The Dog Fighter

by Marc Bojanowski

  Cuidado. Cantana said softly. Do you have what else we need? He asked Mendoza without looking from the boy.

  In the shed. Ernesto go up and bring it down.

  The boy sprinted up the path.

  Come see what he has. Mendoza said.

  Cantana and I followed Mendoza toward the pit the boy had dug. The dog in the shade of the boulder was harmless lying in the shade.

  Ernesto looped chain around the tail to move it. Mendoza said to us. Then around the jaw and over the top of its head.

  At the bottom of the pit a large whale curled with its mouth into its tail. It had died in the Pacific and washed onto the beach bloated and stinking. Curled now so splintered ends of its ribs pierced through the tough skin like baby teeth in the sun against the red muscle and blood. Cantana whistled in disbelief.

  Dios mío. He struggled to light a cigarillo in the wind. Mendoza cupped his hands around the flame for his old friend. I never thought Mendoza to be a father of a son. This man who sharpened teeth. Thank you. Cantana said.

  Can you believe he dug this by himself? Mendoza continued with much pride. Using the burros he moved the tail. And then the head. The tail and then the head again. Only little distances at a time.

  He is very patient. Cantana said just below the sound of the sea.

  I promised him we would help him cover it.

  Dog fighter? Cantana looked to me.

  I nodded.

  I would do anything for my godson. Cantana clasped the mans shoulder.

  Mendoza smiled at this. He gestured with his fingers for a taste of the businessmans cigarillo. Beyond this the sun lingered brilliantly on the crests of the waves. Filled the deep troughs with a turquoise colored shade. The skin of the whale was torn and scarred. Dried barnacles spotted its sides and tiny crabs moved awkwardly on claws in the water that had seeped through the sand into the large pit. The water made the dead whales blubber soft and loose where the chains had worked into it deeply. The smell was so strong I asked for one of Cantanas cigarillos.

  How can he stand the smell? Cantana asked.

  He says he does not even notice.

  The wind had dried a light salt over the brow of the large ink colored eye that now saw nothing but still reflected light. This eyeball peppered with sand. A cluster of flies blown by the wind. The men stood with their backs to me. Unaware that I was sent to kill them. Mendoza handed the cigarillo back to Cantana and then pointed to a vulture with a crushed skull on the other side of the pile of sand.

  He chased that down.

  Ernesto? Cantana laughed.

  No. The dog.

  This one that can barely lift himself from the sand?

  He pretended he was dead. Mendoza smiled with great pride. He did not blink the entire day. We stood above and watched the vulture hop up to him. He went to poke the dog in the eye with his beak and then the dog put the birds entire head in his mouth and crushed the skull.

  Throw him in with the whale. Cantana suggested.

  No. This old fish gets a spot on this beach all to himself. Mendoza said. Besides. I think the dog would tear off my arm before he let me have that dead bird. Let him drag it around for a while until it begins to smell also. I will have the boy boil it and feed it to those in the pens.

  The wet nose of the old dog had been sprinkled with sand. Dozing.

  Did you ever fight him? I asked Mendoza but Cantana answered for the trainer.

  I once witnessed this dog kill a man after the man broke both of his back legs. The businessman then turned to Mendoza. Does he still do the trick?

  No.

  Are you certain? Cantana nudged the trainer.

  Do not tease him. Mendoza answered sharply.

  You need to show the dog fighter the trick.

  No.

  The dog. Cantana held up his hand before his mouth to lean and whisper more to me but Mendoza interrupted.

  Not anymore he does not.

  But then the boy with his chin pressed to the detonation box and arms full of wire came down the rocky path. He did not need to look at his bare feet he knew the path so well.

  Papá. The boy called Mendoza. The dog is still in the harness.

  Mendoza had gone to urinate by the boulder where the old dog lay.

  He is fine.

  Cantana knelt by the side of the pit. He whispered to the boy.

  Does the old one still do the trick?

  Papá says no.

  Maybe later we will ask him. Okay?

  The boy slid down into the pit until standing on the bulk of the whale his head was just level with the beach. The boy held a large knife in his hand.

  Before the sun goes down. Cantana smiled.

  And then with the knife the boy made deeps cuts into the whales side for the dynamite. His hands and bare feet slippery from the blood. The sand sticking to his legs. Cantana and Mendoza cut the wire and handed them to me to braid. The boy fixed the wire to the three sticks and then buried them within the great body of the whale up to his armpit. In one great cut above the eye so one stick rested against the skull. While I shoveled sand over the tail Mendoza ran the cable a safe distance down the beach. The boy looked up at me to help him from the large pit. If I broke his neck the grown men would be more fierce than I wanted them. But if I left the boy in the pit with the whale and killed Cantana first then Mendoza would not be so difficult. The boy could watch. If he escaped from the large pit he would be too scared to run. Or I could chase him down.

  Do not forget the knife. Cantana pointed.

  Ernesto gathered his knife in one hand and then held out his arm for me to take the wrist of. Mendoza was still some distance away stretching the cable. Cantanas neck very near to my hands. The boy looked up to me. In his dark eyes I saw myself grab the neck of Cantana. His tongue lolled and his sunglasses fell to the end of his nose and sand sank to his burning eyes sharp as glass shards. The decision as delicate as the memory we have to judge them on. But room enough in the world to hold them all. The deaths and births and murders the same. Even without us making them the world does not end with each one not done or done.

  There was too much of my grandfathers voice in this killing. Too much of the poets betrayal and Guillermos passion. None of my own decisions were made until I reached out for the boys wrist and pulled him from the large pit. I tousled his hair. Because that is what you do to keep them from thinking something is wrong.

  I decided to wait to kill Cantana until during the return to Canción. The boy did not need to see me become my grandfathers voice before him. That would die with me. And so we spent the next hours burying the whale under a mound of sand. All of us working together. Even the businessman Cantana with his soft hands using a shovel. And when we finished we lured the old dog growling using the dead vulture from his shade in the boulder down the beach. There Mendoza fixed the ends of the wires in the box and the boy put all his weight on the handle and the explosion was tremendous. A cloud of sand lifted into the sky and heavy steaks of whale meat splashed in the water.

  We never needed to bury it! Cantana yelled laughing.

  Mendoza and the boy were laughing also. I could not stop smiling.

  The boy ran to the blackened pit. A large portion of the whale still lay at the bottom of an even larger pit now. The boy danced laughing around the open grave.

  Mira. Cantana smiled his smile. Look at the boy.

  By not killing the boy or killing in front of him I had decided on my own. And this was more than the voice of my grandfather or the poet had ever given me in all their advice and stories.

  Before we left Mendozas Cantana sat at a table in the small stone house and called the boy to his side. He whispered into the boys ear. Then the boy turned to his father standing near the stove preparing food for his dogs after we had eaten and asked.

  Can we please show the dog fighter the trick?

  Mendoza looked over to Cantana who only smiled at the ceiling. Whistling. Mendoza took a towel from his shoulder and wip
ed his hands. He squatted before his son.

  Will you feed the boys on your own tonight? He asked in a serious voice.

  Yes.

  Before dark?

  Yes. The boys eyes smiled more.

  And tomorrow?

  Yes.

  By yourself?

  I promise.

  Bring him in.

  The boy ran from the room. Cantana gave a short laugh. Smacked the table with his palm flat.

  If only you had a son of your own and no wife. Mendoza shook his head at his friend. Both men smiling. Oh how I would torture you.

  Look at that boys eyes. The businessman said to his friend. This is no torture.

  The boy returned to the room struggling to pull the heavy dog by the scruff of its neck. The old dog wheezed some. Mendoza sat in a chair by the table. He sat facing it. The boy pushed the end of the dog to sit so that he faced Mendoza some feet away.

  Bring me the matches. Mendoza instructed the boy. Cantana shifted in his seat like a child. Constantly smiling. Standing on his toes the boy took down a greasy box of matches from a shelf above the stove. Now show him. Mendoza said.

  The boy rattled the box in front of the dog and its tail began to wag some flat against the hard packed floor. Whispering some in the sand. Its ears perked and saliva showed at the corners of its mouth. The skin around the eyes heavy with age. Eyes dim but alive now some also. The boy handed the box to his father and stood back as Mendoza leaned toward the dog and said in a voice that was very much pretend.

  Excuse me señor. Do you have a light?

  The old dogs bark filled the room. He stopped when Mendoza took a single matchstick along the box and in one movement made it a flame arcing toward the dog who opened his jaws and caught it in his mouth. There was a short hiss of the fire on the tongue and then a hard snap of his sharpened teeth on teeth.

  Cantana and the boy clapped wildly.

  Bravo. Cantana yelled. One more time!

  Mendoza threw another lit match into the air for the dog to catch in his mouth. I also clapped. The dogs tail wagging. The saliva in small dark pools on the floor reflecting the dim light of the lanterns hanging from the beams in the room. The same light in all our eyes. Cantana and the boy cheered. Our voices encouraging the old dog to eat fire.

  Night had just begun when we drove from Mendozas. The sun barely lowered behind the mountains. The headlights of the limousine emptied the dark before us. I could not stop thinking of the cloud of sand from the explosion. The eyes of that boy when he looked up to me from the hole with the knife and blood on his hands. The old men can find someone else to kill the boys father. I thought. By then I would be with her in my arms and thinking of nothing else.

  We were some miles from Mendozas when I decided to pull to the side of the road to end this.

  To protect Canción. They told me. Your name will be in the voices of this city as long as there is a city to carry them.

  I could not wait any longer. I did not care if it was wrong. I had not cared for the voices for some time now. Only for her. Cantana had been napping with a cigarillo lit in his gloved hand out the window. The shoveling had made him tired. He had no idea what was before him.

  I have to piss. I told Cantana when he stretched and yawned after I stopped the limousine.

  I will join you.

  The only sound in that darkness was that of our feet on the gravel. Some bugs knocking into the headlights. The engine tinked. We stood alongside one another waiting to piss. Cantana farted.

  I appreciate you driving dog fighter. He said. You are a good man. Good for our small city. One day when you quit fighting dogs I will make you mayor.

  From the light of the car in the side of my eyes I saw that Cantana still wore his sunglasses. I decided then to be careful not to break them so that I could present them to Guillermo and the poet to show them that the businessman was dead. I urinated.

  That was something today. Cantana continued.

  It was. I answered. Concentrating on my own thoughts. Pressing hard to finish so that I could keep the blood from inside the limousine.

  She loves you you know? Cantana said. Buttoning his pants.

  What?

  My niece. The one you are always making eyes at at the fighting. I said she loves you.

  I had no words.

  Do you love her?

  When still I did not answer the businessman laughed a short hard laugh.

  This is what I thought.

  I shook myself without thinking to and then buttoned my pants. I said nothing. I could feel Cantana smiling in that dark.

  I want you to marry her. He said. To work for me here in Canción.

  I do not believe you. I said finally.

  You have always been so suspicious of me. Why?

  I do not like that you always wear the sunglasses. I said.

  You have your strength to hide behind and I have these. But I will make you an offer. You bring to me Guillermo and his old friend the poet and I will give you my nieces hand in marriage.

  I do not know what you mean. I said.

  Yes you do my friend. I had to be sure but both you and Guillermo betrayed yourselves to me today. Pretending not to know one another. And while I am disappointed in you I know that you are a young man and have been misled. But my offer stands.

  I do not trust you.

  I should be the one not to trust you my friend. Have I ever given you anything but my word?

  I said nothing.

  Answer me.

  No.

  They want you to kill me today verdad? The businessman stepped toward me. Answer me young man.

  Yes.

  If I do not return to Canción alive I have told Elías to kill her. But my offer stands. Do not answer me now. There will be a dinner party at my house at the end of this week. I have guests coming from the United States.

  But she is your mistress?

  Unlike the other businessmen of Canción I am faithful to my wife. She is my niece. She has only been with us in Canción for several months. She is a very intelligent young woman. Very stubborn. I knew she would be perfect for the fighting and so she pretends to be my mistress. She keeps the money and I win in front of the other businessmen.

  I do not believe you.

  Then kill me dog fighter. Do what these old men are holding you to. And then when you return to Canción tonight alone know that the woman you love will be dead. But if you take my offer then I would like you to be my guest at the dinner party. To sit at my table. And that night I would like to know if I should announce your wedding. Do not decide now my friend. Think on this some.

  Cantana lit a cigarillo. The flame reflected in his sunglasses as he raised the match to his face. Cupped by his bare hand the flame flickered in the wind. Cantana tossed the match to the side of the road.

  Will you come?

  If I was not to kill him then I was to join him.

  Yes. I answered.

  Good. He said without looking to me while walking to the limousine. I am going to nap some more. Wake me when we return to Canción.

  Nine

  It was April. The beginning of Holy Week. I had been in Canción for a little under nine months. In shadows at the back of the cathedral I chose the last pew. Whispers of an old woman in black hunched over her rosary at the altar filled that enormous space. The woman knelt before a small statue of the Virgin Mary surrounded by fresh flowers and numerous coins. Candle wax covered the bare cracked plaster feet of the statue and the smell of incense burning in a brass dish beside her reached even to me faintly metallic descending on the constant words of prayer sharp and clear from the darkest shadows of the ceiling.

  The stone walls of the cathedral were without windows but shafts of sunlight came down over the wooden pews from several narrow openings. The rest of the cathedral was shadow though and this and the stone floor and walls kept the large space cool during the heat of the day. Many candles flickered at a prayer altar to the side of the Virgin. Lar
ge columns lined the central aisle of the cathedral and along the northern wall wine colored wood confessionals sat empty. Shadows darkened up from these back into shadows of the arched ceiling even darker more and only when the massive wood doors at the main entrance to the cathedral opened was there light enough to reveal chandeliers that were lowered and lit for mass.

  The poet was correct. The Resurrection of Jesus on the towering brick wall above and behind the altar was beautiful. In the dim candlelight and shadow a handsome young man He stepped toward the empty pews swathed in flowing white burial cloths. His chest naked and the wound in His side exposed. He held His bleeding palms at His hips upturned so to accept those sitting before Him. Staring at the Resurrection I sat trying to empty my thoughts of what this gesture meant. I had done much walking in Canción but after Cantana presented his offer I needed someplace to sit and concentrate. I did not climb the steps of the cathedral to pray or for some answer but only for someplace to rest from the decision itself. I knew that no one would think to find me there.

  The repetition of the old womans words were indistinct until I concentrated on each one. I slouched some in that last pew listening to her words while inspecting the Resurrection. I was quiet so not to be disrespectful of the woman. Jesus in His burial cloths loomed over the altar. His lips set comfortably in His silence. A hint of a knowing smile placed at the corner of His eyes. His step down from the wall in that welcoming gesture troubled me most. He stepped toward the pews but invited with His hands also. I did not feel I would have to walk all the way to Him or that He was going to walk all the way to me. The candlelight of the prayer altar and those few candles at the feet of the Virgin met curiously in shadows below the Resurrection. With the gentle breeze swirling in through the narrow openings the shimmering burial cloths seemed to billow and relax. The flames of the candles danced with shadows.

  The rows of wood pews were more and more smooth as I approached the altar. The old womans cadence did not break when I climbed the steps. When I stood at the feet of Jesus I noticed then that the Resurrection was composed of thousands of tiny pieces of cracked tile and glass and mirror. I reached up and touched the shimmering pieces of the pierced feet. From the back of the cathedral the young mans skin had been absent of the many colors. I understood that light reflecting in the glass and mirror had deceived me. Made me think the cloths were flowing. But it was that shards of green glass had been set next to tiles of purple and red. And while the clay colored tiles were the most I did not believe how absent of color the mans skin was from the back of the cathedral. I did not understand how this could be. Running my fingers over the tiles of the mosaic I noticed the silence of the woman. She had gone. I turned and looked over the empty cathedral wondering which pews Guillermo and the poet slept in when they had first arrived in Canción.