Laurence Gonzales’ Summer blockbuster Lucy
In a remote jungle outpost, a primatologist is killed by Congolese rebels. His orphaned child, fourteen-year-old Lucy, is rescued, brought back to Chicago, and raised by Jenny, another primatologist, who discovers an amazing secret: Lucy is a “humanzee” — part human, part ape.
That’s the premise for a rollicking thriller, as Lucy and Jenny find themselves in all kinds of political jungles. Laurence Gonzales says he began this story as a screenplay. Sure enough, you can almost smell the popcorn in this excerpt:
Jenny startled and leapt to her feet. She turned in a circle, peering into the dark jungle. She thought of calling out, then remembered the soldiers. How could the girl have simply disappeared? Could she have been kidnapped? No, they would have killed them both. Then Jenny heard a rustling and spun around to see the girl emerging from the forest carrying a mound of fruits and berries in a sling improvised from her shirt. She moved into the clearing as if Jenny weren’t there and set the fruit down. She sat on the ground and picked up an avocado. She split the skin with her fingernail and twisted the fruit in half. Then she began scooping out the green meat with two fingers and eating it. In between bites, she smeared some of the meat on her bare arms like body lotion. Jenny watched her, fascinated. Then the girl seemed to notice Jenny for the first time. She stopped chewing and stared at her. Then she picked up a handful of brown figs and held them out to her. Jenny crossed the clearing and took them. The girl watched her intently, waiting. Jenny took a bite. The brown-skinned fig had a pink center.
“Mmm. It’s good.”
The girl smiled at her and continued eating.
“Can you talk?”
“Of course I can talk.”
Jenny breathed a sigh of relief. She felt silly now for asking. “Of course. It’s just that yesterday . . .”
“Yesterday is gone. Today everything is different.”
Jenny sat across from her and they ate in silence for a time.
“I’m Jenny. What’s your name?”
“Lucy.”
“Lucy. That’s a nice name. How old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Did you grow up here?”
“Yes.”
“How did you survive the attack?”
“I hid in the trees.”
“You are Dr. Stone’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry about your father.”
“Death is natural, but theirs was not. Humans bring grief wherever they go.”
“Did your father teach you these ideas?”
“He taught me everything.”
“What about your mother? Where is she?”
“She died.”
Jenny was about to question her further when Lucy paused in her eating and lifted her nose. “The wind has changed,” she said. “I can smell the river. It won’t be long now. Let’s go.”
As they set off through the forest, Jenny took heart in the girl’s confidence. Lucy fairly flew across the ground now. Jenny had to run to keep up. As they hurried along, they frightened a pair of pheasants, which went cackling and complaining into the woods. Lucy held up her hand. At first Jenny saw no reason to stop. Then a snake as thick as her leg flowed out of the forest and across the trail. When it had passed, Jenny was about to ask Lucy how she had known to stop before the snake appeared. But the girl was already far down the trail.
As they drew closer Jenny began to smell the river, and the flies and mosquitoes grew more persistent. The river had a scent that was unmistakable, a mixture of perfume and sewage, of life and death. The trees grew closer together and were lashed up with vines and creepers. Giant white flowers exploded out of the darkness, gathering what little light there was and broadcasting it about them like skirts of lace.
At last they caught sight of the metallic surface of the water, a substance at once bright and black. The air was suffocating with heat and moisture. They quickened their steps down the last reach. Then Lucy held up her hand and they stopped to take in the full
view of the Congo. Hippos wallowed in the shallows, and crocodiles sunned themselves on the silver sand. The water beyond was sluggish and mobbed with small islands of ravening vegetation. A flock of cormorants appeared from the right, flew low along the span of the river, and settled onto the surface, each leaving a silver wake that vanished into the oily blackness.
“We won’t stay here,” Lucy said. “We’ll go downriver. There’s a landing this side of Lisala.” She began walking west along the river at a respectful distance from the crocodiles. Jenny followed her into the shimmering afternoon.
They reached the landing in an angled light. A wooden pier stretched from the forest out into the slow current. As Lucy and Jenny sat on the landing, eating and watching the river, Lucy seemed to stiffen. She raised her chin.
“Let’s go into the forest.”
“Why?” Jenny asked.
“There’s someone coming.”
Jenny had heard nothing, but they gathered their fruit and retreated into the darkness. They sat in hiding with a view of the river. Half an hour passed before Jenny asked, “How do you know someone’s coming?”
Before Lucy could respond Jenny heard the engine. Then a gray steel cutter swung into view with 40 mm cannons mounted on its deck. Riding low in the water, the boat was crowded with men bearing Kalashnikov rifles and rocket-propelled grenades. Lucy and Jenny watched, barely breathing, as the craft hammered past. Diesel smoke hung in its wake above the gleaming black water.
They slept in the forest again and woke in the night to fight off a swarm of ants. The next day they watched the river. At midday they saw two black and bloated bodies float past facedown, one with a shiny raven on its back. That night they slept once more.
On the following morning they were picked up by a family in a wooden boat, a man, two women, and a small child. Lucy knew them and spoke to them in Lingala.
As soon as they had boarded the boat, Jenny fell asleep against a cargo of aromatic grain in burlap sacks. When she woke it was late afternoon and she came to consciousness with the realization of how rigid she’d been holding herself for days.
They reached a small village at dusk. It was a squalid littoral of huts and trash with pigs and chickens wandering to and fro and naked children who hid behind their mothers when Jenny and Lucy appeared. Swarms of black flies hung in the shifting smoke of cook fires. Lucy spoke to a man in Lingala, and he led them to a hut at the forest’s edge. A cable ran out of the hut and up to the top of a crude wooden tower where a metal antenna pointed a crooked finger at the sky.
Jenny followed Lucy and the man into the darkness and let her eyes adjust. She listened to them chatter, catching only a few phrases. The man who owned the radio was old and withered and as black as a nut. He wore a Rolling Stones T-shirt and surfer shorts. The floor of the hut was littered with beer cans and the place smelled of urine and stale cigarette smoke. The old man, whose name was Denis, smiled with but a few teeth left in his mouth. The people of the village began crowding into the hut to see what was going on.
Lucy spoke to Denis in French, gesturing at Jenny. “He speaks French,” Lucy said.
“How many languages do you speak?” Jenny asked.
“Oh, not many. French and Lingala. English, of course. Italian and Spanish. A little German. Dutch.” Lucy laughed. “Well, Dutch is easy.” Then she seemed embarrassed and stopped talking.
Speaking French, Jenny told Denis that she needed to talk to David Meece, the British ambassador at the embassy in Kinshasa.
Denis sat and worked the radio, speaking first in Lingala, then to someone else in French. As he did so he sipped from a can of Bud Lite and smoked a Marlboro. Denis wheezed heavily as he waited for someone to get David Meece on the line. He finished his beer and sent the can clattering to the floor. At length a man’s voice came on the radio speaking in French. Denis stood and motioned graciously for Jenny to sit. She picked up the microphone.
“David? Is that David Meece? It’s Jenny, over.”
“My God, Jenny. Yes, it’s David. Are you all right, over?”
David Meece was from a family of diplomats, old money from London. He wore bow ties even in the African heat. Jenny’s oldest friend, Harry Prendeville, was a doctor who came to Africa once a year to volunteer for Doctors Without Borders. He had introduced Jenny to Meece the first time she came to Congo. They’d become fast friends, and David had helped Jenny out on more than one occasion.
“They’ve killed Stone. Things are very confused. I have his daughter with me. We came downriver with some locals and are now in a village hoping that you can get us out of here, over.”
“Damn straight I can.”
“Thank God.”
“Can you give me your position, over?”
“Stand by, David.”
Jenny spoke to the old man in French, asking if he knew the coordinates of the village. He rummaged in a desk drawer and brought out a Garmin GPS. Jenny rolled her eyes. She clicked the mike and said, “Hang on, David, they have a GPS here, if you can believe that, over.”
She heard him laugh. “Not bloody surprised, over,” he said.
The next morning they heard the helicopter long before they saw it. It came thundering in and circled a few times before landing in a clearing a short distance away. The entire village turned out to examine the machine. Four hours later they were touching down at the Kinshasa airport. In another hour they were in an office at the embassy watching David Meece hurriedly pack his things.
“The rebels are just a few miles outside the city, I’m told. We have a plane going to London. I can get you on, of course. But what about the girl?”
“I found these.” Jenny fished the passports out of her filthy pack and handed them to David. He opened one and set it aside with a sad shake of his head. He opened the other and studied it with a frown. Jenny looked over his shoulder and understood David’s expression: The passport had been issued when Lucy was four months old. David tapped it in the palm of his hand, muttering, “Spot of bother about that photograph . . . No visa. She’s been in-country illegally for fourteen years?”
“I don’t know. Lucy?”
“I don’t understand,” Lucy said.
“Do you have any family in England who can vouch for you, dear?” David asked.
“No, sir.”
“No one? Really?”
“I grew up in the jungle. I was in London only once. I was a baby.”
“How irregular.” David thought for a while, then said, “Well, right now, we have to get out of here.”
Jenny looked at the girl, so exotic and smart. She seemed pure even in her filth. Jenny wondered what would become of her. She looked as if she were still in shock.
“I hear the guns.”
“She has incredibly keen hearing,” Jenny said. “If she says they’re coming then they’re coming.”
An interview with Laurence Gonzales
The character of Lucy is above all a real girl, and we get to know her very well. Were her voice and personality difficult for you to write?
I have always been more comfortable writing from the point of view of a woman. And I raised two daughters, so grasping a teenage girl’s character and behavior seemed pretty natural to me. I also had a lot of help from my daughters and their friends. I knew from the start that in order for the novel to work, it had to be primarily a novel about people, not about ideas. In other words, Lucy had to steal the reader’s heart. Once she stole my heart, I knew I could do it.
In Lucy you tackle many serious moral and ethical issues, but at the center of it all is the question of what it means to be human. Did writing Lucy’s story help you to see this question in a different light?
The very first time I went to meet the bonobos in the Milwaukee Zoo, I walked up to the very thick glass behind which they lived. I looked in on a dozen or so of those individuals who were engaged in various activities — grooming and talking and climbing around. As I stood there, one of them came flying at me from somewhere high above on the end of a long rope and kicked me in the face with all his weight and momentum. If it had not been for the glass, he’d have snapped my neck and killed me. That was such a wonderfully human thing to do — to kill the stranger, as so many of us are still doing. A moment later, he was tenderly kissing another bonobo. Writing Lucy definitely shaped the way I view humans. We are still so close to our roots.
Is there any underlying message that you hope readers will take away?
Lucy does indeed raise many ethical, moral, and philosophical issues that are useful to think about and debate. But at its heart, Lucy is a coming-of-age story about a wonderful young girl discovering herself and the world in which she finds herself. It’s a story, and as such, it’s meant to make people turn the pages and laugh and cry. If they happen to have deep thoughts along the way, that’s good, too. But if all Lucy does is make you stay up late reading, that’s good enough for me.
Excerpt from Lucy by Laurence Gonzales Copyright © 2010 by Laurence Gonzales. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
