The dog school occupies the spacious but bumpy lot which, when we were kids, had been the place of Galache’s orchard and chicken yard. The building, as the German calls it, is the old lodge, only now it’s older, with its dried-up wood—since Galache’s times it hadn’t been given what you call a paint job—and with rotten, unnailed boards here and there. I was always amazed that the orchard produced such fragrant peaches, because the whole place was covered with the smell of chickens. Now, it smells of dogs.
I don’t know why I became so suspicious as I got close to it. You’ll say, “You’re afraid of dogs.” Believe me, that’s not it. It was a fantasy: I imagined that by entering without warning I would discover a secret that would bring me sorrow. I thought, Things should be open and aboveboard. I’m telling you this detail because it shows how my mind was working; before knowing a thing, as if I had forebodings of the trials they’d put me through, I was flying a bit off the handle. I thought, Things should be open and aboveboard, and I started calling out. After a while the professor came out. He didn’t seem happy about my visit.
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