Fadi Azzam’s haunting novel Huddud’s House came out this spring from Interlink Books in Ghada Alatrash’s translation. In this new short story, composed this summer, Azzam tells of a dog named Cher and a man’s warped coming-of-age.
The Pussy
By Fadi Azzam
Translated by Ghada Alatrash
We had a dog named Cher.
Rabies claimed him.
My siblings and I all loved him dearly, although we did not love him equally.
Our father summoned us to the olive grove. He stood like a military commander, while we, like a defeated battalion, hung on his every word.
He explained that Cher had fallen into the grips of rabies, a perilous affliction that was devouring his brain like a ravenous worm. This was why he’d been tied to the big almond tree in the olive grove.
In his left hand, my father held a double-barreled shotgun; there was a pistol at his waist; and, behind him, an RPG rest against a wooden crate filled with hand grenades.
My father, who had been wounded in the war against the enemies of our homeland, never let go of his rifle.
He was a general who fled—I mean, survived—twice during battles with protestors. My eldest brother always told me off: “Don’t say ‘protestors.’ They’re infiltrators. Gangs of terrorists. Armed militias. Takfiri groups. Traitors. Stray dogs.”
I didn’t understand, and I couldn’t have, even if I’d tried.
Nonetheless, my father said, “Cher, who we granted the privilege of guarding an entire olive grove, along with a shelter to sleep in and scraps to eat three times a day, has today gone rabid. He is now so sick that he’s lost his heart and mind and is biting everyone, even those who love him.”
As a democratic general, my father asked us, “I want to know who among you loves Cher the most?”
The answer was known to all, and my siblings’ eyes turned to me.
Amidst a profound silence, their glances spoke: Him. Him. Him. My unspoken voice wavered, Yes. No. Yes. No. Yyyes. Me.
My father stood, dressed in his military uniform, with an eagle and a star on his shoulders, a pistol at his waist, and an AK-47 in his hand. Cher stood behind him, three flies buzzing over his head, white foam oozing from his mouth as he watched our family gathering with broken eyes and a dirt-smeared face. He lay down, exhausted, and let out the pitiful whimpers of a dog in pain.
“Forward step!” my father commanded in classical Arabic.
I moved forward.
Tears welled in my brothers’ eyes as my father loaded the AK-47 and began to recite a proverb, “Five are the living creatures, all harmful, that may be killed even within the sacred precincts of the Ka’ba: the crow, the kite, the rat, the snake, and the rabid dog.” He continued, “Today, Cher has become a rabid dog, and we must kill him.”
My father handed me the AK-47 after unlocking the bolt and disengaging the safety. He ordered me to carry out the execution of my favorite dog.
I couldn’t pull the trigger. Cher’s eyes were locked on mine, and, in that gaze, the days we’d spent together passed between us: seven years, a lifetime between a child and a dog. It wasn’t easy to execute a creature I’d loved more than my own siblings.
I whispered to my father, “I can’t,” and I lowered the rifle, which swayed twice in my small hands before falling to the ground, where it was covered in dust.
My father’s mouth then foamed, just like Cher’s. He bent to retrieve the AK-47, hissing in my face, “This rifle is an honor, you animal, you coward. You will shoot him.”
Some of the foam splashed onto my face. It smelled like a decaying corpse.
He grabbed my hand, pressed the rifle against my chest, and held me between his legs. Bent over me like a heavy shadow, he placed my finger on the trigger, aimed, and pressed his finger against mine. The rifle jolted back against my shoulder and my father’s thigh, while my other hand tipped the barrel upward. A burst of bullets shot out, knocking down a few branches and leaves from the almond tree under which Cher stood. The dog, who had turned deaf, continued to foam at the mouth. The rest of the burst arched up and up, as if my father and I were firing at the sky.
My father had lost many battles without losing his temper. But he saw this as a decisive battle for my siblings and me.
He threw me to the ground and yelled, “You pussy, you will never become a man!”
He drew the pistol from the belt around his waist and emptied its bullets into Cher’s head. The dog didn’t resist.
Silence fell, broken only by the gurgling from Cher’s bloody mouth and my whimpers—not just for killing Cher, but also because my father’s insult had branded me like a curse.
***
My siblings were the first to use it against me, and soon it spread among the village boys, then to the kids at school. Even the girls mocked me.
I would never become a “man” and would remain a “pussy” for the rest of my life.
My father went to war again. When he returned, something in him had changed forever. His eyes were sunken, and a slimy white liquid dripped from his mouth. He constantly wiped it away while clutching a leather bag that he never let go of.
At night, he would go out into the grove, sit in Cher’s house, and bury his head in the dirt.
I snuck out to his new residence and opened the bag. I took his pistol in my hand, and, just as he had taught me, I did what had to be done.
No one would dare call me a pussy any more.
As for the wretched leather bag, my siblings placed it in the center of the sitting room where we hosted guests. No guest ever dared to look inside, although everyone knew it was stuffed with severed ears that heard nothing.
” الكس “
تقدمت، لقّم أبي الكلاشن. وهو يقول حكمة، دمعت أعين أخوتي لسماعها.
Also read:
‘Today, We Need to Write at Least a Thousand Syrian Novels,’ a conversation with Ghada Alatrash and Fadi Azzam
An Excerpt of Fadi Azzam’s ‘Huddud’s House’
Poetry by Azzam, in Alatrash’s translation:
Azzam’s ‘This Is Damascus, You Sons of Bitches’
Azzam’s ‘If You Are Syrian These Days …’
More Syrian short works, translated by Alatrash:
Ibrahim Samui’l’s “The Stench of Heavy Footsteps”
Fadi Azzam is a Syrian novelist and writer, and is the author of Sarmada (2011), longlisted for the 2012 International Prize for Arabic Fiction, as well as Huddud’s House (2017), longlisted for the 2018 International Prize for Arabic Fiction. He was the Culture and Arts Correspondent for Al-Quds Al-Arabi newspaper. His opinion columns have appeared in the NY Times and a number of newspapers across the Middle East and Arab Gulf. His piece, “If you are Syrian these days” was recently published in Gutter magazine.
Ghada Alatrash, PhD, is an Assistant Professor in the School of Critical and Creative Studies at Alberta University of the Arts in Calgary, Canada. She holds her PhD in Educational Research: Languages and Diversity from the Werklund School of Education, the University of Calgary, and a Master’s Degree is in English Literature from the University of Oklahoma. Her current research speaks to Syrian art and creative expression as resistance to oppression and dictatorship.