The howls run octaves, from high to low, seeming to soften and then getting louder again. My mind has a difficult time reconciling the wildness and raw emotion of the sound with our snug flat in the center of the city.
The hair on the back of my neck and my arms feels electric. When I look at Bernie, the same thing has happened to him. From the back of his head to the base of his tail, a strip two inches wide stands straight up on end.
Finally, it is quiet and the building returns to an uneasy middle-of-the-night silence.
Early the next morning, the lobby is teeming with tenants. Everyone lingers there, pretending to check for mail, gathering in small groups, comparing notes about who heard what and when.
As usual, Bibi and Heloise don't tell anyone anything, but we do see them hustling back and forth to one of the main floor apartments near theirs.
Someone says she heard a new tenant moved into that flat yesterday -- a young woman and her dog. When Pierre comes down the stairs to the lobby, he is swarmed. Pierre has an inside track on everything going on in the building. He's the go-to person and we are all curious and eager for information. The howling has generated more excitement around here than I've seen since I moved in.
Just as several voices call out questions to Pierre, the door to the flat opens like curtains on a stage and the subjects of all the specualtion stand momentarily framed in the doorway. All of the talk becomes a muffled and expectant hush. It is a simultaneous holding of the breath so tangible it almost has a sound of its own.
She's very young, no more than 20, with classic Mediterranean features -- long, dark glossy hair, brown eyes focused straight ahead, golden brown skin, perfectly symmetrical features with eyebrows that are slightly arched. Just under her right eye is what seems to be a birthmark in the shape of a small butterfly. It's definitely not a tattoo, yet there is a subtle color that reflects from it, like the Amazonian Blue Morpho butterfly.
She is quite the focus of fascination, heightened by the fact that she is very pregnant.
Her thin arms and legs and long neck give the appearance of a swan. But a swan with a giant belly, hanging low. It must be a boy.
Standing by her side is a dog unlike any I've ever seen. Even Bernie pushes forward to get a better look. He is a black wolf with long black hair that matches the girl's. Yellow eyes that never leave the face of his owner. Tall and leggy, he seems barely tamed, a wild thing transported from a forest primeval to the urban canyons of Paris.
In spite of his soundless walk, the dog's nails are impossibly long. Then I realize it's an optical illusion. Where each nail begins is an additional line of black hair that extends up each toe.
"But they are red," someone next to me whispers. I look closer. The dog's nails are blood red, obviously carefully painted with nail polish.Then, we all make a slight gasp. This dog is not a he. The dog's mammary glands are so full they nearly drag on the ground as she walks, dripping a long connect-the-dots line of milk that leaves a trail through the lobby and eventually down the sidewalk.
As they start out the door, the girl stops and looks back over her shoulder. "Her name is Luna," she announces to the crowd in the lobby.
Bernie, sniffing at the warm milk splatters, tries to follow them out the door.
"Why! The dog is pregnant too!" I spurt to Pierre.
"No." He grimaces. "Bibi says it is a false pregnancy, brought on by empathy with her mistress."
He lowers his voice so I can just barely hear him. "Bibi says the girl must milk the dog every day. She then drinks the milk in the morning. Bibi says it keeps her and the baby strong."
"No! Pierre! People don't milk dogs!" I answer.
He shrugs a very French dismissal of my shock: "Maybe yes, maybe no."
