Trachtenberg - Another insane devotion on the love of cats and persons

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ANOTHER INSANE DEVOTION

This was gruesomefighting over a ham sandwich
with one of the tiny cats of Rome, he leaped
on my arm and half hung on to the food and half
hung on to my shirt and coat. I tore it apart
and let him have his portion, I think I lifted him
down, sandwich and all, on the sidewalk and sat
with my own sandwich beside him, maybe I petted
his bony head and felt him shiver. I have
told this story over and over; some things
root in the mind; his boldness, of course, was frightening
and unexpectedhis stubbornnessthough hunger
drove him mad. It was the breaking of boundaries,
the sudden invasion, but not only that, it was
the sharing of food and the sharing of space; he didnt
run into an alley or into a cellar,
he sat beside me, eating, and I didnt run
into a trattoria, say, shaking,
with food on my lips and blood on my cheek, sobbing;
but not only that, I had gone there to eat
and wait for someone. I had maybe an hour
before she would come and I was full of hope
and excitement. I have resisted for years
interpreting this, but now I think I was given
a clue, or I was giving myself a clue,
across the street from the glass sandwich shop.
That was my last night with her, the next day
I would leave on the train for Paris and she would
meet her husband. Thirty-five years ago
I ate my sandwich and moaned in her arms, we were
dying together; we never met again
although she was pregnant when I left herI have
a daughter or son somewhere, darling grandchildren
in Norwich, Connecticut, or Canton, Ohio.
Every five years I think about her again
and plan on looking her up. The last time
I was sitting in New Brunswick, New Jersey,
and heard that her husband was teaching at Princeton,
if she was still married, or still alive, and tried
calling. I went that far. We lived
in Florence and Rome. We rowed in the bay of Naples
and floated, naked, on the boards. I started
to think of her again today. I still
am horrified by the cats hunger. I still
am puzzled by the connection. This is another
insane devotion, there must be hundreds, although
it isnt just that, there is no pain, and the thought
is fleeting and sweet. I think its my own dumb boyhood,
walking around with Slavic cheeks and burning
stupid eyes. I think I gave the cat
half of my sandwich to buy my life, I think
I broke it in half as a decent sacrifice.
It was this I bought, the red coleus,
the split rocking chair, the silk lampshade.
Happiness. I watched him with pleasure.
I bought memory. I could have lost it.
How crazy it sounds. His face twisted with cunning.
The wind blowing through his hair. His jaws working.

Mrkgnao! the cat cried.
They call them stupid. They understand what we say better
than we understand them. She understands all she wants to.
JAMES JOYCE, ULYSSES

We know too little of the nature of love to be able to
arrive at any definitive conclusions here.
FREUD, NOTES UPON A CASE OF OBSESSIONAL NEUROSIS

PREFATORY NOTE

THIS IS A WORK OF NONFICTION. THE CHARACTERS IN IT are based on real people; the events recounted in it actually took place. Still, the facts in this book vary in their density, some being corroborated by documents and interviews and others being drawn from my memory alone. Ive tried to make clear which kind of fact is which. The book also contains an artifact, an incident or detail that originates solely in my imagination. I have included it both for aesthetic reasons and out of curiosity about the nature of nonfiction and its tolerance for admixture or adulteration. Nobody doubts that a novel that contains factsWar and Peace, for instanceremains a work of fiction. Is the reverse true of nonfiction, and if not, why not? The first reader who identifies the artifact correctly will receive a prize. Originally, I wanted this to be a kitten, but it raised too many questions as to how potential prizewinners would be vetted to weed out psychopaths and the incompetent. At this writing, Im still looking for a satisfying replacement. Not many things are better than a kitten.

I FIRST SAW HER A WEEK OR TWO AFTER SOME FRIENDS had rescued her from the woods across from their house, a small, matted thing hunched miserably on a tree branch in the rain while their dogs milled and snapped below. She was very sick with a respiratory infection, and for a while they didnt think shed make it. By the time I came over to the barn where they were keeping her, she was stronger, but her face was still black with caked-on snot. I sat down on the floor beside her, and the little ginger cat rubbed against me and a moment later clasped my hand between her forepaws and began licking it. It wasnt the grateful licking of a dog; it was proprietary and businesslike, the rasp of her tongue almost painful. She was claiming me.

F. and I named her Biscuit after the color of her fur. She never completely got over the respiratory infection. Even in total darkness, you could tell shed entered the room because of the snuffling, a sound like a small whisk broom briskly sweeping. Every few months shed start sneezing with increasing viscid productivity until it got so gross we had to take her to the vet, which she didnt mindshed stroll into her carrier as if it were the first-class compartment of an airlinerand put her on antibiotics, which she did. She hated being pilled and would buck and spit and slash until you got the message. You can see the scars she left on my forearm. Once, when we were still living in the village, Biscuit wandered into a neighbors garage and came back with half her muzzle and one forepaw white with paint. Three people had to hold her down while a fourth shaved off the painted-on fur so she wouldnt be poisoned while trying to clean herself. It was the angriest I ever saw her. But only a few hours later, she slid into bed with us, snuffling and purring.

This was our marriage bed, my wifes and mine. In it, we had made love; we had quarreled; we had exchanged secrets the way children exchange trading cards. (When I was a kid, these were mostly of baseball players, but there are now cards for WWF Superstars, Star Wars characters, and the members of Englands royal wedding. Wilfredo, the boy who used to visit us in the summer, had decks of Japanese anime figures.) We had sat up reading by lamplight while the world slept, sometimes silently, sometimes aloud to each other. During the early years of our marriage, the books we read included Charlottes Web, Oliver Twist, The Story of the Treasure Seekers, and the entire Lord of the Rings, which aged us like grief. We did the voices of all the characters: guileless, bumptious Wilbur; manly Oswald, bluff as a little Winston Churchill; Templeton rubbing his handsor I guess his pawstogether in anticipation of an all-you-can-eat buffet of purulent midway garbage; unctuous Fagin, his ill will barely concealed by a facade of mocking courtliness; hissing, sniveling Gollum.

Lately we dont read to each other much.