The Devil Is a Black Dog (17 page)

Don’t worry
, he thought.
This couldn’t happen in my village. The whites are coming back; they wouldn’t abandon us.
For a while he listened to the whimpering from the field. The soldiers then arrived there from the direction of the village, and one after another shot the wounded in the head. After a while everything became silent and only the sound of insects could be heard. The warm smell of blood drifted across the field.

In the waiting room of Heathrow International, Susan sipped her coffee and looked impatiently at her watch. Her husband had called to say he would be a few minutes late. Sitting across from her was a young man who had studied political science at Cambridge. They had sat next to each other on the plane after he boarded in Libya. They talked about Chad, how the United Front had reached the capital, N’Djamena. The man was interested in what the United Nations would do.

“You know, the humanitarians will do as much as they can for them,” said Susan, and took another sip of coffee. She grimaced. It had already gone cold.

“But everybody has already been evacuated from there,” said the man.

“Yes, none of our people remain. Unfortunately, it’s like this when the army comes. We have to go, and there is simply nothing to be done about it. But we always return.”

“When will you go back?” asked the man.

“It depends on the political situation. Maybe in three months, maybe a year. But don’t worry about Chad; there’s no ethnic cleansing there. It’s not Darfur.”

Meanwhile Susan’s husband had arrived. She finished her coffee and changed to her local SIM card. She was late: the city’s street lights were already blazing.

F
ather really was dead. I was at an editorial meeting when the doctor told me the news. Twice I said I couldn’t take his call before he was able to inform me. He said, “Your father is dead,” and I said, “So what.” He told me that he wasn’t able to contact my brother in Berlin, so I’d have to return home and take care of the papers. And there was the dog. The doctor was a friend of the family. He’d already seen to the cremation.

I knew the old man was ill, and I had been expecting his death, though I never thought he would kick the bucket on such a chilly Wednesday, after lunch. He was well known for his sense of timing: he had missed my high school graduation banquet due to a drawn-out hunters’ party.

So, like I said, I was standing there in the editorial office, listening to the evaluation of the latest issue of the magazine by our
know-it-all editor-guy, and I seriously resented the fact that I had to leave town. When the meeting was over I followed the editors to the cafeteria. By 3
PM
there was nothing left but cheap, 650-forint plates of batter-fried cheese with tartar sauce. So I chose the fried cheese. The taste of a dead father is that of fried cheese soaked in oil with overcooked rice, vinegary tartar sauce, and a few slices of cucumber. I left my plate shining and empty.

My photographer drove me over the Danube to the Pest side of Budapest. I went into a café to drink a coffee. I opened my laptop to check the schedule for trains to the provinces. I bought some drugs to make what was to come more bearable. “I always calm down on amphetamines,” I said to myself as I purchased five grams. It was still a bit sticky when I slid the paper-wrap into a little pocket on the side of my moleskin pants. By seven that night I was at Keleti railway station, ticket in hand. Adult fare, round-trip. The ticket cost 8,000 forints.

I sat in the buffet car on the westbound train that left Budapest. The journey to Csorna took four coffees, three beers, half a pack of cigarettes, and a somewhat decent fuck in the bathroom with the forty-something blonde from behind the counter. The tracks running farther west, to Szombathely and Sopron near the Austrian border, parted at Csorna. The buffet car with the blonde headed for Szombathely.

I drank four more coffees—instant—and got permission to smoke as long as the window was open. I knew where we were with my eyes closed. For an entire semester at university I’d traveled slumped next to this window.

I arrived at the station at 10:35, my shirt reeking of sweat and of the particular odor of the Hungarian State Railways. The station looked the same as it had for the last ten years, with the same old welcoming slogans posted for arriving passengers to see: “Welcome to the town of fidelity and freedom,” and “Don’t forget: the cyclamen is an endangered flower!” I recognized a few
of the gypsies hanging out in front of the station’s bar—we had gone to school together.

I got off the train, with only my laptop dangling from my shoulder. I walked past families embracing; first-year students met by their parents in the vestibule. I’d been met by my parents like this some time ago. Not anymore.

I took a cab home. Neighbors peeked out to see who was coming. There was a “For Sale” sign in the window. Our house was the most repulsive imitation farmhouse on the street. It was painted a pale shade of light green. A dead geranium was rotting on the windowsill. I never could understand why the pale green, why my mother chose this very color. The cellar window was open. Somewhere in the gloom behind that window I’d lost my virginity. It wasn’t pretty.

I paid for the cab and fished for the keys in my pocket. Father’s dog barked behind the door. It took me three tries to find the right key. The dog was sitting by the bottom step of the foyer staircase, sweeping the floor with his tail. When he saw me enter, he threw himself on his back, belly to the sky. He was expecting me to scratch him; he was whining with joy because he recognized my smell. Bootsi, the wire-haired dachshund. Ten years old and thirty pounds.

I opened all the windows and cleaned the dog shit from the carpet. The ambulance driver had closed the front door, so Bootsi couldn’t get out to take care of his business. I poured water into a bowl and he drank. I looked around for something that could pass for dry dog food, filled his bowl, then entered my father’s room. The dog refused to leave me alone for a minute.

I had carried Bootsi home myself from a nearby village some ten years ago. He was small enough to fit in my palm. I hadn’t thought he would survive the first winter. He was the scraggliest of the litter, which is why my mother chose him. Up until her dying day, she was convinced that in the end it was always the
youngest son who turned out to be the smartest, the luckiest, and the happiest, like in fairy tales. So that must have been the reason behind her choice. My brother and I had been begging for a dog for seventeen years. Finally my parents got themselves one.

I don’t know how he did it, but Bootsi the dachshund turned my parents into avid dog lovers in a under a year. He was small and constantly crying, but would calm down when my mother picked him up. It got to the point where the three of them slept side by side in the conjugal bed: mom, dad, and the dog. They were convinced that the animal understood everything. After my brother and I moved to Pest, they began confusing our names with Bootsi’s. He became their last child.

I reclined into my father’s armchair, in front of his desk. His computer was still on. I cancelled his downloads and I checked my email. My brother was desperately sorry he could not come.

The dog was lying at my feet, looking up at me from time to time. Noticing I had taken off my boots and socks, he began to lick my toes. I shouted at him, and he ran to hide under the table. I looked around for a place to sleep. My father’s bed still held his imprint. I spent some time looking for sheets and blankets, with the dog close at my heels. After rummaging through the apartment, I came up with no sheets but a half a bottle of Metaxa. I slumped into my father’s chair again, methodically sipping from the bottle as I deleted his stuff from the computer. The dachshund sat back on his hindquarters and placed his paws on my knee. He would have already jumped up on my lap by now, but he was aging and having problems with his spine. He was waiting for me to lift him. He’d wait in vain. I brushed off his paws and told him to leave me alone. Bootsi crawled back under the bed. I finished the bottle and collapsed into Father’s bed, fully dressed.

I opened my eyes to find Bootsi’s muzzle facing me on the pillow. He was sleeping with his tongue hanging out of his mouth. I had
no idea how he’d managed to get up the on bed, but somehow he’d managed. I felt his breath on my face. But I had a headache and no energy to get pissed off. I climbed out of bed and lit a cigarette. It was nine o’clock. I was already late. The notary public was waiting for me, but before that I had to get my father’s papers together and pay for the cremation. The dog raised his head and looked at me. He walked me to the door; I had to push him back to get rid of him.

I got home at four. I was sweating; I hadn’t eaten anything all day. I visited the supermarket next door and bought some cold cuts, rolls, and milk. I asked if they had any cardboard boxes. I chose some and hauled them home over a few trips. The dog was waiting for me by the door with his legs in the air. I stroked his belly, and then went into my father’s study. I started to eat. Bootsi followed my every bite with his sad eyes. I lost my appetite and gave him all of the cold cuts. This calmed him; he lay down next to my legs, and soon began to snore.

I looked over his silvery coat as he slept. He was evidently thinking I was there to live with him from then on. That I was the new boss. He was wrong. Budapest is not the place for a ten-year-old dachshund and dog walking was not my forte. He wouldn’t even be able to climb the stairs in my building.

I went to take a shower. Bootsi sat in front of the shower stall, waiting patiently. I dried myself with a towel, rubbed my hair dry, and chose a shirt from my father’s wardrobe. Then I decided to reward myself. I measured out two lines and snorted. I used a page from my father’s notebook to roll a straw for the purpose. I packed dishes, clothes, and books until two in the morning. My progress was good; I almost finished the job, except for my father’s room.

I took Hemingway’s
The Winner Takes Nothing
from the bookshelf and read it all the way through. The drug did not let me sleep until four. By that time, I had listened to all my father’s
jazz standards from his computer, and I watched some YouTube videos to take the edge off the jazz. Before going to sleep I made sure to put the dog out of the room and close the door. He whined from the other side for a while before going silent.

I woke at ten staring into the dog’s face. The door was open; he must have waited until I fell asleep then jumped at it. The weight of his body had opened the door. He lay unabashedly close to me, our heads level. I climbed out of bed, lit a cigarette, and put on one of my father’s shirts. I noticed a photograph on the wall showing my mother holding the dachshund in her hands when he was still quite small.
No more of that
, I thought. Mother had died years ago.

I stepped out into the hall and saw that Bootsi had taken revenge by shitting on the carpet. And there he was, at my heels again. I wanted to kick him, but he lay on his back and threw his legs up. I stroked his belly, cleaned up after him, and scanned the household for the leash. I found it above the gas meter. The lead was plastic, its length adjustable with a button.

Bootsi walked down the street with great determination. The vet’s office was not very far, and when he realized where we were heading, he slowed down. He did not like the vet, though he had been a regular visitor there for ten years, with all kind of ailments. The money my mother left with Dr. Kovach could have bought ten litters of dachshunds. But the doctor liked the dog. Bootsi was a regular customer.

I opened up the green gate, letting us into the front yard. Then we opened the front door and entered the waiting room. The dog, shaking from head to toe, hid between my legs. I stared at the hospital-green tiles and the advertisements for pet food. I read everything you could want to know about ticks, parasites, and canine health in the pamphlets left out for visitors.

The door opened and the doctor appeared in a white apron. He was approaching sixty and was somewhat flabby. I had to drag
the skittish dog into his office. The shelves there held an array of medicine. A great white table stood in the middle of the room—that was where the doctor operated on the pets of the neighborhood. I grabbed the dog and placed him on the table. He kept his tail down, but licked my hand as I held him.

The doctor expressed his condolences for my father. I thanked him. He asked why I had come and I told him: I wanted the dog put to sleep. He said no. Bootsi was a good dog; he had good genes, and couldn’t be killed just like that. He told me to consider how important he’d been to my parents. I insisted that going to sleep peacefully would be the most humane solution for the dog, but it was all in vain; he didn’t want to hear of it. “I just can’t do it,” he said. He gave Bootsi a dog biscuit and walked us to the exit. The dog collapsed on the ground and refused to move. I had no choice; I picked him up and carried the animal home in my arms.

Arriving at the house, I gave him some food and went to my father’s room to enjoy the ten solitary minutes it would take Bootsi to eat. Then he returned to his place at my feet. I went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I looked at his bowl. He had left half of his food uneaten. As if that were my portion.

The next day I awoke to find the dog in bed with me again. I dressed, and went to the bank to withdraw some money. I paid the required fee to register the property ownership transfer. Now the house legally belonged to my brother and me. I sat in a pub, drank beer, and ate fried sausages, swabbing up the grease with a slice of bread. I bought two newspapers, read them, and left them in the pub for the next customer.

On the way home, I was overcome by disgust for the town. I felt nauseous as I walked by the places I knew from my childhood and I wished I could get back to Budapest as soon as possible. Or anywhere else. Just out of here. Away from this place.