Chapter 4
“Hold on, I’ll take you as an example.”
The sentence is uttered, and there’s no answer. A human says it to a dog, other humans
don’t hear it. They don’t have to, anyway. Vismar doesn’t look around – he knows there’s
nobody here. He perhaps developed this sense of his back in prison. He always knows
whether there’s someone near him or not. He senses it. So now, in cage 18, near the tap, the
human is alone.
Vismar is talking to every animal he approaches, every animal he passes. He is the one
who addresses the dog snarling at passers-by behind the fence in town, the cat lying snug at
the bottom of the wall, the swallow sitting on the electric wire, even the buzzard circling up
high and shrieking in a piercing voice. He addresses the bugs crawling in the grass, the
butterfly, the lizard sunbathing on a hot stone. After all, one does talk to his friends.
Now he is talking to the dog with a monotonous slowness. He knows it’s not words
that matter, although their meaning does make a difference. It’s the tone, the reassurance that
really matters. His tongue in his mouth, his teeth and his lips are only tools. Here, a soul is
addressing a soul, and that’s the only thing that matters.
“You have to hold on firmly. Whatever happened, don’t bother about it, not any
more.”
The dog is lying, its eyes closed. That it is breathing is rather just something mechanical.
Vismar is sitting beside it on a small stool that he brought from the office. He is watching the
animal. There is no sign of life here, except for that the dog is breathing. And it does even that
in a barely noticeable manner, its breathing isn’t audible. Cage 18 is cast over by the branches
of a tree, luckily enough. There will be shade, too, all day.
The Girl is coming. Her eyes have circles around them. She didn’t have much sleep at
night, or maybe none at all. Her movements, her words are a bit slow. Two ”Good mornings”
cross each other, fly into one another like rather careless birds, Vismar sees that he can’t
really count on the Girl today. But at least, she brought him news:
“Mr. Vismar, the Doctor is sending word that the dog has to be given a drink all the
time. I’ll drop water into its mouth.”
“No, because it’s is unconscious. It might suffocate. The Doctor could give it an
infusion.
“That does cost a lot.”
“I’ll pay for it.”
“I’ll tell him.”
These sentences, getting shorter and shorter, are purposely like this, and accordingly,
reach their goal. The Girl leaves the front of the cage, while Vismar remains inside. The huge
dog is lying in a shade. The little man is sitting in a shade. Up there, the sun is scorching.
Down here, a dog sometimes barks up, gets a response from two or three others instantly, then
there is silence, right until the next bark.
It’s noon when the dog cries out. But it doesn’t do even that out of its own initiative.
The Doctor has come, and he is indeed searching for a vein among all the wounds and hairs.
He finally finds one, pierces in, and it’s then that the dog mewls. One has to believe that this,
too, might help the animal. The bottle is in its cage, with a hook on top, a thin little translucent
plastic tube meanders in the dog’s hair and among-above the bandages. The Doctor looks
around, he is helpless for only a moment, then hangs the bottle by its hook onto the wire
fence. This animal won’t move from here, anyway. Vismar sees that this isn’t a medicine,
only a physiological sodium solution. This calls to his mind the hospital when his wife gave
birth to his daughter, and she had something like this hung above her bed, too.
The sun is rising. Vismar sits and watches. In the bottle, the liquid is dripping
rhythmically. The warmth and the light is grows. The dog which has no name, and perhaps
won’t have one at all, only yipped at the moment the Doctor pierced the needle into its vein,
this filled the Doctor with satisfaction. ”It feels it,” he remarked. But it wasn’t clear from his
voice how much he thinks this is a good sign.
Then the Assistant comes, asks whether Mr. Vismar wants him to bring something to
eat. Mr. Vismar says thanks, gives money, asks for a pizza; there is a cafeteria not too far
away, on the edge of the town. The Girl lets the Assistant go with a nod of her head, let him
go, but with a bicycle, that way it’s faster. And when he arrives back, he can continue
cleaning the cages, taking the dogs for a walk. Until then, the Girl takes them around the
space among the cages. Sometimes she reaches 18, always accompanied by three or four
rather curious pooches. Black noses approach the wire, carefully. There are dogs which look
at that huge animal startled, it especially practices a shattering effect on the small-sized ones,
even so, half-dead, motionless.
Then the afternoon comes. The dog is breathing, but it’s silent. As if it were asleep.
Perhaps it is asleep, too. Vismar moves around a bit, so that his feet don’t go numb; at dusk he
eats the rest of his pizza. Then he asks the Assistant to stay a while. Before the Doctor left, he
changed the infusion bottle. Vismar hurries home, grabs this and that: it becomes a regular
little bundle; he puts it into the backpack. The straps pull his shoulders in a familiar way. He
knows that he cannot forget the school breakfasts, the home for the elderly, nothing. But those
days haven’t come back again yet.
He gets there at dusk. The Girl, just letting the Assistant go, looks up in amazement.
“Mr. Vismar, surely you aren’t going to sleep here, are you?” and waves her hand
towards the office. Vismar’s head stirs a little, he nods towards 18 with his forehead.
“There.”
“But that dog won’t go anywhere, anyway, why guard it?” she protests,
incomprehension still fighting with cognizance in her. “And if it gets worse all of a sudden,
you aren’t a doctor after all, you can’t help.”
The stubborn intention has gathered up in Vismar for a time already. He knows what
he wants. He almost always did even before. He isn’t arguing. Only casts a glance at the Girl,
the two pairs of eyes run into each other in space. The Girl is sleepy and tired, she sees that all
arguing would be useless. Vismar has made up his mind.
Then the night comes.
The Girl is fighting her disheveled dreams and disappointment among the office walls,
although still hoping that life will bring her something or other. Out here, it isn’t cold. Vismar
blew up the rubber air mattress; he brought two blankets and a smaller pillow from home, as
well. He lies down in a way that his body is parallel to that of the dog. The poor thing is still
spread out on the same side, and doesn’t utter a sound now, either. Only breathes, silently.
And even this is only audible to the man when his head gets within barely an arm’s length’s
distance from the big head. Two heads side by side. Although at a reasonable distance.
“Here we are, so close to one another, and I still don’t know what’s going on in it.”
Vismar fights sleepiness. Half asleep, he can still hear the dog yelp out. There are already
stars above. For a long time, the dogs in the neighboring cages cannot come to terms with a
man being among them at nighttime. They are turning round and round, barking up now and
again, some of them even growl, but rather only out of embarrassment. Amazement. Then
another wave of barking starts at the other end of the dog estate; could it have been a
porcupine trotting past beside the fence? Then the village dogs’ barking can be heard from
there, and that has to be answered by some locals, by all means.
Vismar still isn’t asleep when he senses the dog move. It snorts restlessly, hoarsely
perhaps. Its two wounded legs stir hesitantly, it turns its head around, Vismar can guess what
the trouble is – the animal would like to turn on its other side. But it has so many wounds, its
legs are so miserable, it cannot stand on them. Vismar gets up carefully, goes round it in the
twilight. He touches the animal very carefully, the white bandages are just as visible in the
starlight. He manages to find a two-palms-wide space, sets his shoulder to work. The dog is
inert, accordingly, it is heavy. The man only manages to turn it over after the third try, and
even then, he barely succeeds to keep it from falling back. The dog has finally been turned
over, and the infusion has remained in its place, too. Vismar is panting, the dog cries out
several times during the action. Just like an infant.
“It’s all right, all right,” Vismar murmurs quietly. “I know it hurts. That’s why you are
here. Relax, it will go away.”
He lies back, puts his head down, and he hardly gets time to be amazed a little bit
himself – he is already asleep.
The dream doesn’t assault him insidiously now, doesn’t break in on him from a darkinvisible corner, which he didn’t notice previously. This isn’t a trap now. This dream is from
the old times, so it’s beautiful. He is standing somewhere in a garden. It’s not like their garden
used to be, but this is a garden, too, and promising good. A beautiful lawn, light green, springlike. Unknown people all over, then someone steps up to him and takes his hand, softly. His
woman, the one he lived for.
He only sees her face dimly, the dream is half blind, and makes him completely blind.
It’s better to close his eyes and enjoy the sun, although perhaps it isn’t shining that much at
all. His daughter is somewhere here, too, she just recently got married; he doesn’t like his sonin-law, he feels it now, too. “But after all, it’s not me who has to like him,” he usually says,
mostly to himself. And at times, to his wife, who is still smiling. Somewhere at the bottom of
his dream-soul, Vismar suspects the whole thing, even sees it from almost outwards, so he
knows the future already, too. He knows that this woman will leave him. She will think she
has a reason to. His daughter and her husband will leave, as well. Some time. On a horrible
day.
But Vismar isn’t sad now, neither in that garden-party in the dream nor at the bottom
of his sleeping soul. He breathes evenly. Just like the dog. They sleep together, they lie
together, they are together in the cage. A concentrated dog-smell waxes. And the smell of
wounds, and blood.
Vismar’s dream is short, perhaps lasting only some moments, yet still fills the man
with relief. There is no more of the dream but sleep is there instead. He relaxes, now he isn’t
in prison, doesn’t hear the attorney’s steel-hard thunders, either. Somewhere, he feels that he
has arrived to his place. But as yet, he only suspects it vaguely, doesn’t know what it is that
gives him such satisfaction.
He wakes up to some noise. At first he doesn’t want to, he feels good where he is,
what he is in, what he has dived into. Semi-sleep is sweet. It’s an eggshell, protecting the
fowl, temporarily from everything. The fowl doesn’t know how fragile it is, doesn’t see
anything else at all, time will come when it breaks its wall apart itself. Vismar would adhere
to his dream and his sleep, this eggshell, but something orders him to open his eyes now.
He opens them. He is lying at the bottom of the cage, looking out through the wires.
The sky has cleared up, and he can see a few stars. A moment and he realizes where he is,
what he is doing now. Then he sits up.
The dog who has no name, growls. And perhaps mewls at the same time. It’s angry
about being helpless. Yearning for something. The old man slowly disentangles himself from
the plaid, whispers, “Well, what’s the matter? Don’t growl, I’ll help you right away.”
He gets up and sees that the dog is moving its dried-out mouth, its jaw clatters dryly.
Vismar pulls the water closer, dips the sponge set there ready for use. With his eyes used to
the twilight, he trickles the water into the dog’s mouth, the half of it runs down on the other
side, so he is conserving it. But the jaw stirs, a greedy tongue gathers the drops. It’s difficult
to lap like this, but Vismar is already there, next to it, and gives the dog the drink fully
devoted, more and more skillfully. He hits on the necessary thickness of the stream very soon,
pours at the necessary pace and volume, his fingers squeezing the sponge, then letting loose
around it. The dog turns its head a bit, doesn’t want any more. Vismar sees that the infusion is
about to be used up in a few minutes, so pulls the needle out, plasters its place, just as he saw
from the Doctor. Then he doesn’t even notice when tiredness lunges at him again. He tumbles
on the mattress and is already asleep.
At dawn, he wakes up to the thirsty dog again. He gives it a drink. Vismar isn’t sleepy
any more; since he got old like this, he can do with little sleep. His eyes open onto dawn.
Light is spreading, falling down from above; for the time being, it’s a grey shower of rays,
filling the world slowly. Vismar’s glance wanders below, and it’s then that he notices that in
the neighboring cage, there are four or five dogs in a row in front of the wire fence, like in a
movie, looking at him. Looking at them.
Later, the dogs begins stirring to and fro. Once again, a barking wave passes, but it
hushes soon enough. They sense movement from the office, and they are much more
interested in that. They know what it means if the people from here are stirring. All the dogs
know the Girl and the Assistant well. They also know that the Girl is the boss. And many of
them know that the Doctor’s smell is unbearable, he is the man who sometimes causes pain.
The Girl is caring and food. The Assistant is food, too, and water and cleanness.
Vismar sometimes feels that he knows exactly what the dogs are thinking of. And at
other times: that he is surely wrong. Now he is a dog himself, he is here among them. So he
sits for a while, the big dog would run convulsively with its front legs, it, too, is dreaming. It
has had a drink already, it is dreaming. It is alive.
When the gloaming turns into dawn, Vismar packs his bundle up and starts towards
the office.
The world is not coming to life yet, the dogs bark once or twice; on his coming, some
of them wag their tails. The office door is half open but Vismar is beware to go in – at such
times, this is the Girl’s dominion, she sleeps in there, so it’s a private area. He puts his
belongings down on the bench beside the door. He is already about to start searching for the
Assistant when the door opens. The Girl is unkemptness itself, still a bit sleep-dazed.
“Good morning, I didn’t know who was stalking up and down here.”
“Sorry if I woke you up” says Vismar, mechanically.
The Girl flicks her hand. “I haven’t been asleep for a while.”
Vismar knows that the Girl cannot sleep if the shelter money is getting used up and
she has no idea where she can acquire more. Soon she starts her rounds, visiting the
businesses, making a pass at the district governments, as well. Money is necessary, the dogs
are hungry. And there won’t be any fewer of them, on the contrary. “Would it be better to let
them run off, and then the whole street, town, village would be full of them...?” She is
blackmailing and she knows it. They know this. Several times, this is how she gets the money.
Vismar does a bit of accounting to himself. He knows how much he can donate each
month. It was assigned to him by those who adjudicated his financial settlement. He pulls
himself together, there will be enough for this, too. He lifts up his head slowly, doesn’t even
have to ask, the Girl knows the old man’s movements. His gestures. His soul.
She utters the sum, the old man nods on it. The Girl picks up the old man’s belongings
to take them into the office for the day. The almost empty infusion bottle is on the top. She
shows it to Vismar questioningly. “The dog isn’t unconscious any more; it can drink if we
help it,” he explains.
The Girl only nods, and goes through the door. Vismar is already sauntering along the
fence then. Suddenly, he feels that he isn’t tired, and still, it would be good to sleep without
having to watch the Other One, the Sleepmate. “I already have no one but a dog for a
sleepmate;” he cheers up, he can even smile, the sudden good mood is scattered on his
wrinkled face, nests there for a while. Women come to his mind, indispensable
accompaniments and tempters of his youth. A long time ago, there used to be many of them,
then they began to be scarcer. Since he came out of prison, there aren’t any. Perhaps he
doesn’t miss them either.
…Then his home. The door is ajar, Cicero in front of the door, she doesn’t want to go
in. Vismar knows from this that Gina-Georgina, whom the cat doesn’t like, has arrived.
Perhaps because of her continuous talk. When Vismar enters, to him Gina’s plump face still
seems to be worn out, still wearing the up-the-hill rouge from her passage here; her dark eyes
are glinting, and while she was talking to the cat until now, “If youdontcomein, do you think
Iwillcryforyou?” – now she changes without the least commotion, addressing her words to the
man right away. “Goodmorning, the master isn’t homeatnightsureenough, leavesthehouse
empty, but he shouldntbesurprised if all kinds of creatures gotbehind the fence...!”
With a bit of delay, Vismar realizes: Gina has already been in the bedroom, perhaps
wasn’t even ashamed to stick her hand inside the made up bed, felt the cold, knew that the
”master” didn’t sleep at home at night. Luckily, no kinds of “creatures” got behind the fence,
that’s visible right away. Gina is very much annoyed by where Vismar might have spent the
night, surely not at some well-to-do widow’s, perhaps here in the village...? And the old man
is silent. Upon which Gina believes the only possible explanation suggested by her brain:
“Well, I say! The way men can losetheirminds over some skirts! So the old gentleman
was withawoman, what?”
Vismar looks around surprised, looking for the “old gentleman”, who could it be...?
His pantomime doesn’t even last a minute, but Gina comprehends it even so, and continues
chortling to herself. Vismar yawns demonstratively, to signify that he didn’t sleep at night,
makes an “If I told you what happened...!”-face, further keying up the woman’s curiosity. But
before Gina can ask anything, Vismar yawns once again, and makes his way into his room at
once. As he didn’t ask for any breakfast, it’s obvious for Gina that he must be very tired and
sleepy indeed. He had an exhausting night … And it’s just the closing bedroom door that she
throws her words at.
“Theolder a man gets, themoreheloses his mind. This was saidbyourancestors, but it’s
alsotruetoday.”
The dream only spares him halfway.
He doesn’t dream any more of the first prison days, whose hell tormented his soul for
a long time. Every humiliating sentence, order, glance, every word thrust at him, every curse
hurt him like burning fire. He was so far from these until then – now they all tumbled onto
him, and at the same time. But weeks, months later, it was already better. And he owes it also
to the advocate who came less and less frequently – why would he have come, anyway? The
court’s judgment was made, it became legally binding after one appeal.
The advocate halted, behind his back, the bars painted white, everything was just as
sterile there as in a hospital, as if, on the pressure of psychologists, they had even wanted to
delete the traces of the fact that this is a prison here, where constraint lives together with
every prisoner; that’s their only real, faithful companion, never leaves them until they can
leave the place. Vismar watched the advocate’s face, he had such a … such an “outerworldly” face, he popped in for a quarter of an hour from the free world, only to fulfill his
most certainly unpleasant duty, check on Vismar whether he is still alive, and whether he is
well, and well, if he is already here, to tell him something comforting. And so he did.
“Look, Mr. Vismar, in the interest of your own soul’s peace, consider that whatever
you had before has ceased to exist. Until now, all your life progressed in one direction, but
that direction ceased to exist, just like that life ceased to exist. Until now, you were a
renowned bridge-designing engineer, you built bridges on three continents. After the decree,
no one will see a bridge-designing engineer in you any more, after the widely-known tragic
event...you know. So the best thing for you to do is to simply change the track of your
thinking, and guide yourself, all your existence after this onto other tracks. You will be in
prison for years now, there is something useful in this, too. You can invent and create your
future new self, see what I mean, sir? Forget about engineering, bridges, designs, the chance
that people could order a bridge over a river from you. That you went and studied the spot,
then asked for the results of the geophysical tests, the reports of geologists, all the documents
you needed to design the bridge…. Also forget that on those bridges, men and cars were
passing. The bridges you built up until now are inspected, as well, all of them, without an
exception: the trust is gone. There are committees going around everywhere….”
Now he wasn’t talking about the newer revision; of course; at that time neither of them
yet knew about the data which later… hm, yes. Vismar’s dream isn’t about the advocate, it’s
not him that it shows. In his dream, Vismar is in prison, months later, working in the prison’s
library, and giving private lessons to a few immigrants who don’t know the language well,
with the warden’s permission. Maybe, in this wing of the building, he is the only man with a
high degree who can talk, spell properly, who knows the rules of his own language, although
he never learned them separately as rules.
Out of the ignorant prisoners, five or six take part in each of his classes. Sometimes,
the warden peeps in, too, once, he even sits down at the back, like a school inspector, listening
to Vismar as he asks questions from his fellow prisoners, even writing on the board, although
he doesn’t like the white chalk and the big green board.
The dream doesn’t show anything bad, yet the bad is still lurking – in the feelings. In
the gloom. In the whole situation. In the place. In everything. That’s why the dream is bitter.
It makes Vismar feel-believe himself to be there, if only in a delusive manner, behind the
walls and bars. Where there haven’t been barbed wires and armed watchtowers for a long
time, even the bars are almost masked, they would cover them so that they can’t be seen.
True, there aren’t murderers or robbers doing their time in this part of the building, just people
like Vismar.
The dream seems mild and it’s still cruel. Because it’s a reminder. The torn-up
wounds hurt Vismar almost all day. Although when he wakes up, Gina won’t be there any
more to broach it, to pick on his soul. And it will be daytime. His things to be done, his duties
all waiting for him. But wherever he goes, he can hardly wait for the afternoon when he can
visit the shelter again. The dog, which doesn’t have a name, and perhaps never will have one.
That’s not what it needs.
“You are out of your mind, Vismar.”
There is no judgment in the Doctor’s voice, only a statement. But something else is
lurking there, as well, and Vismar has an idea what it is. But it wouldn’t be wise now to lunge
at this; he doesn’t like being praised. Because behind the “out of your mind”, a tiny
amazement is hiding, too. The Doctor can appreciate achievement. He, who has given half of
his life to poor people and poor animals, now wouldn’t say it out loud for the world how
much he appreciates Vismar’s spending every night with the strange, big dog. And yet, for a
man to lie together with a dog in the cage, to be near it when help is needed, this idea is
strange to him. There isn’t even a human being the Doctor would do this for. So now he is
growling, his soul churning a bit, but only his eyes betray that. And the half-sentence that
Vismar takes for a praise and doesn’t turn up his nose because of it. He doesn’t even react to
it.
The Assistant, however, is not bound by any rules; he is a sincere man. He is so low he
cannot tumble any lower, so he can afford himself a lot. From him, no one takes anything for
an offence, and he instinctively feels that. So he has courage. When the Doctor leaves and
Vismar is starting towards the cage, the Assistant is mincing his steps on his little legs beside
him.
“The Prophet only liked cats, not dogs. So we don’t like dogs.”
“You’ve been working here pretty well for years, considering that,” Vismar throws
back at him. The Assistant wasn’t counting on this blow, the argument went home, and the
Assistant’s self-esteem does bleed. His duel-sword droops, but only temporarily, and he
quickly finds himself again.
“And because the Prophet doesn’t like them, millions of Muslims don’t like them
either. I’m an exception. I work here.”
But in Vismar, he finds his equal:
“To Allah, all his creatures are similarly dear. So Muhammad had to follow his God,
too, right? And if the cat, the horse, the camel, the birds and other animals were dear to the
Prophet, why wouldn’t he have liked the dog, as well? It was only the descendants making the
world believe that there are and there can be very liked and very disliked animals.”
The Assistant is still wagging his head in disbelief. That’s when they reach cage 18.
Vismar gives the Assistant the coup de grâce:
“The Prophet was a much better man than not liking dogs, too. He could lift himself
above all kinds of hate and loathing. After all, he had a Christian wife, and even a Jewish
one…. He didn’t hate and didn’t despise anyone.”
The Assistant’s legs are rooted into the ground, mainly because of Vismar knowing
something like that. So there is someone even in this western world who had been engaged in
the Prophet’s life, sometime, if only a little bit? The Assistant heard something about this
while still back at home, but didn’t ask about it, and the imams kept silent…. Now he stands
for a while, speechless, while Vismar goes into the cage. Then the Assistant slowly leaves
while wagging his head, and they are mutually left out of one another’s consciousness, one
another’s world, for this night.
The night is moonless, although sometimes it’s as if clouds were passing on in the sky
too; a stray wind meanders among the cages. The rubber mattress under Vismar’s back is
getting flatter. The dog is breathing silently. There is no knowing whether it sleeps or not.
Sometimes it moans. At such times, Vismar’s eyes open into the darkness; the man is harking:
is he needed? Then silence, daughter of the night, sprawls on. The dogs are silent, too, as if
they were in mourning. Or watching. They hardly utter a sound that night. Some of them are
surely bothered by the man’s closeness. The night is usually theirs, that’s how it was earlier,
when there was still a house for them to guard, while their masters got clothed in brick walls,
closed themselves inside together with the warmth, leaving the cool winds for the dogs.
Once Vismar wakes up to the dog turning round as it lies, mewling with pain in the
process. Vismar sits up; even in the darkness he can see that the dog was able to turn round:
his heart is glad. So he lies back. Only later does he notice that the dog’s eyes are half open.
This is a funny thing, in the darkness he can’t even fully believe his own eyes. But he sees it
so he believes it to be so, and later, when the dog blinks one, he can also be convinced of it.
No fear is in the man. The dog is almost bigger than he is. Especially lying like this. If
it wanted, it could bite Vismar’s face, now so close – Vismar’s nose, perhaps it could even
take Vismar’s whole face into its mouth. And yet, in spite of knowing that, the old man isn’t
afraid. He is lying there, thinking: the dog is so amazed at this fact that this is why it doesn’t
harm him. Nothing comes of it because sleep subdues Vismar, and when he wakes up again
and looks, the dog’s eyes are already closed; the animal breathes evenly.
The next morning, Vismar is just packing his belongings when the Doctor halts in
front of cage 18.
“Good morning. Is it safe?”
“Good morning. What?”
“I mean, can I come in? Won’t this giant gobble me up?”
Vismar turns round, contemplates the dog with a face as if he saw it for the first time,
and weighs with a mock-seriousness whether the Doctor will remain in one piece when he
steps in, or flies out in the form of bloody tatters above the wire fence. Then he serenely
shrugs his shoulders. “If it didn’t harm me, perhaps you won’t be its first breakfast here at the
shelter.”
The Doctor murmurs something incomprehensible and comes in through the door.
Vismar sees that he doesn’t turn the fastener onto the door, just to be sure. What if he has to
escape speedily? Vismar only smirks to himself. The Doctor leans over the dog and takes a
look at it.
“The bandages have to be changed. Will you help me?”
Vismar doesn’t say a word, his hand gesture is obvious: of course. The Assistant is
coming, too, but he is afraid to step in. The dog isn’t afraid any more, only stares, goggles out
of it hairy muzzle in a frightening manner. Vismar kneels at the dog’s head when the Doctor
pushes in the needle, all of a sudden. The dog yowls up, it must hurt a lot, and now it feels it,
too, unlike days before when it was almost unconscious. Although the animal is only yelping,
its voice is almost a howl, and the head turns onto Vismar. The teeth clatter to. Vismar cries
out as well, so great is the pain in his left hand. The Doctor curses, the Assistant jumps into
the cage, ready for anything – but doesn’t know what to do. Sixty dogs start to yap and howl
at the same time. Upon the unusual noise, the Girl approaches from the direction of the office,
running, with the white mark of the toothpaste still on the edge of her mouth.
“Hell!” curses the Doctor. The dog lets go of Vismar’s hand at once, turns its head
away, the narcotic is soon going to work; it’ll be asleep. The Doctor suddenly doesn’t know
what to make a grab at, and then thinks better of it: the man is first.
“Come to the office. The dog will sleep one or two hours more; we have time to
change its bandages.”
Vismar looks at his hand. It’s difficult to believe this is his. Although the wounds
aren’t deep, it’s as if he could see the marks of three or four teeth. Torn flesh, the blood is
trickling red, his blood. He would love to thrust it into his mouth, like when he was a child
and got hurt during play. It hurts badly, but the old man squeezes his mouth shut and doesn’t
utter a sound. And it bleeds, bleeds profusely, his blood flows. Vismar is a bit surprised,
hasn’t seen his blood for ages, so he is looking at it. How deep red, and coming abundantly.
As if his whole body were full of it, and finally, there are one or two smaller holes, so it has
found a way out. The wounds palpitate numbly, one beside the other. Later, in the office,
when they disinfect the wound, he only says this much:
“The animal felt pain. It snapped instinctively at the one nearest to it. So now it was
me close to its head. It didn’t want to bite anyone.”
The Girl glances at the Doctor, but the Doctor doesn’t look back, wouldn’t criticize
Vismar’s words for all the world; perhaps he feels guilty that it has come to this, and exactly
under his command: he keeps silent. No one finds fault with a vet tending to a human patient.
Vismar knows he can help with bandages on his hand, too. And he is the only one to help,
wouldn’t let anyone else at all do it. He is careful to get just a few bandages on his left hand,
and even those in a way they don’t impede the movement of the fingers. Because he can move
them, all five, which soothes the Doctor and the others, too. The Girl remarks lowly that
Vismar could really stay at home for a few days now. But the old man is amazed.
“And who will be with the Dog, then..?”
His amazement is like a tank, destroying walls, trampling obstacles, and his infinite
naivity is disarming. The Assistant has remained silent since morning, although the words that
Vismar said about the Prophet yesterday sometimes come to his mind.
Then they all go back, Vismar and the Doctor kneel beside the dog. The Doctor takes
off the old bandages, puts up new ones, but not everywhere now. The Girl and the Assistant
just stand on the other side of the cage, the dogs’ hunger chorus reminding them that they had
missed out on something. They start to feed and give drinks, clean cages, walk the dogs; the
daily plodding takes them away from cage 18.
The Doctor is surprised, and shares it with Vismar. “Look here, how nicely it heals.
Although I can’t check on its breaks. A portable X-ray would be needed.”
“Well, just import one here.”
“There are only two of them in town, in human hospitals. It wouldn’t be a cheap treat.
And during the time it’s carried in here, there won’t be any for the people in there.”
“Well, now there isn’t any for the dog. If it can be arranged, bring it here,” Vismar
says.
The Doctor knows which words will follow now; his mouth is squeezed tight. He
himself doesn’t even know whether to be glad or sad. Vismar also knows that the Doctor
knows what’s next, but he utters it anyway, because he feels like having to say this. “I’ll pay
for it.”
The Doctor bursts out, “But is this dog worth that much...?”
“Are you of all people asking this?” Vismar retorts; he didn’t want it so sharp, and
wouldn’t offend the Doctor, whom he respects, by any means. Yet somehow it’s there in his
words, and the Doctor feels it. So he composes himself right away. He has already healed
such little curs, wasters, in whose barely two-fist-large body life was only flickering. And
neither he nor anyone else asked whether they are worth it.... Worth their medicine, their
bandages, the care and time, energy, hope? Then the Doctor mutters silently, “I’ll see to it, no
later than today.”
“I’ll be here,” answers Vismar. Everything is summed up in this: he will be here, pay
for the costs at once. He will be here to help the dog get its x-ray. He will be here because...he
will be here.
He is here. His place is here, he feels it. And no one disputes that now.
Chapter 5
It wasn’t a dream when the men in uniforms rattled on the door of his house.
Before that, all was good and there were lots of bad things, at the same time. And there were
things that were only seemingly good. His marriage, his daughter, even his grandchild was
already born. Vismar wasn’t quite fifty yet when he got to see the little boy at the hospital, he
was shown on a screen, the ”operator” was an unpracticed nurse, and so, the newborn’s face
was moving to and fro on the screen, sliding out of the picture, coming back again…. How
ugly, thought Vismar, the few-hours-old, fresh grandfather; the child was a red-faced
concentrated bawling. Later, he turned more beautiful – also in Vismar’s eyes.
Could Vismar possibly know at that time that his wife, above forty, kept a lover? Only
because of something suspicious: the woman was changed: she was nervous, snappish,
excitable and tense. Vismar thought maybe this was brought on by the menopause. His
daughter was taken up with her husband; the little grandchild grew up by leaps and bounds.
Then one day, the policemen, and those who came with them, civilians, rattled on the
door of his house. They asked for his name and away they took him right then. He could
hardly scrape his documents together; his wife wasn’t even at home.
Later, he often pictured the bridge before himself. It was like a snow white, large bird,
soaring above the bluish-grey water. Here, the river was broad, and the bridge almost five
hundred meters long, the cars were driving in four lanes on it, two lanes in both directions;
and on its two edges there was even enough space for pedestrians and bicycle riders. The
bridge bulged out at the middle of its back so that even the ship of the future could fit under
its highest point – not even designed yet, but to be built up some time later, it will be huge,
gigantic – and then, even that future ship can sail under it.
He worked on the designs for almost half a year, he hardly had any colleagues; his
only help was computer-design software and programs simplifying complex calculations.
Vismar burned with a happy fever; this was his greatest job so far. His talent was
acknowledged, this was the crowning of all that he had been working on for twenty-seven
years. The umpteenth house, the fourth dam, the eleventh bridge in the course of his career.
The eleventh one and the biggest one at the same time.
It turned out so well that no sooner did they start building it, the designs and the
schematics and developed designs were checked out elsewhere, as well. He was invited away
into a rich Arab country – although on a smaller job than that bridge had been, but this one
promised to be interesting, too. Trussed concrete ”bubbles”, towers boldly springing up high,
a real complex – even though it was only a cultural center, four big buildings amidst artificial
ponds. Vismar had the idea of a hand holding four cards – although he carefully avoided
hinting at the gambling game prohibited by Islam – placing four buildings, equal-sized but in
their shapes rather different, beside each other, at a certain angle, in the form of a fan. A
sports ground, a lecture hall, an indoor horse race ground and a mosque. And although in the
Emirate many people were grumbling because of this – a ”non-believer” to design a mosque
for the believers of the Prophet...? However, when he introduced the plans, the Emir, who
decided about everything himself, looked on with his eyes gleaming up. Vismar knew: the
emperor aspired for something that other similar emperors, other Muslim countries, couldn’t
call their own. And indeed, from the outside, the mosque had the form of a gigantic, halfopened book. And Vismar didn’t have to explain to anyone which of the three great Books he
meant. Surely not the Bible, and not the Torah, either. The believers were glad because a
Quran-shaped mosque had never been built anywhere before. Muslim believers will come
here to pray from faraway lands, they said contentedly.
Designing wasn’t enough here. During the more than one year of construction, he had
to stay on the spot, to inspect it personally. That’s why he couldn’t be at home to check on the
bridge’s construction. That year he could merely fly home twice, just for a few days, and even
then he only watched the progression of the bridge from far away, and then back he went into
the homeland of palm trees and pale butter-colored sand, to continue building the sports
ground, the horse race ground, the lecture hall, and the ”Book”.
At home, everything went bad, but Vismar didn’t know it. His daughter didn’t have a
good marriage, she quarreled a lot with her husband. Then as soon as the great glory under the
palm trees was ended, Vismar came home, waiting for a new assignment. He got minor jobs,
feeling like the really great design of his life was still to come. And he was already happy in
advance, to get some really big job soon. He was very confident about this.
Instead, on that day – he thought of it a lot afterwards – impatient, violent hands
rattled on the entrance door of his house. He learned later that at the time a few armed men
were also already standing by the back door in case he escaped that way.... Although far from
wanting to escape, in the beginning, he didn’t even know what it was about. For quite a few
minutes he was in under the impression that his door, his house was mixed up with one of his
neighbors…. Then he was put into a car, heading towards the prison. Preliminary
containment, a flighty trial, and then, months in prison. Then the advocate appearing, coming
into the ’barred house’ more and more frequently. Then the courtroom trial.
His bridge – collapsed. And as there were eleven people who lost their lives among
the ruins, someone had to atone. Mr. Engineer Vismar designed it badly, they said. He
designed it with weaker materials than he should have considering the local circumstances.
He didn’t calculate the wind’s power blowing into it, and on top of that, at that time as he
must’ve known, because he had to know that in the future the continent’s changing climate
will produce stronger winds than at present, the bridge has to be prepared for stormy blasts of
wind, as well, so said the attorney at the end, by then already imagining himself to be a
designing engineer and a bridge-expert….
…Vismar only thinks of this for a moment now. It’s afternoon when he wakes up. His
first thought is the Dog. This is how he already thinks of it, not even giving it a name inside
there, not in his brain, either. The Dog, he thinks, at times he says it. Whatever is going on
with it, is everything in order...? Others have their mobile phones, nowadays, everyone has
one except infants. But he doesn’t have one, doesn’t need it. So far, he didn’t need it, and
now, he pondered over the thing a bit, after all, he could call on the shelter whether everything
is all right. He’ll go down there by all means, and stay there for the whole night.
A mordant pain in his hand, this is perhaps the worst period. His wound is still fresh, it
hasn’t begun healing yet. There is a balm in the bathroom, kind of yellow, an old rural
medicine; these days, it’s sold in pharmacies, as well, because the guys in white coats finally
bowed their heads in front of the old wisdom, although they would never admit it. The old
man daren’t take the bandage off, lest the Doctor notice that he tampered with it.
Nevertheless, he keeps straining it with endless patience, and does manage to tuck a bit of
balm under the bandage. He feels better right away.
Georgina is not coming today. He quickly tosses something together for himself,
doesn’t even know whether it should be called lunch or dinner, so he doesn’t name it at all.
Out there, it’s still afternoon, the sun is rather high up when he starts. In the courtyard, Cicero
comes up to him; she is offended because she rarely sees the master these days. And she
performs her offendedness with all kinds of manners, wearing it demonstratively like a
conspicuous dress. She evades the caressing hand, meows plaintively, then trots back to the
house, looking back from time to time: is the master following her? And because the master,
although apologetically, chooses rather the direction towards the gate, Cicero sits down in
front of the entrance and looks very grim, like only a sad but at the same time angry cat can
look.
…The x-ray doesn’t indicate any newer breaks. But the Doctor mutters in a half-voice,
“This much is just enough, as much as the poor thing has.”
The dog isn’t sleeping, neither by its own need nor as an effect of the drug. It’s only
lying. Although once – around six o’clock in the afternoon, when the sun is already preparing
to plunge down in the west – the dog tries to stand up, but even after a tormented yelping, all
it can manage is to be able to turn round. It turns on its other side obviously relieved, and lies
like that, panting. Then, putting its head down on the canvas, closes its eyes.
Vismar deals with formalities in the office. When he comes out, the Assistant is
loitering there, as if by accident. Vismar remembers: he promised money to him for watching
the Dog in his absence. He calls him a bit further away, to the water tap, where they cannot be
seen because of the hanging foliage of the trees. Banknotes slip from hand into hand. Vismar
thanks. The Assistant, too. He is enthusiastic, although silent, “If Mister needs more such job,
tell me, I help.”
He puts the money away, demurring to himself a little bit whether he should tell
Vismar this. But yesterday, after the engineer had already left, the Girl found an old
newspaper on the bench in front of the house. It was several years old, a visitor must’ve left it
here. And in there, he saw an article about Vismar. That’s where the Assistant learned that…
now he says it, too:
“Mister Vismar build Quran-shaped mosque in the Emirates? Really?”
“Really, I build,” Vismar as good as doesn’t even notice that he already accepted and
is using the Assistant’s mutilated language, it’s good enough for him like this, too. “Be
beautiful, be big, Muslims love.”
The Assistant is moved; for him, at this moment, Vismar is the greatest man that ever
lived on earth except for the Prophet. He feels that he has to say something, too, something
big, huge, world-encompassing, secret-destroying, lifting human souls up high. Or at least a
secret in exchange for this big thing. Something that he hasn’t told either to Vismar or anyone
else so far. Only now. “The money go home to my son. Every month once I go bank, and
send. He has at home big family but no job.”
And he is watching, waiting, but for what, not even knowing that himself. What can
such a man – although having also built a mosque, but still very much from here, unable to
know what’s going on in the Assistant’s homeland – understand of such a piece of news?
Vismar hesitates for a moment. He’d love to ask: ”Is that what you live for, man? Carrying
dog manure day by day, having no rest, no apartment, and sending home the money you
gather, to your children and grandchildren? Who themselves have perhaps never seen you and
won’t ever see you in the future? Nor you them, either?”
But he is only watching, his hand wandering onto the Assistant’s shoulder for a
moment, squeezing it gently. With appreciation. Understanding. Then he sighs and goes about
his business. The Assistant looks after him for a long time.
The dog is not asleep now, although its eyes are closed. Almost always. Loitering
around him, Vismar still notices the bat of the eyelids. And also that at times, they open,
watching through very narrow slits. The animal doesn’t see backwards but senses that the man
is now behind him.
On seeing the wounds, Vismar draws into himself. Just what kind of people are there
in the world? Did the old master get angry with the dog because she gave birth to little ones?
Were they perhaps not thoroughbred? Did he assault the dog with an iron rod?
It’s already getting dark, but Vismar is still walking a bit more, then goes back to the
cage. He is surprised to find the Girl there. Not likely to go into town today, she is standing at
the cage door silently and almost humbly. She would go in, but because the dog is so huge,
she is afraid. She has been managing the shelter for years but never before has seen such a
huge animal. If this dog could stand on two legs, it would reach as high as a man’s head,
looking into his eyes as someone equal.
“Aren’t you preparing to sleep?” the Girl asks.
Vismar sighs, “I still have time. The night is long.”
They never ask or talk about each other’s life. This isn’t an option; they are here for
the dogs. Vismar especially now. The Girl ponders the animal.
“How big she is. And how sick. I wonder if she knows that she is now saved by the
goodness of humans?”
“She has to know,” Vismar nods fleetingly.
“But how? After all, what is goodness? And what can an animal know?”
“She may know a lot. Picking up what radiates from us,” Vismar says, looking at the
dog now; that’s how he talks. “Whatever state the dog is in, if by herself, then she feels that
we are here. She feels what radiates out of us. If we wanted to harm her, we would. But we
don’t – we much rather help. She feels, sees, knows that, too.”
“Is that why she bit your hand? The Girl thrusts her head up, still not convinced, her
usual mocking self streaming out of her on and again. It’s as if she were a large dish full of
bitterness, and if touched, let alone tossed, it spills out of her on one side, sometimes where it
wasn’t expected – and even those who don’t deserve it at all can be the targets.
Vismar only thinks for a moment, “A human takes a vow a thousand times that he
won’t curse. Then he has to hammer a nail into the wall, misses it, hits his finger; it hurts
badly, and then, he does curse.”
“Is that what the dog did?”
“I think she knows we want what’s best for her. But if we cause her pain, even
unwillingly, the Dog has to do something in her helpless anger. Like a human, that’s how the
Dog is.”
They keep silent, then the Girl says quietly, “I think she isn’t asleep. She’s watching
us.”
“Of course she’s watching us. That’s why she’s a dog. She watches because she’s in
trouble, in a cage, dependent on us. So she is watching out of self-defense, watching what we
plan. Can it be something against her? She is on the alert. Also, she is watching because
somewhere inside, all dogs are still wild animals. Some a little bit, others very much. And
perhaps she is also watching in order to be able to defend us, in case some enemy attacked
us.”
“What could be her name?”
The Girl’s newer question remains hanging in the air. Vismar wags his head, “It’s
better for us not to know. We shouldn’t want to know, either.”
The Girl is amazed; she would already ask but the old man lifts up his hand. He
silences her. It’s already dark, but the Girl is standing near, sees the movement, goes silent
before speaking. Vismar is talking, “That other name is connected to her previous master, to
the one who did this monstrous deed to her. If she heard that name now, she would perhaps
defeat her pain and start raging. She would perhaps think her former master has come after
her. Her murderer, I should say.”
The Girl sighs, “It’s good that you said so, Vismar. Me and the Assistant, we were just
thinking that we would begin addressing her by all kinds of usual dog names, maybe she
reacts….”
“If she reacted, you wouldn’t be thankful for it.”
This is already understood by the Girl. Two ”Goodnights” are uttered in the dark, the
words put out the other one, get degraded to polite forms, even before their ends would die in
their throats, in the air. The Girl goes away, silence sets in, now it’s only the two of them)
remaining there....
The two of them.
He notices that the dog isn’t asleep. Slowly, with great difficulty, she turns around. On
her back. She flails with her legs, first with one, then the other, this must hurt her indeed, but
she doesn’t yelp, already mastering her throat and the sounds in it. The pain. She finally turns
around, her hairy body getting somewhat flatter again in the twilight. The man adroitly gives
the dog a drink. She is already drinking more and more. Then he lies back beside her. The dog
moves her head, Vismar finally feels a faint blow of air on his face. Their heads, their faces
have gotten into one line. The dog sighs, breathes out the air, almost into the man’s face. A
smell of sickness. Vismar doesn’t move. He could look into the dog’s eyes very closely now
if it were daytime. But as it is – he doesn’t look, doesn’t see. The night is so dark, especially
around cage 18, because the foliage of trees covers it, not even a faint starlight sifts down into
here. Vismar isn’t moving. He doesn’t have to pretend to be the sleeper, cannot fool the dog,
anyway. And wouldn’t want to.
That’s how they are lying, for a long time. Neither of them utters any kind of sound.
Even their breathing is as if it were getting slower, only their eyes are looking at the other
one.
Then the man is overcome by sleep. It’s a bad sleep, a bad dream, like so frequently. But
superficial, too, so he could almost crawl out of it if he wanted. He hasn’t dived in deeply yet.
And he does start up, he shakes all over; at such times, he always dreams that he is walking on
a smooth surface and unexpectedly steps into a pit. It’s a spine-hurting, bad feeling, if only
momentary – at such times, he starts up from his dream. And he is starting up now, too,
continuing awake instead of asleep with what the dream would’ve started. He is lying with the
eyes closed.
…In prison, another bad thing was that out there, things were happening without him,
and thus, unbearably slowly. His attorney was gathering data to ask for a reopening of the
trial. For this, serious motives were needed, which cannot always be found, or even dug out.
And the arguments that are used can’t have been present at the previous hearing, and more
importantly, they have to essentially change the situation.
Some of his friends helped. But in the meantime, Vismar got news that almost broke
him apart. His daughter, together with her husband and the grandchild, decided to emigrate.
“You can’t do that, ” Vismar wrote his daughter, because they didn’t come to talk to him in
the visiting room. They dared not confront him with telling him they were going away. He
wrote his grandchild and his son-in-law, too. Did those letters get to them? He never found
out.
His wife had already left him. She did have someone, but Vismar only realized this
later. His wife already cheated on him when he was working with the Arabs. He wanted to
bring his wife out, but the woman protested heavily. She was voicing weird, medieval
arguments why it wouldn’t be good for her, as a Christian woman, to live among Muslims.
Then Vismar didn’t go on fencing with her; with all the jobs he had, he barely spent five
hours in the temporary apartment and even then, he just slept. The months flew. And then –
the family members flew. His being arrested gave an excuse for everyone to do what they’ve
wanted for a long time. His wife filed for a divorce and the jury separated her, immediately
and without any trouble, from her husband. “The bridge-constructing engineer whose bridge
collapsed, and who got into prison for many years for the death of fourteen people,” his wife
is said to have identified him like this in front of the jury. Vismar was only represented by his
advocate, whose hands were tied by Vismar: ”Let my wife go, because I let her go, too. Don’t
make a fuss, let her go. There’s no point in keeping her here.” The woman and her advocate
saw this lenience and turned it to their own benefit at once. His ex-wife took away more than
three-fourths of the mutual property. There was not much left to Vismar, and – his wife is said
to have remarked flippantly, “He won’t be needing that for a long time, either”.
In the prison, he couldn’t work as a designer. Who would’ve given him a job...? And
the first year passed, then the second one. Although it was difficult to believe, to grasp, but
finally, he realized: designing is at an end, he won’t construct any more – anything at all. A
man with such a bad reputation won’t be trusted with anything. After all, he worked badly,
and behold, there is a reviewed and sustained legal decree about that, too….
In the cell, he sometimes dreamt of large white rectangles; initially, he didn’t seem to
know in the mornings what they were. Then he figured it out: huge white sheets of paper, on
which the designs were drawn. Of course, nowadays, even this doesn’t exactly happen like
that, or not just like that, because the computer was introduced here, too, that’s what they use
for drawing and calculating.... The most beautiful moments are always at the beginning of the
work process: when one has to invent what that building should be, how it should look. At
such times, imagination soars, wonderful things are arching up in the brain, then he casts them
away, until something ultimate, something beautiful develops. Like the Quran-shaped
mosque, or the bridge that cut through the sea channel so proudly….
And then the rest is just the boring design of details, and computing, computing,
computing. Measures, part-measures, material demand, numbers, numbers.
But the large, white sheets of paper, too, got worn out of the prison mornings. He
thought of them less and less frequently; daily business occupied him. Of course, in the
evenings, before going to sleep, he did flit out of the bars, left the prison behind, like all the
prisoners. His soul was a bird, circling freely, and very, very high. At such times, he no longer
daydreamed of revenge, but only about a relaxed freedom. “If I get out of here…” – that’s
how these thoughts began. They always began like this. It was less frequent that he thought
of: “If I could only be forty old years again…”; this didn’t have any reality. However, these
years, with the grayish-blue uniforms, the shuffling in the corridor, the daily three meals,
repeated with a monotonous rhythm, the repetitive nothing of the library smelling of
prisoners, shelves and books, coming to an end some time – that did have a chance. What hurt
the most was that nothing happened but time flew. It was his time – his life – that was robbed,
day by day!
That was the reason, the only reason, why he was really angry when he was angry.
…The dream is ended, like always, although often too late. Now Vismar wouldn’t
complain, the memories of prison-existence are already familiar: they don’t hurt that much,
they’ve been promoted – or discolored – to become his own, personal folklore. In an instant,
he is at his place again, he already sees what’s happening and where. Cage 18. And the dog is
here, whom he should perhaps give the name Companion. That there is no such habit, this
name isn’t usually given to a dog, doesn’t interest him.
But as soon as self-consciousness breaks in on him, a sense of duty is stamping its feet
there, too, invisibly. What’s the task? – the soundless sound is asking in him, and he gets on
his feet right away. The Dog glances up immediately, it seems that her dream is superficial
and restless. Hers, too. She even winces a bit: is she afraid of something? Perhaps that wicked
master of hers surprised her in her sleep, too, when….
“Relax, dog,” says-whispers Vismar. It’s not easy for him to stand up now, with his
limbs gone stiff. He fumbles around a bit, a few inches from the animal, and when he almost
manages to stand up, he even wobbles dangerously, almost above her. But the dog doesn’t
stir. Whether she was soothed by the old man’s words, or she is sure that the two-legged
creature won’t tumble on her – or is there a different kind of trust working in her? One cannot
know this, not yet.
Vismar is waiting, looking around. In the neighboring cages, one of the dogs growls up, some
of them murmur in their dream, one or two let out a bark somewhere at the end of the estate
but get calmed down again immediately, sensing that they didn’t find any followers; in the
throats of the inmates, no superfluous bark is lurking that they would like to get rid of.
Vismar gives the dog another drink. Now, it’s not water any more – the Doctor mixed
some kind of diluted food, a pinkish liquid, containing everything that can stand the animal up
on its legs. He sucks it up with a big syringe, and dribbles it at the pace of the animal’s
swallowing ability. Then she moves her head away: enough. She closes her eyes, as if she
were asleep. But as soon as he lies down beside her, with his head at a two-palms-distance
from the animal’s nose again, Vismar hears-knows what the situation is.
“Don’t you play your game on me,” he murmurs, without any anger. “I see through
you.”
And indeed, he believes that he already knows the animal. Of course, the dog doesn’t
answer, although she surely does have an opinion herself, too. The human hasn’t earned the
honor of her telling it to him yet, in her own manner. So they both soon fall asleep.
Dawn unexpectedly proves chilly. Vismar is the first one to wake up; he is cold. What
the heck, he feels that even his hands have goosebumps. Glancing up, he can see the dog
sometimes quivering even in the scarce dawn light. Without thinking, he stands up, takes the
blanket off the rubber mattress and spreads it over the animal. The very hairy eyelashes bat,
then motionlessness follows – in the whole body. As if the animal were thinking: well, what is
this now? A new snare, an open attack, or...? And this is the ”or…”-category, because the
animal doesn’t stir, obviously feeling the warmth given by the plaid right away; in which
Vismar’s body warmth is also there.
“You might be a mutant,” Vismar whispers, doesn’t lie back down, paces up and down
silently, this way he isn’t as cold. Three steps in the cage, turning left, three steps again, a
wire wall again, so a turn left, it’s now that he got behind the dog, three steps, turning left,
back where he started from. “You were beaten out of your house, because they thought you
would have puppies just as big as you yourself. Or maybe they were all stillborn...? So you
weren’t needed any more, either?”
The dog is silent, only her breathing is as if it were getting a bit faster. Could she be
annoyed by Vismar’s fidgeting? So he gives up pacing up and down, a fixed idea rises in him
of the dog understanding what he whispers, understanding his every word. A bit scared, he
falls silent, not knowing what to do. The dog is lying, covered up. Well, then he’d rather go
on, and so he starts. Then halts suddenly. An age-old memory crops up, but he did have a dog
himself when he was a child! Well, it wasn’t his but belonged to his parents; at the moment,
he doesn’t even remember its name, it was black and white, motley, nice-looking. But once it
got sick, his parents weren’t at home, he couldn’t use the telephone yet, but knew where the
veterinary doctor lived. He hopped onto his bicycle and rode there. The veterinary doctor
wasn’t at home, he gave his wife the address, but the doctor wouldn’t come, and in the
evening, the dog died. The animal frequently came up in Vismar’s mind afterwards, but then
he tossed the memory to the bottom of his soul: let it not come up any more, let it sink in, as
into the mud, let it not even be visible, let him not notice it, let him forget it, too.
And he shakes it out of his head now, too, my God, that must be already fifty-four or
fifty-five years ago, if not more. And even that forgetful veterinary doctor is already dead. So
Vismar is standing, afraid of diving down into the well of the past; it can be a terrifying
feeling, some of the memories, like an octopus, coming out of the depth and dragging him
down with themselves. Better not to think of it. It’s better to think of something else.
In the morning, the dog stands up.
No one was expecting that. Vismar just went away to straighten out his stiffened limbs
but left the blanket on the animal. He sees the Girl from far away, going out of the office; at
such times, she is still half asleep. She doesn’t see, doesn’t hear, she is lucky to be able to
walk. The Assistant is crying out, trying to run backwards and forwards at the same time,
away from the water tap, “Mr. Vismar, Mr. Vismar, dog not lie, dog stand.”
So Vismar hurries back. In the process, he feels how good it is to be now walking after
his stiffening repose; his limbs are moving, fresh air gets into his lungs, and he turns really
young. But it’s only him feeling this; it’s probably not visible from the outside. The meaning
of the Assistant’s words penetrates into him with a bit of delay. And from there, far away, he
hardly even sees cage 18 among the cages; with the trees bending over it: this is the shadiest
one of all.
The dog – stands.
Insecurely, but she stands. Vismar is hurrying back, he would run but realizes that he
doesn’t have to hurry. And perhaps there’s no need to annoy the animal with fast motion and
noise, either. He can see it from where he is how much the dog’s legs tremble. She is standing
with the plaid on her back, not having the strength to throw it off. She gives a ridiculous and
pitiful impression; if she weren’t so incredibly big, perhaps the Girl and the Assistant would
laugh, too. But now, she appears formidable, even with her legs trembling and her head
hanging down.
She is just standing with the plaid on her back. Vismar reaches the cage; the animal
stands, looking at him. The Assistant dares not go in, he doesn’t have to say it at all. His body
posture reveals that he won’t ever step in there any more. While the dog was unconscious and
weak, he would help with pleasure – but from now on, not even for Mr. Vismar’s sake. His
countenance is bitter, because he feels that he can say goodbye to extra money, too. Fear has
grown large in him.
Vismar doesn’t hesitate for a moment; he goes back to the cage. Now even the Girl is
staring at him with big eyes, from a bit further off. She is completely awake, perhaps staring
out of fright: what will happen now...? The Assistant doesn’t come too close to the cage,
either, stands three steps away from it. Not nearer.
Vismar steps in as though he were at home, as he knows the way, and closes the cage
door behind him. He stands with his back to the dog for a while, on purpose, that’s how he
signifies he trusts the animal. He pushes the water dish into the corner with his foot. He picks
up the almost empty food bowl, lays it down all ready beside the door, he will take it on his
way out. If he does go out.
He hears a movement behind his back – but it was only the dog shaking the plaid off
herself; it slips away, a tattered textile, losing its strength and form, flopping down onto the
concrete. The dog is standing and watching. Watching Vismar. The man turns round, glances
at her. Somewhere inside, the fear is there, but there is enough tranquility, as well. Can the
one cover the other up? Perhaps balances it out? Or will it be enough for the old man not to
lose his confidence. The fear.... After all, the dog wasn’t by herself until now, now she feels
the pains again, who would she blame for it, if not the man who is there now, beside her? At a
reachable distance. He is reachable, he can be dragged down, made into nothing by means of
claws and a hoard of teeth.
Vismar is muttering, like he has always muttered, either whispering at night when he
was lying beside the dog or just so to himself, like an old man, “Well, are you such a big shot
already...? Standing up, throwing blankets around? Then perhaps you don’t feel any pain now
at all.”
The dog feels the emphasis. Perhaps even the loving mockery, too. But she definitely
does feel that this two-legged one isn’t afraid of her enough, and talking to her in the
meantime. And still, she is just standing, merely moving her head after the slowly moving
man. As if her neck were hurting, too. Or has it gone numb? Vismar knows that at such times,
one cannot risk. He cannot over-strain the string. He steps slowly, no sudden movement. The
dog shouldn’t feel herself threatened, in danger, and he has to be talking to her all the time, in
that relaxing, muttering voice of his. He doesn’t go to her, doesn’t even reach his hand
towards her, let alone touch her. This isn’t the point of time, not the situation for that. He halts
in front of the dog, so that she can see him well, “You must be rather tired. Why don’t you lie
down? Your legs are still trembling, old girl.”
And indeed, all four of them are trembling, it’s obvious that this effort is too much,
perhaps too early. In the midst of her several wounds, bandages, band-aids, the animal almost
gets lost, although she is still terribly big. As if a calf were standing in the middle of the cage,
her head and tail reach the wire fence by a hair’s breadth... Vismar knows that he cannot pick
up the blanket now, cannot stoop down at all, the movement would be suspicious. Is he
picking up a stone or a stick? The animal could assess it that way, and then, it’s all over. So he
is only standing opposite her, feeling the wire on his back, but it’s not fear pushing him
against the fence. However weak she is, she could knock him out.
The dog is watching a bit goggle-eyed. Her eyes are amber-yellow-brown; for one
more minute, she stares at the old man, who is standing and smiling. He knows that the dog
perhaps doesn’t see his smile but feels it. The feelings radiating out of him aren’t hostile; he
does believe in this. The man feels that he is not afraid, so the dog’s nose doesn’t smell the
sweat of fright on him, which might perhaps provoke her to attack. He only sees out of the
corner of his eye that the Girl and the Assistant daren’t even move, don’t want to draw the
animal’s attention onto themselves, nor Vismar’s attention either, lest the animal assault the
old man when he is looking towards them. They daren’t annoy the dog, either, they don’t step
away, lest the animal feels like that’s when they want to round her up, surround her.
The dog lets out a low-sounding yelp, turns her head halfway back, as if she were
looking at her wounds and bandages. Vismar doesn’t need anything else at all, he is already
“explaining” it. “You know best that these were needed! If you’d seen yourself, the way you
looked...! But it’s better like this, as it is. You felt what had to be felt. You’re still not
completely sound in your senses.”
The dog looks at her other side, too. It seems that human sounds, words, don’t get
through to her. But something tells Vismar that his game is won. This is a good tactic, he has
to talk. Soothingly, silently. And this is also the manner best fitting his soul. He talks the same
way to Cicero, the white cat; that’s how he addresses the lizards and frogs in the garden, the
birds above his head, the butterflies and bees and wasps and mice and squirrels. And humans,
too, although not everyone.
The dog moves slowly. It’s obvious that every step hurts her, once – just about to lift
up her left hind leg – she even lets out a low yelp. She lifts it into the air, with the Doctor’s
bandage still on it, on this body part, too. It seems that she is in a bit of a bad mood. Too
many wounds, too much pain. Vismar feels-knows that this is what it’s about. He takes
advantage of the dog stepping off the canvas on which she has been lying for days – from the
first minute on. He lifts it up slowly, very slowly, and gives it to the Assistant above the wire,
he should take it far away, to shake it out well. Until then, the dog is only sniffing at the
concrete, doing a few steps every minute, this isn’t walking yet. Then the canvas is brought
back, Vismar moves slowly, no scare, no provoking. He crouches in front of the dog’s nose. If
she wanted to jump on him to tear him apart – she could do it now. But her pains are great.
The amber-colored eyes are only watching the man’s movements. Vismar spreads out the
canvas at the middle of the cage, smoothes out a disobedient corner, then pats it with his left
palm. The movement is demonstrative and inviting, “Well, lie back. This will be your place
for a while yet.”
The dog understands but something forbids her to obey right away. Does she not like
humans any more? Her hind legs are trembling. Vismar sees it and knows that she will lie
down soon, her strength is getting used up. But he isn’t triumphant, this isn’t his victory. He
lifts up the plaid and puts the rubber mattress away from there, then goes out of the cage, nice
and slow.
That’s when the Girl notices that in the meantime an unknown man has arrived, middle-aged,
with a moustache. The stranger looks at the big dog starkly, obviously amazed at her size, too.
And her bandages.
Then he glances at the Girl, “Good morning. When I came here, I still wasn’t sure
whether I needed a dog. But as I see here, you are even curing wounded animals...? I like this.
Come with me, let me choose one.”
The Assistant, if he had mastered the language well, and if he were like the people
from here, if he had just as many rights, if he could risk this much bantering unpunished,
would now point at the wounded, big dog: “Sir, take that animal away...!” He can guess what
a big embarrassment would appear on the man’s face. Big animals instill fear.
The Girl, going with the stranger with pleasure, is already talking and talking. She is
marvelling about the dogs. How faithful they are, what good friends, they become family
members very soon.
Vismar no longer hears any of this. He is a bit tired, but he just got a new idea, and
this drives the numbness out of his limbs. He picks up the telephone in the office, calls the
milkman who delivers the milk to the school for the children, and orders seventy liters of milk
from him. “When?” “Now.” “Within one hour.” “All right.” Because if he wants to give this
dog milk – perhaps she will finally drink it? – then he will have to give some to the other
sixty-something dogs, too.
It’s only fair this way.