Not a trace.
It must have gone off to try its luck at the other apartments.
I’m a rational, pragmatic man, and I don’t like whimsical behavior. I’d brought milk for the cat; therefore the cat had to drink it. I started calling it—Kitty, Kitty, Kitty—but it didn’t appear.
Fed up with playing a role that was strange to me, I left the saucer on the landing and closed the door.
The Sorrows of Young Werther
Lunchtime and the afternoon went by without any more surprises. I kept dipping into the dictionary, looking for strange words. Then I watched part of the New Year’s concert but, irritated by the cheesy images of young couples holding hands and watching the snow falling outside a window, I turned off the TV.
My conscience reminded me that I had to do a bit of work, in order to avoid the uncomfortable feeling that I was wasting my time. This meant I had to get down to correcting the essays of my laggard students.
I’d given them an easy assignment: they had to write a two-page summary of Goethe’s most popular novel, Die Leiden des jungen Werthers. The title has been translated as The Sufferings of Young Werther and The Sorrows of Young Werther. I preferred the latter version, perhaps because that was the one I’d owned before reading it in German.
The story, written in epistolary form, is well known. Young Werther moves to the idyllic village of Wahlheim, where he intends to enjoy a peaceful life of reading and painting. However, at a ball organized by the local youth, he meets Charlotte—Lotte to her friends—and falls madly in love with her. Although Lotte is engaged to another man, Werther visits her frequently in the hope that she will return his love. His passion grows, as tends to happen when love is unrequited. Taking the advice of his friend and confidant Wilhelm, Werther leaves the village and takes a job as an ambassador’s secretary. However, he can’t stand the frivolity of his new life, so he returns to Wahlheim where, faced with the impossibility of loving the now married Lotte, he commits suicide by shooting himself.
Told like this, it might sound like a corny melodrama, but Goethe gives the whole story an existential feel. In the end, one has the impression that Werther’s fervent love for Lotte is just an excuse, because the fact of the matter is that he’s bored with life.
This, at least, is my interpretation. My students think differently. More than two centuries later, all of them, male and female, love the book. Perhaps it’s because they’re at an age when love can still be idealized.
My students like it when I tell them about the furor it caused in its day. In less than two years, it was translated into twelve languages, Chinese among them—an extraordinary thing at the time. The work inspired a particular way of being, which was taken up all around the world. Legions of romantics got dressed up in blue coats and yellow vests and, like Werther, wept copiously and wrote desperate letters to their beloveds. Even Napoleon claimed to have read the book seven times, and that he always had it with him on the battlefield.
Imitating their hero, hundreds of young men killed themselves, and in some cities—Leipzig, for example—the novel was banned.
Werther is largely responsible for the idea of romantic love that survives to this day. It is a magnificent work, even though some of Werther’s antics are laughable. I suspect that Goethe himself had a little giggle as he was writing some of those lines.
The Assault
The freezing night had misted up the windows of my kitchen, where I was cooking dinner in silence. I’ve never liked the end of the day, because its waning seems to forebode my own decline. That is when loneliness bites most viciously with its invisible fangs.
As I cooked a potato omelet in my single-serving frying pan, I wondered why things had never worked out with any of my girlfriends. The last one was years ago. She was a lovely blonde, and her only problem was that she already had a boyfriend, although it took me months to discover that. In the end, her brother felt sorry for me and, taking me aside one day, advised me to bail out.
“She doesn’t want to be with either of you,” he warned. “If she loved her boyfriend, she wouldn’t have gotten involved with you, and if she loved you, she would have left her boyfriend immediately.”
A very simple deduction that threw me back onto my lonely path.
Werther had at least one trusty friend, Wilhelm, and he could talk about his troubles with him. I didn’t even have that.
I suppose I stopped socializing out of fear of being let down again. As an adolescent I got fed up with doing what other people wanted, only to be left high and dry when I needed them. Then again, it’s not easy to find people with whom you can have a vaguely interesting conversation.
I turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial until I found a music program. They were broadcasting a jam session from Tokyo. The audience started to applaud just as I finished flipping my omelet.
Interpreting the clapping as an ovation for the cook, I bowed a couple of times to show my appreciation and then went back to my dinner.
I was in bed by eleven with the lights off, although I was still listening to the broadcast. Four great masters of jazz played with a fifth who was celebrating the fiftieth anniversary of his first concert on that stage.
Staring at the dark ceiling and listening to the competing virtuosi, I suddenly remembered the dead Japanese man.
I started to feel anxious. Maybe he fell ill during the night, but there was nobody around to help him. That must be why they say that married men live longer than bachelors. For example, if I had a heart attack right now . . .
A strange sensation in my chest left me breathless. Fumbling for the phone, I felt cold drops of sweat running down my forehead. I knocked the handset onto the floor. Trembling all over, I managed to turn on my bedside light. Then I saw them.
Two round green eyes, staring at me.
The cat.
It must have hidden somewhere in my apartment, but now it was sitting on my chest, gazing at me as if seeking answers.
“You bastard!” I shouted, leaping out of bed as the cat fled into the living room. “I nearly had a heart attack!”
The situation demanded that I resort to extreme measures, so I grabbed the broom from the kitchen and sprang into the living room like a wild beast, determined to drive out the intruder.
No cat.
I leaned the broom against the wall and checked every corner without success. I did the same in the bedroom. The cat wasn’t hiding among the blankets or under the bed or in the slightly open closet.
My second search of the living room was as fruitless as the first, and I scoured the whole apartment with the same result. The cat was clearly a genius when it came to hiding and wasn’t going to make my life easy.
I was overwhelmed by a sense of deep weariness. A shooting pain in my back warned me to stop stooping over and forced me back into bed.
“I’ve lost the battle but not the war,” I proclaimed aloud. “Tomorrow I’m going to turn the place upside down. I’ll get you in the end. Just you wait and see.”
I got into bed and fell asleep almost at once. I didn’t even turn off the radio. The jam session had finished.
First Victories
I woke up with a strange vibrating feeling in my breastbone. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know that this wasn’t a warning sign of a heart attack.
To my great surprise I saw that the cat was curled up, placidly asleep on my chest.
“You’re a stubborn animal,” I said, wondering if I should throttle it there and then.
Almost out of curiosity, I stroked its short, soft fur. The cat revved up its purring and opened its sleepy eyes. Then it began to stretch, raising its back and shifting its paws, and ended up sitting on my belly. It was still purring and seemed to be smiling.
Can a cat smile?
After breakfast, I decided that the intruder could stay until the animal shelter op
ened. I found the number in the phone book but, when I called, a tinny voice informed me that they were closed until January 7th.
Then I remembered that I’d seen a pets section in the Pennysaver.
It could be an option in case the shelter won’t take it. I rummaged around in my storage room, trying to find an old copy of the paper, which I’d occasionally consulted when I wanted to buy second-hand furniture.
I phoned the number, and an affected voice promptly answered. I mentioned the section in which the ad would appear and dictated: “Almost new cat. Free of charge. Excellent condition. Phone afternoons.”
I thought a touch of humor might help to find a home for the animal. It seemed that the operator didn’t agree.
“Is that all?” he asked after jotting down my phone number.
“I think so.”
“I can’t take this ad as it is. What about its shots?”
“What?” I didn’t know what he was talking about.
“We only take ads for vaccinated animals. The paper can’t be held responsible in case of infection. You need to make it clear it’s had its shots.”
I was about to confess that I didn’t know whether the cat was vaccinated or not, but bit my tongue.
“It’s been vaccinated,” I lied. “Put that at the end of the ad.”
“OK.”
According to the operator, I was in luck. They were closed that day, but they’d publish my ad on January 8th. I decided I would postpone my trip to the animal shelter for another week after that date. I needed time to see if some charitable soul would take the cat. And anyway, there was still the issue of its vaccinations. Anyone who came would want to see the certificates.
The cat was now comfortably installed on the couch, observing me as I pondered all these questions. Without changing its elegant pose, it studied my movements around the living room, restlessly flicking its tail.
Since I tend to deal with bothersome chores as quickly as possible, I picked up the phone book again, this time to find a vet. There were several clinics, and one was quite close to my place, so I called to book an appointment.
A brusque female voice answered.
“Your reason for the visit?”
“It’s for a cat. It needs a vaccination certificate.”
“Name?”
“Samuel de Juan.”
“And the cat?”
This took me unawares. Must all animals have a name? I was standing next to a bookshelf full of novels, and my eyes lit on The Sailor Who Fell from Grace with the Sea.
“Mishima,” I said.
The cat gave a loud meow, as if it was happy to be named after a Japanese writer who committed suicide by hara-kiri.
“What did you say?”
I spelled out the name, realizing that I was now faced with a logistical problem. How was I going to take the cat to the vet? It had proved to be very good at disappearing, and I had no wish to chase it around the streets. I explained my problem to the woman on the other end of the phone.
“You’ll need a transporter box.”
“A . . . transporter box? What is that?”
Mishima seemed to be relishing the situation. The rate of tail flicks per minute had risen considerably.
The woman informed me that it was an authorized container for carrying animals. She suggested I should come to the veterinary center to buy one and then bring the cat back in it.
“That’s too much running around,” I said, irritated. “I can’t waste the whole day on a cat. Is there any other way?”
“A home visit—but that’s a lot more expensive.”
“That’s fine. I want to get this over and done with as soon as possible.”
“I’ll have to come myself,” was her sharp reply. “I’m on call now. Would lunchtime suit you?”
I said it would and took the opportunity to order all the cat paraphernalia I needed: bowl, food, litter, tray—and the transporter box too.
—
The doorbell rang at two thirty, and I knew it must be the vet because I never have visitors. When I opened the door, I was pleasantly surprised. The vet was an attractive woman of about thirty, short hair brushed back from her face, glasses. Her serious yet relaxed expression suggested that she was a no-nonsense kind of lady.
She’s just the sort of person I’d like to have as a friend.
I could picture myself having afternoon tea with her—hot chocolate and ladyfingers—in one of the old establishments in Carrer Petritxol.
“Well, shall we begin?” she said in a brisk tone, shattering my daydream. “I’m very busy today.”
“Of course.”
After taking the two bags she was carrying, I asked her to come into the living room, where Mishima had spent the whole morning. When we walked in, the couch was empty.
“Where’s the cat then?” she asked as she placed her small case on the table and opened it.
I rushed into the bedroom to see if Mishima was back on the bed. He wasn’t there. I looked in the kitchen, where I had placed his saucer of milk. No luck. When I returned to the living room, the vet was already closing her case and getting ready to leave.
“Could you wait just a moment, please?” I said. “I’m sure the cat will turn up.”
“I doubt it. Cats always hide when they’re going to be vaccinated. Didn’t you know that? You should have locked it up so you’d know where to find it.”
“I must admit I know nothing about cats. Would you like a cup of coffee? I have a few questions I wanted to ask.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve got another appointment at three,” she said. “I came to look after the cat, not you.”
I was hurt by her response. I grabbed the bill from her hand and paid the whole amount—including the fee for a home visit—plus a generous tip, because I had no change.
“When you find it,” she said, as I ushered her toward the door, “put it in the cat carrier and bring it to the clinic. There’s no need to make an appointment.”
I nodded. Before we reached the front door, the vet pointed at a dollop of curdled white purée next to the rug. I hadn’t noticed it before.
“Don’t give your cat any more milk. It doesn’t agree with them and makes them vomit.”
I thanked her and closed the door.
—
Less than two minutes later Mishima reappeared and greeted me with a melodious meow, as if nothing had happened. His hiding place remained a secret.
“Great work,” I said. “You naughty little beast.”
The Old Editor
Third day of the new year. I woke up with aching bones, feeling feverish. The flu had obviously overcome my last defenses.
Mishima jumped off the bed and we went to have breakfast, each from his own bowl like two bachelor roommates. This exceptional situation was going to end no later than January 15th.
When I stood up from the table, I felt dizzy. I opened my medicine drawer, and all I could find was a bottle of painkillers—but it was empty.
I’ll have to go down to the pharmacy before it gets worse.
A man who lives alone must be twice as organized as one who has a partner, because at the end of the day he has only his own resources to rely on.
Without bothering to take off my pajamas, I threw on the first clothes I could find, thinking I’d go out and be back in a moment.
Then, something unexpected happened. I was on the landing, about to lock the door, when Mishima shot out and raced upstairs.
“Damn cat!” I yelled, my voice echoing through the staircase.
It was clear that this cat had not come into my life to make things easier. My forehead was burning now. I went inside to get the cat carrier. I’d catch the cat and lock it up inside—until January 15th if necessary.
Fortunately, there is only one more floor
above mine. I was hoping to corner the cat and take it back home. But I was beginning to realize that a cat never does what one expects it to do.
Mishima was sitting on the doormat of the apartment above mine, calmly and patiently scratching at the door, just as he had done at my place three days before.
All my problems were over! The cat belonged to the old man on the top floor. He was a surly-looking individual, as bald as an egg, and it was hard to guess his age, although the mesh of deep wrinkles that lined his forehead and neck made me think he was on the wrong side of seventy. He was already living there when I moved into my place six years before, but I’d rarely seen him, except for the odd encounter on the stairway.
I rang the bell, and the door unlocked with a loud buzz. I pushed it open, and the cat marched inside right away. So my guess was right.
I entered the apartment without really knowing why. After all, now that the cat had been returned to its master, everything was back to normal.
A sweetish smell floated in the air, like musk in a spice burner.
“Hello,” I called, closing the door behind me. I didn’t feel like chasing the cat downstairs if it escaped again.
Nobody answered.
I advanced down the corridor, which was similar to mine. Before I reached the living room, I stopped to look at a painting that had caught my attention. It was a reproduction of Wanderer Overlooking the Sea of Fog by the German Romantic painter Caspar David Friedrich.
In my student years I’d been fascinated by his work. In one of his bleakest paintings, The Sea of Ice, one can make out the shape of a wrecked ship, barely visible beneath a pyramid formed by the piled-up shards of a broken ice sheet.
The Wanderer shows a gentleman standing all alone on a high cliff, hair tousled by the wind as he contemplates the turbulent ocean of mist spreading out below him. It could very well have been a picture of Werther before his decision to put an end to it all.
I’d seen this painting many times. I think I even got to see the original in a gallery in Hamburg. Anyway, the Wanderer suddenly acquired a new meaning for me. I realized that it was an allegory of my life. I was this man who’d climbed a mountain without understanding what was happening down below in the world.
Love in Lowercase Page 2
