The Devil Is a Black Dog (6 page)

Badr al-Din lost the dog’s tracks on a plateau. It was decided that we would ambush the animal there. It was a good place, because we could hide behind the rocks that abutted the hill, and the wind would carry the smell of blood in the direction the dog had headed. Each man grabbed a weapon from Badr al-Din as he unpacked the mule: modern Egyptian AK-47s, their barrels shining with oil. After we got situated, Safiy-Allah led the mule to about a hundred feet in the distance and tied it to a brittle, dead tree. He
took his knife out and cut lengthwise into the animal’s flank. The wound wasn’t deep, but enough blood flowed for predators to smell. For two hours we lay on our stomachs between the rocks, waiting for something to happen, but the blood just drew flies, which flew in and out of the mule’s open wound. The two teenage boys next to me began to chatter. Safiy-Allah and Badr al-Din ate the food they had brought. Time moved forward slowly. The moon appeared, and again we could see our breath as the rocks crackled with cold. Badr al-Din said that we would wait half an hour longer. The two teenage boys were already asleep in between the jutting rocks. I leaned against a boulder and gazed up at the moon. It appeared bigger than I had ever seen it. I could clearly make out the craters. Everything looked good bathed in its light.

First we heard a howling, then another in response. Soon, the night was filled with jackals calling to one another. The mule nervously clomped its hooves and pulled at its tie. I caught sight of five jackals approaching, their heads dropped cunningly, stalking the smell of fresh blood.

The men clutched their guns and waited. The animals were still too far away to get off a good shot. But before the jackals could attack, a large-bodied dog appeared on the hillside. Its huge silhouette stood out against the moon, and we could see the gleam of its tusklike fangs. When it began to bark, its breath came out in puffs that looked like smoke. At the sound, the jackals began to beat their tails. We watched, stunned. Badr al-Din was the first to regain composure.

“God is great!” he shouted, then began to fire. The others followed.

A barrage of gunfire scorched the incline. The cliffs showered stones—the mule was hit—but the black dog stood unmoving. He waited until the men emptied their cartridges, then skulked back into the darkness from which it had come.

“God is great! God is great!” the men cried in terrified voices.

Stumbling on the rocks, we started back to town, leaving the mule’s corpse behind. Nobody had an explanation for what had happened.

Abdelkarim was still awake when I got back; he had been waiting for me. I explained to him what happened, then fell into bed fully clothed.

The next morning I found him in the prayer room, absorbed in the Hadith. The book he held in his hands was probably two hundred years old. Abdelkarim was wearing the same jellabiya I had seen him in yesterday.

“Last night the beast attacked and killed a woman named Khulud, and two of her children are in the hospital,” he said. “One remaining child has yet to be found.”

“Was it the black dog?”

“That is what they are saying.”

“Now what?”

“I have to convince them once and for all that the dog must be killed.”

The imam stayed buried in his book all day and didn’t even emerge from the prayer room for lunch. I didn’t want to bother him. Nor did I want to bring up the assembly that was planned for that evening.

The men, superstitious and fearful, listened to Badr al-Din’s account of the hunt. The butcher, shaking a fist in the air, closed his speech by stating: “I am saying for certain that this dog is not of God. Safiy-Allah, his boy, and even the foreigner were witnesses.” Terrified shouts of “God is great!” filled the room. Abdelkarim sat palely next to me, stroking his beard. He stood, and then addressed the men.

“My brothers. Listen to me, my brothers,” he said. “We need to put an end to this dog before it kills again.”

A numb silence descended. I could hear the oil lamp sputter and the clatter of the rifles against the wall of the room.

Khaldun stood up. “It’s not certain that the dog is not of God,” he said, looking over the attendees and then staring spitefully at Abdelkarim. “On the contrary. I think God sent this animal to call attention to the fact that we have strayed from the proper path. Those it killed, they were all guilty. Have you forgotten how many times you saw the boy intoxicated on khat leaves? How the husbandless Khulud was attacked, and her children as well?”

Men around the room began to nod.

“We have to put the question to ourselves: Why is God punishing us? The answer is here in front of us. It is because we have become lazy in our faith. Because God’s commandments aren’t fulfilled without err. Because we gamble, we don’t supervise our women’s morals, and we let foreigners into our homes. It is time to renew our submission to God, and examine the town’s morality. Only in this way can we fend off these blows.”

Shouts of “God is great!” broke out among the attendees. Many of those gathered stole a glance at me. Others hugged Khaldun and thanked him for showing them the light.

Abdelkarim sat wordlessly next to me, and when the tone had calmed, he stood.

“Excuse me, Khaldun, are you suggesting we improve our morals in the way they do in Marjah? Beating our women with sticks if their faith slackens? Stoning the criminals?”

“If this is the price of deflecting these blows from our heads, then yes,” shouted the old man from his place. The surrounding men nodded.

“And if I guess correctly,” Abdelkarim said, “you would nominate yourself to head a council of morality? It is known that you have had some practice in these matters.”

“I only hope the brothers are humble and pious enough to carry out the task,” said Khaldun.

“Yes, yes!” shouted the room.

Abdelkarim cleared his throat and continued. “Well, I believe you are mistaken, my respected Khaldun. We must kill the dog no matter what.”

“Why need it be like this? Why is this how you want it?”

Abdelkarim stepped up to the butcher, Badr al-Din. “What color was the dog?” he asked. “Tell us, brother, what color was the dog?”

“Black,” answered Badr al-Din, confused. “Black as night.”

Abdelkarim leaned over and took the Hadith in his hand, the one he had been reading all day. He opened it and turned to Khaldun.

“We need to kill the dog, because the Prophet, peace be upon him, commanded it so. It says so in the Hadith: ‘Kill the black dog, because the black dog is the devil.’ ”

He spoke calmly, and didn’t raise his voice for even a moment. Again, quiet fell on the room.

“Respected Khaldun, are you suggesting that we shouldn’t follow the Hadith?”

“I am not saying anything like that,” the old man grumbled between clenched teeth.

He rose and left the room. Many followed. We could hear a religious song rise from the courtyard, their voices echoing through the alleyways.

“Who volunteers to do away with the dog once and for all?” asked Abdelkarim when quiet returned.

“Tomorrow morning we will begin for the hills again,” said Badr al-Din. You could see fear on his face, but that he was gathering his strength. He liked Abdelkarim and had faith in him. Next to him, Safiy-Allah nodded.

“No, brothers,” said Abdelkarim. “The beast is already hunting here in the town. We need to kill it here.”

The plan was easy: the volunteers would hide by the hospital, where the smell of blood would be strongest. The men agreed.

The street was empty when we set off. The sky was dark; not a bit of light seeped in. Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah went in front, clutching firearms in their hands. Abdelkarim and I took up the rear. I looked over my host’s face in the darkness, but it gave away nothing about what he was thinking. I took out two cigarettes, lit them, and offered him one, but he didn’t take it.

“Pray, brother, that we can kill the dog,” he whispered as he pulled back the bolt of his Mauser, “or else Khaldun will have his way with this town.” The rattle of rifle bolts locking in rounds echoed along the street.

We didn’t speak again until we arrived at the hospital. It was a whitewashed, two-story structure. In the air hung the effluvium of disinfectant mingled with that of blood. The Dutch doctors had left when the government began a heavy shelling offensive, and since then the barber had been seeing to the wounded. The sun-beaten Red Cross insignia was the only reminder that foreigners once lived here. We could see the bodies of the moribund and unmovable on the blood-stained plank beds, asleep and breathing heavily under the influence of raw opium.

The hospital entrance was covered by a gray sheet. Badr al-Din was the first to enter. Because of the strong smell he tied his scarf around his face. After the first shelling, the locals had evacuated anybody who could move, so the hospital was almost empty.

Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah positioned themselves by the sickbeds on the first floor. Abdelkarim and I went to the rooftop, where we had a good view of the area. We took our positions and waited.

“It is possible it won’t come,” I whispered to Abdelkarim after a tense hour. The moon was hidden behind black clouds and a strong wind blew across the hills.

“It must come,” he answered, “in the name of God.”

Another half hour had passed when we finally heard a screeching coming from a nearby street. The black dog, as though it had appeared from thin air, stood in the square by the entrance. Blood dripped from its mouth. At its feet lay the body of a girl.

Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah came bursting out of the hospital, then opened fire on the animal. But the dog didn’t flee; it just held its head toward the moon and began to howl, making a deep, thunderous sound that echoed through the streets. Twenty or so snarling mongrels appeared at the call. They stood behind the black dog and stared at Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah with pitchblack eyes.

The black dog’s muscles tensed and its teeth snapped as it sprang toward the two men. The pack followed.

“God! God!” yelled the men. They lowered their guns and stood paralyzed by fear.

But Abdelkarim hadn’t lost his calm. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and let a bullet fly. It found the black dog.

The animal, which had until then seemed like it was swimming in the air, stopped short. It stood still and lifted its head. Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah raised their guns again and began to fire. They dropped six of the mongrels, one after the other.

Transfixed, I stared at the black dog. It was gigantic. It shook its head and with a yowl charged Badr al-Din, blood streaming from its flank.

Abdelkarim’s second shot also found its mark. The black dog stumbled. It tried to stay on its legs, but couldn’t. The remaining mongrels from the pack fled when the black dog fell. It was still breathing when we arrived at the building’s entrance.
Abdelkarim put a bullet in its head, and only after that did we examine the beast from up close. It was a mongrel, but unlike any I had seen before. It was probably over two hundred pounds. Countless old scars covered its muzzle, and flesh had overgrown both its ears. That’s why it hadn’t been afraid of the gunfire. It was deaf.

People filled the streets. Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah threw the dogs’ bodies in a cart, and the crowd accompanied them to the mosque. They left the bodies in front of the gate, so that in the morning the whole town could view the slain devil.

Badr al-Din invited everybody to celebrate the dog’s killing, so we all went to his home. Abdelkarim, however, didn’t stay with us. He begged our pardon, but he stated that he was exhausted and needed to return to the mosque.

I woke up to silence. I looked at my watch: it was four in the afternoon. The celebration had lasted until dawn, and I’d gotten home at sunrise.

I went down into the mosque, but couldn’t find Abdelkarim anywhere. The house was totally empty. I went out into town, but the streets were deserted as well. It wasn’t until I arrived at the hospital that I found where the crowd had gathered. There, where they had killed the dogs just yesterday, people were lying on stretchers, moaning, their torn clothing bunched up around their sweating bodies.

“What happened?” I asked a barefoot shepherd boy.

“It’s a plague,” he said. “Lots of people have high fever. They’re throwing up and are breaking out in sores.”

“Have you seen the imam?”

“He is inside with his two girls.”

I cut through the crowd. The room was packed. The infirm lay on the floor or were propped against the wall, shivering with
fever. I looked for Abdelkarim. I found him on the second floor. He sat on the tile next to a dirty mattress. On the bed lay his two girls, both unconscious. He didn’t notice me. His eyes were glazed over and his face shook as he wept. I touched his shoulder. He looked up at me but it was as if he didn’t know who I was. “We shouldn’t have killed the dog” was all he could say.

I didn’t know how to respond. I returned to the mosque. It was obvious that I needed to leave the town while I still could. In front of the mosque stood the cart, where we had laid out the dogs’ corpses. I looked for the black dog, but couldn’t find it anywhere.

T
he soldiers arrived in a pickup. There were five of them; they jumped from the back and entered the grounds of the presidential palace, leaving the driver to wait. The building stood opposite a sickly looking tree, which gave cover to the men who sat on the sidewalk chewing betel and spitting. The men watched what was happening with interest. The smell of burnt garbage and fruit rotting in the sun wafted through the air: it was scorching hot, the start of the dry season.

The presidential palace looked like a Baroque castle, like a Versailles in miniature, with a park and fountains with swans in them. We could see it as we approached, descending from the hill. The machine gun nests and six-foot-high concrete wall were the only reminders that you were in N’Djamena.

The detainees were led into the courtyard. Three men and a woman, all black. Their hands weren’t bound; they obediently followed one of the soldiers, who wore a red beret. He must have been the unit commander, because he was issuing orders.