Read Outside the Dog Museum Online
Authors: Jonathan Carroll
Outside the Dog Museum (31 page)
Austrians have a nice custom when they’re building. Once you’ve gone as high as you’re going to go, there is a ceremony called the
Dachgleiche,
during which the top of a spruce tree, festooned with red and white rags, is mounted with great solemnity on the highest beam. Symbolically it means that’s it, folks—all we need now is a roof and we’re done. Not that you really
are
finished, but it’s the perfect midway pause and excuse for a
Dachgleichen Feier,
when everyone involved gets together for food and drink and mutual back patting. Good job, gang. Claire would be coming over for that and, post-
Dachgleiche,
we planned a week together driving slowly around the country, taking in the sights and each other’s air after being apart for so long. I wanted to tell her the whole story, top to bottom, and hear what she had to say. After that, I wanted to ask if she would live with me when I returned to California. Absence hadn’t made my heart grow fonder, but had taught it the value of a woman who was braver and more singular than I’d originally imagined. I thought about her constantly; sometimes talked to her when I needed an ear. In the old days I had usually talked to myself, but I was getting so used to her
perspective that it was usually better and more fruitful to talk to an imaginary her than a too sympathetic or agreeable me. Claire was soft, but the soft of a panther’s coat.
Dachgleiche,
during which the top of a spruce tree, festooned with red and white rags, is mounted with great solemnity on the highest beam. Symbolically it means that’s it, folks—all we need now is a roof and we’re done. Not that you really
are
finished, but it’s the perfect midway pause and excuse for a
Dachgleichen Feier,
when everyone involved gets together for food and drink and mutual back patting. Good job, gang. Claire would be coming over for that and, post-
Dachgleiche,
we planned a week together driving slowly around the country, taking in the sights and each other’s air after being apart for so long. I wanted to tell her the whole story, top to bottom, and hear what she had to say. After that, I wanted to ask if she would live with me when I returned to California. Absence hadn’t made my heart grow fonder, but had taught it the value of a woman who was braver and more singular than I’d originally imagined. I thought about her constantly; sometimes talked to her when I needed an ear. In the old days I had usually talked to myself, but I was getting so used to her
perspective that it was usually better and more fruitful to talk to an imaginary her than a too sympathetic or agreeable me. Claire was soft, but the soft of a panther’s coat.
Where was I? Hiking toward Sonnalm, crossing a meadow and moving toward a shadowy wood. A sagging shack for storing tools sat on the border between the meadow and forest. He stood next to the shack. I noticed him mostly because he was the only white in that climbing landscape of browns and greens. I didn’t know it was he then because of the distance between us but I stopped and watched this animal turn and disappear into the woods. His whiteness in that dark would have stopped me anyway, but seeing the bright blur, it crossed my mind, “Wouldn’t it be funny if that was Big Top?” The moment and thought passed and I kept moving.
At dusk, tired and aching, I returned the same way at the time when the sun was giving its last hurrah, making the contrast between light and shadow as gorgeous and dramatic as it ever gets. On the lower end of the meadow I stopped to take in both the view and light. I’d saved the apple till then when the weariness was total and the inside of my mouth tasted gummy and bitter. Taking off the knapsack, so I could get the apple, my mouth had already begun to water thinking of the scrape, crunch, and sweet explosion about to come. It was when I had the apple in hand that I turned to look back uphill and saw the dog not fifty feet away. He stood stock still facing me. There was no question it was Big Top. The three big black freckles on his mouth that made it look like someone had dripped ink on his face erased all doubts. I felt he’d been waiting for me to notice. After I did,
he
turned and started back toward the woods.
he
turned and started back toward the woods.
“Big!”
He began trotting away.
“Big Top! Wait!” I didn’t move. “Big! Stop!” When he didn’t, I lobbed the apple toward him, not trying to hit him but wanting him to at least turn around once more. Maybe death had made him deaf.
But maybe death didn’t want us any closer either, so I continued standing there. He kept trotting. I shouted but it did nothing. I’d seen him; he’d come from another world to show me something I’d have to decipher for myself. He moved away across the darkening meadow, bright white against green like a moving pile of snow. I could see him for some time even after he’d entered the trees. Quick white sewing between the black verticals. Glimpses, hints, flashes of white, there, there, and there. Looking harder, I saw him even farther into the dark. I knew there were miracles on earth, enigmas like this dead white dog, wonders as great as my being able to speak every language on earth for one night of my life. It was easy to be stunned by them and stop there. That was wrong. Venasque said most people see ghosts and (1) scream, (2) shake, (3) later tell the story a hundred times without once thinking, why did it appear for them? What was it telling them? “Magic and ghosts don’t just happen. They don’t happen in empty deserts or show up in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a fish that happens to be passing. They need an audience. All miracles need an audience. One that’ll appreciate them. Frank Sinatra’s not such a hit in front of deaf people. What
we
gotta do when they happen is figure out what’s the connection between them and us. Find that, my man, and you’re on your way.”
But maybe death didn’t want us any closer either, so I continued standing there. He kept trotting. I shouted but it did nothing. I’d seen him; he’d come from another world to show me something I’d have to decipher for myself. He moved away across the darkening meadow, bright white against green like a moving pile of snow. I could see him for some time even after he’d entered the trees. Quick white sewing between the black verticals. Glimpses, hints, flashes of white, there, there, and there. Looking harder, I saw him even farther into the dark. I knew there were miracles on earth, enigmas like this dead white dog, wonders as great as my being able to speak every language on earth for one night of my life. It was easy to be stunned by them and stop there. That was wrong. Venasque said most people see ghosts and (1) scream, (2) shake, (3) later tell the story a hundred times without once thinking, why did it appear for them? What was it telling them? “Magic and ghosts don’t just happen. They don’t happen in empty deserts or show up in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a fish that happens to be passing. They need an audience. All miracles need an audience. One that’ll appreciate them. Frank Sinatra’s not such a hit in front of deaf people. What
we
gotta do when they happen is figure out what’s the connection between them and us. Find that, my man, and you’re on your way.”
When I knew Big Top was gone and our encounter over, I could think of nothing else to do but raise my hand high over my head and wave at him already gone. That felt good, but it wasn’t enough. “I love you! I love you, Big!” I shouted across the meadow, into the cooling air, across time and death and all the other obstacles to my friend. “I love you!”
THAT GUY’S SUCH A
creep, even his clothes don’t want to wear him!” I was talking about a certain American foreman who was becoming more and more of a problem. Palm looked at the ceiling but his silence said he agreed. The door opened slowly and a head appeared
that took me a couple of seconds to recognize. Hasenhüttl, looking two thousand years old.
creep, even his clothes don’t want to wear him!” I was talking about a certain American foreman who was becoming more and more of a problem. Palm looked at the ceiling but his silence said he agreed. The door opened slowly and a head appeared
that took me a couple of seconds to recognize. Hasenhüttl, looking two thousand years old.
“Jesus, man, come in!”
Morton jumped up and offered his chair. Hasenhüttl smiled a quick thanks but the grin was gone instantly, and the way he plopped down said this guy was really at the end.
“Should I leave?” Palm moved to go.
Hasenhüttl looked at him and nodded. “Thank you, Morton. I won’t be long.”
From the way he looked and the almost-whisper of his voice, that sounded like the understatement of the day.
When Palm was gone and the door clicked, Hasenhüttl and I watched each other over the expanse of my desk.
“I’m dying.”
“Angels don’t die.”
“I’m not really an angel. First you have to be an Invigilator. It’s a very complex process.”
“I’ll bet. You gotta start at the bottom, huh?”
“Why are you always a pain in the ass, Radcliffe? I come in to tell you I’m dying, a sort-of angel is dying in front of you, and you make cracks.”
I threw up a hand. “Because I find it very hard to believe. You’ve been throwing tests at me ever since we met. How do I know this isn’t one too? From the very beginning I found you hard to believe, but I got used to the idea. Now you come in looking like Lon Chaney and tell me you’re
dying?
Wouldn’t you be skeptical if you were me? I thought things like immortality were a given where you come from.”
dying?
Wouldn’t you be skeptical if you were me? I thought things like immortality were a given where you come from.”
He picked up my stapler and began clicking it. “I did too. Shows how much I know. Listen, I know about your seeing the dog again. That’s a good sign. I can’t tell you why, but it is. I also came here to tell you I won’t be around anymore. I don’t understand what’s happening
to me, and it’s not really death, but it’s like that. You’re going to have to get along on your own now.”
to me, and it’s not really death, but it’s like that. You’re going to have to get along on your own now.”
We looked at each other. He clicked the stapler. I wanted to take it out of his hand and put it down. I took it out of his hand and put it down. He picked it up again.
“If that’s the truth, I don’t know what to say. Do you hurt? Does anything hurt?”
“No, but thanks for asking. I look like a Dead Sea Scroll, don’t I?”
“No, you look, uh, very distinguished. Like an old Indian chief.”
“Bullshit, but thanks for lying. If you’re not careful, Harry, you’ll turn into a nice man before you know it.”
“God forbid. Hey, is this really it? I’ll never see you again?”
He touched his face in a way that made it look like he was trying to cool it. His lips were dry and wrinkled. “This will be my last day here.”
“Where do you go now, Has?”
Looking straight ahead, one side of his mouth went up in a weak smile. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be so afraid.”
“How come we never stop being scared? Even you, even angels are afraid.”
“You’re not afraid anymore, Harry.”
“That’s almost true. Ever since our talk and then seeing Big Top up on that hill, I haven’t been fearful or worried. I just want to see what happens.”
“You’re lucky.” He started to get up, lost the strength, and sat down again. “Would you mind if I stay here awhile? I’ll go as soon as I can.”
“Sure, stay. You want a drink?”
He shook his head. “No. I only want to sit with someone who isn’t afraid. Maybe it’ll rub off.”
“Hasenhüttl, I’m … I’m sorry. I also want to thank you for telling me what this is about. You don’t know how excited it’s made me.”
Nothing about him changed; he didn’t shrink down like the sprinkled Wicked Witch of the West, but nevertheless the longer we sat there the more he seemed to fade or diminish or lessen. It was as if he were using up all of his gas or air in front of me.
“Listen, I want to tell you something last. My speech is coming apart, everything is, but stay with me. I’ll try to make it clear enough to understand for you. Mankind’s always paid too much attention to the dead. It’s been a fundamental part of life itself. Don’t you do this, Harry. Forget the dead. Forget dying. It was never part of God’s design. Man invented death, and so long as it continues to fascinate him, God allows it to remain.” The next time the big man tried, he was able to get up again and make it to the door. “Threaten the dead. Make them afraid with what you create. Any man who loves his work forgets the dead, even his own. Any human work that is finished shows them again how incomplete they are.”
THE MEETING WITH THE
people from the Creditanstalt Bank had gone on too long and the majority of us in the room were beginning to slide down in our seats like fifth graders in arithmetic class. Luckily I was called to the phone by a secretary who appeared very impressed by the caller. It was the Sultan of Saru’s spokesman. I was informed that His Majesty and his betrothed had decided to honor us with their presence at the
Dachgleiche,
as symbols of their support both for the Austrian people and the museum. “When will Their Highnesses be joining us?” I asked.
people from the Creditanstalt Bank had gone on too long and the majority of us in the room were beginning to slide down in our seats like fifth graders in arithmetic class. Luckily I was called to the phone by a secretary who appeared very impressed by the caller. It was the Sultan of Saru’s spokesman. I was informed that His Majesty and his betrothed had decided to honor us with their presence at the
Dachgleiche,
as symbols of their support both for the Austrian people and the museum. “When will Their Highnesses be joining us?” I asked.
“In a week, God willing,” the spokesman said. Then I heard the evil little click that comes from a telephone when you’re being put on hold.
“Harry? Is that you?”
“My goodness, if it isn’t Frances Neville herself. How’re you doing, Queenie?”
“Don’t pull my chain, Harry. I just want to make sure you’re going
to be there for this thing because I need to talk to you. And don’t get any ideas about what I want to say because you’d be dead wrong. Are you going to be there or not?”
to be there for this thing because I need to talk to you. And don’t get any ideas about what I want to say because you’d be dead wrong. Are you going to be there or not?”
“Hey, Toots, it’s my building. Sure I’m going to be there.”
“How is Claire?”
“Claire’s good. She’ll be here for the festival too.”
A silence that lasted a good long time.
“What do you want to talk about with me, Fanny? The last time we met, you tripped me. I was under the impression that was your final say.”
“It was, then, but now we have to talk about something else. I’ve got to go. We have to leave this place. I’m not used to getting bombed in my hometown.”
The late twentieth century has been the era of the Underdog. In example after example the Davids, whether they are the North Vietnamese, the Ayatollah Khomeini, even the New York Jets, have been defeating the Goliaths—the United States Armed Forces, Shah of Iran, Baltimore Colts—right and left until there really are no more “givens.”
The Saruvian Army flattened Cthulu’s resistance fighters in every strategic battle they had for six months. That was that. Time for Cthulu to haul ass back to his mountain hideouts and glower down at the winners. That made sense. But mythically, like a phoenix, the rebels kept climbing out of their own ashes and going back to fight again. At first it was to be expected—typical never-say-die revolutionary verve and passion. Next it became annoying—when are these guys going to quit? We won the battle didn’t we? Finally the phoenix turned into the monster from the horror film who, no matter how many times you shot/stabbed/burned it, the bastard kept raging back stronger than before. They captured Wadi Zehid, where they butchered any prisoners they took. At Cheddia it was worse. Their tactics and beliefs were compared to the Murngin of Australia who
believed that the spirit of the dead victim entered the body of his killer, who then grew twice as strong and physically larger. When it was discovered by a French journalist that many of those closest to Cthulu had castrated themselves as acts of homage to him, the Skoptsy or “White Doves” of Russia were brought into the discussion. A lovely little sect whose men cut off their plumbing while the women cut off their breasts for the sake of their faith, these Doves said God told them to do it. This same journalist, before he disappeared forever under extremely suspicious circumstances while on assignment with Cthulu and his monsters, asked the boss how his soldiers could act so barbarously. “There are only heroes and the dead, monsieur. If you know the man you are about to fight might eat your body after he has killed you, there is less chance you will want to fight him, you know? Besides, our enemy are not human beings. They are of the devil, the sperm of the dead moving toward life.” If this old nutbag stood on a corner in New York saying the things he said in his interview, people would take one look and steer around him PDQ. But here was Cthulu leading a successful revolution against the government of Saru.
believed that the spirit of the dead victim entered the body of his killer, who then grew twice as strong and physically larger. When it was discovered by a French journalist that many of those closest to Cthulu had castrated themselves as acts of homage to him, the Skoptsy or “White Doves” of Russia were brought into the discussion. A lovely little sect whose men cut off their plumbing while the women cut off their breasts for the sake of their faith, these Doves said God told them to do it. This same journalist, before he disappeared forever under extremely suspicious circumstances while on assignment with Cthulu and his monsters, asked the boss how his soldiers could act so barbarously. “There are only heroes and the dead, monsieur. If you know the man you are about to fight might eat your body after he has killed you, there is less chance you will want to fight him, you know? Besides, our enemy are not human beings. They are of the devil, the sperm of the dead moving toward life.” If this old nutbag stood on a corner in New York saying the things he said in his interview, people would take one look and steer around him PDQ. But here was Cthulu leading a successful revolution against the government of Saru.
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