Sixteen

Abstract

As the hours passed the bananas became more and more tantalizing to the eyes and nose of Jonas Pithecanthropus. Had he not become all nostrils? Now the fruit no longer lay in a circle around his cage. It had stood up. Had begun to march around him. It was trembling and releasing more of its fra­grance. But no. They’re not really bananas. They’re guerillas that look like bananas. They’ve disguised themselves to add to my humiliation. They know that bananas are my weakness. And that today my hunger multiplies their presence. They’re laughing at me with their yellow mouths and writhing stems. They’re moving closer to the cage. I’ll touch them. I’ll grab at least one. One. Just one. He leaped against the bars. Struck his face, his legs, his torso. Damn! I can’t get at the sons of whores. And now? What are they doing now? Are they eating each other? Were they the guerillas? If that’s so, they don’t look like cannibals. And so? So what’s going on, Goddamnit? goddamn! Are they demol­ishing my brains? Have they stuck a propeller in there? Or did they just inject me with a little of the fruit? He screamed in desperation.