Killing the Second Dog

7

I WOKE ABOUT TWO HOURS LATER. SHE WAS NO LONGER IN the room. Once again I started to think of the gorilla on the beach and what he would do to me. With the tip of my tongue I could feel the roof of my mouth was swollen. The lifeguard had a forceful punch. Tomorrow I’ll really be swollen, I thought; I’ll have to go to the dentist and ask him to cut the swelling open. I’ll have to sit in his waiting room for at least an hour and listen to all the other patients tell sickening stories of their own dental problems.

Everything seemed frightening and unbearable. The world was a dark, stinking alley, which I would have to wander in forever. I felt as if I’d entered the nightmare of a crazy man or a drunk. I told myself it was all because of the wind, but that didn’t help. I had the premonition something tragic was about to happen, but I didn’t know where to run or hide.

I put on my clothes and went downstairs. The hotel clerk was sleeping with a newspaper over his face and I had to shake him by the shoulder several times before he woke up.

“How much do we have to pay?” I asked.

“Are you leaving right now, sir?”

“Tomorrow. How much is it?”

“For yourself only, or for both you and the other gentleman?”

“Both of us.”

He started checking his books, but couldn’t get the right sum right away; he would add something first, then subtract, then add again, but finally he said: “A hundred and thirty pounds. Will you and the other gentleman be staying for breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Then it’ll be a hundred and thirty-five.”

“Okay.”

“Your friend has already paid a hundred pounds. So you only have to pay thirty-five.”

No way we can leave the hotel now, I thought. There’s too much to lose; since Robert already put down the money we got from the bouncer, we have to go on with the hustle. Otherwise the bouncer will follow us to hell to get the money we owe him.

I looked at my watch: it was one o’clock. I left the hotel and started walking toward the city. I knew what I planned was stupid and senseless, but I went on anyway. At a certain point a cat with its tail held almost straight up began to follow me along the dark streets. I entered the building where Azderbal lived. I knocked, but nobody opened the door. The cat watched me from the darkness with its honey-brown eyes.

I turned the door knob and went in. I crossed to the empty dining room; so did the cat. I went into the bedroom and switched on the light. Azderbal wasn’t there; only his girl friend, and she was a heavy sleeper. I sat on the bed next to her, trying to gather my thoughts and decide why I’d come here. Then I remembered the bouncer who’d invested in us, the gorilla waiting for me at the beach, and also Johnny’s father, who would probably knock me out with one blow. I looked at the cat who sat devotedly at my feet.

“Come here, Stanislaw,” I said to the cat, and it jumped on my lap. The girl woke up and lay there staring at us. “His name is Stanislaw,” I told her.

“What do you want?”

“Money,” I said. “I intend to sell Stanislaw to you. Where is that he-man of yours?”

“He’s gone to Haifa.”

“When will he be back?”

“In two days.”

“I can’t wait that long. You have to give me two hundred and thirty pounds. Once you do, Stanislaw is yours.”

“Why did you come to me?”

“Because I’m crazy. And so are you. Who do you think I should have gone to?”

“And if I refuse to buy Stanislaw?”

“You’d better not. Or I’ll force you to.”

She got up from the bed and went to the mirror. She tidied her hair; watching her I could swear she wanted to make herself look attractive not only for me but for Stanislaw, too.

“Would you like a drink?”

“I wouldn’t mind some brandy,” I said. “Do you have any in the fridge?”

“Why don’t you check?”

I went to the refrigerator and took out a bottle of brandy and a fish for Stanislaw. Then I returned to the bedroom and poured a glass for each of us.

“How much do you need?” she asked me after a moment.

“Two hundred and thirty pounds,” I said. “That includes tomorrow’s breakfast. I have to pay for my hotel.”

“So far you’ve always moved out without paying the bill and it never bothered you. Once you even left a girl behind and she had to pay. I was that girl, remember?”

“That’s not a bad idea. How come I didn’t think of it earlier? I’ll do what you say.”

“You need the money for some woman. There’s a woman involved, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t want to play a dirty trick on her.”

“I can’t just move out,” I said. “Robert already paid for the hotel. And it wasn’t our money. We have to pay back what we owe or we’ll be in trouble.”

“Come off it. You’re never in trouble. Even if a hundred women refuse to give you money, you still always find one.”

The cat finished eating the fish and meowed. I got up, took out another fish from the fridge, and gave it to him.

“Poor old male whore,” she said, staring at me. “Has to go chasing around in the night while everybody else sleeps, and no one will give him any money.”

“You will,” I said. “Would you like another drink?”

“Yes, please.”

We drank some more brandy. I stared at her legs and realized she was still quite pretty.

“Five years ago you must have looked like a fresh flower,” I said. “Did you wear white dresses?”

“Yes.”

“Do you still have them?”

She went to her wardrobe and took one out.

“Nobody wears long dresses anymore,” she said. “They’ve gone out of fashion.”

“Put it on.”

She stared at the dress for a moment, then threw it on the bed. She sat down at the table and poured herself half a glass.

“Do you still drink as much?” I asked.

“And you?”

“I can’t afford it. Anyway Robert hates alcohol.”

“So what do you do with the money you score?”

“Nothing much. We go to the movies. Robert eats a lot. Our expenses run high.”

“I only have a hundred pounds,” she said. “I’ll give it to you.”

She took five twenties out of her purse and handed them to me. I put them in my pocket.

“Wait,” she said. “I forgot something.”

She stretched out her hand and I gave her the bills back. She threw them on the floor, and bent down and spat on them.

“You can take them now. They’re all yours.”

I leaned over and picked up the bills. When I looked at her, she burst into tears and flung herself on the bed.

“Go away,” she said after a while.

So I did.

As I walked back along the empty streets, I could tell the wind had changed direction. The sky over the sea was beginning to pale, which made me feel a little better. I knew the khamsin would stop blowing soon. I was about to turn toward my hotel when suddenly I remembered my friend the hunchback who had trouble sleeping at night, too, and was probably sitting in front of the john in the hotel on Allenby Street. I felt like talking to him, so I climbed up the stairs and tiptoed past Harry, who was sleeping with a detective novel in his hand. I glanced at the cover; it was the one where Mike Hammer shot his girlfriend in the belly with his.45. I had read it in prison. Mickey Spillane’s novels weren’t allowed in jail, and for that reason they were the most popular books there. I remembered I had to pay three or four cigarettes for reading that one.

The hunchback was sitting in his usual spot.

“I can’t sleep,” I said.

“You’re telling me.”

“Do you have any sleeping pills?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re the one who should have them. Or have you quit your profession?”

I looked at my watch. “Four o’clock. Too late to take any pills. I’d need at least six hours to sleep them off.”

“How’s business?”

“Fine. How about your priests? Did they give you the money?”

“Yes. Last night. They also gave me a book about missionaries. I’m reading it now. I just found out the most missionaries ever murdered were in China.”

“Listen, do you still want a broad? I have an idea.”

“What?”

“Come with me. You won’t have to pay anything.”

He looked doubtful. “You mean it?”

“Sure. We’ll play a complicated joke on somebody.”

“Wait, I’ll just take some charcoal pills. My goddamn stomach …”

When we arrived at Azderbal’s apartment, the lights were already out. The hunchback slipped quickly into her bed, and I left. I woke around eleven, feeling much better. I thought of the girl; she must have had a terrible hangover and a hunchback was just what she needed in 105° heat. Then I decided I wouldn’t split the money she gave me with Robert, and my mood improved even more. I’m always sublimely happy when I hit on a scheme to con a partner. Nothing can quite compare with that state of bliss and contentment. I showered and went downstairs for breakfast, bowing to all the ladies I met on the way. I ordered four scrambled eggs. Robert looked sleepy and pale and had big circles under his eyes; sharing a bed with the bouncer wasn’t the most comfortable way to spend the night. After breakfast we walked out to the beach. Azderbal’s girl friend must have wakened by then and discovered it wasn’t me who had returned in the middle of the night to cover her with caresses. God knows what is really funny.

In the afternoon we took the bus to Jaffa. Robert knew a fellow there who had a dog for sale, but somehow we couldn’t find him. We went to a cafe we knew he frequented and ordered coffee. The man finally showed up and said he’d get the dog.

“You know something, Robert?” I said after the man left. “Last night I forgot my lines and since you weren’t there, I made them up myself.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her it’s all an act, that we’re after the money.”

“You didn’t!” he exclaimed, turning pale.

“I did. But don’t worry, she didn’t believe me. It came out beautifully. I’ll always do it from now on.”

Robert sat motionless, not saying anything.

“You’re upset because it was my idea. Come on, Bobby. Admit it. You’re jealous.”

“You could have ruined everything.”

“But I didn’t. Why, it only improved my psychological makeup. I’m a complicated and unhappy person, my pride is hurt, interpret it any way you want.”

“Did you tell her everything?”

“Enough.”

“Did you tell her about the girl from Boston?”

“No.”

“You didn’t tell her she committed suicide?”

“No.”

“You should have told her everything. That first she had to be locked up in a nuthouse and that a year later …”

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“Then don’t talk about it at all. Look, I haven’t forgotten what kind of person you are. A man at odds with himself, even slightly unbalanced, but the idea that you could take money from a woman should be so abhorrent to you it shouldn’t even cross your mind. The way I present you is different and much more modern. Don’t forget the times we live in. I show you only in those situations which are essential to your character— when you’re in despair, in love, or seething with fury. The rest she can fill in herself. Look how Americans make films. They show only the key situations, the most important ones which move the action forward, and that’s why it’s all so convincing.”

“Then you have to come up with some new lines for me. There’s something missing from my performance, Robert. There’s a vacuum at one point. I felt this yesterday, and that’s why I departed from the script. Just after I refuse her offer to take me to the States — I don’t know how to go on.”

“At this point you should play a man at peace with himself. You’ve made up your mind. You’re like a man condemned to death being led to the firing squad, a man fully in control of his senses who knows this is the end. Understand? Ask her to tell you something about America, ask about unimportant details, like the price of ice cream or the speed limit in California. This should lead up to the climax in which no words are necessary and which must come out perfect.”

I lowered my eyes. “Okay.”

But he went on with the lecture and I had only myself to blame; I should have known better than to tell him the truth. Once he started on his favorite subject, there was no shutting him up.

“You have no sense of timing and that’s bad. And you don’t see the whole act, just the separate scenes. I’ve read that Marlon Brando said an actor has to also be a poet. There’s wisdom in that. Brando is always in command of all the material and it shows. The principle you have to base your performance on is very simple, really; if you’re locked up in a dark room, you become accustomed to the darkness after awhile. But if someone keeps turning the light on and off, your suffering is unbearable, because each time you’ve got to get used to the light and darkness. That’s why when you tell her you won’t go to America you have to follow with a period of peace, of quiet. You’re both aware that the problem remains, but you’re afraid to broach it so as not to hurt each other’s feelings. It’s like the moment of quiet before a storm, a silence terrible to bear. Haven’t you ever read books about the sea and sailors?”

“No,” I said. “As a kid I only read Ken Maynard’s adventures, slim paperbacks which we devoured in class, hidden under our desks.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“In Warsaw. A school run by nuns,” I added quickly, eager to change the subject. “I was a lousy student. One nun came up with the idea of making a dunce cap and I had to wear it for almost four years.”

“She must have been a sadist.”

“All of them were. When the bishop of Warsaw diocese died, the kids from Catholic schools had to go and pray for him. There he was, laid out in state, one gloved hand hanging limply from the open coffin, and we had to kneel down and kiss that cold, rigid hand. When my turn came, I said I won’t do it, and the nuns dragged me over by force. So I bit into that dead hand with such a fury that it took several nuns to pry me off. They almost overturned the coffin.”

“How old were you?”

“I don’t remember. Maybe nine.”

“It’s a good story,” Robert said. “Tell it to that broad. Americans love analyzing experiences like that. Let her exercise her brains. A small thing, but what joy it can bring to a woman! Just like a prick.”