Baratas

I’ve always been a fan of the cinema. I grew up in a small town and as far back as I can remember, our family was always first to line-up to see the latest movie that came to town.

It was a special event for us one that we looked forward to eagerly. My mother would line us up in the front parlour, four girls and three boys, the boys were the youngest and I was the youngest of them all, where she would check our clothes, look behind our ears and scold any unscrubbed fingernails or shoes.

Then we would troop along the dusty street with its tall firs, pockets of trimmed, green lawns in front of simple but clean wooden structured homes, the two miles to the street where the cinema was situated.

We always arrived long before the film was to be shown to make sure we would be first in line. We sat in the middle of the theatre, so as not to damage our eyes, my mother said, with the four smallest sitting in front of the others so we could all share the little titbits my mother had prepared for us.

It was a wonderful time, every moment a magical delight as the cartoons lead to the newsreels then finally the main feature. We always cheered when the film began and would sit patiently as the story developed, even when it was a particularly bad film.

I remember that even from a very early age we were expected to discuss what we had seen and comment on the good and bad points. Whereas most of the family tended to focus on the film as a whole, it seemed that I was drawn mostly to the animals in the story. I watched with delight as the ‘Silvers’ the ‘Lassies’ and ‘Rin-tin-tins’ of the films performed daring and heroic acts that for me, made the actors and actresses seem half-backed by comparison.

So it was, that by the time our loving family had dispersed to the corners of their worlds, I found myself tied neatly to the other side of that magic wide screen, with my own trained animals at the beck and call of director after director.

But my stars were not stars. They were the simple walk-ons, crawl-ons or bark-ons that were never remembered. Still, they were stars in my world and merited the special treatment and care that was accorded to them.

“Zac” the director shouted out. “Where the hell are you?”

My name is Zachary and most people call me that except for Dick. Big Dick I like to call him, for no other reason other than to express my dislike for him. Others call him Richard, ‘Mr Glass’ or simply ‘boss’.

“Yes Dick,” I called back in my most annoying voice.

He squirmed a little in his high top director’s chair. He never seemed to be completely sure about me especially when my voice sounded as camp as that one did.

“Get over here will ya,” he demanded.

“I’m all yours biggus,” I joked as campily as possible.

There were sniggles here and there, and an inordinate number of linen handkerchiefs seemed to be fluttering from pocket to nose. He might have been a talented Director but no one really liked the way he bandied it about and got under their skins. Still beggars can’t be choosers and there were a number of beggars there, who long discarded their begging bowls in favour of the lash of his tongue.

“Ah yeh, didn’t see ya for a moment there. Look, Zac,” he said beginning that drooping gaze of his that meant he needed a favour.” We all like what ya’ve done with the animals, nothing’s wrong so don’t think there is.”

He must have seen a spark flash from my eyes or something. He should have known it was just the lighting. I really didn’t give a fuck if he liked or disliked what I did. I knew, and he knew that I was not only one of the best animal trainers in the studio, but I was also the only one who didn’t give a shit about him.

“This one’s a wrap, post’ll take it from here. It’s the next one that’s got me by the short ones.” he smiled, hoping, I guess, that I wasn’t reading anything untoward into his comment; I’m only 5ft 4 inches. Didn’t I tell you that?

So I just nodded, wishing to hell that he’d get down from his chair because I was getting an awful crook in my neck.

“You’ve got four different scenes for your pets. Nuthins changed, it’s exactly as we discussed last week. The thing is”, he said leaning down a little more to my level, which did my neck no end of good.

“I’m on a tight leash, the budget won’t get me special effects, well, not the way I wanted them.” He’d stopped and hadn’t told me anything.

He sat up and looked around to see if he’d been heard. He’d said it loud enough so I figured that someone out there was supposed to get the message.

Dick got down from his high chair and that was decidedly worse because he must have been a basketball center at some time in his life and the craning was about to get worse except.

“Let’s go Zac, I’ll buy us the coffees,” and his long arm stretched a great flat hand down to my scrawny shoulder where he proceeded to push/guide/shove or all of the above, from the shoot to the on-site canteen.

“I need bugs, bugs that can act,” he said finally.

I managed to blow a greater part of the froth from my ‘crème du latè’ over the table in front of us and was happy to see spots splatter across his rose coloured T-shirt.

I wouldn’t normally have found such a request ‘strange’ but with the way things had been going with Dick lately and the second, third and fourth rate talent the studio had been throwing at us, I really felt we were clutching at straws, if we expected bugs to carry an okay kind of movie.

So I choked, coughed and blew the foam from my ‘Latè’ and he just sat there smiling, not even bothering to wipe at the spreading stains, unless that is, he didn’t know about the splashes.

“You can do it Zac. If anyone can, it’s got to be you,”

“I don’t see it Dick. What is it exactly you want me to do?” I asked trying to grasp the hidden dimension of his mind.

“You train animals, don’t you?”

“Yes Dick, I do. It is those animals you pay me to bring onto your shoots so you can make them look ridiculous,” I said as sarcastically as possible.

He stared at me blankly.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he said, deftly sidestepping the sarcasm. “Now. I want you to do the same thing with bugs.”

I wasn’t sure if he and I were still sharing the same space on the same planet, so I lifted my arm up and waved my hand in front of his face. He quickly looked around to see who I was waving at, so I snapped my fingers a couple of times.

“What? What you want? Another ‘Latè’, cake, don’t you? I’ll call the waitress,” He said standing up.

“Dick! DICK!!,” I shouted. “He stopped and looked at me in frustration. “Sit down will you, you’re giving me a headache.”

“I was only trying to help,” was all I got as he slumped down in his seat.

“I do not do, bugs,” I practically spelt it out to him. “I do animals, you know, those barky, chirpy, meowy things that shit and scratch everywhere they go.”

“Yeh, and you do a good job, a very good job.” he said, suddenly making that giant leap for mankind. “But I need ya to do, bugs, bugs, that do what ya tell them, that follow instructions, like actors do,” he smiled.

“Actors don’t follow instructions,” I corrected, “they interpret, and you direct them, give them direction, and if you’re lucky, what they do is what you want – which doesn’t seem the case nowadays.”

“So times are hard, these actors are young, learning the ropes, ya know, getting experience…” he trailed off.

I looked at this even bigger, Dick and wondered how much he really believed. He was going down fast and the way I saw it, it was time to get off this express train to disaster.

“What is it ya want Zac? Money? Fame?” and here he paused. Then true to form, the nasty side of this big Dick reared its ugly head. “Or maybe it’s just work, and ya need it,” He said snidingly.

He was right. I’d stepped on too many toes recently, let my big mouth run ahead of good sense. I was feeling the pinch. With the advent of better computer graphics, special effects and the change in people’s choices, demand for my services, and those of my stars, had waned dramatically.

I’d never been one to save, much and most of what I earned went towards the upkeep of my dwindling business and my ever expanding film collection.

So, I needed the work.

“I want fame,” I said. I wasn’t going to give him the pleasure of admitting that he was right.

“Fame? What can you do with fame?” he laughed. “It’ll never happen – Animal trainers never get fame.”

“So give me the money. I’ll settle for that, and lots of it,” I struck back, already 2x0 down on him.

“That’s what I wanted to tell ya Zac. The money’s lousy – it’s the budget. I told ya that already.”

I was cooked, roasted until black.

“Here’s the deal. You give me trained bugs and you work. You’ll get a fair wage and all the time ya need until the shoot begins.” He sat back smiling contentedly. “This way Zac,” he paused, “ya still work. Now ain’t that sweet.”

I could have puked. What I wouldn’t give to be somewhere else.

But instead of blowing shit through my over-active and trained orifice I simply said, “What bugs do you need Biggus?”

He ignored the name, which was okay. The joke was wearing just a little thin.

“Roaches. Big fat ones. I need ya to give me dancing Roaches.”

He stood up and pulled up his pants which had slipped down his thinning body. He must have been feeling the pinch as much as everyone else.

“Get in touch with Rachel. She’ll give ya the budget and timetable as well as the scenes. Ya do this right and we’ll be getting much better work. You’ll, of course, have the pleasure of working with me some more.” he said almost tipping on imaginary fedora.

“Oh what bliss,” I thought, then “why don’t you shove it!” I wanted to shout out.

Then it hit me. Where the hell was I to begin? Crawl under the neighbor’s house and jam a handful of ‘roaches’ into a jar and begin teaching them how to dance?

What the hell was I supposed to do? I actually hated the sight of the scuttling dirty smelly brown shits. I’d as soon step on them and leave them half dead for the ants to eat than have them anywhere near where I lived.

“They’re dumb brainless creatures,” I mumbled to myself as I stepped out of the coffee shop, and yes, true to his word, Biggus had paid for the coffees, NOT, so got stuck with that too.

The next few days were a hazy memory to me. I’d found some choice specimens on one of our lots not far from the last shoot. I’d taken them home and had spent an inordinately long time trying to get them to do something, ten minutes, before giving up in disgust as first one then another, then a third escaped across the desk into the myriad of spaces between the wooden floor and the skirting boards.

The only one left committed suicide when it dived under my stamping boot. The sound of a crackling, popping squelching bug brought me great joy and I gaily christened the tangled entrails ‘biggus’ in honour of the man himself.

I left home shortly afterwards and ended up slinking from dive after dive, shot – or double shot – after shot until I was too drunk to know if I had enough money in my pocket for the next one.

I must have been thrown out of quite a few of those dives because I had bruises the length of my body at different stages of hurt.

It must have been the second or third day when the mush of fermented juices finally flooded, streamed then trickled from the distant reaches of my body and I was able to keep my body upright for longer than 27 seconds, a record I had established over the hours that passed.

So it was that I finally focused on the man’s card, a business card, simple, with no frills just the name, contact number and the word ‘Baratas’ scribbled on the back.

“What was it he had said? “ I mumbled out loud. A solitary life had made me into a prodigious mumbler.

“His name was Fred, “I paused to think, “No, that’s Flintstone – so Barney is out too. George? No! Brill? No again, he didn’t look the president type. So, what did he look like?” and my head was beginning to ache again with the vibrations of my mumbling mouth, so I just thought it through instead.

He looked kind of Latin, like Central American maybe. Swarthy skin, nice colour, wavy black hair, dark brown eyes. Yeh. It was the eyes, those piercing brown bullets. So he must be a Jose, Juan, Manoel – No, of course not. It was Simon. Now I remembered then looked at the business card again and there it was ‘Simon de Fonseca’. Hey I’m right I smiled a celebratory smile – the brain’s still working.

But what the hell are ‘Baratas’? I had cried in many of those bars. I must have done because that’s when I drink the heaviest.

So if I was crying then I was probably telling all and sundry about the shit I was in. But what did that have to do with mister ‘de Fonseca’.

“I am from Brazil,” He had said. I was beginning to remember now. “We have many wonderful things in my country, especially the ‘Baratas’.”

It was here that my memory failed me. “Brazil has coffee. Brazil has sugar and now Brazil has oil, so we’re told – but what are ‘Baratas’?”

So I dialed the number on his card.

Two rings into the call and I decided it was a bad idea so I reached for the disconnect, except, there was a click and a softly spoken ‘Good morning’.

“Ah, good morning. Mr. Fonseca?”

“Yes?”

“This is Zachary. We were talking the other night and …,”

He interrupted me.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Zachary is it? I don’t remember names very well, but I would assume that you are holding my business card in your hand or you wouldn’t have called this number. Am I right?”

“Well, actually, yes, that’s true,” I replied.

“Then please, could you read to me what is written on the back of the card,” he asked gently.

“It’s ‘Baratas’, and that’s why I’m calling,” I began.

“Of course, that’s why you are calling me. Mr. Zac, a very funny man, but very drunk, also.”

“So you remember?” I asked a little more intently.

“Oh yes, your bugs and Mr. Biggus, I think you called him and how he was the only one in this world who understood you and that you needed dancing Roaches.”

Simon de Fonseca stopped talking and I cringed at the thought of someone hearing me say something nice about the great Richard Glass.

“Yeh, yeh, you’re right. I must have made a spectacle of myself,”

“On the contrary, Mr. Zac. We all had a very amusing time.”

So there was more than one person listening to that shit – god, what I wouldn’t give to erase that episode, I thought.

“Ah, Mr. Fonseca,” I began slowly. “What exactly does ‘Baratas’ mean?”

“Baratas are very wonderful creatures, Mr. Zac,”

“Please call me Zachary, Mr. Fonseca, but what kind of creatures are they?”, I almost pleaded.

“You may call me Simon, Zacharia,”

“It’s Zachary, Simon.”

Yes of course, please, I am sorry. The Barata is what your Mr. Biggus is needing.” He said, a smile almost coming through his voice.

“You mean that ‘Baratas’ are Roaches?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, yes, Zachary. But not just any Roach. These are very clever creatures and might I venture to say, intelligent too.”

I almost scoffed in disbelief but there was something serious in his manner so I waited to hear more.

“I have some very special Baratas that I can help you with. We must get together and I will show you, then you can decide.”

“Look Simon, I’m grateful for the help really, believe me, but I don’t see how the hell I’m going to get stupid Roaches to dance, and I don’t mean to put you down but you’ve got to be pulling my chain if you expect me to believe that Roaches have any inkling of intelligence.”

“Now now, uh, Zachary. I promise you. It will not be a waste of time. Look, why don’t you come and have dinner here with me, a fun evening, a little eating, a little drinking, then a little look at my friends. You will not have wasted your time I assure you. You will leave with a full stomach, a warm feeling in your head and the happiness of a good friend", said Simon convincingly.

I was listening for something, anything that would give me an out, except, there wasn’t a single reason why I shouldn’t go and visit him. I kind of liked the guy and besides, I was starved. My budget had gotten me down to a starvation diet.

“So, what time then?” I asked.

There was a quiet shuffling then “How about two hours from now, that will give you, time to get here and me, time to make all the preparations,” Simon replied with that smiley voice of his.

I knew where he lived. I’d been there a few times on odd errands. A nice neighborhood, nothing fancy but clean and quiet.

I spruced myself up as best I could, set out the evening snacks and headed out. An hour and forty minutes later I was admiring some of the many photos that lined the walls of his living room.

Carmen Miranda with her trademark fruit basket – Not really Brazilian, Simon explained, but from Portugal, made Brazil famous none-the-less. Ze Carioca the cartoon Brazilian bird – the most famous Brazilian music – Tom Jobim, Joao Gilberto.

Carmen and Ze were familiar to me, but Tom Jobim and Joao meant nothing.

“Bossa Nova,” Simon shouted out, “The Girl from Ipanema”

Then I clicked, and he reeled off the popular standards I’d been humming along to most of my life.

It was a great meal – I’d been afraid that he might prepare something from the Brazilian jungles – instead we had a beautifully grilled steak with fresh vegetables and sauté potatoes followed by cheesecake.

We drank wine and I listened to his stories of life in a country run by Dictators and Generals.

“It’s not like that anymore,” Simon said. “Now we have democratic dictators.”

My look of shock became laughter as I saw him wink.

“It is true. Democracy came to my country in 1989 but sometimes it feels to me that little has changed. We really need to do very much to make Brazil a true democracy, but come, that is enough of my thoughts. Let me show you what you have come to see.”

He led me from the room to a door beneath the stairs.

“Please, watch your head,” he said leading me through.

Still, forewarned or not, I managed to shave a healthy patch from my already balding pate as we stepped down into the dark space below. Simon switched on a light, then another and I found myself in a well appointed office.

“This, my friend, is where I hide myself most days. I have all that I need except perhaps for a window and a view of the sea, which is best because I would never work otherwise.”

Behind a large bookstand sitting on a long table was what looked like a shoe box with large air vents cut into the sides.

“Please Zachary, could you sit there in that chair and keep perfectly still. Thank you,” he said as I sat myself down.

“Henry,” he called out. “I have a friend who wishes to meet you.”

There came a scurrying sound from within the box. I was suddenly afraid. I felt no love for cockroaches and had often done my best to be rid of them as quickly as possible.

I felt my heartbeat quicken as the feelers protruded from one of the large vents followed by the shiny brown head, body and spindly legs as ‘Henry’ crawled onto the table in front of the box. I swallowed the urge to reach out and crush ‘Henry’ with great difficulty.

Henry the roach, the Brazilian Barata remained motionless except for his waving antennas. Then he turned away from me to face Simon. There was a moment of silence then Simon spoke.

“Henry seems to feel a little threatened by you being here. He is not sure if he can trust you.” and Simon lifted a questioning eyebrow in my direction.

Should I come clean, I wondered. Why not, it wouldn’t do any harm. So I said.

“He scares me, we used to rush around stamping on roaches like him when I was young. It’s a little hard just sitting here doing nothing.

Simon smiled enigmatically. Now you must decide Zachary for I understand a lot depends on this project for your Mr Biggus.”

He was right as it seemed everyone but me, really understood. I needed this job, needed to get back on track, maybe take a new direction sometime ahead, but until them I really needed this work. So I did my best to relax a little and think positive.

Simon smiled encouragingly at me as he instructed Henry to show off his talents.

“I’m afraid that Henry only knows the ‘Samba”,” Simon said. “He seems to have problems with the ‘Bossa Nova’.”

And Henry began to move around in front of his box in a way that resembled scuttling, the exact same thing I thought roaches did anyway, then things changed. What had seemed to be random steps became something more rhythmical and contained a pattern. I’d never understood ‘Samba’ as a dance but watching Henry now I began to recognize a certain beauty as his six legs moved about to some imagined but unheard sound.

I was impressed and began to look for parallels that might be used with my own stars, thinking about the beat, the count etc. I’d often taught my pets their tricks using a combination of light sounds, vibrations or gestures that they seemed able to count from as they polished off their routines.

Henry had stopped. If he were human I might imagine him resting to catch his breath or even pumping himself up for the next act.

Then he began to move strangely, first bending his body a little, almost stretching, while his back legs appeared to be looking for purchase on the shiny smooth surface of the table. There was almost a grunt, I thought I’d heard one but I might be mistaken as Henry launched his head and body upright so that he was supported by his two back legs and the soft spongy trunk of his body. His front legs flailed about a bit until he was comfortably balanced before he gradually pushed himself upright to stand without support on his back legs.

I sat there with my mouth open and let the spittle drool from my mouth and down my chin, not daring to move in case I startled him.

“He has been trying to do that for almost a week now. Yesterday was his first time and today this is his third, but it is tiring for him.” Simon said smilingly as he tapped his finger twice on the table.

Henry lowered himself down and remained there motionless.

“Give him a few seconds Zachary, then he will show you some other things he can do,” Simon said.

“Hell no,” I said enthusiastically. “He’s done enough already. Just tell me what we do next.”

Simon smiled, tapped the table once more and waited for Henry to return slowly to his box.

“I am sure that Henry would be happy to go with you. You must understand that Henry is, what you might call, a seed. He will help you to train the other Baratas I give to you. Henry Is not unique but he is special and I believe you do not have much time to prepare your pets, it that so?” Simon had asked me a question but already knew the answer and was already fussing about among similar boxes.

“Yes, it’s true. I guess I’ve got about two weeks before ‘biggus’ will need my services.” I replied.

Simon now had another box that he placed on the table next to Henry’s. It had smaller covered vents and as Simon lifted the top of the box I could see a transparent film across the top. Down inside were many of the scurrying brown and black insects, the way I was used to seeing them.

“Henry?” Simon called into Henry’s box. “I believe it is now that you instruct the others. I have placed their box next to yours.”

We both waited but nothing happened. I looked questioningly at Simon who held up his hand and told me that Henry didn’t like to be rushed and that we should be patient. He then suggested coffee while we waited so we went back to his kitchen to savior the hot brew.

I was impatient yet enthralled at the prospect of seeing what was going to happen. The coffee was black and sickly sweet but delicious non-the-less. “This is how we make coffee in Brazil” he told me.

“It is time,” he announced.

We returned to his office where I looked eagerly at the two boxes half expecting Henry to be atop his own box commanding the others to perform tricks.

Instead, Henry was nowhere to be seen. All was silent. Even the scuttling from the other box had stopped. Simon still smiled, then he said “See” as he lifted the lid of the other box.

There the ‘Baratas’ were lined up in a row facing Henry’s box all apparently engrossed in something we could neither see nor hear.

Simon had placed his hand lightly on the table, then he looked at me.

“It is Henry. The sensation is very faint, but I believe he is tapping out instructions to the others.”

After some time Simon announced that the tapping had stopped.

“I think everything is ready.”

He lifted the lid of the box. Down inside the ‘Baratas’ seemed to look up as one then down again.

“You will take the two boxes. I have written some instruction on this paper for you to begin. I expect that Henry will give you further instructions, soon enough,” Simon said handing me a carefully written list.

So, how was I going to understand ‘Roach’ speak? I was impressed but not convinced. I only hoped that Simon didn’t sense it.

The trip home was uneventful. I placed the boxes on the kitchen table, checked the ‘Pets’ then sat down and read the instructions.

They really did not need any special care and might even be able to look after themselves if it came to a pinch. Let’s face it. They’ve been around longer than any other creature on this planet.

Henry was another thing. He was to be afforded as much in the way of comfort as could be managed. He was my guarantee of success.

The following day dawned bright and happy. Well it appeared that way to me. My little creatures all seemed to be smiling, none of them complaining as they were want to do normally and then there were the ‘Baratas’ marching tidily around the top of the kitchen table, Henry at their head.

I phoned Rachel.

“How long before you can get the script to me with the scenes for the dancing bugs?” I asked her.

Three hour later express delivery had them on my doorstep. I quickly skimmed through the notes checked storyboard and schedule then set out my own plans for the next nineteen and a half days.

I checked in with Henry and gave him his special treats. The others had retired to their box which I’d left open for them as the instructions had suggested.

Next, I prepared the training props. I needed a head and the upper torso of a man. The ‘Baratas’ would be required to file across a table over the head and into the mouth, then emerge from the torso. The notes attached to the script were vaguely written so it wasn’t easy to understand what special effects exactly, biggus was wanting.

He had mentioned dancing, so I read the script more closely to get a better feel of what was expected. The dance, if there was one, was probably in the dream, come nightmare part, where the main character, Julius, dreamed he was being attacked by all of these cockroaches. I imagined that the dream, come nightmare, sequence would look great if the roaches just happened to dance a victory dance on or around the victim. It didn’t seem to be much, but I could easily imagine the cost involved in doing this with special effects.

I quickly scanned through the rest of the script without finding anything else. We ought to be able to pull it off, I was sure of that. All that was needed was to get the whole idea across to Henry.

They had finished their mornings work by the time I returned so I laid out what they needed, making sure that Henry was well catered for before retiring myself for some much needed rest.

A new dawn and a new challenge awaited me. The instructions were quite clear. All I needed to do was speak to Henry as normally and naturally as I could. It wouldn’t take him long to understand what I needed.

So it was that I found myself seated at a table in front of an attentive roach trying to find a way explaining what is was we needed to do.

I’d been talking for about ten minutes or so, sketching a few ideas as I spoke repeating some of the instructions several times over when something began to squeak inside my brain. I stopped, shook my head to clear it and wondered if the alcohol of the past week was finally kicking in.

It was still there and I quickly apologized to Henry for the interruption. The squeak suddenly became a discernible ‘Ok’. I looked at this little creature and asked.

“Are you talking to me?”

That hardly discernable squeak was back in my head once again.

“Do you like the plan?” I asked

Squeak.

“Are you happy here with me?”

Squeak.

Okay, now it seemed as if Henry was actually communicating with me, but what would happen if he tried to tell me something, tried to explain something in detail. Would I be able to understand him? The only thing to do was put it to the test while we still had time.

“So Henry. You know what we need to do, do you have any suggestions?” I asked looking directly at him.

There was a long pause. I waited expectantly until I decided that he either hadn’t understood me or really wasn’t able to communicate at all. I opened my mouth to speak but a squeak interrupted me. It sounded like wait, so I waited. Henry began to move slowly and as I watched him, I realised that he was enacting the instructions I had given him.

He moved, paused, moved again, returned to where he had begun, then repeated the same thing several times.

I watched, fascinated at what he was doing and at how much he had understood.

It wasn’t long before he stopped and faced me. I looked down at him and waited. Then that squeaking sound came into my head and I began to understand a little of what he was saying.

Overall, the plan seemed okay and he felt that he could get the others to follow each of the steps that we had arranged.

“Do you want them to march?” He asked.

“No,” I said, “have them act as naturally as possible,”

Henry then explained that the dance routine was going to be the most difficult part.

“I have been practicing these things for a long time,” he said. “How long do we have to train the others?”

“Less than two weeks,” I told him.

“I will do my best,” he squeaked finally, before turning about and climbing back into his shoebox.

The next few days were much of a muchness, eat, work, rest, eat, work, sleep.

I left Henry to himself and went about with my other chores. I still had my pets to keep and train too for their parts in the same film.

Today was the big day. I had laid out the props and as much of what I had around to create some semblance of a real shoot. I liked to do this with my pets so they wouldn’t get stage fright being amongst so many different objects so I expected this to be helpful for Henry and his friends too.

It took Henry very little time to get the others used to the set-up. He walked them from one prop to the other then back again, all the while stopping, tapping then moving on.

The shot they had been practicing for came up next and I watched with bated breath and a stopwatch to see how they would perform.

At the final click I let out a sigh of relief. Everything had gone off like a dream. Henry was standing there and I began to congratulate him, but there was a little problem still that had to be dealt with.

“Look Henry, it’s perfect, except that it’s too fast. We need to add another 15 seconds. You’ll have to slow them down.” I said.

There was a long pause, one that I was getting used to. Then that high pitched sensation in my head returned.

“I don’t understand ‘seconds’. Please explain.”

With all his remarkable skills, I didn’t ever imagine that the intricacies of time would be an alien concept to Henry. I though through all that they had learnt to do and couldn’t really see where they might find another 15 seconds.

“Henry!” I called out. “What I need is 16 beat, just like this,” I said as I tapped my finger on the table.

“You want them to beat 15 times?”

“No I need this routine to be extended by this amount – the same as adding an extra beat roughly 15 times through your routine.” I was feeling a little exasperated at not being understood and finding it hard, for the very fist time, to help Henry understand.

I stood back a little and took a deep breath before looking down once again and seeing this brown shiny roach as if for the first time. I had forgotten what I was dealing with so I swallowed my anger and tried again.

But Henry was really something very special and as I tried a different tack he really showed his mettle by squeaking out to me to wait while he started to go through the routine by himself, squeaking at each place he added a second.

We were about half way through when I asked him to stop.

“Henry,” I said, “that is perfect – now try and get your boys used to the change, finish the dance and then we’ll look at the finished result in two day’s time. We only have three and a half days before shooting.

Henry squeaked his agreement then turned around to return to his box.

The two days flew by and ‘biggus’ had been bugging me constantly. It was make or break for both of us but he didn’t know about my secret weapon. Oh how glad I was going to be to stick it to him, show them all how well I was able to meet any challenge. The way things were going, I wouldn’t be needing them for much longer. In fact, they’d been needing me, all of them.

The show was flawless, timed to perfection with a dance routine that would make the top acts along Vegas, envious. Well that’s how I felt about it and I told Henry so.

We agreed that the next day would be a rest day. He would exercise the others and practice the dance, but very little else. I would have to take care of the other ‘stars’ and would see Henry only at feeding time.

I was really amazed at the way things were working out. Henry was like the partner I had never had, someone who took care of the other chores. Pity though couldn’t make coffee or do some cleaning.

Once in a recent conversation with Simon, I mentioned how good it was to have someone – I couldn’t think of Henry as ‘something’ any more – like Henry about and Simon told me how often they had shared moment together too.

“You only fully understand what life is,” Simon said, “when life is seen through the senses of a creature like Henry.”

It’s the size, the perspective and the simplicity of it all, we agreed. We as humans had created our own world based on who we were and on what best suited us.

Now through Henry’s eyes we see how distorted this world has really become. We duplicate the work of insects like ants and bees and call it our own invention. We adapt to our limitations and create aids, so that we can fly like bids, creatures that have flown most of their natural lives. We evolve over billions of years yet other creatures take far less time and we as human beings have inhabited this planet for such a short time while the likes of Henry have been around since life began.

We are making life and survival so much more difficult for them yet they will still be here when we have become extinct ourselves – and believe me, we will drive ourselves to extinction.

Simon was probably right in many ways but I really didn’t share his apocalyptic views, not fully anyway.

We all rested as best we could. Then, as if a new world had begun with the brightest of days and blessed future, we all set out to face the inquisition of lights and film.

Like us, the others had also been busily preparing for this moment. There were many things that resembled the way I had set-up my pet’s studio except that there were many more people and the lights penetratingly bright and hot. The pandemonium between scenes was hard even for me.

Biggus was there in his elevated glory, bull horn to lips, directing, or shouting, hard at times to tell as everything seemed to roll in its usual fashion with or without his help.

My pets were generally okay except for a Collie which seemed to suffer a sudden nervous fit. I took her outside and patted and combed her until she was calm enough to return.

Henry was wonderful. If the other roaches were affected or not it was hard to tell because Henry had everything covered.

I expected some of the crew to be a little curious over the shoeboxes and their contents, but I guess they had seen so many strange things before that one more curiosity was already a little anticlimactic.

The scenes were shot in the sequence as promised and I was relieved to see the Collie do through her part without the slightest hiccup. I guess it was a little stage fright that had hit her, unusual considering that she had done this before.

I tapped softly on Henry’s box as I saw the scenery change and our props being carried into position.

Then there was a tap on my shoulder. I was one of Biggus’s assistants.

“He’s been shouting for you for five minutes now,” she said apologetically.

I looked up quickly to see Biggus almost exploding as he shouted out.

“Zac – get you stinking arse here and stop fucking about.”

I hurried over, then with neck-torturing strain I confirmed our readiness to proceed.

“You’d better deliver Zac,” he threatened, his voice more strident than I had heard for a long long time. He must have been under all sorts of pressure. Let’s just hope everything is nailed down tight enough I thought.”

I checked the props especially the passageways the roaches would need to use. Then I carried the shoe boxes to center stage and lifted off the lids. There was a hushed silence as all strained forward to see what was going to emerge.

Henry was the first. He levered himself from his box, paused to survey what was in front of him, then turned slowly about seeming to drink in the delights of the set. Finally he stopped facing Biggus' high stool. With slow purposeful movements he lifted the front half of his body to sit back firmly on his ample torso legs, poised to take him all the way up. He seemed to be taking deep breaths as we waited, that torso expanding and contracting several times before lifted himself upon those back legs, almost like a weight lifter trying for an Olympic press. He was now upright and firm, the tips of his wings delicately touching the table in a fine show of balance. With consummate ease, Henry bent his head and upper body forward drawing one of his many legs across in front of him in a very well performed bow.

All around us, everbody started clapping as Henry raised and lowered his head several times.

I called for hush and said gently “That’s enough Henry. We can get the others ready now.”

Henry angled his head in my direction and nodded before lowering himself to all six legs once again. There were sounds of gasping and ‘wowing’ coming from many of them, then there was a bellow.

“Did any of yer get that,” Biggus shouted out.

Two of the sycophants rushed forward handycams outstretched, both showing “I did, I did.”

“Great,” Biggus declared. Get it into the bay with the others. “Zac – amazing stuff my man – but that’s only one. Can’t we get this show on the road and I mean now!” His voice was rising, but Henry was ignoring it as much as everyone else and was already marching the others from their box onto center stage.

“Alright, positions everybody … cameras, lights … and action, Biggus bellowed.

Nothing happened. I thought that something had gone wrong, that Henry had suddenly become camera shy. I moved as if to step forward when noticed Henry lift up a long leg to wave my back.

“Well!” Shouted Biggus.

I signaled him to keep rolling as I watched Henry begin tapping with another leg. There was a movement, and a brown shape began to move into position followed by another then another as all of the roaches moved through their routine.

I looked at those around me and noted their reactions as they watched these small brown creatures bring a dull looking scene to life. There were silent oohs and aahs and celebratory hand clapping as the roaches reached the climax and began to dance.

I looked up at Biggus, waiting for the cut and print command. Instead he kept everything rolling as the roaches paraded from the prop to cross a patch of floor between us.

I must have been off in another world, for the next thing I saw filled me with shock and horror. The actor, the prop was to represent, suddenly appeared and pounded down on the marching retreating roaches and began stepping briskly on each one until all were a smashed squashed mess.

I might have rushed out to their aid, tried to prevent what was happening and not just simply sit still, tears welling up in my eyes as the camera panned and focused into close ups of the actors gleeful face and the lifeless brown splodges, left about him. I might have, except I couldn’t. I was a professional. I was being paid and could gripe as much as I liked but I could never cross in front of a film crew filming, never interrupt a shoot in any way without finding myself unemployed for life.

So I watched rooted to my spot cursing and crying deep down inside those final moments.

He would give signal any moment now and I would be ready to pounce on the high stool, knock him to the ground and pound punches into that smirky smelly smulchy face of his.

I was on the boil, steam probably shooting out of all the orifices of my body and the high pitched screaming of my brain, penetrating and strident, urging me to halt, to wait for that massive thrust that was to come. But the high pitched scream became a high pitched call, calling out my name, in such a way as only Henry could and I hissed and he called, then I hissed once more as the heat under my cauldron was suddenly switched off.

I looked around seethingly trying to find him without losing my focus. I was still determined to take on Biggus but Henry’s screech was insistent.

There he was, under the overhanging lip of the other’s shoebox. His antennae were waving frantically and his front legs were moving very agitatedly. Finally, I focused on him wondering how I might help him.

“Relax Zachary, relax. It is all in the script. They knew what was going to happen. Simon told me and I told them,” he screeched out.

I was dumb founded. How had Simon gotten hold of the script? What was the connection and why didn’t I know about it myself?

I grabbed for a nearby script and thumbed through to where the ‘Baratas’ were to perform. I checked the dance sequence then flipped the page. There in black and white was the actors stomping sequence. I checked my own script and found that that page was missing.

“Simon is not able to work on the sets,” Henry screeched. “So Rachel, his friend, arranged everything for you to complete his work. He is very proud and of course grateful too.”

“But how?” I said quietly. “Why wasn’t I told? And why did the others accept that horrible end?”

There was pandemonium about us but silence between us. All steam had drained from my boilers and I was feeling weak. I collapsed, literally collapsed beneath myself.

“It was their one and only chance,” Henry’s high pitch continued. “The closest they could come to being something other than anonymous, forgotten pets. For a short moment they were stars, heroes even. We all want to be that way someday.”

“But to sacrifice your life, their lives in such a horrible senseless way,” I half mumbled.

“It is the same everyday for them, but now they have left a testament to themselves. People will look at us differently from now on. Henry’s voice trailed off.

“Zac, ma man, that was fantastic, I never in the world expected anything like it,” Biggus shouted enthusiastically bouncing heavy hand after heavy hand against my upper back. It hurt, hurt like hell, but so much had been drained from my body that I could barely raise a whimper.

“We’ve got a great future ahead of us Zac, I can see that now,” He spouted, his voice trailing off and his stride lengthening as some other victim drew his attention.

Henry and I escaped that horrible turmoil and made our way to Simon’s house. I couldn’t find Rachel to thank her, which was good in a way because I was still upset at her for removing that page. To be honest, I was more upset at myself for not noticing.

Simon was his usual warm companionable self and complimented me on what we had achieved and for the way I had looked after Henry.

“There are very few Henrys out there,” he said. “In time there will be others, but their world is much smaller and simpler than ours. They need to be left to themselves.”

I thanked them both profusely and returned to my own home, now deplete of everything. I had donated my film collection to a local museum and most of my stars were now somebody’s pet somewhere all, I believed, in very good and caring hands.

I have officially retired from show business. The reality is just too grim to bear.

I am now a dog handler. We go to disaster sites and help find victims who are lost or buried. It’s dangerous work and we face death each and every moment we are there. And yes, I see so many roaches, and we walk round them, Toby my dog sniffs at them, and imagine that they are saluting us too. I don’t stamp on roaches anymore.

People look at me differently now, and ask me about the name in dark brown letters just above the pocket of my shirt. “BARATAS”