Forced and constrained, I had left him in the heart of autumn. Through the fault of a bottle of olive oil, my married life had gone to hell. I had had to leave Canada and return to France. I had left the cat behind me, the time to organize myself. His absence had cost me. What was my life worth without his presence? Three times nothing. By a whole clever scaffolding, I had forced myself not to think about him anymore: his memory was too painful for me. He lived in me, but in the shadow of silence.
But, summer was coming, and here I was. He arrived one fine morning at Roissy after a long transatlantic flight. Just like me, he was high on tranquilizers, so much so that both of us were sleepy and we agreed to postpone our reunion. The week before, I had taken care to prepare the house. I had had to find the exact brand of his kibble, find the same cans of pâté, buy the same type of litter. For an entire afternoon, I had struggled to build a cat tree from which he could dominate his entire world. A water fountain was waiting for him, a scratching post too, a mosquito net to stop him from falling into the void. In short, I was ready. At least, I hoped so.
As soon as he got home, without the slightest gesture towards me, he began the tour of the property. With a gait still uncertain but nevertheless voluntary, he visited the rooms one by one with the attention of a tax inspector looking for a clue to confuse me. He sniffed his litter box, found it to be in line with his expectations. He felt the bed, the sofa, the armchair, the chairs. Passable, but he would be satisfied with that. He passed in front of the cat tree with absolute indifference. Demanding his food, he found nothing wrong with his kibble and his pâté. He drank from the fountain, looked at me, seemed to appreciate my effort to have found him A model more modern than the one he had had until then. After which, sated, he disappeared under the bed and I did not see him again for the rest of the day.
When evening came, he deigned to appear. We looked at each other in silence. I reached out my hand to caress him, but he moved away with the disdain typical of beings who know themselves to be of a superior race. He would decide when I would have the right to feel his fur coat. What did I think? I had abandoned him months ago, he had thought I was dead or had gone to fight in the Ukraine. Did I think that an outstretched hand would be enough to forget this infamous betrayal? Peace would be made on his terms and according to his timetable. Take it or leave it.
I was amazed to find him again. How could I have lived far from him? It was like living without music. Like depriving myself of a presence that was like a gift from the gods, the assurance of rubbing shoulders with a luminous being capable of transforming existence into a perpetual funfair. I was ready to wait a century to enjoy his favors again. Would he demand a public apology? I would provide one immediately. Would he ask for financial compensation? I would gladly give him all my meager fortune. Would he want me to give up everything to be at his service? Without hesitation, I would do it without a shadow of regret.
Ten days passed. Like those couples separated by the distortions of history, it took us a little time to find our former complicity again. I was modest, he was reserved. He wanted to be sure that this time, I would not betray him. I swore on what was most precious to me in the world, that is to say, himself. He was satisfied. Day after day, he insisted on getting closer to me. At first, there were discreet touches, a paw placed on my arm, a slightly more insistent brush against my legs, an accepted caress, soon a real cuddle, the beginning of a purr…
We finally tamed each other. The game started again, our battles too. He is still a little timid, a bit reserved, but you can tell he is ready for new adventures. I am beaming, he seems perfectly happy. The house seems to suit him, even if he has not yet finished exploiting all its possibilities. He has not broken anything yet, proof that he still has a long way to go before being completely himself.
He spends his time at the window. He who was used to seagulls, the Parisian pigeons must seem very exotic to him. Has he even noticed that he has changed city, country, continent? I doubt it. Or maybe he has. I gave up a long time ago on understanding how cats see the world. I have not yet spoken to him about the situation in France, about Jean-Luc Mélenchon, Marine Le Pen, the return of anti-Semitism, he might go off on a tangent.
There we are, a couple again. He is mine, as I am his. In other words, we are invincible.
Source: www.slate.fr
