Apes of Elaborate Displays

Apes Of Elaborate Displays

He slouched in his chair, staring at the flickering flames in front of him. It made him appear a sinister old spinster; the ambiance of it all, to feel so blissfully alone in a room full of snobs. Of course he could hear them chattering around him like a gaggle of hens, a hoard of chimps in suits and painted faces. He knew not what one called a group of chimps but he knew one when he saw one. But the banquet was glorious and the room reeked of ostentatious luxury. There was nothing that drew Count Govier like a display of excess. The man found himself to be a self-proclaimed hypocrite and was hardly troubled by it.

He met few men in his life that did not contradict themselves. Morals were a matter of convenience.

Govier watched a servant as he poured the brandy, avoiding his gaze lest it be an invitation for idle conversation. There was something wonderfully soothing about being indoors on a winter night, he thought to himself, to simply bolt out all the people with every door and window at his disposal and eat like a swine. It was enough to make him laugh, all the pretences of etiquette he would will himself to endure if only to feel a part of society. He was his own worst foe when it came to such conflicting matters.
His gaze began to drift as he sunk further into the armchair, the night had been drawn out into its late hours yet the crowd appeared to have no intention of dispersing. The display of meticulously decorated desserts was yet to be served for gloved fingers to devour. He could not help but anticipate.

Govier found himself despicable, to realize that his mind was filled with little but the base yearnings of his appetite. He could not imagine ever being full of the pleasures of life, it was like playing with matches, lighting one after the other if only to see a spark. He simply would not tire of them.

However, the portly man’s weary daydreams were broken by a tall figure looming over him. Count Govier tentatively twisted his thick neck, his beetle eyes falling upon an angular man with the most inquisitive face. He had the look of an aged musician or else a debt collector and Govier liked him not. However he sensed that this man was quite intent on disturbing his peace.

“Enjoying your evening sir?” Govier’s face transformed in a show of contrived delight. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” he went on to say, extending his pudgy arm for a handshake.

“No, we have not,” the other replied, scanning Govier’s expression with vacant gray eyes, returning the rigid gesture. The Count felt himself being scrutinized in a manner that was almost intrusive yet was unable to read the other’s intention. This man made him most uneasy for conversing with others was his chief anxiety and he detested being looked at of all things, he much rather preferred the role of a spectator.
Yet he hid his phobias well, so he believed, for he had yet to be the subject of mirth at the dining table. A meek and well-learned man such as himself was a pleasant guest to have at any occasion, like a tasteful piece of furniture or a pedantic manuscript over which one’s gaze passes over in disinterested approval. So was his theory of choice, the alternative was that they all found him quite dull and did not go on to think anything more.

He expected the other man to offer his name yet it did not seem to come. “I have been told that you are a collector of various relics and artefacts,” so the emaciated gentleman introduced his petition. “I am a traveller and have acquired several items that may interest you, perhaps we may step away from the festivities so that I may show you treasures of greater splendour?”

Count Govier could not help but feel taken aback by what appeared to be a rather tastelessly executed scam, yet he could not deny that a part of him was piqued with intrigue. There was something about the man, his sombre expression, his snowy beard, which made him appear otherworldly. If anything, he had the likeness of a wise sage of sorts. At last the count concluded that he may as well take a detour from the endless night of languidness to satisfy his curiosity.

He indeed had an affinity for oddities. Count Govier cluttered his rooms with an assortment of aged trinkets. Having sent his servants across the globe to collect the artefacts of dying tribes and tear the manuscripts from the poorest of failed playwrights, Govier would delight in the knowledge that he alone possessed these items. The value of anything is in its rarity, therefore it was by some celestial destiny that it was none other than his swollen hands that may hold the fate of it.

“Very well,” spoke the Count, quite satisfied in his resolution. “I shall accompany you.”

“My shop, it is not far from here,” the man assured him. “But a short walk, two blocks East.”

“Yes, very well indeed,” the Count muttered, his mind wandering elsewhere as his imagination construed whatever it was that lay in store for him, quite certain that the reality of it would fall below expectations. But it is expectations that kept a man alive, he firmly believed.
The sky was still quite dark, the light of dawn was yet to arrive. Such an atmosphere pleased Govier greatly, for night set the tone of choice for a time of great intrigue and mystery; this was the mood which the Count wished to create for himself. As a man who lived chiefly in the musings of his own mind and the comfort of habit, he thrived on novelty when it fell into his lap in order to further spur his imagination for when the months once again grew dreary. The two men made their way through the deserted streets, navigating through dilapidating alleyways, until at last the destination was reached: a teetering brick building pressed between two others which appeared to keep it upright. The old man wasted no time in leading Govier up the steps to the peeling door. After fumbling through his coat, at last the fellow managed to uncover the correct key to send the rotting wood screeching on its hinges.

Suppressing the wave of reluctance which began to set in, the Count tentatively followed the stranger through the dimly lit corridors. His face contorted as the pungent smell of mildew was taken in through the wide nostrils of his pug nose, the house must be about as old as his guide, Govier figured. What followed was a flight of stairs which sent the heavyset man heaving for breath when at least he reached the attic.

“Are you alright sir?” the aged man asked, going through another set of keys. Govier replied with a nod, holding his hand to his chest as he caught his breath.

“Is there someone in there?” the Count asked, noticing that there was a light that shone through the crack under the door. The man stopped jangling the keys for a moment.

“No sir,” he replied, pushing the key through the keyhole and turning the knob. The door had to be given a good shove before it could be opened, but at last it revealed a room filled with several black chests with a sinister likeness to coffins.

“Alright then, here I am, now what is that you wished to show me?” Govier tried to mask his pang of fear and anxiousness with haughty impatience. The longer he scanned the room the more evident it became to him that the place much resembled the storehouse of a morgue, if every they ran short of coffins. Yes, these chests were indeed coffins, the Count could not think of a viable counter-theory.

“Yes, right away sir, of course,” the man laughed involuntarily, sharing in his guest’s discomfort. He could surely see that his treasures had not yet made the desired impression, it was likely that the Count would jump to objectionable conclusions if he did not explain himself soon and end the other’s confusion, lest it lead to repulsion. And so he did not was a second more as he pulled one of the coffins for Count Govier to behold.

“Shall I open it sir?” the man asked, his yellow nails scratching at his neck to keep themselves busy. The impatience was mortifying for the fellow, for this was the moment he had so long craved for, to find one with a taste for beauty such as his. The aged man had read all of Count Govier’s studies and so far as worshiped his aesthetic theories, revolving chiefly around the pursuit of a perfect ratio that defines all that the eye finds pleasing to behold.

Samuel Tharndall had been an aspiring mathematician almost at the peak of making his contribution to the realm of scholars when he had been chained from his goal by the closed minded. They had locked him up from the world in the name of a twisted justice, yet with the help of a dear friend he had managed to set himself free. It still pained him to use deception on the one woman who had taken pity on his soul but he was quite certain that she would not side with his views, they were too abstract for her to grasp in their entirety. Her moral sense would distort them. That is why he had taken it onto himself to make the sacrifice of his soul.
Tharndall unlocked the clasps of the sarcophagus with utmost dexterity, carefully lowering the lid onto the floor. He closed his eyes and bowed his head by way of reverence.

The Count uttered a feeble gasp, grabbing at his handkerchief to hide the expression which curled his lips and made his stomach churn. Inside the coffin their lay what appeared to be a woman. She had long dark hair and angular features, a sharp chin and aristocratic fingers curled around a silver pocket watch. He could not tear his eyes from the ghastly sight, fright leaving him frozen and speechless.

“Do not recoil in horror good sir, she is not dead, I assure you,” Samuel broke the silence, reaching into his pocket to present a small vial of a muddy liquid. “A few drops will revive her, send her heart beating.”

As he looked closer her body was slender yet not emancipated and although she appeared deathly pale there were no signs of decomposition of the flesh. Still, Govier could not help but question the man’s sanity. At that moment another shock came over him as he was swept by a realization. He recognized the man’s face, though age had not been kind to him. A Samuel Tharndall had escaped from an asylum in London about a decade ago and had not been heard of since. The mad man must have been more clever than most of his lot, for he had managed to keep himself hidden for so long without arousing the suspicion of the authorities.

“What is it that you want from me?” said the Count, deciding that it would be best to give no sign that the other man’s identity was known to him. If he followed his wits he may even leave the crumbling building with his life, so he reasoned. The key element was to not show fear, or rather, no more than what could be suppressed.

“I wish for you to carry on in my research. In the folds of her dress I have hidden my life’s work,” Tharndall kneeled down by the coffin and lifted the faded fabric, showing the Count a bound volume with pages upon pages scrawled in a small frightened hand. “Surely you can see that this specimen holds the grail. The ratios! They are as close to the ideal as I have ever come across and indeed I am a man who has scoured the world in his pursuit,” said Samuel, feeling as though a weight was being lifted for at last he was able to share with one of his standing.

“Whatever do you mean? What pursuit do you refer to?” said the Count, biting his lip as he tried to keep his demeanour.

“The pursuit of beauty, beauty in its finest and purest form,” Samuel answered him, not taken aback for his mood was so elated by having such a distinguished audience that nothing could suppress it. He had the ears of his intellectual idol.
Count Govier could not help but be surprised by the man’s response. He could not have imagined that his early works would make such an impression. It appeared as though the gentleman had lost both is mind and his freedom for such a lofty passion, throwing all to the flames. While his rational side could see nothing but the other’s madness, another part of him wondered if there was indeed something to behold in the so called specimen that had been brought before him. Was there really anything to take from the scene than to be witness to an escaped madman’s fetishes? He took a closer look at the woman. The Count had seen greater beauties, certainly, though he would dare not say so to his host. Instead he would play along until he could reach safety, at which point he would not wait to inform the authorities.

“Yes, I must have her, let me have your works,” the Count took the journal from the man’s eager hands.

“Take her from here for I fear that I shall soon be discovered and my work be squandered by lowly fools. You must sir, take her to your home and protect her from the fiend, Mortality,” Samuel insisted, setting to work to seal the coffin. “I shall help you carry her, I know these streets well and have long ago planned a route from here to your dwelling.”

The Count was alarmed to hear this but had no choice but to feign agreement. And so the two men carried the coffin down the staircase, straining and wheezing from its weight.