The Night Visitor

by B. TRAVEN

  A slight movement of the head would have sufficed to save him from being hit by that hard roll. Yet he did not move. Not an inch did he move. He kept his soft warm eyes fixed straight at the Frenchman’s face without a flicker. And without a tremor he most bravely took the shot.

  For several seconds he kept sitting in the same place as if stunned, not so much by the blow as by sheer bewilderment caused by a happening which he believed impossible.

  The roll lay at the tips of his forepaws where it had dropped after hitting him between the eyes. He gave the roll a short glance, as though he thought it might be a live thing which might jump up and prove to him that he had been mistaken in believing his friend capable of doing such a thoughtless thing.

  Now, raising his eyes from the roll, he let them wander across the floor and slowly up the counter until they ultimately came to rest on the Frenchman’s frozen face. There they fixed themselves, as if held by magnetic power. No accusation was in the dog’s eyes, simply a profound sadness, the sadness of one who infinitely trusts somebody’s honest friendship and then unexpectedly finds himself betrayed, and cannot tell why it all happened.

  The Frenchman, suddenly realizing what he had done, stood aghast as though he, by accident, had killed a human being. An involuntary shiver straightened his whole body, and he came to.

  For a few seconds he stared at the dog with astonished eyes, as if seeing an apparition. Now the dog slowly rose, shook his head so that his ears flapped against his jaws, turned around, and went his way.

  On seeing the dog disappear from the door, the Frenchman got irritated, looked around vaguely as if to find something very quick, without for a moment knowing exactly what it was; and looking down, his eyes came to rest upon a patron sitting at the counter who was just sticking a fork into a steak that had been placed before him by a waitress. Deftly, the Frenchman snatched that steak from the platter of the astonished diner who, with an earsplitting yell, jumped from his seat and loudly and energetically protested against the outrageous violation of a citizen’s constitutional right to eat his food in peace.

  Holding that steak between his fingers, the Frenchman darted out of the door and ran along the street. He saw the dog already trotting along in the next block, and he started running after him, whistling and calling, not in the least minding the people on the street who stopped to watch a lunatic with a steak dangling from his fingers whistling for a street dog to come and get it. When he reached the third block and could no longer see the dog or make out where he had gone, he let the steak drop and walked back to his restaurant.

  “Perdone me, señor, siento mucho,” he said to the patron, who in the meantime had returned to the counter where he had been given another steak in order to calm him. “Excuse me, friend, the steak wasn’t good anyway, you see … besides I just wanted to give it to somebody who might need it more than you! Please forget it, amigo. Order anything special, and whatever it may be, it’ll be on the house.”

  “Caramba, such things don’t happen in an ordinary day’s work, so it’s okay by me. Don’t mention it. I got another steak, thanks to the elegant service you give in this here joint. And say, señor, as to that special order on the house, make mine a double-sized pie à la mode, see. Okay?”

  “Right, mister, and a double-sized à la mode it’ll be, and you’re welcome to it.”

  Restlessly walking about the place, moving in a daze, here pushing a chair there a table into another position, pulling a tablecloth straight, he presently reached that dark corner where the waitress was crouched, still crying.

  “It’s all right, Bertha, you can stay on. It wasn’t all your fault. I’ll murder that baker some day even if I get shot for it. Well, anyhow, I’ll change that baker instead of you. That’s all. I just got upset with that guy hollering about his cracked false tooth like a monkey gone mad.”

  “Thanks, boss,” Bertha sniffled. “I’m really grateful, really I am, ‘n sure thing I’ll make it up to you by being a real help around here. See, boss, I got a mother and two brats to care for, and I tell you it ain’t so easy to land another job as good as the one I got here, tips and all …”

  “For Christ’s sake, stop talking and get to work. I told you it’s okay, so what are you kicking about?”

  “I’m not kicking, not at all. I only meant to say thanks, boss.” Turning to an impatient patron, she said, “Yeah, yeah, mister, I heard you the first time. Just keep your shirt on and wait a second, okay?”

  The Frenchman consoled himself that the dog would come again next day. He wouldn’t miss his lunch for a little misunderstanding like that. Why, things like that can happen every day in a dozen places, most anywhere. Every dog is whipped by his master now and then if he deserves it, and the dog stays on, forgetting all about it in an hour or so, perhaps. Dogs are faithful, they stick to the one who feeds them.

  Yet, despite reassuring himself, he couldn’t feel at ease. For the rest of the day his conscience kept reminding him of the dog’s habitual and quizzical grin which had amused him so much whenever he saw it, and he thought how it had died on the dog’s face and changed into a desolate sadness, as though in that bad moment something had broken within the dog. The more he tried to forget the dog, the more frequently did he shoot a glance at the door, expecting to see him sitting there. Over and over he told himself that this dog was just a common mongrel, an ordinary street dog, living off the garbage cans, with no character or personality in particular. Yes, hand him a bone and you’re his eternal friend. “Gosh,” he finally muttered, “can I never concentrate on anything else but that stray dog which is not even mine? Why, I don’t even know his name. Well, well. Let’s forget it. He isn’t worth the trouble, anyhow.”

  Next day, however, by three in the afternoon, the Frenchman had a good piece of steak ready, juicy and rare, with which to welcome the dog and to apologize at the same time for the insult he had given, and so renew the old friendship.

  Half past three. And as if materialized by the striking of the nearest clock there was the dog sitting at his usual place near the door.

  The Frenchman’s heart leapt with joy. “I knew it, I knew he’d be there,” he said to himself with a satisfied smile.

  Yet while saying so he felt slightly disappointed that this dog should prove to be exactly like any other dog. As he had come to like the dog, if not to love him, he had expected him to be different from other dogs, more proud or distinguished. Anyhow, he was pleased that the dog had come again and had given him a chance to make the animal feel that only by mistake had he been ill-treated, and that he, Monsieur Leblanc, had never meant to hurt him at all. Generously he forgave the dog his apparent lack of pride, telling himself that man must accept dogs as they are made, since man has no power whatever to change either their physical make-up or their canine nature.

  There the dog sat, almost motionless, looking at the Frenchman with its velvety warm eyes as though searching that man’s mind.

  Greeting the animal with a wide-open smile of welcome, the Frenchman expected the dog to wag his tail and put on his clownish grin as a sign that no bad feelings existed between them. Yet the dog kept his mouth closed and made not the slightest move, either with his head or with his tail, even when he saw the Frenchman pick up the steak and wave it at him from behind the counter. The Frenchman jerked his head to indicate to the dog that he might come in and eat his lunch close to the counter, and thus feel more at home.

  The dog, however, remained quietly sitting at his usual place outside the door, looking in at the Frenchman without a flicker of the eye, staring him straight in the face as if he meant to hypnotize the man.

  Once more the Frenchman beckoned, with the steak swinging from between his fingers. He smacked his lips at the dog and clucked struuush-struuush to arouse the dog’s appetite and to make his mouth water. This time the dog answered by slightly moving his tail, but stopped abruptly when, so it seemed, he realized what he was doing.

  Presently, the Frenchman, carrying
the steak between his fingers, went out to the dog. Going close to him, he played the meat before the dog’s nose, as he often used to do when he was in a mood to tease the dog a bit before letting him have the meal.

  The dog, on seeing the Frenchman step up to him, raised his eyes, but otherwise did not move. When the dog refused the offered gift even as it dangled before his nose, the Frenchman, not losing his patience, laid the steak down on the pavement in front of the dog’s forepaws. He stroked the animal, pulled one ear gently and patted him on the back while the dog wagged his tail now—but so slightly that the move was barely noticeable. Yet, no matter what the Frenchman did, the dog never let his eyes waver from the man’s.

  Nodding at the dog with a big smile on his face, the Frenchman returned to his place behind the counter and watched the dog from there, expecting that he would now pick up the steak and eat it as usual out on the sidewalk.

  However, the dog didn’t. He lowered his head, sniffed without interest the meat before him on the ground, raised his eyes again to the man’s face, stood up, turned around, and left.

  The Frenchman rushed out onto the sidewalk and saw the dog ambling alongside the buildings, with not one look back at the man staring after him. Soon he disappeared amidst the people walking along the street.

  Next day, punctual as ever, the dog again was sitting by the door, gazing at the face of his lost friend. And again, just as on the previous day, when the Frenchman approached, with a huge calf’s bone this time, the dog only stared at him without taking the slightest interest in the man’s gift laid before him on the sidewalk.

  The dog, not for a moment ceasing to stare into the man’s eyes, now wagged his tail when the Frenchman stroked and caressed the animal’s head and fondled his ears.

  Then the dog rose, pushed the man’s caressing hand from his head with his nose, licked that hand over and over again for a full minute, once more looked up into the man’s eyes—and, without picking up the meaty bone or even sniffing at it, turned around, walked from the doorway and left.

  This was the last time the Frenchman ever saw that dog. He never came back to the cafe, and never again was he seen anywhere in the neighborhood.

  Conversion of Some Indians

  An Indian chieftain named Pluma Roja came to see the Spanish monk, Padre Balmojado, who in the last decade of the sixteenth century came to the Americas to teach the natives the only true faith. Padre Balmojado soon became widely known as a great friend of the Indians and was loved by them for his kindness and his helpfulness.

  The chieftain was accompanied by six men, elders of his tribe. These Indians had made a trip of some one hundred fifty miles to see the monk of whom they had heard so much in recent years.

  Padre Balmojado received his visitors with the politeness and cordiality for which he was famed.

  Pluma Roja greeted Padre Balmojado and said: “Holy white father, we have come for a visit and we want you to tell us about the new gods you brought with you from beyond the great waters. We have come to listen with patience to your holy words and to learn what better gods you have to offer. If you can convince us that your gods are greater and more powerful than ours, and that they really will help us in our many wants, our entire tribe is ready to accept your gods and your teachings; if we were so convinced, your religion would be ours, we would respect and honor it as we now do our own. We shall listen to your words with care and with the greatest attention, and whatever you tell us we shall carry in our hearts and think over in our souls. In due time we shall give you our honest answer. I have spoken, holy white father, and we are ready to listen to you.”

  Padre Balmojado didn’t use much adornment or pomp; he preached the gospel in the form of simple stories, in such manner that he thought even little children would understand it. He spoke the language of the tribe to which Pluma Roja and his men belonged. As he couldn’t speak it fluently, and as his pronunciation was poor, he had to speak slowly, distinctly, and use the easiest words and the simplest constructions; this was, in a way, to his advantage in the task he was confronted with.

  All details which were difficult to explain and which would have made long detours in telling, such as the dogmas which would have confused these children of nature, he left out, thinking, and rightly so, that there would be sufficient time for these intricate questions during the next five hundred years.

  He devoted a whole day to teaching his visitors, for he was eager to win that tribe for Christendom. His guests were no less eager to accept the religion of the whites as the padre was to persuade them of the superiority of the Catholic faith.

  Not once did the Indians interrupt the padre, nor did they ever ask questions or ask him to repeat something he had said. They squatted like statues close to his feet. From their eyes, though, he could see that they didn’t miss a single word of what he told them.

  When night began to fall he ended by telling them the story of the Saviour ascending to heaven and disappearing into a cloud after having told his followers to go to all countries and to all peoples and spread the gospel.

  For more than twelve hours the Indians had remained seated on the ground without saying one word.

  Padre Balmojado went into his little house to prepare supper. Supper ready, he came out and invited his visitors to share his simple meal. The Indians thanked him politely and declined the invitation, telling the monk that they had their own food with them, but that they would like to spend the night on the earthen floor of the padre’s porch.

  Next morning, Padre Balmojado stepped out to read Mass and found the Indians had risen long before. It seemed that they had been waiting for him some time already. He didn’t ask what their decision might be, but before entering his little chapel he looked at them with a certain expectation in his eyes which they well understood.

  So chief Pluma Roja said: “Holy white father, we have heard what you told us. We could give you our answer right away because we think our answer is ready. But you have told us your story so very honestly and with so much desire to win us for your faith that my heart would bleed were I to give you our answer at this moment. I might speak hastily and without proper courtesy. I might hurt your feelings and also the feelings of your gods who are so very good and have suffered so very much and have never done any harm to anybody.

  “Far be it from us to make the hearts and souls of your gods ache. We, my counsellors and I, shall stay here in the vicinity for three days and sleep here for three nights, and in deep silence we shall listen during these three days and nights to what our gods, our hearts, and our souls have to tell us now that we have heard you. We must give our gods this hearing, too, before we can decide once and for all. After three days have passed we shall come back to you here and give you our answer. Then it will not be a hasty answer; and no god, no friend, no enemy, can be hurt, for it is the gods who put into our hearts the thoughts we have. Is this all right with you, father?”

  “Perfectly all right, my sons. I shall pray that God Almighty and the Most Holy Virgin may direct your thoughts properly toward your salvation and toward that of your people at home. God bless you, and may He be with you for ever and ever. Amen.”

  It was three days later.

  Padre Balmojado had just celebrated Mass in the little chapel which he himself, with the help of natives, had built; and he was about to enter his house when he found the chieftain and his six elder counsellors waiting by the porch for him.

  He wanted to speak with them right away and hear what they had to say. Chief Pluma Roja, however, said, “I see, holy white father, that your morning meal is waiting for you and that you must be hungry. Being hungry would make you hasty, for an empty stomach makes men impatient. In matters of religion, nothing must be hasty. For religion lasts long and the life of man is short. Therefore, have your breakfast first and when your stomach feels well satisfied, please do us the honor then of hearing what I have to say.”

  When he had finished his meal, the monk came out and led his visitors to
the chapel yard where they sat down under a tree. He didn’t ask and he didn’t urge; he sat and waited for the chieftain to speak.

  Half an hour the chieftain sat in silence before he began: “We have turned over in our souls and hearts every word you said to us. I think we haven’t forgotten one single detail of the many that came from your venerable lips.”

  For a few minutes the chieftain hesitated. Then he went on: “Your god did allow men to whip him. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. He did so in order to take upon His sacred shoulders all the sins of mankind.”

  “Your god permitted men and women to spit into his face. He allowed the crowd to throw mud at him. He permitted people to make fun of him, parading him through the streets as a fake chieftain. He permitted persons to put on his head a warrior’s headgear made of thorns so as to insult him even more. Is that right?”

  “Yes, that’s right. He let bad people, who didn’t recognize His goodness, do all this. But He did so because He wanted to free all men on earth from their sins, so that they might get to heaven where they can see the glory of God.”

  “He allowed people to nail him to a wooden post, and he, remaining nailed to that post, died a miserable death there. Is that right?”

  “Yes, He did so in order to save mankind from eternal pains in hell.”

  And the chieftain said: “Holy white father and most honest and kind messenger of your god, now I must tell you what our god has put into our hearts and souls during three days and three nights of fasting and thinking. A god who by his very personality as a god is not able to make men respect him so that people won’t dare to spit into his face, whip him, throw mud at him and insult him in the meanest manner cannot be a god for us Indians. One who does not defend himself when being attacked or insulted cannot be a god for us Indians. Somebody nailed to crossed wooden posts who is not strong enough to free himself by his divine power from that post can never save any Indian from any evil or from any enemy.”