The Darkness Is a Memory

It was dark, but not just dark, it was pitch black. And despite the warnings from home, telling me I shouldn't go out because it was too dark, I went out anyway with my dog.

The beach at B*** stretched long and steep around us, the white foam barely visible.

Collie, both in name and breed, ran alone between the sand and the sea. The three fluorescent stripes on her harness flickered in and out under the beam of my flashlight, darting close, then vanishing back into the sand and sea, only to return without effort, without fear, without end.

I watched her disappear, and every time she returned, it reassured me. She would never leave me.

Was she bored running alone? I don't know. But then she comes back, settles next to me, attentive, crouching the way her shepherd ancestors have done for centuries as they guard their flocks, and she waits. She waits.

She waits. In the darkness.

Suddenly, she bolts like lightning, and moments later, I see her again, the tail moving like a speckled white-and-brown serpent.

Just a few meters, no more, in the darkness of that evening, thick as fog, I felt a presence a few meters away, a faint rustle of sand, impossible to catch amidst the sound of the sea and the wind.

Yet it was there, soft and unmistakable.

It caught me by surprise, and I felt a bit embarrassed when, glancing at the Dalmatian walking beside us, a wave of adrenaline hit me, the kind that, in 19th-century novels, makes your hair stand on end. But the moment had passed, and that Dalmatian was a giant: strong, resilient, with eyes ringed in black that gave him a vaguely menacing look.

He glanced at us once more, then continued his patrol, indifferent, with Collie trailing after him.

They ran off into the distance, flecks of fluorescence, faint white spots, and disappeared into the darkness.

Not long after, Collie reappeared, alone. She crouched down and waited. Around us, only blackness and the glimmer of foam.

Some beaches always seem dark, even on full moon nights. B*** is one of those, and the wind made it feel even more desolate.

A few days had passed, and all that remained of the encounter was a vague trace: a free-roaming dog, likely from the farmhouses a few kilometers down the beach. Nothing more. Little to remember, spots and eyes, nothing else. But Collie remembers perfectly.

When we reach the same spot as last time, she turns in the same direction, crouching, her wet nose quivering, and waits for a moment longer.

Then she takes off. As I watch her disappear into the darkness, the old images of the silent Dalmatian come back to me, his steps in the sand, the almost imperceptible rustling, and my veins prepare for the hormonal surge of fear.

I look around, searching. Just darkness. My flashlight is no match for the shadowy theater around me. I wave it here and there, like a spotlight searching for its actor. Nothing. Not even Collie.

And then, as I turn back toward where she vanished, instead of her, I find the giant black-and-white figure in front of me. With a quick flick of his eyes, he looks at me, then continues his patrol.

Just a moment, just one fleeting moment, but enough to make me ashamed of my own shame, that ancient, uncontrollable hormonal response that sends shivers down my spine.

He's there, silent, moving as if this were his home.

Collie comes running and sniffs him. They greet each other in my presence, then seem to ignore each other. Mysteries on eight legs.

The three of us walk toward the distant farmhouses, faintly lit by vague yellowish lights. Between sand and foam, the two dogs seem to get along. They start chasing each other, then circle me more slowly, disappearing into the darkness and quickly reappearing.

The Dalmatian is wearing a collar. Using a piece of bread as an excuse, I touch the dog's head, then, growing bolder, I touch him more. When I realize he would happily let me pet him forever, I manage to read his name on the tag.

We met Argo every time. More or less in the same spot and under the same circumstances.

My fear response had adjusted, and only the memory of it still sent shivers down my spine. Even the shame was now just a memory.

Collie would run and come home exhausted. With my phone and flashlight, I even managed to capture some footage of the two of them running through the winter water, running, jumping, chasing, appearing, and disappearing. Then, like a script repeating itself, Collie would return alone from the darkness, and we wouldn't see the Dalmatian again until the next time.

*******

I hadn't been to the train station in C*** for so many years, it was almost by chance that I was there. But when I saw, on the opposite side of the tracks, just a few steps from the entrance of the tiny bar, in the middle of a flowerbed bordered by green-coated, wavy metal fencing, between two poorly maintained oleanders, when I saw through the oblong leaves a black dog facing my direction, when I saw the dog, I realized just how oblivious adolescence can be.

I had seen it many mornings in my youth but had never considered getting closer. It was still there, unmoving after all these years, a silent witness to thousands of journeys and meetings. Maybe the surrounding vegetation had changed a little, but its pose remained that of those ceramic dogs you find in old junk warehouses.

It was made of black marble, with circular patterns carved into it, perhaps mimicking real coat markings that might even show in the right light. It was large, larger than a big dog, and the shadows etched around its eyes gave it a vaguely menacing look.

My train was announced, but I still had time to read the inscription on its base: "Argo waits", along with a date from forty years ago.

Eternal departures and arrivals freeze time in the microscopic railway community. Everything moves, yet nothing changes. The scent of the earth is strong even in winter, and stepping off the carriage feels oddly disconnected, walking past still yellow signs, entering the newsstand, and searching for a few pages of local history.

Among monuments, battles, and anecdotes, you'll find no more than two or three lines explaining how, about forty years ago, the staff at the C*** station, commissioned a marble sculpture of the Stationmaster's dog, his companion through countless travels.

That was it. The details were missing, but the community filled them in with an abundance of imaginative reconstructions. Everyone, however, agreed on one thing: the Stationmaster had died during a walk with his dog along the beach at B*** (a heart attack? A stroke? Who knows?).

When they found him, Argo was still by his side, having stayed with him through the night. They tried to take them both, but while the first offered no resistance, the second growled and snapped at their attempts to capture him before running off, never to be seen again.

That was forty years ago.

*******

Collie runs alongside me on the sand. When we reach the usual spot, there she is bringing me Argo, they both emerge from the darkness.

I keep walking a bit farther: foam, reflections, spots, eyes, wind, tails. Then I turn back. They follow me, I clip on their leashes, and we head to the car.

Done. What's left are the details: some kibble, a bowl of water, an extra cushion.

Argo doesn't seem surprised by his new home. He and Collie take turns on the couches, goofing around, a little too much, given their size compared to the space.

But it's late, and they start to look tired. They curl up, and from their cushions, they gaze at me with soft, glistening eyes, making no attempt to climb onto the bed.

A sliver of light filters through the shutters. It's morning, and the darkness is just a memory, for now. Collie's cushion is empty, and she's sleeping on Argo's.

There's no sign of him anywhere, not in any room.

The house has been locked up all night. Just to be sure, I check the yard, but no dog could get out without the gate. Nothing.

Collie's cushion is cold. She's awake now, and as I stroke her, I feel something rigid beneath her muzzle, resting between her paws.

Argo's collar.

*******

Tonight, we don't feel like going out. It's pitch black, just like all the other dark nights, and maybe we'll go to bed soon to make morning come faster.

Collie watches me from the couch, though I might be projecting overly human emotions onto her, unnecessarily human. I watch her too, and maybe this is how we're communicating. I'm not sure.

Argo's collar is lined up with all the others along the mantel. If I focus, I can still feel that chill behind me from the first time we crossed paths. His vaguely menacing eyes that, just last night by the bedside, seemed soft and filled with home.

No, tonight we're staying in, and Collie agrees.

I remembered a video on my phone of the two of them running. I searched for it, like looking for something to read before sleeping.

I was almost certain.

So, I wasn't surprised at all by what I saw.

In the beam of my light, Collie was running on the beach. She jumped, seemed to bite the air in play, crouched, then shot off like lightning. She rolled in the sand and wagged her tail as she walked with purpose.

Collie was completely alone.

**************

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