Woman with Cat, Kees van Dongen, 1908 |
This is Bora Mici's original Italian to English translation of the short story Il gatto mammone or Mamma's Cat (in English) by the Italian 20th century writer Giovanni Arpino. It's a comically absurd but touching story of the relationship of a cat with her two diametrically opposed owners.
If they refer to him as Your Excellence at the table, he barely squints, electrically shakes his left whiskers, then leans over his plate with exaggerated caution, grabs a piece of meat, sits up again and chews slowly, staring into the void.
He is huge, neutered, has never left home, and paces between the living room and the hallway like a Chinese Mandarin. He especially likes to look at himself in the mirror, or motionlessly stop before a composition of butterflies trapped under a piece of glass. He winks at the butterflies, shakes his left whiskers, and suavely moves his rich tabby tail. Like this, he waits for five o’clock, when finally they turn on the television for him, and alone, with abandon on the couch, he looks at the black and white movements on the screen, ready to pretend to suspend his interest as soon as the noise level surpasses his limit of tolerance.
He does not respond to being called, but is alert every time the phone rings, every time the intercom makes a sound, every time the doorbell goes off. Because he does not like strangers, people who can take over his couch, turn off the television, steal his place at the table, where he sits to the right of his mistress and never extends even so much as a nail toward his plate if everyone else has not started eating yet.
—One day or another I’ll kill you—mumbles the man at the other side of the table.
—Oh, don’t say these things to him, you know he gets offended—his wife tries to make peace between them.
—One day or another I’ll hang you. You are my brother, but then you’ll see. I will hang you—repeats the man.
Then he pulls his head back into his neck and mutters something, immediately stopping to eat. He knows very well that the man of the house is joking, but he does not like his tone of voice and particularly that he keeps repeating these jokes. What’s more, he can sense how it will all end in the evening. And this annoys him because he does not feel like repeating himself and drawing commentary.
—See? Now he is not eating anymore—the woman complains sweetly.
—Fatty! You’re a fatty. Sooner or later, I will put a bomb under you so you explode—the husband starts up again.
Then he lazily comes down from the chair and walks away, and goes and posts himself in front of the butterflies under the glass in the hallway.
—There—the maid interjects abruptly:—We’re back at it. Then he takes it out on me. Why do you always insult him? Miss, please say something, tell the mister to stop. I always get caught up in the middle of it for hours and hours.
Leaving behind the butterflies, because he is irritated despite his cautious step and long thick fur, he goes to the kitchen, sits in front of the window and starts growling.
It’s a deaf moan, with unexpected dark lows, with a hint of wailing that also contains a threat, contempt, livid hostility toward the gestures, words and attempts of others.
He is capable of going on like this for an entire afternoon. On the other side of the window’s glass frame, there is a small terrace that ends in a yellow wall over which the shadow of a swallow or a dove rarely glides.
But nothing, neither calling out to him nor flying shadows shake up his rigidity, hunkering down with enmity. Not even the sounds coming from the bathroom, where his mistress washes her hands before going back out to return to the office.
Bye—says the wife as she puts on her light coat:—Remember to make that phone call.
—Ok, Ada. Bye. See you later—responds the husband as he looks around his newspaper for a moment.
If they had not mocked him with those assassination threats, he would have started behind Mrs. Ada, would have accompanied her to the door, would have shaken his whiskers in resignation at seeing her go out.
But with everything that had happened at the table, he will not leave the kitchen until dark. He will give up television, the couch, solemn walks in front of the mirror.
—Here we go again—says the maid pouring the man’s coffee as he reads the newspaper:—He is offended to death. Come on, do something. Otherwise he will mope around all day.
—Oh yeah?—the man laughs with the coffee cup in his hand:—Listen here, Your Excellence. Come here. Now! Otherwise I’ll get up and strangle you.
—You know what you are? A headstrong troublemaker—the maid lights up.
The man keeps laughing as he mixes the sugar into his coffee, but he has heard him from the kitchen, and now increases his growling, his tail going from the most stone stiff immobility to shivering brief flicks, and his eyes are angrily palpitating.
—Calm down, come on, calm down. You should not pay attention to that hardhead. He does it on purpose. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this—the maid tries to pacify him in the kitchen.
It’s an impossible undertaking because he won’t give in. Even if they had left him alone at home, he would have still stayed in the kitchen motionless, ignoring the butterflies, the couch, the television, the mirror, waiting for Mrs. Ada to come back and bring with her or invent a little bit of peace.
—Dear young lady, I’m going out—the man notifies her laughing from the hallway:—Have a good afternoon. Tonight we’ll get down to business.
—Did you hear? He left. Come on, stop it. Be nice—says the maid in the kitchen, as soon as the door has closed behind them.
But she would never dare touch him. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps it’s that more complicated diffidence that certain women feel towards cats. For sure, she would never pick him up in her arms to move him away from the window. She can speak to him, yes. But she also knows that her voice, her opinions and her consolations count for nothing for those tense ears, that spine curved with well-nourished fur.
And he looks out and waits, and sits with his growling that seems to come from faraway muffled bronzes.
—Oh yeah?—the man laughs with the coffee cup in his hand:—Listen here, Your Excellence. Come here. Now! Otherwise I’ll get up and strangle you.
—You know what you are? A headstrong troublemaker—the maid lights up.
The man keeps laughing as he mixes the sugar into his coffee, but he has heard him from the kitchen, and now increases his growling, his tail going from the most stone stiff immobility to shivering brief flicks, and his eyes are angrily palpitating.
—Calm down, come on, calm down. You should not pay attention to that hardhead. He does it on purpose. Don’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you like this—the maid tries to pacify him in the kitchen.
It’s an impossible undertaking because he won’t give in. Even if they had left him alone at home, he would have still stayed in the kitchen motionless, ignoring the butterflies, the couch, the television, the mirror, waiting for Mrs. Ada to come back and bring with her or invent a little bit of peace.
—Dear young lady, I’m going out—the man notifies her laughing from the hallway:—Have a good afternoon. Tonight we’ll get down to business.
—Did you hear? He left. Come on, stop it. Be nice—says the maid in the kitchen, as soon as the door has closed behind them.
But she would never dare touch him. Perhaps out of fear. Perhaps it’s that more complicated diffidence that certain women feel towards cats. For sure, she would never pick him up in her arms to move him away from the window. She can speak to him, yes. But she also knows that her voice, her opinions and her consolations count for nothing for those tense ears, that spine curved with well-nourished fur.
And he looks out and waits, and sits with his growling that seems to come from faraway muffled bronzes.