Сигрид Нуньес - The Friend

“And did you decide to make me a goy while you were at it?”

The woman laughs again. “No. But I did make you a bit more of a womanizer than you really are.”

“Just a bit?”

“Ah. You’re upset.”

“You must have known I would be.”

“I did. I admit that I did. When do people ever like it when you write about them? But I had to do something. As I said, from the minute I heard what had happened I could not stop thinking about it. So I did what you do if you’re a writer and you’re obsessed about something: you turn it into a story that you hope will lay it to rest, or at least help you figure out what it means. Even if we know from experience that this pretty much never actually works.”

“Yes, I know, you don’t have to tell me all this. And writers really are like vampires , you don’t have to tell me that either, I’m sure it’s something I once told you. Again, the irony is not lost on me. But as you can see you’ve given me quite a shock. I don’t know what to think. What have you done? Right now I can tell you it feels like a betrayal. Absolutely a betrayal. And after the conversation we just had, I do have to ask: What makes me fair game? And you could at least have waited. Christ. There I am in the hospital, at the lowest moment of my entire life, and you’re at the computer churning out pages. Not a very pretty picture. No. In fact, it strikes me as downright sleazy. What kind of friend—oh shame on you. Words fail you, I see. I’m amazed that you can even look me in the face. And did I hear you right, about a dog? The dog is a major character? Please say nothing bad happens to the dog.”

This is the life, eh? Sunshine, not too hot, nice breeze, birdsong. Now, I know you like the sun, or you wouldn’t be lying in it, you’d be up here on the shady porch with me. In fact, that sun must feel awfully good on your old bones. And you probably find the ocean breeze as refreshing as I do. Whenever it blows our way you lift your head to sniff, and I know your three hundred million odor receptors are picking up far more than the salty tang coming through my measly six million. It’s hard for a person to smell more than one thing at a time. When I hear someone describe a wine as having a heavy black-pepper aroma followed by hints of raspberry and blackberry, I know they’re full of shit. Show me the human that can smell a raspberry from a blackberry, even without having to go through pepper first. But your nose, on the other hand, tens of thousands of times as sensitive as mine, according to dog science—able to smell one rotten apple in two million barrels—now that’s a whole other organ.

More amazing yet that you can tell apart the countless different scents hitting you at all times from every direction. A power like that makes every dog Wonder Dog. But talk about too much information. A power like that would drive any human being insane.

Thinking back to when you used to wake me in the middle of the night, inhaling every inch of me as I lay on the floor. Searching for data. Who was I and what might I have up my sleeve. You still sniff me all the time, but never with the same kind of investigative fervor.

According to science, you can smell not only what I had for breakfast today but also yesterday’s dinner; when I last washed the shorts and T-shirt I’m wearing and whether or not I used bleach; where these sandals have taken me lately, and the fact that I’ve changed my brand of sunscreen. All of this would be a piece of cake for you. But now that I know what dogs can do, nothing would surprise me. The woman we often meet walking her mother and daughter mutts says dogs can tell time. When I come home from work, she says, I look up and see my girls at the window while I’m still a block away. They can tell from the level of my scent in the air.

I think it’s fair to say that, thanks to your superior gift, you can read me better than I can read you. Hormones and pheromones keep you updated. My anxiety about classes starting up again in a week. My open wounds. My hidden fears. My loneliness. My rage. My never-ending grief. You can smell all that.

What else. A fraction of malignant cells not yet detectable to medicine? Plaques and tangles silently forming in my brain, heralds of dementia?

It’s been surmised that a canine companion could know that its person is pregnant before that person herself knows.

Ditto a person dying.

Not that your sense of smell is what it used to be. Age has surely dulled it, as happens to people too. And look at that nose: once a ripe dripping black plum, now crusty and gray like a used coal.

I was saying: hot sun, cool breeze—these I’m pretty sure you like. But what about the birdsong. There’s a feeder in the yard, and birds are abundant. We hear chickadees, sparrows, finches, and robins throughout the day—except for certain hours when, mysteriously, every one falls silent as if they’d all gone off to church.

I like bird sounds, even the monotonous woe-is-me of the mourning doves and the screechy cries of jays, crows, and gulls. But you, indifferent to man-made music of any sort, what effect does nature’s music have on you?

I’ve known people who don’t at all appreciate birdsong, who even find it annoying. A story about the conductor Serge Koussevitzky complaining about being woken up mornings at Tanglewood by all those birds singing out of tune.

Sometimes a bird catches your eye—as pigeons in the city sometimes do—flying low through the air or hopping on the lawn, but never tempting you to the chase.

Squirrels, rabbits, and chipmunks also appear, some daring to get quite close, but none needing to fear.

The neighbor’s tom, black and white like you, observes you through slitted eyes from the edge of the lawn, telegraphing that he’s unimpressed.

Once, a strange-looking dog streaked by, furtive and swift, there and gone so fast that I might have hallucinated it. Only later did it hit me: that was no dog but a fox.

I wonder if you’ve ever chased any creature in your life. Seems to me you must have. The instinct must be there. Boar hunting, after all, is in your genes.

Not that I’m not glad we’re all peaceable kingdom here. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Just remembered my old boyfriend training Beau to sit still for a full minute with a pet mouse on his head.

I have seen you snap at flies and other insects, to my worry including stinging ones. And you once ate an enormous spider before I could stop you.

Or maybe it was the mouse being trained to sit with a dog under its butt.

The other constant sound here is the surf, which I like to think is as restful for you as it is for me.

The first time we went down to the beach I wondered if you’d ever seen the ocean before, or gone swimming, or walked on sand. (The size of your footprints I imagine giving some people pause.) Luckily, the beach is just minutes away. We go only when the sun is low, early morning or dusk. Short as it is, the walk’s not always easy for you. You go slowly, ever more slowly— hobble is the word I’m dodging here. I’m afraid that one day we’ll get down there all right but then you won’t be able to make it back.

In the city a short time ago a scary thing happened. It was scorching, the first really bad day of the season, and we were headed for the shade of the park. But before we could get there, and though we hadn’t gone far, you stopped, you buckled and sank to the concrete, clearly distressed.

I nearly panicked, thought I was going to lose you right then right there.

How kind people were. Someone dashed into a coffee bar and came back with a bowl of cold water, which you drank greedily without getting up. Then a woman passing by stopped, took out an umbrella, and stood holding it open to shield you from the sun; it’s okay if I’m late for work, she said. A man driving by offered us a ride, but I knew you’d have trouble climbing into the backseat, and by then thankfully you’d revived and we were able to walk home.