human feet. More like the feet of the Gigantopithecus, wouldn’t you say?”
I met Justine’s eyes and she looked away. She felt guilty for doing this to me. I could see it.
“My name is Ludwig,” the man said. “And you are Alberta Montebianco.”
“Dr. Ludwig Jacob Feist,” I said, remembering the card that had fallen from Justine’s book. “The cryptozoologist.”
That I should know his name and profession startled him. “Why, yes, that is correct. But do call me Ludwig. And I am here today in the capacity of a civilian, a gentleman scientist if you will.”
I must have sneered, because he looked hurt.
“You don’t believe me?” he asked. “When Justine spoke with me last night and informed me she had a live specimen in her care, it wasn’t professional duty that compelled me to be dropped in by helicopter on a moment’s notice. If this were an official collection, I would have needed clearance from Lausanne, which takes twenty-four hours minimum, and I would have needed another scientist to accompany me to document everything. No, this is personal.” He shifted in his chair. “My professional life has grown around the search for exotic, undocumented life-forms, but you, you are something else. You are an impossibility. A wonder of evolution.”
He placed his hot hands on my feet and I flinched. But as I pulled away, he only gripped my ankles harder.
“Do you mind, monsieur?” he said, glancing back toward Pierre. Pierre walked over and placed one hand on each ankle, pinning my feet to the couch.
“Very good. Much better,” Dr. Feist said, smiling at me like a dentist about to extract a tooth. “I need you to be still while I get a proper look.” He bent over my feet and looked at them. For two, three, four minutes he stared. Finally, he said, “Come, Justine. Look what you’ve discovered.”
Justine joined him at the end of the couch. Dr. Feist traced a line across the bottom of my foot with his finger as he spoke. “The width is similar to that of the Almasty, as it was documented in the Russian steppes. There is no arch to speak of. The padding is more pronounced than a human foot, fuller, more rounded. And, of course, the secondary hallux next to the primary is a classic trait. But what I find extraordinary, what I didn’t expect when you called, my dear Justine, is that except for her feet, she appears to be totally and completely Homo sapiens.”
“That is why we didn’t know,” Justine said. “It wasn’t until I removed her shoes that I saw she was . . . different.”
“No doubt this is how she has managed to live as she has for so long,” Dr. Feist said. “She looks like us, behaves like us.”
“Her features are totally human,” Justine said.
“And yet, who knows what is hiding under the surface. As you surely know, the composition of our genomes is ninety-nine point nine five percent the same. That leaves point-oh-five percent variation that accounts for the differences in eye color, hair color, skin color, inherited diseases, and so on. What would the world be like, I sometimes ask myself, if we relied on this truth—that we Homo sapiens are one group with large patterns of kinship—rather than holding fast to the superficial differences that have caused our species so much suffering?”
Dr. Feist looked at me, tears in his eyes. The man was insane, I realized, laughing one minute, crying the next.
Collecting himself, he said, “But I digress. Clearly, she is more than she appears to be. Looking only at phenotype can obscure what is really going on underneath the surface. Please forgive me for prying, Alberta, but I am so curious: Has anyone else in your family displayed such traits?”
I stared at him, refusing to answer.
“She mentioned she is related to the Montebianco family,” Justine said. “An old family from this area.”
“Until we run tests,” Dr. Feist said, “we won’t know if it has been inherited or not. If others in her family show this trait, she may carry the genetic material for this strange characteristic.” He turned back to Justine. “You said she spoke to you at length?”
“We had a long conversation,” Justine said. “She’s quite articulate.”
“Therefore no anomalies of the temporomandibular joint. Both humans and apes—and the creatures we call Bigfoot or Yeti, one might suppose—have thirty-two teeth. Humans, however, have a parabolic-shaped jaw, while apes have rectangular jaws. The reason apes don’t speak—other than the cognitive reasons—is because of this primary structural