Belka, Why Don't You Bark?

by Hideo Furukawa

  Learn to smell the difference between these drugs.

  Learn to identify their purity.

  You taught them all the tricks a drug-sniffing dog needed to know. Almost as though you were engraving their mother’s memory onto their minds.

  In November, the last two puppies were alive and well. Guitar was one of the two. One day, the Samoan shouted to your master, his eyes wide with surprise. “Hey, Boss! Boss!” The Hellhound, your master, practically shrieked when he realized what was happening. “What the hell are you hollering for…huh? Wait a sec, he’s…OH MY GOD!” “Amazing, huh, Boss? Look at Guitar there, scratching at the shoe with the marijuana hidden inside, just like his old man, Cabron.” “Looks like a real police dog, huh?” “Seriously. And look, his brother is doing it too!” “He…he can tell the difference between the marijuana and cocaine!” “They’ve totally turned into drug dogs!”

  Your master turned and stared at you. He was moved. “Incredible…raising them all on your own, without their mother…and you taught them to do this?”

  You sensed that he was praising you. You barked confidently.

  Woof!

  In the human world too, the same amount of time had passed since that first Sabbath in August. Three months. During that period, as the two puppies had learned how to be drug dogs, similarly momentous changes had occurred in the two-legged world as well. First of all, the conflict with the Colombians was over. So much blood had been shed on “Bloody Sunday” that one of the bosses in Panama, unwilling to stand by and watch the carnage, stepped in to mediate. The conditions of the truce weren’t bad. So a bargain was struck. For the first time in ages, the Hellhound’s Mexico City estate went back to being just that—an ordinary organized crime boss’s compound, not a fort. The security detail was reduced to a few men, though they still carried light machine guns and ammunition belts at all times. Now that there was no need to man the fort, the Hellhound lost no time in flying off to Texas. He wanted to pay his respects to the Don. “I’m real sorry, Dad. Quite a commotion I caused.” “You idiot! You idiot! You idiot!” the Don said, berating him a touch too dramatically. “You sure as hell caused a commotion! You gotta be sharper than that, right? Listen, I want you to remember this. World War II is long over. This is 1975, there are no ‘gangsters’ anymore, not like they used to have ’em in the old days. You’re part of the new generation. I invested in you, right? You’re part of the new guard in this business. So you gotta learn to be a businessman. Wise up. Learn to make it look legal, okay? Look legal.” This exchange with the Don left the Hellhound feeling kind of blue. He hadn’t just been told off, of course—the Don had been trying to impart some serious knowledge—but he hadn’t expected to be bawled out. Not at all. Maybe I’m just not cut out for this, he thought glumly as he stood in the courtyard of La Familia’s compound, chucking bread to the dozen ducks bobbing on the pond. Just then, he heard a bright voice at his back. “Hey, it’s my favorite brother-in-law! Long time no see!” It was his ex-wife’s younger sister, the Don’s third daughter. She was eighteen now. He hadn’t seen her for three years because she had been sent to get an education in Vienna when she was fifteen. The Hellhound gasped. She had grown into quite a woman. A real beauty. A beauty of the slim, big-breasted type.

  “Uh…yeah…long time no see.”

  “What’s wrong? Feeling blue again?”

  “No, no. Just…feeding the ducks.”

  “The ducks?”

  “Yeah. Bread, see?”

  “Bread?”

  Soon they were embroiled in a heated discussion concerning the most appropriate food for ducks. Then they left the courtyard to take a stroll through the orchard, and two hours later they were kissing passionately. The Hellhound had fallen in love with the young woman at first sight—though technically this was the second time he’d encountered her—and the Don’s third daughter, then in the throes of puberty, had a megacrush on the Hellhound. They started going on dates. North of the border, south of the border. The Hellhound had gotten back into his work as a luchador by this time, and the young woman actually came to see him in the ring. His ex had never once done that. The Hellhound was so bowled over he devised a brand new killer move that he called the “Love Love Dog-Drop.” They were both sure of their feelings, so in the last week of November the Hellhound broached the matter with the Don. “I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage,” he said.

  “Yeah, I guess my other daughter turned out to be a loser, huh.”

  “No, no! That’s not the point. I’m really serious about her, and I—”

  “Sure.”

  “What!”

  “With one condition. This is going to be the second time I’ve given you a daughter, so I want you to expand your operations a bit for me, all right? Think of it as a wedding present to La Familia.”

  Nothing wrong with that. And so, once again, twos came into play. The Hellhound had to start running around, east and west, trying to rummage up some big new game he could bag for his second wife. As it happened, the biggest tip of all came from a source very close to home: his bodyguard. “I’ve got a good route, Boss.” “Hmm, I don’t know. Where does it lead? I’ve had enough of these South American connections.” “You can trust this one, Boss. It’s my brother.” “What? You mean your twin brother?” “I told you he’s in the same business, right?” “Come to think of it, you did.” “He’s in Asia. Works for the head of an organization that deals drugs. He’s the guy’s secretary.” “His secretary? You mean his bodyguard?” “You got it, Boss. Brraahahahahah! And this organization, seems they’ve got some fields out in Pakistan, out in the middle of nowhere.” “Fields growing…poppy seeds?” “Bingo.” “I seem to recall that your brother’s a Muslim?” “Sure is. It’s all Allah, Allah, every day. Anyway, this organization…” “All right, I hear you.”

  Plans were laid for a corporate tie-up. The Samoan twins (the two of them) were very much part of their respective organizations, and their bosses trusted them implicitly. With the two (two) of them acting as middlemen, might it be possible to bring even two (two) organizations as profoundly distinct as these—one operated in America, one in Asia; one boss was a Catholic, one was a Muslim—together? The twins considered the question and delivered their verdict: Yes, we can! Samoan culture placed great importance on family, by the way, and maintained a social structure based in extremely large families. The ties among relatives were very strong. The twins suggested that since the two bosses would have to talk, maybe they should meet up somewhere in the middle. In between America and Asia was…the Pacific Ocean. Well, then, why not arrange a summit in our hometown?

  Sounded good.

  Thus, in the middle of December, the two groups arrived in American Samoa, disguised as tourists, and met up in a hotel. The Hellhound decided to take his alter ego along —his second self, his dog, Cabron. “We’ll scare the bejeezus out of ’em,” he’d said before they left. “Show ’em that with this dog we’ve got, we’ll sniff out any funny business, diluting shit down and stuff. Sniff it out in a second. We’ll show ’em what we can do!” “Nice. I like it, Boss,” the Samoan said. “The only worry is—do you think Cabron will leave the puppies?” “Hmm…good point. He’s been fawning over them nonstop, it’s true. How about this, then? They’re six months old now, right? Why not take the little buggers along?” There were only two of them. (Two.) The Hellhound decided this was the best solution. Besides, just imagine the look on those Asian faces when they see those two roly-poly dumplings zipping around, trying to outdo each other in ferreting out carefully concealed heroine, marijuana, and speed! Hats off to the Nuevo Mundo!

  “You can have a whole roast pig, Boss,” said the Samoan. The older one, the Hellhound’s bodyguard. The younger twin’s group flew from Melbourne by way of Fiji and landed in Samoa, formerly known as Western Samoa, then moved on to the f
inal destination. The older twin’s group—including the Hellhound and the three dogs—flew first to Hawaii. They changed planes in Honolulu and headed for the South Pacific.

  It was December 9, 1975, when Cabron left Mexico City. He and his alter ego. He was no longer a dog of the twentieth parallel north. He passed over Oahu, over the twenty-first parallel north. But Goodnight wasn’t there anymore. The bitch of the twenty-first parallel north was no longer living on that island.

  You, dog—you, Goodnight, who no longer reside on the twenty-first parallel north. Where are you now?

  You were riding in a double canoe. Taking part in a glorious adventure, heading for Tahiti using ancient maritime navigation techniques. If this magnificent project, part of the Hawaiian Renaissance, was a success, you had been told, you would be awarded a third medal to add to the Purple Heart and the Silver Star you received during your days as a military dog. Your master was the one who told you this. The former lieutenant who had taken you into his family when you retired from the military, then let you go when the family beagle had children—not your master, then, strictly speaking, but your former master. Well, you would never get that third medal. A month after the canoe set out, on November 11, 1975, you were starving. The canoe was adrift. Swept this way and that on the vast sea. Once, earlier, the humans had tried to kill you, to turn you into food. Canine cuisine. Fortunately, however, you had no master now. No new master had appeared. As far as you could see, the boat was populated with idiots.

  DO YOU REALLY THINK YOU CAN SACRIFICE ME? ARE YOU FOOLS CRAZY? That was your answer to them. And so you revolted. You sank your teeth deep into one man’s biceps, tore off the hands of two others at the wrists, and that was that—you had beaten them back. All your years as a military dog came back to you, erupted within you. You ate the body parts you had taken. Then you sucked the bones. You had been starving since the second week of the voyage. The Polynesian navigator had revealed himself as a useless, run-of-the-mill fraud. Unable to read the stars in unfamiliar seas. The Hawaiian Islands and the Cook Islands were part of the same Polynesian cultural sphere, it was true, but they were just too far apart. The navigator was from Rarotonga Island, and the ocean here was nothing like the ocean there. This was too far north. To make matters worse, he couldn’t see what was happening with the waves. He wasn’t sensitive to his surroundings. By the third day, the canoe had started moving off course. You heard the humans quarreling.

  “Secret techniques my ass!” the wealthy researcher shouted. “Where’s this fucking ‘wisdom of the ancients’ you were talking about, you fucking bluffer!” As it happened, the researcher’s insults were right on target: the navigator had been bluffing his way through life for years. And he didn’t stop now. “I swear to you, sir, that I will carry us onward to Tahiti using the traditional techniques I have inherited. I would be grateful if you would address me more politely. That’s the problem with these academics…” His voice trailed off into muttering. The researcher was so incensed at this that he took out the precision watch, sextant, and radio he had brought in case of emergency and threw them all overboard. “All right, then, great! We didn’t need those, right? That’s what you’re telling me? Ha ha ha!” He howled. From then on, the trip no longer felt like an adventure. The canoe was heavy with despair. The direness of the situation became apparent when they entered the doldrums. They had reached the equator, at least, but now they weren’t going anywhere: not east, not west, not north, and not south. The humans tried desperately to catch fish, to capture seabirds. Then one morning, two of them were dead. Starved to death. That was the day the others attacked you, right around noon.

  At the hour when the sun beat down most ferociously, fourteen members of the crew held a meeting—you were part of the crew too, but they didn’t invite you to participate—in which it was decided that if they couldn’t get any fish or any birds, they had no choice but to eat the dog. They chased you to the prow of the canoe. And then you attacked. You owed them no loyalty. Isn’t that right, Goodnight? You…you were merely exercising your basic rights. You had as much right to live as those humans did. So you made it clear that if you couldn’t get any fish or any birds, you had no choice but to eat the humans. You demonstrated this beyond any doubt by devouring the hands of the two crew members you had beaten back. And you didn’t just devour them, you relished them. They could see that. You showed them, too, that there was no point in holding meetings. That evening and later that night, one, two, then three died. The two men whose hands you had torn off and the one whose biceps you had bitten. They had lost too much blood, and they were already on the edge of death anyway. The survivors didn’t dump the bodies overboard. They converted them into “food.” You observed them from your position at the prow. One of the haole crew members was so unnerved by the steely glitter in your eyes that he tossed you his companions’ livers. Also their penises and testicles, which the survivors found somehow unappetizing. You devoured it all. It was tasty.

  Morning came. You were still sitting at the prow. Naturally, the humans ended up clustered at the stern. There were eleven left, but they had split up into three factions. There was no point trying to reach a universal consensus: it went without saying that the haole, the pure Hawaiians, and the Rarotongan would each form their own groups. No one attacked you anymore. The secret fighting techniques you had acquired during your time in the military protected you. There was a ritual now, starting that morning. When one of the fatigued crew members finally died, only the humans in his faction would share the “food.” Cut it up, divvy it up. They always tossed the dead man’s raw liver, as well as his penis and testicles, up to the prow. To you. As an offering, so to speak. This had become the custom. As long as they did this, they believed, that terrifying dog wouldn’t attack them in their sleep. They didn’t need to fear being attacked, that is to say, by you.

  The most dangerous thing they could do, they decided, was let you starve.

  The humans had come to regard you as a ferocious, wild beast.

  Soon the three factions became two. The Polynesian navigator died, and the others fought over his body. They battled for the “food.” The haole faction gave you the penis and testicles as an offering; the pure Hawaiians gave you the liver as theirs. The death of the single member of the Rarotongan faction meant that they had lost the only person with any experience navigating the open ocean, even if he had wildly exaggerated his abilities, but the other two factions didn’t mind. The wealthy researcher died the next day, as if he couldn’t stand to have been beaten by the navigator. You took your time gnawing on the usual parts. Now the canoe had no leader.

  Still you remained at the prow, and the humans at the stern.

  Two factions became one. Only three humans remained, all pure Hawaiians.

  You had passed through the doldrums. But where were you? No one manned the rudder. You had drifted off course, yes, but in which direction? East? West? North? South?

  Who knew?

  November 11. You were starving.

  The double canoe was still adrift.

  Still being swept this way and that on the endless sea.

  You sat at the prow, gazing, not up at the sky, but at the level horizon.

  The Hawaiians caught a few fish every day. They gave you the innards. Tossed the offering to you at the prow.

  You didn’t attack the humans. Why would you? You weren’t a wild, ferocious beast—you never had been. You would never have gone for them the way you did if they hadn’t tried to kill you, to turn you into food. So you sat there at the prow, starving.

  Starving.

  You were still starving on November 12, and on the thirteenth, and on the fourteenth. Your body felt oddly light. You couldn’t feel your weight. You were becoming invisible, you thought.

  I’M INVISIBLE.

  I’M AN INVISIBLE BITCH.

  The fifteenth
. You were almost dead. Dehydrated. You faded in and out of consciousness. But your eyes were open. The horizon. More horizon. More horizon. Finally, you became delirious. You thought of your family on Oahu. Back on that island on the twenty-first parallel north, the beagles. Four puppies. SO ADORABLE! SO CUTE! You hadn’t given birth to them yourself, true. But at that moment, in that muddled mental state, you floundered in the fantasy of being their mother. You were suckling them. Giving your teats to those four tiny pups to suck. MY DARLING CHILDREN! you shouted. FRUIT OF MY WOMB! You were growling. Uuuuurrr. And the mistaken memory was burning itself into your mind.

  The sixteenth.

  The seventeenth.

  You felt the ocean. Yes, you could feel it. Surging beneath you. The canoe was your cradle. The Pacific Ocean occupies fully one third of the earth’s surface. You sensed its enormity. The double canoe had now drifted way off to the west of the planned route. It had passed south of the equator, but if it kept going in this direction, it would never reach Tahiti. If it kept going in this direction…it wouldn’t reach Tahiti or any of the Society Islands. It was heading for another island group. As it happened, another boat traveled regularly along more or less the same course. A cargo ship. You noticed it, way off on the horizon. AM I INVISIBLE? you asked yourself. You watched the silhouette as it grew progressively larger. AM I AN INVISIBLE BITCH?

  NO, you told yourself. I’M NOT.

  NO, I’M A MOTHER, you told yourself. Mistakenly.

  The mistaken memory that had burned itself into your mind was what brought you to your feet, your teats aching with a mother’s love.

  You stood up.

  You sent out an SOS. Woof! Woof! Woof!