by Hang Dong
If Tabby’s terror of Coco would never fade, the cat felt differently about my brother. Firstly, my brother had inflicted less harm than Coco (and we would never know in exactly what way Coco had harmed Tabby, so we imagined the worst). Secondly, the spray incident happened later. For Tabby, it added insult to injury, but at least he was mentally prepared for it. More importantly, my brother hadn’t meant to hurt the cat; he’d done it accidentally, and an intelligent cat like Tabby was well aware of the difference. Since my brother lived with him, there was plenty of time for Tabby to be reconciled to him, especially after my sister-in-law died of breast cancer and he had no choice in the matter.
My brother also had no choice but to look after the cat: when my sister-in-law was on her deathbed, she bequeathed the little ‘orphan’ to him. Tabby was the one she was most worried about, she said, and her greatest hope was that my brother would take care of him. Tears welling in his eyes, my brother agreed, and my sister-in-law shut her eyes for the last time. After that, no matter how much my mother complained about the fleas and the cat’s crazy behaviour, ripping the sofa to shreds with his claws and eating all the plants on the veranda down to their roots, my brother turned a deaf ear. There was no way he would abandon Tabby now. He became indulgent. He forgave all Tabby’s destructive behaviour, treating it as the naughtiness of a loveable child. Tabby wasn’t just a kitty, he was my brother’s son. And not just his son, but a motherless son, even the embodiment and replacement of that mother. My brother missed his wife terribly, and he sublimated all his tenderness for her into the care of Tabby.
My sister-in-law had passed him the ladle, and my brother began to cook the catfish guts for Tabby. Also, he had to go and beg for cinders for Tabby’s cat tray every day. The city was developing at an amazing speed, however, and there were fewer and fewer people who used coal briquettes—only the townsfolk who lived in the poorest shacks. Before long, most of them had switched to bottled gas, so my brother had to go further and further in search of cinders. He would do small favours to secure the precious cinders, buy medicine from the hospital or hand over a couple of out-of-date magazines. Eventually, they became so greedy that my brother could no longer satisfy their demands, even though the cinders were useless—if they hadn’t given them to my brother, they would have been thrown in the rubbish bin. So my brother started rifling through the rubbish bins and, over time, became as deft and practised at extracting what he wanted as a real rubbish-picker. His assiduity moved the neighbours—they knew that my brother was caring for this cat for the sake of my sister-in-law, who had died tragically young. My brother’s awkwardly public efforts to care for Tabby became legend. He was a good man, they all said approvingly, and was having a hard time, as hard as if he had actually been left to bring up their child. Knowing we were in need, they brought cinders and catfish guts to our door. It got so that they would knock at the door several times a day, and when we opened up they would hand over plastic bags dripping with bloody entrails. In winter, fish was cheaper than meat, and healthier too, so people ate more fish, and more often. The guts from every fish eaten in the neighbourhood ended up on our doorstep; even a cat with a huge appetite couldn’t have gotten through it all—and Tabby’s nerves meant he wasn’t a good eater. We couldn’t offend these good people, so we took everything they offered, and the food we didn’t freeze went straight back in the bin. We had such a mountain of cinders at our door that we could hardly get in or out, so my brother and I carted it downstairs under cover of darkness, bag by bag, and dumped it at the municipal tip. My brother didn’t mind the manual work, he even welcomed it. He found it calmed his nerves.
My brother’s selfless behaviour brought about greatly improved relations with the neighbours. And they flocked to visit. The object of their interest, Tabby, never did them the honour of showing his face. The women, as well as the children, turned the flat upside down looking him for him, but without success. There was such a lot of to-ing and fro-ing and calling for the cat that I began to look for a quiet corner to hide away too. Of course, I could just walk away, as I had no real responsibility for Tabby. My brother couldn’t. He had to entertain the visitors and listen to their pearls of wisdom. Most of them had cats at home, and they’d never heard of a cat needing so many cinders for its toilet. They told my brother to train the cat to squat over the enamel potty to pee, or at least choose one fixed place, which would make it easier to clean. Cinders were too primitive. My brother had to explain to each and every one of them that our cat’s peculiarities (peeing and crapping everywhere) were due to terror. He was shy with strangers—rather like his master, my brother hinted. But the visitors didn’t take the hint, or at least only heard that this was a peculiar cat, which they already knew. In fact, his dislike of human company was classic orphan behaviour, according to them, and might even be down to sexual frustration. ‘Is he still a virgin?’ they asked. ‘Yes,’ answered my brother, ‘and he’s even afraid of us, let alone cats he doesn’t know. He’s got to this age without ever going out of the house.’
‘That’s the problem,’ opined the visitors. ‘He needs a mate to bring some joy into his life.’
Some days later, we were presented with an exceptionally fine Persian she-cat. Her task: to mate with Tabby. But after two weeks in our flat, she’d had no success at all.
Tabby wasn’t afraid of her in the same way he was afraid of humans, but there wasn’t any fellow feeling. The Persian was the only cat Tabby had seen since he’d grown to adulthood, and she ought to have filled him with enthusiasm. But she didn’t. In fact, far from being eager for her company, Tabby was simply indifferent. He acted like she was just part of the furniture, and ignored her. The she-cat, on the other hand, prowled shamelessly around him, emitting lascivious mewing sounds and craning her neck to sniff between his legs. Tabby jumped onto a bench to avoid these unwanted attentions. The Persian circled the bench and even reached out a paw to pat Tabby’s tail. If she jumped up to join him, Tabby jumped down. At dinner-time Tabby let her eat first, which she did, yowling as she chewed the fish heads to warn Tabby off. Tabby showed his nobility of character by keeping his distance, even though this was his food bowl. It was only when she had eaten and drunk her fill that Tabby could get to the bowl and snatch a morsel or two. She had the lead over him when it came to peeing too. She really did squat over the flush toilet, her claws gripping the seat rim. Tabby, on the other hand, carried on peeing and crapping wherever he felt like, and stinking up the house. When, a week later, we heard that the cat’s owner was coming to find out how things were going, my brother gave her a bath. She seemed quite used to the procedure and sat purring, her eyes closed, when he turned the hair-dryer on her. My brother even sprinkled her with a little cologne that my sister-in-law had left behind, and found himself transported back in time by the familiar fragrance. As my brother gently patted the she-cat’s velvety belly fur dry, Tabby observed him out of the corner of one eye. He wasn’t jealous, not he! When the she-cat had been taken home, everything calmed down again, and normality returned. We even wondered if the she-cat had ever really been with us. The upshot was that Tabby remained a virgin, innocent of all marital pleasures. Still, my sister-in-law must have been comforted that my brother had found Tabby a mate. It wasn’t that Tabby had never had the opportunity to get to know a she-cat, it was simply that he was disdainful of the whole business of mating and she-cats. And since he had voluntarily chosen the celibate life, we had to respect his choice.
Although my brother devoted himself to Tabby for a while after my sister-in-law’s death, nothing good lasts forever, and the reason was the fleas, a problem which had never really gone away. My sister-in-law used to sit under the table lamp and pick them off of Tabby, but for my brother, willing though he was to go in search of cinders and fish guts, flea-picking was a step too far. Imagine a grown man clutching a kitty in his arms and ferreting around in its belly fur . . . Whatever next?! Even if my brother had been willing to endure the humiliation, he did
n’t have the necessary delicacy of touch. Flea-picking required not just affection and gentleness, but also manual dexterity. My brother had to confess himself beaten. My mother, even though she was the chief victim of the fleas, felt that she couldn’t suggest dumping the cat when my sister-in-law was scarcely in the grave. By the time Tabby had become the chief object of attention for every female who visited our house, it was even more difficult for my mother to make this suggestion. After all, while my sister-in-law was alive, she and my mother had gotten along well—my mother had been very fond of her. For her sake, she was genuinely fond of the cat too. She was even ready to take over flea-picking duties, but she was old, far-sighted and her hands were shaky. She couldn’t even thread a needle without my help. There was no way she would be able to pick off the cat’s fleas. Her only hope was to entrust the task to a new daughter-in-law.
And indeed, a few months after my sister-in-law died, my brother announced that he was looking for another wife. The woman had to fulfill certain requirements though. She had to like animals, more specifically cats. She had to be good at caring for cats, which meant being good at picking fleas off of the cat. But she couldn’t have her own cat. It suddenly dawned on the rest of us what he had in mind. My brother wasn’t looking for a wife, he was looking for a stepmother for the cat, something every potential match understood as soon as she stepped through the door of our flat and sniffed the zoo-like smell.
With no new partner for my brother, he and my mother turned to me. My girlfriend and I had been together for a couple of years. They suggested we should get married. We were welcome to move in, and my brother would give the double bedroom to us. My mother had once disapproved of Xulu, but my girlfriend saw her chance and pretended great affection for Tabby. She even took the cat in her arms and earnestly picked off a few fleas. Only I knew that immediately afterwards she would change every stitch of clothing, put the garments she had been wearing into a zippered bag, and throw them into the dustbin in the basement of her dorm. Then I had to go out with her and buy new clothes and underwear. I had a quiet word with Xulu and suggested that she wash the clothes instead of throwing them away. But she refused to listen. She might have been a murderer getting rid of blood-stained evidence. It didn’t matter so much in summer, because she wore fewer clothes, but as the weather got colder, the funds to keep her clothed for flea-picking began to run dry. My funds, that is, for I had to foot the bill. Even though she was quite happy to put on a martyred expression and wear her cheapest clothes to our family’s flat, I soon got fed up with it. When my mother had been against our marriage, I was for it. Now that my mother had relaxed her opposition, I began to feel less enthusiastic. Finally, at the critical juncture, I told my mother about the game Xulu had been playing. My mother got very agitated at the thought that Xulu didn’t really like cats and had no intention of moving in after we got married.
Once Xulu realized that the marriage wasn’t going to happen, she stopped picking fleas off of Tabby. In fact, whenever she came around, she openly held her nose and refused to touch our crockery, sit in our chairs or stand in our living room, and, insofar as it was possible, she avoided touching any of the surfaces. Ideally, she would have liked to be suspended in mid-air. With the air of someone who was braving a tiger’s lair, she would repeat: ‘Oh my god, it stinks! It stinks!’
4
We lived seven floors up, on the top floor, and had access to the roof for the entire block, via a step-ladder that went through a skylight in the corridor ceiling. There was a huge water tank up there—it supplied all the flats from the fifth floor upwards—and a sprinkling of TV aerials, nothing more. It was a substantial space, and completely deserted. It also commanded an incomparable view of the city’s imposing skyline, right up to the Jinling Hotel and the Yangtse Bridge in the hazy distance. There was always a stiff breeze on the roof, but at least the air was fresh and you could take deep breaths.
There was a time when the residents used to go up to the roof to cool off after hot summer days, but then access was forbidden—they were worried the children might lose their footing and fall off. An exception was made for National Day, however, when entire families would troop up there to see the fireworks. People kept using it anyway, to view a lunar eclipse or watch comets; our roof became quite an observatory, it was even equipped with a long-range telescope that someone had lugged up there. In the end, it proved too popular, and someone put their foot through the insulating slabs. The roof started letting rain and snow in to the flats, and the observatory was closed once and for all.
Nevertheless, my brother slipped a backhander to the caretaker and got himself a key. Then he sneaked Tabby up there. He provided the cat with an old quilt to sleep on, and the roof became the cat’s domain. The concrete insulating slabs kept the sun off of him—he lived in the space between the slabs and the asphalt roof underneath, in the greatest of comfort. According to my brother, Tabby enjoyed the largest per capita footprint in the whole of Nanjing, since the whole roof, an area which covered four entire flats, as well as the corridor, now belonged solely to him. It was vast compared to the nooks and crannies in which he had taken refuge during the time when he lived with us.
Every day, my brother took up food and fresh water, calling ‘Tabby! Tabby!’ until the cat gave an answering meow from some deep cavity between the concrete insulating slabs and the asphalt roof. Then my brother, reassured, would put the food down and come back downstairs. So it went on, day after day. Sometimes I would accompany my brother to see Tabby. Of course, he never showed his face. There were a few signs, but even they were somewhat doubtful—bits of dirty cat fur or a desiccated turd, for example. It was very different from the time he had spent in the flat, when his existence was in absolutely no doubt. The flea bites proved it. But the fleas had disappeared when Tabby moved out. We had a collective drive to clean every corner, and keep it clean, so there was nowhere for them to hide. The smell of cat pee grew fainter too, until it was gone completely. Adjusting to a clean-smelling environment so suddenly was difficult, and I thought if I went up to the roof I could smell that familiar pong again, but I was disappointed. Although Tabby’s turds and pee were everywhere, and my brother no longer bothered with cinders, the fresh breeze and the occasional violent storm rendered them completely odourless. The fleas survived in this harsh environment by retreating into Tabby’s tangled fur. In fact, that was the only place they could live; Tabby never bothered with washing, and on him, they lived and bred until they reached saturation point. Biological warfare was confined to fleas and cat—no humans were involved.
My brother regularly replenished the saucers with fresh food and clean water and took them back up again. After a while, he stopped calling for the cat. The state of the food saucer told him if Tabby was hale and hearty: untouched food meant either that he was ill or that he was being picky about his dinner—my brother had to decide which. If the former, then he would take extra care to prepare something that would whet the patient’s appetite, and cautiously mix in some powdered antibiotics. But he then discovered that if Tabby left his food, it wasn’t because he was ill; on the contrary, he was healthier than ever. It was because, now that he was an outdoor cat, he had taken against cooked food. Once my brother had come to this conclusion, he found that his work load lightened considerably. No more daily cooking chores (and no more pongy food smells wafting through the flat). All he had to do was deliver the raw fish heads.
Our building was in the shape of an H that had been turned on its side, with south- and north-facing horizontals, on the left-hand end of which we had our flat. There were two families on each floor of the horizontals, while the vertical consisted of linking corridors. The corridors were short, so that our balcony was no more than a couple of metres from the back window of the corresponding flat on the upper horizontal. In summer, our neighbor’s air-conditioning blew hot air right into our flat, and when Tabby took up residence on our balcony (as I will come to later), the pong wafted over to th
em and they had to keep their window shut.
My brother then found a way of using the unusual design of the block to supply Tabby without having to carry his food upstairs. He stood on the balcony and whirled two plastic bags (one with food, the other with water) around his head, hurling them through the air so that they landed on the roof of the flat opposite with a splat. Tabby was quite capable of tearing the bags open himself. If the water bag burst on impact, Tabby simply licked every drop of water from the wet concrete slabs. To start with, my brother was worried that the water might be soaked up by the concrete, but gradually the slabs became saturated and a small puddle formed in a dip. If my brother aimed for the dip, he found that he could to fill it with no difficulty at all, by means of, at most, three bags. At the height of summer the water rapidly evaporated, so he filled the bags with ice cubes. They would cool Tabby down and he could drink his fill as they melted.
My brother was painstaking in his efforts to satisfy every aspect of Tabby’s needs. Still, he felt guilty, mainly because he was spending much less time with the cat than he had before. It had all become so incredibly easy. Tabby could even remind my brother when it was dinner-time; he would walk to the edge of the roof, peer over at our balcony, and meow. He was obviously expressing a desire for company, which pleased us, but it saddened us too—he must have been dreadfully lonely. When we heard the voice of our old friend, we looked up at him through eyes that were bleary with tears. Tabby had once had clear black and white markings. Now he was grey all over, a dirty, slovenly, murky grey—partly perhaps because he was getting old, partly because he never washed and had no human or other cat to tend to his fur.
