A Tabby-cat's Tale (2 page)

Coco came to ask for the cat a few more times; my sister-in-law didn't feel it was kind to refuse, but Tabby wouldn't allow himself to fall into the kid's hands a second time. My sister-in-law simply said: ‘Borrow the cat? Of course you can, if you can find him.' No matter how hard he looked, Coco always went away empty-handed. So a game with the cat turned into a game of looking for the cat. Coco gradually got discouraged. Sometimes I puzzled over where Tabby was hiding himself. How on earth did he keep out of the way of a smart little kid like Coco? Once, though, after Coco had gone, I opened the middle drawer of my writing desk to get some paper out. As I put my hand in, I felt a soft bundle of fur and found Tabby hiding inside. He must have crept in there through the gap at the back of the desk—opening the drawer, climbing in and shutting it behind himself wasn't a possibility, even for a clever cat like him. As he squeezed past me, he left behind a puddle of cat pee which had soaked the paper, the envelopes and all my writing implements; for a good while afterwards, every letter I wrote, and the manuscripts I sent to editors, carried a faint, malodorous whiff.

Tabby was ultra-sensitive to the sound of footsteps going up the stairs or walking along the outside corridor, and even if he was in the middle of his dinner, he would stop eating until he was reassured that they weren't coming to our flat. He was especially alert to Coco's footsteps and hid as soon as he heard the boy in the corridor. Coco's family lived downstairs from us, and he went up and down the stairs at least twice a day. Coco came to our door every couple of weeks, but his visits became less frequent, and then ceased altogether, when he failed to find the cat. Still, Tabby could distinguish his footsteps, even if the boy was with other children, and he would tremble all over when he heard them. That lasted for the entire time that Coco still lived at home with his parents.

Tabby lived seven more years after that, seven years to the accompaniment of Coco's rhythmic tread. Over time, Coco grew into a tall young man, changed almost, but not quite, out of recognition. We could tell it was him because his footsteps threw Tabby into a panic and drove him into hiding. Coco wasn't coming to borrow the cat any more—he was there to read the meter or collect for the electricity bill, or to tell us that our toilet was leaking through their ceiling. In other words, he was old enough to run errands for his parents. He had always been a shy boy, and he still teetered nervously on the threshold. No doubt he had completely forgotten about the time he had taken Tabby downstairs for a couple of hours. For him, those hours had been wholly unexceptional, which was why he had forgotten them, but they were seared into Tabby's memory. I had a sudden impulse to tell that unconfident, forgetful boy that, to Tabby, he was nothing less than the Almighty, and that the sound of his footsteps made Tabby piss himself in panic.

If Tabby's terror of Coco would never fade, the cat felt differently about my brother. Firstly, my brother had inflicted less harm than Coco (and we would never know in exactly what way Coco had harmed Tabby, so we imagined the worst). Secondly, the spray incident happened later. For Tabby, it added insult to injury, but at least he was mentally prepared for it. More importantly, my brother hadn't meant to hurt the cat; he'd done it accidentally, and an intelligent cat like Tabby was well aware of the difference. Since my brother lived with him, there was plenty of time for Tabby to be reconciled to him, especially after my sister-in-law died of breast cancer and he had no choice in the matter.

My brother also had no choice but to look after the cat: when my sister-in-law was on her deathbed, she bequeathed the little ‘orphan' to him. Tabby was the one she was most worried about, she said, and her greatest hope was that my brother would take care of him. Tears welling in his eyes, my brother agreed, and my sister-in-law shut her eyes for the last time. After that, no matter how much my mother complained about the fleas and the cat's crazy behaviour, ripping the sofa to shreds with his claws and eating all the plants on the veranda down to their roots, my brother turned a deaf ear. There was no way he would abandon Tabby now. He became indulgent. He forgave all Tabby's destructive behaviour, treating it as the naughtiness of a loveable child. Tabby wasn't just a kitty, he was my brother's son. And not just his son, but a motherless son, even the embodiment and replacement of that mother. My brother missed his wife terribly, and he sublimated all his tenderness for her into the care of Tabby.

My sister-in-law had passed him the ladle, and my brother began to cook the catfish guts for Tabby. Also, he had to go and beg for cinders for Tabby's cat tray every day. The city was developing at an amazing speed, however, and there were fewer and fewer people who used coal briquettes—only the townsfolk who lived in the poorest shacks. Before long, most of them had switched to bottled gas, so my brother had to go further and further in search of cinders. He would do small favours to secure the precious cinders, buy medicine from the hospital or hand over a couple of out-of-date magazines. Eventually, they became so greedy that my brother could no longer satisfy their demands, even though the cinders were useless—if they hadn't given them to my brother, they would have been thrown in the rubbish bin. So my brother started rifling through the rubbish bins and, over time, became as deft and practised at extracting what he wanted as a real rubbish-picker. His assiduity moved the neighbours—they knew that my brother was caring for this cat for the sake of my sister-in-law, who had died tragically young. My brother's awkwardly public efforts to care for Tabby became legend. He was a good man, they all said approvingly, and was having a hard time, as hard as if he had actually been left to bring up their child. Knowing we were in need, they brought cinders and catfish guts to our door. It got so that they would knock at the door several times a day, and when we opened up they would hand over plastic bags dripping with bloody entrails. In winter, fish was cheaper than meat, and healthier too, so people ate more fish, and more often. The guts from every fish eaten in the neighbourhood ended up on our doorstep; even a cat with a huge appetite couldn't have gotten through it all—and Tabby's nerves meant he wasn't a good eater. We couldn't offend these good people, so we took everything they offered, and the food we didn't freeze went straight back in the bin. We had such a mountain of cinders at our door that we could hardly get in or out, so my brother and I carted it downstairs under cover of darkness, bag by bag, and dumped it at the municipal tip. My brother didn't mind the manual work, he even welcomed it. He found it calmed his nerves.

My brother's selfless behaviour brought about greatly improved relations with the neighbours. And they flocked to visit. The object of their interest, Tabby, never did them the honour of showing his face. The women, as well as the children, turned the flat upside down looking him for him, but without success. There was such a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and calling for the cat that I began to look for a quiet corner to hide away too. Of course, I could just walk away, as I had no real responsibility for Tabby. My brother couldn't. He had to entertain the visitors and listen to their pearls of wisdom. Most of them had cats at home, and they'd never heard of a cat needing so many cinders for its toilet. They told my brother to train the cat to squat over the enamel potty to pee, or at least choose one fixed place, which would make it easier to clean. Cinders were too primitive. My brother had to explain to each and every one of them that our cat's peculiarities (peeing and crapping everywhere) were due to terror. He was shy with strangers—rather like his master, my brother hinted. But the visitors didn't take the hint, or at least only heard that this was a peculiar cat, which they already knew. In fact, his dislike of human company was classic orphan behaviour, according to them, and might even be down to sexual frustration. ‘Is he still a virgin?' they asked. ‘Yes,' answered my brother, ‘and he's even afraid of us, let alone cats he doesn't know. He's got to this age without ever going out of the house.'

‘That's the problem,' opined the visitors. ‘He needs a mate to bring some joy into his life.'

Some days later, we were presented with an exceptionally fine Persian she-cat. Her task: to mate with Tabby. But after two weeks in our flat, she'd had no success at all.

Tabby wasn't afraid of her in the same way he was afraid of humans, but there wasn't any fellow feeling. The Persian was the only cat Tabby had seen since he'd grown to adulthood, and she ought to have filled him with enthusiasm. But she didn't. In fact, far from being eager for her company, Tabby was simply indifferent. He acted like she was just part of the furniture, and ignored her. The she-cat, on the other hand, prowled shamelessly around him, emitting lascivious mewing sounds and craning her neck to sniff between his legs. Tabby jumped onto a bench to avoid these unwanted attentions. The Persian circled the bench and even reached out a paw to pat Tabby's tail. If she jumped up to join him, Tabby jumped down. At dinner-time Tabby let her eat first, which she did, yowling as she chewed the fish heads to warn Tabby off. Tabby showed his nobility of character by keeping his distance, even though this was his food bowl. It was only when she had eaten and drunk her fill that Tabby could get to the bowl and snatch a morsel or two. She had the lead over him when it came to peeing too. She really did squat over the flush toilet, her claws gripping the seat rim. Tabby, on the other hand, carried on peeing and crapping wherever he felt like, and stinking up the house. When, a week later, we heard that the cat's owner was coming to find out how things were going, my brother gave her a bath. She seemed quite used to the procedure and sat purring, her eyes closed, when he turned the hair-dryer on her. My brother even sprinkled her with a little cologne that my sister-in-law had left behind, and found himself transported back in time by the familiar fragrance. As my brother gently patted the she-cat's velvety belly fur dry, Tabby observed him out of the corner of one eye. He wasn't jealous, not he! When the she-cat had been taken home, everything calmed down again, and normality returned. We even wondered if the she-cat had ever really been with us. The upshot was that Tabby remained a virgin, innocent of all marital pleasures. Still, my sister-in-law must have been comforted that my brother had found Tabby a mate. It wasn't that Tabby had never had the opportunity to get to know a she-cat, it was simply that he was disdainful of the whole business of mating and she-cats. And since he had voluntarily chosen the celibate life, we had to respect his choice.

Although my brother devoted himself to Tabby for a while after my sister-in-law's death, nothing good lasts forever, and the reason was the fleas, a problem which had never really gone away. My sister-in-law used to sit under the table lamp and pick them off of Tabby, but for my brother, willing though he was to go in search of cinders and fish guts, flea-picking was a step too far. Imagine a grown man clutching a kitty in his arms and ferreting around in its belly fur . . . Whatever next?! Even if my brother had been willing to endure the humiliation, he didn't have the necessary delicacy of touch. Flea-picking required not just affection and gentleness, but also manual dexterity. My brother had to confess himself beaten. My mother, even though she was the chief victim of the fleas, felt that she couldn't suggest dumping the cat when my sister-in-law was scarcely in the grave. By the time Tabby had become the chief object of attention for every female who visited our house, it was even more difficult for my mother to make this suggestion. After all, while my sister-in-law was alive, she and my mother had gotten along well—my mother had been very fond of her. For her sake, she was genuinely fond of the cat too. She was even ready to take over flea-picking duties, but she was old, far-sighted and her hands were shaky. She couldn't even thread a needle without my help. There was no way she would be able to pick off the cat's fleas. Her only hope was to entrust the task to a new daughter-in-law.

And indeed, a few months after my sister-in-law died, my brother announced that he was looking for another wife. The woman had to fulfill certain requirements though. She had to like animals, more specifically cats. She had to be good at caring for cats, which meant being good at picking fleas off of the cat. But she couldn't have her own cat. It suddenly dawned on the rest of us what he had in mind. My brother wasn't looking for a wife, he was looking for a stepmother for the cat, something every potential match understood as soon as she stepped through the door of our flat and sniffed the zoo-like smell.

With no new partner for my brother, he and my mother turned to me. My girlfriend and I had been together for a couple of years. They suggested we should get married. We were welcome to move in, and my brother would give the double bedroom to us. My mother had once disapproved of Xulu, but my girlfriend saw her chance and pretended great affection for Tabby. She even took the cat in her arms and earnestly picked off a few fleas. Only I knew that immediately afterwards she would change every stitch of clothing, put the garments she had been wearing into a zippered bag, and throw them into the dustbin in the basement of her dorm. Then I had to go out with her and buy new clothes and underwear. I had a quiet word with Xulu and suggested that she wash the clothes instead of throwing them away. But she refused to listen. She might have been a murderer getting rid of blood-stained evidence. It didn't matter so much in summer, because she wore fewer clothes, but as the weather got colder, the funds to keep her clothed for flea-picking began to run dry. My funds, that is, for I had to foot the bill. Even though she was quite happy to put on a martyred expression and wear her cheapest clothes to our family's flat, I soon got fed up with it. When my mother had been against our marriage, I was for it. Now that my mother had relaxed her opposition, I began to feel less enthusiastic. Finally, at the critical juncture, I told my mother about the game Xulu had been playing. My mother got very agitated at the thought that Xulu didn't really like cats and had no intention of moving in after we got married.