Motti (10 page)

They acclimated her, Laika (that is, the historical Laika, the actual one, and prior to this her name was Kudryavka and she flew into space and died) to eat gelatinized food. Jelly. Because that's the food she would get in the spaceship. They kept her, Moshka, and Albina in smaller and smaller cages, so they'd get acclimated to that too, and put them in flight simulators, so they'd get acclimated to the pressure of liftoff. Albina, before her, went up twice on a missile. Moshka was used in order to check the systems in the cabin, life support and the like.

The Russians, as the BBC website reported a few years ago, said she died after a week. As previously stated before, it wasn't like that at all. (Barely a few hours. Maybe better that way. Suffered less.) The spaceship she flew in weighed 508 kilograms. She herself weighed approximately six. Only after liftoff did they say she wouldn't return and wasn't meant to from the beginning. She was fastened in so that she wouldn't just tumble around inside the cabin, which was pretty small in any case. The spaceship returned on April 14, 1958, around five months after it was launched, and it burned up in the atmosphere upon reentry (and if someone made a wish then, thinking it was a shooting star, it's quite possible this person is still alive—you could find him and ask what he wished for and if it materialized in the end).

I imagined the Laika in this book as a German shepherd, but everyone else can imagine her however they like. The dead Laika was, they say, of extremely mixed parentage. The beating of her heart accelerated threefold after liftoff. They had already put her in the cabin three days before ignition. Georgi Grechko, who was a cosmonaut, said that the spaceship, the satellite that Laika was sent up in, didn't separate properly from the missile with which it launched. Perhaps the systems were damaged, and therefore Laika was baked inside her skin. Forty years after this, her likeness was engraved on the monument to fallen cosmonauts, near Moscow. I doubt this did her any good.

Look at her picture on the cover. A paw resting almost playfully, an ear bent mischievously, I think, or maybe because genetics made it so. It appears that she's smiling, definitely smiling, I don't see fear in that look, but who am I to recognize her fear.

“You listening?” Guard B made sure. “I'm standing there with that hat in front of Tom's aunt. Middle of the heat wave, I'm telling you, and I feel the butter I put there start to drip. And she's talking, the aunt, she goes on and on—and I'm feeling how it's already starting to drip, you know? Onto my forehead and the neck and all that. And she stops speaking suddenly, starts staring at me, I thought I was going to die on the spot. Jumps on me and takes off the hat, I thought I was dead, suddenly she hugs me. God Almighty! she says. I thought the boy's brain was starting to leak out on him here. Why are you walking around with butter inside your hat, you strange boy?”

“Funny,” said Motti.

“Funny?” Guard B was amazed. “I almost frightened her to death. What's funny about that? You don't know how awful that was for me. What, like I don't know what it is to worry that someone's going to die right in front of your eyes? Just like that, with my own eyes, I saw my mother die.”

“I'm sorry,” said Motti.

“It's not your fault,” said Guard B, “and it also happened a long time back.”

“What did she die from?” asked Motti.

“From the disease,” said Guard B.

“What disease?” asked Motti.

“The disease, the disease,” said Guard B impatiently and meant cancer, which many people don't call by its name out of fear that it's an actual, proper name, like the kind you call someone with, so it (the cancer) might come. Just like you don't speak the Name itself, you know the one, as though there's a big eye in the heavens that will open up as soon as you call by name that which cannot be mentioned. (I too never speak that Name aloud. I never say,
Yahweh
—but look, I wrote it, that much I did. Which, actually, is a little defensive strategy I've put together for my book. Now, in certain circles, it will have to go straight to the
geniza
, thank God, to be stored indefinitely.) “Right in front of my eyes, she died on me.”

“I'm sorry,” said Motti again, because what else can you say. “That's tough, to see your mom like that for the last time.”

“If only, if only that was the last time,” said Guard B and lowered his voice. “In my dreams she still comes to me, that one. A few years dead already, and still coming. I've made myself sick over it,” he said. “Her and her underhanded death games. But, in any case,” he said philosophically, then cleared his throat. “Where was I?”

“With the butter,” said Motti.

“Yes, the butter. The whole hat was completely ruined. Did I already tell you what we would need that butter for?”

“No,” said Motti. “You didn't say.”

“C'mon,” said Guard B. “What kind of shitty person am I, anyway. Don't know how to tell a lousy story. Did I already tell you about how Jimbo went to jail?”

“No,” said Motti.

“Well, look,” said Guard B. “How can I expect you to understand anything? And what about the house that floats on the Yarkon? Did I say anything about that?”

“Not a thing,” said Motti.

“Well, well, well,” concluded Guard B. “You see? This is exactly what I'm talking about.”

Maybe (thought Motti a few hours, maybe days, after this; no one was standing outside his cell now, certainly not Guard B), maybe she ran away and got run over and now she's lying on the side of the road, her leg broken and bleeding, and she's whimpering in pain. She doesn't know why this happened to her, why this pain. She doesn't even wonder about it, doesn't resent it, isn't mad, isn't saying she doesn't deserve any of this, doesn't deserve this suffering, she's such a good dog. Motti, in his cell, cries bitterly. For the first time in this book he sits there and cries bitterly.

Only nothing's happened. Not yet. Motti is in his cell and Laika is in the hallway of Menachem and Edna's house, sleeping.

And then he passed by there, down one of the jail's corridors, Guard B. He's already finished his shift and is on his way outside and then home, grateful that he doesn't have to stay here like all the unfortunate inmates, though also feeling a bit unpleasant because of this.

He's a big man, and so easily embarrassed, his name should have been Irving, or Percival. But no, it wasn't meant to be.

And more than once, by the way, whenever Guard B went back early, during the day, to his dark house—if he forgot his car keys, for example, if he left his cell phone on the dining room table—would it seem to him that he felt the vestiges of some presence in the house, the tail end of the air that someone else might have breathed, a shadow slipping away along a wall just before he could see it, not even caught in the corner of his eye. And yet, he's still convinced that one day, if for instance he forgets his driver's license next to the telephone, then goes back home where everything is dark, he'll clearly feel, without a doubt, that someone, someone is there, that many are there, and then he'll close the door and won't leave, he'll close it behind him and remain inside, the door to his back and he in the dark, and they'll come out. In the meantime he hasn't had the courage to try. Because he worries they'll appear suddenly and because he's embarrassed by his belief that they'll appear.

In some senses he's like one of those rodents—the shy ones. Every touch startles him, and sometimes he looks at himself from the outside, as it were, and reprimands himself. You idiot, he says to himself, for example. What's your problem, you idiot? But he isn't an idiot, and this isn't his problem. His problem is that he's lived to be over fifty, thank God, and despite this he's still known to turn around when someone in the street behind him calls out, “Hey, kid!”

Tonight, in any case, Guard B (whose name is neither Irving nor Percival) passes by Motti's cell and this sobbing comes from inside, this heartrending sobbing.

He too would cry if they left him like this, alone in a cell. Therefore he stops by the door and waits a moment, to see if the sound subsides. And when it doesn't subside he knocks softly.

“Everything okay with you, man?” He asks. “You need something?”

“It's my dog,” Motti says, “I think something terrible happened to her.”

“Is she there in the cell?” Guard B is alarmed, since it is absolutely and strictly forbidden to bring animals inside the prison.

“No, no,” says Motti, “She's at the house of my friend Menachem.”

“I'm sure she's fine,” says Guard B, hesitantly. Motti doesn't answer.

“Do you want to call him,” offers Guard B in a whisper. He's forbidden to offer things like that, he could get fired. “I'll bring you my cell phone, don't tell anyone.”

“That would be great,” says Motti and wipes his nose.

“Here, here,” Guard B extends his phone through the hatch. “Call quick.”

And Motti calls. Two in the morning now, but he calls.

Menachem answers, panic-stricken. Hello? Who is this? He asks. Motti? What happened?

Is Laika okay? Motti asks quickly.

She's here at home sleeping. Do you what time it is, you psycho? It's two in the morning now. You woke the kids.

I'm sorry, Menachem, Motti says. Tell Edna that I'm sorry too. I had a horrible feeling, you know.

C'mon, it's okay, says Menachem. But try saving your awful feelings for normal hours, okay? You woke the kids.

I'm sorry, Menachem, Motti says again. Pet her on the tummy for me.

Sure, sure, and Menachem hangs up. And to Edna, who woke up panic-stricken as well—parents often wake up panic-stricken—to Edna he says, that motherfucker Motti sure picked some time to call.

Nothing can happen to her, to Laika. In the beautiful stories he tells himself she's often there, with him and with Ariella. Walking in fields, sitting on benches, watching television, stuff like that.

And what's with Laika, really? This very much disturbs me, that she has no personality. Half a book already written and she has no personality. Half a book—and I've only just noticed it. What an embarrassment this is, especially for a book that preaches so much—and with such immense self-righteousness.

In short, what's with Laika? What kind of dog is she? Lively and playful and full of energy? Affectionate? Does she love people? Does she sleep a lot? Did she ever chew up Motti's library? Chew up his shoes? And how long did it take her to learn not to relieve herself in the house?

Her history doesn't interest me here. It doesn't matter if she came to Motti as a puppy or already full grown. It only matters what she's like, what gives her pleasure, what makes her suffer. Like the rest of the characters here, all the details of her past are just cheap gossip as far as I'm concerned.

And so: Laika is a good dog. She doesn't have hip or skin problems, she has good teeth, a not-too-sensitive digestive system, good instincts, sharp hearing, a refined sense of smell. She doesn't bark excessively at night, wags her tail when you get home. Chases cats, but doesn't catch them. And not because she can't catch them, but rather because she's not interested in this. It's a game for her, not hunting. Loves it when you pet her on the tummy and scratch her behind her ears, a thing Edna does wonderfully; for hours they can sit like that together, Edna watching television or paging through a magazine, her free hand scratching Laika behind the ear. Such pleasure this is! Whoever isn't a dog just can't understand, not even if you love it when someone pets you on the tummy, not even if you wiggle your hind leg when they pet you there.

What else can be said about a dog's personality? As with people, there's no real point talking about it. Either you know them or you don't, why go into detail? Maybe just to fill up some extra pages so your book won't be too short (a novella), but instead will weigh what it needs to, so people will feel like they're getting their money's worth.

Laika, in any case, loves things that move. Drag a towel or a toy in front of her—she'll jump at it immediately, grab it with her teeth and pull. What's the difference between these toys and those living cats: these that she catches and those that she doesn't? What's the difference from her perspective, that is? How does she tell them apart? Hour after hour, by the way, she can lie hypnotized and watch the hamster running on his small wheel in the children's room.

Their lives (when Motti feels better) will be like reality TV or like the life of a religious person: an eye on them at all times (it will be her, looking at him at all times), and thus they'll strive at all times to be worthy, to live for real. They won't waste time on nonsense like me (“the narrator”) and Motti do here. We are indeed in the same exact situation. We could have done something good with our lives. We could have been helpful to someone. We could have loved, been loved, really helped, like he and Laika could as well. Save a life. Many lives. Save as many lives as possible. Walk around in the streets saving kittens. Volunteering at animal shelters. This would certainly raise one's spirits. And in order to make Ariella happy he'll take care of his body. He'll go, let's say, to a gym. And she'll laugh at him, look, look how you've puffed up, what a man I have, what a man, she'll laugh, but she'll actually love those new muscles, they will touch her deep down inside, on an evolutionary level, she'll be drawn to him, she'll want to touch him all the time, to feel those new muscles, well-defined no less. At the shelter he'll toss around bags of food. Lift up enormous dogs onto the operating table. Build walls, straighten fences. He'll gently pet puppies with his massive hands, so they'll get used to being touched by humans. And when someone shows up there to abandon, for example, a grown dog who's been with this someone for years (no lack of excuses, never a lack, and I've already heard about one, ten years old, whose owner abandoned her because she was no longer able to reproduce, he was used to selling her offspring for money; and I've already heard the one that goes our children are no longer attached to him, he's already grown, we were thinking about getting a new puppy instead; about how it's getting cold at night now, inconvenient to have to take him out on a walk; and then how, after three years together, three or four or even eight, we just had to take the dog back, they say, no longer a good fit, but look how cute he is, someone will definitely take him, give us a call, tell us how he's doing, give us an update, after all we love him a lot, bye bye…and it could very well be that you too are one of those people who throw your dogs away willy-nilly, and don't see what the problem is at all: toss them out of the car, let's say, on the way to the airport to head out of town—stop on the way to Ben Gurion Airport, open the car door, and shove the dog out, good-bye; and, look, if that's the case, a miserable and gruesome death is far too lenient of a punishment for you, and unnecessary, actually, because if you have children, and of course you do, when they get older they'll abandon you to rot in some stinking old-folks home, to rot in your filthy diapers: they'll come to visit once a week or every other week for a half hour, reluctantly, and will talk about nonsense with a forced smile, and this will be a quite fitting end, good luck to you and I hope you burn), when this man shows up there to abandon his dog, Motti will spit in his face. Will stand opposite him, with his new muscles, and will spit. Will say to him, listen, the usual practice here is to request a small donation from people bringing dogs to the shelter, but I'll gladly donate even a thousand shekels in your name if in exchange you'll just allow me to give you something you need. And when the man says, yes, yes (here it comes), Motti will spit in his face. Then he'll turn his big body around, his shirt too small to contain this firm abundance, and he'll walk away laughing, even run off mischievously, giggling hee hee.

Only he won't really have the courage or lack of manners to do this. Not his fault. And I don't have the courage to cause him to do this. To intentionally take an action from which, by definition, there is no return. A thing that would actually exist in the world, that would leave evidence behind in the form of the spit dripping down the man's face, lips, the curve of his chin.

I, by contrast, if I could do it, wouldn't bother to spit. I would loosen the man's jaw. With one punch. And so too for the man who abused my Cookie, even though that's not what they called her, my dog, back then—who knows if she had a name at all. Nevertheless, they kicked her. Every time she stood up, they kicked her, and when we first met she would lie down helplessly and break out shrieking if someone so much as put a hand on her, just put it out to pet her. One devastating punch for the man who, we're guessing, stepped on her snout, since her jaw never healed properly. Who did this, who? What's more, I know her now, and can see in my mind's eye how she got up after the first kick, maybe even the second, still wanting to be petted. Yearning for a touch and fearing it too, like she does now, and as she would after the kick, lying on her back and howling with longing, with fear, hoping to be petted this time, not the other thing. No, not one punch. Many more than one. To cause pain as he caused pain, including a foot to the jaw. Even though, of course, he didn't do it out of absolute evil, there is no absolute evil, he kicked, of course, out of misery. But that doesn't absolve him. And the punch, well, but no, this too is a lie. I wouldn't do a thing. Afterward I would regret it, regret not doing it, that much is clear, but I wouldn't do a thing. I'm just trying to push this novel, this narrator's voice, past its limits. So it will explode, so it will burst. One can drown in this expanse of possibilities, die from too much revulsion and joy, die from this desire to abstain, from the desire for nothing to happen, for everything to remain open. I've already said this, I know, said it one too many times. But Sarah's dead and this didn't really accomplish a thing. Her life reached its limit—only Motti, even in his prison cell, is still drenched in possibilities like rain. And the more I limit him—if he's sent to solitary confinement, even—his freedom to avoid choosing only grows stronger. The freedom, that is, to narrate, to fabricate, to take pleasure in the things that could be.

It certainly would have been better if these issues hadn't come up in this monologue of mine. If they had come up in a dialogue between two characters, with complicated psychological motivations. But they're true either way.

Whereas Sarah died, as mentioned, and this had almost no influence. Everything is so clean here, clean and well ordered, and there's no way out. Where's the bathroom in the prison, where does Motti shower, what kind of smell lingers there, and who are the other inmates, do they use deodorant and where do they brush their teeth, and where is the world, where is it with all its beloved, insufferable disparities. Where is it imprisoned for us, it is we who imprison it, closing ourselves up in our perfect rooms, in the knowing, barren cell of our story, of our perfect fantasy about ourselves, about our beloveds who we meet with less and less, having complete conversations in our heads, but with our bodies, no, nothing doing. There's nothing in here, is there, from out in the world, nothing makes it inside, not the smell, the temperature, the soil, the plastic, the air, the worms, the ads, the demonstrations and counterdemonstrations, the full plates, the sinks of dirty dishes afterward, the rain, the humidity, the actual memory of things that actually were—if there's any such thing, I mean distinct somehow from the memory of things that never were. So I now want to condemn it, this novel. Condemn it entirely, breach its clean borders, the imperative of its borders. I don't want to go on playing the voice of wisdom, as it were, being the one who knows. So perhaps it would be better to try again, no? It would be better to start over. This time on a smaller scale. To start with a shriek interrupted and with the noise of the metal grating in the fallen cage, with blood and shreds of fur, with Edna who hurries to throw up in the bathroom: because something happened here, there's no denying it. Something that's impossible to undo, impossible to pretend that it never was, even though that's exactly what Edna (like me) tries to do.

And she reprimands Laika. Bad dog! she tells her. What did you do? What did you do, bad dog? And points at the shreds, at the mangled fur. Only Laika just looks at the pointing finger. She doesn't understand. And why would she understand. And even after Edna's already cleaned everything, even then she doesn't look at Laika, doesn't pet her, though she knows intellectually that there was no malicious intent here, no guilt, it was just an act and that's all, she doesn't succeed in bringing herself to look at that fucking dog. She hurries to the store before the children come home and buys a new hamster. No one will notice that anything is different, other than that the cage has been placed on the table, up high and far from Laika. Yuck, murderer.

Is this the moral? Edna doesn't ask this herself, but we definitely do. Is this the moral? Is there no encounter that doesn't end with teeth? With tearing?