Care of Wooden Floors

by Will Wiles

  Reluctantly, I looked over my shoulder. It was obvious what had caught her attention. Protruding from the closed hatch, caught in its metal grip, was a four-inch length of white-tipped tail. The rest of the cat was, presumably, hanging on the other side of the door, suspended in limbo without completing its final descent. With the limp mass of the rest of the body out of sight, this little cigar of fur looked faintly comical, a prop for a violent cartoon or something that should be dangling from a car aerial. I thought for an instant of the terrible plastic fingers that made it appear as though someone was trapped in your car’s boot, a novelty that was briefly popular in the 1980s.

  Quickly, surprising myself with my own decisiveness, I tugged on the hatch handle, opening it a little, and the black and white sausage of tail disappeared like a startled rodent, accompanied by the receding slither of the dead cat falling down the chute.

  The cleaner stopped only a couple of steps from the top of the stairs. She said something loud and accusatory, and then repeated it, this time labouring its syllables. I had no way of knowing what she meant, but her body language was unequivocally angry and she clearly had a low opinion of me. Her pose was stiff, tense, and her face had flushed an unhealthy red, with the nostrils of that ugly batlike nose flushed wide.

  ‘It died,’ I said, doing my best to seem calm and serious. It didn’t really matter what I said, as far as I could see, but my tone and bearing did count for something. Whatever I said, she had obviously already formed a very comprehensive version of what had happened and who was to blame. ‘It was an accident,’ I continued. ‘I was out, there was an accident, and it died. I didn’t...’

  I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t kill it.

  She had, at least, closed her mouth; indeed, it was clamped shut, as if she was fighting the urge to vomit. Her eyes bulged like ping-pong balls.

  Then, abruptly, she made a dismissive gesture, waving both her hands at me and turning away to stamp angrily back down the stairs, muttering to herself.

  I didn’t move for a little while. It felt as if I hadn’t taken a breath in several minutes, so I took one, suddenly cold and shaky. Clear, chilly fluid sloshed against my insides. I bolted for Oskar’s door, and slammed it behind me.

  A tram rumbled by in the street as I leaned against the door, gulping in breaths and listening for sounds from the other side. There was nothing. The word ‘deniability’ bumped around inside my head, then inflated emptily until it filled the space between my ears, pushing out everything else. Deniability. I needed deniability. The word buzzed and multiplied. What did it even mean? I had heard it in a political context, attached to some controversy or other. The precise definition escaped me but I grasped the basic inner meaning of it. It had to do with the command of truth – the understanding that objective reality is never wholly seen by anyone, and around it we weave our own subjective and false stories. What had actually happened was irrelevant and unknowable – what was important was the construction of a compelling story that could shoulder aside competing versions. After all, I had little doubt that the cleaner had by now concocted her own completely false version of events: that I had killed the cat and then disposed of its remains in a disrespectful, indeed outright inept, fashion. This was a flotilla of untruths, so what did it matter if I too tailored the historical record a little in order to sink it? I would be working in the service of a greater truth, even if it appeared to some that I was doing everything in my power to thwart genuine understanding of the events. I was certain that wrongdoing on my part was completely deniable, and deny it I certainly would.

  I took another deep breath and looked back over my last train of thought. I was panicking. There was, at that moment, no need to deny anything or enter into any kind of torrid threesome with reality and falsity. At that moment, what I needed was a drink and a sit down.

  Back in the kitchen, I poured a glass of water and drained it in two gulps. It was not very refreshing, room temperature and curiously un-watery. Just liquid, nothing else, with none of water’s clarifying and revitalising properties. I did not feel like one of the flawless models in the adverts, blissfully receiving a bucketful of crystalline refreshment right in the chops.

  Maybe what was needed was not water but a glass of wine. The thought provoked a sullen eddy of nausea from my innards and a dull throb from the polluted liquid in which my brain swam, but no real protest. I opened a bottle and prepared a glass. As I did this, one of the cats – that is, the cat, the remaining cat – pushed up against my legs, rubbing its back up and down on my calf and meowing persistently.

  ‘You’re still hungry, aren’t you?’ I asked it. ‘I’m sorry, I’ll get your food.’

  I set the glass down on the kitchen counter – far from the edge, up against the wall – and went into the little utility room for the cat food.

  The little room smelled wholesome and comforting. Nothing identifiable predominated in this subtle aroma, but it was so pleasing and homely that it enticed me to pause, testing the air to see if I could anatomise it. Dry food certainly contributed a large share, and so did cleaning products; unlikely conspirators, but here successful. They shared ground on the spectrum of the nose: there was a certain note that was just right, natural and savoury, with a hint of purifying astringency. It was all very domestic and reassuring, but there was also something about that space that strummed on my anxieties. It spoke clearly of a well-run household – supplies built up and maintained, shortages guarded against, needs anticipated and met. As Oskar’s notes made clear, nearly all contingencies had been accounted for. I had no doubt that if, for instance, the power went out, I would find candles and matches. The air was pregnant with admirable qualities such as diligence, self-discipline, organisation, planning – in short, the sort of qualities that I lacked. I did not have a career to speak of, just a succession of freelance assignments. I was single. I had neglected to buy a flat or save anything. And here I was, in the realm of all the tedious self-satisfied animals that came out on top in the fables – assiduous ants, industrious squirrels, tenacious tortoises.

  But...the thought of Oskar’s notes lingered with me. He had anticipated a large number of potential foul-ups on my part. Of everything that had gone wrong over the past few days, I thought only the death of the cat might surprise him. And he certainly saw the potential for a floor-related disaster. Wouldn’t he have a supply of cleaning products suited to his floors? An insurance policy, a safety net, perhaps even something potent enough to undo epic damage of the kind that I had wrought?

  Yes. That sounded like Oskar. That sounded exactly like Oskar. That was precisely the sort of precaution that Oskar would have made sure to take.

  I surveyed the areas underneath the shelves on each side of the little room and saw, with a rush of hope, a corner of dusty yellow cloth hanging from a beige plastic basket between a box of light bulbs, a shrink-wrapped cube of washing-up sponges, and a jug of white spirit. This basket slid out with a waft of a pungent, spicy smell, laced with sweetness, complicated solvents and other chemicals. Chief in the bouquet was a strong, natural smell that was both sweet and savoury and it dominated the showier artificial scents of the modern products in a convincing blast of seniority. It was old, older than most household chemicals, and curiously like the ancient, indescribable smell that follows a sneeze. The smell was natural, unrefined honey, the beehive, and its source was clear: a dull, softedged moulded block, the shape of a gold ingot from a heist movie. A word was printed on it in recessed letters: Bienenwachs. It was a chunk of beeswax, as used for repairing scratches in wooden furniture and floors. It was anchoring a note.

  CLEANING PRODUCTS. These are cleaning products for the flat and for the floor. If something has dropped on the floor, or the floor is damaged, speed is important. There is a book, Care of Wooden Floors, on the shelf with the architecture. It is more detailed with instructions to put right minor damage to the floor. If there is damage to the floor, you must also call me! At any time! Let me know! �
� Oskar

  He would want to know, of course. He would want all the details – the ruined floor, the torn sofa, the dead cat. He would be interested in the welfare of the surviving cat, as well. I picked up a can of cat food and returned to the kitchen.

  The cat was clearly famished. It threaded itself through my legs, rose up against me, and kept up a monologue of insistent meowing. When I put the can down and took the tin-opener out of the drawer, it cottoned on to the imminent feeding and hopped up onto the counter. I shooed it back down, carefully. When there had been two cats, they had seemed as unbreakable as rubber balls. Now, this remnant seemed desperately fragile. The opener completed its circuit of the can and the top rose up, revealing a jellied gleam. One of these cans had fed both cats – would it be best to only fork out half a can, now there was only one cat left? And throw away the rest? Or keep it in the fridge, under a miserable, wrinkled square of bachelor cling film? If I gave it the full can, could it be harmed by over-eating? I would normally have thought it incapable of reckless overindulgence, but in the light of what had happened to its friend...Was it aware of this change in circumstances? Was it grieving? What if I was misinterpreting shock and disbelief at bereavement as hunger? Would it be lonely?

  As I forked the whole contents of the can onto a plate, my vision dissolved, and I realised that I was crying.

  When I returned to our table with two fresh pints, I wondered again if Oskar might cry. Rather than contemplative, or irate, he now seemed wholly desolate. It was a risk, feeding him more beer – it could push him either way. My main concern was, however, that he might be lonely. I wondered how much support he was getting, how many friends he had.

  ‘Where are you planning to stay in LA?’ I asked. ‘Do you know people out there?’

  ‘A hotel,’ Oskar said. ‘Laura has a very large house, but it would not be appropriate. And the people I know there are her friends. It’s not bad, I like hotels. There are some very good hotels in LA.’

  ‘Look,’ I said, trying to sound supportive, ‘if you want to talk while you’re out there, just call me, at any time. I want to help.’

  ‘You will be helping just by looking after the flat,’ Oskar said. He squeezed out a formal smile. ‘All the talking is done, I think. It does not work, so we have to put an end to it. It is just a legal procedure now. You did not like her, did you?’

  I paused. The road ahead was strewn with landmines. I would have to proceed very carefully. ‘She was very different to you,’ I said. ‘Your relationship came as a surprise to me, and I was even more surprised when you got married. Sometimes those things work, and sometimes they don’t.’

  ‘But you did not like her.’

  I edged forward with as much care as possible. ‘I thought she was very rude to me.’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ Oskar said. ‘It cannot be denied now. She did not often worry about what other people thought.’

  This made me chuckle. ‘Well, Oskar, you can be pretty direct yourself. Sometimes you’re not very concerned with other people’s feelings.’

  Oskar stared into his pint. He did not look angry. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I like to be honest. There is too much bullshit. Maybe I am being a hypocrite. I set a very high standard for myself in my life, in my work. And I set high standards for other people. But not too high, I think.’

  ‘Your standards are very high indeed, Oskar,’ I said. ‘About people, about life. That’s not a bad thing in itself, I suppose, but it seems to make you so unhappy. Maybe you should consider lowering them a bit.’ I paused to sip. Oskar was not looking at me. ‘Anyway,’ I continued, ‘my offer stands. If you ever want to talk, just call me. You’ll know where I am.’

  A tide of misery washed across Oskar’s face. It was as if its defining lines weakened and blurred. He looked so pale. Again, my stomach clenched and I silently pleaded with him, Please don’t cry.

  I was crying. Why cry? Well, what else was there to do? The cat was gone, and I could not relate to the mysterious, reduced thing of skin and fur and pendulum weight that I had dropped in the chute. But the other one was looking at me, eyes glinting with thought and enquiry. The idea that it might be lonely struck me as unbearably tragic. My eyes burned and my throat tightened. Tears brought with them the delicious, terrifying temptation to simply let go and see where emotion took me. But I kept hold of everything, and brought myself back.

  The cat, which had not let grief affect its appetite, was biting chunks of food off the plate before it had reached the floor. I still felt shaky, so I filled up my glass with wine and went to the sofa. On the way, I saw that the floor had dried, and that the stain was as obvious and vivid as ever.

  Through the windows, I could see the buildings across the street caught in the rich, side-on light of the afternoon’s end. Windows looked back at me, all their greyish curtains hung in prehistory by an obscure and long-departed people. I tried to think what lay beyond the city – suede plains, mountains held up by rusting ski-lifts, creaking forests? – and I saw nothing. It would be morning on the West Coast. What was he doing? Was he considering calling? The flat’s telephone quickly felt like a treacherous, explosive thing. I thought of Oskar drinking (and disliking) a black coffee over a plate of fruit in an American hotel breakfast buffet, the muscular, insistent, sweet smell of pancakes and waffles and maple syrup...I tried to remember that smell, and found myself thinking of the beeswax again, the clatter of that bucket of cleaning goods, its promise.

  As long as Oskar did not know about the cat, and the wine, I had a few more throws of the dice. The cat, in fact, was not dead until he learned it was dead, and that moment could be postponed until I had made an effort to put everything right with the floor. If the floor could be fixed, then I could focus on making amends (if amends were needed) for the death of the cat, which would seem more like an isolated tragedy, and not part of a campaign of wrecking. To fix the floor, there were products to try, strategies to adopt. To tell Oskar about the cat now would necessitate telling him about the piano, and maybe even the wine as well. Also, I did not see how I could tell him without revealing that I did not know which cat was which – something I could have asked about, without risk, days ago, but the opportunity had gone. If I waited, it would be easier to tell Oskar that the cat had simply disappeared. There was the complicating fact of the cleaner, of course. If she told Oskar what she had seen – what she thought she had seen – then things would get more complicated. But she had no proof, I had some elements of the truth on my side, and the most important thing was not to appear guilty. That meant not attempting to pre-empt her, and seeming calm and surprised at her allegations. After all, I had done nothing. I was guilty of nothing. The disposal of the corpse was a matter of hygiene. Oskar would surely understand a matter of hygiene. My hands were clean.

  What made my position uncomfortable was the fact that my innocence was so slippery. I could not keep my grip on it. I would look, and it had oozed away, nowhere to be seen. All the facts were elastic.

  A sound caught my attention, distinct, repeating. It was the soft smack, smack, smack of the cat eating in the kitchen, on its own.

  DAY SIX

  A door slammed. The front door; definitely the front door, with the jingle of the guard chain. My senses pulled back from saturation, the crackling fade to true colour after the burst of a magnesium photoflash bulb. A dying white-orange sun. Not dying, but morning, bright and sanctimonious.

  The cat and I looked up, and then I looked at the cat. It was lying on the foot of the bed, now a watchful sphinx. The previous night, I had given it the option of going out on the roam, and rather than immediately disappearing it had lingered in a way that had left me deeply uneasy. Drunk and tired, I decided to let it stay. And here we both were.

  And someone else. Someone was in the flat. Certainly the cleaner, I had no doubt, and the thought appalled me. Had there been a time when our interactions had been comfortable? No – every time I had seen her, I had felt the worse for it. I was froz
en, waiting for some sequel sound to come, but none did. The bedroom door was open a crack. A sliver of silent, still hallway could be seen.

  I threw off the duvet, walked softly on bare feet across to the door, and listened. The silence popped and tightened in my ears. Not perfect silence – there was the unending exhalation of the city. But no sounds from the flat. The stillness was surrounding, enveloping, seeping into the bedroom like dry ice.

  On the bed, the cat closed its eyes in a meditative way. Then it opened them again, stood, jumped down to the floor and ran to the French windows that led out to the little balcony. There, it coiled around itself, rubbing against the window frame.

  Feet cool against the floorboards, I tiptoed over to it.

  ‘Don’t you want breakfast?’ I asked, keeping my voice down. ‘Lovely tinned gubbins?’

  It looked up at me in an insolent fashion. I twisted the cast-iron handles of the window, opening it a crack. Sticking slightly in its frame, the window vibrated in my hand. The cat jumped to the lip of the balcony and slipped over it – at first, I thought, to a two-storey plunge down to street level. I leaned out of the window to see that it had in fact landed on a generous concrete ledge between floors. Without pausing, it alighted from this foothold too, aiming at the balcony directly below Oskar’s. From there, its route to the ground was clear, via the building’s entrance, which protruded into the street a short distance away.

  The fresh air on my bare legs made me aware of the fact that I was standing in a full-length window wearing nothing but boxer shorts, decency defended solely by the curve of the balcony. I quickly imagined a woman’s scream, sirens. There was a pair of shoes on the balcony, the pair that had been soaked in the rain. I ducked back into the bedroom and put on the trousers that were in a crumpled heap on the floor, adding the socks that fell out of the trouser legs. Then I picked up the shoes and tried them on. They were dry.