Parkul Centru - second story

The picture above is to show that yes we are still alive and smiling. I do look thinner and older but Nancy looks good, don't you think? The following is a fictional story, the Englishman does not exist, but everything else is accurate. Hope you enjoy it. After the story there should be a picture of flowers. These are from Albert Bela's greenhouse in Luna de Sus and are set to go to market on All Saints Day.

Bela is the father of my two young friends pictured on an earlier blog. He is Magyar so his names are turned around - Albert is his family name.

Parkul Centru

II

The lake was in the southwest corner of the park. Separate from the lake a pedestrian walk ran from west end to east, broad and gravelly. It was flat and a perfect surface for joggers. On weekends a fellow guided a pony wagon and sold rides to the children. On each side of the walkway Chestnut trees grew.

I wonder at these trees. In America the chestnut has disappeared from our forests felled by the blight. When I was young there was a mighty horse chestnut that grew outside the north porch. Scientists used to come and poke around the tree wondering why it hadn’t succumbed to the disease. We moved and I not sure what became of the tree, died from natural causes or destroyed in building an office park. Perhaps it is a different variety, but here in Romania the chestnuts flourish. During the first days of school the nuts are bursting from their protective, spiky husks and fall to the ground, bright pebbles for school children to collect and examine.

A British gentleman comes often to the park on sunny days. He takes a spot on one of the benches flanking the walking path. I say he is British, but that is an assumption. He strolls from the British library at the consulate office, located cross the street facing the park, and he has the air of an Englishman, the way he carries his umbrella, his suit of clothes and his book. He prefers the mysteries. If it were a warm day he sits in the shade and reads, if it a cool day he finds a bench in the sunlight. He reads for roughly half an hour then marks his page with a bookmark and heads, I presume, home.

I have heard him say “Buna Ziua” on occasion but I have not noticed that he has ever engaged in conversation with passers-by. He is content to read his book and enjoy the weather.

No one ever gave the dog a name. He was a stray, living on the edge of society. Romania has a million stray dogs, but the city of Cluj has done a fair job in clearing the streets, yet there remain a few. This dog without a name was one. He had a bright eye and easy manner. He was a medium sized animal, though slim, like all the strays. He was black and inherited no sign of breed or distinction except for his intelligence. He liked the park. He had lived here all summer, alone, finding sustenance from the ice cream wrappers and various other debris. Because he had the wisdom to stay out of people’s way, keeping just beyond their circle of rejection, they left him alone, sometimes tossing him their unwanted tidbits.

What it was that attracted the dog to the Englishman, I can not say. The man never had food so had nothing to offer him. I never saw the man coax the dog, or speak to it either in Romanian or in English. As the end of summer approached the dog perhaps sensed that he’d need to find other arraignments for surviving the Transylvanian winter. Perhaps the Englishman had a particular scent that attracted the dog. I can not say, but I do know for some reason the dog adopted the man.

It was a slow adoption. On the days the gentleman came for his read, the dog would appear and either sit or lay close by whichever bench the man chose for his leisure. On each succeeding day the dog moved closer to the man. At first the gentleman paid little heed, only to interrupt his reading to be sure that the dog was no threat. He had never been attacked by the strays but he had heard stories.

It wasn’t until the third or fourth afternoon that he took full account of the dog. I suspect he wondered why the same dog seemed to hang around. I saw him put aside his novel and sit and watch the animal for some minutes. He said nothing. The dog said nothing. The man picked up his book again, finished his appointed time and got up to leave. In doing so, he looked back at the dog. I could see the dog return the gaze. I’ve known enough dogs to imagine that mournful look the beast gave the man. Finally, the man retreated from the park. The dog stayed put for some time as if waiting for the man’s return.

The gentleman did not have a pattern of reading every day. Often there were gaps of two or three days. I never saw him at all on the weekends. I saw the dog but I did not see the man.

It was a day after the night rains when the Englishman next showed. The earth smelled clean and new. The rain had brought down more of the nuts and dried leaves. The man had picked an all together splendid day to enjoy the last sparse shade of the chestnuts. He pulled out a napkin to wipe the bench of its droplets of water before sitting. I watched him and I watched his dog.
The dog moved closer than it had been in previous days. This day it sat directly next to the bench in such a manner that its head made a near perfect arm rest. He looked straight ahead, almost as if it too were reading some imaginary book.

The man tried reading but found that his concentration was effected by his guest. He put the book in his lap. He turned to look down at the dog. The dog turned to look up at him.
“I used to have a dog, you know.”

Dogs can’t answer directly, their conversation takes a more roundabout form, but it was clear that the animal was listening.

“When I was a lad I had a dog.”

I wondered if the dog had ever before had such an extended discussion with a non dog before. He seemed perfectly at ease, all rapt attention. The conversation was in English. Perhaps the dog would have preferred Romanian, but it seemed content enough to listen.

The gentleman must have found that audience agreeable as well for he continued.
“We shared many fond times, Kanga and I. I named him after my favorite character in Winnie-the-Pooh.”

The man said everything slowly to the dog. I doubt that it was because he felt the dog slow to understand, rather it was the way the memories awakened in his mind, slowly.

“He was a good dog and the day that he was hit by a neighbor’s car was one of the saddest of my childhood.”

The man paused a long time now. The dog sat waiting for the rest of the story. It did not come, at least, not that day. The man picked up his reading, lasted only a few more lines, closed his book and departed.

I looked over at the dog sitting still after the man had left. I wondered if the canine thought that he was making progress or if he was wasting his time with this gent that spoke a foreign language that the dog didn’t understand at all.

The next day the gentleman came back, but not with a book in his hands, but rather a paper bag. He looked around as he walked, searching for his dog. It was his dog now, that’s what the bag signified. He sat upon the same bench as he had the day before, but as yet there was no sign of the dog. I could see from the slightest slump in an otherwise straight shoulder that the man was disappointed not to find his dog. He sat there for a while, considering whether to walk the park searching or not.

I’m sure the dog was testing him. After all these days of gradually gaining the trust of the man, he wanted to test that trust. I imagine the dog had a motto, “Easily adopted, as easily dismissed.” I don’t know how to say that in Romanian. I believe that the dog did.

The man sat a full fifteen minutes with no dog. He had given up the idea of strolling through the park, I believe because it would have seemed undignified to be searching for a stray. As I watched him I saw his countenance brighten. He had seen his dog, and his dog, as if to make up for his tardy arrival, came bounding towards the man.

As he got closer to the bench, the dog slowed, then stopped and stood. The gentleman patted his head.

“I shall have a name for you. You are not a Kanga, there was only one, besides you don’t look anything like a Kanga.”

He leaned and petted the black head. The dog closed his eyes and I imagine it said to itself, “So this is how it feels.”

The man continued, “My favorite character from the mysteries is Constable Perkins. He is a wily and intelligent fellow. I shall call you Perkins, if you don’t mind.”

The dog hadn’t ever been called a name before. He’d been yelled at and called unpleasant things, but those aren’t names. “Perkins,” the dog said to himself.

The gentleman reached into his bag and produced a dog biscuit and held it for Perkins. The dog hesitated. He’d never been offered anything like this before and wasn’t sure what he was suppose to do with it.

“Go ahead. It’s good. You’ll like it.”

Perkins looked up at the man, then took a deeper smell of the treat. He opened his mouth and grabbed the bone but made no attempt to eat it. He simply held it in his mouth. His saliva must have dripped the taste of it onto his tongue yet still he held it.

Reaching again into the bag the man pulled out an aerosol can.

“This is for the fleas. We mustn’t bring any of the fleas home with us. Once we get home we’ll have a proper bath in the tub, but now we’ll use this so that none of the buggers will follow us home.”

This was all foreign to the dog. Even if it had all been spoken in Romanian, the meaning would have been lost for lack of an experience. The dog stood there, his biscuit in his mouth. The man took the aerosol and sprayed up and down and around Perkins, careful not to get any near his eyes or biscuit filled mouth. When he was done he reached again into the bag and withdrew a slip collar and a leash.

The dog remained still as the man slipped the collar around the treat and over its head. When the collar was properly around the neck, he snapped the clasp of the leash to the collar.
“Come along, Perkins. Let’s go get a proper bath.”

As they departed the park they walked past me. I would swear I heard the dog say to himself as they passed, his treat still uneaten, “Perkins. Sunt Perkins.” I smiled for he said ‘Perkins’ with a Romanian accent.