Mouthful of Birds(17)

Slowly at first, then more confidently, I gather his legs together, pick him up and carry him to the car. A shadow moves in the trees. A drunk peers out and says, “You just don’t do that. The dogs will remember you, and later they’ll take their revenge. They know,” he says, “they know. Understand?” And he sits down on a bench and looks at me nervously. When I’m about to reach the car I see the Mole sitting and waiting for me in the same position he was in before, but the trunk of the Peugeot is open. The dog falls like dead weight, and he looks up at me as I close the trunk. Once I’m in the car, the Mole says: If you’d put it on the ground it would have gotten up and run away. Yes, I say. No, he says, you should have opened the trunk first. Yes, I say. No, you should have done it and you didn’t do it, he says. Yes, I say, and regret it immediately, but the Mole doesn’t say anything, and he looks at my hands. I look at my hands, I look at the steering wheel, and I see that everything is bloodstained, there’s blood on my pants and on the floor of the car. You should have used gloves, he says. The wound hurts. The man comes to kill a dog and he doesn’t bring gloves, he says. Yes, I say. No, he says. I know, I say, and then I shut up. I decide not to mention the pain. I start the car and drive smoothly off.

I try to concentrate, to figure out which of the many streets I pass could take me to the port without the Mole having to tell me anything. I can’t afford to make another mistake. Maybe it would be good to stop at a pharmacy and buy a pair of gloves, but pharmacy gloves wouldn’t work and the hardware stores will be closed by now. A plastic bag is no good, either. I could take off my jacket, roll it around my hand and use it as a glove. Yes, that’s how I’m going to do the job. I think about that: the job. I’m pleased to think I can talk like they do. I take Caseros Street, which I think goes down to the port. The Mole doesn’t look at me, doesn’t talk to me, doesn’t move; he keeps his eyes straight ahead and his breathing under control. I think they call him the Mole because his eyes under those glasses are tiny.

After several blocks Caseros crosses Chacabuco. Then Brasil, which leads to the port. I turn abruptly and the car tips onto two wheels. In the trunk the body thumps and then there are noises, as if the dog were still trying to get up. The Mole, I think surprised by the animal’s strength, smiles and points to the right. I turn onto Brasil braking; the tires squeal, and with the car on two wheels again, there’s more noise from the trunk—the dog scrambling to avoid the shovel and all the other stuff that’s back there. The Mole says, Brake, and I brake. He says: Speed up. He smiles. I speed up. Faster, he says, and I go faster. Then he says, Brake, and I brake. Now that the dog has been thrown around several times, the Mole relaxes and says: Keep going. He doesn’t say anything else. I drive. The street I’m driving on has no more stoplights or white lines, and the buildings get older and older. Any moment now we’ll be at the port.

The Mole signals to the right. He tells me to go three more blocks and turn left, toward the water. I obey. Soon we reach the port and I stop the car in a parking lot full of stacked containers. I look at the Mole, but he doesn’t look at me. Without wasting any time, I get out of the car and open the trunk. I didn’t wrap the jacket around my arm but I don’t need gloves anymore; the thing is done. I just need to finish quickly so we can go. In the empty port there are only a few weak yellow lights in the distance that illuminate a few ships. Maybe the dog is already dead. I think how that would have been for the best, that I should have hit him harder the first time and then he would surely be dead by now. Less work, less time with the Mole. I would have killed the dog right away, but this is how the Mole does things. It’s a whim. Bringing the dog half dead to the port doesn’t make anyone braver. Killing him in front of all those other dogs would have been harder.

When I touch him, when I grab his feet to take him out of the car, he opens his eyes and looks at me. I let go and he falls back into the trunk. With one front paw he scratches the rug that’s now covered in blood; he tries to get up and the back part of his body is trembling. He’s still breathing, and his breath is agitated. The Mole is probably timing me. I pick the dog up again and something must hurt because he howls, though he’s no longer struggling. I put him on the ground and drag him away from the car. When I turn back to the trunk to get the shovel, the Mole gets out. Now he’s next to the dog, looking down at him. I carry the shovel over, I see the Mole’s back and beyond him, on the ground, the dog. If no one will find out about a dead dog, no one will know anything that happens here. The Mole doesn’t turn around when he tells me: Now. I raise the shovel. Now, I think. But I don’t bring it down. Now, says the Mole.

I don’t bring it down, not on the Mole’s back or on the dog. Now, he says, and then the shovel slices through the air and hits the dog’s head, and the dog howls, trembles a moment, and then everything is quiet.

I start the car. Now the Mole is going to tell me who I’ll work for, what my name will be, and how much money I’ll make, which is what matters. Take Huergo and then turn onto Carlos Calvo, he says.

I’ve been driving for a while now. The Mole says: At the next street, stop on the right. I obey, and then the Mole looks at me for the first time. Get out, he says. I get out and he moves into the driver’s seat. I peer in through the window and ask him what will happen now. Nothing, he says, you hesitated. He starts the car and the Peugeot moves off in silence. When I look around I realize he left me in the plaza. The same plaza. In the center, near the fountain, a pack of dogs gets up, slowly, and looks at me.