His mouth was as dry as..."Try again."... his mouth was as dry as... no, it was no good... he knew all too well that metaphors and hangovers made very uncomfortable bedfellows. His tongue had per- formed its customary night time trick and appeared to have doubled in size and welded itself to the roof of his mouth. Talking articulately wasn't to be top of his "things to do today" list and neither, for that matter, was any strenuous form of physical activity due to the, by now, usual pains in his joints. On the other hand, he knew he couldn't stay like this all day. For one thing his neck was starting to hurt and for another his bladder was asking to be taken for a walk. After a great deal of thought he opened one rather bloodshot eye and as it swiveled in its socket his complaining retina registered the debris of the night before. The two empty wine bottles and the glass on its side with its red, crystallised residue and the chip in the rim, the ashtray overflowing with passports to international smoking pleasure, the small, portable black and white television in the corner showing Loony Tune Cartoons rendered even more insane by Gallic translation, the underpants hanging limply from the dormant radiator and the congealed remains of his "sad bastard" meal for one which had borne as much resemblance to coq au vin as... as... "oh, sod it!" he sighed... "oh, sod it!"
VI
Two hours later and he was lying on his bed, his face a contorted mask as he did battle with his pain. The pills he'd taken were just starting to do their numbing work but it would be difficult to move for a little while. At no other time in his life had he ever felt as alone as he did on these occasions.
He'd got into the habit of taking his mind off the discomfort by giving his brain the task of compiling lists. The subject could be arbitrary but the theme was always the surreality of human existence. "Ambition, vanity, possessions, sex... aaagh! Breathe, breathe! In, out, in, out, ohhhhl... you bastard!" He stopped doing anything but hurting until the spasm passed and after a few more deep breaths he was ready to continue.
"Tupperware parties, fashion, sock suspenders, heated toilet seats, machines for trimming nasal hair, garden gnomes, the colour beige, devices for attaching plantpots to drainpipes," which he knew were crap because he'd been daft enough to buy several. "Home electrolysis kits, kits in general, the patent do-it-yourself jacuzzi, the solar-powered cat-flap. Life, death, and the detritus of detail in between. We're born, we clutter the world with the worthless garbage we call a life and then we peg it." People who collected stamps, for example. Why? He'd read in the newspaper the other day about a couple in England whose hobby was, wait for it... collecting paper bags from all over the world.... What was that all about? And, then of course, we come to the totally incomprehensible pastime of. . . trainspotting! When he used to teach in London he'd see them at London Bridge station, huddled at the end of a platform with their l973-style Youth-Hostel Association anoraks and their notebooks, cheap biros poised, waiting for the 9.53 from West Croydon and as it trundled in, late, of course, and filthy, they'd all jump up and down in their Rohan outdoor trousers and their Clarkes all-weather shoes and all because the third carriage from the front was being carried on the old 728 Bogey with its specially streamlined grommets! Grown men, for God's sake! Not children. Grey, boring introverts who hid behind their glasses and their beards and looked for any distraction at all from their sad and lonely lives.
Not unlike himself, he suddenly realised. Not unlike himself.
Here lies Charles Morris, Principal Lecturer in Philosophy at the University of the Sorbonne who died of loneliness and cynicism at the age of fifty three. The funeral was attended by the gravedigger!
Somewhere in the building a young man played the Spanish guitar... a reflective, melancholy piece. His eyes wandered about the untidy room... the half-full wardrobe still permeated by the ghost of Chanel, the little oil-lamp whose light had softly illuminated their kisses and the rest from fifteen years before, the now redundant dressing table with its dusty mirrors and empty drawers. As he lay on his side his eyes came to rest on the empty photo frame next to his bed... memory spoke gently to him of once happy days and here, alone with his thoughts, he wept.
VII
He had no idea how long he'd been asleep but dusk had descended outside, suffusing his room with a pale half-light. The tattered remnants of a late winter sunset streaked across the horizon and some- where in the city a bell announced the half-hour. He closed his eyes for a few moments and dozed. A faint noise of traffic and the more present cooing of the pigeons, their claws scratching the lead covering of his bedroom window roof, created an atmosphere of peace... he felt rested, he was pain-free.
A faint tapping noise drew itself to his attention. Three taps and then a muffled voice. He lay there, not wanting to disturb this rare moment of peace. But then it came again, the same tapping, slightly more urgent, and the voice.
"Monsieur, monsieur Morris, vous êtes la?"
Slowly he got up and, rubbing his face to wake himself up, he opened the door.
"Monsieur Morris, excusez-moi, je vous ai derangé. Je reviendrai plus tard."
"That's o.k., madame Klarsehen, I was already awake. What can I do for you?"
"I've come to ask your advice, monsieur. I know you don't like to be disturbed, but I didn't know who else to ask. I don't really know the other tenants in the building very well."
He'd been living there for the last twenty years and can't have exchanged more than a dozen "bonjours" in all that time with this rather eccentric old lady but, as other tenants came and went over the years the fact that they were a familiar fixture on the landscape established a curious bond between them. They were neighbours.
"What seems to be the trouble, madame?"
"Well, monsieur, I wondered if you had lost a cat. You see, I found one about a week ago and it seemed to be lost. It's quite young and appeared to be well looked after but it was very hungry and I gave it some scraps of food whenever it appeared. I rang the authorities and I told them about it and they asked me if it had a collar. I said no and they said that that meant it was technically a stray and if it was still around in a few days' time they would come and dispose of it for me. I wish I'd waited now... I feel awful, it's such a beautiful little thing... it's not yours, is it, monsieur?"
The very idea! "No madame, I haven't got a cat and I'm never likely to."
"Well, you see, monsieur, I would love to look after it but I'm too old and I don't think I could afford it. But I feel guilty. I'm sure it's been abandoned. Perhaps the family has moved house and when they called it it was too far away, or got lost, and when it returned they'd gone. I feel awful, now. I'm a silly old woman, I should have kept quiet!"
He was getting slightly impatient, now. "I'm sorry, madame... I'm afraid I can't help you."
"Ah, well," she said, and she turned to go.
He looked at her twisted figure as she cautiously descended the narrow stairs, one swollen arthritic hand grasping the banister as tight as she could, the other lifting the hem of her dress so she could see the stairs. He started to close the door and then, for no apparent reason, he stopped, his eyes pressed closed, and just stood there. It was a defining moment. "Look at yourself in the hall mirror," the voice said. And then more urgently, "Look!" He opened his eyes and turned reluctantly towards his reflection. "Listen very carefully," the voice grew deep and had assumed a rather ominous quality. "Ignore these words at your peril... listen to me... ignore these words at your peril... if you don't move in this apartment, nothing does," and as he thought about these words they started to echo louder and louder inside his head. He broke out in a cold sweat and, almost without being able to stop himself he called out, "Madame Klarsehen! Madame Klarsehen!" He descended the stairs quickly for him and he caught up with her on the landing.
"Yes, monsieur?"
"I've been thinking. If nobody claims the cat in the next twenty- four hours, perhaps..."
The old lady's face suddenly became very animated and her hands shot up in the air as if someone had stuck a gun in her back, "But, monsieur,
why not look at the little thing first, it's downstairs in the courtyard. I left it some scraps from my lunch... come." She started down the next flight of stairs and although he protested that maybe he should wait until tomorrow her hearing aid was obviously on selective mode and she was having none of it.
Reluctantly he followed her down the stairs and through the high, ornate, double doors and into the courtyard. The light, by now, had all but disappeared and it was difficult to make anything out. She blew extravagantly theatrical kisses into the darkness calling for the cat. "Here, little one, here...." They strained their eyes into the corners of the courtyard and then suddenly they heard a cat's cry from behind them in the entranceway. They both turned. To begin with he couldn't see where the noise had come from and then he saw him, a thin, sleek, jet black form brushing its body against the edge of the staircase and limping slightly. The cat turned its gaze towards him and he was transfixed by the sheer beauty, the absolute liquid clarity of the eyes, large eyes, deep bottomless pools of black with irises of amber gold. For a moment he held his breath... and then the moment passed.
"What's wrong with its leg, madame?"
She shrugged in her eccentric way, hands in the air. "I don't know, monsieur. He seemed to start limping the day before yesterday. Poor little thing. Pretty, though, isn't he?"
He walked outside to buy himself some time to think. As he stood looking up at the now cloudless sky he was on the verge of making a decision. "Looks like there might be a full moon. It might freeze tonight," he thought. Suddenly he felt something brush against his leg and, looking down, he was met by the expectant gaze of the cat. Bending down he advanced his hand towards the cat's face and, after initially recoiling, the animal cautiously advanced and sniffed his fingers. He straightened up and walked back to where the old lady stood. Just before he entered the lobby, he felt the brush against his leg again and, once more, he saw the cat by his feet staring up at him. "Well, monsieur?"
He fidgeted a bit. "Well, madame, it would be a shame if he were put down just for not having a collar... so I... I suppose I'd better get him one."
VIII
"What seems to be the problem, monsieur?"
"I woke up this morning and found him like this by a radiator in a very dark corner of the sitting room. I was pretty worried so I thought I should bring him here as a precaution."
The vet nodded. "O.K. let's have a look at him."
After about ten minutes the vet turned to him and said, "Well, monsieur Morris, the news is not too good, I'm afraid. He's limping because he's broken a toe. Now we can strap that up and, in time, say three to four weeks, that will have healed as good as new. The problem is that as a result of the break he's developed an infection and he's got a temperature of 103 degrees which in a child would be high but in an animal of this size it's pretty much off the scale and is potentially fatal. Now, he's not your cat as such and you may not feel that you want to assume the costs of treatment which could be quite high, in which case... we would have no option but to put him to sleep. There are enough unwanted cats as it is on the streets of Paris and in cases like this our hands are tied by the authorities."
Something in him sank.
"The cost is of no concern to me... but does he stand a chance?" The vet absentmindedly stroked the cat's neck. "Whether he survives or not is entirely down to him. If he really wants to live, then, together with treatment, I'd say he's got a fighting chance."
IX
It was late afternoon and he must have been asleep for a couple of hours. His first reaction was to look down at the cat. Its breathing was deep and laboured and he could feel its paws spasmodically twitching as the instinct for survival and the illness fought it out. It was touch and go. He knew it, the vet knew it, and, without being fanciful, he had the distinct impression that the cat knew it too. Any attempt to move him or distract him in any way was met by a low, deep-throated growl. All he wanted was to concentrate very hard and focus deep within himself and fight this thing. So here they both were, the cat wrapped in blankets on his knee and struggling for life. All of a sudden there was a gentle knock at the door followed by the familiar call of Mme. Klarsehen. "Monsieur Morris . . ."
Having carefully laid the suffering animal on the couch beside him he dashed to the door as quietly as he could and as he opened it he put his finger to his lips. "What is it?" he whispered.
She looked a little taken aback. "I'm sorry, monsieur, have I come at a bad time?"
He'd been rude and his conscience prompted him. "Not at all, Madame, come in, please, but we must keep our voices down."
She asked if she could see the cat and he ushered her into the sitting room. "Oh! The poor little thing!" she whispered.
He explained to her all the vet had said. "We shall know in the next twenty-four hours."
She sat next to the animal on the couch and gently stroked its head. "Monsieur, is there anything I can do to help?"
"Actually, madame, there is. Would you mind holding him while I give him his antibiotic tablet?"
"Of course, monsieur." She gently picked the cat up and carefully placed him in her lap. He reached for the old driving gloves he'd decided to use as a precaution against scratches and as he offered them to her, her mouth twisted into a curious smile and she said, "I won't be needing those, thank you, monsieur."
"Well, if you're quite sure." He knelt in front of the old lady and reached for the pills, carefully reading the indications on the label. "One tablet to be given three times a day." He looked at her and smiled nervously, "I've never done this sort of thing before." He nervously took the cat's head in his left hand, a faint rumble of complaint vibrating deep in the animal's throat and his sides were heaving with the added effort.
"That's it, monsieur, now gently ease the jaw down with your finger, that's it, and now drop the pill to the back of the throat." The cat swallowed.
He looked up at her with a worried expression on his face. "Is that it?"
Her eyes sparkled, "Well done, monsieur. Yes, that's all there is to it," she whispered.
He looked amazed and relieved, and his hands had started to shake very slightly. He started to laugh quietly and then, all of a sudden, pain jolted through his abdomen and he fell to the floor groaning. Far from panicking, the old lady carefully placed the cat on one side and looked about her. She saw a bottle of tablets with a prescription label on the old sideboard and so she eased herself up from the couch and hurried into the kitchen to fetch a glass of water. Coming back, she took the pills and read the label. What she read seemed to confirm something.
"Monsieur, monsieur, are these what you need?" He was breathing very erratically, three or four deep lungfuls and then a stop as he groaned through the pain with clenched teeth followed by a further desperate need to breathe. He nodded vigorously in reply to her question and, after some initial difficulty with the childproof top, she succeeded in opening the bottle and shook out a tablet. The next thing he knew she was kneeling by his side and holding the water in front of him, the pill in the palm of her other hand. "Here, monsieur, take the medicine."
He put the pill in his mouth and as he reached for the glass, his hand shaking, she said, "Allow me," and very tenderly she placed one hand behind his head and with the other she raised the glass to his lips.
When he came to, his head was resting on a pillow from the bed- room and he was covered by the bedspread. All was dark in the room. He looked about him and as he began to stir the light by the couch clicked on and Madame Klarsehen sat looking at him. "How are you feeling, monsieur?"
He felt a little awkward, as if he had let slip something that was sup- posed to be a secret and now someone else knew. He got up slowly and started to fuss with the pillow and the blanket. "Have I been asleep long? "
She looked closely at him before replying, "Not long, monsieur. Perhaps for an hour. I thought it best to...."
"I... I... I think I'd better take over from you now. You must be tired. I mustn't keep you, I'm sur
e you must have things to do. Thank you so much...." It was a heavy hint and he regretted its clumsiness immediately.
The old lady, however, didn't look at all offended. On the contrary, she seemed to understand the situation perfectly... as if she was sensitive to a conversation where the meaning was to be found between the lines, somewhere in the ether of what was not said. "Of course, monsieur. It's you he needs. You must see him through the next few hours. You sit here, that's it, monsieur. Let me put the hot water bottles on your knee, that's it, and now the cat. Voila. Don't worry, I'll let myself out. Goodnight, monsieur."
The door closed and he listened as her hipshot steps echoed slowly down the creaking staircase. He felt he had handled the whole thing so badly. He couldn't have given the cat its medicine without her help, and while he'd been less than useless on the floor she'd held him on her lap and kept him warm. "Stupid man," he berated himself. "Stupid, careless, selfish man!"
The cat appeared to be sleeping quite deeply and hadn't stirred when he was transferred to his lap. He reached over carefully to his coffee table and poured himself a glass of wine and placed the plate of untouched sandwiches next to him. Having turned off the light he sat in the gloom and listened to the silence. The old house creaked now and again, and through the open window the city beyond could be heard playing out its twilight symphony, while here, in the concentrated seclusion of a dusty apartment, the man waited fearfully for the outcome of a struggle between life and death.
X
The first thing he became aware of was that he was shivering. Falling asleep on the couch had become something of a habit for him over the last couple of years, and, if he was honest with himself, and he wasn't very often, he suspected that deep down, he was afraid of going to bed alone. Afraid of the dark... how ridiculous at his age! Ever since childhood, scared of those waking moments as you lay in your bed, staring at the blackness that was the bedroom ceiling and waiting, waiting to fall asleep. It was the falling he feared... the conscious descent into the unknown.
An Evening at Joe's Page 18