Outside the Dog Museum

by Carroll, Jonathan

  However, the way the chauffeur was flying through town, I was definitely not being taken on a guided tour of the capital.

  “What’s the hurry?” I whined as we sideswiped our way past veiled women and ox carts, the dirtiest Mercedes taxis I’d ever seen, and a din of noise that would have given Times Square a run for its money.

  “We have no time to lose. The longest you can stay in Saru is probably three or four days before Cthulu’s people know you’re here. Then they’ll try to kill you because they know you were working with my father. You can stay as long as you like, but I’d advise against it.” Hassan turned in the seat for the first time and smiled at me. “I have no objection to your dying, Radcliffe, but I’d prefer you wait till you’ve finished my project.”

  “That’s big of you, Prince. How come you’re driving around like this without protection? Cthulu’s men want you dead more than me. I’m only an architect.”

  “We are being well protected, whether you see them or not.” He gave a small nod toward Big Top. “Your verz is part of it.”

  “So where are we going now?”

  “To Nalim. The place where my father wanted to build the museum.”

  Once we’d passed through the melee at the heart of town, the road climbed through narrow winding streets lined with cypress and cedar trees and modest one-family houses. According to Hassan, this was an exclusive section of town where most of the diplomats and foreign businessmen lived.

  “It reminds me of Haifa.”

  “I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been there.”

  Oops. Not having been in the Mideast for many months, I’d forgotten you didn’t mention certain subjects in these climes, Israel being one of them. “How far is Nalim from here?”

  “About half an hour. On the outskirts of town. My father wanted the museum to be close enough so all people could visit. That will be different now, but the building must be done.”

  After the suburbs came the inevitable sports complex with its seventy-thousand-seat soccer stadium, swimming pool big enough to float all of Hannibal’s elephants, state-of-the-art track. Every Gulf state I’d visited, no matter how poor or backward, had one of these monstrosities in their capitals. The stadiums were used maybe ten times a year, admission was charged to use the pool in countries where the average income was sometimes as low as $150 a year per … . But all that was compensated for by the pride factor involved. It was one of the first things you were shown on a guided tour: the big bright flower in the lapel of these countries’ otherwise shabby suits.

  “My father hated sports. And he hated that place especially. He said it reminded him of Hitler and the Nazi Youth.”

  “Why’d he build it?”

  “He didn’t—it was donated by two oil companies who were afraid he would throw them out and take over their wells. Originally that was where he planned to put his museum, but gave up the land when he heard they’d build it for free. It’s ugly, but it is a nice place. He ordered that any team, no matter how small, can play in the stadium, and the pool is open every day.”

  “How much does it cost to swim?”

  “Nothing. And lessons are free.”

  Before we reached Nalim I’d begun to realize what a decent man and exceptional ruler the former Sultan of Saru had been. Hospitals and schools, factories that employed the handicapped … The man I knew in the Los Angeles hotel emerged in an altogether different light—as a pragmatic visionary.

  Mohammed Idris Gharadani had plotted a course into the late twentieth century for his country with a determined mind and reasonable hopes. Saru was still struggling along despite its great oil reserves, but if the Sultan had been allowed to continue, I think his country would have eventually emerged a prime mover in the Mideast—right up there with the big boys.

  Nalim was nothing—some houses, some goats, a store so small and dark inside that it could have passed for a cave. We were in and out of the town proper in roughly eight seconds. A few minutes more down the road the land flattened out into wide dry vistas and reddish earth. A silver sliver of a plane wrote a thin white vapor trail across the royal blue sky. In that open expanse around us it seemed such a hopeless and lovely gesture.

  The car turned off the highway onto a dirt road no wider than the span of two arms. We bumped slowly down it for about ten minutes before coming to, of all things, a chain-link fence. On the other side, a gentle hill rose in front of us topped by what appeared to be a ruin.

  The motor died. The chauffeur honked the horn once. He and his boss sat facing forward, saying nothing. Car metal clicked.

  “What’s up?”

  “We’re waiting for the gatekeeper.”

  I looked from side to side. “Where is he?”

  “He lives on the other side of the ruin.”

  “Why don’t we just climb over the fence? Save him the trouble of coming down here?”

  “Because that’s the only thing he lives for, Radcliffe. Five or six times a year someone comes out to look at the ruin and the old man has the great luck of being in charge. He walks down from the hill with his one key, opens the gate even though anyone could easily climb over, then he closes it behind them after they’ve passed through. The same happens when they leave. He will have something to talk about to himself afterward because there’s no one else around since his wife died. For this he has a salary from the state and his life means something.”

  Properly chastised, I sat quietly in the back waiting for Godot the gatekeeper. He showed up five minutes later, walking like gravity had it in for him personally. Dressed in a robe that was once black but had faded into some obscure, indescribable color, the man was old and wrinkled and generally toothless. But Hassan was right—already coming down the hill the fellow babbled so happily and constantly that it was clear we were a sight for his sore eyes.

  Opening the fence was a ceremony in itself. After long greetings, the man drew the key out of his robe and offered it to Hassan through the car window. The Prince gave a slight bow of approval. The other touched the key to his forehead in what I assumed was fealty. After unlocking, he walked the gate open and waved us through. Passing close by, I saw the expression on his face—pure bliss. He waved. I waved back.

  “His name is Mahdi. His three sons all died fighting with my father against Cthulu.”

  “Did he have any daughters?”

  “No. Every one of his children is dead. His wife too.”

  We stopped fifty feet from the ruin. Can a pile of stones be called a ruin?

  “It was a castle at one time. One of the desert castles of my ancestors. They came to hunt out here.”

  “What period? How long ago?”

  “I cannot tell you that, Radcliffe. I was forbidden to by my father.”

  What sounded like cicadas sawed the air around us. There was no other sound. Off in the distance, the far distance, were the black tents and grazing animals of a bedouin settlement. I thought I could make out two shepherds but wasn’t sure because they were so far away.

  “Why can’t you tell me? Is it a secret?”

  Hassan bent over, picked up a handful of earth, let it run down through his fingers. “When my father was alive and planned to build the museum here, he said when you came I was not to tell you anything about our land or its history. That was what you would have to discover for yourself. If you were a good and thorough architect, he believed you would find out everything about Saru for yourself. Read books, travel, talk to people here … . He thought that was the only way you’d be able to build our museum correctly.”

  “Listen, Prince, you’re getting on my nerves.

  “If I do this museum, and I haven’t yet said I will, I have my own ways of going about it.

  “With all respect to your father, what he wanted is about step three on a list of perhaps a hundred things I do before getting down to real work. I read books and talk to people and get the lay of the land. That’s kindergarten. But you want some more? Which way does the wind blow here
most often? What color does the earth turn evenings around twilight? What’ll be the average age of the people who come to visit? Do you foresee a time when the rest of this land will be developed and if so, in what capacity? Will it be industry or residential? Do you want the museum to stand out, or complement the landscape—”

  “All right, Radcliffe, I get your point. I only told you what my father said. But it doesn’t matter now because as far as Nalim is concerned, we cannot build the museum here anyway. It is much too dangerous. Cthulu will attack any kind of structure we put up in Saru. It will be symbolic of my father to him.”

  “Where are you planning to build it?”

  “In Zell am See. In Austria.”

  “Austria? The Sultan of Saru’s dog museum will be in Austria?”

  “Yes, that was my father’s wish. There are two reasons. The first is because nothing will happen if it is erected outside Saru, even if it is my father’s building. Cthulu is only concerned with the country. Knowing him, he’ll even see it as a victory if we do it somewhere else. But the more important reason—”

  I don’t know what came first—the growl or the thud of a shot. Big Top had been standing nearby, nosing the ground. I wasn’t looking but could hear his familiar snorts and sniffs. They stopped and he snarled so loud it made me jerk my head.

  Way down the hill the old gatekeeper was pointing a pistol at us. His first shot went wild to the left, the next would’ve hit me if the dog hadn’t jumped. Jumped straight up in front of me. The bullet smashed his head. The thick wonderful head I’d patted and hugged so many times. Big made a deep huh sound and slammed against my hip.

  Hassan and his bodyguard shot the gatekeeper so fast so many times that bullet impact and not life kept him standing and jerking seconds longer.

  I heard myself shouting, “You’re a verz, don’t die. You’re a verz, don’t die.”

  Verzes die. Their back legs shudder and what’s left of a jaw click-click-clicks and they bleed so much you don’t know where it all comes from. Then they’re dead and you pull them across your lap and put your face down to theirs and plead, “Look at me! Look at me! Goddamn it, look!” But one eye is shot out and the other is finished looking. I rested my cheek on his wet face. Squeezing him tight, I rocked us back and forth.

  The two men spoke in Arabic but I ignored them. The next time I looked up was after hearing a big windy “whoosh.” The bodyguard stood with a metal gasoline can near the old man’s body. It was on fire, one giant flame stinking of gasoline. And more. I’d never smelled burning flesh but it was there too, rising over the chemical reek. You don’t know you know that smell until it’s there and unmistakable. Burning flesh. A dead dog. The desert.

  IN SARU THE GREATEST wrong a human being can suffer is cremation. According to popular belief, the act destroys the soul as well as the body thus giving the deceased no chance for redemption.

  Before leaving the ruin that day, the three of us stood over the smoking body and spat on it. Another Saruvian custom.

  “If the last to see a man alive spits on him, then he goes to God with that spit on his face. It is the first thing God sees.”

  I carried Big Top in my arms to the car. Dead, he felt much heavier. I hefted him higher onto my chest. His blood covered my clothes but I didn’t think about that. I thought about him slowly eating potato chips on the patio in Santa Barbara; of how he’d appeared at the hotel during the earthquake. Venasque had loved the dog and never stopped talking about him.

  “Big Top’s not smart, but he’s got smarts. The two of you are alike in that way. Fact is, the two of you are alike in a lot of ways.”

  “How so?” Normally I’d’ve bristled at being compared to a bull terrier, but the shaman’s dog was different.

  “Big Top knows a lot but isn’t talking. You know a lot but aren’t using it.”

  “I’m a famous architect, Venasque. People say I’m a genius.”

  “You are a genius, but you never built anything genius. You’re like Big Top there too—both of you could contribute more but don’t ’cause you’re satisfied with the way things are. Him with his silence, and you with your genius.”

  “Satisfied? Venasque, you and I met because I was having a nervous breakdown. That’s not exactly the symptom of a person who’s satisfied with the way things are!”

  “True, but once you got your sanity back you were only worried about not wanting to be an architect anymore. Big deal. It’d be more important if you were worried about whether or not you wanted to be a person anymore.”

  “You mean kill myself?”

  “Naah. There’s no such thing as suicide. Do you really think Man has a choice whether or not he can take his own life? We don’t even know how to live the right way. You think God’s going to let us decide whether or not to die? That’s like getting the final exam on the first day of classes!”

  “Then what happens to suicides?”

  “It’s like the kid who’s called out of class to go to the principal’s office: You think you know the reason why he got called, but you’re wrong.”

  This conversation crossed my mind as I lifted the dog’s body into the back of the car.

  “Wait a minute.” I turned. Hassan and the bodyguard were a few feet behind me. “I think he should be buried here. Would that be all right? This is where the museum was going to be?”

  The two men exchanged a look and the Prince nodded. “It would be a great honor if you were to lay him here, Radcliffe. I know my father would have appreciated that very much.”

  “All right. I think it’s a good place. He has all this space to sniff around and explore.”

  There was an army spade in the car. The Prince took it and walked back up the hill to the high pile of stones. The bedouin tents were still there, the only dark marks on a reddish horizon. There was no time out here. Clocks had no place any more than this castle that had once been used for hunting. Big Top’s skin and bones would fade back into this soil. For a while they’d be like the black tents out there—noticeable but then one day gone.

  “Where would you like to lay him?” Hassan’s voice was sympathetic and much quieter.

  “I don’t know. A place with a good view. Big Top liked to keep an eye on things, even when he was lying down.”

  “May I make a suggestion? Please let me show you.”

  We walked around the ruins to the other side. The world from there was one silent enormous desert flowing out in uncomplicated lines and empty space to more of the same. It made me feel sad and insignificant. “Must be cold out here at night, nothing but stars to keep you warm.”

  “The place I wanted to show you is right over here.” Hassan beckoned. We climbed over stones until coming to a small cleared space out on the edge of the hill.

  “This is it—”

  “This is—”

  We looked at each other, Hassan with eyebrows raised. “You know this place?” he asked, unsurprised.

  “Yes I know this place. But how?”

  His eyes went to the dog’s body in my arms. “A verz brings you where it wants to be buried.”

  IT WAS NOT SURPRISING that in whatever last testament he’d written, the Sultan of Saru requested a very simple, quick burial. According to ritual, his son and two other intimates washed his body, then wrapped it in a rough white sheet and with little more ceremony than that, put it in the earth. I was one of the few people at graveside when they lowered him and although I rarely cry, I was crying that day along with the others. I was a newcomer to this man’s goodness and intelligence, but besides the sadness of loss, it is both terribly frustrating and bitter to discover another’s true worth only after they are gone. Like a treasure you’ve held but unknowingly let slip through your fingers.

  However, it would be dishonest to say my tears that day were only for the dead. Lately life had been like a “Wild Mouse” ride at an amusement park; whipped from one extreme to the other, there’d barely been enough time to gulp a quick breath before the nex
t dip, twist, or flip had me loop-de-looped or upside down, trying to figure out where I was and how to see things from these constantly new perspectives. Certainly I cried for the Sultan and Big Top, not least for the loss of their love and rightness, but also because I felt guilty, afraid, even excited. Two good and genuinely magical beings had died, one while saving my life. With little of their goodness and none of the magic, how was I to protect myself from the same world that had killed them? Throwing the first shovelful of desert earth back into Big Top’s grave, then seeing the Sultan in his, was so awful yet galvanizing, that I could feel my spirit’s temperature change almost by the hour.

  AFTER HIS FATHER’S FUNERAL, the new Sultan of Saru and I stood alone in the vast parking lot of the royal compound. It was large enough to hold a rodeo. Although many cars were parked around us, Hassan and I were the only people there. Others were inside the residence paying respects to the family. Until now, soldiers and bodyguards had been everywhere but for the moment none were in sight.

  Not looking at me, Hassan barked out a fake, offensive laugh. “I thought you liked my father! You were going to build this for him, you said. But now the real truth climbs out from under the Radcliffe rock, huh? I know how ‘famous’ you are, but really, do you believe anyone deserves so much money just for designing one goddamned building?”

  I licked my lips and balled both fists in my pockets. “Why don’t you get your facts straight before you sound so naive? All architects receive a percentage of a building’s costs, Your Highness. I’ve done no work yet, but’ve already said I’ll take fifty percent off my usual fee. Check around and you’ll discover that that kind of discount is never, ever done. Particularly by someone as famous as me. I liked your father but I don’t like you. That fifty percent reduction is for him. Whatever work I do on this project is for him, his memory. I don’t give a damn about you and I don’t give a damn about Saru. I think your father would’ve been offended if I did this for less. You want me to do it free? I don’t believe in that. The only things you get for free are what nobody else wants. And death. Death is free.”