24/01/2022
Pomelo and I went for a walk around our building. One our neighbors was walking his young white labrador dog who was there sitting and watching Pomelo, very interested but respectful, was not barking or trying to catch at him, as young dogs (and even older ones) try to do most times.
The sidewalk behind the buildings, where all the backyards converge turns into a lovely alley where they have planted about six almond trees that bring every year a bit more of joyful spring to our windows, showcasing coquette little pink or white flowers in their yet young thin branches. They are also some green spots between the cement trails where some decorative shrubs try to gracefully improve the unsaturated and grey winter scenery.
I had planned to sit on one of the benches and re-read a few pages of Requiem by Antonio Trabucchi, this beautiful dreamy piece that transports me to a sunny and hot Lisbon, and reminds me of how crushing the sun at midday can be.
The white labrador, Philip, watched the cat, who in turn observed a European blackbird. The owner and I, had no other choice than to start chatting. We did it in French. I mentioned how big the dog was since the last time I saw him. He said proudly that Philip has only 6 months old. "Yes!" I said, "I remember him as a small puppy not too long ago!" Of course I remember his dog, I also remember where he lives and his window, since Pomelo and I had stood near by several times, trying to catch a glimpse of one of his three cats.
I also mentioned how gentle his dog was, because he was not trying to catch Pomelo even when he ran after the merlo bird, who just disappeared in the sky leaving my poor cat disappointed in himself. The neighbor said: "Yes, he is used to cats, we have two cats". Two? I clearly remember three. One european with a similar pattern in his fur to my cat's. One russian blue similar to Nicolá, our cat friend. And the youngest one, small, black and with long strands of hair coming out from behind her ears. She was beautiful and teenager looking, all long paws messy long fur and preoccupied face. She was curious about the world that she had yet to discover, I remember I had a few photos of her, because her hairs seemed to me so silly and cute that she made me think of an old gnome, she was the cutest. Of course I remember the third cat!
I asked my neighbor: Two cats? I remember you had three.
He counted them: The one like your cat and the gray one (the russian blue). "Et le petit chat noir" I completed the list.
Ah yes. He said.
Is she ok?
"Elle est repartie" he said. I didn't know what he meant with this verb. I didn't want to assume or say aloud what I suspected. "Elle est rentrée chez elle?" I said, naively, with a movement of my hand that meant "somewhere else, but still here, in this world" with the hope that the kitty had her original owners picking her up and taking her to live with them, taking them home.
The neighbor examined me as if he didn't believe me. How could I not understand. "Elle a été tuée, par une voiture, à la sortie du parking" he said impatiently and I was shocked, I said "I knew that would happen", when really wanted to say "I told you!" because I did once, when I saw the little one really far away, past the street past the parking, running chased by other cats.
I remember that day I told him "your cat was over there, far away!" he just laughed then "oui je sais" he said. "Be careful, she can be hit by a car, that would be really sad" I used to say, not only to him but also to his daughter. Now I have the feeling that it wasn't as sad for him as it is for me.
Once Pomelo and I we were alone, I sat on the bench but I couldn't read a word. Pomelo came and sat by me, sometimes I like to think he knows that I could use a pat in the shoulder. He sat and my heart was shrunk, my face contorted, it wasn't my cat, why am I even sad? why do I have tears trembling in my throat? I remembered her sweet face again, maybe I just watched too many dear cats die or disappear that I cannot stop feeling sad for all of them and for the others, the ones that nobody loves enough to save them from being hit by a car. I knew it would happen. I knew and it made me angry to not be able to do anything. Pomelo passed behind me, curling his tail around me and leaning his warm body against mine. I felt his warmth and realized that he will never know what happened to one of the cats he used to visit. Lucky him.
A cold breeze lifted some of his fur up as it shook the pages of the book open on my lap. I just breathed and heard the silence. That chilly midday, sitting under the naked almond trees in silence, felt like a requiem for the playful soul of a petit chat noir.
