In memory of his perceptive gaze, I bought myself a telescope. Now I can see the world of men as he saw it. Sometimes, I even pass comments on events taking place below.
The town is quiet and orderly now. Bright red boxes have been attached to every street corner to collect citizens’ reports of uncivilised behaviour. The municipal Party committee has banned pedestrians from shouting, laughing or running in the streets, and insists that they only walk outside in groups of less than four. If a group exceeds four members, it has to split in two. The committee has also arranged for cultural troupes to visit local work units to educate employees on the virtues of polite behaviour and assess their understanding of modern citizenship. Our work unit failed to make the grade because two old comrades from the finance department walked down the street taking strides that were judged to be either too large or too small.
When I look down from the terrace, the pedestrians seem to squirm through the streets as slowly as maggots. The only time I ever see a crowd is in the morning, when the pensioners are doing their exercises in Red Scarf Park.
I often sit on the terrace gazing at the clouds in the blue sky. They seem to have been hanging in the same position for months. I’m painting again now, but my inspiration has gone. I’ve messed around with the canvas on my easel for so long that from a distance it looks like a dirty apron.
The other day, I borrowed a guitar from an old classmate, and played a mournful tune on the spot beside the kennel where I used to sit and chat with the dog. I thrummed the strings and the tinkling melody drifted into the air. I thrummed again, but this time the strings produced no sound. In the evening, the head of the museum’s security department came up and told me not to play my guitar on the terrace again. He said the State Security Department had confiscated the noise from my instrument, and from now on I’d have to content myself with listening to the radio. He took the guitar from me, but to my great relief, didn’t ask me to write a self-criticism letter.
If only the survivor could see how clean the streets are now. He wouldn’t recognise the place. I often think back on those warm summer evenings when we lay on the terrace, the sea breeze stroking my skin and his fur. He would give me his canine view of the world, and criticise humans for not being more like dogs. This angered me. Since dogs don’t drive cars or wear clothes, he argued that cars were unnecessary and launderettes a waste of time. ‘And your cinemas are so noisy,’ he said one night, ‘they give me a headache.’
‘Thank goodness God never let dogs rule the world,’ I replied.
‘Man’s habit of standing upright is disgusting. Your leaders address the crowds with their chests and genitals on full display. When we want to speak, we just lift our heads up. It’s much more polite that way.’ He then outlined the policies a future dog government would introduce to reform human behaviour.
‘It’s true our leaders address the people standing upright,’ I consented, ‘but at least they are polite enough to wear clothes. You may bend over when you speak, but everyone can still see the genitals dangling between your legs. If ever the day came when you dogs were to gain power, I’d prefer to climb onto my roof and turn into a mouse rather than submit myself to your rule.’
‘At least the dogs would do a better job of ruling this country than your government has done.’ When the stars came out at night, his eyes were piercingly bright.
‘We have transcended the animal world through our invention of speech. Look at our wonderful libraries!’ I said, pointing at the floodlit public library below.
‘We dogs learn through a slow accumulation of experience. We are more sensitive and astute than you. For example, I know what tomorrow’s weather will be, when the next earthquake will strike, which mushrooms are poisonous, and which person is going where. We glide effortlessly through this world, learning as we go. But it takes you twenty years before you know enough to allow you to leave home. Most dogs are already dead by then. A three-month-old puppy knows more than any of your university professors. Dogs don’t need colleges or libraries – we’re happy to leave those places to you to while away your time in.’
‘Will dogs be allowed to get married when you take control?’ I asked.
‘The sex life of dogs is seasonal: we only have intercourse during the spring. And when we rise to power, we will preserve this custom. Your excessive sex drive is the root cause of today’s social instability. Look at that building opposite us! At this moment, from the ground floor to the eighth, nearly every couple is having intercourse. Those two on the third floor have done it twice tonight. They did the same last night, and the night before, with just a few changes of position, that’s all.’