Three Drops of Blood

  The Stray Dog

  (from The Stray Dog)

  Varamin square was made up of several small shops – a bakery, a butcher’s shop, a chemist, two cafés and a hairdresser’s, all of which served to fulfil the most basic needs of life. Beneath the powerful sun the square and its residents were half burnt, half broiled. They longed for the first evening breeze and the shade of the night. The people, the shops, the train and the animals had ceased their activity. The warm weather weighed heavily on them and a fine mist of dust, continually increased by the coming and going of cars, shimmered under the azure sky.

  On one side of the square was an old sycamore tree whose trunk was hollow and rotten but whose crooked, rheumatic branches had spread out with a desperate stubbornness. In the shade of its dusty leaves a large, wide bench had been placed from which two little boys with loud voices were selling rice pudding and pumpkin seeds. Thick muddy water pushed itself with difficulty through the ditch in front of the café.

  The only building which attracted attention was the well-known tower of Varamin, half of whose cracked, cylindrical body and cone-shaped top was visible. Even the sparrows that had built nests in the crevice where bricks had fallen from the tower were quiet from the force of the heat and were having a nap. The moaning of a dog was the only sound to break the stillness at intervals.

  The dog was from Scotland and had a smoky grey snout and black spots on his legs, looking as if he had run through a marsh and been splashed with slime. He had drooping ears, a bristling tail, and matt, dirty fur. Two human eyes shone in his woolly face. A human spirit could be seen in the depths of his eyes. Even in the darkness which had overtaken his life, there was in his eyes something eternal and shining, something which held a message that couldn’t be understood. It was neither brightness nor colour: it was something indefinable. Not only did there exist a similarity between his eyes and human eyes, but also a kind of equality could be seen. Two hazel eyes full of pain, torment and hope, eyes that can only be seen in the face of a wandering dog. But it seemed as if no one saw or understood his pained, pleading looks. In front of the bakery the errand boy would hit him. In front of the butcher’s the apprentice would throw stones at him. If he took shelter in the shade of a car, a heavy kick from the driver’s shoe would greet him. And when everyone else grew tired of tormenting him, the boy who sold rice pudding took special pleasure in torturing him. For every groan the dog gave, he would be hit in the side with a stone. The sound of the boy’s loud laughter would rise above the moans of the dog, and he would say, “God damn.” It was as if all the others were on the boy’s side, craftily and slyly encouraging him and then doubling up with laughter. They all hit the dog for God’s sake, since in their opinion it was quite natural that they should hurt the unclean dog which their religion had cursed and which they believed had seventy lives.

  Eventually, the rice pudding boy’s torment forced the animal to flee down the alley which led towards the tower. He didn’t really flee, he dragged himself with difficulty, on an empty stomach, and took shelter in a water channel. He laid his head on his paws, let his tongue hang out and, half asleep, half awake, looked at the green field which waved before him. His body was exhausted and his nerves were overwrought.

  In the moist air of the water channel a special tranquillity enveloped him from head to foot. In his nostrils the different odours of half-dead weeds, an old damp shoe, the smell of live and dead animals brought to life half-suppressed memories.

  Whenever he looked carefully at the green field, his instinctive desires would awaken, and memories of the past would be brought to his mind afresh, but this time the sensation was so powerful that it felt as if a voice he could hear next to his ear was compelling him to move about, jump and leap. He felt an inordinate desire to run and frolic in the green fields.

  This was his inherited feeling: all his ancestors had been bred among the green open fields of Scotland. But his body was so exhausted that it didn’t allow him to make the slightest movement. A painful feeling mixed with weakness overcame him. A handful of forgotten feelings, lost feelings had reawakened. Once, he had had various duties and responsibilities. He knew himself bound to answer his master’s call, to drive out strange people and dogs from his master’s home, to play with his master’s child, to act one way with acquaintances and another with strangers, to eat on time, to expect being fondled at a certain time. But now all these ties had been removed.

  All of his attention had narrowed down to finding a bit of food, fearfully and tremblingly, in the rubbish heap, while taking blows and howling all day – this had become his only means of defence. Formerly he had been courageous, fearless, clean, and full of life, but now he had become timid, the butt of people’s vengeance. Whatever noise he heard or whatever moved near him caused him to tremble. He was even frightened of his own voice. He had become accustomed to rubbish. His body itched, but he didn’t have the heart to search for fleas or to lick himself clean. He felt he had become part of the garbage, and something in him had died, had gone out.

  Two winters had passed since he had found himself in this hell. During this time he hadn’t eaten a full meal, or taken a peaceful nap. His lustre and passions had been stifled. Not a single person had laid a caressing hand on his head. Not one resembled his master in appearance – it seemed that in feelings, disposition and behaviour, his owner was a world away from these people. It was as if the people he had formerly been with were closer to his world, understood his pain and his feelings better, and protected him.

  From among the smells which assailed his nostrils, the one that dizzied him the most was the smell of that boy’s rice pudding: that white liquid which was so similar to his mother’s milk and which brought to mind the memories of his childhood. Suddenly a numbness took hold of him. He remembered as a puppy sucking that warm, nutritious liquid from his mother’s breast while her warm, firm tongue licked his body clean. The strong odour he had breathed in his mother’s embrace, next to his brother, the strong, heavy smell of his mother and her milk, revived in his nostrils.

  When he had sucked his fill, his body grew warm and comfortable. A liquid warmth flowed through his veins, his head separated heavily from his mother’s breast, his body quivered with pleasure from head to tail, and a deep sleep followed. What pleasure greater than this was possible? To instinctively press his paws against his mother’s breast, and with no special effort the milk would come out. The fluffy body of his brother, his mother’s voice, all of this was full of pleasure. He remembered his old wooden doghouse, the games he used to play in that green garden with his brother.

  He would bite his floppy ears, they would fall on the ground, get up, run; and later he found another playmate, too, his owner’s son. He would run after him at the end of the garden, bark, take his clothes in his teeth. In particular, he could never forget the caresses his owner had given him, the lumps of sugar he had eaten from his hand. Still, he liked his owner’s son better, because they had been playmates and the boy would never hit him. Later, he suddenly lost his mother and brother. Only his owner and his owner’s wife and son and an old servant were left. How well he distinguished their smells and recognized from afar the sound of their footsteps. At lunch and supper he would circle the table and smell the food, and sometimes against her husband’s will his owner’s wife would kindly give him a titbit. Then the old servant would come, calling, “Pat… Pat…” and would pour his food in a special dish which was beside his doghouse.

  Natural needs caused Pat’s misfortune, because his owner wouldn’t let him out of the house to go after female dogs. As luck would have it, one autumn day his owner and two other people who often came to their house and whom Pat knew got in the car. Pat had travelled with his owner in the car several times, but today he was agitated. After several hours of driving, they got out in Varamin Square. His owner and the two others passed through the alley beside the tower, but suddenly there was the unexpected
stench of a bitch, that special smell that Pat was searching for, and all at once he was driven crazy. He sniffed in different places and finally entered a garden through a water channel.

  Twice near dusk the sound of his owner’s voice calling “Pat! Pat!” reached his ears. Was it really his voice, or was the echo of his voice sounding in Pat’s ears?

  Although his owner’s voice had a strong hold on Pat, because it reminded him of all the obligations and duties that he owed him, still a power superior to that of the outside world compelled him to stay with the bitch. He felt that his ears had grown too heavy and dull to hear sounds outside himself. Strong feelings had awakened in him, and the smell of the bitch was so powerful that he felt giddy.

  All his muscles, all his body and his senses, were beyond his control, so that they were no longer obedient to him. But it wasn’t long until people came with sticks and shovel handles and shouts and drove him out through the water channel.

  Dizzy, giddy and tired, but light and relieved, as soon as Pat came to himself he went to look for his master. In several side alleys a faint odour of him had remained. He looked everywhere, leaving traces of himself at intervals. He went as far as the ruins outside the town. Then Pat returned because he realized that his owner had gone back to the square, but from there his faint scent got lost among others. Had his owner gone and left him behind? He felt agitated and fearful. How could Pat live without his master, his God? For his owner was like a god to him. But at the same time he was certain that his owner would come to look for him. Frightened, he began running up and down the roads; his efforts were wasted.

  When night fell he returned to the square, tired and exhausted. There was no trace of his master. He circled the village a few more times, finally going to the water channel that led to the bitch, but the entrance had been blocked with rocks. With peculiar enthusiasm, Pat dug at the ground with his paws in the hope of being able to enter the garden, but it was impossible. Disappointed, he napped there.

  In the middle of the night Pat jumped awake at the sound of his own moans. Frightened, he got up. He prowled about in the alleys helpless and perplexed. At length he felt very hungry. When he returned to the square, the odour of different foods reached his nostrils. The smells of leftover meat, fresh bread and yoghurt were all mingled together, but at the same time he felt guilty for trespassing. He must beg from these people who resembled his owner, and if another rival shouldn’t turn up to drive him out, little by little he could obtain the right to this territory. Perhaps one of these beings who had food would take care of him.

  Trembling with fear, he went cautiously towards the bakery, which had just opened and from which the strong smell of baked bread diffused in the air. Somebody with a loaf of bread under his arm said to him, “Come… Come!” How strange his voice sounded in Pat’s ears! The man threw a piece of warm bread in front of him. After hesitating a moment, Pat ate the bread and wagged his tail. The man put the bread down on the shop bench. Fearfully and cautiously, he laid his hand on Pat’s head. Then, with both hands, he undid Pat’s collar. How comfortable Pat felt: it was as if all the responsibilities, obligations, and duties were lifted from his shoulders. But when he wagged his tail again and went towards the shop owner, he met a heavy kick in the side and retreated, moaning. The owner of the shop went and carefully dipped his hands in the water of the ditch. Pat still recognized his collar hanging in front of the shop.

  From that day on, aside from kicks, rocks, and beatings from the club, Pat had earned nothing from these people. It was as if they were his sworn enemies and took pleasure in torturing him.

  Pat felt that he had entered a new world which didn’t belong to him and in which no one understood his feelings. He passed the first few days with difficulty, but he adjusted by and by. On the right-hand side of the alley, where it turned, he discovered a place where rubbish was thrown. In the refuse many delicious titbits could be found, such as bones, fat, skin, fish heads, and many other things which he couldn’t identify. After scavenging he would spend the rest of the day in front of the butcher’s shop and the bakery. His eyes were glued to the butcher’s hands, but he received more blows than delicious morsels. Eventually he came to terms with his new way of life. Of his past life only a handful of hazy, vague memories and some scents remained, and whenever things were particularly hard for him, he would find a measure of consolation and escape in this lost heaven of his, while involuntarily the memories of that time would take shape before his eyes.

  But the thing that tortured Pat more than anything else was his need to be fondled. He was like a child who had always been cursed and made a scapegoat, but whose finer feelings had not yet been extinguished. Especially in this new life full of pain and torment, he needed to be caressed more than before. His eyes begged for this fondling, and he was ready to lay down his life for the person who would be kind to him or stroke him on the head. He needed to display his kindness to someone, to sacrifice himself for someone, to show someone his feelings of worship and loyalty, but it seemed that no one would take his part. In every eye he looked at he saw nothing but hatred and mischief. Whatever movement he made to attract the attention of these people, it seemed to rouse their indignation and wrath still more.

  While Pat was napping in the water channel, he moaned and woke up several times, as if he were having nightmares. Presently he felt very hungry. He smelt grilled meat. A treacherous hunger tortured his insides so much that he forgot his helplessness and his other pains. He arose with difficulty and went cautiously towards the square.

  * * *

  At this time, amid noise and dust, a car entered Varamin Square. A man got out of the car, walked towards Pat and patted his head. This man was not his owner. Pat wasn’t fooled, because he knew his owner’s scent very well. But why had somebody come to caress him? Pat wagged his tail and looked doubtfully at the man. Hadn’t he been tricked? But there was no longer a collar around his neck to pat him for. The man turned and patted him once more. Pat followed him, his surprise increasing, because the man went inside a shop that Pat knew well, from which the smell of food came. The man sat on a bench by the wall. He was served warm bread, yoghurt, eggs and other things. He dipped pieces of bread in the yoghurt and threw them in front of Pat. At first hurriedly, then more slowly, Pat ate the bread, his good-natured hazel eyes full of unhappiness riveted to the man’s face in thanks, his tail wagging. Was he awake, or was he dreaming? Pat ate a full meal without being interrupted by blows. Could it be possible that he had found a new owner? In spite of the heat, the man got up. He went down the same alley to the tower, paused there a bit, then passed through winding alleys. Pat followed him, until he went out of the village. The man went to the same ruin, which had several walls, to which his owner had gone. Perhaps these people, too, followed the scent of their females? Pat waited for him in the shade of the wall. Then they returned to the square by a different route.

  The man laid his hand on Pat’s head again and after a brief walk around the square, he went and got into one of those cars that Pat knew. Pat didn’t have the courage to jump up. He sat next to the car and looked at the men.

  All at once the car started in a cloud of dust. Without hesitation, Pat ran after the car. No, this time he didn’t want to let the man get away from him. He panted and in spite of the pain he felt in his body, he leapt up and ran after the car with all his strength. The car left the village behind and passed through fields. Pat reached the car two or three times but then fell back. He had gathered all his strength, and his despair forced him to run as fast as he could. But the car went faster than he did. He had made a mistake. Not only was he unable to reach the car, but he had become weak and broken and suddenly he felt that his muscles were no longer in his control. He was not able to make the slightest move. All his effort had been in vain. He actually didn’t know why he had run or where he was going. He had come to a dead end. He stood and panted, his tongue hanging out. It had grown
dark before his eyes. His head hanging, he pulled himself laboriously away from the road and went into a ditch beside the field. He lay on the hot moist sand, and with his instinct, which was never deceptive, he felt that he could not move any more from this spot. His head was dizzy. His thoughts and feelings had become vague and dark. He felt a severe pain in his stomach, and his eyes looked glazed over with sickness. In the midst of writhing and spasms, he lost control of his legs little by little. A cold sweat covered his body. It was a mild, intoxicating coolness…

  * * *

  Near dusk three hungry crows flew over Pat’s head. They had smelled him from afar. One of them cautiously landed near him and looked carefully. When it was certain that Pat was not yet completely dead, it flew up again. The three crows had come to tear out his hazel eyes.

  The Broken Mirror

  (from Three Drops of Blood)

  Odette was as fresh as the flowers that blossom at the beginning of spring, with a pair of alluring eyes the colour of the sky and blonde hair which always hung in wisps by her cheeks. With a pale, delicate profile she would sit for hours in front of her window. She would cross her legs, read a novel, mend her stockings or do embroidery. But it was when she played the Garizari Waltz on her violin that she pulled at my heartstrings.