I step towards the mirror to practice. Transforming myself into a half-witted girl from a sharp-minded one is not as difficult as one would imagine.
I slacken my lips, let a thread of spit drool, smudge a little eyeliner around my eyes and add a squint.
I finish mastering the mechanics of transformation and step back. That’s when I become aware of Gutan’s gaze. I pat her on her head and watch the love that jumps into her eyes. Oh NO. I don’t want this to happen. She is not going to be my pet; just an accomplice in my heist.
I recall the exhausting training I gave her outdoors yesterday and the indoor one with scents. But notwithstanding the fatigue, she jumped onto my bed and cuddled next to me. I relished her warmth but steeled my heart and forced her back to her place on the floor.
***
I enter the museum and head straight to the duty roster. My heart sinks. Donald will be the supervisor from tomorrow. He is one of the sharp ones, and I cannot risk him being on duty when I make my move. The heist must happen tonight.
I mentally retrace every step. A faint worry gnaws at me—Gutan’s sensitivity to the modulations in my voice. I remember last night: when a group of revellers suddenly exited a bar, I commanded her to ‘stop’. She ignored me, responding instead to the tremor in my tone. Rather than stopping, she shuffled towards me, plopped at my feet and refused to budge till I used my ‘normal’ voice and asked her to continue.
However, I no longer have the luxury of delaying. I put the plan into action.
I pull on the coveralls and exit the changing area. First, I work on my facial muscles to make me look daft. The others are lingering nearby, waiting to bait me.
“Hey, meathead. Where’s your lunch? Or were you planning to eat your brain?”
“With so little meat in it, she’d only go hungry.”
It was followed by loud guffaws. I screw up my eyes and let the glycerin bring the tears in.
I stagger to the supervisor, sobbing and announce that I am quitting.
He announces without pausing his chewing. “Not today. We are short-staffed. You can stop coming from tomorrow.”
I hesitate.
“After your shift, return your uniform and collect your wages.” His eyes never leave his phone.
We stock up on cleaning supplies. I begin from the ground floor. My tormentors laugh and nudge each other. “She is too scared to start on the 7th floor with us.”
I make a big show of whimpering and turning away.
By the time I reach the 7th floor, at the end of my shift, it’s empty. I dust the master pieces with care. When I reach the one, a connoisseur has paid me to steal, I pause. I carefully draw a walnut from my pocket and fix it to the top of its frame with adhesive tape, exactly where Gutan has been trained to find it. I open the window, place a banana peel on the ledge, and close it softly, leaving the latch unfastened.
Lastly, I turn back and make sure the room looks exactly like the one I had reproduced at home with printouts of the paintings. Even minor changes unsettle Gutan.
A smug smile plays on my lips as I exit. Tomorrow, when the chaos erupts, no one is going to connect it to the ‘dumb-maid-who-quit-before-the-theft’.
It’s 2 AM when my car glides into the deserted lane behind the museum. No CCTV cameras here. I open the back door, and Gutan leaps out. I carefully strap the walkie-talkie receiver to her body and help her into the black coat I bought from the kids’ store.
I wait until she is calm and breathing evenly. Then, in a gentle voice, I murmur into my transmitter, ‘Gutan, Up’.
She turns and looks at me uncertainly, but when I keep repeating, the training kicks in, and she ambles towards the museum, scaling the wall with powerful arms and grasping feet.
Orangutans are, after all, masterful climbers.
I guide her softly. “No, not that one. Higher, Higher”. Suddenly, she veers sideways, distracted by something inside a room. I swallow my panic, keep my voice steady and repeat, “Not there. Up. Up. Up.
At last, she reaches the seventh floor. The banana peel lures her in.
My month of rigorous training pays off. Gutan tosses the peel aside, opens the window, and hauls herself into the room. She finds the painting marked with the nut.
She plucks it and eats it- her reward! She next goes to the painting, pries it away, and carries it to the window.
I whisper into the receiver. “Come back, Gutan. Come back to me.”
She backs away, clambers down easily and ambles over, still holding on to the painting.
I hand over another walnut to her, and she dutifully surrenders it to me.
As I drive towards my rendezvous with the buyer, I see that Gutan is peacefully sleeping in the back seat.
Love swells up inside me. Maybe I will keep her.
