Carmen Dog (12 page)

They quickly quiet down, however, under Rosemary's fierce yet calm gaze, until the only sound is that in-and-out of her growling breath at the microphone. Then from behind her the other seven Rosemarys step forward and remove their masks and Pooch is again shocked. She cannot help giving a little yelp. The main Rosemary notices her and acknowledges her with a little wink and an ambiguous smile that looks quite like the old Rosemary she knew from the beginning when everyone at the doctor's was wondering if she was really on their side or not. Pooch can see that she has been forgiven her outburst just now and that Rosemary knows why she did it.

For there, on the stage, one of the smaller creatures taking off a Rosemary mask has turned out to be none other than Basenji! Alive! And dressed, under her Rosemary grays,
à la Zouave.
Basenji looks strong and fierce and African. She is grinning a wicked grin and seems quite unlike her old shy self. Pooch is overjoyed and thinks that she can now rewrite her poem into an ode to the return of a dear, dear friend—not dead after all, but more alive, it seems, than ever and part of a special Rosemary movement. Or perhaps she should write an entirely new haiku (later on, of course, when she feels calmer and more rested) in which Basenji's sleeve brushes something as she goes by, a chrysanthemum probably, and by that subtle gesture the reader will know that she is alive after all. Not the sleeve perhaps, but the voluminous Zouave trousers and, of course, not chrysanthemum, but daisy or wild iris. Yes, wild iris. But, oh, Pooch thinks, if only I too could wear a Rosemary mask like Basenji does. Could be worthy of the honor of it.

But now Rosemary is speaking and her voice is not at all the soft, somewhat wheezy whispering of the Rosemary in the doctor's basement. Clearly that was her way of disguising what her voice had become. Now it rasps out, half roar, half asthmatic attack and as if she must speak slowly in order to get the consonants out clearly. Before she quite gets started there are isolated cries of “a, c! a, c!” scattered throughout the hall and one or two of “All creatures!” Paws, hooves, wings, and fingers raised, pointing toward the ceiling, though actually, in meaning, pointing to the sky, as in “the sky's the limit."

"'Wake and listen,'” Rosemary is saying, “Nietzsche said it. ‘From the future come winds and secret wing beats; and good tidings are proclaimed to delicate ears. You shall one day be the people.' Yes, let the masks be put aside. May we all soon go about as our real selves and take joy in it, saying, yes, yes, to whatever we are."

Everyone calls out, “Yes to me.” Pooch, as loud as any of the others, makes what sound she can that comes closest to yes. I will never again be ashamed of what I am, she thinks, and not only not ashamed of myself but not of any other creature no matter how small or wretched or ignorant, and no matter if I can only speak in grunts. I will even honor my voice though it is now a bark and a far cry from what it once was. Tears are flowing across her downy cheeks and onto her lips and she licks them up. Isn't this one of the things the psychologist had been telling her all along? And yet she was not ready to hear it. Hadn't he said something about, if you are not you, who will be you? Who, indeed, she wonders, will be Pooch, if not she?

Rosemary is continuing. “They say we are suffering from a dangerous, virulent form of cancer. Is this cancer?” She holds her great glistening arms out on each side and turns around, doing a little dance step, surprisingly graceful for one so large and heavy. She shimmies, making fun of herself, and colors ripple on her iridescent shadow sides.

"Are these cancers?” Rosemary points to the others on the stage and now Basenji and all of them turn around, each doing her own little dance step. Basenji does a dance that looks rather Egyptian. Pooch recognizes it as such from her knowledge of
Aïda
.

"And now you!” Rosemary roars it out, and they all get up and dance around in their various ways, changing places and kissing and hugging each other. Pooch holds, in turn, the coarse haired, the soft haired, dry scales, stiff back feathers, downy front ones, warm bare skin.... It feels good.

"Must one call this a disease? And if so isn't it rather some sort of disease of waking up? So I say go ahead, make a noise and let the breasts flop. We'll be there no matter where they look, however far off into the distance it may be. No promontory without one of us, no heath or tundra or oasis.

"And I want to tell you where else they will be seeing us, for, as of yesterday, the circus belongs to
us!
It's no longer Barnum and Bailey's, but Virginia, Jane, and Corinne's. Though I must say that the circus has
always
been good to us as well as to the very small and the very large."

Of course everyone shouts “Hooray” at the good news. Pooch feels encouraged because, if worse should come to worst and her voice never returns to her, perhaps she could get some sort of job there, however humble it might be. She would certainly be happy, though of course not as happy as if she were an opera star, but happy enough even if useful only to bring the elephant lady her buckets of tea.

And now Rosemary has squatted down on her haunches, her big arms hanging in front of her and her voice softer, and everyone settles back again and is quiet.

"What of motherhood? you are asking. Many of you have read of that in the papers. But having the baby, that's the easy part. It's what happens
after
that that they have to solve. Up all night many a night
and
all day, too. One poor parent is hardly enough. So let not, now or ever, one creature stand in the place of two or two kinds.

"What of the fear of success in all of us females? you are asking, but I say it is not a question of success at all. To stand on the mountain top with flags is not our way, nor should it be. Ask yourselves, can the sea do without the shore, or the fire neglect its fuel? Can seeds fly to their sprouting places without the wind? Does smoke rise without air? None exist without partners. It is high time. Yes, high time! And times to come, as high or higher...."

But there are sounds of scuffling and shouts from the lobby. Quickly the seven other “Rosemarys” on stage help the huge white Rosemary back into her gray dress and mask so that when the dozen or so policemen burst through the doors, guns drawn, there is only this frightened, hunched-over little old lady at the front of the stage.

"Quiet! Don't anybody move!"

But no one is moving and there's no need to call for quiet.

"Give us the one called Isabel and we'll leave you to your Ladies Auxiliary.” The tallest one is saying it, but he is not as tall, by any means, as Rosemary when she stands up straight. “Which one is she?” He's not asking that question of all of them, but of a pale young man, tan sweater, tan pants, tan hair, tan eyes, standing beside him. It is
the
pale young man of the day before. Pooch sees that he is staring straight at her. She flinches, shudders, but keeps looking back at him, not hangdog. For once not that, for her sisters here, and Rosemary's words, and Basenji, alive, have changed her. And yes, some electricity is passing between them in that look.

Now all the policemen are looking at her.

"Which is she? She's dangerous."

But the young man looks away and they all look away, too.

That utterly static ... that stopped, magic moment! As though they were alone. What had she seen in his eyes? What he in hers? A recognition? A kind of joy? She feels so glad to see him. Surely he won't.... He can't....

"Gold fringed scarf. Some of the fringe detached.” The big policeman is reading from a list. “Fake jade earrings. Plastic beads, torn skirt with broken zipper.... “It doesn't sound as nicely dressed as Pooch had, all this time, felt herself to be. But there's no time to dwell on that, she is already on the floor crawling and the others are rustling and moving, forming a sort of undulating audience in order to hide her as she makes her way not to the nearest exit, but toward the room where, a short time ago, she left the baby. And although Pooch doesn't know it, Chloe, also on the floor, her white dress already irreparably smudged, is heading in the opposite direction, and one or two others are crawling around in a similar fashion just to create confusion.

The policemen fire two shots into the ceiling and yell again for silence, which only causes more confusion. Some creatures deliberately become hysterical, though they have no idea how the police will react to them. But the men pay no attention, and separate at a command, a few to each exit. But by then Pooch is in the room with the children. While the men are rushing out and down the streets and alleyways, she rather tearfully (for she still likes them no matter how they were described) trades her scarves, beads, and earrings for paint rags and an old shirt the children had been using as a smock. Also (wonder of wonders), handed to her by the gentle nanny-goat-like creature in charge of the children, a Rosemary mask.

"Don't leave yet,” the creature says. “Might as well begin a painting."

Pooch finds that, distracted and frightened as she is, and though not good with colors, she has a bit of artistic talent besides being musical. She paints a portrait, quite a good likeness of her beloved master, though the eyes are definitely the eyes of her psychologist.

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Daphne has escaped the god's embraces, which, promising love would but result in ungraceful fertility.

—T. E. Hulme

Is not virtue, after all is said and done, invariably triumphant?

Or is it?

Pooch wonders whether, first, one wouldn't have to define the terms. One would probably have to interpret
triumphant
quite broadly in order to make it
invariably
triumphant. And therefore wouldn't it often happen, in the end, that the triumph might be just in the mind of the virtuous as she falls in defeat? But also, how would one define
virtuous
? And, whatever it is, has she herself, though always trying hard, really been it? What of the episode with the sybarite, for instance, and of the fact—yes, it is a fact—that she ... well, more or less, wanted to? What of her vicious attack on the doctor? Though was it not for the baby's sake? Has she not always remained faithful to the baby and to her beloved master as well as to his principles? But has she remained faithful to her sex ... to her sisters? Lived up to the SPCAC standards? Has she remained faithful to the earth in the way that Rosemary was talking about it—the earth as the mother of us all? Has she had the presence of mind to worship, now and then, the sun as well as the dirt she walks on? Has she ever hugged a big tree? Or even a small one for that matter? Has she chewed grass recently? Perhaps today can be a day for all those things and not to worry about how she's dressed. Virtue, after all, wears many faces. She should be proud, even without her earrings and such.

By now the baby seems to have gotten over its first fear of her in the Rosemary mask and paint rags. Or maybe bouncing along outside with plenty of things to see has distracted it. Also it has another dog biscuit to chew on. In fact, Pooch herself is chewing on one too, though reluctantly. She read the list of ingredients on the package and they seem to be made mostly of cereals and dried milk, being specially formulated for puppies, but there was also mention of bone meal.
Whose
bones? she wonders. Still, she must keep up her strength if she's to be any good to anybody. Would her comrades at the pound deny her this? In similar circumstances
she
would be only too glad to help a hungry friend as long as the friend had no other source of food and was actively trying to prevent the whole business of pet food from animal sources. Pooch hopes soon to be involved in that struggle as well as in promoting social change in many other areas, if only things would settle down and she could be free for such activities. But right now she is happy enough to have a nice little bag full of the biscuits. She promises herself she will not eat more than just this one because, anyway, they must be saved for the baby. It is certainly not a very fancy supper compared with the night before. Pooch begins to drool in earnest at the thought of the nuts, sprouts, seeds, and salad of that meal that seems to have happened so long ago, but was, in truth, only yesterday.

It's uncomfortable in the mask, and it smells. That, coupled with the linseed oil and turpentine smells of her shirt-smock and skirt of paint rags, make it hard for her to catch the important smells of the city around her. Also, with the mask, she finds it hard to see out of the corners of her eyes, and her own breath makes it sticky and damp in there. Still, she doesn't dare take it off. The police are everywhere. Pooch knows she must get out of the neighborhood as quickly as possible, or at least off the street. She has found a way of walking that looks like an old lady's but also makes good progress away from the opera house. It's a kind of limp-wobble, the left foot taking a long and efficient stride and the right one taking a short kind of hop. The baby loves it.

But where to go?

Suddenly she remembers Valdoviccini, the name and telephone number that she had seen in the
Opera News
and that are engraved forever on her mind. Of course she can't talk on the telephone. What would he think, answering the phone and hearing only whining, or barks and growls? She can't call, but she can look up the address and go there. She finds a not-bad piece of paper in a trash basket and then finds a drugstore with a phone hook. Unfortunately the baby suddenly notices her mask and begins to cry—loud, furious cries. It had forgotten that it was with this creature with an entirely different face, different clothes, and a strong smell of paint.

Pooch starts over, looking for another drugstore, this time being careful to hold the baby backward over her hip in such a way that it can't see her face. By making writing motions she manages to borrow a pen from the drugstore man. She finds there are two addresses for Valdoviccini, one on Central Park West, the other right here in the neighborhood, only a few blocks away. She writes them both down at the top of the paper. Then she tears it carefully in two and on the better, neater half she writes,
I am she whom you seek.