by André Alexis
Benjy worried, as they approached the house on Ellis Park, that the garden would bring neither death nor incapacity, that it would bring mere discomfort. If so, he might well be punished, if they blamed him for their foray into the garden. The campaign called for subtlety. He had to lead while making it seem as if he were following. So, he did not strike off in the direction of the house. As they approached the place, he sniffed at the air and barked in a way that might have meant any number of things: ‘I am hungry’ or ‘I have seen a small creature’ or ‘I am one of you and happy to be so.’
Atticus growled. But Frack and Frick had by then sniffed something out for themselves. They headed toward the back of the house, and the others followed. There they found what was indeed a garden. The smell of ‘greening’ predominated, but it was undercut by enticing counter-currents: cow’s flesh, yeast, sugar. The garden was not immediately accessible. It was enclosed by green chain-mesh fencing. There was, however, a door with a latch that Frack easily opened. In no time, the pack was among the lush flowers, vegetables and half-buried goods.
The dogs – all except Benjy – were quietly ecstatic. Along the fence, away from the vegetation, there were pieces of meat and bread. In a far corner, there were chicken breasts and, even, rotting fish! The dogs – all except Benjy – ate their fill. Benjy ate air. He bit at furrows in the ground and made a show of eating, his tail raised and wriggling, until the others had finished. Satisfied, the pack left the garden and made their way back to High Park, wandering about until the sunlight faded and they returned to the coppice.
The first night in their den was so uneventful, Benjy might have said the place they’d discovered had not been a garden of death at all. No one died. All slept soundly and, in fact, returned to the garden the following day and the day after that. (There seemed to be an endless setting of meats, fish and bread.) On the third visit, Benjy’s will was tested. Hungry, unconvinced the place was dangerous, he was tempted to eat the meats on the ground. But he ate nothing, choosing instead to bear the pangs a while longer. As they were walking back through the park, scavenging for scavenging’s sake, however, Benjy noticed that Frick and Frack were walking in a strange way: wobbling, as if they were about to lose their balance. More than that: the dogs – all save Benjy – had begun to bleed from their muzzles.
That night in the coppice, Benjy was kept awake – and terrified – by the yelps of pain (which he imitated), by the weak thrashing about of his agonizing pack mates (which he aped), by the humid breathing of Frick, Frack and Rosie. When the sun came up, he allowed himself to sniff at the bodies, to take in the death he had brought them. Though Frick, Frack and Rosie were not quite dead, their bodies lay nearly motionless in the coppice. They could neither rise nor communicate. Wary and cautious, Benjy did not abandon them until the following day, when he was certain they were dead.
Atticus, it seemed, had gone off somewhere. Perhaps he had seen death coming and wished to face it on his own. Whatever the case, Benjy never saw the pack leader again. Judging from the agony of the others, however, he was certain the dog was dead.
Of this massacre, Majnoun heard only the sketchiest details. Benjy told it as if some strange sickness or other – one that had spared Benjy himself – had almost completely undone what had once been a strong pack. Just think, said Benjy solemnly: of the dogs who had been in cages on the night of the change, there now remained only two or, perhaps, three alive. Two or three dogs who knew what he and Majnoun knew. For some time, they were quiet.
– I was sorry to see so much death, Benjy said at last.
– Yes, said Majnoun, so much death would make one unhappy.
– Is there water to drink? asked Benjy.
Majnoun was too astute not to notice and mistrust the vagueness in Benjy’s account of their pack’s final days. But his mistrust was part of the mixed emotions he felt for Benjy. Along with a vague antipathy, there was fraternity. Benjy was the last, or nearly so, of his pack. Majnoun felt a sense of responsibility. As the stronger of the two, he perhaps naturally felt this, but part of him would also have preferred Benjy be elsewhere. He felt apprehensive about something or other, but before deciding what to do with Benjy there was the matter of teaching him human language, as he’d promised.
This proved more difficult than Majnoun had imagined. He himself had begun with a vocabulary of some hundred or so human words. He had then patiently acquired more. He had thought of simply teaching Benjy a vocabulary of essential words and phrases (food, water, walk, don’t touch me, …) and then telling him about context and nuance. This was, in fact, how their own original, canine language worked: universally understood woofs whose shades of meaning were conveyed by posture, tone or situation. But how was he to teach Benjy that, for humans, certain sounds both did and did not mean what they were supposed to mean? For instance, Majnoun could not imagine a word more fundamental than food or the words related to it: eat, hungry, starving. He could not easily think of a word about which it was more crucial to be clear. Yet, one evening he and Nira had been in the kitchen together. He had been on the floor, head on his paws, listening as Nira read to him from a newspaper. Miguel came in shirtless from the bedroom and asked
– Are you hungry?
– I could eat, Nira answered.
– What could you eat? asked Miguel.
– What do you have in mind? asked Nira.
– I have sustenance in mind. What did you think I had in mind?
– Well, said Nira, if it’s only sustenance you want … I was thinking I had just the food for you, if you don’t mind going south.
– I see, said Miguel. In that case, we should retire to consider the menu.
And instead of eating, they had gone to the bedroom, closed the door behind them and, as far as Majnoun could tell from the sounds and odours, they had mated. This had puzzled him for some time. Not because Nira and Miguel had mated, but because they seemed to have conflated two very important things: eating and mating. This struck Majnoun as preposterous. Better if Miguel had come in speaking of some trivial thing (like cleaning the floors) and that had meant he wanted to mate. It would have been just as bewildering, but not, somehow, as significant. He began Benjy’s lessons in human language with a warning.
– Listen, small dog, he said. Humans do not always mean what is meant by the sounds they make. You must be careful.
– I am sure it is as you say, said Benjy
though Benjy was not at all concerned about the nuances of human language. He wanted only to learn it, seeing how well Majnoun had done for himself. That is, Majnoun’s situation was enviable, and Benjy assumed this was down to Majnoun’s command of the human tongue.
Benjy was further distracted from the hard truth of Majnoun’s warning by the fact that both he and Majnoun had known strange moments with their own language. Prince’s way of speaking, for instance:
We bound into the prairie
through ages of Winter grass,
taking the path Ina took.
Her name long gone,
though her roads linger.
The ground will not forget.
or
Longing to be sprayed (the green snake
writhing in his master’s hand),
back and forth into that stream –
jump, rinse: coat slick with soap.
In a word, Benjy was confident that Prince’s poetry had prepared him for the complications of human speech.
The months during which Majnoun taught Benjy to speak ‘human’ (that is, English) were a struggle for all involved. Majnoun taught as any reasonable being might. He made what he knew were significant sounds, so that Benjy could recognize and then produce them for himself. This method was tricky because Majnoun would not speak in Nira’s presence. Benjy and Majnoun did their Berlitzing at the far end of the garden, where they could be heard by passersby, though they could not be seen. As sharp as Benjy was – and he was very sharp when driven by self-interest – there were nuances o
f the language that could not be mastered without interaction with a native speaker. He, like Majnoun himself, tended to mispronounce important words. Food, for instance, came out as
– Ooot
while water was
– Owta.
The sounds might have been recognizable in context, but acquiring ‘context’ was difficult. Majnoun did not want him to speak to Nira. In fact, Majnoun had forbidden him from speaking to her. But Benjy was convinced that Nira – who’d taught Majnoun the language – was the one to teach him. So he went around Majnoun, speaking to Nira when Majnoun was asleep or in another room or out relieving himself.
From the beginning, he could pronounce Nira’s name well enough that there was never a doubt he was speaking to her. To Nira, it was disconcerting and frightening whenever Benjy, anxious that Majnoun should not know what he was up to, ‘whispered’ her name.
– Near-a, he’d say
and then he would try a word out. For instance:
– Owta.
– Water? Nira would ask
and Benjy would repeat the word, imitating her and adding
– Pease
which was as close as he ever got to please. He would then observe her as she filled the bowl or, more often than not, say
– There’s water in the bowl.
At which, Benjy would answer
– Hank ooo
and she would correct him, punctiliousness overcoming the almost unbearable strangeness of being spoken to by a beagle.
Benjy’s approach was mildly successful but only until the afternoon he spoke Nira’s name and then said, quite clearly
– Mow neigh.
He’d meant to speak the word money, a word Majnoun had been unable to explain precisely. The word had something to do with what Majnoun had called ‘this for that,’ a word that was mysterious and yet palpably important, perhaps the most important. It was also mixed up, somehow, with the thin, round, copper-tangy disks that peppered the streets of the city.
– What? Nira asked.
– Monet, pease.
For a strange moment, Nira was certain the beagle was referring to the French impressionist. The possibility that Benjy knew the history of art was frightening because it was so far beyond belief. But his actual demand was just as intimidating.
– You want money? she asked.
Benjy said
– Yes
and nodded.
– No, said Nira. No, no. I don’t have any to give you. Go away.
Not knowing why Nira was upset, Benjy retired from the kitchen, worried that he’d done something wrong. As, indeed, he had. Nira spoke to Majnoun about his ‘friend’ and, once the dogs were alone, Majnoun attacked Benjy, biting him hard, hurting him until the beagle cried out and went limp in surrender. Majnoun showed himself to be weak, however. He released Benjy without making him bleed. More than that: he warned the dog that worse would happen if he ever spoke to Nira again.
Benjy slunk away with his tail between his legs. In deference to the bigger dog, he did not show himself for a while, hiding behind a couch. He was not afraid of Majnoun. The fact that Majnoun had warned him at all was sufficient proof to Benjy that Majnoun was not dangerous. Majnoun even went on teaching him English! More: in cutting him off from Nira, Majnoun unwittingly forced Benjy to take another (perhaps even better) path to English: Miguel. Miguel was bigger and more threatening than Nira, no doubt more powerful. And an expert speaker of the language. Why should he not speak to Miguel?
There were a few things to consider, of course. How would Miguel respond to his approach? Would he be as upset as Nira? Also, should he tell Majnoun what he was up to? The dog might not be dangerous, but he was overly sensitive and it would be difficult to keep his conversations with Miguel secret from Majnoun.
In the end, Benjy decided to go at it directly. He approached Miguel on an evening when Miguel had finished supper and was alone in the bedroom, reading. Majnoun and Nira were in Nira’s room. (Majnoun: eyes closed, legs tucked under him, head resting on the hardwood floor.) Benjy entered the bedroom and sat by the side of the bed until Miguel noticed him. Once he had Miguel’s attention, Benjy began with innocent words.
– Want water, he said.
– What? said Miguel. Did you just ask for water?
– Yes, answered Benjy.
Miguel was genuinely pleased.
– You can speak? he asked.
– Little, answered Benjy.
(‘Ihdle’ is how it came out, but it was easily understood.)
– That’s fantastic, said Miguel. Did Nira teach you that? Say something else.
As he could not quite catch the sense of ‘something else,’ Benjy sat still, looking expectantly up at Miguel. Miguel was disappointed.
– She must have taught you more than that, he said. Can you say your name?
– Name Benjy, said Benjy, speaking his own secret name for the first time in his life.
Despite his hesitation in voicing something so private as his secret name – secret because other dogs could not speak it, though it was an intimate sound – his voice was clear, high-pitched and only slightly tremulous.
– Now that’s what I’m talking about! said Miguel. Did she teach you any other tricks? Roll over, Benjy. Roll over, boy.
It was puzzling to be asked to ‘roll over’ after initiating a conversation about water, but these tricks – ‘roll over,’ ‘stand up,’ ‘play dead,’ ‘beg,’ ‘whisper,’ ‘sing’ – were what he did best. They required nothing of him. He held Miguel’s gaze a moment and then he rolled over.
As Miguel did not believe the dog could actually speak, he found these tricks more pleasing and more impressive than the dog’s request for water. Lifting Benjy into his arms, scratching the fur on the dog’s neck and behind its ears, Miguel carried him to Nira’s room.
– How did you do this? he asked. It must have taken hours.
– How did I do what?
– How’d you teach the dog to say its name?
– What name?
– Stop pretending like you don’t know, said Miguel. Benjy’s great. He’s a real dog, not like Jim, who lies around the place all day. This one can do things. You should be proud.
– You heard him speak? Nira asked. I didn’t teach him. Jim must have.
– Right, said Miguel, because of course Jim can speak.
Miguel was immediately offended by what he took for a coyness on his wife’s part. Why shouldn’t she tell him how she’d gone about getting Benjy to say his name when asked?
– Fine, said Miguel. I’ll teach him something myself.
Which, over the space of a week, he proceeded to do. I’ll teach him something unusual, thought Miguel, something more difficult than his name and a handful of words. He decided to teach the dog the first pages of Vanity Fair, one of Nira’s favourite novels. Thackeray’s was the kind of writing that sent English majors everywhere into paroxysms. Though Thackeray’s sentences were sometimes long and twisty –
While the present century was in its teens, and on one sunshiny morning in June, there drove up to the great iron gate of Miss Pinkerton’s academy for young ladies, on Chiswick Mall, a large family coach, with two fat horses in blazing harness, driven by a fat coachman in a three-cornered hat and wig, at the rate of four miles an hour.
– Miguel found his task remarkably straightforward.
Once Benjy understood that he was meant to repeat (in correct order) the sounds Miguel wished him to repeat, Benjy repeated them. Convinced that the beagle was little more than a good (admittedly unusual) parrot, Miguel was pleased with himself, proud of his heretofore hidden talent as an animal trainer. Every so often, he did find it strange that a beagle should, with increasing finesse, speak of three-cornered hats, fat horses and the iron gates of Miss Pinkerton’s academy. But he got used to the strangeness by imagining the look on Nira’s face the moment his dog (which is what Benjy quickly became) spoke the first page or so of Vanity Fair.
>
That moment never came, however.
The dynamic in the house had changed. After the ‘money’ incident, it wasn’t so much that Nira disliked Benjy as that she found the dog disingenuous. Whereas she was unintimidated by Majnoun’s silences, she began to find those moments when Benjy sat up and looked at her disconcerting. It got so she could not work when the beagle was in a room with her. So, Benjy was banished (the door closed against him), made to spend most of the day either alone or alone with Majnoun, until Miguel came home.
Miguel, for his part, began to treat Majnoun with an amused but palpable scorn. He let it be known, now and then, that he was sceptical of Nira’s claims for Majnoun’s intelligence. His scepticism was usually followed by his asking Benjy to ‘roll over’ or ‘play dead,’ as if Benjy’s execution of those tricks made his superior intelligence obvious. Of course, Nira would not humiliate Majnoun in that way. She refused to ask Majnoun, for whom she had the greatest respect, to roll around on the carpet in order to prove that he possessed an intelligence she knew very well he did possess.
Majnoun, who tolerated Benjy’s closeness to Miguel, understood the implications of Miguel’s scorn, but he could not understand the scorn itself. For one thing, he would not have guessed that ‘intelligence’ could be a source of status. It seemed to him that what humans called ‘intelligence’ (knowing the accepted names for things, performing feats that required a certain mental dexterity) was in every way inferior to the knowing he remembered from his previous life as a dog, the life before he was sideswiped by ‘thinking.’ When it became clear that Miguel gave Benjy higher status because the beagle ‘rolled over’ and ‘played dead,’ Majnoun was astounded.
No, he was more and other than astounded. Majnoun understood the implications of Miguel’s behaviour better, perhaps, than Miguel did. It was clear that Benjy was angling for status, that he wanted the position Nira had. That thought was intolerable to Majnoun, intolerable on its own but also because it brought back memories of what he’d suffered. And yet, what was he to do? He had warned Benjy. The right thing, now, was to bite the little dog to death. No doubt about it. But could he actually do such a thing? It would mean annihilating a part of himself, taking a final turn away from what had been his life: pack, canidity, coppice.
