Outside the Dog Museum

by Carroll, Jonathan

  Where was I? Hiking toward Sonnalm, crossing a meadow and moving toward a shadowy wood. A sagging shack for storing tools sat on the border between the meadow and forest. He stood next to the shack. I noticed him mostly because he was the only white in that climbing landscape of browns and greens. I didn’t know it was he then because of the distance between us but I stopped and watched this animal turn and disappear into the woods. His whiteness in that dark would have stopped me anyway, but seeing the bright blur, it crossed my mind, “Wouldn’t it be funny if that was Big Top?” The moment and thought passed and I kept moving.

  At dusk, tired and aching, I returned the same way at the time when the sun was giving its last hurrah, making the contrast between light and shadow as gorgeous and dramatic as it ever gets. On the lower end of the meadow I stopped to take in both the view and light. I’d saved the apple till then when the weariness was total and the inside of my mouth tasted gummy and bitter. Taking off the knapsack, so I could get the apple, my mouth had already begun to water thinking of the scrape, crunch, and sweet explosion about to come. It was when I had the apple in hand that I turned to look back uphill and saw the dog not fifty feet away. He stood stock still facing me. There was no question it was Big Top. The three big black freckles on his mouth that made it look like someone had dripped ink on his face erased all doubts. I felt he’d been waiting for me to notice. After I did, he turned and started back toward the woods.

  “Big!”

  He began trotting away.

  “Big Top! Wait!” I didn’t move. “Big! Stop!” When he didn’t, I lobbed the apple toward him, not trying to hit him but wanting him to at least turn around once more. Maybe death had made him deaf. But maybe death didn’t want us any closer either, so I continued standing there. He kept trotting. I shouted but it did nothing. I’d seen him; he’d come from another world to show me something I’d have to decipher for myself. He moved away across the darkening meadow, bright white against green like a moving pile of snow. I could see him for some time even after he’d entered the trees. Quick white sewing between the black verticals. Glimpses, hints, flashes of white, there, there, and there. Looking harder, I saw him even farther into the dark. I knew there were miracles on earth, enigmas like this dead white dog, wonders as great as my being able to speak every language on earth for one night of my life. It was easy to be stunned by them and stop there. That was wrong. Venasque said most people see ghosts and (1) scream, (2) shake, (3) later tell the story a hundred times without once thinking, why did it appear for them? What was it telling them? “Magic and ghosts don’t just happen. They don’t happen in empty deserts or show up in the middle of the Pacific Ocean for a fish that happens to be passing. They need an audience. All miracles need an audience. One that’ll appreciate them. Frank Sinatra’s not such a hit in front of deaf people. What we gotta do when they happen is figure out what’s the connection between them and us. Find that, my man, and you’re on your way.”

  When I knew Big Top was gone and our encounter over, I could think of nothing else to do but raise my hand high over my head and wave at him already gone. That felt good, but it wasn’t enough. “I love you! I love you, Big!” I shouted across the meadow, into the cooling air, across time and death and all the other obstacles to my friend. “I love you!”

  THAT GUY’S SUCH A creep, even his clothes don’t want to wear him!” I was talking about a certain American foreman who was becoming more and more of a problem. Palm looked at the ceiling but his silence said he agreed. The door opened slowly and a head appeared that took me a couple of seconds to recognize. Hasenhüttl, looking two thousand years old.

  “Jesus, man, come in!”

  Morton jumped up and offered his chair. Hasenhüttl smiled a quick thanks but the grin was gone instantly, and the way he plopped down said this guy was really at the end.

  “Should I leave?” Palm moved to go.

  Hasenhüttl looked at him and nodded. “Thank you, Morton. I won’t be long.”

  From the way he looked and the almost-whisper of his voice, that sounded like the understatement of the day.

  When Palm was gone and the door clicked, Hasenhüttl and I watched each other over the expanse of my desk.

  “I’m dying.”

  “Angels don’t die.”

  “I’m not really an angel. First you have to be an Invigilator. It’s a very complex process.”

  “I’ll bet. You gotta start at the bottom, huh?”

  “Why are you always a pain in the ass, Radcliffe? I come in to tell you I’m dying, a sort-of angel is dying in front of you, and you make cracks.”

  I threw up a hand. “Because I find it very hard to believe. You’ve been throwing tests at me ever since we met. How do I know this isn’t one too? From the very beginning I found you hard to believe, but I got used to the idea. Now you come in looking like Lon Chaney and tell me you’re dying? Wouldn’t you be skeptical if you were me? I thought things like immortality were a given where you come from.”

  He picked up my stapler and began clicking it. “I did too. Shows how much I know. Listen, I know about your seeing the dog again. That’s a good sign. I can’t tell you why, but it is. I also came here to tell you I won’t be around anymore. I don’t understand what’s happening to me, and it’s not really death, but it’s like that. You’re going to have to get along on your own now.”

  We looked at each other. He clicked the stapler. I wanted to take it out of his hand and put it down. I took it out of his hand and put it down. He picked it up again.

  “If that’s the truth, I don’t know what to say. Do you hurt? Does anything hurt?”

  “No, but thanks for asking. I look like a Dead Sea Scroll, don’t I?”

  “No, you look, uh, very distinguished. Like an old Indian chief.”

  “Bullshit, but thanks for lying. If you’re not careful, Harry, you’ll turn into a nice man before you know it.”

  “God forbid. Hey, is this really it? I’ll never see you again?”

  He touched his face in a way that made it look like he was trying to cool it. His lips were dry and wrinkled. “This will be my last day here.”

  “Where do you go now, Has?”

  Looking straight ahead, one side of his mouth went up in a weak smile. “If I knew that, I wouldn’t be so afraid.”

  “How come we never stop being scared? Even you, even angels are afraid.”

  “You’re not afraid anymore, Harry.”

  “That’s almost true. Ever since our talk and then seeing Big Top up on that hill, I haven’t been fearful or worried. I just want to see what happens.”

  “You’re lucky.” He started to get up, lost the strength, and sat down again. “Would you mind if I stay here awhile? I’ll go as soon as I can.”

  “Sure, stay. You want a drink?”

  He shook his head. “No. I only want to sit with someone who isn’t afraid. Maybe it’ll rub off.”

  “Hasenhüttl, I’m … I’m sorry. I also want to thank you for telling me what this is about. You don’t know how excited it’s made me.”

  Nothing about him changed; he didn’t shrink down like the sprinkled Wicked Witch of the West, but nevertheless the longer we sat there the more he seemed to fade or diminish or lessen. It was as if he were using up all of his gas or air in front of me.

  “Listen, I want to tell you something last. My speech is coming apart, everything is, but stay with me. I’ll try to make it clear enough to understand for you. Mankind’s always paid too much attention to the dead. It’s been a fundamental part of life itself. Don’t you do this, Harry. Forget the dead. Forget dying. It was never part of God’s design. Man invented death, and so long as it continues to fascinate him, God allows it to remain.” The next time the big man tried, he was able to get up again and make it to the door. “Threaten the dead. Make them afraid with what you create. Any man who loves his work forgets the dead, even his own. Any human work that is finished shows them again how incomplete they are.”r />
  THE MEETING WITH THE people from the Creditanstalt Bank had gone on too long and the majority of us in the room were beginning to slide down in our seats like fifth graders in arithmetic class. Luckily I was called to the phone by a secretary who appeared very impressed by the caller. It was the Sultan of Saru’s spokesman. I was informed that His Majesty and his betrothed had decided to honor us with their presence at the Dachgleiche, as symbols of their support both for the Austrian people and the museum. “When will Their Highnesses be joining us?” I asked.

  “In a week, God willing,” the spokesman said. Then I heard the evil little click that comes from a telephone when you’re being put on hold.

  “Harry? Is that you?”

  “My goodness, if it isn’t Frances Neville herself. How’re you doing, Queenie?”

  “Don’t pull my chain, Harry. I just want to make sure you’re going to be there for this thing because I need to talk to you. And don’t get any ideas about what I want to say because you’d be dead wrong. Are you going to be there or not?”

  “Hey, Toots, it’s my building. Sure I’m going to be there.”

  “How is Claire?”

  “Claire’s good. She’ll be here for the festival too.”

  A silence that lasted a good long time.

  “What do you want to talk about with me, Fanny? The last time we met, you tripped me. I was under the impression that was your final say.”

  “It was, then, but now we have to talk about something else. I’ve got to go. We have to leave this place. I’m not used to getting bombed in my hometown.”

  The late twentieth century has been the era of the Underdog. In example after example the Davids, whether they are the North Vietnamese, the Ayatollah Khomeini, even the New York Jets, have been defeating the Goliaths—the United States Armed Forces, Shah of Iran, Baltimore Colts—right and left until there really are no more “givens.”

  The Saruvian Army flattened Cthulu’s resistance fighters in every strategic battle they had for six months. That was that. Time for Cthulu to haul ass back to his mountain hideouts and glower down at the winners. That made sense. But mythically, like a phoenix, the rebels kept climbing out of their own ashes and going back to fight again. At first it was to be expected—typical never-say-die revolutionary verve and passion. Next it became annoying—when are these guys going to quit? We won the battle didn’t we? Finally the phoenix turned into the monster from the horror film who, no matter how many times you shot/stabbed/burned it, the bastard kept raging back stronger than before. They captured Wadi Zehid, where they butchered any prisoners they took. At Cheddia it was worse. Their tactics and beliefs were compared to the Murngin of Australia who believed that the spirit of the dead victim entered the body of his killer, who then grew twice as strong and physically larger. When it was discovered by a French journalist that many of those closest to Cthulu had castrated themselves as acts of homage to him, the Skoptsy or “White Doves” of Russia were brought into the discussion. A lovely little sect whose men cut off their plumbing while the women cut off their breasts for the sake of their faith, these Doves said God told them to do it. This same journalist, before he disappeared forever under extremely suspicious circumstances while on assignment with Cthulu and his monsters, asked the boss how his soldiers could act so barbarously. “There are only heroes and the dead, monsieur. If you know the man you are about to fight might eat your body after he has killed you, there is less chance you will want to fight him, you know? Besides, our enemy are not human beings. They are of the devil, the sperm of the dead moving toward life.” If this old nutbag stood on a corner in New York saying the things he said in his interview, people would take one look and steer around him PDQ. But here was Cthulu leading a successful revolution against the government of Saru.

  Back in Zell am See, when the subject came up of what that cannibal would do if he ever gained power, people tended to look down or away like someone had farted. We knew what he’d do if he won, but who wanted to talk about it? Particularly in light of the fact that we were the ones making a great big building for the other side, also known as the sperm of the dead. When the Saruvian ambassador to Qatar and his family were machine-gunned in front of the embassy there, Palm went to Vienna and came back with seven more security guards who had allegedly been trained specifically in counterinfiltration techniques. Their presence made us feel both more secure and more vulnerable. After a week on the job, these guards were seen infrequently and didn’t say much. Palm told me they were the best of their kind but also gave the vibration he didn’t want to answer questions about them, so I shut up and did my work.

  Hasenhüttl never reappeared. The night before Claire arrived I went to the woodpile where we’d spoken and had a chat with him, wherever he was. I told him I was growing more confident every day about the museum. I told him ideas and questions that had come from reading the Koran and the Bible, and how I was going to ask Claire to live with me. I shared a mixed jumble of passing thoughts and enthusiasms, hopes, worries with him. When I was finished and feeling sheepish about having spoken to the ghost of an angel, I realized I had told very few of these things to Morton Palm. Not that I wouldn’t, or that I was trying to keep any of it from him. I just hadn’t told him. Getting up from the pile and brushing my hands off, I said to my invisible Invigilator, “Now that you’re gone, you’ve become my friend!”

  IF I HADN’T DUCKED she would have smacked me right across the face. Perfect movie scene—Clark Gable waits with a bouquet of roses at the airport, Carole Lombard appears at the arrival gate and smiles hugely when she sees him. Darling! They come together for the kiss to end all kisses. Only Carole slaps his kisser rather than kisses it.

  Claire came through smiling and looking fabulous. Her hair was shorter and she wore jeans and a baseball warm-up jacket that showed off her legs and wide shoulders. She also wore more makeup than usual. I imagined her standing in the tiny airplane toilet putting on mascara with one hand while leaning against the wall with the other. I imagined her seat in the airplane; no Styrofoam cups jammed cracked and ugly into the seat pocket, no mussed blanket on the floor. Her magazine or book would be unwrinkled and in a safe place. That was Claire. She was emotional but neat. She chose vibrant colors and designs but knew where to put and order them to their best advantage.

  “Hiya, sweetie!” I offered the bouquet at the same time she swung. I ducked. My mother used to belt me once in a while when I got out of hand, and the radar you develop as a child stays. Claire missed but the wind was strong. I thought it was a joke, but one look at her expression and it was clear the punch was no joke.

  “I don’t even know why I’m here! I don’t even know why I left L.A., you creep! Why do I have to love you? It’d be so much simpler if I didn’t!”

  “Claire—”

  With a backhand flick, she sent my flowers flying. Red and green splashed across the air. We both watched them go, as did everybody else in the neighborhood.

  “Claire—”

  She walked to the nearest group of flowers and stomped a foot down on them. “You’re a pain in the ass, Harry, and it’s bloody fucking hard putting up with you and your ego a lot of the time. But I do, because I love you and I think there’s greatness in you. But all that aside, you betrayed me, you son of a bitch!”

  “What? How?”

  A policeman came up to us and asked in broken English what was wrong. I took Claire’s arm and said over my shoulder to the cop my wife had just had a hard flight and wasn’t feeling well. She jerked her arm away and said, “I feel fine. Get your hands off me.” She strode off. I gave the cop a “gee-whiz” shrug and ran after her.

  At the baggage claim she wouldn’t talk. When I tried to say something, she tapped her foot madly and said, “I don’t hear you. Don’t even try. I don’t hear you.” So I shut up. I don’t know what I’d have done if, after getting her bag, she’d refused to come with me. Hit her over the head and smuggle her into the trunk of the car? Thank God sh
e came, but for the first half hour of the trip she was silent. I asked if she wanted to hear music. Silence. Was she hungry? Silence. Did she want to kill me? She was sporting a look that could have frozen the sun. It might have been better if I’d pulled off at a rest stop and confronted her square on, but there’s something hypnotic about driving along at a speed that I hoped would gradually work to calm her down. I was so glad to see her. I wanted to hug and kiss her and tell her many things, but I kept quiet.

  About forty-five minutes later, I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye and knew she’d turned to look at me. “Fanny called me, you know.”

  I nodded. If I spoke and said the wrong thing it might send her right back into silence.

  “She called and said she wanted to talk about you. Now that she’s getting married and you two are finished, she said she wanted to tell me some things.”

  I saw a sign for a roadside rest two kilometers away. I put the blinker on to move into the slow lane. If I was going to hear what I thought I was about to hear, I wanted to be off the road and looking at Claire. Fanny was capable of many things, one of them being fang-toothed nastiness. When she’d been hurt she rarely listened to the other side’s point of view. She’d been hurt and now someone was going to pay for her pain. Pity the poor fucker she targeted. After we broke up, despite that being her decision, I had a lingering hunch she would do something unpleasant. As the weeks passed, that suspicion evaporated and I felt she’d manifested her hurt by originally being the one to say our relationship was over. I was wrong. Telling me to go away wasn’t enough for her. That’s why she’d asked after Claire the day we spoke on the phone. Knowing something I didn’t, she was waiting for it to go off like a timed fuse. Isn’t there some kind of bug or snake that sleeps under the ground for years and then wakes, only to stick its head out and bite whatever happens to be passing? If not, there should be because science could call it the Neville adder.