CLEO. Helen Brown E.

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СКАЧАТЬ were unusually large. They rose like a pair of matching pyramids from her triangular face. Darker stripes on her forehead whispered of a jungle heritage. Short hair, too. My mother always said short-haired cats were clean.

      “She’s a wonderful mother, pure Abyssinian,” Lena explained. “I tried to keep an eye on her, but she escaped into the bamboos for a couple of nights a while back. We don’t know who the father is. A wild tom, I guess.”

      Abyssinian. I hadn’t heard of that breed. Not that my knowledge of pedigreed cats was encyclopedic. I’d once known a Siamese called Lap Chow, the pampered familiar of my ancient piano teacher, Mrs. McDonald. Our three-way relationship was doomed from the start. The only thing that hurt more than Mrs. McDonald’s ruler whacking my fingers as they fumbled over the keys was Lap Chow’s hypodermic-needle claws sinking into my ankles. Between the two of them they did a good job creating a lifelong prejudice against music lessons and pedigreed cats.

      “Some people say Abyssinians are descended from the cats the ancient Egyptians worshipped,” Lena continued.

      It certainly wasn’t difficult to imagine this feline priestess presiding over a temple. The combination of alley cat and royalty had allure. If the kittens manifested the best attributes of both parents (classy yet hardy), they could turn out to be something special. If, on the other hand, less desirable elements of royalty and rough trade (fussy and feral) came to the fore in the offspring, we could be in for a roller-coaster ride.

      “There’s only one kitten left,” Lena added. “The smaller black one.”

      Of course people had gone for the larger, healthier-looking kittens first. The bronze ones probably had more appeal, as they had a better chance of turning out looking purebred like their mother. I’d already decided I preferred the black ones, though not necessarily the runt with its bulging eyes and patchy tufts of fur.

      “But the little one seems to have a lot of spirit,” Lena said. “She needs it to survive. We thought we were going to lose her during the first couple of days, but she managed to hold on.”

      “It’s a girl?” I said, already stupid with infatuation and incapable of using cat breeder’s language.

      “Yes. Would you like to hold her?”

      Fearing I’d crush the fragile thing, I declined. Lena lowered the tiny bundle of life into Sam’s hands instead. He lifted the kitten and stroked his cheek with her fur. He’d always had a thing about fur. I’d never seen him so careful and tender.

      “You know it’s my birthday soon…” he said. I could guess what was coming next. “Don’t give me a party or a big present. There’s only one thing I want for my birthday. This kitten.”

      “When’s your birthday?” Lena asked.

      “Sixteenth of December,” said Sam. “But I can change it to any time.”

      “I don’t like kittens to leave their mother until they’re quite independent,” she said. “I’m afraid this one won’t be ready until mid February.”

      “That’s okay,” said Sam, gazing into the slits of its eyes. “I can wait.”

      The boys knew the best thing to do now was to shut up and look angelic. Maybe nurturing a kitten would wean them off war games and tune them into feminine sensibilities. As for Rata, we’d do our best to protect the kitten from such a monstrous dog.

      Further debate was pointless. How could I turn down a creature so determined to seize life? Besides, she was Sam’s birthday present.

      “We’ll take her,” I said, somehow unable to stop smiling.

      A Name

      There’s only one correct name for a cat—Your Majesty.

      “It’s not fair!” Rob wailed. “He’s getting a kitten and a digital Superman watch for his birthday!”

      Lifting the banana cake out of the oven, I burnt the side of my hand and suppressed a curse. The pain was searing, but there was no point yelling. Not with an electric sander drilling my eardrums and the boys on the brink of World War III. I plonked the cake on a cooling rack and glanced out at the harbor.

      The risk of living on the fault line was neutralized by the sea view framed by hills stabbing the sky. Who cared if the bungalow had been “renovated” twenty years earlier by a madman who used wood one grade up from cardboard? Wandering over its ivory-colored shag-pile carpet, ignoring the lurid wallpapers, we’d echoed the estate agent’s mantra: “Character…Potential.” Besides, Optimist was my middle name. If the town was hit by a serious earthquake the house would almost certainly plummet off the cliff into the sea, but we’d probably be somewhere else that day. Yes, we’d just happen to be inside one of those downtown skyscrapers built on gigantic rollers specifically designed to endure the earth’s groans.

      Steve and I were both hoping our differences would dissolve in the bungalow’s magical outlook. A marriage between two people from opposite sides of the world and whose personalities were as likely to blend as oil and water could surely be crafted into survival here. Besides, Steve was willing to renovate the 1960s renovations, as long as it didn’t cost too much. His latest project, to strip back the paint on all the doors and skirting boards to expose the natural wood grain, was deafening.

      “Can you turn that noise down, please?” I shouted down the hall.

      “I can’t turn it down!” Steve yelled back. “There’s only one volume. It’s an electric sander.”

      “Sam has to wait eight more weeks for the kitten,” I explained to Rob, running my hand under the cold tap and wondering why it wasn’t doing any good. “Besides, if you ask nicely I’m sure you can have a digital Superman watch when it’s your birthday.”

      “Sam doesn’t even play Superman anymore,” Rob said. “He just reads books about history and stuff.”

      He was right. Sam’s new phase didn’t include comic book heroes. A Superman watch wasn’t Sam anymore. Nevertheless, when he’d opened the parcel that morning he’d smiled and been gracious.

      “I hate my watch,” Rob said. “It should go in a museum. Nobody has a watch that ticks anymore.”

      “That’s not true,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with your watch.”

      The sander’s shrieking mercifully stopped. Steve appeared coated in paint dust and wearing a mask and a bath cap.

      “You look funny, Daddy,” Rob said. “Like a big white Smurf.”

      “It’s no good,” Steve sighed. “That paint’s glued to the wood. I’ll have to take the doors off. There’s a place in town that’ll soak them in acid baths. It’s the only way we’ll get rid of that paint.”

      “You’re removing all our doors?” I asked. “Even the bathroom’s?”

      “Only for a week or two.”

      Lured by the smell of banana cake, Sam wandered into the kitchen. Rata trailed behind, clicking her toenails over the vinyl. If boy and dog were ever twin souls those two were it. She’d arrived, a milk-colored puppy, when Sam was just two years old. They’d grown up together, comrades in СКАЧАТЬ