listen, I am in charge. I am angry to protect you, because that is what I was born to do.

      Here in my domain, there is no one to protect.

      The Littlest Big Top on Earth

      My neighbours here at the Big Top Mall know many tricks. They are an educated lot, more accomplished than I.

      One of my neighbours plays baseball, although she is a chicken. Another drives a fire truck, although he is a rabbit.

      I used to have a neighbour, a sleek and thoughtful seal, who could balance a ball on her nose from dawn till dusk. Her voice was like the throaty bark of a dog chained outside on a cold night.

      Children wished on pennies and tossed them into her plastic pool. They glowed on the bottom like flat copper stones.

      The seal was hungry one day, or bored, perhaps, so she ate one hundred pennies.

      Mack said she’d be fine.

      He was mistaken.

      Mack calls our show “The Littlest Big Top on Earth”. Every day at two, four and seven, humans fan themselves, drink sodas, applaud. Babies wail. Mack, dressed like a clown, pedals a tiny bike. A dog named Snickers rides on Stella’s back. Stella sits on a stool.

      It is a very sturdy stool.

      I don’t do any tricks. Mack says it’s enough for me to be me.

      Stella told me that some circuses move from town to town. They have humans who dangle on ropes twining from the tops of tents. They have grumbling lions with gleaming teeth and a snaking line of elephants, each clutching the limp tail in front of her. The elephants look far off into the distance so they won’t see the humans who want to see them.

      Our circus doesn’t migrate. We sit where we are, like an old beast too tired to push on.

      After our show, humans forage through the stores. A store is where humans buy things they need to survive. At the Big Top Mall, some stores sell new things, things like balloons and T-shirts and caps to cover the gleaming heads of humans. Some stores sell old things, things that smell dusty and damp and long-forgotten.

      All day, I watch humans scurry from store to store. They pass their green paper, dry as old leaves and smelling of a thousand hands, back and forth and back again.

      They hunt frantically, stalking, pushing, grumbling. Then they leave, clutching bags filled with things – bright things, soft things, big things – but no matter how full the bags, they always come back for more.

      Humans are clever indeed. They spin pink clouds you can eat. They build domains with flat waterfalls.

      But they are lousy hunters.

      Gone

      Some animals live privately, unwatched, but that is not my life.

      My life is flashing lights and pointing fingers and uninvited visitors. Inches away, humans flatten their little hands against the wall of glass that separates us.

      The glass says you are this and we are that and that is how it will always be.

      Humans leave their fingerprints behind, sticky with candy, slick with sweat. Each night a weary man comes to wipe them away.

      Sometimes I press my nose against the glass. My noseprint, like your fingerprint, is the first and last and only one.

      The man wipes the glass and then I am gone.

      Artists

      Here in my domain, I do not have much to do. You can only throw so many me-balls at humans before you get bored.

      A me-ball is made by rolling up dung until it’s the size of a small apple, then letting it dry. I always keep a few on hand.

      For some reason, my visitors never seem to carry any.

      In my domain, I have a tyre swing, a baseball, a tiny plastic pool filled with dirty water, and even an old TV.

      I have a stuffed toy gorilla too. Julia, the daughter of the weary man who cleans the mall each night, gave it to me.

      The gorilla has empty eyes and floppy limbs, but I sleep with it every night. I call it Not-Tag.

      Tag was my twin sister’s name.

      Julia is ten years old. She has hair like black glass and a wide, half-moon smile. She and I have a lot in common. We are both great apes, and we are both artists.

      It was Julia who gave me my first crayon, a stubby blue one, slipped through the broken spot in my glass along with a folded piece of paper.

      I knew what to do with it. I’d watched Julia draw. When I dragged the crayon across the paper, it left a trail in its wake like a slithering blue snake.

      Julia’s drawings are wild with colour and movement. She draws things that aren’t real: clouds that smile and cars that swim. She draws until her crayons break and her paper rips. Her pictures are like pieces of a dream.

      I can’t draw dreamy pictures. I never remember my dreams, although I sometimes awaken with my fists clenched and my heart hammering.

      My drawings СКАЧАТЬ