Barefoot Dogs

by Antonio Ruiz-Camacho

  “Tell me what was in the box.”

  “Are you gonna tell Catalina?” he finally said.

  “What the hell do you care if I do? Was it a hand, his head?”

  “Shut the fuck up. Please,” he begged.

  Once when we were young, I went into Victoriano’s room and found him with a friend from school, jerking off together. I didn’t understand what they were doing, but their alarmed expressions signaled that it was something of consequence. I closed the door and ran to the backyard, where I hid till the maid called us in for dinner. That night Victoriano came into my room. He approached my bed and promised that if I ever told anyone what I’d seen, he’d kill me with his own hands. I was four or five; he was already a teenager.

  “What was in the box?”

  In the bathroom, I could hear Catalina take Belisario out of the tub. “Oh, my! My little marmot has turned into a bunny!” she cheered. I imagined him smiling at her.

  “It was the other foot, wasn’t it?”

  Victoriano didn’t reply; he kept sobbing like the frightened little kid he never was. Seconds passed. I tried to picture my father, and I couldn’t. I tried to picture Victoriano on the other end. The image made me feel far away from him.

  “I’m sorry,” I said at last. My voice was now as shaken as his. There we were, two little sissies on each end of the line. My father would have been ashamed.

  “I’m so afraid,” he mumbled. “I don’t know what to do.”

  I wanted to tell him I knew exactly how he felt, but I didn’t.

  • • •

  Hours later, a young doctor with a powerful mustache and a sorrowful gaze asks me if I’m the owner of the Mexican dog. I say I am. He introduces himself as Dr. Ybarra. He asks me to come with him to his office. He says we need to talk.

  It’s past two. Dawn is breaking back where I belong. Night has turned into ashes scattered across the firmament, turned into daylight. The city’s waking up, still dead.

  On our walk back from the vet, stores and offices close their doors as we pass, in preparation for lunchtime. Only bars and restaurants remain open. Madrileños flock to them en masse as if they were serving salvation.

  Sun high in the sky, white and unforgiving. All around the world people are dying by the thousands. I am still alive. Why.

  Zurbarán’s paws are wrapped in bandages, his feet look like a ballerina’s, but he doesn’t limp anymore. He’s a wonder of nature, a hallucination, a specter. We all are to some extent. Only we haven’t noticed. We haven’t decomposed yet.

  I haven’t told Catalina what the vet said; Zurbarán doesn’t look that ill anymore. When we met them at the playground, she didn’t ask questions. As if I’d simply come back from walking Zurbarán around the block. On our way home, she points out things that surprise her in the street, the word béigol on a sign, a white, silky skirt in a store display, the absence of electric cables hanging from poles. She’s either fooling me, saving her resentment for when we get to the apartment, or letting go.

  “Look at you, Mr. Pickle!” the doorman says when he greets us at the entrance to our building and sees Belisario in the stroller, napping. “Enjoying yourself in dreams!”

  His name’s Antonio, and he lives with his family on the top floor of the building. He stammers every now and then, and because he’s from the south, he speaks very fast. Sometimes I catch only half of what he says. He’s in his fifties, and his facial skin looks sunburnt after spending a monthlong vacation at the beach.

  Mr. Pickle is a stupid name for a baby, but I don’t complain.

  “I had three boys, and they all look like their mother!” He bursts out in laughter. “But look at him, he’s a little you, huh?” I forge a grin and look at Belisario. I rest my eyes on his dangling, blushed, sweaty earlobes. That’s where I look in public, so people don’t think I’m avoiding him.

  “He is, right?” I chuckle, hands in my pockets. It sounds fake, but he doesn’t know me that well. Catalina does, and I feel her stare, judging me.

  Antonio notices Zurbarán’s bandages. He asks what’s happened. His inquisitiveness makes me feel nostalgic for the help we had back home. An ambulance rushes by. Madrid won’t shut up.

  “Oh, well,” I say dismissively, “apparently he’s having a bit of a hard time getting used to the Spanish heat. His paws are a bit sore, that’s all.”

  Zurbarán is resting by the door, in the shade. He hasn’t once tried to wiggle out of the bandages. Antonio pets him, playing with his ears. If I were the dog, I’d be sick of so much cooing, but he seems to like it.

  “It’s always hard to get used to a new place,” Antonio says, and places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes gently. “I know what you guys are going through. I once was an immigrant myself. Have I told you the story of my family?”

  He has, the very first time we met, when he noted our accents were different and asked where we’d come from, but he tells it again anyway.

  “I was eight when we left Málaga; Dad couldn’t make a living. We wound up in Paris; my parents landed jobs taking care of an apartment building on the Île de Saint-Louis. Dad, Mom, Carmen, my sister, Paquito, my brother, and me, the eldest, lived in the basement. It was a majestic five-story property from the seventeenth century, prettiest thing I’d ever seen. But the place where we lived, oh God. It was a rusty room next to the central chimney. In the winter the smell of burnt firewood made it hard to breathe, and in the summer everything stank like sewage, the air tasted like rotten eggs. The room was so tiny we just had space for a small table we crowded around for every meal, and a full-size bed we all crammed into to sleep. We’d left home for the fanciest neighborhood in the world’s most beautiful city, but we lived like war refugees.”

  Antonio’s still holding my shoulder, his eyes filled with emotion, deep blue and misty, and I can see he genuinely thinks we are alike. I want to ask him if there’s a cheerful ending to the story, ask him to tell me about that morning when he woke up with the smell of rotten eggs piercing his nose and yet Paris felt finally like home. I want him to say that every immigrant story about people who have been forced to abandon the place they thought they’d always belong ends that way, on a merry note, but nothing comes out of my mouth.

  “We should get upstairs now,” Catalina blurts out. “It’s getting late, and I’m sure Belisario will wake up hungry any minute.” She looks as moved as Antonio, wiping tears away with the back of her hand.

  “Of c-course,” Antonio stammers. He sounds apologetic. If he’s blushing I can’t tell, for his skin looks so red already.

  We say our goodbyes and enter the lobby. When we reach the elevator, Zurbarán refuses to step in, pulling toward the stairs. He was supposed to be exhausted by now, but he wants to go out again, and the prospect of being in the apartment with Catalina while the baby sleeps fills me with anxiety. I step out of the elevator.

  “Looks like he wants to walk a little more.”

  “His paws are a mess, Martín,” she says. It’s never good when she says my name. “He needs some rest.”

  “Agreed, but he seems to be thinking otherwise. I might just take him for a last quick stroll, and be back in no time.”

  Moaning sounds come from the stroller. Belisario stretches out his arms, then his legs. He’s waking up.

  “Whatever,” she spits. “I just hope you know what you’re doing, ’cause you’re taking too many chances here, you understand? Too fucking many.”

  She pushes a button, and the doors slowly close. I try to think about the last time there wasn’t tension between us, and it’s hard to remember. Perhaps it was back when it was just the two of us, nothing, no one, else.

  As Zurbarán and I walk west on the empty street, I imagine her alone in the empty apartment, feeding the baby, considering what to fix for lunch. I imagine her slitting open a bag of prewashed greens and tossing them with v
inaigrette, while thinking about me, imagining me walking around the block with my sick dog and a smile on my face, thinking, What an asshole. What a horrible husband and pathetic father. How immature, how useless and cowardly. I imagine her asking herself why she’s still with me and what’s keeping her from leaving, from meeting someone else, a real man. Someone like my father.

  We reach the corner of Gaztambide, and a white, stuccoed building rises in front of us. It has balconies on every floor, lush and full of green clay pots teeming with geranium blossoms so red they look swollen with blood. On the ground floor there’s an adult day care center and, next to the entrance, a plaque on the wall that says Casa de las Flores. It explains that the building was built in the thirties, and almost destroyed in the Civil War. At some point during the war, it was home to Chilean poet Pablo Neruda.

  I try to remember any of Neruda’s poems, and I realize that the only thing I know about him is his name.

  There’s a bench outside, and I aim for it, feeling exhausted. It’s so fucking hot. The buildings around me sizzle and pound.

  Zurbarán coils into himself in the shade cast by the bench, and slides into a nap. He looks so old now, so eroded. I wish I could ease his pain and keep him alive. Dr. Ybarra suggested putting him to sleep. I couldn’t do it. I want him to live for as long as possible. I don’t want to be alone.

  A white Lincoln Town Car flashes by and disappears around the corner, and I get goose bumps. It’s the first time I’ve seen that type of car here. The last car my father had. It was the car he was driving the day he disappeared.

  I check on Zurbarán. “You still there?” I whisper in his ears. “I wish I could love you more, or better,” I say. His eyes remain closed.

  I cover my mouth and sob like the orphan that I have become. I sob so hard I feel like my lungs are going to explode.

  A few minutes later I hear the noise of tires screeching against pavement. I open my eyes, letting the daylight hurt me, and the Lincoln’s parking in front of me, taking a spot designated for ambulances. The driver’s door swings open, and Dad emerges from the car, giving me a wide, bright smile.

  “So glad I came at this hour,” he says mischievously as he approaches me, walking funny. “Jesus! It’s so hard to find a parking spot in this city!”

  He’s wearing jeans and a sky-blue polo shirt; his salt-and-pepper hair is combed to perfection, shining brilliantly against the unrepentant sun. Zurbarán rises and starts to sniff around Dad’s legs and the unusual sneakers he has on.

  Dad looks athletic and relaxed, as if he’d finally caught up on the hours of sleep he’d been deprived of. He pets the dog, plays with his ears. Zurbarán reacts merrily and tries to lick his hands, but my father steps back.

  He stands before me with his arms wide open, like a hawk gliding across the sky. I remain glued to the bench. I can’t move.

  “Aren’t you going to give your father a hug?” Dimples in his cheeks. His presence is radiant and overpowering.

  I look around the street; there’s no one around.

  “He’s got my eyes,” I say, pulling myself together, “and my nose and eyebrows and everything else, but the dimples are yours. I hadn’t noticed before.”

  “So, no hug, huh?” Dad replies. He lowers his arms and scratches his neck a couple times, the gesture he does when something upsets him. He limps to the bench and takes a seat next to me. An electric shock runs down my spine. He breathes deeply and looks around, taking in the neighborhood. He stretches his arms and rests them on the back of the bench. I discreetly inch away, afraid that if he touches me I’ll feel nothing.

  “I understand if you don’t want to hug me,” he says. His eyes remain the same, but seem transparent now. They don’t look tired or mad or sad. They’re just on me, encompassing me. “We could try again later, right?”

  His voice is exactly the same as before but calmer, as if he didn’t have an opinion to impose this time around. He scans the street, then turns to me and smiles again. He smiles as if he weren’t aware of what’s happened to him, to us.

  “You’re so handsome, Son,” he says. “Did I ever tell you that—”

  “Your feet,” I cut him off.

  “Oh, yes,” he says, taking a good look at the Puma sneakers he has on. They are apple-green with fluorescent yellow stripes and unbearably edgy. “What about them?”

  “You have feet. Again, I mean.”

  “Yeah, well,” he says. He bends forward and gives a quick brush to the sneakers with the tip of his fingers, looking uncomfortable. “These are, um, not really my feet, you know. I mean, look at those sneakers, look at the colors, the—”

  “Whose feet are they?”

  He clears his throat, and my stomach cramps for everything looks and feels so real, his voice, his gestures, his presence that always soothed me, regardless. “To be honest with you, I’m not sure. I got them at a flea market, and I preferred not to know all the details of the previous owner, if you know what I mean.”

  “They look too small for you.”

  “You’re right!” He sounds relieved I’m not pressing further. “It feels funny, though, walking on them. Now I know what it was like for those poor Chinese girls, you know?”

  “I miss you,” I hear myself say out loud.

  “I know,” he says, and smiles again and goes silent, keeping his eyes on mine. “I miss you too. But you’ll be fine. We’ll all be fine, Son. I’m so proud of you.”

  “You could have told me that before,” I say, and immediately regret having said it.

  “You are a father now,” he whispers. “You’ll see for yourself that we, fathers, are full of shit.”

  “He’s got my face. He’s just like me. I’m terrified, Dad.”

  “I was terrified when you were born too. You’ll be okay.”

  We talk for a while. He wants to know what it’s like to live in Madrid. He wants to know if I’m planning to look for a job or open a business. He says a man should be busy, says that’s the way a man earns his family’s love and respect, and drops a couple of names of people in Spain who could help me. He doesn’t bring up the way he went missing, what happened to him, who did what to him, and I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. It’s no use anymore.

  Someone on one of the balconies above opens a window, and the sounds of a game show spoil the serenity. A siren howls in the distance. Madrid’s coming back to life.

  “Looks like someone might need the parking spot,” Dad says. “I’d better get going; I don’t want to run into trouble. Cops are hard to bribe around here, you know.”

  “I wish you’d stay longer.”

  “I do too,” he says as he rises and tucks the polo shirt into his jeans. “But I have something else to tell you before I leave.”

  “What is it?”

  “I know what’s wrong with your dog.”

  I can’t believe my ears.

  “What’s wrong with my dog, Dad?” I say, and can’t help a smile.

  “His feet.”

  “What’s with them?”

  “He’s been barefoot all this time.”

  “He’s a dog, Dad.”

  “I can’t believe I never told you this.”

  “What about?”

  “Dogs are not meant to be barefoot. Barefoot dogs always die young.”

  I don’t know what to say. Dad squats down and pets Zurbarán, but he doesn’t move. He remains asleep, enjoying himself in dreams.

  “As long as you get him shoes, he’ll be fine,” he says, and rises again.

  “The vet said he’s got stomach cancer that has metastasized all over the place.”

  “Bullshit. He’ll be fine.”

  I want to say I’ve no idea what he’s talking about, but I don’t want to disappoint him.

  “Okay. I’ll get him shoes,” is all I say. “Thanks for the a
dvice, Dad.”

  “Anytime, Son,” he says, and reassures me with a look. “Okay. Gotta go now.”

  Dad opens his arms, and I rise, trembling. He’s the one who approaches me. His body feels weightless, as if made of cork, the fabric of his polo eerie and crisp, and once we embrace I don’t want to let him go, and I don’t. We remain there, in the searing sun, thousands of miles away from home, until the aroma of roasted peanuts and mold that emanates from his skin evaporates, until he is gone.

  THE ARTEAGA FAMILY TREE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  So many people have supported, encouraged, and advised me for the last eight years the list is ridiculously long. If I expressed in detail the reasons for my gratitude to all of them this section would be longer than the book itself, so I’ll be brief.

  Maria Hummel welcomed me into this language and encouraged me to make it my own. She was the first one to believe I could pull this off.

  Oscar Cásares and Elizabeth McCracken embraced my work and advocated tirelessly for me—and still do. Elizabeth guided me wisely as I wrote the first draft, and keeps accepting my hugs in exchange. Oscar gifted me with his friendship and mentorship, and never misses lunch at Madam Mam’s.

  Edward Carey got excited by these stories and made me believe in them.

  Dawn Garcia made the phone call that changed my life. She and Jim Bettinger at the Knight Fellowships made my dream come true. Ana Cristina Enríquez and Gabo Rodríguez-Nava helped me get there—here. This is basically their fault.

  Sammie Sachs, Cecilia Yang, Jaslyn Law, Geri Smith, Erika Harrell, Katie Turner, Becca Tisdale, Nicole Chorney, Annika Ozinskas, Mia Arreola, Katherine Bell, Michelle Odemwingie, Chelsea Young, and Lisa Ruskin read my first pieces in English, and encouraged me to keep going. Without their early cheering I’d have given up.

  Janine Zacharia and Dionne Bunsha patiently revised my early broken sentences, and never stopped rooting for me, have never stopped making me laugh.