Okapi

An excerpt from The Art of Failing, illustrating the complicated relationship between Truth and Fiction

Rosie wanted to go to the zoo. I told her that I’d take her to the even better ‘free’ zoo. It’s the bit of Regent’s Park where you can see over and through the railings to some of the animal enclosures. We stood there in the drizzle for a while. You could see the giraffes and then, gloriously, a flash of okapi. But soon Rosie grew restive, so I told her an edited version of my okapi story.

Some years ago, when I was still in the habit of drinking all day in public spaces, I found myself in this same section of the park, just outside the zoo. It was late at night, and I deduced that my best chance of getting some kip was to hop over the fence into one of the enclosures, where I could bed down in some straw, safe from interference by the vagrants in the park. I knew the lions and tigers and leopards and wolverines and whatnot were fully enclosed, so I was unlikely to be molested by a large predator, although if truth be told I wasn’t thinking all that clearly.

I can’t remember quite how I scaled the high perimeter fence, although drink has a way of helping you overcome obstacles of that nature. So, there I was, in some sort of paddock, with a farmyard ambience, and a pervasive stench of vegetative animal excrement.

I found a loose pile of straw, and formed it into a rough bed. I had a big coat in those days, Yugoslavian Army surplus, designed to withstand the rigours of the Balkan winters, and without that I’d probably have frozen to death, and been found the next morning by the keepers. As it was, I was merely very cold, and my knackers were clacking like an executive toy.

But I was just beginning to drift off, soothed by the distant lowing of the llamas, and the gentle whoops of the gibbons, and the digestive rumbles and gut-blasts of the Indian elephants, when suddenly I heard the thunder of hooves approaching, and a frantic whinnying. I looked up to see a strange vision before me, and it took a moment or two before I realized it was an okapi, that gentle and elusive forest cousin of the giraffe. Gentle, in normal circumstances, that is. This one was clearly enraged. It was rearing like a stallion, and emitting that unearthly cry, like a soul in torment.

One of its sharply hooved feet thudded down inches from my skull, and I took that as a sign that I should make my exit. So I did, pursued by the okapi. I’d never before heard of this extreme territoriality in the okapi, and I thought, briefly, that there might be a scientific monograph to be written on the subject. But then I was back over the fence, and decided to make my uncertain way back to my official lodgings.

As I staggered down the street, I realized that there was movement from within the folds of my greatcoat. Somewhat dismayed and surprised, as there had been nothing of that nature going on for quite some time, I pulled open the coat, and something fell out. I picked it up, and found that it was a baby okapi. I considered returning and throwing it over the fence, but the alarm had been raised. A siren was sounding, and searchlights were playing across the pens. I couldn’t afford another zoo-related offence on my record, so I scurried away, the okapi tucked back inside my coat, and under my jumper, a Fair Isle sweater I’d won in a game of chance.

It was strangely comforting having the little chap there inside my jumper, and it soon settled down and went to sleep. However, by the time I’d reached my lodgings, it was dead.

Having no money for a kebab, I roasted it in the communal kitchen, and ate it with some stale bread I found in a cupboard.

It was the finest thing I’ve ever eaten, as tender as spring lamb. But hunger, of course, is the best sauce, and I’d had nothing inside me but for the drink all day.

I’m not saying I felt good about it, and early the next morning I went back to the park, to pay my respects. I stood at the railings and looked through them, at the mother okapi. She was standing over the pile of straw, making a sound that was so close to human weeping that I was unmanned. She looked at me with those huge brown okapi eyes, and I stared back, and I think she knew the truth, as she went rigid, and then bared her long, ungulate teeth. I felt shame, and regret, and a sort of disgust at humankind for always destroying what is most gentle and most beautiful in the world.

But also, beneath it, hunger, because once you’ve tasted okapi, no other meat will suffice.

‘Is it true, Dad?’ asked Rosie, when I’d finished.
‘What?’
‘The story, is it true?’
‘Ah, truth. Truth is like looking into the murky waters of a pond, and you think you see a fish down there, turning in the depths, but it might just be the play of light and shade, or a bubble of methane emerging from the sludge at the bottom.’

‘I hate you, Dad,’ said Rosie.