Underneath the eagle, on the floor and toward the right side, a large stuffed aardvark is mounted on a sturdy block of wood. Its head is slightly lowered, its long ears alert, looking askance at the photographer with one of its claws gently raised, and at the very bottom of the photograph, handwritten, is the purported date and location: 1944, Reichsjägerhof Rominten.

“The aardvark,” you say, and the man confirms that yes, that is the aardvark. But that is not all.

“What then,” you say.

“This is the hunting lodge of Hermann Göring.”

“Göring,” you say, like it’s a nonsense word. “Göring. Göring like the Nazi Göring?”

“Not like the Nazi,” the man says. “The aardvark belonged to Hermann Göring’s father, Heinrich. Heinrich Göring was the first governor-general of the German Protectorate of South West Africa. What is now known as Namibia.”

“Namibia,” you say.

“He was the leader of the ‘Schutztruppe,’ the German troops who killed the Herero and the Namaqua people in what is broadly understood to be the century’s first genocide. Heinrich gave the aardvark to Hermann as a present when he graduated from a military academy in Lichterfelde—”

My god, you are thinking as the man is speaking, Tampico’s aardvark’s a Nazi, and try to locate the man’s voice—you swear you’ve heard it before but cannot, for the life of you, place it! “Seriously,” you say, “who is this,” and that’s when Toby Castle swoops downstairs looking refreshed and adorable.

She asks who you’re talking to, and the man, having heard her, hangs up.

“What’s wrong,” Toby asks, fussing an earring.

“Nothing,” you say, standing up from the sofa. You smile. You squeeze Toby’s hands, take her by the elbow, and together you open your green front door with the brass lion’s-head knocker and, waving to the horde of reporters, the entire American public, you make your announcement:

“The cat’s out of the bag,” you say, grinning, waving. “The aardvark was an engagement gift, nothing more,” you explain, it was all a big misunderstanding, and everyone should calm down because everything’s fine, everything is going to be just fine, then you kiss Toby Castle’s cheek all sheepish, welcoming the simultaneous flash and shutter of a thousand small-format, weather-resistant, pro-digital Canons which are currently eclipsing the children’s playground, at the center of which, dangling precariously from his knees on the monkey bars, is the chubby black boy from yesterday who, unbeknownst to you, lingered on your stoop after you closed the door in his face, caught for himself a glimpse of the aardvark, and now knows exactly what he needs to do to see it.

* * *

“Ladies and Gentlemen, come View Titus Downing’s new masterpiece! The African Aardvark! For One Night Only! Available Only to Those Bold Enough to Participate!” the Evening Standard declares, and although Downing once re-created an entire giraffe, capturing its exact jiva, making everyone who saw the giraffe feel like a giraffe, feel the lanky swing of its neck, the long teeth reaching for acacia leaves, the stiff knuckle joints of its knees, that is nothing, the paper goes on to say, compared to what the people will feel when they at long last cast their eyes upon the aardvark.