The Devil Is a Black Dog

by Sandor Jaszberenyi

The imam stayed buried in his book all day and didn’t even emerge from the prayer room for lunch. I didn’t want to bother him. Nor did I want to bring up the assembly that was planned for that evening.

  The men, superstitious and fearful, listened to Badr al-Din’s account of the hunt. The butcher, shaking a fist in the air, closed his speech by stating: “I am saying for certain that this dog is not of God. Safiy-Allah, his boy, and even the foreigner were witnesses.” Terrified shouts of “God is great!” filled the room. Abdelkarim sat palely next to me, stroking his beard. He stood, and then addressed the men.

  “My brothers. Listen to me, my brothers,” he said. “We need to put an end to this dog before it kills again.”

  A numb silence descended. I could hear the oil lamp sputter and the clatter of the rifles against the wall of the room.

  Khaldun stood up. “It’s not certain that the dog is not of God,” he said, looking over the attendees and then staring spitefully at Abdelkarim. “On the contrary. I think God sent this animal to call attention to the fact that we have strayed from the proper path. Those it killed, they were all guilty. Have you forgotten how many times you saw the boy intoxicated on khat leaves? How the husbandless Khulud was attacked, and her children as well?”

  Men around the room began to nod.

  “We have to put the question to ourselves: Why is God punishing us? The answer is here in front of us. It is because we have become lazy in our faith. Because God’s commandments aren’t fulfilled without err. Because we gamble, we don’t supervise our women’s morals, and we let foreigners into our homes. It is time to renew our submission to God, and examine the town’s morality. Only in this way can we fend off these blows.”

  Shouts of “God is great!” broke out among the attendees. Many of those gathered stole a glance at me. Others hugged Khaldun and thanked him for showing them the light.

  Abdelkarim sat wordlessly next to me, and when the tone had calmed, he stood.

  “Excuse me, Khaldun, are you suggesting we improve our morals in the way they do in Marjah? Beating our women with sticks if their faith slackens? Stoning the criminals?”

  “If this is the price of deflecting these blows from our heads, then yes,” shouted the old man from his place. The surrounding men nodded.

  “And if I guess correctly,” Abdelkarim said, “you would nominate yourself to head a council of morality? It is known that you have had some practice in these matters.”

  “I only hope the brothers are humble and pious enough to carry out the task,” said Khaldun.

  “Yes, yes!” shouted the room.

  Abdelkarim cleared his throat and continued. “Well, I believe you are mistaken, my respected Khaldun. We must kill the dog no matter what.”

  “Why need it be like this? Why is this how you want it?”

  Abdelkarim stepped up to the butcher, Badr al-Din. “What color was the dog?” he asked. “Tell us, brother, what color was the dog?”

  “Black,” answered Badr al-Din, confused. “Black as night.”

  Abdelkarim leaned over and took the Hadith in his hand, the one he had been reading all day. He opened it and turned to Khaldun.

  “We need to kill the dog, because the Prophet, peace be upon him, commanded it so. It says so in the Hadith: ‘Kill the black dog, because the black dog is the devil.’ ”

  He spoke calmly, and didn’t raise his voice for even a moment. Again, quiet fell on the room.

  “Respected Khaldun, are you suggesting that we shouldn’t follow the Hadith?”

  “I am not saying anything like that,” the old man grumbled between clenched teeth.

  He rose and left the room. Many followed. We could hear a religious song rise from the courtyard, their voices echoing through the alleyways.

  “Who volunteers to do away with the dog once and for all?” asked Abdelkarim when quiet returned.

  “Tomorrow morning we will begin for the hills again,” said Badr al-Din. You could see fear on his face, but that he was gathering his strength. He liked Abdelkarim and had faith in him. Next to him, Safiy-Allah nodded.

  “No, brothers,” said Abdelkarim. “The beast is already hunting here in the town. We need to kill it here.”

  The plan was easy: the volunteers would hide by the hospital, where the smell of blood would be strongest. The men agreed.

  The street was empty when we set off. The sky was dark; not a bit of light seeped in. Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah went in front, clutching firearms in their hands. Abdelkarim and I took up the rear. I looked over my host’s face in the darkness, but it gave away nothing about what he was thinking. I took out two cigarettes, lit them, and offered him one, but he didn’t take it.

  “Pray, brother, that we can kill the dog,” he whispered as he pulled back the bolt of his Mauser, “or else Khaldun will have his way with this town.” The rattle of rifle bolts locking in rounds echoed along the street.

  We didn’t speak again until we arrived at the hospital. It was a whitewashed, two-story structure. In the air hung the effluvium of disinfectant mingled with that of blood. The Dutch doctors had left when the government began a heavy shelling offensive, and since then the barber had been seeing to the wounded. The sun-beaten Red Cross insignia was the only reminder that foreigners once lived here. We could see the bodies of the moribund and unmovable on the blood-stained plank beds, asleep and breathing heavily under the influence of raw opium.

  The hospital entrance was covered by a gray sheet. Badr al-Din was the first to enter. Because of the strong smell he tied his scarf around his face. After the first shelling, the locals had evacuated anybody who could move, so the hospital was almost empty.

  Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah positioned themselves by the sickbeds on the first floor. Abdelkarim and I went to the rooftop, where we had a good view of the area. We took our positions and waited.

  “It is possible it won’t come,” I whispered to Abdelkarim after a tense hour. The moon was hidden behind black clouds and a strong wind blew across the hills.

  “It must come,” he answered, “in the name of God.”

  Another half hour had passed when we finally heard a screeching coming from a nearby street. The black dog, as though it had appeared from thin air, stood in the square by the entrance. Blood dripped from its mouth. At its feet lay the body of a girl.

  Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah came bursting out of the hospital, then opened fire on the animal. But the dog didn’t flee; it just held its head toward the moon and began to howl, making a deep, thunderous sound that echoed through the streets. Twenty or so snarling mongrels appeared at the call. They stood behind the black dog and stared at Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah with pitchblack eyes.

  The black dog’s muscles tensed and its teeth snapped as it sprang toward the two men. The pack followed.

  “God! God!” yelled the men. They lowered their guns and stood paralyzed by fear.

  But Abdelkarim hadn’t lost his calm. He lifted his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and let a bullet fly. It found the black dog.

  The animal, which had until then seemed like it was swimming in the air, stopped short. It stood still and lifted its head. Badr al-Din and Safiy-Allah raised their guns again and began to fire. They dropped six of the mongrels, one after the other.

  Transfixed, I stared at the black dog. It was gigantic. It shook its head and with a yowl charged Badr al-Din, blood streaming from its flank.

  Abdelkarim’s second shot also found its mark. The black dog stumbled. It tried to stay on its legs, but couldn’t. The remaining mongrels from the pack fled when the black dog fell. It was still breathing when we arrived at the building’s entrance. Abdelkarim put a bullet in its head, and only after that did we examine the beast from up close. It was a mongrel, but unlike any I had seen before. It was probably over two hundred pounds. Countless old scars covered its muzzle, and flesh had overgrown both its ears. That’s why it hadn’t been afraid of the gunfire. It was deaf.

  People filled the streets. Bad
r al-Din and Safiy-Allah threw the dogs’ bodies in a cart, and the crowd accompanied them to the mosque. They left the bodies in front of the gate, so that in the morning the whole town could view the slain devil.

  Badr al-Din invited everybody to celebrate the dog’s killing, so we all went to his home. Abdelkarim, however, didn’t stay with us. He begged our pardon, but he stated that he was exhausted and needed to return to the mosque.

  I woke up to silence. I looked at my watch: it was four in the afternoon. The celebration had lasted until dawn, and I’d gotten home at sunrise.

  I went down into the mosque, but couldn’t find Abdelkarim anywhere. The house was totally empty. I went out into town, but the streets were deserted as well. It wasn’t until I arrived at the hospital that I found where the crowd had gathered. There, where they had killed the dogs just yesterday, people were lying on stretchers, moaning, their torn clothing bunched up around their sweating bodies.

  “What happened?” I asked a barefoot shepherd boy.

  “It’s a plague,” he said. “Lots of people have high fever. They’re throwing up and are breaking out in sores.”

  “Have you seen the imam?”

  “He is inside with his two girls.”

  I cut through the crowd. The room was packed. The infirm lay on the floor or were propped against the wall, shivering with fever. I looked for Abdelkarim. I found him on the second floor. He sat on the tile next to a dirty mattress. On the bed lay his two girls, both unconscious. He didn’t notice me. His eyes were glazed over and his face shook as he wept. I touched his shoulder. He looked up at me but it was as if he didn’t know who I was. “We shouldn’t have killed the dog” was all he could say.

  I didn’t know how to respond. I returned to the mosque. It was obvious that I needed to leave the town while I still could. In front of the mosque stood the cart, where we had laid out the dogs’ corpses. I looked for the black dog, but couldn’t find it anywhere.

  The First

  The soldiers arrived in a pickup. There were five of them; they jumped from the back and entered the grounds of the presidential palace, leaving the driver to wait. The building stood opposite a sickly looking tree, which gave cover to the men who sat on the sidewalk chewing betel and spitting. The men watched what was happening with interest. The smell of burnt garbage and fruit rotting in the sun wafted through the air: it was scorching hot, the start of the dry season.

  The presidential palace looked like a Baroque castle, like a Versailles in miniature, with a park and fountains with swans in them. We could see it as we approached, descending from the hill. The machine gun nests and six-foot-high concrete wall were the only reminders that you were in N’Djamena.

  The detainees were led into the courtyard. Three men and a woman, all black. Their hands weren’t bound; they obediently followed one of the soldiers, who wore a red beret. He must have been the unit commander, because he was issuing orders.

  The street had been blocked off by a military truck, and we wouldn’t be able go around it without attracting their attention. Mustafa spat on the ground and turned off the engine, then leaned against the handlebars. “We’ll wait,” he said. “The restaurant isn’t going anywhere.” He was my fixer, a Muslim. He had arranged my stay in the city.

  We’d wanted to spend my last day in Chad quietly. He had decided to treat me to some local cuisine. The restaurants were on the city’s main street. We traveled on his motorcycle, as usual. Because of the truck, however, we would have to wait. From where I sat behind Mustafa, I watched the scene as it unfolded.

  Without a word the three men stood by the wall; only their skin had become a bit paler and sweat beaded through their shirts. The woman began to shout. The man in the red cap kicked her legs out from under her. As she fell her shirt burst open, her breasts spilling out like two black water pouches. The other soldiers got a kick out of this and let loose with boisterous laughter. A smile broke out on the commander’s lips, flashing snow-white teeth.

  “What language are they speaking?” I asked Mustafa.

  “Zaghawa, I think.”

  The conscripts slapped their knees as they laughed, pointing at the woman lying in the dirt. The woman began kissing the commander’s black boots. The man enjoyed this for a bit, but when the woman wouldn’t quit, he bent down and picked her up in his arms. The woman stood without protest. Her face was gleaming with tears. The commander said something to her.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The man extended his arm and pointed toward a car. With her head hung, the woman began toward it. She took a few uncertain steps, then stopped and looked back. The commander held his pose and mumbled something. The woman picked up her pace to the gate, pushed it open, and fled. The conscripts laughed loudly, and clicked their tongues to make their pleasure known. The man grinned widely. The other three prisoners stood silently by the wall.

  The commander said a few words to the conscripts leaning against the truck. They took their rifles from their shoulders. These were Chinese-made Kalashnikov knock-offs, their wooden stocks oily from regular use. They cocked their weapons; we could well hear the click of the piston. They were taking their time. When they carried out these maneuvers they casually held their rifles under their arms. The commander fished his cigarettes from the pocket of his fatigues. He took one from the Fine Rouge pack, and then passed out cigarettes to the eager soldiers. The man lit up, then turned toward the prisoners. He said something and offered them cigarettes as well.

  He stepped over to the detainees, smiled, and gave each one a smoke. They smiled and began to relax. The commander wiped his brow. As he walked back toward the conscripts he unsnapped the leather holster of his gun.

  He held his pistol in front of him and examined it, perhaps to make sure it was loaded. Halfway toward the conscripts, he turned, extended his arm, and fired.

  The sound of the shot echoed off the wall of the palace, and the birds burst from the trees. The commander had outstanding aim. The first prisoner was hit from ten yards, shot in the head, the bullet finding the forehead, passing through the skull, then caught by the wall behind. He died with a lit cigarette in his mouth. The other two men stared in shock. Then their instincts kicked in and they began to run.

  They didn’t reach the paved road alive. The commander sent a bullet into each of them. They were brought down by a shot in the back. On the ground their legs still kicked.

  The commander reholstered his weapon, went to the truck, and got in. He noticed us and smiled, then signaled to the soldier next to him to drive. The motor kicked to life and in under a minute all we saw was the vehicle’s disappearing outlines.

  The remaining soldiers opened the gate and dragged the corpses away by their hands, heads bumping against the red dirt. In minutes the street was empty. The onlookers returned to chewing their betel, only that now the air was a bit sweet with the smell of fresh blood.

  Mustafa kickstarted the motorcycle and we took off. We left the presidential palace behind, riding past tin huts and shops. It was already the dry season; the sky was an otherworldly blue. The wind caught our shirts as we rode, and I felt a little faint.

  “We’ll have fish, that’s what I feel like eating,” Mustafa said and turned from the main road toward Lake Chad. The air smelled of mud.

  We came to a stop in front of a white adobe house, got off the bike, and went into the courtyard. White plastic seats and tables were set out on the beaten ground. There were no other customers. A Muslim woman in a flower-print scarf came to take our order. Mustafa chose for us fish with rice and a spicy tomato-pepper stew. He took out a cigarette, lit up, and offered me one. We smoked one each in silence.

  “Are you still thinking about them?” asked Mustafa. “You look pale.”

  “Yeah. Who were they?”

  “I don’t know. They had the forehead scars of the Sara tribe.”

  “And that’s why they killed them?”

  “Perhaps.”


  “Why did they let the woman go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “For fun?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “They must have had a reason to kill them.”

  “We’ll never know. It’s useless to think about. Look at it this way: though they’re dead, we are about to eat very well.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Especially because you are off to the frontier soon.”

  We went quiet. The woman came out and set plastic plates of food in front of us. Mustafa rolled up his sleeves, tore off a piece of bread, and used it to pinch up a piece of fish, which he dipped in the spicy stew.

  “Aren’t you eating?”

  “I lost my appetite.”

  “Because of the execution?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll get used to this. And you will forget this. Now eat.”

  I ate. Then I left for Darfur, and from there went back to Europe, then to the Gaza Strip, Yemen, Libya, Nigeria, and beyond. It took six years. He was right, I got used to it, though I never forgot that execution. You never forget your first.

  Taking Trinidad

  The roof terrace, sir?” asked the hotel doorman. He was in the regulation red uniform with gold-colored buttons and a little black hat.

  “Yes,” I said. My smartphone buzzed in my pocket. I involuntarily checked to see what it was. Some girl commenting on Facebook; nothing interesting. But the device was useful in that it allowed me to cut short any further small talk with the receptionist. I didn’t want him to ask how I was, what I did for a living, or why I was in the country. I didn’t want to see him smile insincerely as he asked what I needed, then linger until I forked up a few coins as baksheesh.

  A couple was also waiting for the elevator. I knew they were tourists, because they were in shorts, and only tourists wear shorts in Cairo. That’s because everything gets coated by the dust and dirt kicked up from the street. And due to the unfathomable standards of Arab formality, nobody takes a person in shorts seriously, even in the city center. I’ve never liked tourists.