11 - 17 January 2001
Issue No.516
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Al-Ahram Weekly On-line 11 - 17 January 2001 Issue No.516 |
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Acrobat
He knows that he is handsome, and is quite conceited about it. It is obvious in the way he raises his head, puffs the plume-like fur of his tail and struts before his audience. He knows who will appreciate a display of his secret skills, and who is not worth the effort. The latter category, which largely includes paid help and craftsmen, are welcome to believe that he is an ordinary stray cat, picked up off the street on a cold evening by the two eccentric women in apartment 5.
At first, he was not very fastidious about his looks, often giving himself no more than a perfunctory lick and promise after his meals. I remember having had to wipe his whiskers and his pink nose more than once, as, still reeking of sardines, he eagerly tried to snuggle in my lap. He didn't look like much in those days. He had been found by our downstairs neighbour in the alley behind our building, an abandoned, howling, tiny creature, with matted brownish hair and skinny legs like matchsticks. She had no use for him, being a dog person herself, but knew we would not mind giving him a home. She deposited him on the carpet and left feeling good about her rescue operation.
When he eventually came out from under the wardrobe, where he had hastily taken refuge, he took stock of the situation. From his vantage point, ten centimetres off the ground, it must not have looked promising. He was surrounded by half a dozen large, fat cats, waiting to take turns sniffing him. He tried his best to spit at them and tumbled head over heels from the effort. They looked at him disdainfully and went on their way, secure in their belief that the newcomer was not something they should worry about. As soon as they had moved out of his way, he ran at top speed towards the wall, and crashed pitifully.
During the first few weeks he went into hiding, coming out only to gulp down his meals voraciously. Oddly enough, he kept practicing his little run towards the wall whenever he had the chance to be alone, albeit with the same dismal result. Was he trying to commit suicide, we wondered, at a loss to understand what possessed him. Soon he had grown too large for his hiding places under cupboards and wardrobes and had to look for alternatives.
At one point in time he must have discovered that the tops of furniture afforded him a measure of security and he adopted them wholeheartedly. Precariously balanced high up on bookshelves or perched on doors, he would watch the comings and goings of the other cats from his elevated position: whenever he spied them walking below, he would launch himself on a downward spin, landing on top of their backs like a ripe fruit, then, taking advantage of their utter shock, make a swift dash for another high place in another room.
He was no longer ignored by his fellow felines. They began to move rather warily, preferably in groups, their eyes raised ceilingwards, expecting him drop on them at any moment. I had to thwart his efforts at asserting himself the moment he graduated to practicing his newly acquired talent on humans, scaring the maid out of her wits, then almost giving me a heart attack by landing on my head as I lay in bed asleep.
The following day I called the carpenter; by nightfall, I had all the wardrobes in the house extended to the ceiling. That evening he came into the room, and from the door inspected the barricades. I can't swear that I saw him shrug, but then again I can't affirm that I didn't. Anyway, he gave me a contemptuous look and, taking his position opposite the farthest wall of the room, he suddenly charged in that direction, and, kicking his hind paws powerfully against the smooth surface, performed a perfect somersault. He then turned around and looked at me over his shoulder, as if to say: "See what I can do?"
From that day on, he felt no need to hide under or atop the furniture. He basked anywhere he could find a sunny place, in full view of the competition, and absorbed himself in extensive grooming. Whenever he felt in the least slighted, he would repeat the trick that had earned him our admiration. We must have become used to it eventually, and probably stopped giving him the attention he craved so much, because soon he was adding a few new embellishments to the standard performance. The one we never fail to notice begins with lying on a table, then stretching luxuriantly until he reaches a porcelain knickknack, which is sent crashing to the floor. I read once that cats have a sixth sense regarding the value of objects and will only break fakes and cheap bibelots. The person who attempted to propagate that belief must have lived in a cell and been an utter fool or a joker. In our house, the little scoundrel has spared neither Sevres nor Limoges. On the contrary, he has always exhibited perfectly reckless good taste. Once I have shed a few tears over my broken vase (bowl, ashtray, etc.) I pick up the pieces, then turn my attention towards the culprit, making loud noises with a rolled newspaper and shouting "méchant" at the top of my voice. This is his cue; the word seems to set him in motion and he leaps off the table, ready to treat me to the most astonishing sideways jump. On these occasions he is sure that he has captured the full attention of his audience. Only once did he perform a double somersault however; on that day, he put in a special effort to let me know that he understood he had gone too far by smashing the Rosenthal tureen that had been in the family for three generations.
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