Mouthful of Birds

THE TEST

The Mole says, Name, and I answer. I’d waited for him where I’d been told to and he came to pick me up in the Peugeot that I’m driving now. We’ve just met. He doesn’t look at me—they say he never looks anyone in the eyes. Age, he says. Forty-two, I say, and when he says, You’re old, I think that he must be older. He wears a pair of small dark glasses, and that must be why he’s called the Mole. He orders me to drive to the nearest plaza and then settles into his seat, relaxed. The test is easy but it’s very important to pass it, and so I’m nervous. If I don’t do things right, I won’t get in, and if I don’t get in, there’s no money. Money’s the only reason to get in.

Beating a dog to death in the Buenos Aires port is the test they use to see if you’re capable of doing something worse. They say, Something worse, and then look away, dissembling, as if we, those on the outside, didn’t know that worse means killing a person, beating a person to death.

When the avenue splits into two streets, I opt for the quieter one. A line of red lights changes to green, one after another, and lets us speed ahead until a space, dark and green, appears between the buildings. It occurs to me that it’s possible there are no dogs in this plaza, and then the Mole orders me to stop. You didn’t bring a club, he says. No, I say. But you’re not going to beat a dog to death without a weapon. I look at him but don’t answer. I know he’s going to say something, because I know him now; it’s easy to figure him out. But he enjoys the silence, enjoys thinking that every word he says is a strike against me. Then he swallows and seems to think: You won’t be killing anyone. And finally he says: I happen to have a shovel in the trunk, you can use that. And I’m sure that beneath his sunglasses, his eyes are shining with pleasure.

There are several dogs sleeping near the central fountain. The shovel firm in my hands—my chance could come any second—I approach. Some of them start to wake up. They yawn, stand up, look at one another, look at me; they growl, and as I get closer they shrink back. To kill someone in particular, someone already chosen, is easy. But to choose the one who will die requires time and experience. The oldest dog or the prettiest or the one that seems most aggressive. I have to choose. I’m sure the Mole is watching from the car and smiling. He must think anyone who’s not like them is incapable of killing.

The dogs surround and sniff me, and some move farther away and lie back down, forgetting me. To the Mole, behind the dark glass of the car and his darkened glasses, I must be small and ridiculous, clutching the shovel and surrounded by dogs that now drift back to sleep. A white spotted one growls at a black one, and when the black one snaps at it, a third dog comes over, barks, and bares its teeth. Then the first dog bites the black one and the black one, teeth shining in the night, takes it by the neck and shakes it. I raise the shovel and the blow hits the spotted dog’s back; howling, he falls. He lies still. I think it’ll be easy to move him, but when I grab him by the legs he reacts and bites my arm and the blood gushes out. I raise the shovel again and hit him in the head. The dog falls back down and looks up at me from the ground, breathing fast but not moving.

Slowly at first, then more confidently, I gather his legs together, pick him up and carry him to the car. A shadow moves in the trees. A drunk peers out and says, “You just don’t do that. The dogs will remember you, and later they’ll take their revenge. They know,” he says, “they know. Understand?” And he sits down on a bench and looks at me nervously. When I’m about to reach the car I see the Mole sitting and waiting for me in the same position he was in before, but the trunk of the Peugeot is open. The dog falls like dead weight, and he looks up at me as I close the trunk. Once I’m in the car, the Mole says: If you’d put it on the ground it would have gotten up and run away. Yes, I say. No, he says, you should have opened the trunk first. Yes, I say. No, you should have done it and you didn’t do it, he says. Yes, I say, and regret it immediately, but the Mole doesn’t say anything, and he looks at my hands. I look at my hands, I look at the steering wheel, and I see that everything is bloodstained, there’s blood on my pants and on the floor of the car. You should have used gloves, he says. The wound hurts. The man comes to kill a dog and he doesn’t bring gloves, he says. Yes, I say. No, he says. I know, I say, and then I shut up. I decide not to mention the pain. I start the car and drive smoothly off.

I try to concentrate, to figure out which of the many streets I pass could take me to the port without the Mole having to tell me anything. I can’t afford to make another mistake. Maybe it would be good to stop at a pharmacy and buy a pair of gloves, but pharmacy gloves wouldn’t work and the hardware stores will be closed by now. A plastic bag is no good, either. I could take off my jacket, roll it around my hand and use it as a glove. Yes, that’s how I’m going to do the job. I think about that: the job. I’m pleased to think I can talk like they do. I take Caseros Street, which I think goes down to the port. The Mole doesn’t look at me, doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t move; he keeps his eyes straight ahead and his breathing under control. I think they call him the Mole because his eyes under those glasses are tiny.

After several blocks Caseros crosses Chacabuco. Then Brasil, which leads to the port. I turn abruptly and the car tips onto two wheels. In the trunk the body thumps and then there are noises, as if the dog were still trying to get up. The Mole, I think surprised by the animal’s strength, smiles and points to the right. I turn onto Brasil braking; the tires squeal, and with the car on two wheels again, there’s more noise from the trunk—the dog scrambling to avoid the shovel and all the other stuff that’s back there. The Mole says, Brake, and I brake. He says: Speed up. He smiles. I speed up. Faster, he says, and I go faster. Then he says, Brake, and I brake. Now that the dog has been thrown around several times, the Mole relaxes and says: Keep going. He doesn’t say anything else. I drive. The street I’m driving on has no more stoplights or white lines, and the buildings get older and older. Any moment now we’ll be at the port.

The Mole signals to the right. He tells me to go three more blocks and turn left, toward the water. I obey. Soon we reach the port and I stop the car in a parking lot full of stacked containers. I look at the Mole, but he doesn’t look at me. Without wasting any time, I get out of the car and open the trunk. I didn’t wrap the jacket around my arm but I don’t need gloves anymore; the thing is done. I just need to finish quickly so we can go. In the empty port there are only a few weak yellow lights in the distance that illuminate a few ships. Maybe the dog is already dead. I think how that would have been for the best, that I should have hit him harder the first time and then he would surely be dead by now. Less work, less time with the Mole. I would have killed the dog right away, but this is how the Mole does things. It’s a whim. Bringing the dog half dead to the port doesn’t make anyone braver. Killing him in front of all those other dogs would have been harder.

When I touch him, when I grab his feet to take him out of the car, he opens his eyes and looks at me. I let go and he falls back into the trunk. With one front paw he scratches the rug that’s now covered in blood; he tries to get up and the back part of his body is trembling. He’s still breathing, and his breath is agitated. The Mole is probably timing me. I pick the dog up again and something must hurt because he howls, though he’s no longer struggling. I put him on the ground and drag him away from the car. When I turn back to the trunk to get the shovel, the Mole gets out. Now he’s next to the dog, looking down at him. I carry the shovel over, I see the Mole’s back and beyond him, on the ground, the dog. If no one will find out about a dead dog, no one will know anything that happens here. The Mole doesn’t turn around when he tells me: Now. I raise the shovel. Now, I think. But I don’t bring it down. Now, says the Mole.

I don’t bring it down, not on the Mole’s back or on the dog. Now, he says, and then the shovel slices through the air and hits the dog’s head, and the dog howls, trembles a moment, and then everything is quiet.

I start the car. Now the Mole is going to tell me who I’ll work for, what my name will be, and how much money I’ll make, which is what matters. Take Huergo and then turn onto Carlos Calvo, he says.

I’ve been driving for a while now. The Mole says: At the next street, stop on the right. I obey, and then the Mole looks at me for the first time. Get out, he says. I get out and he moves into the driver’s seat. I peer in through the window and ask him what will happen now. Nothing, he says, you hesitated. He starts the car and the Peugeot moves off in silence. When I look around I realize he left me in the plaza. The same plaza. In the center, near the fountain, a pack of dogs gets up, slowly, and looks at me.