Outside the Dog Museum (17 page)
Read Outside the Dog Museum Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
“I’ll tell you a funny story, Harry. When we were on the Golan, there was a guy there who read without stop and was always telling us good parts out of his books. Once he read something, I don’t remember from what it was, but the story was great: This old woman was in her bed and she was dying. Her family was only waiting for her to breathe a last time. She got worse and worse, so now it’s really close to the end. But suddenly she farted like a cannon. You know what she said? ‘Good, a woman who can still fart isn’t dead yet.’” Palm ran his hand across a piece of smooth wood. “I think you are still farting, Harry.”
HIS STORY KEPT ME
chuckling the whole walk back to the hotel. Evening had come and suddenly the streetlights blinked on all around me. Traffic was heavy and slow. The eerieness of faces inside cars at night. Cigarettes flicker, a snatch of music heard on a radio as you pass. Men in funny-looking yellow and red coats stood on street corners selling newspapers. Loaded trolleys racketed by, their bells clanging impatiently. People wanted to get home, meals were cooking there, bathtubs filling. That rich energy at the start and end of a day; beginnings get us going.
chuckling the whole walk back to the hotel. Evening had come and suddenly the streetlights blinked on all around me. Traffic was heavy and slow. The eerieness of faces inside cars at night. Cigarettes flicker, a snatch of music heard on a radio as you pass. Men in funny-looking yellow and red coats stood on street corners selling newspapers. Loaded trolleys racketed by, their bells clanging impatiently. People wanted to get home, meals were cooking there, bathtubs filling. That rich energy at the start and end of a day; beginnings get us going.
On Vienna’s main shopping street jugglers, mimes, and opera and folk singers vied for the attention and spare change of the crowd. I was in no hurry and stopped often. Whenever I saw this kind of street scene, it made me think of medieval markets, and even further back. Were there mimes in the time of the pharaohs? In Jerash I’d walked over smooth giant stones in the marketplace that served as road for the chariots and still showed the grooves of the wheels. What songs were sung there to distract and hold passersby on their way home? What tricks did the buskers play? How did things smell? What did the air feel like?
Back at the hotel I had two telephone messages: one from Fanny, the other from Claire. Please call back.
I didn’t feel like talking to Ms. Neville, so I called Ms. Stansfield instead.
“Oh, Harry, finally! I didn’t think I’d get you. I’m so sorry about what happened. If there’s anything I can do—”
“Wait. What are you talking about, Claire?”
“The Sultan.”
“What
about
the Sultan?”
about
the Sultan?”
“You didn’t hear? He’s dead! He was murdered.”
“Who killed him? Where’d it happen?”
“In Saru. Rebels shot him. His daughter was riding in a horse show and he was in the audience. Something like twenty people died. It was similar to the Sadat assassination years ago. The news said other members of the royal family were killed too.”
Half an hour later I was listening to the news in German, understanding nothing but
“Sultan”
and
“Tod.
”The phone rang. A secretary came on and said Mr. Awwad, Saruvian ambassador to Austria, would like to speak with me. Awwad wasted no time asking if I’d be willing to remain in Vienna a couple of days. He said the Crown Prince had returned home, but before leaving had specifically requested that I stay in case they still might need me to go there.
“Sultan”
and
“Tod.
”The phone rang. A secretary came on and said Mr. Awwad, Saruvian ambassador to Austria, would like to speak with me. Awwad wasted no time asking if I’d be willing to remain in Vienna a couple of days. He said the Crown Prince had returned home, but before leaving had specifically requested that I stay in case they still might need me to go there.
“Why would anyone want me in Saru, Mr. Awwad? Especially now?”
“This is off-the-record, all right?”
“Sure.”
“I go off-the-record very often, Mr. Radcliffe. I have been misquoted too often.”
“Okay! Okay! Why would the Prince want me in Saru after what has happened?”
“Off-the-record, there are two possibilities—he would like you to attend his father’s funeral because he knew how much the Sultan liked you. But more possible is because the Prince is a very headstrong young man. I would not be surprised if he had you build the museum for his father anyway.”
I called Fanny, who said many of the same things as Claire. After she asked what I was going to do, I told her about my conversation with the ambassador.
“I don’t know how true that is about Hassan, Harry. He’s not crazy about you, and now that his father is dead—”
“Then why
would
he ask me to stay here?”
would
he ask me to stay here?”
“I don’t know, Buckaroo.”
PALM DIDN’T KNOW EITHER
. I spoke with him next and asked if he’d like to have dinner with me.
. I spoke with him next and asked if he’d like to have dinner with me.
That dinner turned into two days of poking around together. I went to the Saruvian Embassy, got Big Top, and the three of us walked in the parks, drank wine in different
heurigen,
and the second evening went back to Morton’s shop, where I helped make a door. What was the point of returning to Los Angeles? Vienna was something new, Palm good company, and the chance of adventure in Saru still hung like a small cloud over the horizon.
heurigen,
and the second evening went back to Morton’s shop, where I helped make a door. What was the point of returning to Los Angeles? Vienna was something new, Palm good company, and the chance of adventure in Saru still hung like a small cloud over the horizon.
I also wanted to pay the Sultan homage. Besides what he had done for me, from all I’d heard he had been a good leader who genuinely
cared and tried to do something about the well-being of his people. At different times in our conversations he had spoken with great pride about the growing literacy rate, a new hospital complex in Bazz’af, and the fact the educated young were choosing more and more to return to Saru after completing their education in England, France, the United States.
cared and tried to do something about the well-being of his people. At different times in our conversations he had spoken with great pride about the growing literacy rate, a new hospital complex in Bazz’af, and the fact the educated young were choosing more and more to return to Saru after completing their education in England, France, the United States.
“They want to be lawyers and doctors at home, Harry. No one is forcing them back. They could make their riches in Beverly Hills or Paris, but they are coming home! This is a very positive sign.”
What would happen now to his nation was anybody’s guess, according to a long and detailed article in the
International Herald Tribune.
Unlike Egypt at the time of the Sadat assassination, the opposition in Saru was not splintered into warring factions. The Sultan’s sole opponent had been his cannibal brother, Cthulu. Having murdered both of his siblings, it was down to a face-off between Cthulu’s people and those loyal to Prince Hassan.
International Herald Tribune.
Unlike Egypt at the time of the Sadat assassination, the opposition in Saru was not splintered into warring factions. The Sultan’s sole opponent had been his cannibal brother, Cthulu. Having murdered both of his siblings, it was down to a face-off between Cthulu’s people and those loyal to Prince Hassan.
Another question: Did Harry Radcliffe
want
to be in a country at a time in its history when fratricide had succeeded and chaos, Arabian style, was sharpening its scimitar right outside?
want
to be in a country at a time in its history when fratricide had succeeded and chaos, Arabian style, was sharpening its scimitar right outside?
The answer to that one came easy. After we’d put the finishing touches on his door, Palm and I had a couple of glasses of plum schnapps and then I got up to go. Big Top had been sleeping by the wood stove and was not happy about getting up and walking home through the chilly night.
Outside the air smelled of coal and wood smoke. It wasn’t very late, around eleven o’clock, but the streets were empty and not many lights were on in the windows.
We moved slowly, like two old men trudging home after a night at the bar, because the dog’s rheumatism made him limp. For the hundredth time I wondered how old he was and how much longer he would live.
His wide white ass toddled from side to side. Limp and toddle
made his body move in a number of directions at the same time.
made his body move in a number of directions at the same time.
He stopped, but his tail started wagging like a windshield wiper on high speed. Another Big Top trait was that he rarely barked—only stood his ground and furiously wagged when something was interesting or a threat.
Seeing him frozen in that familiar pose, I looked up. At first there was nothing—no people nearby, no scene, no danger. Frowning, I looked down at him to see where he was pointing. Left, off to the side. Still nothing until I looked away across the wide street.
“What is that?”
Big Top needed no encouragement. Tail still a whipping blur, he pulled us across the street to the car.
Because many of the pieces were so savagely hacked and torn, shapeless, dangling, and wet, it took me long ghastly moments to realize that what was dumped and smeared across the length of the car had once been an animal and not a person. Brains looking like buttery cauliflower were scattered in soft blobs and red clots over the windshield. Islands of shiny purple-brown slabs lay on the white, white hood of the car. There was a rough circle of blood drawn on the roof—as if whoever had done this took one piece and rubbed it like a polishing rag there. Volvo. I saw the name half covered by a large sliver of raw heart? lung? A white Volvo.
I stood and stared. It was macabre, terrible. Most of all because it’d been done purposely. But I stood and stared. There was evil here violent as murder, mad as rape. Its intensity was as tangible as heat from a car crash.
Whoever had done this was sitting in a bar nearby quietly drinking wine and chatting with a friend. Or nearby doing worse. How could someone do this? If caught, their answers are always awful—because it was important to them or, shiver-time,
unimportant.
Oh God, at least let the creeps have been angry or getting even. We understand that. Anything else is the dark side of the moon.
unimportant.
Oh God, at least let the creeps have been angry or getting even. We understand that. Anything else is the dark side of the moon.
Big Top pulled on the leash and sniffed crazily at something beneath the car. Jerking him back, I bent down to look. A deer’s head sat near the right front wheel. A hand-size hole was in the skull, but otherwise it was intact and beautiful. If the car had driven away, the head would’ve been crushed. The dead eyes caught light even down there and reflected two small candle flames. Unflickering.
I must have walked around ten minutes trying to find either a policeman or patrol car. When I did and had brought the cops back, they were less interested in the Volvo than in what I was doing there. I ended up calling them assholes. They understood and I was brought to the station house.
My American passport thrust in their faces left them singularly unimpressed. I said I was allowed one phone call. They said this wasn’t America and if I didn’t behave myself they were going to hit me on the head. “Heet you on dee hate,” as Officer Wilheim put it.
Finally they did allow me to call, but the problem was I had only two Viennese telephone numbers in my wallet—Morton Palm, and the Saruvian Embassy. Morton had had enough of me for one day, so I called the embassy at two in the morning.
Forty-five minutes later Ambassador “Off the Record” Lawrence Awwad appeared, looking ready to kill anyone in his path. He was a giant man, handsome: the kind of figure who makes people sit up straight when he enters a room.
Everyone but me got to go into another room and confer. When they returned, each spearing me with a dirty look, I was out of there in fifteen minutes.
“I asked you to stay in Vienna, Mr. Radcliffe, but I don’t like trouble with the police.”
“I appreciate your help, Ambassador, but don’t scold me. I told you what happened.”
We were stopped at a traffic light in his armor-plated Range
Rover. He glared over and shook a finger at me. “Prince Hassan said you were a pain in the ass and I should punch you in the nose if you caused any trouble. I am just warning you.”
Rover. He glared over and shook a finger at me. “Prince Hassan said you were a pain in the ass and I should punch you in the nose if you caused any trouble. I am just warning you.”
“That’s twice tonight someone wanted to hit me there.”
The car telephone next to him purred and he grumbled something in Arabic which, by the exasperated tone, seemed to be “What
now
?”
now
?”
I looked out the window while he talked. Big Top circled and circled on the backseat, sniffing and grunting in between, trying to find a comfy spot to drop on. I didn’t have the heart to tell him we’d be home soon and he’d have to get up again.
Awwad hung up and accelerated around a taxi, a motorcycle. “Are you packed?”
“More or less.”
“How long will it take for you to get ready?”
“Half an hour. No more. What’s happening?”
“You’re going to Saru.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes. The Prince’s plane just landed at the airport. It’s waiting for you. You and the dog, that is. He was very specific about your bringing the dog along.”
“Okay, let’s go. What a night this has been. What a night, huh, Big?” I looked over my shoulder to confirm this with the bull terrier but he was fast asleep.
“Do you like Randy Travis?”
“Excuse me?”
Awwad slipped a cassette into the car stereo and sure enough, out came the syrupy country and western singer’s voice.
“Randy Travis is very popular in Saru. George Jones too.”
I didn’t ask why. The more mysteries waiting in Saru the better.
THE SCENE AT VIENNA
airport was a stark reminder of what had just happened in the country I was about to visit. The terminal, though
blazing with light, was almost empty at that early hour. Except for soldiers and policemen, who were everywhere, which was ironic because there were so few civilians around to cause trouble.
airport was a stark reminder of what had just happened in the country I was about to visit. The terminal, though
blazing with light, was almost empty at that early hour. Except for soldiers and policemen, who were everywhere, which was ironic because there were so few civilians around to cause trouble.
When Awwad pulled up to the front doors, two men dressed in dark green battle gear and carrying machine pistols came over. Once again I was left out of a conference in German, but while they spoke to the Ambassador, the men kept looking my way with unanimous “Watch your step, Buddy” expressions.
I got my bags out of the back of the car and coaxed Big Top to the edge so I could lift him down. Once on the ground, he shook himself violently and yawned. Neither of us were used to these hours, but unlike him, adrenalin had me pumped high and wide awake. Waiting for Awwad to finish, I imagined a coming attraction for the movie about my life at that moment: “Adventure! Danger!
Night Flight to Saru.
They sent him into trouble and he was happy to go!” Next, a shot of an old propeller plane, engines already spluttering as I boarded, runway glistening black from mist. Liftoff into the night. Then a map superimposed over the screen, a finger pointing out the route the plane was flying—across a wedge of the East Bloc, south over Turkey, Iran … .
Night Flight to Saru.
They sent him into trouble and he was happy to go!” Next, a shot of an old propeller plane, engines already spluttering as I boarded, runway glistening black from mist. Liftoff into the night. Then a map superimposed over the screen, a finger pointing out the route the plane was flying—across a wedge of the East Bloc, south over Turkey, Iran … .
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