Death in Venice and Other Stories (33 page)

But there is an awareness of other living creatures
too active for even the presence of a dog not to become bothersome in times when solitude is required, and Baushan also disturbed my work in a more concrete sense. He would come over to me where I sat, wag his tail, muster me with searing looks and stamp his paws to attract my attention. The slightest acknowledgment would make him put his front legs on my armrest, press his head against my chest and kiss in the air at me until I burst out laughing. Thereupon he would proceed to conduct an examination of the tabletop—no doubt under the assumption of finding something edible there since I hovered so urgently over it—and invariably smudged my drying ink with his big, hairy game dog's paws. Sharply ordered to sit, he would lie down and go to sleep. But no sooner would he fall asleep than he would begin to dream, setting all four of his outstretched paws in motion and emitting a high-pitched yet muffled howl that seemed to come alternately from a ventriloquist and from another world entirely. It was no wonder I found this both irritating and distracting, since it was uncanny, for one, and stirred, indeed weighed upon, my conscience, for another. This dream life was an all too obvious compensation for actual running and hunting, invented by nature out of necessity, for as long as he lived with me he would never be blessed with the amount of outdoor exercise his blood and sensibilities demanded. I felt badly, but since there was nothing I could do about it, I gave in to more pressing concerns and rid myself of the disturbance, my justification being that in bad weather he tramped too much mud into the study and that his claws were destroying the carpet.

Thus he came to be banished from our living quarters and generally forbidden from my presence as long as I was inside, although occasional exceptions to this rule were allowed. He quickly understood and submitted to this unnatural prohibition since it was nothing less than the inscrutable will of his landlord and master. The forced absences from my side, which often extend over long parts of the day, especially in winter, are only a question of spatial distance and don't amount to a
separation or severance of our bond
per se
. He is not at my side, at my command, but that in itself is the execution of a command, a negative form of being-at-my-side, so that there can be no talk of Baushan's leading an autonomous existence during the hours when we're apart. Through the glass door of my study I can see him on the small lawn in front of the house playing like an avuncular buffoon with the children. Yet amidst all the horsing around, he still regularly trots over to my door, sniffs at the crack to make sure I'm still there (the tulle curtain obstructs his view), sits down on the steps with his back to my study and keeps watch. From my desk I can also see him meandering around aimlessly and pensively on the raised path between the old aspen trees. Such back-and-forth parading, however, is nothing but a way of killing time, devoid of pride, enthusiasm or life. It's utterly inconceivable that Baushan might simply decide on his own to indulge in the splendid art of the hunt, although no one would stop him, and my presence, as we shall see, is actually somewhat superfluous.

Life begins for him when I leave the house—though, alas, even then it often doesn't actually begin! Every time I walk out the door, the question presents itself whether I will turn right, down the lane toward the wide open spaces and solitude of our hunting ground, or left, toward the streetcar stop on my way into the city. Only in the former case does it make any sense for Baushan to accompany me. In the beginning he did join me when I opted for the world, experiencing to his amazement the streetcar thundering toward him, whereupon he followed me, violently suppressing his fear, in one blind loyal leap up onto the platform amidst the throng of people. A storm of public indignation always swept him back down, and he would run full tilt alongside the roaring vehicle that was so unlike the little wagon between whose wheels he had run of yore. True of heart, he always kept pace as long as possible, and his wind never entirely deserted him. But the urban hustle and bustle always got the better of this conservatory son. He got entangled in people's legs, strange dogs snapped at his
side, a hodgepodge of exotic smells such as he had never known excited and addled his wits, the lure of corners drenched in the perfume of past adventures attracted him irresistibly, and he hesitated. He could catch up with the tram as it thundered along the rails, but, unfortunately, he usually attached himself to an impostor that, as it happened, was absolutely identical to the one he sought. Baushan would then run in entirely the wrong direction, straying ever further into this strange, insane world, and it would be two days before he found his way, famished and limping, back to the peace and quiet of the last house by the river, to which his master in the meantime had also been sensible enough to return.

That happened two or three times, before Baushan finally had enough and ceased accompanying me when I turned left. He can tell the instant I walk out the door what I have in mind: our hunting grounds or the world. He jumps up from the mat under the arched doorway where he awaits my departure. He jumps up, and at that very moment he can guess my intentions. My attire gives it away, the type of walking stick I'm carrying, no doubt also my expression and carriage, the look I merely graze him with, cold and distracted, or direct invitingly
at
him. He understands. He flings himself head over heels down the front steps and does a whirling dance of mute excitement all the way before me to the gate, whenever a positive outcome seems assured. He cringes and flattens his ears, on the other hand, the light in his face sputtering, dying out in sorrow and ruination, whenever his hopes are dashed, and his eyes well over with the sort of meek wretchedness that misfortune calls forth in the faces of both man and beast.

There are times when he refuses to accept the sad truth before his eyes, namely that, for now, hunting is out of the question. His desire proves too powerful: he will ignore the external indicators, try not to notice the decidedly urban walking stick, the elevated bourgeois attire of my person. He pushes up beside me on my way through the gate, spins around one hundred and eighty degrees and tries to lure me to the right by taking off at
full speed in that direction, looking back at me, forcing himself to disregard the fateful “No” with which I greet his efforts. As soon as I do turn left, he runs back, loudly snorting and emitting weird little squeaks that vent the extraordinary tension within him. He accompanies me to the end of our front fence and starts jumping back and forth over the railing of the adjacent public grounds by the road, even though that impediment is quite high and he must groan with exertion or risk incurring injury. What motivates him is a kind of desperate gaiety in the face of facts, part of an attempt to bribe me, to win me over with a demonstration of eager skill. Though unlikely, it isn't impossible, at least not utterly, that at the end of the grassy median I might nonetheless depart the city road, turn left and lead him, after a short detour past the mailbox to drop off a letter, into the wide open spaces of the park. This has been known to happen, but not often, and when this hope, too, is extinguished, Baushan sits back down and lets me go.

He sits in the posture of an oafish peasant in the middle of the road, eyes following me down the entire long prospect of the lane. If I look back at him, he pricks up his ears but doesn't run after. Even if I were to whistle and call his name, he wouldn't come, for he knows it's useless. At the end of the lane I can still see him sitting there—a tiny, dark, oafish dot in the middle of the road—and something stings at my heart. I board the tram with nothing less than a pang of conscience. He has waited so long, and we all know what torture that can be! His whole life consists of waiting, waiting for our next walk in the outdoors; no sooner is he rested up from our last one than he begins to wait once more. Even at night he waits, for his sleep is spread over all twenty-four hours of the solar cycle. Little naps on the blanket of grass in our backyard with the sun warming his fur or behind the curtains of his doghouse are absolutely required in order to shorten the many idle intervals in his day. Consequently, his sleep at night is sporadic and fitful. In the darkness he is variously driven over lawn and yard, so that he flings himself first here, then
there, waiting. He waits for the night patrolman with the lantern to come by on his rounds, accompanying, despite knowing better, the man's heavy footsteps with a mournful watchdog howl. He waits for the sky to grow pale, for the rooster to crow from a distant garden, for the morning breeze to stir in the trees and for the kitchen door to open and allow him to slip inside and warm himself by the stove.

However, Baushan's nocturnal torment is mild compared to what he must endure by the light of day, especially in nice weather, winter as well as summer, whenever the sun beckons with thoughts of the outdoors. The need for exercise tugs at his muscles, and his master, without whom nothing can be undertaken, simply refuses to budge from his post behind the glass door. Baushan's nimble little body, so alive with feverish pulse, is completely, indeed overly, rested—sleep is out of the question. He climbs the steps of the terrace to my door, plops down with a sigh that seems to issue from his very depths and lays his head on his paws, gazing up at the heavens with a look of martyrdom. This only lasts a few seconds, and then he has had all, indeed more than he can take and begins to find his situation unbearable. There's still something he can do. He can go back down the steps and lift his leg toward one of the little pyramid-shaped evergreens that flank my rose beds, always the one on the right, which over the years has been corroded by Baushan's proclivities and needs to be replaced. He descends the steps and does that which he has no need of doing but which does serve to pass the time temporarily. For quite a while, despite the ultimate fruitlessness of this activity, he stands on three legs. He stands there until his fourth leg begins to quiver in the air, and he must hop from side to side to maintain his balance. Then he returns to all fours and is no better off. He gazes dully up at two songbirds flitting around in the cluster of aspens, watches the feathered creatures darting rapidly through the branches as though shot from a bow, then turns his back on them with what looks like a shrug at their childish tomfoolery. He stretches and stretches until it seems
he's intent on tearing himself to shreds. For thoroughness's sake he divides this activity into two segments—first extending his front legs with his rear suspended in air, then
vice versa,
his hind legs splayed—and his mouth gapes open the whole time in a wide animal yawn. Then that, too, is over and done with and can't be prolonged. Once one has stretched every muscle, nothing more can be stretched for a while. He stands and stares at the ground, depressed. Then he begins to spin round in slow, searching circles, as though wanting to lie down but not knowing how. In the end he changes his mind and moves off lethargically to the middle of the lawn, where he flings himself down with a sudden, almost violent motion, vigorously scrubbing his back to and fro on the freshly mown grass, cooling it. This must produce a powerful feeling of ecstasy, for he rolls around with paws clenched, snapping up in all directions at the air in a frenzy of fulfilled passion. Indeed, he tastes all the more eagerly of this pleasure, drinking it to the dregs, because he knows that it won't last. One can only roll around like that for ten seconds at most, and he knows that what follows is not the beneficial exhaustion one gets from joyful exercise, but the disillusionment and double emptiness with which one pays for intoxication and numbing excess. He lies there on his side like a corpse, with eyes rolled. Then he gets up and shakes himself off, shakes himself off as only a dog can, without fear of concussion, every part of him rattling and clattering, his ears slapping against the underside of his chin and his lips flanging out from his gleaming white teeth. And what then? He stands motionless on the scene, lost to the world, and has no idea at all what to do with himself. Under these circumstances he resorts to a desperate measure. He climbs the terrace steps, approaches the glass door, and, ears flat, a truly beggarly expression on his face, lifts one tentative paw to scratch. He scratches only once, quite softly. Nonetheless, his demurely lifted paw touches my heart, for he has only decided upon this single gentle scratch after reaching his wits' end. I get up to open the door and let him in, though I know that it will come to
no good. And sure enough, right away he starts jumping around in dances of exhortation to manly sporting endeavor, completely disarranging the rug and messing up the study. With that my concentration is gone.

Now judge for yourself how easy it is for me, having seen how Baushan has waited, to ride off in my tram and leave him sitting there, a sad little dot all the way at the other end of the lane! In summer, when the days are long, his misfortune is hardly so great, since my evening walk may at least take me into the open fields, so that despite a most difficult wait, Baushan will reap the reward of his patience and, hunter's luck willing, get to chase a hare after all. In winter, though, the game is up if I take the noon train, and he must bury all hope for another twenty-four hours. For then, by the time I take my second walk, night has long since fallen, our hunting ground lies shrouded in inhospitable darkness, and my only remaining route takes me through the artificially lit areas upstream, the streets and grounds maintained by the city, which are hardly the thing for Baushan's instincts and simple sensibilities. In the beginning he came along but soon gave up and remained at home. It wasn't just that he couldn't see far enough to romp around—the contrast between light and dark made him skittish. Every person, every shrub startled his muddled wits. A night watchman's cape billowing in the wind would make him leap aside and start howling, whereupon, with a courage born of sheer terror, he would take a run at the likewise deathly frightened officer, who would try to compensate for the shock he had suffered by dispatching a streak of crudely threatening invectives in Baushan's and my direction. And that's nothing compared to the unfortunate incidents we've had on nights of fog. — Apropos the night watchman, I'd like to add here that there are three types of people to which Baushan is absolutely averse: policemen, monks and chimney sweeps. He simply can't abide them and will bark furiously when one or the other passes by our house or any other time that they somehow come into view.