Contents
And here's to you, Mrs Robinson
Breakfast is ready! (Vee loves Gee)
La brigade canine de Gigi: The hole story |
There definitely was a hole in our relation. A hole that always reminded me of my first raincoat.
It was the yellow plastic kind and it got a hole almost as soon as it was offered to me, on a Christmas day. My father, a serial smoker that used to leave his signature on many places around our house (tablecloths and the WC flush were his favourite ashtrays) brought it to me only days after I received it, a cigarette in his hand, with a hole and a smile on his face. He always had a blur vision of things, living in a cloud of happiness made of his own cheap cigarettes' smoke. I bet he still smokes where he rests nowadays, at least that's what I think when I see grey clouds in the sky.
I must have been around ten years old by that time, but that particular raincoat, autographed by my father in his unique manner, was more than a piece of plastic to me: it was more like a book, because so didactic. For example, this was the first time I realised that not all holes are repairable. That some things cannot be undone, glued or mended. And I could live with that, but what most bothered me, what still confuses and perplexes me is the fact that, although nine times out of ten a small hole is of small significance and the raincoat will keep wind and cold outside, there comes this one time when a hole matters. A time that even if you may want to ignore it, you can't.
When rain comes.
And it rains a lot in Canada. Especially around Christmas, when I sometimes wished I had a new raincoat. A brand new, weatherproof raincoat to keep me from the blistering cold, the cold rain, a magical shield to protect me from the Christmas cards, the Christmas carols and the shopping frenzy. This whole pack of days when one has to be merry. You see, I always thought Christmas is overrated and should be summarized into fewer days, less eating, less giving and taking and mainly, less thinking. Less exposure to all those dark thoughts that penetrate my mind, permeate my existence and leave me soaking wet in the night, even under my thick blanket (my wife uses a thinner one).
But I don't have a new warm raincoat. And we spend, me and my wife, our childless Christmas around a plastic tree. She reads her book and I read mine, on our two identical sofas facing each other, a burning candle on our table separating us. From time to time, I secretly look at her. In the beginning I always hoped she'd look back, and I'd return something sweet: a smile, a wink. And it's true, in the beginning, a long time ago I must admit, she sometimes did. But I never catch her looking back any more. I mean , if she ever did, our eyes would meet, I'd cross her taking secret glimpses at me from time to time. This never happens. We seldom talk, or exchange views about our books, pretending to be absorbed by reading, not disturbing our concentration, enjoying a cosy moment while burning incense and listening to classical music bought in the mall.
On the other hand, speaking has never been our strength. Even when we did speak, it always left me with the impression that our dialogues were too short, were missing the point, were fragments of reality and not the whole truth. Mind you, I am not an eager talker either, but still, our talks always had the effect on me that you sometimes get when your internet connection is cut-off in the middle of sending an email. You can always start over, but many times you just don't. Your eagerness to start again is not as important as your reluctance to repeat yourself.
Our verbal exchanges nowadays go mainly around practicalities. And then, when practical things are solved, we succumb to simple, sterile pleasures: a light meal, strictly one glass of wine and politeness of the taciturn kind. Dialogues interrupted by silences a fraction too long, like in those difficult to grasp films where the director could not keep your interest with an interesting dialogue and rather lets you fill in the voids. Phrases interrupted with vacuums a bit too long. What I mean is, imagine I said something and you reacted after one second. A normal reaction. One that shows that nothing else is underlying your answer apart from the meaning of the words you used. And now imagine I said something and you reacted after three seconds. It makes a world of a difference. Three seconds amount to nothing when it comes to your daily commuting, your working hours, your daily exercise. And yet, three seconds in a conversation may imply a thousand hidden things, most of them unpleasant, I have always felt. For example indifference, the kind that gets us when we don't care about others, just like when you forget other people's names because you don't care about them. Or distraction, when someone has not been listening. And even worse, discouragement, when someone feels lost in an eternal, vicious circle of self-repeating misunderstandings over nothing and everything at the same time, when one feels one has tried one too many times in the past. Our discussions nowadays, when they happen, always seem to be carried away, even when it comes to simple things as filling our grocery list.
It was one of those typical Canadian Christmas evenings, when the colour blue starts disappearing from the sky and the scenery becomes grey-scale. Silence and snowflakes cover everything and the only moving thing one can see outside for one more short moment is the neighbour's chimney smoke and, on a clear day, a big, silent moon.
Our ritual had reached the moment of our glass of wine. It was going to be red wine of course, because like every Christmas eve we celebrate with pâté zakuskis as hors d' oeuvre. Monique will have strictly three and if I suggest one more, she'll refuse. Then we'll pass to our dinner table, dressed on its best tablecloth, we'll bring our candle and our glasses of wine and we'll have our silent dinner, which is always stuffed turkey. She'll bring it from the kitchen on a plate and I will distribute it without exaggerating: she'll have one little piece from the chest and will remove the skin, I'll have the leg and fearing her disapproving remarks ("Méfiez-vous, Jean-Guy, on n' est plus ce que on était!"), I'll only add two potatoes. However, dessert is always a moment of surprise: it can either be baked pears with cinnamon and honey, or chocolate flan. But we try to keep the cadence and alternate every year.
This ritual, religiously respected for all our years together, was once again self-repeating itself that year, until something very rare for us happened. The doorbell rang.
I know what you're thinking. And I can imagine your doorbell rings quite often, but ours never does. After 25 years in the same neighbourhood, we have practically no relations with our neighbours, and I sometimes get the idea they avoid us. In the early years, their children would come and sing Christmas carols on Christmas and New year's eve, but not any more. They seem to bypass us. I say that because sometimes I can faintly hear them singing somewhere near: their song, their laughter, their happy voices, the clinking of coins, then the same thing again, voices becoming more distant every time as they go on singing next door, but never our door. I have many times tried to understand why they don't come to us, yet cannot find any particular reason. It makes me rather sad. I don't care for the rest of the year, but on Christmas day I somehow do.
"Oh, ne vous en faites pas, Jean-Guy, ils viendront un jour!", says Monique, without leaving her book or looking at me for that matter. And although I feel as if I cannot afford to wait for that day, I always prefer not to get tangled in one of those lengthy conversations that will definitely ensue if I dare open my mouth and ask : "But will I still be there?"
So when the doorbell rang that day, I almost spilled my wine under the disapproving eyes of Monique as I rushed without even thinking about it to the door for the Christmas carols!
What followed is something so surreal that I can only try to describe it, something so far beyond imagination that I feel blessed to have been part of it, after having led such a foreseeable non-life .
On our threshold were four dogs. Three of them were smiling, the fourth seemed more sullen. There was something "human" about them, and by that I don't mean human in the sense humanity, of being good: I simply mean that something in their expression made them look like human beings! They were smiling and looking at me as human beings when dogs are not supposed to smile in the first place.
It was a bit spooky, I must admit. But I thought I was wrong, I thought I was misinterpreting their appearance, probably under the influence of my glass of wine, or I had seen too many cartoons and movies, where animals always behave in an almost humanly manner. Although deep inside I knew it wasn't that…Because, let me assure you: the day you see a dog smile at you and it's not in a Pixar movie, you will also feel awkward and maybe a little scared.
The question is, what do you do after? Because you may know exactly what to do, how to behave when the door rings and you see your neighbour's children that have come to sing Christmas carols, but you probably have not a clue how to react when four smiling dogs ring your bell. And then speak with a human voice!
Because this is what happened immediately after. I hardly had time to realise what was happening, and they spoke with a human voice that this time left no doubt that I was witnessing something quite extraordinary on my doorstep…
What follows is a description of my rather vain attempt to adapt myself to the surreal, a visit than lasted more than that moment and that let me live the happiest moments of my life.
"Merry Christmas!", they said in a voice and they kept on smiling, as if all was normal. "We're here for the Christmas carols!"
I was speechless of course. I looked around disbelieving, thinking this was some kind of joke, like the hidden camera or the children of the neighbours having me on. The dogs must have felt my disbelief, and as I was walking around to see if someone was hiding behind the hay, I heard a voice:
"Hey, Mister, it's just us! We are the Sultans of swing and we sing Christmas carols, that's all there is to it! "
I came back to the porch and remained voiceless for some more time.
"Mister, are you deaf?", I heard one of them asking.
"Could they be stuffed and made in China?", I asked myself. The kind of Christmas toys you can buy nowadays almost everywhere.
"What are you?", I managed to utter after a moment that may actually have been more than just one moment, in a rather angry voice.
"Weeee are the Sultans of swing and weeee play music!", said the more sullen one, in a radio commentator's voice.
"Yeah right. And I am Alexander the Great!" I barked.
"You disbelieving human!", said then the finest of them (a female, I thought, probably given her accusing tone), "you just barked to us! What makes you think we can't talk?"
"Well, you got a point there, but this is the way it is: humans talk humanish and dogs talk doggish, therefore we don't really communicate from a linguistic point of view, is what it is!", I said, a bit more careful with the tone of my voice that time.
They looked at me with eyes that seemed a bit sad now. What had I said?
“Listen, I don't mean to be rude, really. But this is weird,”, I said. “On Christmas eve it's children that sing Christmas carols, not dogs!”
Then the sultans looked at each other, and the gravest of them, who seemed to have the attitude of a leader, the Sultan of the Sultanate in a way, said:
“As you wish. Have a nice evening Sir!" And then: "Let’s go, ladies and gentlemen!”
And off they were.
“Wait!”, I said. “I'm sorry. Please stay, I am really sorry! Please, sing the Christmas songs! I'd very much like to hear you singing!”
But they kept going, and I know how this seems weird, but all of a sudden I felt very sad, as if I was making a very big mistake: you don't just send away dogs that want to sing to you the Christmas carols, do you? I don't know if it was them leaving me that made me feel sad, the only living creatures that had made it to my door the last years, or the fact that I realised I would now have to turn around, close the door and face the rest of the foreseeable dinner with Monique. And so it is that, in a last effort to let some light come in my life -and I know this will seem even more weird- I barked, really, this time, for the first time: it seemed like the natural, the ony thing to do to get them back. They had offered to sing in my language, I had to show them I wanted as well to communicate with them, that I was also making an effort.
“Woof woof woof!”, I barked, trying to make it sound real.
They slowed down a bit, hesitating. I saw them looking at each other, then looking at the Sultan. My barking seemed to have worked!
They seemed surprised at first. Then the Sultan looked at them, nodded, and they all started coming back. God was forgiving with me that night!
“Sir, you seem to not be aware of the finesses of the doggish language, but we appreciate your effort and we'd be glad to sing to you the Christmas carols. Are you ready, boys and girls?”
Then they took out of their sack a Santa Claus hat for each of them, put it on their heads, cleared their voices in a very professional manner and, taking it all too seriously I thought, they started singing this to me!
They seemed to know very well how to do this. They looked happy. And this time, my eyes were really blurred by tears. I felt moved in a way difficult to describe with words. I felt as if the sorrow, the suppressed longing for human (in this particular case canine, but you know what I mean) contact was all coming out at once. I felt as if I had just come out of the desert and found water, as if I was drowning and someone had pulled the last minute my head out of the water.
“Are you OK, Sir?” asked the chief Sultan with a worried look when the song was over.
“Oh, I'm sorry, yes, I am OK! I might even say, I have never been better on a Christmas day! But there is something I don't get. Actually, there's much I don't seem to understant tonight, and one of them is, if you can speak like a human person, why do you sing the Christmas carols barking? ”
There was a silence. They were looking at me with a big question mark in their eyes. Then, at last, the Sultan spoke:
"Why, when you travel to another country, do you always speak the other language?"
I swallowed my language. There was not much I could have said anyway, because more tears came out, and I could not speak at all, but they seemed to understand, and let me cry it out for a while. And then, when I finally managed to pull myself together, one of them, the female one, came closer, placed her legs on my chest -exactly as dogs do when they have walked in mud and you wear a clean shirt- and licked my tears away! She looked me in the eyes and said nothing. I mean, she said nothing with words. Because I think this has been the most penetrating look I have had in my life: when someone looks you that way in the eyes, you know it is the first time, even if it is a dog, it's as simple as that. It did feel very, very weird, but I felt warmed and better, as if somebody had put a compress in my wound.
“Please, don't take it wrong,” I said, “but since it is the first time that dogs sing to me the Christmas songs, I haven't got a clue how to please you. Would you be kind enough to help me with that? What should I do now? Should I give you money? Something to eat?”
“You know," spoke the female that had just licked my tears, “there is this scene I particularly like in Alice in Wonderland, when Alice meets the Cat at a crossroads and asks him, can you help me and tell me which way I should go now?, and the cat answers, it depends where you want to go, and then she goes like, I don't much care where, and then the Cat says, Then it doesn't matter which way you go!”
“Wow, I am impressed! Not only you can speak, but you can also read it seems!”
“Oh, don't be a fool! One learns those things together, remember?”
“You got a point there. But why that story? What has it got to do with my asking you how I can please you?”
“Well, I'll tell you why. Because to me you look like Alice right now!”
“Like Alice? You mean, lost?”
“No, not yet anyway. But in your own, private version of the story, you will soon have to choose a path. And THEN you may get lost.”
“Then I guess, too bad you are not the Cat.”
“Well, nobody's perfect!”, barked instantly another dog, a fat and seemingly harmless sultan with a smile that if he were a real human would make you want to hang out with him.
“Why, should I see an unfulfilled wish in that?”
“Yes, YES!”, he answered, nevertheless behaving in a very doggish manner, his tongue hanging out and panting.
“Oh, I see. I mean, I understand: you'd prefer to be a cat. It's like when you are gay, with humans. You'd like to be someone of the opposite sex.” And I immediately realised my mistake. But this dog seemed to be too good to get angry with me.
“Eh?”, he looked at me baffled, while the other one, the one that had just licked me was looking at me with reprimanding eyes, telling me I had just missed another opportunity to remain silent.
“No”, she said. “It's like he wanted to be someone else, like a dog that would rather be a cat. Don't you ever read human literature? Humans that would like to be as free as a bird? Soap series, women that would like to become a small mouse and fit in their lover's suitcase when he has to go on a trip? It can really happen to anyone you know!”
It was getting serious. I really did not know what to say. I was confronted on Christmas eve on my doorstep by what seemed to be a highly intellectual canine brigade and had started being defeated on all fronts of this surreal reality show.
“Listen, it is cold outside. Would you like to come inside?”, I asked, as a way out of the impasse of our conversation. They all looked towards the chief. He looked back at them. It looked as if he did not know what to decide and yet as though the rest of them wanted him to nod and come in.
“I don't want to push, but I really have some sausages cooking in the fireplace and I have to go inside or we won't have dinner tonight!”.
You understand I had to come up with a lie. An innocent, good-willed lie. I was ready to assume the responsibility, but later... And they all started coming silently in the house, their happy tails in the air, sniffing all the corners and advancing very carefully. I followed them with a smile as big as Mickey Mouse and silently closed the door behind us. Doing that I saw the dog that wanted to be a cat briefly peeing in the corner of our corridor. The Sultan gave him a lethal look.
"Oh, it's OK, don't worry, we've had dogs before", I lied. "Woof woof", I said in my best manners and I smiled. They did as well, although in an embarrassed manner.
I had definitely started getting familiar with the nuances of the canine language...
It suddenly occurred to me I would now have to prepare a lengthy and convincing explanation for Monique who somehow attached more importance to her clean table, our sterilised house and her stuffed turkey that was waiting us than to hosting four human-behaving dogs. Preparing sausages was just inconceivable. I realised that after two decades of marriage, and while I was getting significantly better at conversing with dogs, I still did not possess the nuances to her own, human language...
I did not realise it then, but now I know well that when we entered the living room I was already over the crossroads in Alice in Wonderland. As I see now, that must have been the meaning of that Vanessa's wink as we got in...
Monique looked up bending her head down and looking up over her glasses, in this very characteristic manner older people like us with correction spectacles do.
“Mais, Jean Guy, on n' est pas un zoo iciiii!”, she said in a scornful but retained manner that presumed I had done something wrong and I had to make things go back to normal asap.
“Monique, it is not what you think”.
“Vous m'avez déjà dit ça plusieurs fois dans le passé, Jean Guy, mais vous vous souvenez qu' à la fin, c' était toujours ce que je pensais...”
“I know, Monique, and I am really sorry, but that was back in ninety three and tonight we have guests for dinner!”
“Jean Guy, arrêtez IMMEDIATEMMENT avec vos niaiseries et venez continuer votre repas tout de suite!”
I looked back to the sultans. One word from the chief and they'd all go away...
“Monique, please listen to me for once, these are my friends. They look like dogs, but speak with a human voice. Please, try and understand!”.
“Mais vous être en train de la perdre complètement, mon pauvre Jean Guy? Des chiens avec une voix humaine? Vous me faites rire, Jean Guy: ha-ha”, said she in a constipated manner . She had this irritating habit to pronounce the syllables “ha-ha” to indicate she understood something was supposed to be funny, but she never, ever really laughed in the way humans -and some dogs- do.
“Une correction, Messieurs Dames”, said then the chief Sultan in his grave voice. "We don't just look like dogs, we ARE dogs, with a human voice. One could say we are educated beyond the usual canine norms:we are foreign-languages-loving dogs.”
Indeed, I thought, they even speak French!
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!", cried Monique and let her book fall. She seemed startled and for the first time of her life I thought she had lost her mask. “Ils parlent vraiment! Mon Dieu, que va-t-on faire maintenant?”, she started muttering.
“How about dinner?”
She stood there speechless, her hands trembling.
“Yes , YES, food!”, answered the three of them, while the fourth, the one with the permanent smile and the golden tooth went: “Woof, woof!”, and immediately excused himself for speaking doggish.
“Mais vous êtes devenu complètement fou, Jean Guy? Dinner avec ces béstioles?”
“Monique, these are my friends and I have invited them over for dinner, and this time there is no other way this is going to be. Do I make myself clear?”
She looked at me with despise. I knew that look very well. It meant: it's not because I back down on this one that I will not come back to you and have it my way next time.
But how could I be afraid, having not one but four dogs to protect me?
“Please, have a seat, I'll bring everyone a set”, I said turning to the dogs, while at the same time thinking how to repair my lie: we had no sausages in the fridge, Monique found this was food meant, well, for dogs.... Vanessa, the mind-reading dog with a human voice immediately read my thought and with a wink said:
“Turkey's fine with us!”
Feeling thankful, I pulled her chair before everyone else's, asking her in a very gentlemanly way to please have a seat. She seemed to find this natural. Monique definitely did not: she was on the point of having a nervous attack and has started giving out strange sounds that one had to interpret as crying. As for myself, I was seriously beginning to have fun!
We sat, the five of us, around the table, while Monique remained by the fire, silently sobbing in her usual non-relieving way. Crying had always been her way of attracting attention, sort of an ultimate weapon when nothing else worked. No wonder that after all these years of fake sobs crying could not have its healing effect on her or its soothing effect on me any more, or even attract my attention for that matter. I suddenly felt sorry for her, yet already miles over the crossroads...
I served everybody a slice of turkey. Apart from the female, they did not wait for me to sit before starting. While I was serving them, the ones already served ate with the slurping noise dogs make when they eat in a bowl. At the end, I realised that before I sat back to my place, they had all devoured their slice!
“Can we lick the juice?” , they asked. With the corner of my eye I think I saw Monique faint.
“Of course we can! You don't mind if I join you?”
“Oh, no, not at all, please feel at home!”, said the chief Sultan in a conspiring tone.
And we attacked the juice, them with their tongues, I with chunks of bread. I ate as many potatoes as I could -my guests were eating like wolves, which technically are of course their ancestors- and I barely had time to cut more slices of bread. Soon there was nothing left but bones and leftovers.
“I hope you have had enough!”, I asked, feeling already a happy, free man ready to explode from too much eating.
“But it's not over yet!”, said the Sultan, surprised.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“The meal. It's not over yet!”
“You mean, should I get you something from the fridge? There's more, if you're really hungry!”
But before I finished my sentence, I knew what he meant. After the leftovers, the dogs had attacked the bones...
I had once heard a friend saying that aquarium fish cannot control themselves and if by accident you feed them too much fish-food, they eat it all and die. I was beginning to ask myself whether this was not going to happen with the Sultans. They kept cracking the bones until there was nothing left. By times they had to cough the really hard parts out, making me fear they were in the verge of asphyxia, only to recover instantly and continue eating, to my pleasure and surprise. But when the Sultan started chewing his plate trying to figure out whether it was eatable, I decided it was time to pass to the digéstif.
And here's to you, Mrs Robinson
“Would you care to join me in the living for a liqueur?”, I asked. “In your case, may I suggest an Underberg? The best digéstif for a heavy stomach!”
They all followed me with a hazy look that suggested they badly needed not only a digéstif but a nap as well.
Monique was still on the sofa. In front of her lay our Christmas evening wine bottle, empty. She had drunk it all. Her presbyopy spectacles had dropped almost at the level of her mouth in a way that makes people look even older than they really are, and her mouth was half open. She lay inclined and snored, her book on her lap.
“Is she dead?”, asked the chief.
“Oh, no, I really don't think so. She is just dreaming of a better life!”
“And what would that life be?”
“How would I know?” I said, a bit perplexed.
“Well, is she not your wife?”
“She is!”
He kept on staring at me with his sober look, until Vanessa intervened, saving me from losing face:
“What about this digéstif? Is it coming“
Thank you Vanessa, I thought.
“Oh, don't even think of it!”, she said.
“Think of what? Did I say something?”, I asked full of surprise.
“No, but you did think of something, did you not?”
“Indeed, but how would you possibly know what?”
“Your eyes”.
“My eyes?”
“Yes, your eyes. I like your eyes”.
I looked at her. She had beautiful eyes too, but there was no way I could imagine what she was thinking. It was getting rather late, and I decided it was definitely time for our Underberg.
I opened our buffet and took out our finest liqueur glasses, always controlling with the corner of my eye Monique who seemed to be closer to a coma than to her failed Christmas evening.
“May I ask you something?”, I asked, while they were slurping their digéstif with their tongues in our too-small-for-dogs glasses. “Civilized dogs as you must have a name! May I know your names?”
“Of course! I am Woofman Jack and Iiiiiiiiii plaaaay muuuusic”, said the Sultan. I thought I had heard this voice somewhere, only could not exactly remember where.
“I am Tae Kwon Dog”, said the somewhat silly looking one with the golden tooth.” My friends call me Dog, and I wish I were a cat.”
“I am Father Benedictus,", said the next one. "My friends call me Buddha though. I was going to be a saint, but failed my exam. I had studied the wrong religion... But I still can give you a blessing any time!”
“And I am Vanessa Orlof Robinson, from the famous Russian dynasty. I understand perfectly Russian but never speak it. Not chic at all...”
“And where does Robinson stick to?”
“Oh, I just added it myself. The Graduate is one of my favourite films!”
“Wow!” I said. “What a herd!”, and I downed my Underberg. And then another one.
I watched them silently as they gathered in front of the fireplace and crouched, preparing to sleep. Similarly I could hardly keep my eyes open any more. Alcohol had mounted on my head and I had not a clue whether I was dreaming already. A slow music kept playing in the stereo lulling me sweetly, when I heard the voice of Vanessa:
“Will you dance this one with me?”
“Pardon?”, I muttered, half asleep.
“Voulez vous danser avec moi?”
“What do you mean? Dance? Do you dance?”
“Of course I do. And this is one of my favourites!” It was “Love me tender”, from Elvis Presley.
“Really?”, I replied, not knowing quite well what to think. “OK, let's dance then!”.
And it was like this that I danced for the first time of my life with a bitch, a real one! Vanessa lifted her front legs and placed them on my chest. She followed quite carefully my steps and kept looking at me. Her eyes never let mine. It was a bit awkward. It reminded me of my first teenager parties, when the girls that accepted to dance with me always kept a safety distance with their arms extended and never let me get too close. Vanessa's front legs, the ones she used as arms to hold me, were actually pushing me slightly back with the weight of her body as I tried not to fall back.
"You haven't told me your name!", asked Vanessa.
"Jean Guy, but my friends call me Gigi. My name is Gigi. Jean Guy was Monique's idea, she thought Gigi is for gays".
"Gigi? What kind of a name is this?" She was smiling again, and it still made me a bit freaky.
"The ice cream kind, I guess My parents had an ice cream parlour. They were Italians. Died of diabetes. I always bring candies instead of flowers when I visit them."
"And? Has everything worked out for you since then?"
She was looking at me with inquisitive eyes, and it felt weird: was I being interviewed? No, there was definitely more in this look than pure curiosity.
"What do you think, Vee?", I said, trying to respond to her openness.
She turned her head towards Monique, then looked at me and answered:" Woof woof".
"Could you translate? You speak my language, but I don't speak yours!", I said, a bit irritated.
"Woof means yes, but two woof mean no. Sooner or later you will have to get familiar with doggish though!"
As we were slowly turning while dancing close to each other -as much as her front legs allowed- I was now facing Monique, still asleep on the sofa. Saliva was dripping out of the edge of her mouth.
"You know, Vee,", I said, "in the beginning I thought you were Chinese-made Christmas dogs on Duracell batteries. I've seen a commercial on the TV. But four real dogs smiling, singing and speaking English is not really my cup of tea. And yet, I'm over it now. But I have another thing torturing my spirit now: are you an incarnated human?"
"I am just a dog, Gigi, how would I know?"
"You seem to read my mind so perfectly that I see no reason why you could not be a reincarnated professional fortune-teller!".
"Oh dear… Maybe…But it doesn't happen with everybody: It's just your mind that I can read. Your eyes…Anyway, talking about reincarnation, what do you think Monique is going to be in her next life?"
"I am just a human, Vee, how would I know?"
"Oh, come on, can't you at least pretend you're trying?"
I was definitely in no position to try, or even think for that matter. My head was turning from too much alcohol, and what was happening had started suddenly being too much for one Christmas evening. I was not sure any more that it was me there, dancing with a charming bitch named Vanessa. The rest of the sultans were already asleep.
"I don't know, Vee. An umbrella?".
"Interesting!", said Vanessa, staring at me like a doctor ready to make a diagnose, "do you know what I'd like to be in my next life?"
"I'm dying to learn Vee!”, I replied with my last forces and on the verge of an ethyl coma.
"Your wife!"
It was at this moment that I lost it and fell down, breaking in two pieces our elegant Chinese living-room table. "Monique will kill me!" were my last words before I fell asleep on the carpet like wood. Canadian wood.
I woke up slowly. I had no idea what time it was. The fire in the fireplace was still on, but there was no music playing. I looked around feeling dizzy. The sofa was empty, and I was surrounded by four dogs, looking at me with their tongues hanging out, panting and seeming out of breath, as if they'd just come back from their morning jogging. For a brief moment, I did not understand. I had forgotten.
It all started coming back when they started barking at me, and then licking and sniffing me.
"Woof woof!, WOOF WOOF! WOOF WOOF!", they barked on my face.
"No? No what?", I spoke, suddenly remembering my last night's introduction to dog language.
" Woof woof!, WOOF WOOF! WOOF WOOF!", they repeated.
“But you said two woof is a no! No WHAT?”
Neh, I thought, must have really been a nightmare, none of this really happened. Although I was not quite sure if I'd have preferred it to be true, honestly.
"Oh, come on, it was just a joke! It's us, the Sultans of swing, don't you remember?", said Woofman Jack.
I stood up and sat on the empty sofa, trying to figure out, what does one do when one wakes up and finds out that the four dogs that sang the Christmas carols the day before were not a vision.
I was surprised how one wakes easy back to reality, independently of how weird this reality can be, when it is good!
"So, what's up?", I said, making it sound as cool as possible. "What's for breakfast? I'm starving!"
"Oh man, do you know what time it is?", said Dog.
"I don't care what time it is. I'll tell you after breakfast!"
"OK then, I'll see if there's anything left!". Dog went in the kitchen, and came back with a bowl and pieces of cold turkey leftovers cut in it.
"Hey, what's that? Turkey meat? I can't have that for breakfast! "
"Why? Actually, it's Canadian turkey. We had the same and it was OK!"
"Yes, but I'm not a dog! This is not healthy for me! And I know it's from Canada, I bought it!"
"OK, let me see what I can do."
Dog went back to the kitchen and came with the same bowl and the same turkey meat. He had added milk and corn flakes in it.
"Is it healthy now?", he asked, smiling.
"Are you serious? You really think I am going to eat it now?"
He looked at me with questioning eyes and I realised he was just giving it his best. Then Vanessa appeared.
"Good morning dear! Slept well?"
"On the carpet, but OK as a whole. Where's Monique by the way?"
"Oh, she left".
"What?"
"You heard me, she left. She said she could never forgive you for smashing the living room table or share you with a dog. Tae Kwon Dog thought she meant him and did not appreciate the scornful way she spoke his name and started growling and menacing with Tae Kwon Do poses. Poor woman, she hardly had time to pack!"
I rushed to our bedroom. Indeed, Monique was not there. Buddha had taken her place and was sleeping blissfully with a loud snort. Vanessa came behind me. There was a perfume smell in the bedroom.
"Oh, that!", she said. "I sprayed some of her perfumes in the air. Buddha suffers from bad breath. I was not sure whether you were not going to come back here and sleep the rest of the night in your bed".
Monique had left, without her perfume. She definitely was in a hurry…
"Shall I make coffee for you?", offered Vanessa.
"Please do. Make it strong please!", I said, and thought, this is going a bit too fast, like a roller-coaster that scares you and thrills you at the same time.
"Oh, don't be afraid, everything's going to be OK", said the mind-reading dog.
I was sitting in my usual breakfast position, facing the window to our garden. Monique's place was empty.
"Do you mind if I join you?", asked Vanessa.
"Please, make yourself at home!"
She sat in front of me with her front legs extended on the table.
"Is my coffee good? I made it strong and short. Ristretto. You definitely look the ristretto type of person."
"Why, did you read my mind again?"
"No, I saw your Nespresso capsules in the cupboard. Ristretto, all of them, what else? I just used one of them. I guess the decaf were Monique's"
"Yes…"
"Does not surprise me. Do you know that decaf can cause constipation?"
"Really?", I answered. "I did not know that".
"She neither it seems", said Vee with a smile.
"Oh come on, it's not her fault. She just couldn't help being anything but herself. Don't be so quick in judging others!"
"Sorry, Gee…", said Vee, and put her foot, or rather her hand I should say, on mine. She was piercing me with her eyes. There was something energising in them, but I could distinguish a touch of concern in them.
"Are you Ok Vee?", I asked.
"I just want to take care of you Gee, that's all. I haven't quite figured out how exactly, but I will…"
No bitch had ever said that to me…
In the days that followed, our life seemed to become normal again. And by normal I mean, I had to get back to work while the Sultans remained home, at least most of the time. I am fully aware that nothing of what had happened or was happening was normal, in a normal sense of things, but it definitely was normal compared to what had happened between Christmas and New year, a situation that resembled more a children's movie than an adult's life.
This is a brief description of our daily routine. Around five o'clock I would come home, not quite sure of what I was going to encounter. But this is what I'd find most days:
Jack had been using my computer, downloading music from various sites I strongly disapproved of. Although a real music guru, this dog remained a digital illiterate and could not understand that clicking on everything that comes your way on the Internet is not recommendable. You could of course say, most dogs are not computer geniuses either, but I somehow forgot most of the time to judge the Sultans by canine standards and saw them as real humans, since other dogs would never use a computer in the first place. When I'd enter my room, I'd always find him with my headphones adapted below his ears (all earphones, without exception, are made according to human standards), singing loudly with a cigarette voice -that was his normal voice though- without realising it. Sometimes, as I came in, he would not see me and I'd stay a bit and listen to what he was singing. It was always music of the seventies. Songs like "Tie a yellow ribbon round the old oak tree", or "Dark lady", or even "Seasons in the sun", which seemed to provoke a strange, sad mood afterwards on him. Then, when he'd suddenly realise I was standing behind him, he'd always switch screen quickly, each and every time demolishing a bit more my keyboard with his toes as he was trying to hide swiftly the screen, and then he'd look at me innocently and say:
"Let me make it clear, I was not downloading porn, I was just listening to the weather report, OK?", to which I'd smile and close the door and return down to the living, trying to see what else awaited me.
And, on an average day as I said, Dog would be sitting on the sofa watching either Desperate wives, or old episodes of Alf the Alien on the television. He particularly liked the ones where Alf tries to eat Lucky, the Tanners' cat, and sometimes I'd catch him trying to warn the cat loudly that something bad was bound to happen: "Run, Lucky, run!", or "Shame on you, Shumway, eat something decent instead!". He did all that while at the same time eating non-stop popcorn on my sofa, the one that once belonged to Monique, the sofa that had seen better days when it could never, ever be used for such humble purposes as eating unhealthy stuff as buttery popcorn on it. Then, when he was done, he'd just throw his bag on the floor and have a nap on the same sofa, which he used as a bed as well. I have not an exact idea what he was dreaming, but he often meowed while sleeping. He once told me, if he were a film-star, he'd like to be Topcat. When I said I'd rather see him as Garfield, he first seemed perplexed (I always thought he was a bit on the slow side to be honest), but later seemed to like the idea more and more, when I told him that Garfield is definitely much richer than Topcat, who despite an ingrown leadership-charisma and charm, lives in a garbage bin, under a telephone pole.
As for Buddha, it was never difficult to spot him. One had only to follow the smell of incense. He always used incense and Chinese sticks to evoke spirits, to the point that, when I got in my garage, which he used as an altar, I could hardly see or breath. With the help of Jack he had installed big, very big woofers and speakers all around and was playing non-stop mantras, while he seemed to be in a constant haze, a karma-coma situation, which he attributed to the presence of spirits and I to mild gas intoxication. Sometimes, when I got in the garage after work to say hello, and after having chased the toxic fumes with my hand, I'd get close to him only to realise he was asleep and comatose, and I think I actually saved him at least three times in extremis from suffocation, which he of course refused later on, saying I had woken him up from the sweetest dream. And when I asked him what this dream was, he said he dreamt he was having coffee with Dalai Lama and they had just began to discuss the delicate subject of him becoming the first official dog-monk ever.
As for Vanessa, I would like to say she remained the most normal of the four Sultans, but I can never be sure, having probably lost the sense of normality myself among the incense, the seventies hits and the pop corn smell that had permeated even the toilet paper.
When I came home, and while I was parking my car outside the garage (because, as I said, Buddha was having a chat with Dalai Lama inside), I'd catch her with the corner of my eye waiting by the living room window. Then, when I opened the door, she'd jump on me and place her head on my cheek. She always did that, since I told her I was not particularly fond of the usual doggish way of kissing, which involved a lot of saliva. She would then follow me to the living room, where we'd sit at the table and chat a while. She'd always bring to me something to drink, or snack: a coffee, when she sensed I was tired, or a whisky, when she saw I was in a dreamy mood, which she'd always try and boost with a second glass of alcohol. And if I only pronounced the word "hungry", she'd rush and bring to me some olives, some cheese, dried fruit or the occasional popcorn, under the disapproving eyes of Dog, who was otherwise too absorbed to really care about us.
Vanessa always asked me how my day had been. She seemed to really care and never tire of my answers, despite of me frequently asking her if this was too much for her. "No", she'd say, "I like to know what is bothering you, so that I can think of something to make you happy when you come home". Then she'd usually disappear in the kitchen where she'd give the final touch to a meal that, I must admit, got better and better with time. She would then bring it to me later on, and we'd sit together and I would eat silently, she watching me with her beautiful eyes and quite happy that I liked her cooking so much that I had no time to speak while eating.
Later, when Dog was asleep on the sofa, I'd carry him near the fireplace, place his stuffed toy-cat between his arms, or his upper limbs, as you wish, and I'd return to the sofa where Vanessa had taken his place, and I'd caress her head until she felt asleep. I'd then read my book, careful not to make too much noise, and when I was done, I'd stand up silently, cover her and go to sleep in my room, where Jack was usually having trouble understanding the Windows messages. I'd quickly explain to him, then send him off to the guest's room, and finally render myself to the arms of Morpheus. It sometimes happened that, while I was brushing my teeth, Vanessa came to my room and sneaked under the blanket, and of course I'd let her. Those days I slept the best, most relaxing sleep. She seemed happy in the morning and prepared an even better breakfast in the morning.
Our weekends were a totally different matter.
When spring came, I sold my car and bought a van. It was not the kind of van you may imagine, two seats in front and the rest separated by a net, for the Sultans to stay at the rear. As you must have realised by now, our reality was a bit more complicated than that.
Vanessa made it quite clear she'd always sit in the front. It was more of an order than a question, and all the Sultans agreed, even Jack. But he also had a quest: I had to install a super powerful stereo system, a sort of extreme-makeover thing for deaf people, or dogs for that matter,that, when music played, made my heart beat faster, as if my van was a moving disco. The woofers took most of the place in the rear, but he was so happy when we went around with his seventies music in diapason, that none of us actually dared to spoil his pleasure and turn the music down. One has of course to see things with the eyes of the strangers we crossed during our spring strolls in the blossoming streets of Montreal: a middle aged man with four dogs, actually sitting in the seats and looking very happy listening to songs as “You are my heart, you are my soul”... It does look weird, doesn't it?
In order to diffuse a bit this very strange impression we made I adapted my style to our weirdness. My hairstyle first of all. I let my hair grow and started using Brylcreem to fix my new volume. In the end my head looked like a bird nest, in between Starsky-and-Hutch and Elvis. I found in a flee market a second hand bell-bottoms jeans and tight leather jackets and I bought leather cowboy boots. Somehow I thought I looked less weird in this seventies background music. But of course it was more than my head that made people stare at us.
Buddha, for example, took a like on the open roof of my van. It was made of plexiglas, and although he never admitted it, I am sure it made him feel a bit like the Pope in his Popemobil. He'd stand up, take a very serious posture and distribute blessings to the passers-by. He chose to wear a purple velvet tissue that he wrapped around him like a soutane these days, and when Jack lied to him that in Canada “yo man” is the equivalent of “om” in India, he'd stand up, pass half his body through the open roof and shout “Yo, man!” to the pedestrians, giving a blessing with his upper limbs, under the deafening music that Jack had previously selected. As for Dog, he'd just enjoy the fuss and eat pop corn all the time, waving with a smile to people from his seat and repeat from time to time, “I'm hungry! Are we there yet?”.
In the weekends, our destination was Delphi, a Greek restaurant that looked as kitsch as all the other ones in Montreal: Plastic palm trees, meanders and loud bouzouki music, with mediocre food. The advantage being that it was the only restaurant that accepted to seat us all together. I somehow convinced the management that I was a weird but harmless person living a lonely life with four dogs, and that it was unthinkable for me to let them wait in the car and watch me eat Greek souvlaki through the window. “Dogs do have feelings, you know!”, I said as I pierced half lunatic, half menacing the moustachioed guy that seemed to be the Big Boss, his golden chain barely visible under his chest hair, with my new weekend coiffure and Elvis Presley sunglasses, as if I considered his comprehension a given among weirdos, not quite sure that this would work, but it did! He winked at me and for a moment I thought he might be gay, but anyhow since then he always accepted us with a conspiring wink and a smile full of golden teeth. We'd sit in the rear of the restaurant, and we always ordered the Sunday menu, consisting of unnaturally colored tarama, thick tzatziki that stuck to the tongue like chewing gum and meat, lots of greasy meat that made my Sultans happy. Of course, in the restaurant we pretended to be what we looked like: me as a bizarre myself, them as dogs. I had made it quite clear that, while in the restaurant, mantras and blessings were not allowed, pop corn neither. Vanessa could sit by my side, but that was all, our chat had to wait. I made a point with Jack that he had to help me with discipline, which he did, mainly looking at them severely when they seemed to deviate, especially Dog who always had some popcorn hidden somewhere and Buddha who pretended he had to go to the toilet and at least twice came back with a left-over steak he picked from a plate on his way back.
After the meal, we'd head to old Montreal and walk at the quay. This seemed to happen more naturally, without too much to worry about, although I sometimes had to remind Buddha that no blessings were allowed while we were moving at walking speed. “Looking weird is our right. Behaving weird is freaky and we can't afford it”, I always repeated before our promenades.
When our walk was over, we'd start heading back. They were tired, and it showed. Jack always fell asleep, while Buddha limited himself to blessings from inside the van, which made him look rather like Queen Elisabeth in her limousine on her coronation day, but I never told him. Vanessa was also tired, but she never complained. She'd sometimes put her leg on my hand, as I was driving, and I could feel she was happy. And this made me happy as well. I had never had such a sense of belonging in my previous life, and what other people might think seemed irrelevant. They were funny, we were funny, and this gave a touch full of brio and gusto to my otherwise common life, like some children's drawings that I personally find so much more beautiful than the incomprehensible stuff of well-known painters.
It was on one of those quiet Sunday outings that, as we were coming out of the restaurant, we fell on Monique. I knew that this was more or less inevitably going to happen someday, although every Sunday I hoped it would not be that Sunday. But you know very well how these things end: The future, that Sunday had come. The last time I had seen Monique was on Christmas of the previous year. She had disappeared without a trace since, and I had not gone out of my way trying to find her whereabouts. And suddenly, there I was, coming out of a kitsch Greek restaurant, with an Elvis Presley head and four dogs, one of which was wearing a red velvet tunic, while Dog started meowing (he always did that when he got nervous) and Jack had a nervous fit that resembled a hiccup with unusually short intervals. As for Vanessa, she started immediately growling. That didn't help either...
“Well, at least I know now what people mean by saying “I think I saw Elvis!””, said Monique.
“How are you, Monique?”, I asked.
“Until a minute ago, I thought OK. But I am not so sure any more”, she said.
“Listen, Monique,” I said, “I know you will probably never forgive me, but ours was not the life I wished for myself. I know that what you see does not seem very convincing or even an argument that my present life has got much better, but still, I do feel better. As simple as I can say this”.
“Really? You mean, going around like a born loser, funny sunglasses and all, with four... weird, the least one can say, dogs, one of which wants to replace ME, was your dream, only I had not realised it, or could not help you accomplish?”
I sighed.
“The short answer is Yes, Monique. The slightly longer answer might be, had you ever helped me accomplish anything at all, apart from changing my name to Jean Guy, I might not be wearing an Elvis cape today.”
Dog had stopped meowing and had started growling as well now, and there seemed to be not much time left to solve this argument with Monique.
“You are a pathetic good-for-nothing, you know that? I gave you an orderly life, clean clothes and a decent meal. And look at you. You look like a has-been, one of those morons that really believe Elvis is alive. Have they not fired you yet? I mean, I cannot be the only one who thinks you look ridiculous!”
“I think he looks just fine!”, said Vanessa who seemed to have decided she could not remain silent any more. “We may look funny, but we are not. And if you go on insulting my man like that, you are about to realise exactly what I mean”, she barked.
“Your MAN? Oh, I had forgotten!You must be the little bitch who slept not beside, but actually on my man on Christmas evening! Why, do you really believe you can actually replace a woman in that sense? Or has he gone totally berserk and thinks you really can? Ha!”
Oh no, I thought. She's dead meat now. Thankfully, Jack intervened:
“Please remain calm, ladies. I am sure we can solve this matter in another, more civilised way!”
“And what would exactly this way be, chief? Discuss it over a glass of wine? Or rather, a bowl of dog food?”, asked Monique.
Definitely not the appropriate question.
Because this is when the attack started. Vanessa jumped on Monique and went straight for her throat. I was surprised to see how fast Monique reacted. She leaned aside and, with the dexterity of a real karateka, struck Vanessa with her umbrella on the head. Vanessa retreated for a moment, but then jumped again and with her teeth tore Monique's robe.
“Oh, my God! My new robe!”, shouted Monique. “You bitch! I'll tear you apart!”
“You poor miserable female. Who is the bitch now? Look at you! You lost your man, and all you care about is your robe, your sofas, all that's not him. Good for you!”
Monique looked around worried. All of a sudden she realised what was happening. How she appeared always mattered to her and she looked for a way to go on her way unnoticed, but there was none.
“You are right. You do deserve each other!”, she said, then turned around and left in a hurry. She quickly hailed a taxi, and the argument was over.
“We can always give you a ride!”, barked Jack. “We have nice music too!”
I never saw Monique again, up until the day I write this.
Next morning, I undid my coiffure and as every Monday, headed for my office, as most normal humans do. I knew this Monday was not going to be an ordinary one. After our street fight with Monique, a strange silence had fallen upon us. I had the impression that the three male Sultans were waiting to see how this encounter was going to turn for me and Vanessa. Indeed, that Monday, coming home from office, was the first time I saw the three of them sitting on the sofa silently, watching television. Vanessa was not with them.
That did not look like a good sign...
I said hello and headed straight for the bedroom. Vanessa was there, pretending to be asleep. Pink Martini was playing on the stereo.
“Hi”, I said. “Is everything OK?”
“Oh, you are there?”
“Yes, and you are supposed to smell my scent before I get in and come greet me!”, I said, trying to appear lighter than I really was.
“Very funny”, she said.
“Sorry, I didn't mean it in the demeaning way”.
“Gee, where should we go now?
“Go? Are we going somewhere?”, I asked.
“Oh, come on, be a little romantic!”
“What?”, I said, “why, am I being unromantic?”
“Yes. I mean, remember our first encounter? Alice in Wonderland asking the cat which road she should take?”
“Oh, yes, of course!”
“That doesn't answer my question. What is going to become of us?”
“What do you mean Vee? Is something bothering you? I know yesterday was not the most pleasant day we have had together, but what else could I do? It just happened, and it's over now”.
“Oh Gee, you are so desperately male!”
“What do you mean Vee? I really don't understand you today!”
“I love you Gee, and it's getting the best of me. It's frustrating. We can't be together as I'd like to be with you. I always have to pretend I am just a dog, and you some dog-loving weirdo with strange hair. Are you satisfied as things are between us?”
“I see”, I said, trying to win some time and think of the right answer. I didn't want to hurt her any more than she already was.
“I am satisfied, Vee”, I went on. “Yes, I like you and I love you, but there is not much more anyone can do to change the hard facts: we belong to a different species. We can't expect understanding from normal people, by the way a species to which I frankly don't think I belong totally any more. Our love will always have to remain hidden and unconsumed, but it doesn't matter to me. I am not so young any more and one thing I have learned is, what people want us to do, how they want us to behave, rarely if ever is what makes us happy. I am quite happy with you as things are.”
“But Gee, aren't you unhappy that we can't have children together?”
“Children? Are you serious? I mean, what would they be in the first place? Human beings, or puppies?”
“Very funny!”
“I don't mean to be funny, Vee, but there are limits to the things we can do or have together, and this is not because of me, or you for that matter. We have proved beyond doubt that love is not a human privilege, that love can exist between humans and animals, but no one would be able to push this further! We can't have common descendants, because nature hasn't provided for that, that's all there is to it!”
Vee was silent. I was bombarding her with mere facts, in vain.
“You are right”, she said in the end. “But I do love you. I want you to know this, and never forget it. Promise?” And she looked at me with those beautiful eyes that actual humans rarely have. Her bedroom eyes, although normal humans mean something else by that.
“Promise”, I said, a bit worried. She had never spoken to me like that before. Was she planning something? Because it sounded like a bad omen, this “never forget it”, didn't it?.
“Oh, and something more: I only have bedroom eyes for you!”, said the
mind-reading bitch.
That night I could not fall asleep, and she neither. It was one of those nights when you know the person sharing your bed is not asleep, they know the same for you, but noone chooses to speak.
When I woke up in the morning, she was still asleep. I did not wake her up. I covered her with the blanket and left silently for my work.
I called later to see if everything was OK. There was no answer.
After having called sometimes, at different times, I started worrying. The Sultans never left home without me. And they loved answering the phone, pretending that I had reached the wrong number, answering “Pizzeria Paradiso, pronto!” (their favorite). What had happened?
Leaving my office I had a lump in the stomach. I drove fast, trying to convince myself that it was all going to be OK in a few minutes.
"My love,
(may I call you like that?)
I had to leave.
Being with you is the best thing that ever happened to me. I loved you both as your servant and your wife. I don't mean this in the servile manner, but I am a dog after all, and I know exactly how weird this sounds, but being with you made me feel like a real human being, in a way that I could have never imagined as an animal.
But of course, loving you was from the beginning beyond all logic. I loved you without reason, against all odds and unconditionally at first sight, since I first saw you opening your door to us last Christmas. I did not choose the impossibility of loving you, certain things just happen.
It makes me sad that I will never live to see you get old. Technically speaking, I will live 7 times less than you, which is totally unfair. Because I'd love to be there and take care of you when you need me. Watch you getting old. Bring you your reading glasses, a warm cup of tea, your newspaper. Watch you the evenings as you write. Or simply hear your problems. Calm you down. But most of all: it makes me sad I will never have your children. And I know what you are thinking, with your Cartesian mind: How would that ever have been possible. But I mean something beyond that. I am talking about the sadness of not bearing inside me a part of the one I love. Having with you a living creature that belongs to no one else but us two, a bond that only people who have children understand, a bond that Monique never offered to you. Oh, it would be so nice… I'd take care of you and the ones you love. I'd never lie to you, I'd love you as a loving wife and at the same time as a dog…
Mind you, I don't blame you for anything. All this time, you have tried to reason me, to show me true facts, without hurting me, with your so unique sense of humour. But there came a time when, despite your best intentions, it all started being hurtful: The pain of walking with you without destination started being too much for me. In that sense, you can of course say, all females are the same… I admire your sense of reality, but in the same time it somehow made me feel you never loved me as much as I did. On the other hand, how can one measure, quantify love? How would I know how much you loved me? I am just a dog…
All those months we were together, all those months we grew old together (me unfortunately much faster than you...), I have been watching you, scrutinizing you. I have watched you writing in the nights. As all the people who write, I have the feeling you do this in the belief it will make you feel better, get your demons out of your system. But Gigi, I fear this is not something you'll ever be able to deal with on a machine. You'll have at a certain moment to solve this with humans. Erase your disc, the one in your head, and restart your system. For every minute that passes, this is going to be more complicated.
I often wonder, how does it feel to be you? What do you feel about me? Have I given you a fraction of what I'd love to offer to you? A tiny fraction of pure love, as I think you thirsty for?
My love (I love writing this, and I admit I sometimes secretly speak these words with you in my mind), have no fear, I really have not a clue what you feel about me. But I know your eyes, and you know mine. I hope that when you come across real love again, you'll know what her eyes should look like.
Devoted to you as no human will ever manage,
Vanessa
PS: The sultans, real gentlemen all of them despite a grain -at least- of craziness, each in his own style, decided they could not leave me leave alone and went with me. I know you love them too and I am really sorry about that...
It's Vee. It is Christmas time.
Vee is standing in the kitchen, wearing a plastic apron with cats on it. She is making Christmas cookies with moulds. She's looking at me. She is laughing and looks really happy.
I am not in the picture.
The apron is mine.
We had many happy moments together, but somehow this picture has become my favourite of my time with her. I have not a clue why, although the fact I am not in it hurts. With time, what we thought as the best memory of a relation -a photo, a song, a scent- changes, according to the way we perceive reality in the present moment.
Of course, I can't help thinking what she said to me as she caught me taking the picture:
“Oh, Gee. I wish I had a child with you. He'd be here with me now, and we'd be preparing Christmas cookies for you together! You'd take the picture, you'd be the father!”
Then she went back to making Christmas cookies, alone. As she did that, she turned her look away from me, but I could see her eyes blur a bit, I think.
It has been some years since all this happened.
I never saw the Sultans again. They somehow vanished as surprisingly as they appeared. In the beginning I thought of calling the police, or some society of animal friends, I am sure this exists. But each time I stopped. Because what exactly was I to say? I lost my sultans, my four dogs, and my life is horribly lonely without them? Please help me find them, and you will be compensated? What?
And Vee? Would you call the police if your girlfriend left you, with a letter explaining why?
But mainly, I knew I was never going to find them again. My Sultans were not just domestic animals wandering in the streets. They were far above what we perceive as an animal. They were more real than human. And they were my only friends. You can never force a friend, someone you love, to come back. I respected them too much for that.
And Vee, although biologically impossible, was my love. Yes. Although I'd never tell 911 about it.
I still go to the same places sometimes in the weekend, although it took some time for me to be able to do that. I don't have a funny haircut or bell bottoms any more though. I'd like that, but I don't have them any more and it would look as weird as being naked without them. We were a team. Vanessa was so right the first day when she said, it can happen to anyone, I mean, wanting to be somebody else. We all want to be somebody else, something else. It's just that there are only a few people that let us be that something else.
And then I come back home, and it feels awfully lonesome and boring. I wish someone would abuse my PC, someone would leave dog hair and popcorn on my sofa, someone would read mantras in my garage. I wish someone lived in my house.
And I think of Vee. How she made me happy, just by loving me without reason, beyond reason. I think of her eyes. Of how when I cross the gaze of some other woman, I always think of what she said: That if I ever find real love again, I'll know what her eyes must look like.
And the hours go by, as I kill time in front of a glass of Scotch, thinking how it would have been if she were there.
“Don't be so sad, Gee! I am going to take care of you!”, she would have said.
The end
When I was young, in Athens and other places in Greece with an American military base we used to listen to the American base radio broadcasts. It was a unique, albeit sometimes biased source of info on what happened in the outside world. There was no internet at that time, travelling abroad was not affordable and, depending on the politics, quite restricted as well. I had a small transistor that I used to place under my pillow and listen in the night to the music played by Wolfman Jack. I am sure that his cigarette voice kept many people of my country awake ...
During what I remember as happy years, me, my brother and our father used to stroll on Sundays around Glyfada, the American par excellence suburb of coastal Athens, in our car, a tiny, white Fiat millecento. My brother was sitting in front, having what I thought were serious conversations about his future with my father: I was the junior and had the luxury of sitting behind and just looking around this rather empty part of Athens at that time. During one such stroll around Christmas time,on a sunny, clear but chilly late afternoon, the radio played on AM the Christmas carols sung by dogs. I had to ask my father, who confirmed that the commentator had indeed said it was dogs singing...
Somewhere in Canada there is a bunch of extremely beautiful huskies, doing hard work every day. They have the most beautiful eyes one can ever imagine. The fact that they often have two different colours, one for each eye, makes them look as surreal as this story. One of them was called Vanessa.
As for the rest, this story is inspired by facts and people and animals as real as some of you and I have met.
Any similarity to real persons is unwanted but true, for any person writing a story and maintaining the opposite is not telling the truth.
Mont Tremblant, Christmas 2009, Sifnos, Easter 2010,
and those sleepless nights, a bit everywhere
The story in Word format (The Christmas song may not play if you have a script blocker)
The story in Open Office format