Carmen Dog

by Carol Emshwiller

  Pooch grabs the baby with one hand and then turns to see where the Rosemary was bitten. It is quite a bad bite on the hand. Pooch looks closely at the baby, trying to see any changes toward the animal in the set of its jaw or its teeth, but they seem the normal chubby chin and sharp little teeth of any human baby. “Mine,” it says again, reaching after the kazoo band and waving its fingers. It is quite flushed, and Pooch thinks perhaps she should look for some water for it, but there is the bite to deal with first. There is a handkerchief in the top part of her policeman's uniform that could be used as a bandage. She holds back her instinct to lick the wound (though she once read that that is a good thing to do) and carefully wipes away the blood with the cleanest part of the handkerchief.

  "That is Isabel,” the Rosemary says in a gravelly, bass voice. A nice voice, actually. Pooch is drawn to it. The Rosemary is nodding toward Isabel, who is still chewing away noisily.

  "I'm the detective who was called to the Plaza. I expect that is the real Isabel. That's the one that killed the cook, not you."

  Pooch can see the detective's eyes behind his Rosemary mask. They are blue and have little wrinkles at the sides, and she can even see dark circles underneath them. They are performing the wound-binding like a ritual; he is helping her with his left hand since she must hold the baby, and she is as gentle as she can be. Each using just one hand, they tie the knot at the end.

  Perhaps the kazooing has loosened something in Pooch's throat. Or perhaps it was the giving away of the collar, as if: There goes home and all it stands for. No turning back. Rely, now, only on yourself. (She wonders, does she have the courage?)

  "I have not spoken for several days, though I have felt the need,” Pooch says as their fingers touch. She had not thought that she was about to speak. Her voice takes her by surprise. It is soft and pure and full of humanity, and there is no trace of a stutter. One could say it's better than ever.

  "You know you shouldn't have confessed to all those crimes back at the police station. You shouldn't have signed that statement."

  "My voice was taken from me by a mad scientist who, though he conceived of himself as kindly and no doubt still thinks so, used me viciously, trying to wrest from me secrets I never possessed."

  "No doubt,” the detective says, “he was concerned about the future of motherhood. We all are, you know."

  "I have always hoped to be a mother one day.” The baby, suddenly worn out, is leaning against Pooch's shoulder, breathing quietly into its kazoo. As though to illustrate her feelings, Pooch gives it a little lick on the cheek.

  "Mothering well, as you seem to be doing, is all well and good,” the detective says, “but the state of motherhood in general involves the entire planet."

  "I know I must not think that ‘una voce poco fa,'” says Pooch.

  "But come, let's get you some decent clothes. You look disgraceful in that policeman's jacket and almost nothing else. You'll give the force a bad name."

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  Chapter 18: A New Wardrobe

  Change is nature's delight.

  —Marcus Aurelius

  The entire planet wavers in its orbit. Mysterious star-forces bombard it. For a few minutes the sky looks as if it's full of northern lights, even though it's daytime. There's lightning now and then, but no clouds. Everyone on the street is dizzy from looking up. People bump into each other. The light is so particularly strong right over the Academy of Motherhood that everyone is wondering who has been born there this morning. What would they think if they knew it was three piglets and a colt? Probably they would wonder if the colt would one day win the Preakness.

  The city seems free of pollution. Con Ed has shut down, perhaps because there's so much electricity in the air already. (One should not worry about the safety of the three important men confined to the Responsive Early-Life Play Pens. The pens have self-contained, fail-safe electrical units, advertised as safe for as long as two months after an atomic blast. Of course they're so expensive that only upper-class children could afford to be saved.) Most of the cars and trucks are stuck at the edges of the city because the wildebeests have been kind enough to turn back from their migration and help their sisters by keeping traffic in a snarl outside the city limits. Anyone who wants to come in must walk or ride on some creature, if they can find one willing to accept them. The air smells fresh, enigmatic, earthy, slightly sour—almost like the very stuff of females—outlandish and uncanny.

  George (for the detective has now introduced himself), Pooch, and the baby have reached Lincoln Center. Pooch recognizes it at once, with a little frisson of excitement. She gestures towards the New York City Opera. She whispers. She is still not sure her voice will be there when she wants it and what she is about to say, she hardly dares venture. “Perhaps it is here,” she says, “I might find some decent clothes.” Of course she is thinking of clothes that would be much more than decent. She is thinking of something Carmen would be wearing at Lellas Pastia's tavern.

  Since George is a detective with badge, it isn't hard for him to get access to places. “Why not?” the doorman says leading them in. “Half the costumes are gone already. All of La Traviata, gone. And Gilda, Aïda, Susanna, Santuzza, Mimi.... The divas themselves took lots of them. I didn't dare stop them.” He is a chickadeelike man, soft and plump. One does not wonder that he was afraid, considering all those brand-new claws, hooves, incisors, and beaks he probably had to deal with.

  The costume room has been well picked over. Pooch looks first for third-act Carmen costumes, but all the gypsy clothes are gone. Then something feathery catches her eye. At the end of a far rack ... a complete bird suit! Papagena! No one would ever recognize her in that. There's a feathered cap of iridescent green and purple, which changes color at every tiny move. It fits low over her ears and forehead. Also a matching bodice and a short, feathered skirt that turns up into a tail behind. All the feathers in it are curled and downy and mostly reds and oranges. Then there are yellow leggings that show off her nice new long legs. Everything fits as though it had been made especially for her. She has never felt so gaily dressed.

  She is so elated that a haiku pops into her head practically in finished form:

  * * * *

  What if every creature were part bird?

  Could fly, glitter, whistle?

  Topknot on head! Red!

  Of course she doesn't really want to be a bird. She knows that it is the human being who can pretend to be anything, and she will never, now, give up being human. What other creature could have invented opera and haiku? Of course they also invented war and pollution, but perhaps it all goes together, the best and the worst. Maybe it's animalness that will make the world right again: the wisdom of elephants, the enthusiasm of canines, the grace of snakes, the mildness of anteaters. Perhaps being human needs some diluting. At any rate, how nice to be well dressed and among friends and in a state where poems pop out by themselves.

  George and the doorman both break into spontaneous applause at the sight of her, but the baby is terrified and will not be comforted, until a satin Cherubino jacket is pinned around it and it is given a large feather to hold along with its kazoo.

  All four of them, the doorman included, now head for Fifty-seventh Street.

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  Chapter 19: She Whom He Seeks

  And I say unto you: one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.

  —Friedrich Nietzsche

  The forces of motherhood have had to set up pro tem headquarters in an inferior building across the street from the Academy now that the Academy has been taken over by the mothers-to-be. Even though three vice presidents of motherhood and several important scientists and officials of motherhood have been captured, there are plenty of members of the Academy still at large. It is these who are now gathered across the street to consider their alternatives. They are wondering if they should, perhaps, abandon motherhood altogether ... at least the
sort of motherhood that has anything to do with females. How unfortunate that they have, until now, been dependent on women for filling their own ranks. But science must triumph. They are saying, if a hill is in our way as we build a road, nowadays we have only to remove it. Mountains even. If great valleys need to be crossed, we build equally great bridges. Why not simply sidestep the female? We've already been doing this, to a lesser extent, for generations. And it worked—as far as it went. We've made invisible those who were less like us than they might be. We will build a higher bridge. To ignore them will be their greatest defeat. It always has been.

  But one of the members says they should, on the contrary, confront the females. How would they know they were brave if they didn't face the women head on? Another of the members wonders if the females—especially those who are leaders and winners—shouldn't be allowed to become honorary men, with all the rights and privileges that that entails.

  One has secretly gone down into the basement to make pipe bombs.

  * * * *

  Now the city seems one big parade, with everyone converging on Fifty-seventh Street. There is music of all sorts: whistling, beeping, and tootling. Even the night creatures have come up into the day to see what's going on and to contribute their chirps, hoots, and loon-laughter. They wear dark glasses and their hats are pulled low over their eyes, but still they walk proudly with the others.

  Suddenly, high above it all, a coloratura cadenza can be heard, clearly a trained voice, and only a little higher than a normal human voice could go. The “Bell Song” from Lakmé, and here comes a group of opera singers on a float pulled by two huge Clydesdale mares. Each mare wears a wide-brimmed blue floppy hat and a flowered shawl. Their tails are neatly braided, as are their manes. They pull willingly. One can see they are happy to be able to make this contribution to females, to the opera, and to the circus. It is now, just at the end of the aria, that Pooch hears “Pa.” Tentative. Questioning. “Pa?” She does not dare answer. “Pa?” Where is this “pa” coming from? As yet Pooch can see nothing of the float and its occupants. Besides, can she still sing? Does she dare to try?

  "Pa!” This time it is prolonged, insistent, demanding. “Paaaaa!"

  Then she sees the float, and the feathered crest looping up above the others, and she feels a tingle of anticipation. Silly, she thinks, one chicken attracted to another. She promises herself she will not be again misled as she was by the Escamillo, falling in love with an imaginary person ... with a role. No, not again in love with a costume.

  Then the creature leaps off the float, pa-ing vigorously, and comes straight to her. The crowd opens up for him. And such a tall, bright thing he is! “Pa.” She sings it tentatively, not knowing what will happen, but it comes out so full-throated that everyone turns to stare at her. “Pa,” again. And again. And he, his pale eyes.... They are the same pale eyes—the very ones! Yes, and the Escamillo voice. She'd recognize it anywhere. They laugh and begin to sing the duet as it should be sung. Even as they are singing, many hands pull them up onto the wagon full of opera singers. Here she is at last, she and the baby, among them. Then she sees, just beyond, a fat and familiar mustachioed face ... a too-familiar face, and he is calling out to her, “Wait, wait. You are she whom I seek.” She turns away. Of course he doesn't recognize her in this costume. No one does. Probably not even the pale young man, though she is hoping that he does, now, as he holds her elbow and looks into her eyes.

  "I, also, was seeking you,” the young man says. “Yes, it really is you, and I see that you know me. And I knew you weren't that old woman back then when I went for another balloon. First I recognized the baby, but then I could see that it was you by your eyes. I've remembered your eyes ever since the stage door ... your golden-brown eyes. I'll always know who you are from them."

  Pooch is human enough by now to blush at his words. The transparent down on her cheeks (hardly as much as on the baby's head) cannot hide it. She also cannot hide her smile of pleasure.

  But now the little orchestra on the float has begun the familiar strains, and the young man takes her hand. “Do you know this aria?"

  Of course she does; it's Carmen's “bird” song: “Love, like a rebellious bird.” How apropos! To the costume, at least. And he is leading her to the front of the platform. “Come, sing a solo."

  Here they are at Fifty-seventh Street. And there, right in front of the Academy of Motherhood building, things have been arranged as though for a circus, or perhaps for an extraordinarily acrobatic opera. High wires have been stretched, and trapezes and huge nets guyed from buildings and street lights. A ringmaster, in top hat and white riding breeches, stands beside a similarly attired dwarf. Both are full-breasted women. Several clowns of both sexes are already doing skits to keep the crowd happy before the real show begins.

  But that particular Academy member who had gone into the basement for his nefarious purpose has come up with a large shopping bag. He makes his way through the crowd and crosses the street with his heavy load. He has never been the most reasonable of the members, though he was one of those who had always been particularly nice to his mother.

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  Chapter 20: A Catastrophe

  Everything worth while in him had come from mankind.... His love of the arts, of wisdom, of the ‘humanities'! God! Would that wisdom lay rather in ‘caninities'!

  —Olaf Stapledon

  Pooch's voice has always gathered crowds and either made them silent or set them to humming along. Now all the creatures near her fall silent, the thousands of false Rosemarys and false policemen as well as those, male and female, who are simply being themselves. Even the kazoo band, almost a block away, changes its tune so that it can hum along in harmony with her singing. Pooch's way of singing has changed the meaning of the aria. It has become contemplative and seems to be saying something sad about them all. “Quand je vous aimerai? ... Peut-être jamais, ... L'oiseau rebelle ... c'est bien en vain qu'on l'appelle.... L'oiseau que tu croyais surprendre, battit de l'aile et s'envola;...” Why, it's not the bird of love at all, but the bird of life. At those words, “batite de l'aile,” Pooch makes little helpless flapping gestures. How can anyone not love this small, fluttering Papagena! She brings to every mind a new thought of what love and life might be. If her master had been there in the crowd, surely he, too, would have changed for the better, if only for the duration of the song.

  When Pooch has finished, the pale young man grabs her and hugs her so as to quite crush her feathers, and the crowd yells, “Encore, encore.” Valdoviccini has pushed to the front and is standing just below her, yelling as loud as any of the others.

  Looking him right in the eye and still safely enfolded in the arms of her Papageno, Pooch removes her feathered cap and lets her silky ears hang down.

  "No,” he shouts, “it can't be!” But she nods, yes.

  "I've been a fool,” he says, but then he surprises her. “Oh,” (and there is such pain in his voice) “where is Chloe? I must find her and, dear Pucci, please forgive me, and do you think Chloe ever will?"

  He looks so desperate that Pooch believes he is sincere. He might still be thoughtless and selfish, perhaps ignorant (or, more likely, too wise in worldly ways and not ignorant enough), but not actually cruel. Of course the same might be said about the doctor and his dreadful experiment. Perhaps he also was thoughtless and too knowledgeable. Perhaps even the master....

  Well, why should she be the judge and jury of such things? “The last I saw Chloe,” she says, “she was there,” and she points, at the Academy of Motherhood. “She and a number of others donated themselves for the motherhood experiments. I would be among them if I had not been taken away."

  Just as they turn toward the building, the bombs go off.

  First the front doors burst outward in smoke and flying glass. A few seconds later flames are seen deeper inside. Perhaps some of the paraphernalia, regalia, and insignia of motherhood are not as fireproof as advertised. (One cannot help
but wonder if this is on purpose, or if some antimotherhood forces have infiltrated the promotherhood staff, or if the motherhood staff itself may have more ambiguous feelings than one would have wished.) At any rate, a fire is well under way and as soon as the two primary blasts go off, other blasts follow.

  Creatures scurry hither and yon, some pushing back away from the blaze, others pushing forward toward it. Pooch can see, silhouetted against the smoke and flames, creatures hurrying to rescue those trapped inside. Rosemary in her policeman suit looms above all of them, pushing her way into the building. She is followed by the doctor, also in policeman outfit, and after him by several Rosemarys pulling their skirts up and tucking them inside their policeman pants at the waist. And then Valdoviccini. Pooch wonders how he got to the doors so fast in all this confusion, and after him ... goodness, Isabel! What possesses her to enter that inferno? Can she actually want to rescue someone?

  Then Pooch, without a second thought, rushes to the fiery doorway. She doesn't know what is in her mind: whether it is to rescue Isabel one more time or whether she is thinking of Chloe, Phillip, Basenji, Mary Ann, all her friends, and those others not yet friends.

  Behind her comes the pale young man, calling out that she must not risk herself or the baby ... that she should let him do it, but Pooch doesn't hear, and, in fact, doesn't realize that she still has the baby on her back until she is halfway up the first flight of the back stairs. Then she feels its grip around her neck. Thinks, too late, to go back. Passing through that doorway again is out of the question by now. Besides, hasn't it been through everything with her: the dirt, the thirst, the hunger, the pound, cages, solitary confinement, even howling at the moon?

  She twists her head to give it a lick on the cheek. “Whatever life brings, we'll share,” she says, and “I can do no more than the best I can.” Of course the baby can't understand all this except on an emotional level, but it calls her “Mama” for the first time. Then murmurs it over and over in her ear as she trots up the stairs.