André Alexis - Fifteen Dogs

When the movie was over, it took a moment for Nira to regain her composure. As always, she was moved to tears when Setsuko Hara cries.

— Did you like it? she asked at last.

— Yes, said Majnoun.

— You didn’t think it was too long? Some people find it boring.

— It was not boring, said Majnoun, but it was strange. The people were always looking away to where you couldn’t see. The whole time, I thought there was something coming. Then at the end, it was death that came.

It touched Nira that Majnoun could appreciate something she cherished. But there were aspects of the film that Majnoun found difficult to interpret, despite Hermes’s gift. To begin with, there was the general absence of dogs. When, somewhere toward the middle of the film, four dogs ran across the screen, responding to the whistled call of their master, Majnoun was immediately alert. So, it was something of a disappointment that the dogs were never seen again. But then, somewhere toward the end of the film, a man whistles for dogs who are not shown. First, the one who whistles is invisible. Then, it’s the ones who are called. These two moments, unexplained, seemed to Majnoun like a metaphysical puzzle at the heart of the film.

Also intriguing was all the bowing. The association of height and status did not, of course, faze him. If anything, it made the Japanese seem noble. But where were the ones who made themselves big? That was the question. With so many people bowing down, it seemed to Majnoun like a competition amongst the low to see who could be lowest. In which case, discretion was strength, a paradox that Majnoun found almost as compelling as the film’s relative absence of dogs.

In the end, it occurred to Majnoun that the two mysteries might be related. Dogs being capable of bowing much lower than humans, it perhaps followed that, in Tokyo Story , the dogs were a mysterious power it was forbidden to show too often, that a glimpse of them was all the discreet filmmakers had allowed themselves. Understandably, this idea contributed to Majnoun’s affection for the film.

It was even more interesting to read Nira’s favourite books. There was more time to think about things. Nira read Pride and Prejudice and Mansfield Park to him over the space of a month, aloud in the late afternoons before Miguel came home from work. Of these two, Mansfield Park was the one that troubled Majnoun most. It seemed to him almost frightening in its rage for order, like a manual for masters.

When they’d finished reading it, Majnoun said

— Nira, do you like fucking?

( Fucking was one of Miguel’s words. Nira had never spoken it.)

When she’d recovered from her surprise at the question, Nira said

— Where did that come from, Maj?

— I was thinking about Fanny Price, said Majnoun. She loves Edmund but she disapproves of fucking, doesn’t she?

— It’s impossible to say. As I see it, Fanny thinks there’s a right time and place for everything. But, to answer your question, I prefer making love. Look … this is a very personal matter, Maj, but there are times when I miss Miguel and I like being with him and I like when being with him turns into something more. It’s slow and it takes time. If you only saw the last part, you might think there’s no difference between making love and fucking, but there is for me. But then there are other times when I really just want him inside me and it’s almost as if it doesn’t matter that it’s Miguel, but it does matter.

— I see, said Majnoun

but here, too, his understanding of the human situation — as opposed to his understanding of Nira — was coloured by his lack of familiarity with certain rituals. He himself had never ‘made love,’ nor could he imagine wishing to.

What was interesting to him was how much humans relied on their imaginations. Not just for amusement but for fundamental things as well. He preferred to allow his body to think for him. Or he had in the old days before he’d changed. Now that he was somewhere between dog and human, he was curious about the imagination. Had he not been (as Nira called it) ‘neutered,’ he thought he might at least have tried to ‘make love’ to another dog. But then again, it would have been difficult to know where to start. Bitches in heat — the very smell of them an indescribably pleasing derangement — wanted fucking. There was no place for what Nira called ‘seduction.’ He briefly considered if bringing food to a bitch out of heat might put her in heat, but why would he bother? He was certainly not what Nira called ‘heterosexual,’ but neither was he homosexual or even bisexual. There were times when he was aroused in the presence of other dogs or humans or plush toys, for that matter, and he would mount them or rub against them if he could. On that score, he certainly made no distinction between bitches and non-bitches. As had happened after they’d watched Tokyo Story , Majnoun was left with a kind of pleasing puzzlement when they’d finished reading Mansfield Park .

In the end, it surprised Majnoun to discover that works of art — Tokyo Story, Mansfield Park , Mahler’s Fourth Symphony, and so on — were not understandable in the way people were. These works were, it seemed, created to evade understanding while inviting it. He came to love this aspect of the human, which was, of course, an aspect of Nira.

Nira’s and Majnoun’s path to understanding was mutually taken. Nira learned what was important to Majnoun as he learned what was important to her. Their journeys were quite different, however. To begin with, there were no artefacts for her to consider. No films or books that Majnoun loved. No music. Moreover, there was an asymmetry in their sensory capacities. Majnoun’s vision was not as keen as hers, but he noticed things she did not: squirrels, for instance. Majnoun could detect their slightest movement, were the creatures up in the trees or somewhere in the distance. His sense of smell was astounding. He could tell whether or not she had put shadow benny in her stewed chicken. And his sense of taste was just as impressive. Finally, his hearing was more acute than hers. He could hear higher pitches than she could, naturally. But he interpreted sounds differently as well. Nira had always heard that Bach’s music (among her favourites) was loved by all animals. Not by Majnoun it wasn’t. Not at all. For Majnoun, Bach’s music was like having needles prick you from the inside. He preferred Wagner — whose music Nira disliked— and he loved Anton Bruckner.

— Do dogs have stories? Nira asked him one day.

— Of course, said Majnoun.

— Oh, Maj! said Nira. Please tell me one.

Majnoun agreed and began:

— There is the smell of bitch, but I am before a wall. The smell is strong and I am going mad. I can’t eat. I can’t drink. The wall is too thick to knock down and it goes for miles in this direction and for miles in that direction. I dig under and I dig and I dig. The master cannot see my digging so I dig until there is air beneath the wall and the smell of bitch is stronger than it was before. I call to the bitch but there is no answer. But there is air beneath the wall. Should I go on digging? I don’t know, but I dig even though I can smell the master’s food from his house. The smell of bitch is stronger and stronger. I call out, but now I am hungry.

Here Majnoun stopped.

— Is that it? asked Nira.

— Yes, said Majnoun. Do you not like it?

— Well, it’s … different, said Nira. But it doesn’t really have an ending.

— It has a very moving ending, said Majnoun. Is it not sad to be caught between desires?

+

By degrees, the distance between Nira and Majnoun narrowed until each could anticipate what the other wanted. Nira could tell when exactly Majnoun wished to eat or go for a walk. Majnoun knew when it was time to leave Nira alone, when it was time to comfort her, when it was time to sit quietly by her side. By degrees, they had less use for words or English.