Marek Hlasko - Killing the Second Dog

“What guy?”

“The guy in the cab. Did you understand his last words?”

“Not quite. I think it was ‘pray for my soul’ or something like that.”

“He said it in German?”

“Yeah.”

“How cliché,” Robert said. “But I guess a lot of people have repeated that hackneyed phrase. Still, it’s worth remembering. You can always add a word or two and change something around. I’ve heard that all those famous last words are a pack of lies. When Goethe was on his deathbed, they couldn’t get a word out of him for posterity, so they started shining a light on his face until he finally said that famous line of his: ‘More light!’ Sly bastards.”

“I wouldn’t say a thing. I’d be too scared.”

“Not even a word to the kids kneeling around your bed? Or to your wife banging her head against the floor in desperation?”

“Come on,” I said. “I’m tired. Let’s talk to our backer and have it over with. I want to climb into bed and sleep until morning. Look at the dog. He’s beat too.”

Robert paid the bill and we walked slowly toward the sea. It was already dark. I remembered reading in some book that man is but the shadow of a dream, but I couldn’t think of the book’s title or the name of the author. I don’t know who had dropped that line on me or at what point in his life the author had written it. Was it while he was gazing at the dying flame of a candle, or watching a dog with a bone in its jaws, its eyes shining with fearful ecstasy? Or maybe it was the voice of God that had suddenly rumbled inside him and made him mutter those words while staring wide-eyed at the people around him, certain all of a sudden that he would not disappear without a trace when he reached the end of his road. And maybe it seemed to the people around him they had been allowed to glimpse some wonderful light that would never shine again. It must have been a glorious moment and I can only thank God I wasn’t present, since most likely I would have added a few words and spoiled the whole show. That’s the way I am. And then what would have happened to the light? But I don’t like light. I like the darkness, which frees us from our faces and the shadows we cast.

“Is anything wrong?” Robert asked.

“No. I was just trying to remember something.”

“And …?”

“No luck. But don’t worry. That’s why I’m so fond of thinking; it doesn’t lead to anything. You should know me, Robert. We’ve been working together for over a year.”

“Ease up, man. Soon we’ll start talking about money and you’ll feel even worse.”

“You’ll do the talking.”

“Right. And you just try not to have such a goddamn sad face. All you need to do is sit with us; you don’t even have to listen to me. You can clean your fingernails or pick up some book and leaf through it. Don’t pay any attention to what’s happening. To you it should be obvious he’ll give us the money. Pretend you can barely hide the boredom and disgust you feel, okay?”

“Okay,” I said.

We were walking side by side. Darkness was all around us, but not the kind that envelops a city like a dream. It didn’t make us forget our hot and tired bodies. This darkness was rough and hard, like the dust; and like the dust it clung to our skin.

“So, once again. How will you act?” Robert asked.

“I won’t pay any attention to either of you,” I said. “You won’t interest me at all. I’ll just sit there looking out at the garden, and your loud, repugnant voices will seem to me both meaningless and unreal.”

“You got it, pal. Okay, we’re here.”

We entered a building and started climbing a stairway overrun by cats. It was siesta; in this country, people sleep by installments. They go to bed after coming back from work, and then again late at night. They spend their evenings in cafes or visiting friends. When you visit someone, your host usually asks whether you’d like to shower before you sit down for coffee. Robert disliked taking showers and almost always refused, claiming that only dirty people need to wash very often. Chacun à son goût .

Our host was sitting on the terrace, reading a newspaper. His girlfriend was sitting next to him. When she saw us, she adjusted herself in her deck chair and lowered her gaze to the floor. It was meant to show her contempt. She was putting on an act. Men look only for peace and deliverance; women have to have something churning and shifting in their lives. They’re always very serious about how they feel and genuinely convinced that all those fleeting emotions they take for anger, love, or contempt are going to last forever.

“It’s us, Mr. Azderbal,” Robert said.

“Again?” Azderbal said.

“Didn’t it work out very well last time?”

“Sure. All it took to save my neck was two top lawyers and a doctor who testified that I happen to be partially insane. I don’t suppose you’ve come here to tell me of some new deal we could make together, huh?”

“That was an accident,” Robert said. “Somebody squealed on us.”

“Bullshit,” Azderbal said. “I’m not interested in any more shaky deals.”

I moved away and sat down on a deck chair next to the girl. She glanced at me in a brief, detached way. I could swear she’d been practicing that look in front of a mirror for the past three months, certain I was going to show up at any moment. But I hadn’t shown up; I had come only now with Robert because we were short of cash. I sat next to her, staring out at the dark garden, while behind our backs the two men continued their loud conversation.

“I need money,” Robert was saying. “I have to pay for his hotel, food, and all the rest.”

“And for the doctor,” the other added.

“Yeah, for the doctor, too. We need money for at least two, three weeks. He must have a room and three meals a day; breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He must be able to afford cigarettes, coffee, a deck chair at the beach, and a haircut and shave once in a while for him to look all right. And our dog, too, our dog costs a pretty penny.”

“What does it eat?”

“Two pounds of pork a day,” Robert said. “Or do you expect me to cook grits for it in my hotel room and mix them with canned kosher meat? Do you really? Well, maybe you’d eat that mush, but not this dog.”

“It’s too big. You should have bought a smaller dog, a poodle or a Pekingese; this one’s not a dog, it’s a monster, a fiend. No wonder it’s so expensive to feed.”

“Why don’t you just say outright that we should use a dead dog? That would come out cheapest. You don’t know how to make money because you don’t know what investing is all about. You want a hundred percent profit on every lousy deal you make; you haven’t learned that some of the best deals ever made often involve just fractions of one percent. You think like a small-scale herring merchant who has to make a hundred percent profit on every sale or else he’ll die of hunger.”

“You should have bought a smaller dog,” Azderbal insisted.

“Don’t teach me, Mister. The dog has to be big, happy, and full of life. It must be loved and pampered by everybody. People must want to feed it chocolates, while it knows it can’t accept even one piece. Not even sniff it! That’s what I call a real dog. A dog like that becomes an issue. And then we have the makings of a tragedy. Don’t you see that? The dog must have honey-colored stars in its eyes.” Robert came up to me and paused behind my chair; he was furious and awe-inspiring. “I have to tie the wings of my soul while he begrudges me a bit of meat for the dog.”

“He’s a jerk,” I said quietly, without turning my head. This was how we had planned it; I was to show the backer we despised him and his money, so he would think we had other options and that we came to him only because he lived so close. Azderbal and the girl twitched nervously. I continued to stare into the darkness.