Read Outside the Dog Museum Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
Outside the Dog Museum (28 page)
“What were you doing to him over there?”
“I can’t tell you, other than looking at him to see if there was any indication of why it happened. There wasn’t. I’m very confused.”
The words chilled me more than the man’s death. If this special Invigilator didn’t know what was going on, where did that leave the rest of us?
“Do you mean the project was blessed, or whatever?”
“Yes, but I wasn’t allowed to tell you that. Now, there’s no telling.” He licked his lips nervously. “It’s a whole new ballgame, Radcliffe.”
“I thought you’d been sent to help me!”
“I was, when I knew the rules. Now I don’t.”
“Anything’s possible?”
“I’m as much in the dark as you.”
PARDON ME, BUT I
like horror films. Some of my best childhood memories are of sitting in a dingy movie theater with a bathtub-size popcorn, alternately stuffing my face with those greasy snaps, or letting my mouth hang open, eyes squinted almost shut, waiting for the girl to open the wrong door or for baaaaad noises to come out of the laboratory. My father likes professional wrestling, I like screams and scaly creatures.
like horror films. Some of my best childhood memories are of sitting in a dingy movie theater with a bathtub-size popcorn, alternately stuffing my face with those greasy snaps, or letting my mouth hang open, eyes squinted almost shut, waiting for the girl to open the wrong door or for baaaaad noises to come out of the laboratory. My father likes professional wrestling, I like screams and scaly creatures.
The latest
Midnight
movie came to the Zell am See theater at the end of a good week. Contrary to Hasenhüttl’s fears, the death of the Saruvian welder marked the beginning of a calm productive period that allowed us to move forward at surprisingly good speed. There were problems but nothing that couldn’t be handled quickly and effectively. The different nationalities got along better and slowly appeared to be adapting to each other’s work habits, if not cultural differences. When an Austrian steelworker had a birthday, he was given a surprise party by his American and Saruvian co-workers.
Midnight
movie came to the Zell am See theater at the end of a good week. Contrary to Hasenhüttl’s fears, the death of the Saruvian welder marked the beginning of a calm productive period that allowed us to move forward at surprisingly good speed. There were problems but nothing that couldn’t be handled quickly and effectively. The different nationalities got along better and slowly appeared to be adapting to each other’s work habits, if not cultural differences. When an Austrian steelworker had a birthday, he was given a surprise party by his American and Saruvian co-workers.
The weather was friendly; the sun blazed Tuscan light over the mountains, lake, and spring snow as if approved of what was going on. It contributed to the kind of weather that makes you stop what you’re doing several times a day and lift your head, smile, look around. Grateful, you return to work replenished and refreshed.
Claire’s lecture had an effect on the way I saw and did things. The more I thought about what she’d said, the more I realized she was right. Telling yourself to go to hell and/or get a new lifestyle is easy, but the follow-up is a different kind of hell. Like New Year’s resolutions, they sound good and sincere until you have to start living them. Who knows where to begin? I chose the slow route—adjust the temper, be kinder and more patient, remember my standards and hopes weren’t the same as others’. It worked half the time but I was proud of that half and it gave me hope I might tip the scale in my own favor if I kept at it. An unexpected reward came the day one of the contractors walked in and said it was impossible to do something I’d considered crucial to the look of the building. Instead of going into warp factor five, I closed my eyes, managed a smile, and asked what he suggested. His answer was ingenious and a real improvement over my plan. I congratulated him and from that day others were much more willing to share their ideas as well as hesitations and it made things work better. Palm was at the meeting and afterward said he was proud of me. Normally I’d have growled at that, but Morton was proving himself invaluable and his compliment made me puff my feathers. He was the perfect person to go to when you were stuck. Although he didn’t know much about building, he was so reasonable and broad-minded in his perceptions that his ideas, insightful and compassionate, invariably had a grain of something in them that helped plow snow off the mental runway. After I’d gone on and on about him to Claire, I introduced them and the three of us spent a warm evening together. Later she said he was open and forgiving. A bell went off in my head and I realized out loud, “I like him because he’s like you!”
It had been a productive, interesting week at work. Claire was coming over again to visit in a few days, and Morton and I had downed a good meal before going to the film. Walking to the theater, I told him I knew Philip Strayhorn, the man who wrote the
Midnight
series and played the villain. To my surprise, Palm asked many questions about
Strayhorn. Besides wanting to know what kind of man he was, he seemed most interested in why an intelligent human being would spend so much time working on a product the sole purpose of which was to scare people. I gave the Radcliffe theory on horror films, which was, Society is so jaded that nothing normal entertains people anymore so we’ve moved to the next level down, which is to choke, maim, and electrocute.
Midnight
series and played the villain. To my surprise, Palm asked many questions about
Strayhorn. Besides wanting to know what kind of man he was, he seemed most interested in why an intelligent human being would spend so much time working on a product the sole purpose of which was to scare people. I gave the Radcliffe theory on horror films, which was, Society is so jaded that nothing normal entertains people anymore so we’ve moved to the next level down, which is to choke, maim, and electrocute.
“Do you think that’s the best way to entertain people?”
Feeling expansive, I jammed my hands into my pockets and decreed, “Shoot five thousand volts through a beautiful blonde and you’ve got a guaranteed interested audience. It’s the same with my field. There are three principles basic to architecture—order, logic, and beauty. I don’t care how many eggheads refute that, it’s really the essence of what we should work for in any design. Fuck the theorists. But now there are some very successful architects who do things like dig a hole and drop the house inside it. We’re not talking about bomb shelters here either, we’re talking home sweet home. It’s like a clever, wiseguy idea; an intellectual joke you think up the first year of graduate school. But because it’s new and has never been done before, there are actually people flocking to these idiots now to have them design their homes. Home, Morton. ‘Hi, welcome to my home. Just climb down the ladder and put on this miner’s lamp.’ To
me
these charlatans are the equivalent of
Midnight
movies—a real conscious attempt at finding and heralding everything ugly, unfriendly, and disordered in life. One guy even calls it ‘making visible what exists between stability and instability.’ Bullshit. It’s the land of the wiseguy and cynic and death of the soul.”
me
these charlatans are the equivalent of
Midnight
movies—a real conscious attempt at finding and heralding everything ugly, unfriendly, and disordered in life. One guy even calls it ‘making visible what exists between stability and instability.’ Bullshit. It’s the land of the wiseguy and cynic and death of the soul.”
Palm said nothing and I realized my face was hot. “Do I sound like an old fart?”
“No, like you believe in what you’re doing. But maybe I am not a good judge, Harry, because I make doors and ladders. I believe in things that serve their function well and can be used again and again
with trust. I have read about an artist who makes ladders that cannot be climbed—the steps go every which way. It’s an interesting idea, it challenges our sensibilities, but only for a minute. Then it’s just what you said—the work of a wiseguy. What I still can’t understand is why someone would put so much of their life and imagination into doing that every day. Building a ladder that goes nowhere is the same as making films about people hurting each other.”
with trust. I have read about an artist who makes ladders that cannot be climbed—the steps go every which way. It’s an interesting idea, it challenges our sensibilities, but only for a minute. Then it’s just what you said—the work of a wiseguy. What I still can’t understand is why someone would put so much of their life and imagination into doing that every day. Building a ladder that goes nowhere is the same as making films about people hurting each other.”
I reached over and punched his arm. “Then how come you’re going with me tonight?”
“I like being with you. I like to hear what you have to say. Even at a stupid movie you’ll probably say something that will make me think when it’s over.”
Since the Dog Museum crew moved into town, the Zell am See
Kino
on Saturday night was bedlam. Packed to the gills with Austrian, American, and Saruvian construction workers, as well as good-humored townspeople who knew what to expect, all films were dubbed in German, which meant only about a third of the audience understood what was being said. This made for interesting uproar. On screen someone would say something important. A Saruvian would ask in loud broken English, “What was it that this fellow has said?” Then either an Austrian would answer in equally broken English, “He tolt heem he’s going to shoot out his family, so watch out,” or an American would say, “I don’t know, Salim, how ’bout translating for me?” Which would then be rendered into two other languages and a few seconds later the laughter or the counterwisecracks would begin. You didn’t catch a whole lot of what was said in these movies but it was fun being there and I think it helped bring people closer. Often when they were done, we would walk out laughing over a comment so-and-so had made or how much better the repartee had been than the movie itself.
Kino
on Saturday night was bedlam. Packed to the gills with Austrian, American, and Saruvian construction workers, as well as good-humored townspeople who knew what to expect, all films were dubbed in German, which meant only about a third of the audience understood what was being said. This made for interesting uproar. On screen someone would say something important. A Saruvian would ask in loud broken English, “What was it that this fellow has said?” Then either an Austrian would answer in equally broken English, “He tolt heem he’s going to shoot out his family, so watch out,” or an American would say, “I don’t know, Salim, how ’bout translating for me?” Which would then be rendered into two other languages and a few seconds later the laughter or the counterwisecracks would begin. You didn’t catch a whole lot of what was said in these movies but it was fun being there and I think it helped bring people closer. Often when they were done, we would walk out laughing over a comment so-and-so had made or how much better the repartee had been than the movie itself.
The opening shot of
Midnight Always Comes
is of two lovers hotting it up in a graveyard. The light is blue-black, the music classic
Bernard Herrmann—creepy. No credits yet, only the two kids groaning and wrestling each other’s clothes off. Usually at the three- or four-minute mark the cracks would start flying in the audience, but either because of the impending sex or violence, things were quiet. Strayhorn is clever, though, and knows you’re waiting for the worst. So he doesn’t give it to you, although the music builds and we’re shown foreboding shadows, or once in a while the kids look up from their tussle and say, “Did you just hear something?” In fact nothing happens in that first scene until the kids, smug and in love, walk out of the cemetery hand in sweaty hand. Then the camera moves to a monument three feet away from where they did the dirty deed and bingo—there’s Bloodstone having his dinner. It looks like he’s eating spare ribs but when the camera moves in close you see those ain’t no spare ribs. Gross enough, but to make matters worse, he eats daintily and even has a large white napkin to wipe his lips. Sighing, he gets up and walks the short distance to where the kids had lain. On the ground is a used condom. Smiling, he picks it up and puts the gray thing in his pocket.
Midnight Always Comes
is of two lovers hotting it up in a graveyard. The light is blue-black, the music classic
Bernard Herrmann—creepy. No credits yet, only the two kids groaning and wrestling each other’s clothes off. Usually at the three- or four-minute mark the cracks would start flying in the audience, but either because of the impending sex or violence, things were quiet. Strayhorn is clever, though, and knows you’re waiting for the worst. So he doesn’t give it to you, although the music builds and we’re shown foreboding shadows, or once in a while the kids look up from their tussle and say, “Did you just hear something?” In fact nothing happens in that first scene until the kids, smug and in love, walk out of the cemetery hand in sweaty hand. Then the camera moves to a monument three feet away from where they did the dirty deed and bingo—there’s Bloodstone having his dinner. It looks like he’s eating spare ribs but when the camera moves in close you see those ain’t no spare ribs. Gross enough, but to make matters worse, he eats daintily and even has a large white napkin to wipe his lips. Sighing, he gets up and walks the short distance to where the kids had lain. On the ground is a used condom. Smiling, he picks it up and puts the gray thing in his pocket.
“Maybe he’s into recycling!”
“Was hat er gesagt?”
“Eine saubere Umwelt!”
The Saruvians got their version of the translation and things were off and running.
Months before, Palm noticed that if things were going badly at work, the men tended to say more and be louder when they went to these movies. You could judge a work week on the number and volume of their comments. I thought of this as the evening went on because it was quieter in there and when someone did say something it was funnier and less barbed than in recent memory.
It was this relative quiet that led to my next step. A third of the way through the story, Bloodstone is in a telephone booth calling the heroine. The phone rings in her bedroom, she hesitantly picks it up.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Heather. I want to tell you you were very beautiful today. I watched you. I watched you the whole day. I liked the way your blue slip showed under the skirt. I liked the smell of that yellow gum you were chewing. I liked your smell.”
This went on until the girl was so terrified that she dropped the receiver and ran from the room. But what jolted me was that halfway through the creep’s monologue, I began to understand every word he was saying. I do not speak German. I learned as much as I had to in school but forgot it immediately after examinations because I wasn’t interested. Watching Bloodstone’s impassive silver face, I heard what he said in a language I did not understand but from one instant to the next I knew the exact meaning of every word, every phrase. What’s more, there were a group of Saruvians sitting behind me and I understood what they were saying as well. I do not speak Arabic either.
Astonished, I whipped around and stared at them as if to verify the fact they were Arabs speaking Arabic and I understood. They were. I did.
Palm laughed at something in the film and said a line in Swedish under his breath. I understood. I didn’t have to think, figure out vocabulary or sentence structure, syntax, or fine points. I simply understood everything that was being said around me in every language.
I turned to Palm. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“Say what you just said again.”
“It was Swedish. I said—”
I stood up. “I know what you said. I have to go. No, stay here, I just have to go. I’ll see you later. It’s okay, I’m okay, I just have to go.”
Stumbling sideways out of our row, I all but ran for the door. I had to get out of there and get some air and clear my head and try to
understand and just get out of there. I saw surprised faces look up as I blew by but it didn’t matter.
understand and just get out of there. I saw surprised faces look up as I blew by but it didn’t matter.
Outside, the icy night air felt good but it wasn’t enough. I jogged down the main street not knowing where I was going, but knowing that I needed to move and empty my brain a while until I had some sanity back and could think about what had just happened. I passed an old man and woman speaking loudly to each other. He said to her in German he was goddamned sick of being constipated. I understood. Farther down the street a Saruvian worker walked along with a small boom-box radio under his arm playing Arabic music. A woman was singing in the high, swaying way that makes Mideastern music so instantly recognizable. I understood the words she was singing.
Without being aware of it, I’d aimed myself at the hotel and when I got to the parking lot one of the first things I saw was my car. The key was in my pocket and in a minute I had started the engine and was moving down the road by the lake.
When Venasque was helping me to come out of my madness he taught me a trick. “When you can feel the bad waves coming over you again, Harry, fix on a word, any word that has to do with how you’re feeling and say it over and over to yourself until it makes you sick. Concentrate on it till you forget everything else. It can be anything, but make sure it has to do with your craziness. That way your mind won’t think you’re trying to trick it out of how it feels. It’ll just think you’re trying to work out one little part.”
The trick had worked well after I learned how to do it, so riding along through that tremendous night, I fixed on the word
Langenscheidt.
The company makes a little pocket computer that does instant translations from one language to another. Type in
amour
and out comes “love.” However, my word became “I’m a
Langenscheidt.
I’m a
Langenscheidt.”
Like a weird mantra, I kept saying that again and again as I wound in and around the Austrian countryside, the
mountains, their own darker shadows, the knowledge of what had happened in the movie theater knocking away at my brain like a jackhammer. I
was
a
Langenscheidt.
I could understand every word in the world. I was sure I could pick up instructions in Swahili and understand, a phone book in Japanese, a recipe in Portuguese. I’m a
Langenscheidt.
Langenscheidt.
The company makes a little pocket computer that does instant translations from one language to another. Type in
amour
and out comes “love.” However, my word became “I’m a
Langenscheidt.
I’m a
Langenscheidt.”
Like a weird mantra, I kept saying that again and again as I wound in and around the Austrian countryside, the
mountains, their own darker shadows, the knowledge of what had happened in the movie theater knocking away at my brain like a jackhammer. I
was
a
Langenscheidt.
I could understand every word in the world. I was sure I could pick up instructions in Swahili and understand, a phone book in Japanese, a recipe in Portuguese. I’m a
Langenscheidt.
Other books
Determination by Jamie Mayfield
A Good Clean Fight by Derek Robinson
The Vast and Brutal Sea: A Vicious Deep novel (The Vicious Deep) by Zoraida Cordova
My Scandinavian Lover by Bella Donnis
Dolce (Love at Center Court #2) by Rachel Blaufeld
The Shadowsteel Forge (The Dark Ability Book 5) by D.K. Holmberg
How to Be Sick by Bernhard, Toni, Sylvia Boorstein
Hounded (Going to the Dogs) by Dawson, Zoe
Las Armas Secretas by Julio Cortázar
The Great Game: On Secret Service in High Asia by Peter Hopkirk