As usually happens when his belly begins to boil over with a devastating blend of booze, de Vere tosses and turns in bed and, before waking in a cold sweat, dreams in vivid detail of the good old days in Europe:
He finds himself sitting at his favorite sidewalk café below a swanky brothel at the Place de la Contrescarpe where, amidst the sentimental chanson française and the melodic laughter of the lovely young whores, de Vere and his fellow expatriates féte each other with great goblets of absinthe (frog green and bitter, illegal of course, wreaks havoc on the nervous system) and spin tales of their latest excursions to the catacombs beneath the famous cathedral and the galleries at the Museé de l'Homme where, for a small fee, tourists can view Descartes' brain in the Cabinet of Curiosities.
"He thought his dog was a soulless machine," says de Vere, "completely unconscious of the world."
"Who did?" ask the whores.
"Descartes. His logic was a bit convoluted. If dogs possess consciousness then naturally they must possess souls. And if dogs possess souls then it only stands to reason that all animals possess souls, including oysters and sea sponges. But Descartes couldn't stomach the idea of heaven overrun by mangy mutts marking their territory, pissing on celestial harps, shitting at Saint Peter's feet, humping the legs of the dearly departed. Ergo, dogs do not possess souls. Ironic, since science has only confirmed what we have long suspected—that humans are animals, too. Isn't that why we're here tonight? To debase ourselves? To give in to our animal urges?"
The giggling existential whores do not agree. Sex, they insist, is not part of our animal nature; in fact, it's what makes us different from the animals. Sex is cerebral, spiritual, a most solemn ceremony, a sacred obligation, as subtle and complex as any religious ritual. There are customs to observe, roles to play, small but important gestures to make.
With a rare feeling of contentment, de Vere leans back in his chair and sips his absinthe. If only he could remain lost forever in this wondrous world of philosophical rumination, this astonishing cognitive theater, but of course these enchanting reveries must always take a nightmarish turn. As evening falls, a dirty yellow mist creeps up the hill, snaking through the cobblestone streets and obscuring the moon that hovers above the rooftops like some giant unblinking eye with broken capillaries. At the sound of approaching footsteps, an ominous hush falls over the patrons. Even the waiters, bearing bottles of Beaujolais, set their trays aside and peer into the dense fog.
Like a gargoyle plunging from the cornices of the great cathedral, the menacing figure of a Great Dane comes bounding toward de Vere, snarling and snapping at him.
"Ganzago?" de Vere says, rising from his seat. "Is that you, boy?"
But the dog does not wag its tail and lick his face. It lunges at him, latches onto his arm, drags him toward the fountain at the center of the square where his wife Elsie greets him with a baneful smile. She sits on the edge of the fountain, her ankles crossed, her hands folded in her lap, and in a voice that is simultaneously sweet and masterfully manipulative and so very typical of women of her station she says, "Edward, darling, there's a small matter we must discuss. You see, I've somehow managed to contract a nasty case of syphilis..."
She leads de Vere to the center of the fountain and chains him to one of the magnificent marble putti that pisses perfect parabolas of water into the sickening mist, and though he wants to escape into the night, he is prevented from doing so by Gonzago who shreds his pants and claws his legs. Like some village idiot convicted of unlawful carnal knowledge, de Vere proclaims his innocence and rattles his chains and capers ridiculously around the shallow pool. The fog suddenly lifts, and tourists pour into the square to take pictures of him. Bulbs flash. Shutters automatically adjust to gather the meager lamplight. These people have traveled thousands of miles to witness this comic scene and aren't going to miss it for the world, the Eiffel Tower be damned.
Gonzago seems to be enjoying it, too. He licks his enormous swinging testicles and happily manufactures mountainous heaps of fetid, fly-swaddled shit. All of Paris is soiled by dog shit—the people here are too posh to pick up after their mutts—but now, to de Vere's disbelief, his wife stoops down and, using her bare hands, scoops up a warm pile of feces and fashions it into a ball. Without warning she flings it at his face, even massages it into his hair. The shit slides down his back and legs, but de Vere, far beyond any possibility of redemption, bows his head and endures this ferocious hailstorm with a stoic smile, his chin pressed against his chest.
He feels some vague sense of remorse for the ghastly things he has done to Elsie—the years of deception, the innumerable infidelities, and the terrible bout of syphilis that has gone undiagnosed for months and has obviously left her stark, raving mad.
