When Dogs Cry

 

markus zusak
is the author of five books, including
The Messenger
and the international bestseller,
The Book Thief
, which is translated into thirty languages. He lives in Sydney with his wife and daughter.

 

 

Also by Markus Zusak

The Messenger
The Book Thief

 

 

 

 

 

Special thanks to Anna McFarlane for her faith in my writing.

 

First published 2001 in Pan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited
1 Market Street, Sydney

Copyright © Markus Zusak 2001, 2010

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

Zusak, Markus, 1975– .
When dogs cry.

ISBN 978 0 330 40373 3.

I. Title.

A823.3

Typeset in 11/15 pt Sabon by Post Pre-press Group
Printed in Australia by McPherson's Printing Group

Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

 

These electronic editions published in 2010 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd
1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

 

When Dogs Cry

Markus Zusak

 

 

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For Scout
and for Mum and Dad

I
T WAS
R
UBE'S GIRL'S IDEA TO MAKE THE BEER ICE BLOCKS,
not mine.

Let's start with that.

It just happened to be me that lost out because of it.

See, I'd always thought that at some point I'd grow up, but it hadn't happened yet. It's just the way it was.

In all honesty, I'd wondered if there would ever come a time when Cameron Wolfe (that's me) would pull himself together. I'd seen glimpses of a different me. It was a different me because in those increments of time I thought I actually became a winner.

The truth, however, was painful.

It was a truth that told me with a scratching internal brutality that I was me, and that winning wasn't natural for me. It had to be fought for, in the echoes and trodden footprints of my mind. In a way, I had to scavenge for moments of alrightness.

I touched myself.

A bit.

Okay.

Okay.

A lot.

(There are people who've told me that you shouldn't admit that sort of thing too early, on account of the fact that people might get offended. Well, all I can say to that is why the hell not? Why not tell the truth? Otherwise there's no bloody point really, is there?

Is there?)

It was just that I wanted to be touched by a girl some day. I wanted her to not look at me as if I was the filthy, torn, half-smiling, half-scowling underdog who was trying to impress her.

Her fingers.

In my mind, they were always soft, falling down my chest to my stomach. Her nails would be on my legs, just nice, handing shivers to my skin. I imagined it all the time, but refused to believe it was purely a matter of lust. The reason I can say this is that in my daydreams, the hands of the girl would always end up at my heart. Every time. I told myself that
that's
where I wanted her to touch me.

There was sex, of course.

Nakedness.

Wall to wall, in and out of my thoughts.

But when it was over it was her whispering voice I craved, and a human curled up in my arms. For me though, it just wasn't a mouthful of reality. I was swallowing
visions, and wallowing in my own mind, and feeling like I could happily drown inside a woman.

God, I wanted to.

I wanted to drown inside a woman in the feeling and drooling of the love I could give her. I wanted her pulse to crush me with its intensity. That's what I wanted. That's what I wanted myself to be.

Yet.

I wasn't.

The only mouthfuls I got were a glance here and there, and my own scattered hopes and visions.

The beer ice blocks.

Of course.

I knew I was forgetting something.

It had been a warm day for winter, though the wind was still cold. The sun was warm, and kind of throbbing.

We were sitting in the backyard, listening to the Sunday afternoon football coverage, and quite frankly, I was looking at the legs, hips, face and breasts of my brother's latest girlfriend.

The brother in question is Rube (Ruben Wolfe), and in the winter I'm talking about, he seemed to have a new girlfriend every few weeks or so. I could hear them sometimes when they were in our room—a call or shout or moan or even a whisper of ecstasy. I liked his latest girl from the start, I remember. Her name was nice. Octavia. She was a street performer, and also a nice person, compared to some of the scrubbers Rube had brought home.

We first met her down the harbour one Saturday
afternoon in late autumn—and she was playing a harmonica so people would throw money into an old jacket that was sprawled out at her feet. There was a lot of money in it and Rube and I watched her because she was damn good and could really make that harmonica howl. People would stand around sometimes and clap when she was done. Even Rube and I threw money in at one point, just after an old bloke with a walking stick and just before some Japanese tourists.

Rube looked at her.

She looked at him.

That was usually all it took, because that was Rube. My brother never really had to say anything or do anything. He just had to stand somewhere or scratch himself or even trip up a gutter and a girl would like him. It was just the way it was, and it was that way with Octavia.

‘So where y' livin' these days?' Rube had asked her.

I remember the ocean green of her eyes rising then. ‘Down south, in Hurstville.' He had her then already. I could tell. ‘You?'

And Rube had turned and pointed. ‘You know those crappy streets past Central Station?'

She nodded.

‘Well that's us.' Only Rube could make those crappy streets sound like the best place on earth—and with those words, Rube and Octavia had begun.

One of the best things about her was that she actually acknowledged my existence. She didn't look at me as if I was an obstacle stuck between her and Rube. She would always say, ‘How's it goin' Cam?'

The truth is.

Rube never loved any of them.

He never cared about them.

He just wanted each one because she was next, and why not take the next thing if it was better than the last?

Needless to say, Rube and I aren't too much alike when it comes to women.

Still.

I'd always liked that Octavia.

I liked it when we went inside that day and opened the fridge to see three-day-old soup, a carrot, a green thing and one VB can sitting inside. All three of us bent down and stared.

‘Perfect.'

It was Rube who said it, sarcastically.

‘What
is
that?' Octavia asked.

‘What?'

‘That green thing.'

‘I wouldn't have a clue.'

‘An avocado?'

‘Too big,' I said.

‘What the hell
is
it?' Octavia asked again.

‘Who cares?' Rube butted in. He had his eye on the VB. Its label was the only green thing he was staring at.

‘That's Dad's,' I told him, still looking into the fridge. None of us moved.

‘So?'

‘So he went with Mum and Sarah to watch Steve's football game. He might want it when he comes home.'

‘Yeah, but he might also buy some on the way.'

Octavia's breast brushed my shoulder when she turned and walked away. It felt so nice it made me quiver.

Immediately, Rube reached in and grabbed the beer. ‘It's worth a shot,' he stated. ‘The old man's in a good mood these days anyway.'

He was right.

This time last year he was pretty miserable on account of having no work. This year he had plenty of work, and when he asked me to help on the odd Saturday or two, I helped him. So did Rube. My father's a plumber.

Each of us sat at the kitchen table.

Rube.

Octavia.

Me.

And the beer, sitting in the middle of the table, sweating.

‘Well?'

Rube asked it.

‘Well what?'

‘Well what the hell are we gonna do with this beer you stupid bastard?'

‘Settle down, will y'.'

We all smiled, wryly.

Even Octavia smiled, because she'd grown used to the way Rube and I spoke to each other, or at least, the way Rube spoke to me.

‘Do we split it three ways?' Rube continued. ‘Or just pass it round?'