The Devil Is a Black Dog (18 page)

With my father gone, I had no more ties to this town. I looked at the streets and I felt like I was looking at the husk of a huge dead insect. I couldn’t find a single nostalgic thought in myself. I had boxed away everything that could be salvaged.

The real estate agency called in the afternoon to inform me they had an inquiry on the house. I went home and was greeted by the dog. He was whimpering with joy upon my return.

I started to pack, again with the dog at my heels. It occurred to me that it would be better not to let the new owners see that an animal was also living there.

I rang the neighbor’s doorbell. Terike opened the door. She lamented at length about how bad it must be for me, dead father and all. She sobbed a bit and asked if she could help in any way. I asked to borrow her tiny Suzuki sedan for an hour. I said I had to take care of some administrative stuff. She looked awfully sorry for the ignition key when she handed it to me, saying, “Take care of it.”

I attached the leash to the dog again. He excitedly plodded after me. Father used to take him for long walks. He probably missed those walks. I sat him on the passenger seat, where he went quiet. They used to drive in Terike’s car a lot. I knew exactly where to go. There was a clearing far enough out of town. I used to pick mushrooms there when I was a kid.

We drove for twenty minutes, the dog staring out the window the whole time. The sky was the color of milk, the wind was picking up, and it was getting cold out. We drove up the winding forest road, and then, when the clearing came into view, I cut the engine. I opened the door for the dog; he jumped out and sprinted away on the grass. “Great!” I said. “Live happily and hunt for rabbits!” I turned on the ignition and drove away. The dog ran after the car for a bit before giving up. I drove home, showed some prospective buyers around the house, and then threw myself into bed.

In the morning I ironed a shirt from my father’s wardrobe. I shaved and dressed. I had to visit the real estate agency to agree on the price and sign the contract. I drank coffee, opened a jar of cherry preserves, and had breakfast. I tried on all my father’s jackets but none fit, so I left the house in my own leather jacket. A thirty-something brunette greeted me in the agency. She told me to pay the gas and electricity bills, and bring her copies of the receipts so we could sign a contract the next day. Arranging all this took up the larger part of the day.

I didn’t get back to my parents’ house until late evening. The dachshund was waiting for me by the front door. His hair was matted and filthy, but there he was, his tail wagging. He had found his way home over hedges and across ditches. I must have left the front gate open, allowing him into the yard. He licked my hand and jumped up on my legs. I pushed him off and went to the computer to check my email. He dashed after me and sat close to my feet.

I had two emails. The first had come from my girlfriend saying she could no longer share her life with me. The other had come from a literary editor as a reply to one of the short stories I had submitted. He rejected it, writing, “The desert is cold in the morning, and since you suggest that it is not, this casts doubt on the authenticity of the story.” I was in no mood to disagree.

I decided to take it easy for the rest of the day. I sniffed half a gram of amphetamines from off the cover of my father’s favorite volume of poetry, and then went over to the shop to get a bottle of booze. In small-town supermarkets, expensive drinks are kept on the top shelf behind the counter. The shop clerk used to be my classmate. She was part of the disco crowd, had a dolphin tattoo, and would not even go to the toilet without putting on a ton of make-up. She recognized me. She said she was sorry about my father and wanted to leave the provinces as well.
She scribbled her phone number on the back of the receipt she handed me, and said, “Call me!” I bought bourbon and seltzer.

I returned to the house. The dog was waiting at the door. I went to my father’s room and opened the bourbon to let it breathe. I poured water into a glass and waited. The dog jumped up on the bed and went to sleep. I was thinking about an appropriate response to the editor, but none came to mind. The amphetamines were really kicking in, so I set myself to packing up my parents’ belongings and picking out what I could use in Budapest.

I began to take books off the shelf. Christian philosophers: Maritain, Chardin, Weil—my father’s favorites—and next to them: Marx. My father had a Social Democrat’s view of Catholicism. Why not take these back to the city? Next to them was a family photo album. I swept it off the shelf and onto the floor. I didn’t need that shit. The pictures scattered in every direction. I poured a glass of bourbon, added seltzer, and drank.

Sometime later that night, I almost stepped on one of the photographs. It was from 1992 and showed my brother and me in fatigues, saluting into the camera. He was nine, I was twelve. I remembered that summer. We’d taken a vacation to Zalakaros, a country town down south best known as a bathing resort. One day I failed to buy the tickets to the public bath and I also lost track of my brother. My father said I was a good-for-nothing and not much would come of me. I had bought a toy gun with the money I’d saved on the tickets. He smacked me and told me to stay clear of him for a while, that I was irresponsible and spent his hard-earned money on all kinds of shit.

The old man came down with a fever that night. My mother took care of him. When I went in to see him, he told me to get out of the room. He added that if by any chance he died, I shouldn’t come to the funeral. They don’t need people like me there. Of
course, later on there was a great reconciliation: he told me he loved me and so on. Mother said I was the more important son.

I collected the fallen photographs and put them back on the shelf. I sniffed an additional 0.4 grams of amphetamines—from the top of the photograph this time. I drank one more glass of bourbon. I watched the dog sleeping in the bed. I must have spent a long time observing him, because suddenly he looked up at me. It occurred to me that time had proven my father right: I was a slacker and I couldn’t accomplish a thing. I couldn’t even get rid of this damned dog.

I called for Bootsi. He grunted as he hopped off the bed: his leg hurt. Every dachshund has problems with its spine by the time it gets old. Still, Bootsi came quickly, as quick as an old dachshund could, wagging his tail.

“Let’s go play ball,” I said to him. I took a swig from the bottle, then tucked it under my arm and started for the yard. The dog came after me in something like delight. It was 3
AM
.

I took the back stairs; he followed my steps cautiously. I turned on the outdoor lighting. The shabby yard lit up in front of me. The shed next to where we used to grill meat in the summer was overgrown with wild grape vines and knee-high weeds. The dog put a ball down in front of me. I kicked it for him. He ran after it.

I began to get cold, and thought I should go back to the house to get a jacket. But first I wanted to take care of this business. Fueled by the drug, I felt my heart banging inside my chest. I looked around and by the wall I found the axe Father used to prune bushes with. I picked it up and saw its head had begun to rust. The weight of it sobered me up a bit.

Bootsi was slow to bring the ball back because he got distracted by smells and trailed off. I was in no hurry. He finally came back, dropping the ball in front of my feet, looking up excitedly, wagging his tail. I didn’t give him time to realize what was happening.
I aimed for the best spot and struck; he let out a moan and dropped dead.
That’s it for the dog
, I thought.
I’ll bury him in the morning.

I took a long pull on the bourbon and went back to the house. I dropped the axe, went upstairs, and collapsed on the bed without undressing. My father was right: I was irresponsible.

My dreams were filled with all sorts of absurdities, including being lost in the desert with people I couldn’t talk to. My tongue was swollen from the bourbon and was stuck dry to the top of my mouth like a piece of gauze. I opened my eyes.

Bootsi was there next to me. The gore from his wound was spread across the bed sheet. He woke up to me waking up, and began wagging his tail. His hair was caked into the wound on his head. I examined it; it wasn’t very deep. I sat up and the ball fell into my hand.

I went to the bathroom. I looked into the mirror; my face was streaked with blood. Bootsi had followed in my steps, a bit slower than usual. I found no trace of injury on myself; he must have licked my face in my sleep: the blood was his. I took a shower. I stepped out of the stall; the aftereffects of the previous night bore down on me and I staggered forward. My stomach felt like it was the size of the head of a pin.

I walked to the café for a coffee. I smoked two cigarettes and came to the decision that at all costs I would return to Budapest that very day. It was ten in the morning and freezing outside. I called the vet again; I had to let it ring a long time before he picked up. He asked how the dog was. I told him he was okay. I had enough of small talk, and told him I would sue him if he refused to put him to sleep. I would cause him to lose his veterinary license, and punish him for fucking around with the owner of the dog. Instead of an answer I listened to a long silence, before he finally agreed to see us at five. I hung up.

I dropped by the real estate agency and signed the papers. I would only have to wait for my brother to send the copies back from Berlin with his signature and then we would get our money. But I didn’t need to stay in town to wait for that. I asked Terike to box up the remaining books and stuff, telling her that if she needed any of the furniture, she should take it. I didn’t want any of it. I told the agent I was leaving the house with the furniture in it. I would return in a week to take some of the boxes.

At home, the dog was on my heels wherever I went. He pushed his bloodied head into my hands to be petted. I realized I couldn’t take him to the vet like that, so I put him into the tub and poured warm water all over him. I cleaned his wound carefully and washed him with dog shampoo. He endured it without a sound; he only licked my hand a few times and lapped up the water from the tub.

I dried him with the same towel I had used on myself in the morning. He shook his body and begged himself up onto my lap. I lifted him. He licked my face.

I put his leash on him at quarter to five. He became suddenly excited, assuming we were going for another walk. We headed out alright, but I had drag him, trembling, to the vet. In the waiting room he hid between my legs and got me tangled in the leash. I took it off his neck and put it in my pocket. An old lady came out of the vet’s office with her cat. It was our turn.

I had to lift up Bootsi and carry him into the examination room. He was trembling all over but I held him tight, which calmed him. He licked my face. I placed him on the middle of the operating table, where he tried to stand straight as he shook. I had to stroke him to keep him calm. The doctor drew some kind of tranquilizer into his syringe and told me to hold the dog down. There was no real need for it, though, because Bootsi had no intention of fleeing. I held him tight anyway. The doctor injected the tranquilizer; we waited a little, and I rubbed his neck until he
lay down. Then came the next shot, the lethal dose. The dog lay motionless: he did nothing to stop us, he let us do our job.

The doctor handed me a dog biscuit and told me to give it to him, so he could experience something nice while passing away. I tried to give it to him, but he did not care to take it. He licked my hand instead. I missed the moment he stopped breathing.

I paid 6,000 forints for the injections and an additional 4,000 for the disposal of the body. I left the vet’s office and reached into my pocket for my cigarettes. There I found his leash. I pulled it out and looked it over. There was a sticker with Bootsi’s name on it, along with a request for anyone who happened to find the lost dog to call my father, in return for a reward.

I left the clinic, tossed the leash into the first trash bin I found, and lit a cigarette. Snowflakes began to descend, slow and heavy. I walked down to the station. I was freezing. I just wanted to catch the night train, drink some cognac, and drop in on my local pub. The next day I’d buy a plane ticket to the Middle East. I’d leave and never return. The snowflakes melted on the warmth of my scalp, collected into tiny streams, and poured down my face.

A
round noon the black clouds appear seemingly from nowhere. Majestic clouds, thick and dark. They hang in the center of the sky like mirages. They appear contemplative, reaching toward the horizon, their color not much different from tar. Unbelievably majestic clouds suspended in the sky, dirty and black, darkening at the center. Clouds unlike those seen in the skies of Europe. Their sudden appearance signals that the rainy season has come to the Sudanese frontier.

Marosh doesn’t show the slightest interest in the clouds. He sits in the communications tent and nervously taps away at his laptop. The tent for the foreigners was erected at the camp’s periphery, on the hilltop. The NGO keeps its satellite phone and technical equipment there, which is how it got its name. It’s the only reliable Internet connection within two hundred miles, a weak signal from a twenty-foot-high antennae rising through the tarp.

If you stand by the entrance, you can see the entire refugee camp spreading out in front of you all the way to the red hills beyond.

Not many people live in the foreigners’ camp. The medical personnel are twenty in total. They are mostly Canadian volunteers, veterans who have already assisted in multiple humanitarian catastrophes across Africa. Marosh, at age twenty-six, is the youngest there. That he works as a journalist further sets him apart from the others. He types feverishly, bent over his laptop. Sweat paints stains on his shirt and drips down under his arms.

“At nine this morning they carried out the rite of passage,” he writes. “The foundation’s ranking doctor met at length with the Zaghawa elders, but he couldn’t talk them out of the genital circumcision of a group of twelve-year-old girls, an operation performed by women of the tribe. Initially the tribal leaders approved the doctors’ assistance in case of complications during the procedure, then the
marabou
, the refugee camp’s religious leader, declared the foreigners’ presence immoral and ordered them from the tent.”