Twisted (5 page)

Together, they pull us out—coils humming—and start over. She retrieves the cloth, then spreads it again, this time over the backseat. He tilts the whole apparatus, quite precariously I might add, so it may clear the opening. I hold my breath, and so does Adam, but no one seems to notice.

The man pushes us in from the right, she pulls us in from the left. He controls, she contrives, a shout, a shriek, and the entire exercise is repeated, not once but at least three times, maybe more, using a different angle of approach each time, until—with carefully choreographed maneuvers, some heavy breathing and plenty of wangling—Adam and I find ourselves inside.

The mastermind behind the whole operation wipes his forehead, shuts the doors with a thud and starts the car. Meanwhile, the Creator steadies her nerves by clutching the armature to steady us. At the same time she tries to fix the wires that, one way or another, got bent out of shape.

Looking at the car window I notice that it bears my fingerprints, along with some other unidentified smudges of clay. Three of my delicate fingers have snapped off. I notice that Adam has them in the palm of his hand.

The wire that used to keep a measure of distance between us has snapped off, and thus, no longer do I have him wrapped around my finger. With every bump, every turn of the road, his head bounces back and forth. With unavoidable friction, Adam grazes up and down my waistline, leaving traces behind.

Our wires sing—but the tension that has been holding us together for so long is now less sound than before. So is the tension between them.

Her eyes are red, her face pale. I can feel her remorse. It pains her, certainly, that her man is in such a distress; tears her up, practically. In short, it hurts her more than it hurts him, that it hurts him.

But trapped in her pride, she must now go on ignoring him the rest of the way—or at least until she can somehow extract an apology out of him.

After a long-winded drive, he brings the car to a stop near the entrance of a building, above which the sign, ‘The Art Cast Foundry’ is prominently displayed. The process of extricating Adam and me out of the car is as elaborate as can be imagined, if not more. There is a lot of pushing and pulling, shouting and crying, which helps us ignore the question of what is to come next.

 

But right now, there is no time for reflection. The man carries us up the stairs and into the building, and with every step, everything around us seems to be humming at a higher and higher pitch. Then, around the corner I am being greeted by several identical sisters, several bronze casts of the same sculpture.

The similarity between them is somewhat disquieting—but it inspires me to think of a new possibility: the possibility of being reborn, of living forever through multiple instances of myself. I wonder if such a rebirth can happen. I doubt it. Maybe it can, but then—at what cost to me? At what degree of pain?

The fluorescent light falls upon the busts of these sisters with a steely shine, quite unlike the way it washes over me. Set upon slippery marble pedestals, they look at me with a superior attitude. Miraculously they are unchained by any wires, unconnected to any armature. Indeed, they are free—but their freedom must have come at the cost of becoming hard. I can see it in their eyes. So, on the way past them I laugh in their faces. It is clear to them, is it not, that they are merely copies, and I—the original.

Meanwhile, we are brought into the inner space. Here, a display of patina samples hangs on the wall, as well as a number of shelves piled high with molds and empty shells, which they use for casting. A smell of molten wax is in the air. A tiny flame and its reflection, separated by a thin line, are burning there. Together, they shed flickering lights across the huge, metallic table. The closer I come, the more alarming I find it.

The surface, quite eerily, brings to mind a battlefield scene: it is crisscrossed with cutting tools, and laden with twisted bodies, dismembered limbs. At once, Adam recoils in horror. It hurts me to see him so shaken. He spreads his hands out—his usual position—in a mute call for help. But to no avail, for it is upon this surface that, finally, the man sets us down.

“There,” he says as he turns to leave the room, “Take a last look.”

The Creator spins the base around, inspecting us for any bumps and bruises from the long ride and fixing when necessary. Meanwhile, new people come in and stand there, waiting.

“You need anything?” one of them asks, hinting at the cutting tools.

“No,” says the Creator, tersely.

She wipes the traces, the clay traces left unwittingly by Adam all around my waistline. She adjusts my back, neck and head. Lastly, she sticks the three missing fingers back in place.

“That’s it,” she says. “I’m done.”

And with that she, too, disappears from view. Will she be coming back?

I am patient. I wait for her. I search for a hint, a breath, a touch—only to realize that waiting is pointless. We have been abandoned.

The Creator has turned us over, unceremoniously and with no parting words, into the hands of strangers. For what reason? What will they do with us? How long do we have? There must be some purpose to this suffering... Is there?

Adam looks at me more tenderly than ever. We cling to each other, clay to clay. The silence between us screams fear.

 

N
ow they turn on a big kiln, pick up their tools and, one by one, come over to surround us. They snip at the coils and break Adam free. I can see only a glimpse of him between their shoulders. He strains, in his own quiet manner, to give me one last look. They lift him away, after which I lose sight of him forever.

I can remember very little after that. The light in this place is so white, so intense, it fills me with such radiance that I am forced to close my eyes. The air is hot, and getting hotter, and yet I can feel a shiver running through me. Something is changing here, inside and out. The Creator is coming. She is near me, around me. I have no doubt.

A big flame of fire flares up, engulfing me. I feel it in my veins, swelling in me like a flow of molten bronze. I hear it in the crackling of embers from below. That hazy glow of my earlier existence is finally here, burning brighter than ever.

I am grateful to go back. No longer am I stuck here, in a place of doubt.

No longer am I inflicted with sensing shadows. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. All my sorrows are about to melt away. In this inferno, nothing will be left behind me but an empty shell. I fly into the brilliance. I am ablaze. I am in bliss. For where I am going I shall be reborn.

 

Dust

 

From dust you gather me

I beg you on my knee

Look away—imagine me,

The way I used to be

Now shadows spread upon me

Stain by stain

I shiver. Touch me, heal me

Make me whole again

I see him in my mind

He moves, he stirs tonight

But when I come to him,

Our limbs entwined

That arm wraps around me

It holds me and controls me—

Can we take flight?

He:

In darkness take a leap

For trust is blind

Imagine me: I'll lift you,

Caress you and possess you

Imagine us:

In passion and in sweep

Our limbs entwined

Pressed against that ribcage

Where not a breath escapes

Not a sigh of sorrow,

Not a cry of rage

How can I bear his silence

When shadows grow immense—

He:

If shadows peel and lift away

If ever you break free

From my embrace

If you catch sight of me

In light of day—

Go... Leave me here,

My grace,

In my debris—

She:

In my dream I'm soaring

Amidst a flap of wings

My heart so light,

So happy,

Forgetting him, ignoring

That arm

Wrapped around me,

How heavily it clings

He:

Go!

My spirit crushed and humble

No feeling left, no lust

Abandoned here

To crumble…

Not strong enough to blow

These fading marks

Of footfalls,

Your footfalls, off my dust

She:

I will not let you blur

These traces in my mind

Of the way we were

Our limbs entwined

I miss you, still resist you,

Forgive me, for I must

Gather you so gently

From the dust.

The Art of Dust I

The Art of Dust II

 

The One Who Never Leaves

 

S
he sits at the edge of the crooked old couch, knees pressed tightly together, and I can sense a little tremor traveling up her spine. I try to calm her down, which is to say, I clear my throat, after which I proceed to explain to her—in my softest, most polite tone—that contrary to popular belief, feline creatures do not have nine lives.

She stares at me, terrified.

As well she should be. Yes, both of us know, all too well: she is the stranger around here. She would be gone before the day is over. I am the one who never leaves.

“Really,” I insist, over her silence. “There’s no such thing as nine lives.”

She leans back, sinking deeper and deeper into the frayed cushion, not doing much of anything except breathing heavily. Naturally, it annoys me. Hell, it sucks the air out of my lungs. The danger of oxygen deprivation does not occur to me at first. But if there is one thing I have come to hate more than her breathing heavily, it is me, having to hold my breath.

So many months have passed since I smelled fresh air. Come to think of it, it must have been years since I crossed the threshold, since I stepped outside, into the sunlight, which—as I remember—is so warm, so gloriously magnificent. Yes, it must have been decades since I sunk my paws into the moist ground outside, or lifted my eyes to the blue sky, or chased birds. I remember how, having caught them, I would ruffle their feathers, and lick their throats ever so playfully.

Being locked here I have managed to squash these memories. I have grown quite resigned, somehow, to the stale perfume rising here, from these blankets, which she now gathers around her.

Trust me, I don’t miss the fresh air anymore. Out of boredom I have lost the urge to prowl around this place, from one room to another. All I do is groom my tail, which is a sorry sight, because the limp thing has lost most of its hair by now. There is only one small clump of fuzz, clinging by a thread to its very end. I brush around it ever so gently, then lick my fangs, which have become somewhat dull lately. I find the hairline cracks in them, polish them with my tongue, ponder the perils of old age, and try to stay calm, keeping my eye on her.

True, her scent is overwhelming, her heartbeat palpable, her presence inescapable. In spite of my best intentions, she makes me hate her. Yet, she draws me in. I am focused on her as if she were my prey, and she knows it.

I ignore the chirping of birds, drifting in through the windows—yet the taste of their flesh fills my mouth. They flap, flap, flap their wings out there... So darn free, so delectably fluffy! And here I am. I try to pay no attention to that immensely heavy key, hanging way out of reach up there on a rusty nail, by the main door. Why should I.

I never show weakness. And most certainly, I never meow.

“You know cats,” I say. “Just one short, miserable life, that’s what they have. Interrupted, every so often, by having to beg strangers... Can you imagine? Really, I have to beg them for the most basic needs.”

I find it difficult to guess if she believes me.

“My life, if you can call it that, may soon be over. I’m hungry. I could die. Really,” I stress to her.

She just sits there, and the window behind her shows her reflection; and her reflection is paralyzed, too. I can see a green flash of anger in the glass, and by hook and by crook I know, without thinking twice, what she sees in my eyes.

“I’m dying here!” I growl, “Food! Something to eat!”

And for added emphasis I arch my back. She may take that as a threat, but I assure you, for me it is nothing more than a sudden urge to stretch.

Somehow the sight of my sharp claws brings her to her senses, and so she removes the blankets in a big hurry. She has—or rather, used to have—a pretty figure, I conclude, now that I see it. The fabric is swishing softly as she ties the belt around her waist, showing off that which was once slender, but now is merely fragile.

I trot behind her to the kitchen, and watch in amazement as she fumbles about, opening and closing cabinet doors in utter confusion. By now, I am deeply in despair. Something fizzles in my throat, but I do my best to hold back, to subdue it from becoming a full-throated hiss.

“What’s the fuss?” I ask. “Did I ask you to catch mice? Look here, for crying out loud, look inside already!”

And with that, I thread my long, flexible tail directly into the handle of the pantry door. It gives way, it opens with the usual creak, and there, on the lowest shelf, is that thing I learned to crave: A can with a lovely whiskered face on it.

She picks it up. I wait. I do not meow.

Now she embarks on shuffling stuff in the drawer. The hunger grows in me as the clink and the clank rise higher and higher, as spiky and prickly as rage. Finally she digs out a shiny tool and then, snap! She sticks it into the thing, right there between those whiskers.

And with that one blow, the aroma! Ah, tinged with blood, it spreads instantly, all over the place. Is she a killer, I ask myself. Is she is a killer, too?

Full of awe, I watch her closely as she labors to cut the thing open. I study her from one side, then from the other, only to catch her shooting a little glint at me from the corner of her eye. I can see that she is calculating, with a little smile, the twisting of her knife.

Alas, in this place, my hunger puts me at her mercy. So she is using this particular moment, I figure, to play a cruel game with me, a game of measure for measure: a measure of her skill with the knife against the measure of the pain in my stomach. Her power against my need.

Her lips curl up, as if to say, Let me hear you purr, will you? No?

Her skin hangs under her chin and around her neck like a delicate necklace, wrinkle upon wrinkle, and her face is fallen. I can, without too much effort, use my bad eye to erase—if only for a squint—the marks of time on her. For that brief second I find in her the playful, if not innocent, face of a kitten.

“What happened? You swallowed your tongue?” she asks teasingly. “You’re as quiet as a mouse!”

My stomach growls, so I just crouch there, staring helplessly at her knife.

“This place,” she casts a look around her. “Oh my, it gave me the creeps at first. I mean, no one told me it came not only with furniture, but with a pet, too.”

In place of an answer I claw her leg, because hell, I am more than some useless old nicknack. Beware. I am dangerous.

So to sooth me, she goes, “Oh my, such an adorable tail! I love it, I do!”

And I go, “No you don’t. You hate me, but not half as much as I hate you... Food! Quick, miss,” I hiss. “I’m dying here!”

Perhaps she gets what I say, because now she heaps the food on a plate and then, at long last, sets it before me. I tear into it. I lick the plate clean. I pass my tongue over my paws. I wipe my whiskers clean.

But I never meow.

I hop onto the counter. She has left the knife here, so I inch closer, just to sniff it—but then, the sight of whiskers from the metallic surface makes me cautious.

Wait, where is she now? Oh, there! Beating a full retreat, she is making her way back to the couch. I come closer, rubbing myself against her feet, as happy and bushy-tailed as I allow myself to be. I feel stronger now. Bushy-tailed or not, the clump of fuzz is about to fall off my rear end—but in spite of this I feel invincible.

With the single exception of the main door, which is locked, there is no door here I cannot push open. She knows it. She knows there is no point in hiding from me.

I glance at the window. Between the smudges and through the layers of dust, fragments of murky sky are getting darker. I curl up beside her, rub against her skin for warmth and, with my eyes nearly closed, I rock my head to and fro with a long, sweeping motion. These days, there is nothing I like better than licking myself.

She shrinks away, while at the same time making pronounced efforts to ignore me.

With every instinct in me I know one thing for sure: despite her silence, which is an insult to my pride; despite her looking away in every possible direction, at this corner then the other; and despite the failing light, she can still see me—or at least my eye, the good one, shining at her from the darkness.

So at the end of an unbearably drawn out, tense second, here it is: she gives a jerk—a sharp one, mind you! And with a click, she brings in a host of shadows by turning on the twisted lamp by her side.

What do I care? I am busy, trying to imagine sun. Curling around myself, eyes half-open, I pass my tongue around my fangs. Here, it is coming to me: a radiant, blood-red sun. Sky—ground—birds—flap, flap, leap!—throats—

I feel her looking at me, trying, perhaps, to decipher the sudden flash in my slit pupils. I flick her with my tail. The shadows—small and large, sharp and fuzzy—all flick their tails at her.

I am the master of this place! I am the one who never leaves. She will be gone before this day is over.

Then I will be cold. I will be alone once more. Locked. Helpless. Choked to tears by something quite inexplicable. Perhaps that stale perfume. Or else, the fading of that stale perfume. And I know: in vain will I resist staring at that immensely heavy key, hanging way out of reach, up there on that rusty nail, by the main door.

But never will I meow.