Fakka Akovian read through his report one more time, nodded, and addressed the mirror on the wall to one side of his desk, “It is done, there’s nothing more to do. I’ll leave it here on my desk next to the original Ein Bericht für eine Akademie. A hundred years old and still relevant. By the time we dock in Accra it will have been accomplished. Arrangements at that end have been in place for months. Max, my faithful Max, will be there waiting for me. There’s nothing to hold me back. Nature will have been balanced and Kafka’s report will have been vindicated.”

He closed the folder. “Final Report” was printed across the cover in large Gothic Letters. Fakka got up and loped over to the mirror where large, red eyes stared back at him. His brow had widened and it was a daily battle forcing dark, bristly hair back under a heavy knit cap that he now had to wear when, on occasion, he was forced to go out. Recently he had broken his own rules and when there was no moon and sufficient cloud cover, he escaped to the park across from his apartment. There, concealed, his clothes behind a bush, he practiced for his return to West Africa, climbing and jumping from tree-to-tree.

He returned now to his desk and rested his knuckles on the blotter. It is well that I record what I feel about the human condition that I am slowly leaving. Later it may be too late. I have always felt a close kinship with Mr. Rotpeter. I regret that these arrangements could not have been completed in time for the centennial celebration of the release of Kafka’s “A Report to an Academy.” However, science cannot be safely rushed and the hormonal treatment was still in the early stages.

With little effort Fakka jumped up on the desk. Impulses, I must work on these impulses until I am back home. Then, ah, then the freedom begins, this civilization and its restraints will be left and forgotten. He felt his groin throbbing and released his pants. His nosed twitched and he jumped down and crossed the room, scampering down the hall to the back bedroom where a chimpanzee was kept for his pleasure. Her smell had reached him; she was now in heat and would be more receptive. It pleased him that she was a descendent of one of the chimpanzees that had serviced Mr. Rotpeter. With a certain irony, he called her Felice.

Later, relaxed and relieved, he went to his own bedroom to lie down. There was a hammock suspended across a corner of the room seven feet above the floor. Hard beds, the pleasure of his youth, were now uncomfortable and his arms would knock against the floor in his sleep.

At the start of his treatment they were the first visible signs, slowly growing several inches past the ends of his sleeves. He took to wearing oversized sweaters. Then his chest had taken on muscle as he became more hirsute. He was still lecturing at the University and noticed how certain coeds found that an attraction, even irresistible. But he prided himself on having higher standards than some of his colleagues and was able to resist temptation except for the first time, immediately after one of the injections. He learned that when his nostrils dilated and turned pale it was a sign that his blood would soon rush elsewhere. Now he was able to keep that under control.

When he woke from his nap, he went to the kitchen to eat. He was gravitating to a frugivorous diet, eating mostly fruits supplemented with various leaves and shoots. Max had found an African market and kept a supply of imported fruits and vegetables in his kitchen. After satisfying his appetite he went back to the study.

The report was on the desk where he had left it. He rapped a knuckle against it, trying to remember if he had expanded on the reasons he was anxious to return to his roots, for that was how he felt now. Fakka could no longer access memories of his childhood. He had old photo albums and Max had pointed to a likeness that he supposed could be him as a younger man. One night he tried to eat a few pictures but they were unpalatable no matter how he prepared them. He supposed he should have felt something but he couldn’t connect. Even in the pictures it seemed as if he was apart. Max said that may have been the cause of his alienation. “You were a foreigner, Fakka. Our culture is not known for its acceptance of others. No matter that your grandfather came here 150 years ago. But perhaps that’s what’s given you your drive and sensitivity. And now your success. Truly you are unique.”

He opened the report and found the section describing his time at the University and the reasons he had come to his decision. He had accompanied a colleague to a sports bar where they found a small table in a corner away from the main hall. It was the summer Olympics and they were showing live the semifinals between a German and a fighter from Nigeria. Fakka had little interest and was taken aback when his colleague bounded up to the counter to get closer to the screen. He didn’t have the courtesy to excuse himself and it appeared that it was he who asked the bartender to turn up the volume.

Soon the sounds of the fight filled the bar. The patrons were clearly behind the German; he even heard comments that it wasn’t fair, the other fighter being Nigerian. The remarks became more offensive as the fight progressed and the German was clearly getting the worst of it. The referee had to stop the fight shortly into the fifth round, declaring the Nigerian the winner.

His colleague returned to their table, sat down, and went on a tirade against the Nigerian and any one else of the “darker races.” Fakka let him finish ranting, then gathered his papers and left without saying a word. The next day he sent a note to his colleague reminding him that a fair fight lost still is lost. “And you should know that my great-grandfather is from Nigeria. Akovian is an abbreviation of Ako via Nigeria. It is not an Armenian or Georgian name!”

The semester came to an end. His colleague never responded to his note or apologized. Fakka went to his grandfather’s cabin in the Schwatzwald. It was his redoubt, where he always had done his best work, authoring the treatises that had made him famous.

He spent the days walking the trails and found a strange peace that he had never experienced before. Nights, he spent before the unkindled logs in the fireplace sipping vodka spiced with juniper berries and other mountain herbs, a recipe passed down father to son.

At the end of the week, the solution became obvious. He would return to his homeland and go native. If hormonal therapy can help people change their sex, there was no reason why it couldn’t help him change species. He resolved to modify his genomes. Fakka returned to the city with several bottles of the herbal vodka.

The doctors began the process and observed at the start of his treatment that apparently the concoction he drank to fight off nausea also helped lock changes in place so that there was little relapse. Fakka’s herbal vodka became a valuable adjunct of the therapy,.

He changed slowly, but by the next year, his apelike features were becoming more pronounced. He was due for a sabbatical. Stating that he planned to do research on the nature of freedom in the civilized world vis-a-vis its natural counterpart. he applied for and was granted a year’s leave. The administration assumed he meant in third world countries in distinction to cultured Western nations. Fakka had already decided that he was going to go native, totally and irreversibly, having seen firsthand how he and other minorities are treated.

A map of West Africa was in his desk drawer and he had circled the Akwapim-Togo Ranges. He had appended a paste-it note with a warning to himself: In case of a holocaust, be here!

Fakka looked down at his hands and smiled. They were now as they should be. Opening his desk drawer, he removed a bottle of his herbal vodka and a glass to contemplate freedom and humankind and how he and others were treated. Was he repulsive and a freak like Mr. Rotpeter? He thought not and poured more vodka into his glass. He would miss this, but perhaps find other herbs or medicinals. He would talk to Max and Max would understand.

In the last week the changes to his appearance had become even more pronounced. When he looked at himself in the mirror, he could have passed as Mr. Rotpeter’s grandson. Though he was pleased, Max was worried. “Really, Fakka, we may have delayed your departure too long. Your transformation appears complete. I worry how you will be received even on a transport ship. The captain  and crew can be bribed but only up to a point. I think we may have to modify out plans. Let me think on this for a few days.”

Feeling his friend’s concern, he became agitated, scampering around the living room, jumping up and down on the backs of the chairs and couch. He couldn’t find his voice, and when he finally calmed down enough to speak, struggled for words. “I go, I go!”

“Yes, Fakka. You will go. I have an idea; let me check on a few things tomorrow morning and then I will return. I think there may be a way.”

Fakka thumped his chest for joy.

The next day Max came by shortly after noon. He had stopped at the African store and bought Fakka’s favorite fruits and vegetables. “Here, my friend, first have something to eat and then we can talk.”

Fakka jumped up on the counter and tore open the bags, taking bites from a banana, discarding it for an ube – an African pear resembling an eggplant – and then a jackfruit. He ate with abandon as if this were his final meal before a death sentence was carried out

Max smiled. “Fakka, leave something for later. I’ve another bag in the car that I’ll bring up later. I didn’t want to juggle it with all these papers. I’ve been busy. Wash your hands and face and we’ll can sit in the living room while I go through these with you. All’s in hand.”

Max sat down on the couch and spread the papers out on the coffee table. Fakka joined him on his right and reached across with his left hand, sweeping his knuckles across the pages all the while smacking his lips and making chirping sounds. Then he tucked his head and summersaulted over the table, bounding over to the large windows overlooking the street.

Max muttered, “I hope it’s not too late.” He gathered up the papers and addressed his friend. “I’ve managed to slightly alter our arrangements. Your appearance is now quite pronounced and you don’t look anything at all like the photo on your passport. I thought it best for me to go in your place and bring you along.”

Fakka put up a fuss. He knew what would follow and that he was at a disadvantage. Clearly, he was no longer capable of making his own arrangements. He calmed down and indicated for his friend to continue.

“I’ve called in favors from friends in the University who have contacts in West Africa. There are several species of apes considered “threatened.” We have registered you as a viable male that has participated in mating successfully on several occasions. You will be under my supervision and will share my cabin. The arrangements from Accra out will stay as planned. I think this should prove satisfactory. We will leave as scheduled in a week.”

Fakka rubbed his belly and scratched his privates. He struggled to find words, finally grunting what sounded like “Gud, gud – fud, fud,” and bounded back into the kitchen.

The week passed rapidly. Max packed what he thought would be most functional for his friend and moved two large boxes of books into a hall closet. Sadly, he doubted that Fakka would find any use for them beyond the glue in the bindings. Then he had a premonition. He copied Fakka’s Final Report and that of Kafka placing them in an envelope addressed to a publisher in New York. He would mail them on his return from Africa. Other copies he locked in a safety-deposit box under another name.

He told Fakka he would return and stay the night. “I’d like to leave here before dawn. I think if I can get you into my  cabin before anyone raises any questions we’ll be OK. Officials at the other end have a way of being more understanding.”

Unfortunately, Fakka Akovian’s fame had always made him newsworthy. It was said that he kept company with Nietzsche, Kant, and Wittgenstein, even that he was the 21^st century reincarnation of Sartre.

The pharmaceutical company that had provided the drugs and support for his change felt they had a proprietary interest in the result and had gone to court. They had been waiting since the previous night at the port with two armed agents waiting in the cabin reserved for Max. Six others were stationed around the ship. Arrangements had been made with the captain, purser, and first mate.

As soon as Max and Fakka started towards the gangplank they were approached and Max was given a large envelope with the official seal of the court. “I think you will find everything is in order,” one of the agents said. “The court has agreed that your ‘traveling companion’ no longer enjoys the rights of a citizen of our country. He has effectively become something else.” And here the official puffed out his chest and added, “There are some who say he should never have been afforded any such rights and freedoms as a foreigner.

He coughed, looked down his nose at Max while sneering at Fakka. “And this creature at your side is a creation of SLZ Pharmaceuticals, LTD, and as such is our property. These documents give us the right to seize him now. The captain and the owners of this transport have been served similar papers. They fully realize that any deference they give to you would be considered a criminal act. I think it best that we tranquilize what used to be Professor Akovian. It will be in everyone’s best interest.”

Two large gentlemen moved in on either side of Max. He turned. There was a dart in Fakka’s neck. All he could say was “Hello” before collapsing on the pier. A look of tranquility spread across his hairy face.

Fakka was taken into custody and Max was never able to see him again.

The publisher declined to release the reports Max had sent without evidence, saying “Show me Fakka.” Max made copies of Fakka Akovian’s “Final Report,” distributing it via the literary underground. It is from this report and confidential personal interviews that the above was prepared.