With My Dog Eyes: A Novel

by Hilda Hilst

  The doves are sleeping

  On the mind’s wake.

  Their beaks in tufts of feathers.

  Of flesh, keys cadenas

  White I persist

  In the white doves of piety.

  I persist sorrows.

  My beak twisted deep down

  Into waiting rooms, doves

  Of the pulpous forgetting

  Of myself: Finite.

  My aseptic papers. What beautiful graphic sculpture. What cleanliness. You could lick the page. Likewise with the surface of ice of the Unfounded. Amós goes to the bathroom. His pajamas still light green. From where I watch, Amós looks like just an elegant pair of pajamas. Initials AK, interlaced on the lapel. Confusing as a monogram. So many jagged prongs. Amanda’s idea, most likely. He hesitates on the doorjamb. Locks himself in. An instant of vertigo and he puts his hands on the tiles, leaning his forehead against the chill. He can hear what Amanda says to Míriam, the one he calls hot butt.

  Amanda: now he says that he’s only okay in the bathroom, watching the ants.

  Míriam: you have ants in the bathroom?

  Amanda: those tiny ones. the worst thing is spiders.

  Míriam: you have spiders in the bathroom?

  Amanda: of course not, Míriam, Amós says there are, that they’re geniuses, brilliant thinkers.

  Míriam: you better call the doctor.

  Amanda: ants spiders childhood dogs sows and mathematicians. leave him be, in a time of madness, a time of death. Standing, near the sink, in front of the mirror. He unbuttons his pajama shirt. Runs his fingers over his thin chest. It’s hot. A fever, he thinks. And that paradise in his eyes? Paradise? Splendor and emptiness. How did the Unfounded plan my death? Birds and roots. The highest and the deepest. Shall we look for a tree for our wings? For our growth. I remain mute. I read somewhere that they split the vocal cords of guinea pigs. So that you can’t hear the screams. The howls. I remain mute. Throat swollen with screams but I am amputated. The slit ends nevertheless blackened at the tips, sounds softer than pianissimo, fingers over shamrocks, tiptoeing so as not to disturb the sleep of men. Is there a face exactly like mine? A croaking hoarseness, as unable and despairing as mine? Vertiginous-precise landscapes done with a Japanese paintbrush, and in them I listen to the sound of my own crippled gait. I cross the rectangle diagonally. Beside your portrait, Life. The facts. Acts. Sometimes we cling to the stones, other times we merely rest upon them. Some stone or another tumbles down upon our face if we gaze On High. We pass over to the other side. Of the triangle now. It wasn’t the flesh that was harmed, no. Stones and shatterings. The sinuous slowly invading the rigid hypothetical track of equations. An S of sweet seduction. Of Shadow, of Sorbet, of Solution until, a thousand steps later, feet are burned in dunes of sun.

  Designifying

  I am digging out screams

  Burying height and hauteur.

  My whole soft-hard

  Also spies the wall. Unhinged

  I test the climb

  And explosive words

  Pressed into the stones: pound, dredge

  Knifed in front of the mirror.

  I’m in the yard behind the house. My mother’s house. I didn’t tell them I was coming here but I came. There’s a vine-covered arbor. And with straw dirt and bamboo I closed off the sides. The depths. I should have said my good-byes. Amanda and the kid. The station. The train. I should have told them about the dark-gray despair streaked in black, a viscous substance taking me. I hoped the Unfounded would pierce the ribs of a tiger and in that gesture transfigure my own landscape unto the infinite. My poverty is the dryness of spirit. My solitude is to have remained the prisoner of that which I felt on top of the hill and today I find only links of sand, currents of dust. A stray bitch appeared at dusk. She’s yellow. She must have just given birth. Her teats sagging, her ribs showing. Her brown eyes have the vehement glint of hunger. There are sparks that escape the flesh in misery, in humiliation, in pain. The sparks show in animals too. My mother brings us food and water. And searches for words: Amós, it doesn’t make much sense to have the house up there and you back here, seems like it doesn’t make sense, that is if things are supposed to make some kind of sense. Guess so, mother.

  I feel like I know how it is.

  Really, mother?

  Your father once explained it to me without explaining. It was early in the morning. He got up, put on his boots. It wasn’t a nice day at all. He looked at you in the crib, you were six months old. We were young and your father was handsome. Everything seemed all right. His eyes went blank for a moment as though you and I were no longer there, as if he himself were another person, his mouth gaping like he couldn’t breathe and he said all at once: it’s such an effort to try not to understand, it’s the only way to stay alive, trying not to understand.

  Doesn’t seem like dad. You sure you weren’t with another man?

  She laughs. The earthen floor. There are woven mats spread around. Big boxes. Mother called two men to come thatch the roof of the arbor. A vine roof is a bit much, son. Is he your son, ma’am? He seems sick, wouldn’t it be better for him to stay in the house up front? He likes to be right here. Strange, ma’am. I named the yellow dog Snorey. Long hoarse creaks in her sleep at night. I have paper. Pens. I draw Snorey snoring. I draw the boxes, the mats, I look at myself in a piece of broken mirror and I draw myself looking at myself in a piece of broken mirror.

  A minuscule heart trying

  To escape itself

  Dilating

  In search of pure understanding.

  From the other side of the mirror: I felt so tired but needed to keep walking no matter what because the gallows were just three hundred yards away and the guys escorting me seemed to be in a hurry. Couldn’t I just have a little nap? Look at this, the guy’s gonna get hanged but he wants to catch some z’s first. You’re gonna get to sleep for all eternity. I know, but will I even know that I’m sleeping? And sleeping now, I’ll know I chose to sleep, or rather, if you want to know, that I need it. A little further and then you’ll sleep.

  Ah, it’s nothing, the man insists, it makes no difference to you if I’m ten minutes behind. How’s that, man, no difference? It’s noon, I’m hungry, one of the escorts shot back, today’s Saturday and there’s a buffet at Arnolfo’s bar. The other escort: and I’m dying for some rum. The other escort: and it’s so hot, shit, hanging people at noon is such a drag, at five or six in the afternoon would be better, the early morning would be reasonable too, nice and fresh out. Hey why are you gonna get hanged?

  Because I wanted to kill myself. I shot myself here.

  Where?

  They all stop to surround the doomed man. He shows them a scar on his left shoulder. Not such good aim, eh? Nah, doesn’t look pretty, one of the other escorts said in a low voice. And this other scar by your neck? Ah, that’s from when they wanted to kill me. Why? I’ll tell you later but first just let me sleep a while. They agree. Ten minutes. Lean up against that tree over there, we’re going to rest a few minutes too. Ten minutes, I ask, said the doomed man. Escort number one: Well if a man wants to sleep before dying, then let him sleep. People are strange.

  Escort number two: There was one two months ago, in my district, who asked for a fuck. Man, was that tough. All the chicks we knew said over my dead body and made the sign of the cross. I said what’s it to you? He’s still alive, he’ll just be dying in a couple hours. No way, Luzinete said, whoever’s dying in two hours is already dead to me. A whore without a shred of charity. Turned into a big argument, with the man there waiting.

  Escort number three: And then?

  Escort number two: So then there was no way. He died with a hard-on. I almost felt sorry for him, I’d never seen anybody die like that.

  Escort number one: But could you see it?

  Escort number two: Yeah you could see it. I saw it.

  Escort number one: I told you. People are strange.

  Was that ten minutes? Not yet,
the doomed man says, let me sleep. And then, he went on, all that about the hard-on is bullshit. Every hanged man dies with a hard-on. I don’t know why, but don’t you guys remember those Germans?

  From the photos?

  What Germans?

  The ones that were hanged in Nuremberg.

  Where’s that? And what’s it got to do with a hard-on?

  In the photos they’ve all got their flies open.

  How come?

  Nobody wants to see a dead guy with a hard-on. So they twist the guy’s cock to make it soft.

  Who twists?

  Somebody, who knows, maybe the hangmen.

  So a hanged man’s cock stays hard after death, eh? That can’t be true.

  I’m telling you it is. You’ll all see mine. Let me sleep now.

  Ten minutes.

  Wind and dust suddenly. Whirlwinds of red dust. Noisy birds crossing the chalky sky. The escorts tilt their heads to the highest point, later to the right and to the left and number one says to the doomed man: Get up, we’re going, the weather’s changing, some kind of storm is coming, you won’t be able to sleep. The doomed man tries to get up but the wind, a mass of red dust forces him back down involuntarily, blinding his eyes. The three escorts also crouch down and cling to the trunk of the tree. We have to take the man to the gallows, said number one. Impossible, can’t you see there’s no way? Furious number one unclenched himself from the tree, began to shake the doomed man but then stopped, a horrifying scrunch on his face and the others saw him carried off by the wind, tumbling like a light cardboard tube. They heard shouts and curses, clearly at first, then ghastly coughing fits, and then just the furious drone of the wind. The mass of dust seemed to have thorns that thrashed their bodies. This can’t last a lifetime, shouted number two. Sure it can, yelled number three. They fell silent. Everything remained the same, and it began to get dark. From here where I am I could hear them thinking: Escort number two: The patrol will come look for us, yeah, they’ll come save us.

  Escort number three: The patrol won’t come. No one gets out of this kind of thing alive.

  The doomed man: This is the only way they’ll let me sleep. But if I sleep I’ll relax and be carried off by the wind. Suddenly carried off by the wind all the way to the gallows. No, that would be the height of coincidence: the doomed man staggering alone to the foot of the gallows. The height indeed. But there are terrible coincidences. Yes, they can occur.

  The escorts began to groan. Leaves and branches were falling on their heads. Number three shouted that he couldn’t take it any more, something had to be done. The doomed man: Hang on, nothing can be done. Drops of rain. Thick, heavy. And instantly a downpour. Hours, clinging there to the trunk of the tree. A pasty darkness all around the three men. The wind slapping their cheeks. If they lowered their heads to the mud it choked their mouths and nostrils, so they let them hang in a sharp, desperate gesture, trying to breathe. Birds’ nests tumbled from the branches, rodents dragged by the wind collided violently with the trunk of the tree, moribund, bleeding, their snouts split open. Escort number three let out a howl, opened his arms, blasphemed and disappeared, a scarecrow swallowed by the sordid night. Little by little it became calmer and clearer. The doomed man: finally, it’s over. Now you can take me to the gallows, he said to number two. With effort, slowly, stretching himself, the doomed man got to his feet. What a night what a night, he repeated. All around planks dead animals mud bushes, their roots showing. Let’s get out of here, seems like you don’t believe that everything’s fine now. I’m not tired anymore, I would have slept, but who can sleep on a night like that? Number two remained stuck to the tree. The doomed man approached him: hey hey, let’s go, let’s get to the gallows, you’ll end up losing your job. Number two remained silent. Then he who was to die stooped down. He touched the man. Number two’s limp body was distant. The mouth on his purple face flopped open.

  Amós Kéres, mathematician, doomed to the gallows for attempting suicide, justified in his view for having understood that the universe is the work of Evil and man its disciple, and then almost executed for trying to prove the logic of his understanding, was free. The scorched plain was here and there dotted with debris and mud and there was no sign of a single human on the landscape. Aching, he took two or three steps. Shouted ohs ahs, anybody out there, anyone there, hey world, hey storm! Since nobody answered in the course of many days and nights, he kept walking. In the direction of what? he thought at times. He’d have to see. As soon as he could see.

  To think the great discomfort

  Of feeling you here, in nausea, in excrement.

  To think myself to myself, also the prison of your body

  Stretched in the black branches of this night.

  To think that I thought of you as a flash and rice paddies. Seed.

  And sharp dyes

  Returning to the crumbled walls. And that I thought of you

  As though I had only seen you

  In the abyss incarnate with infinite lives.

  And to discover that your means

  Are equal to the steps

  Of drunkards.

  That there is old age and death

  In everything that you created: suns, galaxies. And in us:

  Animals of your pasture.

  Beyond the other side of the mirror: I, Amós, longer, thinner, walking to that tree where I’d intended to sleep my ten minutes. The tree seems to me like an old, wild fig tree, wide-leafed vines around its trunk. I saw three hundred yards away the gallows and the gibbet. A stumpy man, oval-headed, moved among the broken boards. He bellows: and doesn’t it seem that he’s right? Only the devil can unleash such a booming fury. And where are the patrols, the escorts, the doomed man himself? Well there you have it, whoever carries out the law is nearly buried alive, and where does that leave the one who breaks it, where is everyone? Where is he? I’ll look for him wherever he is, he must be hanged, dead or alive. The hangman shakes his whole body like a wet dog. He tramps across the ground, his boots high and tight. He cleans his hands, wiping them across his thighs, groin: well, that son of a bitch, he was going to be my tenth hanged man, after that it’s retirement, pension, I was going to raise some pretty pigs. After the tenth you’re done, the magistrate told me. And the tenth was this son of a bitch, this inventor of fears, this pimpled snotty knowitall. He should’ve shut up if he understood the world like that. I got my own ideas but who’s gonna listen to ’em? Not even a stone, because these ideas don’t leave my mouth. By keeping my mouth shut I still have my bread and butter, my life. I swallow everything I think. Well now. Will they hang the bishop, the Professor? I’m standing by. I never even spoke with any of the condemned. And I could talk to them, why not? They’d be shut up from then on, forever. But I’m cautious. Things can change from one moment to the next. Didn’t they just change? He takes a few steps through the rubble and thinks that later they’ll definitely come to make a bonfire of the whole field, later he’ll definitely come across some other people and he’ll speak with the magistrate. Because he fulfilled his duty and understands it’s not his fault the escorts were negligent with their escorting, it’s not his fault if God or the devil spewed wind and water to bring everything down. After the tenth hanged man you’re done, he remembered very well what the magistrate said. He’d get the runaround, they’re going to tell him that there’s no hanged man without a wrung neck. Well, they’ll see, I’ll find that blabbermouth, that blather-world and dead or alive I’ll get him in the noose.

  Blind I will walk over hot coals

  Mangled and demented for all

  But a trilling troubadour

  Of the black paradise of your face

  Or if you like, fold me.

  Your hand on the back of my head

  Will curve my body down to the waist

  In the barrels of the question. I must know the pit

  Of never understanding. As they have been until now

  Over me, these sandy winds of your breath />
  Or quiet me. My heart joined to the moss of the stone

  Exempted from this search.

  I do a few somersaults. Mirror and boots. I’m a castaway from myself and a gardener. I’m in the depths but I plant as though I were outside. I’m an executioner in a classroom. If they ask me I don’t respond. This is who I am. Somersault, cuddle, fish, silken tail, water, grindstone clouds in this aquarium. The eyes eye me. The faces lean their noses into my space. Mutely I roam through the room. There is a circle of glass between us. There are a bunch of people in the entryway: is that the professor? Begonia. I revisit the window in its yellows. We are questions in an extensive and inconclusive ball of twine.

  I lie down on the thread, the twine nestles me, it goes concave, gets longer, makes a hammock, I sleep hearing groans and complaints. The ones who can see me are very annoyed. A man crosses the room, sits down, farts on my black chair. I ask: did you say your name, sir? There are laughs from the desks in the back. Someone gives me a jasmine. I am mutely bored. The questions grow and form cubes in the air. They collide. I stretch out on the smoothness of the mats. A cube wounds my worn-out elbow. Another bangs against my forehead, testing my bone brown with shackles. Women invade the room. They stomp on me with their high heels. Sado-slippery I’m sweating and laughing. Grotesquely I’m dispersing. There’s blood spattering the walls of the circle. An avalanche of cubes blankets my tissues of flesh. I’m empty of anything good. Full of the absurd.