Excerpts from
Cat
By Steen Langstrup
Isabella
ran the tips of her fingers along the flaked, thin grooves in the window frame.
The wind blew her hair about, rain poured down her face. She turned towards
Maria, hunched up in the French doors, anxiously scanning the little garden.
“Now do you
see I was right? The cat was there, I didn’t just make it up. It was there,”
said Maria, without taking her eyes off the garden.
Isabella
looked at the window frame again. There were indeed signs of cat claws, no
doubt about that. A cat had scratched its claws up against the window. And the
marks were fresh. “All it proves is that there really was a cat here last
night. I’ve never doubted that,” she said. “But it can’t have been the same
one, you must be able to see that, Maria. It was another cat, maybe even
another black cat, but not the same one.”
“That’s
exactly what I’m saying it was,”
countered Maria. “Why won’t you believe me?”
“Maria,
this isn’t like you.” Rain trickled into Isabella’s eyes, and she brushed it
away with a quick flick of her hand. “Why are you so damned keen that it should
be the same cat? It just isn’t like you at all. You’re always the one who keeps
your feet firmly planted on the ground. You usually turn your nose up at ghost
stories. And now, suddenly here you are telling me you’re being stalked by a
cat. Just listen to yourself!”
“It was
there,” sighed Maria defiantly, and it seemed as if she really meant it.
That’s the worst part, thought Isabella.
She actually believes it.
A shiver
ran through Maria, and her teeth were still chattering when she turned to look
at Isabella. “Shall we go back indoors? At least you’ve seen the scratches on
the window frame now.”
“Might as
well…” replied Maria. She was freezing too, but on the other hand she’d like to
get this matter cleared up as quickly as possible. She was going to have to
persuade Maria that they ought to ring the police and report the attempted
rape. So long as Maria couldn’t think about anything but that tiresome cat she
was completely impervious to reason. “Maria,” she began, but stopped abruptly
when the clock radio in the bedroom burst into life.
Maria
gasped, and the colour drained rapidly from her face: “Oh no!”
A momentary
feeling of dread stole through Isabella, and then was gone. She laughed, and
the rain caressed her cheeks: “Now that
nearly frightened the life out of me, you daft sod.”
But Maria
wasn’t laughing. She was, if possible, even more hunched up in the doorway, and
looked as if she had just seen the Grim Reaper walk in through her front door.
“I didn’t do it, Isabella.”
“I know,
that wasn’t what I meant. It’s only the clock radio. You must have pressed the
wrong buttons last night, or something.”
“Listen
will you!” Maria was practically screaming, her voice hysterical and stifled
with sobs. “How could I make the radio switch itself on at the very second
they’re playing a song about cats? Listen! Listen dammit! It’s Adam Ant’s ‘Puss
‘n’ Boots’. How could I have known they’d be playing that right now?”
Isabella
shook her head with an indulgent twinkle in her eye: “Yes, you’re right. Bit of
a coincidence. Come on… let’s drop it now – this is just absurd.” She chuckled
and headed for the French doors. And stopped.
Maria was standing rigid as a flagpole in the doorway, staring out into
the rain. Isabella was just about to ask her to move over when she noticed the
faraway expression of intensity mixed with a not insignificant amount of sheer,
unadulterated, heartfelt terror. “What’s wrong?” she asked instead.
Maria
didn’t reply immediately. She just stood there. Rigid – frozen solid. She
finally turned her head and Isabella saw a look on her face that she couldn’t
quite make out – surprise? dread? recognition?
Maria stammered out a word. Just a single word, but it was enough:
“C-cat.”
Translated by Gaye Kynoch
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