There are some, quite a few in fact, who had been beaten by their masters or even their fathers when young, and who nearly swooned with pleasure at the treatment they received in the laboratory as long as it didn't become too painful, and who enjoyed being the center of attention in whatever manner and for whatever reason. Their concern for Basenji is nonetheless genuine.
The doctor had brought cattle prod, handcuffs, and muzzle when coming for Basenji, but there is no need. She lies in his arms, eyes shut, face expressionless, serene actually. All are so taken by her ethereal beauty and her youth that they stop their clamoring. The doctor and Basenji seem to form a sort of reverse Pietà, the doctor holding her gently and looking a bit compassionate, and Basenji, one graceful, slender limb dangling and the other, as though in modesty, lying across her just barely budding breasts, which are clearly outlined by the folds of the blue smock as it drapes around her.
Phillip is suddenly very afraid for her. “Fight back,” she yells. “Don't let go. Pleath don't let go.” She is also thinking that Basenji, with one good surprise bite in the right place ... and, in truth, Basenji's mouth is lying against the doctor's jugular vein. She is the one who could save them all. “Right now! Bite!” Phillip screams, but it's no use. Basenji, in her present condition, can no more bite than could a wet rag. And she doesn't come back. They wait for her the whole day, wondering about her and wondering what to do for her when she comes, but she never does, not that day and not the next either.
They decide to hold a little nondenominational memorial service for her just in case she is no more. They all feel it is too much to hope for that she has been released or is alive somewhere else in the house. They ask Rosemary for candles and flowers and she, always accommodating when she can be, brings them six white candles and more than enough flowers from her own garden. Her choices make everyone think that she must have had Basenji specifically in mind: white daisies, small purple irises, miniature tulips delicately colored yellow in the centers and pink at the edges. They are telling each other that, had Basenji chosen to be a flower, certainly she would have chosen to be one of these.
Of course they ask Pooch if she will sing. This they want most of all. But she, shaking her head no, and still not speaking, only gives a harsh breathy cough, almost as though that were the only sound she is capable of making. They do not press her, but ask if, instead, she might write a few words or a poem. This she consents to do. Yes, she tells herself, she must rouse herself. She really must. For Basenji's sake, even though, of course, no one knows for sure if she is really dead or not, but chances are, considering the condition she was in, that she is. Yes, and Pooch knows that she herself would be capable of such a death ... just lie down and give up. Perhaps if it wasn't for the baby and for the others whom she might be able to help later on, who knows but that she, too, would ... will....
As to the few words that she must have ready the next day, she remembers some lines from Olaf Stapledon in which the great dog, Sirius himself, thinks, “A poem might be sincere no matter how hastily it had been scribbled,” and she begins work on one. She is thinking, if only she could stop this twitching and trembling and if only her mind didn't dart about as though avoiding ... particularly avoiding thoughts of Basenji and of the laboratory, and if only she didn't feel so drained.
And how she would love to talk to the psychotherapist again. What would he tell her to do to cope with these problems? To cope with her own feelings? Perhaps there is rage underneath all this. How not use it against herself? And what about her beloved master! Has Isabel already taken her place in his heart? If only she knew that she would see him once again, there would be something to look forward to.
But poor Basenji! What trials has she had to bear? Even before all this began, she and Basenji had, the second evening, leaning their heads together against their cage bars, whispered to each other their past histories and all their secrets (though Pooch has no real secrets to tell), so Pooch knows that Basenji, of all creatures, could not possibly have known anything about any conspiracy or any leaders. Pooch probably should have known, and therefore in some way deserves the “punishment” she is getting for her ignorance—though actually they all seem ignorant, even Phillip—but what could Basenji have been expected to know? Why, she grew up in a top-floor apartment, never once having ventured down the elevator, let alone out into the street. That is, until that one night. And then so frightened by the honking, the lights, and the rain that she ran and didn't stop until she was completely exhausted and lost. They had been, Basenji had said, about to go on a trip to Europe. That she knew. And somehow (how, even Basenji herself could never figure out) she had slipped out of her brand-new harness and fled. At the time, for her master's pleasure (her master was eleven years old) she had been dressed “à l'oriental.” This had almost gotten her into much more trouble in the streets until she had the presence of mind to remove the embroidered slippers and the voluminous red trousers which, in the pouring rain, had become quite draggled. The green satin shirt, without the yellow vest, served as a sort of minidress and did not attract so much attention. She had, she confessed, frequently been involved in sexual play with her young master, but not going “all the way,” so to speak, and so still technically a virgin in spite of all they had known of each other. However, Basenji said, she had known that “all the way” must come soon, and she dreaded it. This was a side of Basenji that only Pooch knew and, of course, would never tell. Whatever poor Basenji's life had been, Pooch knew it was certainly not her fault. The poor thing had just barely reached adolescence and now, to be cut down at first flowering, never to know true love and a true loving sexuality. To Pooch, Basenji would always be the essence of the sweet and the virginal. And how sad that, at this very moment, her owners were probably enjoying Paris while Basenji, pauvre petite, would never see it.
She wishes that she had more time to write the poem, that it could be better, not for her own pride, but for Basenji's sake. She wants to do the absolute best that she can in this last task for her friend. As it is, she finishes it just in time for the service, which is very moving and beautiful, though everyone wishes that Pooch, rather than writing about songs, had sung.
—
Poem on the Death of a Dear Dear Friend
—
First crocus of the season
Whiter than the very snow
I have watched it tremble
When the harsh winds blow—
This spring, though it come not again,
Will linger ever in mind
As will the crocus. Another one so white
And pure I will not find.
—
I would lift my voice in song
And let the bleak wind hear my cries
But hope the crocus doth sleep on,
For her my voice be lullabies.
—
Pooch hopes that someday, especially if they do not live through this experience, someone might set the poem to music, and Basenji thereby be remembered.
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Chapter 7: In Which the Baby Learns a Second Word
None are so bold as the timid, when they are fairly roused.
—Elizabeth Barrett
Now the doctor is going to try a completely new direction. He brings into the laboratory a solid Morris chair and arranges leather straps as though to confine the individual in it, but he cuts them all partway through. The thick one for the waist he will not even buckle, but will let it hang out the back of its own weight. Of course he must be careful not to let 107 realize that she's not strapped in except lightly at wrist and elbow.
He opens one of the high little basement windows. Takes out the thick screening that serves as bars. Only someone quite at the end of her rope could make such a leap up from the floor to what she would take as freedom. Even then, probably impossible. Still, can't be guessed at, what they can or can't do. Not to take any chances, the doctor places a small stool and then a waist-high bookcase
next to it to form steps. Then he adjusts the testing cage so that it gives only the slightest of shocks even when turned on full. Partly this is in case he gets carried away. It's possible that he might get very angry. Often does these days. He's found out so little so far. Suspects most of them are as ignorant as they say they are. But not 108 and 107. They know things. And something wise about them that the others respect. They're listened to. 107 may lead him somewhere useful. Perhaps to their leader. Except she doesn't talk now. Could tell that from the tapes. There's a waste of time. All those tapes. Grunts, chuckles, quacks. Even worse than it used to be. Bad enough then. Bla, bla, bla. “How do I look with feathers in my ears?” “Tell me, is my topknot mostly blue or green?” “Have my feet grown ugly already?” “Am I too fat? Too thin?” Pleasant singing voice, though, 107's was. Powerful. A bit strange. Music. Used to like it. Beethoven. What they say about menstrual and estrous might be useful. Somewhat. Try to find their most vulnerable times of the month or year as the case may be. Some of them in love with me. Should use that, too. 108. What was her name? What about Rosemary? Eyes sometimes little slits. Watching. Did she do that before? Not when first married. Eyes wide then. Blue. Or were they gray? And she's not done some things lately. Noticed dust. Everything done for them, though. Last night thought to try love-making again, but it's been a long time. How to begin after.... Is it years? Tired. Thought better of it. 108 didn't fool me with that tiger bit. No stripes on Rosemary. Though hunched up and gained a little weight. 108 a bit thin. Long. Quite attractive. She and 107 team? Go where there is an answer. Not sit around here any more. Put running shoes on. Lunchbox, sweater, raincoat by the door. Get started. First the baby.
* * * *
There is, of course, quite a row when the doctor takes the baby. More so even than for Basenji (especially now that Basenji has not returned). Phillip had the baby in her cage as usual, and she let it go to the doctor's arms willingly enough, thinking that it was she he had come for, but then she was pushed back roughly into her cage and the baby was taken. What a commotion as the doctor leaves with it! Such caterwaulings, from throaty croak to skirr. The doctor distinctly heard one dreadful raucous yawp from 107. Quite distasteful and quite unlike her usual voice. He is thinking that she sounds exactly like what her reputation (Isabel's) made him think she would sound like in the first place.
He decides to wait until they have all tired themselves out a bit before coming back for number 107. Let them get it off their chests. It's quite unpleasant to be exposed to it even for a few seconds. And what are they thinking, letting the baby hear such a racket! Meanwhile examine it. Cute little thing. Too bad never had one of his own. He puts it on the floor and lets it crawl around and play with the paraphernalia in the room. It looks healthy. Seems to be doing all right on kibbles and cat food. “Bop,” it says, “Bop, bop.” The doctor is pleased, thinking it might be trying to say “Pop.” He makes up little experiments for the baby, measuring how fast it can crawl and how long its attention span is. Also what kind of things motivate it the most to pay attention or to crawl. Twice he gives it a little pinch. Not enough to make it cry, only to protest. In such a manner he passes a pleasant three-quarters of an hour, finally putting the baby in the testing cage (making sure it's only loosely latched) and going back for 107. They are all, by that time, and thank goodness, so hoarse they can hardly do more than whisper their protests. He doesn't say a word. All the better if they think that dreadful things are happening to the baby.
Of course Pooch comes willingly enough. It is obvious that she can hardly wait to get to the laboratory to see what's going on with the baby, and it's also obvious that she is horrified to find it in the testing cage.
The doctor straps Pooch into the chair. “Let's see how fast the baby learns which side of the cage is which,” he says, and, “Of course you can stop this anytime you want to."
Pooch opens her mouth, but only strange croaking sounds come out.
"In that case.... “the doctor says, and gives the first shock.
"Ouch,” the baby says, perfectly clearly and rather gravely, “Ouch, ouch, ouch.” Under other circumstances Pooch would have been delighted with the new word. Now she is all the more distressed by it and by the nature of the new word itself and by the serious way it has been spoken. After a few moments of skittering around and saying “Ouch,” the baby finds the safe side of the cage.
"Not bad,” the doctor says. “Actually better than some. Now let's try it the other way round."
This goes on, the doctor increasing the shocks by infinitesimal intervals, hoping soon to find the precise level at which the baby will begin to cry. He hopes, then, to be able to turn the crying on and off by the push of a button. Meanwhile Pooch continuously makes that funny, throaty sound. It is only when the baby is quite suddenly crying vigorously with hurt and frustration, tired of the game, not stopping even with the shocks completely turned off, and when Pooch is almost through the already cut straps, that the doctor suddenly realizes: My God, 107! She's barking!
At that moment Pooch is full of such mixed feelings she doesn't know what she will do. Her teeth have never once been used, even when she was a baby, for anything more savage than pulling on a rag or chewing an old shoe, but now she must ... yes, it is the only answer. Besides, when she thinks of what has happened to her voice, that she would have died for, and that she would also willingly die for the baby.... And what's to lose, when she already has Isabel's reputation? Loyalty is a trap, she thinks, and the doctor has saved us only for torture and death as with poor Basenji. Attack, then. The throat, the shoulder. She had not known she had such strength, the bonds broken already, and so easily! The doctor on the floor, Pooch doesn't stop to see if he's dead or alive. She pushes the latch of the testing cage, grasps the baby in her teeth, and, ignoring the system of steps put out for her, she makes that extraordinary leap up to and through the open basement window, the baby shouting, “No, no, no, no,” at the top of its voice.
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Chapter 8: Escamillo!
The more they sink, the more fervently glow their eyes....
—Friedrich Nietzsche
At the moment there are several murderers at large. One of them is Isabel (the real Isabel). She had come close to murder several times before, as might be guessed. And she has maimed, though never so seriously that the victim couldn't be rehabilitated and function almost at his former level. Some of these episodes happened before she had even remotely come to resemble a wolverine. But now she has killed and has taken off toward Central Park in hope of escape even though she is, in her present state, only vaguely aware of the magnitude of her crime and therefore probably could not be punished for it should it ever come to trial. (It could easily be proved, however, that Pooch understands at all times what she is doing.)
Considering the situation, it is actually surprising that there haven't been more murders and more serious maimings. Several of the misadventures that have occurred were clearly inadvertent, the creatures not realizing their own strength or the sharpness of their teeth and claws. They were as horrified as anyone to find the damage they had done. Of course this is not always the case, for there are those, like Isabel, who have never been particularly gentle individuals and who are very pleased with their newfound fiercenesses.
As one might surmise, while Isabel did get to the Plaza, she did not stay there long. At the first sight of her, two large men in uniforms with gold braid asked her to leave, and no small wonder. Isabel was looking quite disreputable, trailing wood chips, and although her hair is short and fits around her head like a little black cap, it had been neither combed nor washed for days and stuck out in clumps in several directions. She had long ago discarded her silver high-heeled shoes as too confining and was now comfortably barefoot. There were vestiges of heavy makeup smeared about her face, the black from around her eyes having somehow gotten around her mouth and the red from her lips having somehow gotten around her eyes.
; "Is good,” Isabel told the two uniformed men. “Fine. Find. Must meet. One. Or two men."
Hearing her guttural, garbled speech, the men grabbed her and tried to push her out, but she broke free and raced around the lobby knocking over people and furniture quite like the animal that she most resembles. Then she made a dash through the dining room and out into the kitchen where a cook had a large tenderloin he was just about to cut into tournedos. The sight was too much for Isabel, who was sick of a whole week's worth of meals of dry dog food. She went utterly berserk. Killed the sauce man, who had come to the aid of the cook, and maimed the cook, who had made the mistake of trying to rescue his tenderloin from the half-woman, half-animal trying to make off with it.
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