DAVID SEDARIS

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The taxidermist’s eyes brightened, and he led me to a human skeleton half-hidden in the back of the room. “Who do you think this was?” he asked. Being a layman, all I had to go by was the height—between four and a half and five feet tall. “Is it an adolescent?” The taxidermist invited me to guess again, but before I could he blurted, “It's a Pygmy!” He then told me that in the nineteenth century the English went to what is now the Congo and hunted these people, tracked them down and shot them for sport. Funny how quickly this changed the mood. “But he could have died of a heart attack, right?” I said. “I mean, how are we to know for certain that he was murdered?” “Oh, we know, all right,” the taxidermist told me. It would have been disturbing to see the skeleton of a slain Pygmy in a museum, but finding him in a shop, for sale, raised certain questions, uncomfortable ones, like: How much is he? “If you like the odd bits and pieces, I think I’ve got something else you might enjoy.” The taxidermist retreated to the area behind his desk, and pulled a plastic bag off an overhead shelf. It was, I noticed, from Waitrose, a grocery store described to me upon my move to England as “a cut above.” 38
forearm, complete with little hairs and a smudged tattoo. The taxidermist said, completely unnecessarily, “Now, there’s a story behind this.” For what human limb in a Waitrose bag is not without some sort of story? He placed the platter on the table, and as the lid was lifted and set to the side I was told that, a hundred years ago, the taxidermist’s grandfather witnessed a bar fight between two sailors. One was armed with a sabre, and the other, apparently, was disarmed with one. After it happened, the crowd went wild. The amputee fell on his back, and as he lay there in shock, bleeding to death, the taxidermist’s grandfather looked down at the floor, at the blood-soaked fingers which may have still been twitching, and likely thought, Well, it’s not like it’s doing him any good. The story sounds a bit far-fetched, but there was no denying that the arm was real. The cut had been made two inches south of the elbow, and the exposed end, with its cleanly severed radius and ulna, reminded me of osso bucco. “It was my grandfather who mummified it,” the taxidermist said. “You can see it’s not the best job in the world, but it’s really rather good for a first attempt.” I leaned closer. 39
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DAVID SEDARIS

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