Paul Auster - Timbuktu

For all response, Mrs. Swanson covered her face with her hands and wept.

Mr. Bones looked down at her through the eyes of the fly, listening to her grief-stricken sobs fill the ward, and wondered if there had ever been an odder, more perplexing dream than this one. Then he blinked, and he was no longer in the hospital, no longer the fly, but back on the corner of North Amity Street as his old dog self, watching the ambulance drive away into the distance. The dream was over, but he was still inside the dream, which meant that he had dreamed a dream within the dream, a parenthetical reverie of flies and hospitals and Mrs. Swansons, and now that his master was dead, he was back inside the first dream. That’s what he imagined, in any case, but no sooner did this thought occur to him than he blinked a second time and woke up, and there he was again, camped out in Poland with the recumbent Willy, who was just waking up himself, and so befuddled was Mr. Bones for the next little while that he wasn’t sure if he was really in the world again or had woken up in another dream.

But that wasn’t all. Even after he had sniffed the air, rubbed his nose into Willy’s leg, and confirmed that this was his true and authentic life, there were more mysteries to contend with. Willy cleared his throat, and as Mr. Bones waited for the inevitable coughing fit, he remembered that Willy hadn’t coughed in the dream, that for once his friend had been spared that agony. Now, unexpectedly, it happened again. His master cleared his throat, and immediately after that he was talking again. At first, Mr. Bones dismissed it as a fortunate coincidence, but as Willy continued to talk, charging impetuously from one corner of his mind to another, the dog could not help but notice the resemblance between the words he was listening to and the words he had just heard in the dream. It wasn’t that they were exactly the same—at least he didn’t think they were—but they were close enough, close enough. One by one, Willy touched on each and every topic that had come up in the dream, and when Mr. Bones realized that it was happening in precisely the same order as before, he felt a chill go down his spine. First Mom-san and the bungled jokes. Then the catalogue of sexual adventures. Then the diatribes and the apologies, the poem, the literary battles, the whole bit. When he came to the roommate’s story about the dog who could type, Mr. Bones wondered if he was going mad. Had he slipped back into the dream, or was the dream just an earlier version of what was happening now? He blinked his eyes, hoping he would wake up. He blinked them again, and again nothing happened. He couldn’t wake up because he was already awake. This was his true and authentic life, and because you got to live that life only once, he knew that they had really come to the end this time. He knew that the words tumbling from his master’s mouth were the last words he would ever hear Willy speak.

“I wasn’t there myself,” the bard was saying, “but I trust my witness. In all the years we were friends, I never knew him to make up stories. That’s one of his problems, maybe— as a writer, I mean—not enough imagination—but as a friend he always gave it to you straight from the horse’s mouth. A lovely phrase that, though I’ll be damned if I know what it means. The only talking horse I ever saw was the one in those movies. Donald O’Connor, the army, three or four asinine flicks I sat through as a kid. Now that I think about it, though, it might have been a mule. A mule in the movies, and a horse on TV. What was the name of that show? Mr. Ed. Jesus, there I go again. I can’t get rid of this garbage. Mr. Ed, Mr. Moto, Mr. Magoo, they’re in there still, every last one of them. Mr. Go-Fuck-Yourself. But I’m talking about dogs, aren’t I? Not horses, dogs. And not talking dogs either. Not those dogs in the stories about the guy who goes into the bar and bets his life savings because his dog can talk and nobody believes him, and then the dog never opens its mouth, and when the guy asks him about it afterward, the dog says he just couldn’t think of anything to say. No, not the talking dog in those dumb jokes, but the typing dog my friend saw in Italy when he was seventeen years old. That’s right, Italy. Nitty-gritty Italy, land of the witty ditty and the itty-bitty titty—yet one more place I’ve never been to.

“His aunt had moved there some years earlier, reasons unknown, and one summer he went to visit her for a couple of weeks. That’s a fact, and what makes the dog business ring true is that the dog wasn’t even the point of the story. I was reading a book. The Magic Mountain it was, written by one Thomas Mann—not to be confused with Thom McAn, renowned cobbler to the masses. I never finished the damned thing, by the way, it was so boring, but said Herr Mann was a muckety-muck, a hotshot in the Writers Hall of Fame, and I figured I should take a look. So there I was reading this massive tome in the kitchen, hunched over a bowl of Cheerios, and my roommate Paul walks in, sees the title, and says, T never finished that one. Started it four times, and I never got past page two-seventy-four.’ ‘Well,’ I said, ‘I’m on page two-seventy-one. I guess that means my time is almost up,’ and then he tells me, standing there in the doorway and blowing cigarette smoke out of his mouth, that he once met Thomas Mann’s widow. Not bragging about it, just stating a fact. That was how he got into the story about going to Italy to visit his aunt, who turned out to be a friend of one of Mann’s daughters. He had a lot of kids, old Tom did, and this girl had wound up marrying some well-heeled Italian chap and lived in a nice house up in the hills somewhere outside of God knows what little town. One day Paul and his aunt were invited to the house for lunch, and the hostess’s mother was there—Thomas Mann’s widow, an old woman with white hair sitting in a rocker and staring into space. Paul shook her hand, nothing of any importance was said, and then they all sat down to lunch. Blah, blah, blah, please pass the salt. Just when you think it’s going nowhere, that this is the end of a truly nothing story, Paul learns that Mann’s daughter is something called an animal psychologist. And what, you may ask, is an animal psychologist? Your guess is as good as mine, Mr. Bones. After lunch, she takes Paul upstairs and introduces him to an English setter named Ollie, a dog of no particular intelligence as far as he can see, and shows him a huge manual typewriter, which has to be the largest typewriter in the history of creation. It’s fitted out with a set of specially designed keys, big concave cups to accommodate the dog’s snout. Then she picks up a box of biscuits, calls Ollie over to the typewriter, and gives Paul a demonstration of what the hound can do.

“It was a slow, arduous business, not at all what you would expect. The sentence he was supposed to type was ‘Ollie is a good dog.’ Instead of just saying the words to him—or instead of spelling out the words and waiting for him to hit the right letters—she went through each sound of each word, breaking the words down into their component phonemes, and pronouncing them so slowly, with such odd inflections and throaty timbres, that she sounded like a deaf person trying to speak. ‘Ohhhhh,’ she began, ‘Ohhhhh,’ and when the dog pushed his nose down on the letter O, she rewarded him with a biscuit, some lovey-dovey talk, and many pats on the head, and then she went on to the next sound, ‘l-l-l-l,’ ‘l-l-l-l,’ speaking as slowly and painstakingly as before, and when the dog got it right, she gave him another biscuit and more pats on the head, and so it went, letter by excruciating letter, until they came to the end of the sentence: ‘Ollie is a good dog.’