The Gentleman with a Dog

While psychologists may have written volumes on human memory; I learn about it from my own life.

The image of the elderly Polish gentleman with a brown hairy dog re-appeared in my mind; only because my earlier story was set in the Powazki cemetery. I had seen him seventeen years ago, in July 1987. When I remembered him this week, I could vividly see his vacant eyes and the brown dog which sat silently at his feet day after day. I don’t recollect any longer the dress he wore. I could, of course, lie; use a fiction writer’s privilege and describe him in detail.  But I won’t. This is a true story and there is no reason why I should add anything more to it than what I recall. What fascinates me is that I do remember his blank eyes. The dog was definitely brown – but I can’t tell you what breed it was. As a matter of fact, I don’t like dogs – hairy dogs in particular – they leave behind hair on car seats and leather sofas. I find it disgusting and unhygienic. If the elderly gentleman did not have the dog, I would have gone with Zosha in the very beginning to ask him whose grave it was.

I think I am causing confusion here by not writing the narration in the right sequence. It is partly because while writing I don’t want to lose his face from my memory’s eye. I had not seen it for many many years. Secondly, I am assuming you read my story from last week called ‘Ashes to Ashes Dust to Dust’. Since both stories happened in the same cemetery in Warsaw, I am not going to repeat here what I have already described before.

If for some reason, you didn’t read that story which was about an English girl Lisa finding golden teeth in a grave, converting them into a ring, and losing it in New York; I must quickly rehash the setting so that you are not confused any more.

In the summer of 1987, I travelled around Europe as a volunteer on behalf of ‘Volunteers for Peace’. The jobs included building a house in Austria, working as a volunteer nurse at a London mental hospital and restoring coffins in the Powazki cemetery at Warsaw. I worked in Powazki for a month, and it was there that I saw the Polish gentleman with a dog. I saw him at the very beginning of the camp, maybe even on the first day.

There were fifteen of us from as many countries. The leader of the camp was Zosha (Polish way of corrupting the name Sophie), a young girl with glasses who was a language graduate. She spoke impeccably correct English, and pronounced each word phonetically as Eastern Europeans are wont to do. The foreign volunteers, including myself, did not know any Polish. So Zosha had an additional role of working as our interpreter.

Many volunteers who arrived in Poland on the weekend, stayed at Zosha’s small flat in central Warsaw. On the camp’s first day, she took us by bus to the Powazki. You may want to know why any young students of sound mind should opt to do voluntary work in a cemetery. Well, we didn’t ask for a cemetery. When you apply, you give your choices for countries; but you receive from the organisers specific venues only later.

As an Indian, I have always associated cemeteries with morbidity; provoked by all those ghost stories I have read, and seen on screens with special sound effects. In India, we cremate. You burn the body and the person is gone for ever. Coming from a culture where living people have little space to live, I find the giant graveyards extravagant. Burying the dead with grand ceremony, and relatives visiting the grave ever so often to bring flowers and other paraphernalia I consider to be an excessive display of sentiment. I think the grief, when real, is prolonged unnecessarily simply because of the existence of the burial system. If the relative was asked to open the coffin and witness the transformation of the dear and departed, he would probably run away screaming.

These were, I think, my thoughts when I saw at a distance this elderly man sitting next to a tombstone. He would bring a folding chair. The dog sat at his lap without barking. On most days, the man was already in his chair before we reached the cemetery. When we left late afternoon, he still sat in the chair. We did not work very long hours, but the time he spent, sitting next to the grave of his loved one, must be considered unusually lengthy.

‘‘Is it not abnormal for a man to sit the whole day in a cemetery?’’ I asked Zosha. Being an Indian, most things which are none of my business make me very curious. I was annoyed when nobody else at the camp thought anything about the man.

‘‘He must be retired.’’ Zosha specialised in stating facts without offering theories. ‘‘He is not the only one here.’’

Yes, the Powazki cemetery had visitors. I must clarify, after a couple of days I no longer associated any morbidity with it. It is a very nice place, if such term can be applied to a cemetery. Groups come here as part of their sightseeing tour. Once I saw a middle-aged lady sitting on a bench and reading a book. It must be hot in her apartment, Zosha said. If she lives nearby, this is as good a place to come and read books as any, she said. In short, Powazki had people other than us - the volunteers - but nobody came on a daily basis as the gentleman with the dog did.

My first theory was that he had lost his wife. That too very recently. Maybe just before our camp had started. The gravestone which we could see from distance looked fresh. On two separate occasions when we went to Powazki earlier than usual, I saw him in action.  

The man had a small tiled plot in front of the gravestone. When I looked from far, he was scrubbing the floor. A water bucket lay on side. The second time, he was cleaning it with a broom. I guess he did the cleaning each morning on arrival.

‘‘Is it common that you clean the space in front of the headstone of your wife every day?’’ I asked Zosha. ‘‘The only thing I haven’t seen is a vacuum cleaner.’’

‘‘I don’t know. My knowledge of cemeteries is limited.’’ Zosha said. ‘‘But it is possible he loved her much. He wants to spend time with her and keep the house clean.’’

I don’t think the man ever read anything. He just sat in his chair, his dog next to him. I imagined him going through a long married life, and replaying in his mind scenes – mostly those that had brought joy to the couple –, while his partner lay in the ground lifeless. Silence was his form of communication.

I was desperate to check the name of his wife on the headstone and the year of death. I was almost certain she had died that year, but confirming it would set my mind at peace. If the dog was not there, I would have checked the name long ago, but the dog always sat there. It did not bark, but each time I see a dog, I think of the injections you need to take in stomach if it bites. I thought I would rather die of curiosity than take injections in stomach.

Having said that, in the third week, I decided to venture passing by his plot. It looked as if the dog was sleeping. I tiptoed my way, still keeping a fair distance from the grave, but managed to see the name on the stone. I quickly went ahead to avoid the man think I was spying. I returned to my co-workers through a detour, and gave the headline.

‘‘It’s a man.’’ I said. ‘‘The name on the gravestone is of a man, not a woman.’’ I don’t remember now what the name was. With no knowledge of Polish, I could still differentiate between male and female names. I think I checked with Zosha it was indeed a man.

‘‘That adds a new complexion to the mystery.’’ I said. ‘‘It’s not his wife.’’

‘‘Maybe his father?’’ Zosha suggested.

‘‘Father? First of all, look at that man. He must be in his sixties. So his father must be at least eighty plus. Now can someone really mourn for a father day after day? And clean and scrub the floor in a cemetery? I think it may be his brother.’’

There was a week left before I was due to leave Poland. A dead wife would have been a perfect explanation. A man can’t overcome his beloved wife’s death, comes to her grave every day, and spends days in her company. That would have made sense to me. I would say it even had a touch of poignant romance. If I had to leave Poland without knowing who the dead person was, I would have been happy to go along with that story. Perfectly plausible. The man was sentimental but normal. One day, he would get tired of mourning and then stop or reduce coming here.

But it was not his wife. The male name had created complications. A Dutch girl on the camp said he must be gay and the dead man was his boyfriend. That shocked Zosha, who hastened to say Poland was a good Catholic country, and in this man’s generation these things were unheard of. Not because Zosha said it, I myself thought the theory was far-fetched. It could be either father or brother.

Then the presence of dog struck me. What was the significance of the dog? I had checked with dog-lovers at the camp that keeping a dog for a whole day in the cemetery was unusual. A couple of times every day, the dog would disappear; presumably for biological comfort. Other than that, it sat there all the time. Again I don’t remember, but I assume its owner brought food both for himself and the dog. I formed a new theory. The dead person, in fact, was attached to the dog. The old man had promised that person – brother or father – that he would bring the dog to the grave every day. He was carrying out somebody’s final wish. The death wishes can be weird. If you are superstitious, you want to fulfil the commitments given to a dying man.

By this time, I had managed to make everyone at the camp curious. Even those who initially thought of me as a pain in the neck, now began offering their own theories about the man and his relationship with the dead whose grave he guarded.

‘‘Look Zosha, we are all leaving tomorrow. I am afraid the unsolved mystery of that man will torture me in the coming months. I will not forgive myself for leaving the cemetery like that. This is not a book of Agatha Christie suspense. The man is sitting right over there. The easiest thing is to go and ask him.’’

Zosha had shown admirable patience with me for a whole month. But she raised her eyebrows.

‘‘What do you want to ask him?’’

‘‘Ask him who is the dead person, what is his relationship with him, why he comes here every day, cleans and scrubs the floor. And yes, the dog. Why bring the dog?’’ I thought maybe we should all have little bets on the answers, but I did not say it. Betting in a cemetery may look a bit impolite.

‘‘I don’t think we should ask him anything. That is his private mourning. I don’t think he will like it.’’ Zosha was uneasy.

‘‘In the worst case, he will refuse to answer. So what? Go, Zosha, go. Please. For my sake, please ask him.’’ Everyone supported me. An Agatha Christie novel with its last pages missing is an uncomfortable experience.

‘‘I?’’ Zosha looked surprised. ‘‘If you are so keen, you go and ask yourself.’’

‘‘Look Zosha, I don’t know Polish. You know that. You also know how much I hate dogs. My heart was thumping the other day when I passed by it.’’

Zosha would not agree to go alone. In the end, the group forced me to go, with Zosha coming as my assistant, as my interpreter. Zosha would take care the dog does not attack me. She will introduce me to the man and clarify she was only translating. I agreed.

I followed Zosha cautiously. All others watched. I must admit the dog was gentle. He hardly moved even when we approached the chair in which the man sat. Zosha said I was a student from India, and if the gentleman did not mind, I would like to talk to him. I think the man neither smiled nor protested. Zosha looked at me.

‘‘Good afternoon.’’ I said. ‘‘I have been working there...’’ I pointed to where the group was. ‘‘... and I have seen you here for the past month. I was...er... wondering whose grave is this.’’

Zosha translated and waited.

‘‘Whose grave? Whose? Mine.’’ He took his hand to chest.

‘‘I mean,’’ I said, ‘‘whose name is that on the stone’’?

‘‘My name.’’ Zosha while translating added in conspiratorial tone that the stone had only the year of birth, and not the year of death. The old man then lovingly looked at his dog, and began talking even without my asking anything.

‘‘You know, I have trained my dog, a lovely dog she is, to sit here. I have agreed with my neighbour he would leave her here for a few hours every day to give me company, once I am there... under the ground. I hope the dog outlives me.’’ He looked fondly at the sleeping dog. ‘‘I like my house clean, and she keeps me company. Why any of that should change once I move to Powazki?’’

I think after saying that, the Polish gentleman with the dog smiled in a very benign way.

Ravi Abhyankar