Marek Hlasko - Killing the Second Dog

“Only what you’ve always wanted to do yourself. You’ve wanted to be an actor, right?”

“How did you guess?”

“That’s my business.”

“I see,” I said. “I’m not supposed to know too much. Just like in the stories of that guy who wrote Guys and Dolls . You’re Spanish John, right?”

“No. Little Isidore. And that bastard over there,” he said, pointing to the cop guarding us, “is really Harry the Horse.”

“Better watch it, or you’ll get an additional charge for insulting a police officer,” the cop said.

“So you’ve read that book, too?” I asked.

“Sure,” the cop said. “I just read how Harry the Horse and Big Butch went to crack a safe, and Big Butch took his one-year-old kid with him because he didn’t have anyone to leave him with.”

“You want me to act?” I asked Robert.

“Yes, but for a very limited audience.”

“Who’ll pay me?”

“Don’t worry. Everything’ll be paid for. Leave it all to me; money’ll be no problem. You don’t mind being paid in American dollars, do you?”

“No, not at all.”

Soon afterward De Gaulle was transferred to the Akko penitentiary, where he was to serve out a long sentence, while Robert and I gave our first performance. Everything went just fine; our first client was the American girl who ended up in a nuthouse. That was over a year ago; I remembered it now as I leaned over the balcony rail. The sea in the distance looked misty and dead. I could tell the goddamn wind was coming and that it wouldn’t leave the city in peace. It was half past ten; I knew I wouldn’t be alone much longer. Thinking of the wind, which would be on us tomorrow, I didn’t feel like reading anymore; I didn’t even feel like going into the room. I thought of minor, unimportant things; my mind was in a total shambles and I couldn’t concentrate on anything. All of a sudden I remembered the day Stalin died. Then I thought of the day Patterson beat Johansson, and of winning a bet from some guy who never paid up; then I recalled how a certain rich but tight-fisted man hired me as a driving instructor for his wife, though he knew I didn’t have a teaching permit and that he wouldn’t collect any insurance if his wife wrecked the car.

“Can you drive?” he asked me the first day after treating me to a glass of warm soda water with no fizz in it.

“Yes.”

“Do you drive well?”

“Yes.”

“What sort of make did you drive last?”

“A Wright.”

“What’s that?”

“A diesel truck. Fifteen tons. Five gears and a reducer.”

“Have you had any accidents?”

“One.”

His face was shining with sweat; he was worried about his goddamn car — an old Chevy — but at the same time he was too cheap to part with a few pounds more and hire a professional instructor. I watched him, the half-full glass of warm soda water in my hand, while he trembled and sweated.

“Will you be careful?”

“That’s something women usually ask,” I said. “Sure I will.”

“You look as if you enjoyed risky driving.”

“I just look that way.”

“Do you really drive well?”

“I drove you around a bit, so you should know.”

“It’s hard to tell after one ride.”

“I can drive you around again.”

“It’d be a waste of gas,” he said. “It’s just as hard to tell after two rides. It’s hard to tell anything these days. My partner was the best man there ever was, then he started gambling and didn’t stop until he gambled away everything. God, I lost a fortune because of him. You just can’t tell anything these days.”

So I started teaching his wife and she was making good progress, but whenever I came to pick her up for her lesson, I could see she’d been crying. Finally, she told me her husband suspected she was having an affair with me and would kick up terrible fights and come close to a heart attack. Neither of us was attracted to the other. Whenever I made a suggestion, she’d say, “Don’t teach me what to do,” even though that was exactly what I was paid for. Or, rather, was supposed to be paid for. Each time I came to collect my fee, her husband would pretend he had no small bills; if I reminded him the next day, he would shout at me not to bother him with such trifles since he had a bad heart — so bad, in fact, that the doctors had stopped hiding it from him. He continued to treat his wife so dreadfully that finally one day she and I overcame our mutual repugnance. After that I never went back to their home. I couldn’t bear the thought of seeing her again. She kept gobbling sweets all the time, even when she was behind the wheel; she would break a chocolate bar in half and with a heavy sigh push both pieces into her mouth. After that her husband hired a highly recommended professional instructor. The instructor wrecked the car, and both he and the man’s wife ended up in the same hospital. Dark forces had conspired against the husband, Robert said.

It was eleven. When the khamsin blows, you close all doors and windows, but I opened the balcony door to go back into the room. At exactly the same moment I opened the balcony door, she opened the door to my room. We stopped and looked at each other.

“Close the door,” I said. “That goddamn wind has started.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” she said. “I knocked, but you didn’t hear me. So I thought you must be sitting out on the balcony.”

“You won’t be able to sleep now anyway. When the khamsin comes, nobody sleeps much.”

“Where’s Robert?”

“He’s not here tonight.”

“I see.” She liked to smile, something I liked about her. “His aging mother cabled him she’s not feeling well?”

“No. I told him to get the hell out because I was waiting for you.

“So I didn’t surprise you?”

“No. I hate surprises. I fear them more than anything. The only thing that brings joy is something you want and have been waiting for.”

“Quite a philosophy.”

“No. I just knew we both wanted the same thing.”

“That’s nice. Listen, you could also say there isn’t much happiness in the world, so you shouldn’t hesitate doing something you feel some good might come from.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth. All I can do is say them again.”

“Listen, why do I like you so much? Maybe you can explain that to me.”

“No. But that explains why you came.”

“Shouldn’t I slam the door and leave?”

“We’d lose one night,” I said. “And I have just enough money to stay here a few more days. Then I’ll have to move. By the way, did you give Johnny a spanking?”

“Yes. He traded your pants for a jackknife with a corkscrew. Johnny says it’s a very good jackknife. I brought it with me. I thought you should have it.”

She gave me the jackknife.

“Thank you,” I said. “Actually I’ve always wanted one. What about my shirt?”

“He traded it for some kind of lizard.”

“Maybe it’ll become friends with my dog.”

“No. It was a stuffed lizard. Next Johnny traded it for a pack of cigarettes. I brought you those, too.”

The cigarettes were Russian; thick as a finger, with cardboard filters.

“I haven’t smoked one of these in years,” I said. “Only Johnny could have come by them here.”

“I’m glad you think so highly of my son.”

“Want to try one?”

“Sure. Then what?”

“Let’s smoke first,” I said. “It’ll soothe my nerves.”

“Actually it’s me who should be tense, not you.”

“Not at all. It’s me who’s afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Disappointing you,” I said. “And you can’t imagine how afraid. I’m not eighteen. This country and this climate have taken their toll.”