by André Alexis
smelling of sour carrots – the property delimited by fencing
whose posts and struts were silverfish-grey.
We didn’t see any dogs as we drove onto Mr. Brady’s land,
but his first words to us were
– Didn’t the dogs greet you?
– Which dogs? asked Professor Bruno.
– My dogs, of course, he answered.
Mr. Brady was tall. His hair looked as if it had been dyed
black. Recently dyed, I’d have said, because although he was in
his sixties – his skin pale, the backs of his hands with faint spots
on them – the hair on his head was an almost lustrous dark. In
fact, Mr. Brady’s hair had something defiant about it, as if it were
a wig meant to challenge your conceptions of him, whatever they
might be.
– It’s nice to meet you, he said. Can I get you some tea?
Before we could say yes or no, he’d called his son into the room.
– Two teas, Dougal! he said.
27
Dougal didn’t seem happy to be called away from what he’d
been doing. He hesitated, then grumbled a few words I didn’t
quite hear. But Mr. Brady repeated
– Two teas for our guests, son.
And Dougal – a man in his forties, judging by the look of
him – went from the room and came almost immediately back
with two cups of tea, as if he’d made them in anticipation of the
asking. This efficiency wasn’t the most striking thing about him,
though. Dougal was missing fingers on both of his hands. On
one, half the thumb and the pinky were missing. On the other,
the top of his ring finger was gone. Apropos of his son’s missing
fingers, Mr. Brady said
– That’s what it means to live on a farm. It’s a lazy man who
still has all his fingers, is what I say.
He held up his own hands so we could see the places where
fingers – or parts of them – had been.
– If the machines don’t get you, the dogs will, he said.
Professor Bruno was impressed.
– That’s nicely put, he said.
– I’m quoting Virgil, said Mr. Brady. A free translation I made
of ‘The Georgics.’
As well as being John Skennen’s friend, Mr. Brady had been
a poet in his own right.
– I didn’t start out wanting to be a farmer, he said. That was
my dad’s business. Me and John, we wanted to be in a rock ’n’
roll band when we were kids. Then he started writing words for
songs and, next thing you know, we’re reading Thomas Wyatt
and all these guys who wrote madrigals. We were … what? Eleven?
Twelve? But I can still remember some of them – Pastime with
good company I love and shall until I die grudge who lust but none deny
so God be pleased thus live will I …
– That’s by Henry the Eighth! said Professor Bruno.
– Yeah, I guess it might be, Mr. Brady answered, but I don’t
remember the names as much as the poems. Strange, eh? For me,
28
poems are like people’s faces: I always remember faces even when
I don’t remember names.
– Was John always a good poet? asked Professor Bruno.
– Oh, yeah. Always. But maybe that isn’t the way to put it.
John could have been good at anything he wanted. But the poet
thing came to him and he lived it from the moment it hit him. All
his poems weren’t good but they were always poems, you know
what I mean? I wrote poems as bad as his and maybe a few just as
good, but the mask never fit me. Not that being a farmer really fits
me, either. But I’m okay with how it doesn’t fit. You understand?
I think Professor Bruno understood. He nodded and said
yes. But I didn’t understand at all. Did John Skennen choose to
be a poet or was he born a poet? I didn’t want to get in the way of
two men talking poetry, but I was curious. So, I asked Mr. Brady
what he’d meant.
– It’s a hard thing to explain, he answered. John liked to say
poetry chose him, and I know what he meant. But it was more
like playing at something you’re good at. He was a natural.
– But you said he was good at a lot of things, didn’t you?
– Nice to be around people who pay attention, said Mr. Brady.
But I’m not sure I can say it any other way. It’s got to do with
destiny and if you believe certain people were made for certain
things. John wasn’t any happier being a poet than he would have
been anything else. He was born unhappy. But he accepted poetry
was his destiny, so all this talk about whether he was any good
had nothing to do with it, as far as he was concerned. Even if
he’d been a bad poet, he was destined to be a poet and he knew
it the way you know where your hands are in the dark. Do you
believe you’re destined for something, son? If you do, I hope it’s
something you’re good at.
He held up his hand with the missing fingers.
– Then again, he said, someone’s got to be the farmer with
missing fingers, a dead wife, and an ungrateful son.
From the kitchen, evidently listening, Dougal shouted
29
– I’m not ungrateful!
– It’s a fascinating idea, said Professor Bruno. Did John
believe in destiny?
– Yes, he did, said Mr. Brady. That he did, for sure. He used
to say he knew how he was going to die as clearly as how he was
going to live.
– You think he’s dead? asked Professor Bruno. No one’s ever
told me for certain he was dead.
– Oh, said Mr. Brady. I know John’s dead the same way you
know when someone’s left a room. You can’t be as close as we
were without there being some kind of connection. I’ll tell you
what, I even know the minute he died. It was in the days when
my wife was still alive and she was in the kitchen cooking. And I
was in the living room here, watching tv. I can even tell you
what I was watching: Kojak, the show with buddy who’s like a cue
ball. And all of a sudden Marjory says, “Answer the door!” Now
why in the heck am I going to answer the door when there’s no
one there? I’m right near the door. She’s all the way in the kitchen.
There’s no point me getting up. But she says it again – “Answer
the door!” – and I’m thinking, “Well, maybe I was listening to
Kojak a little too loud.” You understand? So, I get up and open
the door. And it’s like I thought, no one there. I was about to
curse the old lady when I turn around and right where I was
sitting – that’s where John’s sitting. I just assumed he and Marjory
were playing a game on me. So, I start talking to him like it’s no
big deal. I haven’t seen him for years, but I’m not going to be the
one that cracks. But he doesn’t say anything. He just sits there
looking at me. And I’m getting kind of irritated, but at the same
time I know something’s wrong. Then he looks at me and points
to his watch. And I can see it’s nine-twenty. Makes the hairs on
my arm stand up, just remembering.
Mr. Brady pulled up his sleeve and, from where I was sitting
– a few
feet away – I could see the hairs on his arm standing up
on goosebumps.
30
– What happened then? Professor Bruno asked.
– I don’t know, Mr. Brady answered. The dogs started barking.
I must have looked away for a second. When I looked back, John
wasn’t there anymore.
– But how do you know that’s the moment he died? the
professor asked.
– Well, I’ll tell you. When we were kids we were both a little
obsessed with death – the way kids are – and we both swore
that whoever died first, he’d come back and tell the other what
death was like. I guess the dogs must have interrupted him, but I
knew what John meant when he showed me the time. It wasn’t
something I could get wrong.
– But am I right, the professor asked, that he disappeared?
– You’re very right, said Mr. Brady. But I hope you’re not
looking for him.
– Why?, I asked.
Mr. Brady smiled.
– It’s bad luck, he said. Listen, people around here believe all
sorts of things. When John died, he just disappeared. So, you
can imagine the rumours. For a while there, it was so bad you
couldn’t read poetry in Simcoe County without someone making
the sign of the cross if they heard you. To ward off the devil. It
was mostly in fun, but John’s become a bad omen.
– We’re not looking for him, Professor Bruno said. Heavens,
I don’t know what I’d do if we found him. I’m interested in his
poetry. I’m a critic, mostly. I only want a few biographical details.
Enough for human interest. And it’s more difficult to get those if
the subject’s around. So, no, we’re not looking for him.
– John used some of his life in his poems, said Mr. Brady. A
bio’s not useless. But the important thing was always the poetry.
Listen, I’m glad there’s interest in his work. I thought poetry’d
died out. The young don’t know enough about it to keep the
traditions alive.
31
These last words seemed to have been said pointedly. I thought
Mr. Brady was talking about my generation when he mentioned
the young. And I was about to say he was right, when I noticed
Dougal had come into the room and it occurred to me that Mr.
Brady’s words – though they were directed at “the young” – were
likely meant for his son. Dougal must have thought so, too,
because he said
– Stop saying that! Just because we write differently doesn’t
mean we don’t know the traditions. You’re so proud of your
stupid stuff: The cow, the old cow, she is dead; it sleeps well, the hornèd
head! To hell with that. I know as much about poetry as you!
– Oh? What poetry do you know? Mr. Brady asked. Teach me.
Dougal sneered.
– Roses are red, violets are blue. You wretched bastard, fuck you!
– There, said Mr. Brady. You just proved my point. Your insult
doesn’t even scan.
Father and son were suddenly angry, both of them red-faced.
We had come at the wrong time, the professor and I. We’d
interrupted an argument that now flared up again. Our visit was
like the time between a match being struck and its cap catching
fire. Professor Bruno must have thought so, too. We stood up at
the same moment.
– You should apologize, Mr. Brady said to Dougal. You
wouldn’t want these people thinking you were raised in a barn.
– Why should I apologize for you being a bastard? Dougal
answered.
I thought then that it would be polite to leave father and son
to work things out. I couldn’t imagine speaking to my father as
Dougal had spoken to his, but neither could I imagine my father
expressing such scorn for me. I excused myself and went out the
front door. I assumed Professor Bruno was right behind me. But
I was wrong.
As I stepped out the door, the sun was bright and the air was
clear. It was warm, but I felt a cool breeze. Not a squamish but
32
something like the opposite of a sirocco: a cool wind from the
west. It was also quiet. So quiet that, as I walked to the car, I
heard nothing. No wind, no call, no birdsong. Not even the three
large white Argentine mastiffs that came up behind me.
How impressive they were! Their movements were so coordi-
nated, it was as if the three dogs were one. That I heard them at
all, in the end, was their doing. One of them growled, low and
menacing. And when, frightened, I turned to face them, they
growled in a more suggestive way. I had two impressions simul-
taneously: that the dogs were being cautious, lest Mr. Brady be
alerted to their plans, and that I was being told to run. It was a
strange moment, but I didn’t have much time to think about its
strangeness. I had a second to consider whether I should try to
pet one of them.
Then the largest dog rushed me, biting my upper thigh so
that, had I been even slightly better endowed, I’d have lost part
of my penis. I was lucky in another way, too. Though the dog bit
me and it hurt, the other dogs did not at first join the fray. They
waited, I guess, to see the damage their companion could inflict.
Also, I was bleeding but the dog had caught more of my pants
than my flesh, so that a great swatch of fabric was torn away
when it shook its head. I thought then that running was my best
option. And despite my wounds, I did very well. I reached the
car. If I’d had the keys to the car in my hand, I’m almost certain
I’d have escaped further bites. I jumped onto the hood of the car,
followed closely by the dog who’d bitten me, and there it bit me
again, catching an expanse of my jacket before I slid off the hood
and ran for the fences. This fired the other dogs up. All three
now came after me and, in a manner of speaking, they lost their
inhibitions, growling and snarling like they were out for blood.
Which, to be fair, they got. One of them caught the leg of my
pants, and I fell on ground covered by Queen Anne’s lace, the
smell of it like carrots, of course, along with something indefinable
but poisonous and alive.
33
Maybe because I thought I was about to die, I felt quite cheer-
ful. Not that I wanted to die, but that I had been given a last look
at a world I loved: the countryside I’d visited with my parents
when my father gave his guest sermons at churches in the area.
Everything around me was wonderful, from the raw blue sky to
the dark earth I’d disturbed in falling, from the snarls of the dogs
to the sensation of their breath on my skin. I was bitten on the
arms and legs a few more times before I heard Mr. Brady call, as
if from far away:
– Laelaps! Chester! Melba! Leave it!
I take it the dogs were well-trained because, at the sound of
their names, they eventually stopped biting me. One of them
held on to my arm awhile, as if caught with food in its mouth
and, ashamed to be seen eating, was unsure whether to spit out
what it had or go
on chewing. But they all retreated, running to
Mr. Brady as if looking for some sort of reward.
My pants and jacket were badly torn and I was bleeding, but
I didn’t think I was in danger, reassured as I was by the reactions
of the Bradys and Professor Bruno. None of them seemed at all
concerned about my injuries. The first thing Dougal said as he
helped me up from the ground was
– You’re okay. It’s not that bad.
And although I was in pain, I was grateful for his words. Mr.
Brady then said
– I don’t know what got into them. They’ve never done
anything like this before.
As if seconding Mr. Brady’s point, the three dogs sat up with
their pink tongues lolling, looking amiable. Professor Bruno said
– I’ve seen worse wounds than these, Alfie, but I guess you’d
better change your clothes.
– I think I should go to the hospital, I answered.
– Why? asked Mr. Brady. You’ve only got a few scratches!
I thought he might be worried that I was angry at him or his
dogs, so I said it was only a precaution.
34
– I suppose caution’s a good idea, said Mr. Brady, but you
couldn’t get me into one of the hospitals around here if I wasn’t
dying. I don’t trust them.
I thanked him for the warning, but I clung to the idea of having
my wounds tended. And, after hasty farewells, we were off, Profes-
sor Bruno and I, on one of the most uncertain rides I’ve ever taken.
I was uncomfortable in my wet clothes. In places, my shirt
and pants clung to me like a second skin. I was in pain because
some of the dogs’ bites had been deep and burned when I moved,
as if the saliva were a toxin. Then, too, I felt light-headed and I
forgot to ask directions to the nearest hospital. I should not have
been driving. But, maybe because I was in shock, I’d accepted
the idea that I wasn’t badly hurt and, besides, Professor Bruno
could not drive. So, it was up to me, in any case.
Professor Bruno must have realized that I was not in a proper
state of mind when I (unintentionally) ran through my first stop
sign. It seems I ran through a number of them, and the professor
was amused by this afterwards, but at the time it must have been
harrowing. He sat beside me with a crooked smile on his face,
his briefcase in his arms like a flotation device. Also, while trying
to stay calm or trying to keep me calm, he began to tell me about
