Read Outside the Dog Museum Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
Outside the Dog Museum (16 page)
“I suggest we begin by hating each other and hope it goes downhill from there. I don’t want to like you, Radcliffe. I don’t even want to know you. If you are an afrit you have great power, but know I’ll fight as hard as I can. If you’re not one, I still might have you killed.
“Is that fair? Do you understand?”
“I do.”
He stood up. “No, I don’t want to shake hands with you. There’s only one other thing I want to say.”
I got up slowly and took a final drag on the cigarette. “What’s that, Prince?”
He spoke over his shoulder. “Fanny says I’m a much better fuck than you.” A couple nearby whipped their heads around and looked at him with shocked, open mouths.
It
almost
shut me up, but not quite. “That’s because fucking is for mortals, Your Highness. Remember, I might be a
pommes frites.”
almost
shut me up, but not quite. “That’s because fucking is for mortals, Your Highness. Remember, I might be a
pommes frites.”
He stopped, turned.
“Afrit!
Are you stupid, or only testing me? How can I tell?”
“Afrit!
Are you stupid, or only testing me? How can I tell?”
At the Restaurant Bazz’af, Hassan told me to have a dish which, when translated into English, was Soft Bells and Hard Flowers. It was delicious. He ordered fish sticks and a Coke. When I asked why he was having that, he said it was none of my business.
We ate in silence. Savoring each bite, I tried to figure out what
was in my meal. Some kind of nut, some kind of smoked meat.
was in my meal. Some kind of nut, some kind of smoked meat.
“Do you believe in magic, Radcliffe?”
I looked at him and chewed.
“I don’t care if you do! I’m only trying to make conversation.”
“Yes, I believe.”
“Fanny does not, although I know she was there when your dog saved my father from the earthquake. I visited that dog today at our embassy. He is very ugly.”
“‘That dog’ is also very magical, Prince. I’d be careful what I said in front of him.”
“You see? This is another reason why I think you’re an afrit. You have bewitched both my father and Fanny, and this ugly magical dog is further proof of who you are. I’ll say this, though, you’ll have competition in Saru! There is so much magic there, you snap your fingers and ten magicians appear.”
I put the last bite of food in my mouth, dabbed my lips with the napkin, and smiled. “Maybe I know that already.”
BUYING A PAIR OF
shoes is one of the most optimistic acts I know, next to falling in love. I like nothing better than to see an old man wearing a brand new pair of brogues or cap-toed oxfords, preferably jaunty orange-brown, unscuffed, heels unworn. We want to be here tomorrow, but buying new shoes, like falling in love, says I
plan
on being here tomorrow.
shoes is one of the most optimistic acts I know, next to falling in love. I like nothing better than to see an old man wearing a brand new pair of brogues or cap-toed oxfords, preferably jaunty orange-brown, unscuffed, heels unworn. We want to be here tomorrow, but buying new shoes, like falling in love, says I
plan
on being here tomorrow.
Notwithstanding this latest Fanny cherry bomb, I still felt positive about the turns my life was taking, so my last morning in Vienna I went shopping for a new pair of shoes.
Like many American tourists, I believed that in most European cities of any size, there were still bound to be a few stores run by craftsmen or eccentrics who sold goods of Old World quality. The first time I was ever in Venice, wandering those damp snaky streets,
I had the luck to come upon a small stationery store that looked like it hadn’t been entered since the 1950s. The window was a desultory, sun-bleached mess of once-red school notebooks, curled paper party favors, and ink bottles with barely legible names like
Bleu nuit.
Standing defiantly in the middle of this defeated jumble was a carved plumwood Popeye about two feet high. One of those rare objects so familiar but unique that you literally
erupt
into a grin of love and recognition the moment you see it. I went in and, after pretending to browse, asked in a bored voice how much it cost. The old woman who ran the place couldn’t believe I wanted the figure but said the equivalent of twenty dollars. Even more thrilling, carved into the bottom of one of the feet was the name Del Debbio. One of the reasons I was in Italy then was to see firsthand the Roman stadium and sports complex Enrico Del Debbio had designed for Mussolini in the twenties and thirties. Even to Radcliffe, convinced-atheist graduate student, it was more than a spooky coincidence.
I had the luck to come upon a small stationery store that looked like it hadn’t been entered since the 1950s. The window was a desultory, sun-bleached mess of once-red school notebooks, curled paper party favors, and ink bottles with barely legible names like
Bleu nuit.
Standing defiantly in the middle of this defeated jumble was a carved plumwood Popeye about two feet high. One of those rare objects so familiar but unique that you literally
erupt
into a grin of love and recognition the moment you see it. I went in and, after pretending to browse, asked in a bored voice how much it cost. The old woman who ran the place couldn’t believe I wanted the figure but said the equivalent of twenty dollars. Even more thrilling, carved into the bottom of one of the feet was the name Del Debbio. One of the reasons I was in Italy then was to see firsthand the Roman stadium and sports complex Enrico Del Debbio had designed for Mussolini in the twenties and thirties. Even to Radcliffe, convinced-atheist graduate student, it was more than a spooky coincidence.
I didn’t expect to find a pair of Del Debbio shoes in Vienna, but maybe a shop with an old man in gold spectacles and his helper-elves … .
What I found instead was Palm.
After a couple of hours walking and window shopping, I found myself on the other side of the Danube Canal in the city’s Second District. Only a ten-minute walk from the posh center of town, the personality and color of the Second was entirely different from the chic fat-cat-and-tourist-on-parade feel of the area around the St. Stephen’s Church. Here were lots of dark, rough-hewed people looking like gypsies or peasants just in from the countryside. Women wore Russian babushkas and had gold-capped front teeth, their men moustaches thick as steel wool. They all seemed to be yelling at each other in hard, fast, incomprehensible words. Yet while they yelled they were often smiling, so I couldn’t tell if they were happy or angry.
It was clearly a worker’s district, the buildings that dead-mouse brown of places where too many people live in each room and the only light in the windows at night is the smoke-blue flicker of televisions lulling the tired suckers to sleep.
It was clearly a worker’s district, the buildings that dead-mouse brown of places where too many people live in each room and the only light in the windows at night is the smoke-blue flicker of televisions lulling the tired suckers to sleep.
Even the streets were dull and minimal. Anonymous apartment buildings and some stores, but very few and they offered only the essentials: small glum markets, an electrician, a
Geschäft
that sold toilets and bathtubs.
Geschäft
that sold toilets and bathtubs.
It wasn’t the best part of Vienna to find great new shoes, but I continued walking and looking at both the architecture and people.
A street sign saying Lucygasse stopped me. One of the great loves of my high school years was named Lucy Hopkins, so in her honor I walked along her street.
Halfway down the block I saw the store. It was small and undistinguished. I wouldn’t even have paid attention if there’d been more interesting sights around. The black-and-white unadorned sign over the window said “Morton Palm, Türen & Leitern.” A door and ladder store? In the window was a pile of round gray stones. Lying on top of the pile was an ornate art deco picture frame around a quotation nicely handprinted in three languages: German, English, and Swedish (I later learned).
“A door is the difference between in and out.”
That got my interest percolating. As if to steel myself before taking the next step, I peered up and down the street while slowly turning the doorknob and pushing in.
There was no one inside, but the desert menagerie stopped me and kept me wide eyed until Palm came out of the back of the store.
In that cramped, narrow room there must have been a hundred different cactus plants, varying from the size of a thumb to six feet high. Any time that many anything are together at once and in such a small space it’s both impressive and loony, like the newspaper
photographs of the woman who lives with forty cats, or the man with the largest collection of beer coasters in the world.
photographs of the woman who lives with forty cats, or the man with the largest collection of beer coasters in the world.
Many of the plants were blooming—brilliant, pastel flowers which contrasted vividly with the drabness of the store and the street outside. At first it almost felt like the room was filled with unmoving tropical birds keeping very still and silent, until the next moment when they’d just as mysteriously burst back into a havoc of screech and song.
“Guten Tag.
”
”
The first time I saw Morton Palm I thought he was either dying or carved out of marble. He was so thin and his hair was shaved so close to the skull that I immediately thought of men in concentration camps. What would have been normal features on another face jutted out on his like a bunch of umbrellas beneath a sheet. His skin had the silvery yellow-white pallor of good marble. When he smiled, his teeth were the same color as his skin. Long nose, small mouth that curved up at the ends, biggish ears. Hard to tell what color his eyes were because they were sunk so deeply into his head.
“Do you speak English?”
He held up his hand like a benediction. “I speak Swedish and English. What can I do for you, sir?”
I made a sweep with my hand. “Your cactuses are impressive.”
He nodded but made no comment.
“To be honest with you, I don’t know why I came in. The quote in your window, I guess.”
“‘Were I a door I would wish to swing out upon my hinges, and allow my room to fill with what has come from the outside.’ They are both from a poem by an American, Russell Edson.”
“Oh, do you like poetry?” I felt idiotic asking but there was something about this marble man that made it important to keep our conversation going. He was the strangest combination of peace and odd. His diminutive, sickly appearance was offset by the turtle-slowness
of the way he moved and spoke. The skinny people I’ve known are usually nervous and hyper. But everything Palm did was too damned slow. His blinks must have lasted half a second; when he moved to gesture, it was with the languorousness of a sea fan under water. I’d never seen a person run at 33
1/3
speed.
of the way he moved and spoke. The skinny people I’ve known are usually nervous and hyper. But everything Palm did was too damned slow. His blinks must have lasted half a second; when he moved to gesture, it was with the languorousness of a sea fan under water. I’d never seen a person run at 33
1/3
speed.
“No. Someone gave me the poem because of my business.”
“You make windows and doors?”
“Yes. And I raise cactuses because they’re strong and funny-looking. Would you like to see my work?”
From beneath the counter he took out two wooden boxes about the size of a car battery. There were brass handles and fittings on both. He opened the first and spoke. Slowly.
“I make three kinds of doors and three ladders. These are the miniatures that I show customers. Which are you interested in having?”
“I’d like to see both, if you don’t mind.”
“It is my pleasure, sir. People coming in are usually in a hurry. They want a door in a day. They want to buy a ladder instantly. There
are
firms that do seven-hour service, but I must make each of my pieces from the beginning. It is the only way I can work. I must warn you of that right now. It takes many more hours than most people are willing to give.” He smiled and took out the first ladder. Slowly—the smile, the hand into the box, the lifting out. Soooo slowly …
are
firms that do seven-hour service, but I must make each of my pieces from the beginning. It is the only way I can work. I must warn you of that right now. It takes many more hours than most people are willing to give.” He smiled and took out the first ladder. Slowly—the smile, the hand into the box, the lifting out. Soooo slowly …
How I wanted them to be special! Jack and the Beanstalk ladders, doors to perception. What he showed me was good solid work but nothing special. His different ladders and doors would do the job for many years, but wouldn’t open on to heaven or cause you to have an epiphany once you’d reached their top.
Palm held each miniature a long time and carefully explained their pros and cons. He was honest and dull. He did his job and the result was okay. Yet there were things about this man that made me both like and
want
to like him very much. The plants, his strange physical appearance, the great affection for his trade.
want
to like him very much. The plants, his strange physical appearance, the great affection for his trade.
What sealed my feelings for him was the way he had returned all the small doors and ladders to their proper places when he was finished with his presentation. I forgot to mention that inside these two boxes he’d cut slots to size for each model.
“Why doors and ladders, Mr. Palm? Why not tables? Or chairs?”
“I am forty-six and not so intelligent, Mr. Radcliffe. There is a
finishedness
to doors and ladders that I have not been able to find anywhere else in my life. A ladder is a ladder. Once you have completed it, whether there are six steps or ten, it is there to do its job. To be a ladder. A door is the same. Hang it and it is there to open and close.
finishedness
to doors and ladders that I have not been able to find anywhere else in my life. A ladder is a ladder. Once you have completed it, whether there are six steps or ten, it is there to do its job. To be a ladder. A door is the same. Hang it and it is there to open and close.
“Chairs change from one year to the next. Sometimes people want them comfortable, sometimes to look at and put in museums. But not ladders, really. They can be wood or steel, but a ladder’s job is permanent and unchanging. A door too. They don’t have a choice, do they?”
For lunch that day I ate fried mice. After we’d talked a long time, Palm asked if I’d like a cup of tea. We sat there amid the cactuses drinking tea and eating “fried mouse,” a Viennese pastry he had which tasted like a heavy, dry donut.
We’d reached the point where we were addressing each other by first name and had begun to give certain details about ourselves. As I’d expected, Morton’s story was far more interesting than he’d first let on.
He’d been a professional soldier for fifteen years with the United Nations peacekeeping forces. One would have to be either supremely tranquil or nuts to spend as much time as he did where he did: Cyprus, Rhodesia as it was becoming Zimbabwe, the Sinai. Along the way he’d married an Austrian woman who worked at the United Nations in Vienna. It didn’t succeed because he was away too often and she worried too much after he was shot the first time. They were divorced, but he’d had such pleasant times in the city that after being shot the second time, he retired and went to live there. Ten years later he had little money but liked his life.
We went into the back of the store, where he showed me his tools. Many of them were old, bought in junk stores and flea markets around Europe. He said they enabled him to work with the wood rather than against it, as happened with modern power tools. Most endearing was Palm’s sheer delight in what he did. A placid, albeit good-natured man, the only time he genuinely smiled or became animated was when describing ladders and doors he’d made. I envied him that. There’d been a time when my work defined and justified me to myself. I knew there was a distinct possibility that that time had passed for me, despite the moment’s enthusiasm for the trip to Saru and the new project there. I told Palm these thoughts, then felt embarrassed for crying on his shoulder.
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