El Mastín Español by Beth Pepper

Américo Losa Muñoz steps over his dog and onto the patterned rug beneath his desk. If the office were not so cramped—if there were room between the doorjamb and his rolling chair for Marmota’s jowls to spread out—then it would be a pleasant workspace. As it is, he will hardly be able to concentrate on this new exposition on purity of blood in fifteenth century Spain if he cannot reach the bookshelf without provoking the high-pitched squeal that means he has, once again, rolled over the poor dog’s ear.

Ay de mí, he has forgotten to shut the door before laying his briefcase on the desk. Mindful of Marmota’s various appendages, he stretches toward the knob, and his finger brushes the placard under the tiny window. Increíble, even nine years later, how much resistance there was when he asked that it be spelled ‘profesor’, with only one ‘s’ (although not as much as there was later about allowing a puppy in the building). Never mind that he had lived in the United States for twenty-one years, he explained to the clearly ambitionless student who came to glue on the sign; he was still Spanish.

Petting the pale yellow head in his lap is his only diversion as the computer whirs and chimes, booting up. You Have New Mail. Some professor down the hall is writing to ask his opinion of the Mexican restaurant on Holly Street (this elicits a grimace); and there is a student who undoubtedly was too hungover to attend Spanish 352 the previous day and could he please have the assignment, not that he will analyze Don Quijote instead of playing beer pong tonight, but anyway. Sometimes he wishes they would just come out and say that. At least it would be the truth. As an undergraduate, in the United States for the first time, he was baffled by the American students’ habitual overconsumption of alcohol. What in retrospect must have appeared to the other students as disdain ensured that he had plenty of time to study, especially on weekends. He rubs at the wet spot left on his pants leg.

From: Sarah Bradly. Subject: Hello.

She hopes he remembers her from the weeklong summer cooking class in Boston in 2001. A Spanish mastiff recently came through her clinic, and she recalled that he had mentioned the thought of getting one as a pet. This was just what prompted her to get in touch, not why she was writing. That wouldn’t make very good conversation, would it? Anyway, she hopes he is doing well and, while she knows he is busy, she would very much like to hear from him. She is sincerely his.

This is certainly unexpected. A successful veterinarian in a wealthy part of Boston, she was what the cooking teacher called, laughing too loudly at her own joke, his “partner in thyme”. They worked with stiff, wordless smiles at first, then eased into innocuous conversation: food, professions, pets. This gave way to a more comfortable silence, during which, thankfully, he managed not to set her on fire or pour olive oil down the front of her expensive-looking top. But when the class was over, that was that.

He rubs Marmota’s proffered belly to the rhythmic thumping of her tail. If he replies in any detail, this woman will undoubtedly recognize his life for what it is: pesado. Dull. Monotonous. He contemplates adjectives in both languages for several minutes before straightening and beginning to compose.

To: Sarah Bradly. Subject: And hello to you.

Dear Ms. Bradly, My extended vacation in Boston yielded many interesting and valuable experiences, not the least of which was learning the art of flambé. I am still embarrassed for the woman who caught her partner’s toupee on fire! I must admit, I did not imagine that we would be in contact again but am pleasantly surprised. How have you fared these past years? Indeed, in response to your implied question, I have since purchased (no, not ‘purchased’—too pretentious)… come to own a purebred Spanish mastiff. Her registered name is La Reina Isabel de Castile, after the rebellious Spanish matriarch. However, my dog will not be starting an inquisition anytime in the near future: her pet name is Marmota, or ‘sleepyhead’ in my first language. (No no no, too much about the dog.)

He considers deleting the part about the name and the inquisition and et cetera but keeps it because the back of his throat tickles a little when he reads that line. If she is so inclined, she may respond, letting him know how she has occupied her time since they last spoke—perhaps with flambé? If he were a teenager, he would add a little semicolon-and-parenthesis smile here. He looks forward to hearing from her. Regards, Américo. Send Message.

Marmota expels a great gust of air, as if relieved that the bothersome tapping of the keys has ceased. He gently prods her with a scuffed leather toe and slips the leash under the folds of loose skin around her neck. Down the stairs and to the right; nod to the receptionist; out the ornate wooden door; and, momentarily blinded by late-morning sunlight, he does not catch Marmota in time to keep her from squatting on the manicured front lawn. Dios mío. A bag stowed in his jacket pocket proves useful, though he must still tote the warm plastic into the foyer because in his nine years there no one has ever thought to put a garbage can outside the building.

This time, he remembers to shut the door before sitting down. You Have New Mail.

From: Sarah Bradly. Subject: How funny!

She had forgotten about the man’s toupee lighting on fire during class. How terrible but hilarious. As for her life since then, she has continued to practice in her small animal clinic just outside the city, seeing the usual cases: a pedigreed Persian cat vomiting up a diamond ring, etc. She is part of a book club for adults who don’t want to read Oprah’s memoir and the like. They meet on the grass in Harvard Yard, weather permitting, or go to coffee and fill up the entire corner café. She still has not married—has not found the right person—but is enjoying life.

She writes briefly about her rafting trip down the Penobscot last summer and at length about attending the AKC championships as an attending vet. Has he seen the beautiful, world-class Spanish mastiffs? She is sure that his dog has a much more exciting life than the show dogs do, as they stand on grooming tables for hours everyday and then are expected to hold still while the judges poke at them. (A much more exciting life indeed, he thinks.) She is sorry to have written a novel-length message but hopes to hear back in similar detail about his life and recent adventures. Again, she is sincerely his.

He can picture her mouth, only her mouth, though she is certainly a brunette and of average height—much like half of the women in the United States, it seems, including the one he went to dinner with twice last year and would have very much liked to continue seeing. That is, before he saw her in the far corner of the university parking lot, draped across the hood of a sport utility vehicle and wrapped in a biochemistry professor who had just presented a slide show on his summit of Mt. Rainier. Marmota yips twice in her sleep, and her paw twitches, scraping along the wood floor. The rapping of his pen on the desk prompts her to roll onto her back with an expectant look, tail batting the corner of the bookshelf. What can he possibly write? Opening the research file he has been neglecting, and then closing it again, he turns to Marmota. The mid-day biscuit is inevitable, when her black eyes droop with boredom like that. Once the crunching is finished, she mops up the remains with her tongue.

Pesado pesado pesado. Yes, he has received tenure at a major university, largely owing to his knowledge of Spanish and his related historical research. If only he had similar achievements in something exciting, like river rafting or fencing or polo, or even showing champion dogs. He cannot write to Ms. Bradly that at the age of thirty-nine he passes the nights alone and the days in a cramped office, rolling over ears and scratching armpits, sneezing from dust while Tomás de Torquemada becomes inquisitor general in Seville, 1483. No, that simply will not do.

He fingers a glass paperweight and replaces it on the edge of the desk.

To: Sarah Bradly. Subject: Aventuras.

Dear Sarah (may I use your first name?), I am pleased to hear that you have been busy and content in the time since we met. If I am available at the time of the next televised dog show, I shall certainly watch for the Spanish mastiff—el mastín español, as I am accustomed to thinking of the breed. However, I have since taken up fencing and am often occupied on weekends by tournaments or clinics. Two years ago, my annual visit home to Spain included a side trip, during which I met and sparred with the great master Jorge Fernandino López in his private facility (though I was of course thoroughly humbled by his skill with the sword). Additionally, my brother owns a stable—Andalusians, naturally—in the countryside, and we were able to go riding in the foothills, which I had not done in several years. A group of my brother’s colleagues accompanied us, among them a wonderful Spanish woman (Esperanza) who, I am fortunate to say, has since come to the United States, and we were married just last spring. What a busy time! It was quite a nuisance completing the tremendous stacks of paperwork required for Esperanza to reside here with me, but nothing in light of the great happiness she has brought me.

There is a deep rumbling from below his chair; perhaps now Marmota is facing off with a Doberman pinscher or an especially large and ferocious squirrel.

Besides the wedding and various fencing tournaments, university professorship has continued as usual: students skipping class (or, even worse, attending class) while hungover from wild nights of alcohol, loud music, and sex. Who can blame them, though? As if we did not all engage in such hedonistic activities during our own university years. Ay de mí, this message has also reached epic length, and I must leave my office for the evening, as Esperanza and I are attending a benefit dinner for the children’s hospital, an hour’s drive away. I hope that our correspondence will continue, as it is always good to make a friend out of an acquaintance. Best wishes, Américo.

The tapping of the pen replaces that of the keyboard. Opening one eye, Marmota sniffs and shifts her weight onto the other haunch. The cursor hovers over the Send Message button. Perhaps she will read this story with envy, envisioning her own hair blown back as a gray Andalusian stallion gallops through the countryside. A pang of jealousy might clench her gut when she reads about his recent marriage. What an exciting life, she will think. But it is not his. It is not his story to tell as if he were a college student with a hangover, fabricating excuses for missing class. He clicks Delete Message, stuffs a fresh bag into his pocket, pushes back from his desk. A squeal and a jerk upward and he strokes her massive head in consolation. Ay de mí.

To: Sarah Bradly. Subject: Life.

Dear Sarah, I am so pleased to hear that you have been well. It sounds like you have had some great experiences in the time since we met, and I must say, I am quite envious! As for me, I have been working away at the university and am beginning a new project on the Spanish Inquisition. Not very exciting, really, but I do enjoy my work. Speaking of which, I will be in New York for a conference in May and had intended to stay on the East coast again for a short vacation. Perhaps, if you are not too busy fishing diamonds out of cats (!), I could visit this coffee shop of yours. I would be delighted to have the opportunity to catch up and hear more of your stories. Have an excellent weekend, and I hope to hear from you again soon. Regards, Américo.