The Devil Is a Black Dog

by Sandor Jaszberenyi

  “Can I try?” asked my brother.

  “No.”

  “But you got the last turn.”

  “That’s because you still can’t shoot so well,” I said, lowering the gun.

  “It’s not fair that you always get to shoot.”

  “You still can’t load it properly without my help.”

  “But it’s still not fair that you always get to shoot!”

  “You can go next, OK?”

  I whispered that last sentence because I noticed the crow begin to stir. Then, with languid flaps of its wings, it flew from the cherry tree to the top branch of a pine that stood by the house. We jumped up and raced in that direction, keeping an eye out to find the best position to fire from. We didn’t bicker anymore after that.

  I took a place by our green, rusty fence, and again raised the rifle to my shoulder. I shifted my aim a few centimeters left and calculated the path of the bullet. I felt a slight breeze against my face. Though it wouldn’t be strong enough to push the bullet off its path, I still wanted to be sure, so I concentrated on guessing the exact trajectory. I pressed the rifle butt into my shoulder and left it there, allowing my grip to become more relaxed so I could release the pellet more easily, just like Dad had taught me.

  The shooter needs to fire after exhaling, because when you breathe in, your shoulders move. With the sight, I found the crow, and aimed at its neck. I waited for the right moment, when I could no longer feel the weight of the rifle in my hands.

  The lead pellet’s report echoed through the air. The bird fell from the tree as I, with a triumphant smile, lowered the rifle from my shoulder. We rushed over to where the crow had fallen. It was still alive, though my shot had hit it in the neck. It flapped spasmodically about on the path in front of us, trying to take flight. We watched it in its death throes from a few steps away. We had never seen anything like it.

  I reloaded the gun, took aim at the bird’s breast, and fired. Feathers flew from its body where the pellet entered. It tried to stand, but was unable. Blood from its wounds spread across the cement sidewalk.

  “Die already!” my brother shouted. I searched my pocket for another pellet and loaded the rifle again.

  This time I found the crow’s wing, the force of the shot propelling the bird onto its feet. Now standing, it ceased beating its wings. After a moment it noticed us and began to hobble our way, dragging its limp wings behind it, the wound in its neck dripping blood down the feathers of its breast. I reloaded, and shot.

  I hit it in its chest, but that didn’t stop it. I began to retreat, because I was afraid its blood would get on me. The crow was perhaps a yard from me when it lifted its head and looked right at me, its eyes black as buttons.

  It began to caw, unbearably loud, and without pause. I shot it again, but it was as if the crow didn’t even notice.

  “It doesn’t want to die!” my brother cried, in hysterics now. “You can’t kill it,” he shrieked, and ran away.

  The crow continued to come for me; I tried to reload, but after I had emptied my pocket, I was left with an empty gun.

  When it was right in front of me, it stopped and again resumed its piercing cry. It was so close I could see its tongue moving in its beak. The gun fell from my hands and clattered on the ground. Blood pounded in my temple and my sweat turned cold. With nowhere else to go, I pressed my entire body against the fence, so hard that the chain links would leave their impression on my back. I couldn’t kill the bird. Our eyes locked, and we stared each other down. As I gazed into the bird’s black eyes, my tears began to flow.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?”

  It was Dad. He stood by the fence, cigarette in hand.

  In one swift motion he was beside me. He gave the bird a swift kick, and I heard the crow’s bones break. The kick sent the bird flying into the air, black feathers falling in its wake. It met with the wall of the house, leaving a bloody stain where it hit.

  Still, it wasn’t dead. It cried pitifully and bled on the ground, again trying to stand. My father picked up the air rifle, stepped over to the bird, and with all his strength, smashed the crow’s head with the butt of the gun. He had to hit it several times until he finally cracked open its skull. I couldn’t move; I just stood there and watched as fluff from the animal’s feathers flew into the air. It was all over in a few seconds, after which he used some grass to wipe the blood from the rifle.

  That night, I came down with a fever. I tossed and turned in my bed and kicked the blanket from my body. If I closed my eyes, the crow appeared, coming for me, a wholly unkillable beast coming for me. I whimpered loud enough to bring Dad into my room. It was already late at night, but he was still in his street clothes. He sat on the side of my bed and stroked my forehead, then stuck a thermometer under my arm. I could smell cigarettes and beer on his breath.

  “I don’t know how I messed up,” I said to him, my voice trembling. “I did everything you taught me, but I couldn’t kill the thing the right way.”

  “You didn’t do anything bad. Not even God can make a clean kill all the time,” he said. He patted me on my head, then tucked me in again before going back to his room and turning up the music.

  The Blake Precept

  I was in Abéché, Chad. I was supposed to fly to N’Djamena, but two days before my departure the Haboob descended. It came savagely from above Darfur, and under the orders of the UN all flights were cancelled for safety reasons. The locals knew it was coming; their camels wouldn’t drink, instead they just stamped their hooves restlessly and shook themselves loose from their ropes. One camel kicked a boy in the chest who had dared to get too close, breaking four ribs. Within moments, the streets were empty of people.

  I was at the airport, ready to go, when the news was broadcast. “Don’t be too distressed,” said the pilot, who was standing next to me. He informed me that within spitting distance was a Legion base, and that its commanding officer was quite an affable guy. I could probably pass the night there while the storm calmed, and I might even get something to drink in the canteen. With nothing else to do, I gathered myself and started walking toward the base, which was perhaps two kilometers from the airport. As I went, the sky covered over, and the wind began to blow with terrifying strength. Soon the clouds were so full of dust it seemed like it was night, though it was still early afternoon.

  Then came the sand. It burned when it hit, and there was no keeping it from getting in my boots and under my clothing, where it scoured my skin into blood-red scrapes. It took a concerted effort just to make my way down the short road, as I continually had to stop and wipe grains from my eyes and clean them from my ears. By the time I arrived at the Legion’s double-gated, modern fortress, I was virtually blind. The man on guard pointed his gun at me and began shouting. He left his post to better see who I was. It wasn’t an easy job, because the storm was raging ever stronger, and every exposed part of me was painted by sand: I could have been anybody. When he realized I wasn’t a local, he let me in, directing me toward the building marked by the words “Nihil Obstat.” There I would find the canteen, and in it I would find the commander of the base. And so I went.

  In the canteen sat a man dressed in typical combat fatigues, gaping at the storm through the window. He greeted me, and I introduced myself and explained my predicament. He was indeed a nice person, and French; Jules Lacroix was his name. He was the commander, and the highest ranking of the four hundred or so legionnaires stationed there. Without asking, he put food in front of me and brought a bowl of water, so I could wash the sand from my face and hands. He immediately proposed that I stay in the camp for as long as the Haboob held us in its grips. He would arrange everything, on the condition that I attend an evening poker party with the officers. I saw no reason why not, and we laughed and shook hands on the deal. He then invited me to his quarters, where he offered me whisky and beer. We drank four beers each, and only then did I begin to relax. Outside the storm wailed with full force.

  We
talked about Africa, Europe, and anything that came to mind. He was pleased to have my company, as he rarely saw Europeans in these parts, especially those who weren’t on the run from the law, though these types were mostly already serving under him. For six years, he hadn’t set foot outside of Africa. He was a generous sort, and listened attentively when I told of my own travels. He spoke mostly of the difficulty in living there, the unit’s losses, the tropical sickness, and how Africa was like a huge branding iron, leaving its stamp on anybody who happened to find their way to near the equator.… A knock came at the door, and a young conscript entered.

  “Commander, ten of the men would like to go into town for some R and R,” he said and clicked his heels. The commander momentarily looked over the soldier, and then assented with a wave of his hand. I watched on, dumbfounded. I couldn’t imagine that anybody would want to be out in this storm. Before the conscript left the room, Lacroix called after him, “Remind them that the Blake Precept is in effect!” Noting my expression, he leaned back in his chair, lit a cigarette, and reminded me that this was the French Foreign Legion. His men could eat this little storm for breakfast. “But much more interesting is the Blake Precept,” he said, and poured us both another whisky. He lifted his glass and said, “Let’s drink to the Blake Precept.” We drank. Then he told the story of Sam Blake.

  Blake was an Australian captain who was in the Legion about five years ago. Blake wasn’t alive anymore, but he had received a posthumous Croix de le Valeur Militaire, the highest level of state and military decoration. His story went like this. He had been transferred into the Chad armed corps as a driver. During that time, the Darfur conflict was raging, and six tribes from three countries were killing each other for the region’s arable land. The frontiers were totally unstable, which is why the Legion had been deployed there.

  Blake was a relaxed, quiet man. There was nothing to really distinguish him from the other soldiers; he was neither braver nor more cowardly, exactly as a true legionnaire should be. On weekends he went into town with the others. There is not much to do in an outback dustbowl like Abéché, though there was a bar and a whorehouse. It was on one such weekend when it happened. He was drinking with a fellow officer in the bar of the town’s only hotel, when one of their translators showed up at the door and asked if they wanted to see something they would likely never find anywhere else in the world. Blake and his friend weren’t especially thirsty, so they agreed. They followed the translator, who took them to a ghost rider.

  The Darfur conflict had mixed everything up and triggered a movement of the tribes. Along with the upheaval a lot of strange phenomena emerged. The ghost riders were one of them. These were locals capable of letting a ghost possess their bodies and speak with their tongue. The tribes greatly respected these people. They heaped offerings on them, and consulted them with their lives’ gravest questions.

  It was already late when Blake’s group arrived at the ghost rider’s hut on the edge of town. The ghost rider was an old Kununbu man, and the fingers of his left hand were missing, though it was still possible to count on the five stumps. According to the translator, he would be visited by the spirit of a great Sudanese warlord when he clutched a white-hot ember in his hands. The two legionnaires sat on the floor of the hut and handed over gifts (scarcely worth a dollar) then waited for the old man to perform. The ghost rider smiled at them, flashing a mouth of missing teeth, then without the slightest indication of pain, put his left hand into the fire and scooped out an ember. The irises of his eyes turned white, and he spoke in a greatly altered voice.

  “You are allowed one question,” said the translator. “Just one question each.”

  Blake smirked and asked, “How will I die?”

  “It won’t be by bullet,” said the aged man. “But you will die when you rise into the air like a bird.”

  Neither of them thought much of it: Europeans hadn’t believed in things like this since the French Enlightenment, though it transpired that Blake would indeed never be hit by a bullet. That very week he was sent in a convoy to Goz Beïda, a place where it was possible to see low-flying Sudanese bombers dropping ignited barrels of gasoline over villages. On the streets eight different armies were mixing, looting anything they could. The border was mined, to be certain the tribes wouldn’t cross. Blake and perhaps thirty other people were delivering medicine to the refugee camp when they were ambushed. It wasn’t an amateur piece of work: they were lit up with sprays of gunfire from atop four hills, while RPGs on the ground took out the vehicles. Everyone died with the exception of Blake, who fled across the minefield and returned fire from the far side. When it was all over, he hadn’t suffered a scratch.

  When he returned to the camp, he was called a hero and immediately promoted. The other legionnaires embraced him, patted him on the back, and said he was born under a lucky star, and that’s why he didn’t take a bullet. But Blake wouldn’t talk about the incident and whenever anybody asked, he just began to hum. Everybody knew you couldn’t survive something like this without divine intervention. After that, the commander tried to give him less dangerous assignments, but Blake only volunteered for riskier and riskier missions. And he returned from each one. As his brothers-in-arms fell, he remained unscratched, fearless even in the fiercest hail of bullets. News of his heroics spread, and he was promoted to captain. Blake was up for anything aside from flying in a plane. This was the one thing nobody could persuade him to do.

  The news of Blake soon reached the Legion’s top brass. The story pleased one of the generals, and he decided that the time had come to give a commendation to the young officer. He telegrammed his decision to the camp commander, who then read the decree out loud in front of the whole detachment. When the news broke among the soldiers, they took the hero on their shoulders. Blake was the only one who wasn’t celebrating. The commendation, he learned, would be handed out in Paris. And he would have to fly there. As the time for the ceremony approached, Blake became increasingly nervous; he fought and spoke disrespectfully to his superiors, so that they would demote him and he would be passed over for the medal. His superiors, however, just thought it was the pressure showing, and let the digressions go, even overlooking it when he returned from leave terribly drunk with two prostitutes.

  The day arrived when he was to fly to Paris. The Legion had sent a private plane especially for the occasion, with two generals aboard to escort him. Blake, however, wouldn’t leave the barracks. He shouted out that he would shoot anybody who tried to put him on the plane, and didn’t they know that the ghost rider said he would die if he flew? The military police had to put him in shackles and drag him to the plane as he whimpered between them like a child. The entire company saw it and heard what he said, and thought the poor guy had gone crazy.

  The plane never arrived in Paris. Due to a technical problem the pilot had to make an emergency landing before even reaching the Chad border. The plane exploded on impact. There were no survivors. As talk of this episode got around, more and more soldiers began to visit the ghost riders. It got so bad that some soldiers gave up showering, shaving, wearing the Kepi Blanc, and one wouldn’t even ride in a car, heeding what a ghost rider had forewarned. The camp commander instituted a penalty to get them back in line. This is how the Blake Precept was born. If any legionnaire was caught consulting a ghost rider, he would be locked away for four weeks in solitary confinement, and in Africa it averages 105 degrees, so it’s nobody’s idea of fun.…

  After the commander finished the story, we continued drinking, then later went to play poker in the canteen. I was lucky, winning almost a hundred bucks. The storm raged on into the night, so they showed me to a bed. I slept very well. The morning was bright, clear, and beautiful; the Haboob had blown back to Sudan. The commander insisted on having breakfast with me before I left. At the canteen, the Blake Precept was still on my mind. Now there was almost nobody at the camp who would have known Blake personally, outside of the commander and a repairman from barrack number
three. I couldn’t stand it any longer, so I asked the commander how well he knew Blake. “I was with him in the ghost rider’s hut,” he said, and stopped eating. He looked me in the eye. “Don’t worry, everything will be OK for me, so long as Lake Chad doesn’t dry up.”

  I made my flight to N’Djamena, and from there I traveled on to Tripoli and then Cairo. In my hurry, I forgot all about Commander Lacroix. I arrived in Cairo and threw myself into my work. Four months later, on a Cairo-to-Budapest flight, the commander popped into my mind, when, after the meal, I opened the in-flight magazine. There was a longish article about how Lake Chad was drying up at an astounding rate, and now it didn’t even reach Nigeria. A brief shudder ran through me as I recalled the prophecy of the ghost rider. Later that spring it wasn’t totally unexpected news that the rebels had attacked and taken Abéché. There were no survivors.

  How Ahmed Salem Abandoned God

  When Mubarak stepped down, the cafés reopened. I thought this would be a good time to go for a few glasses of beer and wash away the taste of tear gas. I got in a cab and told the driver to take me to the Horreya Café, at the end of the Corniche, on Falaki Square.

  The wind from the open window ruffled my shirt. The Nile was red with the desert’s piercing sun. Boats bobbed in the water, their lights out.

  A sand-colored Abrams tank stood at the intersection, slowing traffic, the barrel pointing toward the city center. At the gun turret slouched a mustached soldier. A younger conscript was checking the papers of the people in our lane, his AK-47 clattering against his shoulder when he leaned into the open windows. His fatigues were colored brown with patches of sweat.

  “Good evening,” he said, and had a look at my passport. He indicated that we could carry on. The taxi driver and I exchanged glances.