 |
Al-Ahram Weekly 23 - 29 September 1999 Issue No. 448 
|
||
Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
| ||
|
Al-Ahram Weekly 23 - 29 September 1999 Issue No. 448
|
||
| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
| ||
Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Comment Focus Special Features Profile Travel Living Sports People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters Poltergeist
By Fayza Hassan
This morning, I woke up to the strong scent of incense. Hamda, our maid, was apparently busy warding off the evil spirits. When I inquired about the occasion, she simply said: "It is Nagat. She is possessed." Nagat is our black cat, the one my daughter picked up on the highway, risking her life in the process.
At first Nagat had been quite subdued, eating and sleeping most of the time. She had gone out of her way to let us know how sweet she was. Slowly, however, she had begun to change. Her eyes developed a disquieting gleam. Hiding in the most improbable corners, she seemed to be observing us intently and constantly.
Soon Hamda was complaining of Nagat's mischievous behaviour, but we refused to lend her an ear. We did not believe that such a small kitten was capable of spilling the other cats' drinking water or upsetting their litter boxes on purpose. When my son-in-law made snide remarks about the less than pristine aspect of his clean shirts, we changed our brand of detergent but never suspected that Nagat had anything to do with it. The first time we saw her hiding in the laundry basket, she looked up at us, swiftly jumped out, uttered a pitiful little cry and limped away. Thinking that she had hurt herself, we gave her plenty of attention and a few dry biscuits of the brand she likes best.
From that day on, she stopped hiding when perpetrating her crimes and even went as far as vocally claiming a reward after her acts of vandalism. She began waging an overt war, tripping Hamda by running between her feet, drew blood from the old Siamese's tail and gnawed the buttons off my son-in-law's best pyjamas. Wardrobes are at present her favourite hiding place and she seems to challenge us to stop her from sneaking in unnoticed.
Last week, as I was leaving the house, I noticed Nagat's absence. "She must be up to her usual tricks," Hamda said, shrugging. Clearly she was rather happy not to have her around. My daughter was away, and I broke into a cold sweat at the thought of having to confess to her protégée's disappearance. "You left the front door open, I am sure you did," I screamed at the maid, who held her ground firmly, refusing to admit that she had conspired to get rid of her arch-enemy. "She must be locked in here," she finally said, pointing at my son-in-law's locked wardrobe.
She would have been meowing her head off by now, I thought, and dismissing the suggestion, I went outside, up and down the stairs, into the garden and out to the street, stupidly shaking a container of biscuits and calling Nagat's name, to the intense amusement of the passersby. My search attracted most of the cats of the neighbourhood, but not the one I was looking for. Vanquished, I went back to the apartment, where Hamda was busy preparing dinner as if nothing had happened. "She is in the wardrobe, I tell you," she muttered. "Go to work, when the ustaz comes home he will open the door and you will see her popping out like the devil."
Desperate, shaking the biscuit container hysterically next to the wardrobe, hoping against all hope to hear the faintest cat-like manifestation, I grabbed the phone and began to call my son-in-law, who, of course, was nowhere to be found. "It is time to tell the mother," I decided, and tearfully called my daughter in Paris. She was not particularly rattled. "She must be in the wardrobe," she said rather calmly. "Push some biscuits under the door." I did as I was told and waited for a sound, but heard none. Meanwhile, Hamda had taken it upon herself to call the carpenter. She explained that we had lost the key and needed the door pried open at once. He set to work. When the lock was finally picked, not a thing seemed to stir inside, but the biscuits were gone. "There she is," Hamda suddenly cried triumphantly. "Look at her, she is the devil incarnate." I squinted hard; the only thing I could see in the darkness were all my son-in-law's shirts lying in a heap on the floor and two bright spots at the top of a boot, half concealed by hanging garments. "Nagat," I shouted, immensely relieved. She nimbly jumped out, looked around and, finding the carpenter, immediately retraced her steps, stopping just long enough to daintily pick up a stray biscuit, which she carried back to the boot. I am almost certain that I heard her giggle.
