Belka, Why Don't You Bark?

by Hideo Furukawa

  The rest of the meal was like any other. A salad with beets in it, cold kidney beans, borscht, some sort of sour bread.

  Already her routine was disrupted. After dinner, the girl left the building. This was the first time since her arrival that she had been out after dark. She headed straight for the area with the kennels. She had no trouble finding her way. She carried something in her hand: the remains of a mutton rib roast that she had walked off with without even trying to hide what she was doing, as the old lady watched, while she was cleaning up the kitchen and getting things ready for the following day. The girl had taken what was left after the meat was carved, the extras.

  She came to the puppies’ cage.

  The seven puppies welcomed her, yelping. One was half asleep, but the smell of the meat woke it up. In the other cages, the adult dogs began making noise as well, attracted by the odor. The girl ignored them, gave all the meat to the puppies.

  The mutton rib roast.

  She waited for her eyes to get completely used to the dark. She didn’t have a flashlight, of course. She waited until she could recognize the puppies gathered around the roast.

  “Hey,” she said. In Japanese, as always. “That’s mutton. I told you before, right? When you gnaw on mutton, your body gets hot. So how the fuck is it, huh? That’s why I brought it.”

  The girl rested her hands on the cage door. A rectangle of iron pipes covered with chain-link. The lock was just a latch. All that mattered was that the dogs couldn’t open it and run out. The girl raised the latch. She stepped into the cage, gingerly scooped up one of the puppies. She cradled number 47 in her arms.

  “Hey, fucker. Come keep me warm,” she said.

  Number 47 didn’t struggle.

  “You’re okay coming to my room? Being my heater?”

  Number 47 didn’t struggle.

  That night, the bed in the girl’s cell became a double bed for one girl and one puppy. Her cell was now a cell for two. She hugged number 47 tightly in the narrow bed, five feet wide at most, petting him roughly but with profound emotion. She couldn’t have put her feelings into words. Number 47 didn’t struggle. Far from it, he jumped at her. Burrowed under her squishy stomach.

  One girl and one dog slept.

  Nice and warm.

  She got up right away when she woke the next morning. Already her new routine had been established. The old schedule had fallen apart, she knew that. Everything was just beginning. Something was just beginning. She was no longer the invisible girl, and she no longer had to observe the Old Fuck, the Old Bag, WO, WT, and Opera. She had realized that they were, in fact, observing her. And so…what?

  She, along with her dogs, would find a third position.

  Making adjustments along the way.

  So she got up the next morning and went outside with number 47. They went to the bathroom. It was a good thirty feet away from the building, and she went there every morning to wash her face. She peed, as she always did. Number 47 found a place to pee too. After that, they headed over to the kennels. This time the girl didn’t pick number 47 up; she let him walk, and they made their way together toward the cages. They stopped before the puppies’ cage. Number 47’s siblings looked out, puzzled, through the chain-link fence. WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT THERE? they asked number 47. “I picked him,” the girl said. “He’s the one I chose.” YOU DID? the six puppies asked. “He’s my guard, this guy. Forty-seven,” the girl said. Number 47 confirmed her statement with a silent yelp. SO THAT’S WHY YOU WEREN’T AROUND LAST NIGHT? IS THAT TRUE, BROTHER? the six puppies asked. “Listen to me. He’s going to stay here in the cage with you in the morning and during the day and stuff. I’ll bring Forty-seven back every morning. He’ll stay here and play with you, and he’ll train with you too. You got that? So I’m telling you, don’t you fucking ignore him. You do that, and I’ll fucking kick the shit out of you. I’ll get a bat and I’ll fucking pulverize you. I mean it. Because he’s going to be my guard…” The girl turned to number 47. “I’m gonna make you top dog, you hear? I’m gonna turn you into a real fucking dog. You got that, Forty-seven? You hear what I’m saying? But when you’re with the other dogs, you’ll just be a dog. A little doggie-shit. That’s how you’re gonna live.”

  Live, the girl said.

  Number 47, standing right next to her, replied with a silent yelp.

  And the girl returned him to the cage.

  His six siblings obediently welcomed him back. Though they did sniff him.

  That morning, number 47 ate the same dog food he always had. And the girl ate the breakfast the old lady prepared. Number 47 devoured the “Russian dog food” that WO and WT left in the cage, while the girl had rye bread and some sort of sour drink. Already the new routine had begun. The girl struck a dauntless figure at the breakfast table. No more watching for her, no more being watched. If you want to try, go the fuck ahead. Her attitude made it clear she wouldn’t take questions from anyone at the table.

  Number 47 frolicked all morning with his siblings in the large cage. Playing at fighting, at attacking. Running around. Rolling on the ground.

  The girl stood before the cage as usual, observing them.

  Everything was okay. She could feel it.

  Lunchtime.

  The afternoon. The girl joined in the training. She made it clear she was participating. This, above all, was the core of her new routine. The test period had essentially ended now, and the puppies were being given the early training appropriate for dogs in their first four months. They did their best to learn the basics. The girl was right there on the grounds with the old man and Opera. She didn’t interfere. She did, however, help number 47 learn his lessons. She made sure he didn’t slack off, came up with little tricks to keep him from losing interest, taught him commands: Good, no, roll left, roll right.

  The commands were in Russian.

  The girl was now making a conscious effort to learn the Russian words.

  The puppies’ training didn’t last very long.

  After an hour or two, they were put back in their cage.

  I guess the Old Fuck doesn’t want to wear them out, the girl thought.

  “Are you tired?” the girl asked number 47.

  The dog looked fine. But she let him rest. Him and the other puppies, his siblings.

  That was the right thing to do. She could feel it.

  That night, she took number 47 out of the cage again. To have him sleep with her in her room. One person and one dog, bonding, enveloped in each other’s warmth. “Tired?” she asked him again. I’M BEAT, the dog said—not in words, of course, but with his body—and buried himself in the folds of her flesh, the odd fatness that was hers and no one else’s.

  At night, the dog was not a dog.

  At night, the girl was no longer just a human girl.

  The dog and the girl became, here in the Dead Town, a third being.

  And stayed that way until morning.

  Morning came. Once again, the girl repeated the new routine. Making adjustments as she went along. Essentially, though, the content stayed the same. The essential elements remained unchanged. The girl had planned her schedule well. On the first day, the first morning, she had set it all out in her mind. Now she just had to push ahead, uncompromising, and make it happen. Night fell. Morning came. Night fell. Morning came. Days passed, some number of days passed, untallied. The girl, X years old, never counted them.

  During the day, number 47 recognized the girl as his master. He obeyed her commands unfailingly. The girl could now control his moods, stirring him to excitement or bringing him to his senses. She had the words to do that. She had mastered the Russian she needed to issue her commands. Though she had made no particular effort to encourage number 47’s six siblings to respond to her orders on the grounds, they did. The
puppies were now large enough to be considered adolescent and were on their way to becoming young dogs. One day, the old man stood and watched the girl for some time. He tracked her movements as she skillfully handled the dogs, number 47 and his six siblings. It was clear: she was their master.

  What are you looking at? the girl asked.

  You’re doing great, the old man said.

  Don’t you dare take number 47 from me, the girl said.

  Some little girl you are, the old man said. You’re a trainer already.

  Just you try and take him, the girl said. I’ll fucking kill you.

  Or maybe you’re a dog? Is that it? the old man asked.

  “Anyway, you Old Fuck, it’s you’re fault—you and the Old Bag. Fucking shooting at me and shit. With a fucking pistol…scared the shit out of me. So this is fucking self-defense. You hear me, asshole? I’m gonna train number 47 to be my guard. Just you try and fuck with me again, see what happens. I’ll fucking sic him on you.”

  Is that it? Are you a dog too? the old man asked again in Russian. He cocked his head. Are you, is it possible…her?

  Self-defense. The girl’s own dog, dedicated to her protection. Hovering nearby, ready to be of assistance. Night fell. Morning came. Night fell. Morning came. The young number 47 acquired a new technique—to attack a person in silence. Without barking, darting out from behind a building, for instance, in a flash—the power to kill in a second, noiselessly. Still he had learned only the very basics. He had to be faster, had to use all five senses for the purpose for which they were meant. To attack. All the while, he watched the other dogs putting their knowledge to use. He was there on the grounds, a young dog, looking on as the adults practiced what they had learned. Subversive activities. He was there, observing. Always. Night fell. Morning came. Slight adjustments were made in the routine. One day, one afternoon after the young dogs had finished their training, number 47’s siblings were taken back to their cage but number 47 was not. A person and a dog, “off duty,” as it were. It was like an outgrowth of the night. The girl took number 47 with her as she traipsed through the Dead Town, now a stage for simulated bouts of street fighting. They ran together through a white, four-story building. Climbed the stairs. Ran back down. Up. Down. They climbed to the top of a tall observation tower. A person and a dog, looking down over the Dead Town. Hey, number 47, the girl said, as she gazed out over the landscape. Sometime…someday, we’re going to kill the world. Number 47 stood perfectly still, listening to the girl’s voice. To her muttering in Japanese. These words weren’t Russian, they weren’t commands. A person and a dog went back down. On the paved road, number 47 scrambled up alone onto the roof of a burnt-out car. He hadn’t yet learned to jump a moving car. To spring toward it as it approached, to leap over it, spring onto the hood—it was too early for that. But he could imitate the others. He knew to watch the adult dogs, engaged in their subversive activities, and he could grasp the essence of what they were doing, instantly. He could copy them.

  Eventually, a young dog grows up.

  Eventually, number 47 would mature.

  One day, while they were off duty, the girl found herself in a room. A room in one of the other buildings, not the one that served as their base, where she had her bedroom and where the kitchen and the dining room were—a different building. She had known about this place, she knew the old man and Opera were always going in and out of it. But it didn’t interest her. She assumed it was just a place for storing the paraphernalia they used to train the dogs. And in fact it was. But that wasn’t all it was. There was more than one room in there. More than one kind of room.

  Number 47 was the first to become curious. He had caught some sort of scent, and it had led him to the door. The sound of singing came from inside. As the voice echoed off the concrete walls, it acquired a sort of vibrato. Opera. The melody was catchy. The girl, however, found it as eerie as ever. Loouu, loooouuuuoo! Looooouuuuuuoo! Number 47 ignored the singing. He kept sniffing the ground, the lingering traces of whatever it had been. “I thought they just kept their shit in here. Is there something else?” the girl asked. “Hey, Forty-seven, have other dogs come by here? Is that it?”

  Not just people? she asked in Japanese. Dogs too?

  Number 47 answered in dogspeech: ANOTHER DOG HAS BEEN HERE.

  “It smells like a fucking dead Hawaii in here,” the girl muttered as she stepped through the door into the building. Of course, this was Russia—that made sense. An eternal summer killed forever. Actually, it smelled like a locker room. The smell called up a memory of the time before she turned X years old. Fucking shit…now I’ve got those fucking moneyless assholes in my head, the fucking world.…Shit. A person and a dog, off duty, striding rapidly through the dim interior. The building was laid out along the same pattern as the one they used as their base, so there was no fear of getting lost. She went into the main hall.

  The room was at the end of the hall. And now here she was, inside it.

  It’s like a yakuza office, one of the branches. The thought hit her immediately. And then she was putting it into words, muttering to herself. It reminded her of the wide-open office her dad’s organization rented, one whole floor of a building shared by various other companies and groups. Only this place had none of the bold, forceful calligraphy hanging on the walls, characters reading “Spirit” and “Kill One to Save Many” and that sort of shit. Instead, there was a map. A really, really old map of the world. Her dad’s office had a little Shinto shrine on one wall, up close to the ceiling, but there was nothing like that here. No Russian Orthodox icons. Instead, there was a television. The first television she had seen in the Dead Town. It wasn’t on. The screen was blank. Of course, there was no one in the room. And yet, somehow, she felt something. A strong sense of something. “I bet there’s a fucking dead body under the floor or something. Can you smell it, Forty-seven?” The dog didn’t answer. The sound of Opera singing echoed down the corridor at the other end of the main hall. As it had before. There was no leather sofa like the one in her dad’s office, but there was a table and some seats. There was a mound of money on the table. Rows and rows of bundled banknotes that seemed, at first sight, to be neatly stacked but weren’t really. No rubles as far as she could see. Look at all this cash, the girl thought, glancing it over. That’s fucking American money, isn’t it? Dollars or whatever?

  Yeah, she thought. It is like Dad’s office after all.

  Just then, she caught sight of a shrine. Something, at any rate, that felt like a shrine in the context of this room. There were no paper lanterns, and there was no Japanese sword resting on its stands, but it had the same aura. That was it. The source of whatever it was she was feeling. The globe.

  It was on a shelf. Displayed. Set out to be seen, regarded. Revered.

  That, the girl sensed, was the most important thing in the room.

  She knew it right away.

  So she went to take it in her hands.

  She walked around the table, reached out. She picked it up. She had expected it to be fairly heavy, but it was surprisingly light. It felt like metal, though. It felt old. She had assumed it would be hollow like other globes, but it didn’t seem to be. She turned it in her palms. Rotated the earth. It was bigger than her head.

  She sensed it. This isn’t empty.

  She sensed it. There’s something here.

  She sensed it. Something alive.

  But what?

  Is it…inside?

  She turned it in her palms, looking for a seam. The northern and southern hemispheres looked like they might crack apart. That was the line. Ever so carefully, she opened it. And out it came. Bone. An animal’s skull. It looked like it had been burned…bits of skin or something clinging to it, hanging. Skin like a mummy’s, desiccated.

  …what the hell?

  Are you kidding me
?

  Number 47 was trying to communicate something. Trying to tell her something. It had nothing to do, however, with the skull in the globe. He was trying to draw her attention to the figure now standing in the doorway. No, not the figure—the figures. Like the girl and number 47, they were two: a person and a dog.

  A person and a dog, both old.

  At number 47’s urging, the girl turned around.

  “You have opened the coffin, have you?” the old man said.

  “What…the hell?” the girl said.

  “You wanted to hold it? Is that it, girl?”

  The dog standing beside the old man was very old. The girl remembered him, of course—she had seen him before. He was fairly large, stately. This was the same dog that had barked down at her once before, from the roof.

  “You wanted to touch the very first dog?” the old man said in Russian. Then, “But it is not Belka, you know.”

  “I didn’t break it,” the girl said in Japanese. “I just opened it.” Then, suddenly realizing what was inside, she continued. “Fuck, you asshole, keeping a fucking creepy skull like this, hidden in this thing. What is it…a fucking dog? Is that what this is, you Old Fuck?”

  “That is the first great Soviet hero. A dog who did not make it back to the earth alive. Those are her remains. That is not Belka.”

  “What the fuck are you saying?” the girl asked.

  The old man pointed to the old dog beside him. He looked the girl in the eye.

  “This is Belka,” he said.

  “It’s a dog, isn’t it…a fucking dog’s skull.”

  “You understand, little girl? He is the one dog I did not kill, the year before the Soviet Union, the Homeland, disappeared. I let him go. This Belka. I could not bear to destroy the bloodline I helped to create with my own hands. And yet that was what they ordered me to do.”

  “Why do you have a dog’s skull in a shrine? Like some dog religion…”

  “That was what Russia ordered me to do. Russian history. I betrayed history. I entrusted this Belka to her, the woman who looks after you, your nurse. I wanted to let him live out his life, nothing more. I had no intention of reviving his line. I did not. I had retired. I was serious about my retirement.”