“…till we are only one dark space,
a chalice filling with celestial ashes,
a drop in the pulse of a long slow river.”
“What…? the cat asked.
“Neruda” I explained, “sonnet 84.”
“Right,” said the cat, “let’s make a deal: you don’t read that shit to me and I won’t shit in your girlfriend’s suitcase, when she gets here.”
“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.”
“I’m warning you…” the cat said.
“No, you’re not, actually. The girlfriend is coming in four days and you will be on your very best behaviour.”
“Says who?”
“Remember Suleiman…?”
The cat hissed: it remembered.
“You wouldn’t dare!” it said.
“Try me. One phone call and Suleiman will be staying here for the next week. Just like last year it will be a Hark, the cat will dance and sing, here is Suleiman the king”
I was talking to an empty room though. The cat, like Elvis, had left the building, through the huff side of the cat flap – something I would have liked to have seen the Las Vegas Elvis try.
Ah, good old aunt Sonja – and Suleiman, of course; Suleiman the Great.
The meanest-spirited, Godawful bastard son of a bitch parrot the Amazon forest had ever let loose upon an unsuspecting world.
Last year, my aunt had had to go to the hospital for some minor surgery and had made me promise to take care of the parrot.
It had not been a quiet week.
Suleiman had not taken to its new surroundings. It had loathed me but had instantly developed a truly passionate and all-encompassing hatred for the cat.
There are not many creatures that can scare the living daylights out of the cat. It’s taken care of postmen, dogs, the odd Jehovah’s witness, and all manner of flying, crawling or burrowing pests.
Old Suleiman though proved to be too much even for my cat.
I had spent the week in some trepidation and had to be very, very careful about where I kept my fingers, toes and other pointy bits. The cat though had hardly come out from under the bed and, whenever it really had to do so, for reasons of personal hygiene mostly, it had either crawled very quietly or had to run for its life.
Yes, Suleiman the Great was one mean parrot.
“There in the branches I will recognize your hair,
your image ripening in the leaves,
bringing the petals nearer my thirst,
and my mouth will fill with the taste of you,
the kiss that rose from the earth
with your blood, the blood of a lover’s fruit.”
The cat poked its head through the cat flap.
“You bastard!” it said.
“Yup. So you’ll be good, next week?”
“Yes, damn you. But I’ll get you for this!”
“No doubt.”
Well, so far, so good. As long as the bloody animal didn’t find out before the end of that week that old Suleiman had died only days after my aunt had taken him back to her place, last year.
It was worth the risk though, I decided, whistling my way to the kitchen and yet another cup of tea, ignoring the curses and looks the defeated but still defiant cat launched my way.
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