Marek Hlasko - Killing the Second Dog

“Lucky us,” Robert said. “You could say we’re as popular as a shithouse during an outbreak of typhoid fever. Do you know him?” he asked the bouncer.

“Like I told you, we were in the army together. That’s all I know. He doesn’t know me anymore.”

“Okay, it’s all settled. Go home and wait for your cut.”

“You won’t con me, will you?” the bouncer asked. “I don’t even know you guys. You won’t con me, will you?”

“No,” Robert said. “For the love of God, no. Ever since Abraham Lincoln died, there hasn’t been anyone as honest as us.” He turned to me. “Imagine, I wanted to create a theater for the likes of him. A total waste! There are no values left. That’s why no tragedy is possible today. Do you understand what I mean?”

“No,” the bouncer said.

“A hundred years ago Art belonged to the aristocracy and the rich. They knew how to care for it. If an actor like Belmondo had appeared on the stage in Paris or St. Petersburg, the theatrical director would have packed his bags the next day. Today Art belongs to everyone. And that’s why it’s dead. I’m a reactionary. But reactionaries have no power today and Art no longer exists. There are TV sets, cars, and washers you buy on credit, but there’s no Art. And there never will be any. There’s only Henry Miller and Sartre. Sartre made the astounding discovery that men’s underwear sometimes happens not to be very clean, and for that reason alone Sartre will be immortal. He might even be awarded the Nobel Prize. Have you read today’s paper? Do you know if they’ve given that louse the Nobel Prize yet? They should give him one every week. You know who I’m talking about, don’t you? That lousy little shit who read Kierkegaard before he was old enough to understand him. Well? Has he got it yet? Come on, tell me.”

“I don’t know,” the bouncer said. “All I know is the fight between Liston and Clay is scheduled for February. That’s all I know, Robert.”

“You and your goddamn chicken coops. You ought to read Sartre. That would help you understand your chickens. And I wanted to give you great theater! Shit, you don’t deserve a thing! You’ve spoiled the whole day for me. Read Sartre, do anything you like, but don’t bother us when we’re working. Yes, go home and read Sartre. Read him two or three times.”

“When we met in Tel Aviv, you told me you had a foolproof deal, too. And remember what happened?”

“That wasn’t my fault. I told you to go and see G. You went to J.”

“J. knew nothing about the deal,” the bouncer said.

“Of course he didn’t. I told you to see G. All you’ve ever done isn’t worth a shit.”

“Not worth a shit, huh?” The bouncer was indignant. “I was the one who introduced you to the bellhop in the hotel. That wasn’t worth a shit?”

“Nothing you do is worth a shit,” Robert insisted.

“Just make sure everything works out this time,” the bouncer said in a threatening tone. “You’re not gonna roll me.”

They continued wrangling like that for quite a while.

Whenever Robert set up a deal, he was very secretive and never mentioned any names, only the initials J. and G. Everybody knew who J. and G. were, but Robert stuck to his code. That was the way he operated.

“G. still owes me money,” the bouncer said.

“Read Sartre.”

“J. is a thief, too. They threw him in the slammer, but what good is that to me? Am I supposed to follow him there to get my money or what?”

“Read Sartre,” Robert said. “Start on him today. And now leave us alone.”

We paid for our coffee and walked down to the beach. She was already there. We rented two deck chairs and went to join her.

“Good morning,” she said.

“Did you sleep well?” Robert asked.

“I heard Johnny gave you a scare this morning.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Robert said. “He’s a lovely child. And so lively, too. I was just like him as a boy.”

While he talked about Johnny and himself, I watched the kid. He was as busy as a one-man band. First he tied a long string to an old man’s chair, and when the old poop was about to sit down, he pulled it out from under him. “The kid’s got a healthy sense of humor,” Robert said, watching the old man try to get up. Then the kid started making mud balls and slinging them at women who didn’t want to get their hair wet while swimming. One throw was good enough to ruin a ten-dollar hairdo; his aim was true, and his hand never wavered. He engaged in this activity for some time. I calculated that the hairdressers at the Dan Hotel would earn at least a hundred fifty bucks extra, not including tips. Then he got bored with this game. Suddenly he vanished, and when he reappeared, he had a whole fistful of clothespins. Later I found out all the hotel laundry done during the night had landed in the sand. Johnny stuck the clothespins behind the waistband of his swimming trunks and went into the water. I wondered what he needed them for, but a little later I could have kicked myself for being so dumb. Johnny’d been blessed by Nature with an inventive mind, and this time he had come up with a truly magnificent idea: he swam up to people who wore masks and with one swift motion cut off their air supply by attaching the clothespins to their snorkels; his helpless victims began to suffocate and then tear the masks off their faces; two men lost their masks and never found them again. One of the kid’s victims was a lousy swimmer and a lifeguard had to tow him to shore. Everybody started shouting for the police. People were close to a lynching. The man saved by the lifeguard went into hysterics; a crowd gathered around him, and everybody offered the lifeguard advice. The lifeguard lost his head and hit the man in the jaw. The man went crazy and demanded the lifeguard’s name: he meant to press charges.

“You’ll pay for this!” the hysteric yelled.

“I had no choice,” insisted the lifeguard. “I only did what all life-saving manuals tell you to do if someone has a fit.”

“You hit me in the face!”

“You had a fit. I had no choice. That’s what they taught me in my life-saving course.”

“Excuse me, what did they teach you? What is a lifeguard supposed to do?” a stranger wanted to know. He had a distinguished manner of speaking. “What are you supposed to do?”

“Slap him in the face,” the lifeguard said. “Like this.”

He slapped the distinguished-sounding stranger in the face, but he must have miscalculated the force of his blow because the man fell to the ground like a bird shot in flight, and he lay there motionless on the sand as the lifeguard leaned over him, shouting, “That’s what they told us to do in the course. I can show you my manual. These are scientific methods and that man shouldn’t resent what I did.”

Nobody understood the lifeguard because he was yelling in Hebrew. Little Johnny decided to give him a hand. “He’s right. It was his duty,” little Johnny said.

“Duty!” the lifeguard yelled, grasping at this word. “Duty! Duty!”

Finally a cop appeared, took down what had happened, and slowly everyone quieted down.

“Johnny, darling,” his mother said when the crowd dispersed and Robert and I managed to free the kid from the lifeguard’s clutches, “why don’t you read something for a while? You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I’ll give you a book,” Robert said.

“Piss on your book,” said little Johnny with true feeling. “I wanna play with your dog.”

“Of course, sweetheart,” Robert said. “I’m sure the two of you will get on famously.” Then he turned to me and added softly. “He’s gonna kill our dog. We’ve gotta start looking for a new one.”

“What did you say?” the kid asked, eying him suspiciously.