The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

6

On Thursday The Daily Fluxion published Qwilleran's first profile of an artist. His subject was Uncle Waldo, the elderly primitive and portrayer of livestock. Qwilleran had carefully avoided comment on the old man's artistic talent, building his story instead around the butcher's personal philosophy after a lifetime of selling chuck roasts to housewives in a lower-middle-class neighborhood.

The appearance of the story revived interest in Uncle Waldo's pictures, and on Friday the unimportant gallery that handled his work sold all their dusty canvases of beef cattle and woolly lambs and urged the old man to resume painting. Readers wrote to the editor commending Qwilleran's handling of the story. And Uncle Waldo's grandson, the truck driver, went to the offices of the Daily Fluxion with a gift for Qwilleran — ten pounds of home, made sausage that the retired butcher had made in his basement.

Friday evening Qwilleran himself was accorded some attention at the Press Club as he distributed links of knackwurst. He met Arch Riker and Odd Bunsen at the bar and ordered his usual tomato juice.

Arch said, "You must be quite a connoisseur of that stuff."

Qwilleran ran the glass under his nose and considered the bouquet thoughtfully. "An unpretentious vintage," he said. "Nothing memorable, but it has a naive charm. Unfortunately the bouquet is masked by the smoke from Mr. Bunsen's cigar. I would guess the tomatoes came from — " (he took a sip and rolled it on his tongue) — "from Northern Illinois. Obviously a tomato patch near an irrigation ditch, getting the morning sun from the east and the afternoon sun from the west." He took another swallow. "My palate tells me the tomatoes were picked early in the day — on a Tuesday or Wednesday — by a farmhand wearing a Band-Aid. The Mercurochrome comes through in the aftertaste."

"You're in a good mood," said Arch.

"Yep," said Qwilleran. "I'm moving out of the plastic palace. I'm going to rent an apartment from Mountclemens."

Arch set his glass down with a thud of astonishment, and Odd Bunsen choked on cigar smoke.

"A furnished apartment on the first floor. Very comfortable. And the rent is only $50 a month."

"Fifty! What's the catch?" said Odd.

"No catch. He just doesn't want the house standing empty when he's out of town."

"There's gotta be a catch," Odd insisted. "Old Monty's too tightfisted to give anything away. Sure he doesn't expect you to be a cat-sitter when he's out of town?"

"Quit being a cynical press photographer," said Qwilleran. "Don't you know it's an outdated stereotype?"

Arch said, "Odd's right. When our messenger goes to pick up the tapes, Mountclemens sends him on all kinds of personal errands and never gives the kid a tip. Is it true he's got a houseful of valuable art?"

Qwilleran took a slow swallow of tomato juice. "He's got a lot of junk lying around, but who knows if it's worth anything?" He refrained from mentioning the Van Gogh. "The big attraction is the cat. He's got a Chinese name — something like Koko. Mountclemens says cats like to hear a repetition of syllables when they're being ad, dressed, and their ears are particularly receptive to palatal and velar sounds."

"Somebody's nuts," said Odd.

"This cat is a Siamese, and he's got a voice like an ambulance siren. Know anything about the Siamese? It's a breed of supercat — very intelligent. This one can read."

"Read?"

"He reads the newspaper headlines, but they have to be fresh off the press."

"What does this supercat think of my photographs?" Odd said.

"It's questionable whether cats can recognize pictorial images, according to Mountclemens, but he thinks a cat can sense the content of a picture. Koko prefers modem art to old masters. My theory is that the fresher paint gets through to his sense of smell. Same way with fresh ink on a newspaper."

"What's the house like?" Arch asked.

"Old. Declining neighborhood. But Mountclemens cherishes his place like a holy relic. They're tearing down buildings all around him, but he says he won't give up his house. It's quite a place. Chandeliers, elaborate woodwork, high ceilings — all carved plaster."

"Dust-catchers," said Odd.

"Mountclemens lives upstairs, and the downstairs is made into two apartments. I'm taking the front one. The rear is vacant, too. It's a nice quiet place except when the cat lets out a shriek."

"How was the food on Wednesday night?"

"When you taste Mountclemens' cooking, you forgive him for talking like a character in a Noel Coward play. I don't see how he turns out such dishes with his handicap."

"You mean his hand?"

"Yes. What's wrong with it?"

"That's an artificial hand he wears," said Arch.

"No kidding! It looks real, except for a little stiffness."

"That's why he tapes his column. He doesn't type."

Qwilleran thought about it for a few moments. Then he said, "I feel sorry for Mountclemens, in a way. He lives like a hermit. He thinks a critic shouldn't mix with artists, and yet art is his chief interest — that and the preservation of an old house."

"What did he say about the local art situation?" Arch asked.

"It's a funny thing. He didn't say much about art. We talked mostly about cats."

"See? What did I tell you?" said Odd. "Monty's lining you up for part-time cat-sitting. And don't expect a tip!"

The unseasonable weather, warm for February, ended that week. The temperature plunged, and Qwilleran bought a heavy pepper-and-salt tweed overcoat with his first full salary check.

For most of the weekend he stayed home, enjoying his new apartment. It had a living room with bed alcove, a kitchenette, and what Mountclemens would call ambiance. Qwilleran called it lots of junk. Still, he liked the effect. It was homey, and the chairs were comfortable, and there were gas logs in the fireplace. The picture over the mantel, according to the landlord, was one of Monet's less successful works.

Qwilleran's only complaint was the dim lighting. Light bulbs of low wattage seemed to be one of Mountclemens' economies. Qwilleran went shopping on Saturday morning and picked up some 75's and l00's.

He had a book from the library on how to understand modem art, and on Saturday afternoon he was coping with Dadaism in chapter nine, and chewing on a pipeful of unlighted tobacco, when an imperative wail sounded outside his door. Although it was clearly the voice of a Siamese cat, the cry was divided into syllables with well-placed emphasis, as if the command were "Let me in!"

Qwilleran found himself obeying the order punctually. He opened the door, and there stood Kao K'o Kung.

For the first time Qwilleran saw the critic's cat in bright daylight, which streamed through the beveled glass windows of the hall. The light emphasized the luster of the pale fur, the richness of the dark brown face and ears, the uncanny blue of the eyes. Long brown legs, straight and slender, were deflected at the ends to make dainty feet, and the bold whiskers glinted with the prismatic colors of the rainbow. The angle of his ears, which he wore like a crown, accounted for his regal demeanor.

Kao K'o Kung was no ordinary cat, and Qwilleran hardly knew how to address him. Sahib? Your Highness? On impulse he decided to treat the cat as an equal, so he merely said, "Won't you come in?" and stood aside, unaware that he was making a slight bow.

Kao K'o Kung advanced to the threshold and surveyed the apartment carefully before accepting the invitation. This took some time. Then he stalked haughtily across the red carpet and made a routine inspection of the fireplace, the ashtray, the remains of some cheese and crackers on the table, Qwilleran's corduroy coat hanging on the back of a chair, the book on modem art, and an unidentified and almost invisible spot on the carpet. Finally satisfied with everything, he selected a place in the middle of the floor — at a carefully computed distance from the gas fire — and stretched out in a leonine pose.

"Can I get you something?" Qwilleran inquired.

The cat made no reply but looked at his host with a squeezing of the eyes that seemed to denote contentment.

"Koko, you're a very fine fellow," said Qwilleran. "Make yourself comfortable. Do you mind if I finish my reaing?"

Kao K'o Kung stayed half an hour, and Qwilleran relished the picture they made — a man, a pipe, a book, an expensive looking cat — and he was disappointed when his guest arose, stretched, uttered a sharp adieu, and went upstairs to his own apartment.

Qwilleran spent the rest of the weekend anticipating his Monday lunch date with Sandra Halapay. He was circumventing the problem of interviewing her husband by writing a profile of Cal Halapay through the eyes of his family and friends." Sandy was going to steer him to the right people, and she had promised to bring candid snapshots of her husband teaching the children to ski, feeding turkeys on the Oregon farm, and training a Kerry blue to sit up.

All day Sunday Qwilleran felt that his moustache was transmitting messages to him — or perhaps it merely needed clipping. Just the same, its owner sensed that the coming week would be significant. Whether significantly good or significantly bad, the informed source did not reveal.

Monday morning arrived, and with it came an unexpected communication from upstairs.

Qwilleran was dressing and selecting a tie that Sandy might approve (a navy and green wool tartan, made in Scotland) when he first noticed the folded paper on the floor, half pushed under the door.

He picked it up. The handwriting was poor — like a child's scrawl — and the message was terse and abbreviated:

"Mr. Q — Pls del tapes to A.R. Save mess a trip — GBM."

Qwilleran had not seen his landlord since Friday evening. At that time he had moved his two suitcases from the "hotel to the apartment and had paid a month's rent. A vague hope that Mountclemens would invite him to Sunday breakfast — perhaps eggs Benedict or a chicken liver omelet — had evaporated. It appeared that only the cat was going to be sociable.

After deciphering the note, Qwilleran opened the door and found the reels of tape waiting for him on the hall floor. He delivered them to Arch Riker, but he thought the request strange — and unnecessary. The Dispatch Room at the Fluxion had a benchful of messengers who sat around pitching pennies most of the time.

Arch said, "Making any headway with the Halapay profile?"

"I'm taking Mrs. Halapay to lunch today. Will the Flux be willing to pick up the check?"

"Sure, they'll go for a couple of bucks."

"Where's a good place to take her? Somewhere special."

"Why don't you ask the Hungry Photographers? They're always getting people to buy lunch on expense accounts."

In the Photo Lab Qwilleran found six pairs of feet propped on desks, tables, wastebaskets, and filing cabinets — waiting for assignments, or waiting for prints to come off the dryer, or waiting for the dark room buzzer.

Qwilleran said, "Where's a good place to take someone to lunch for an interview?"

"Who's paying?"

"The Flux."

"Sitting Bull's Chop House," the photographers said in unison.

"The chopped sirloin weighs a pound," said one. "The cheese cake's four inches thick."

"They have a double lamb chop as big as my shoe." It sounded good to Qwilleran.

Sitting Bull's Chop House was located in the packing, house district, and a characteristic odor seeped into the dining room to compete with the cigar smoke.

"Oh, what a fun place," Sandy Halapay squealed. "How clever of you to bring me here. So many men! I adore men."

The men adored Sandy, too. Her red hat topped with a proud black rooster tail was the center of attention. She ordered oysters, which the chop house could not supply, so she contented herself with champagne. But with each sip her laughter grew more shrill, rebounding from the antiseptic white tile walls of the restaurant, and the enthusiasm of her audience dwindled.

"Jim, dear, you must fly down to the Caribbean with me when Cal goes to Europe next week. I'll have the plane all to myself. Wouldn't it be fun?"

But she had forgotten to bring the information Qwilleran needed, and the snapshots of her husband were unusable. The lamb chop was indeed as big as a photographer's shoe and as flavorful. The waitresses, uniformed like registered nurses, were more efficient than cordial.

The luncheon was not a success. Back in the office that afternoon, Qwilleran had to listen to telephone complaints about Mountclemens' review in Sunday's paper. The critic had called a watercolorist a frustrated interior decorator, and the watercolorist's friends and relatives were calling to castigate the Daily Fluxion and cancel their subscriptions.

All together, Monday was not a halcyon day for Qwilleran. At the end of the tedious afternoon he fled to the Press Club for dinner, and Bruno, setting up a tomato juice, said, "I hear you've moved in with Mountclemens."

"I've rented one of his vacant apartments," Qwilleran snapped. "Anything wrong with that?"

"Not until he starts pushing you around, I guess." Then Odd Bunsen stopped long enough to give the newsman an informed grin and say, "I hear old Monty's got you running errands for him already."

When Qwilleran returned home to 26 Blenheim Place, he was in no mood for what he found. There was another note under his door.

"Mr. Q," it read, "Apprec pick up plane ticket — reserv Wed 3 P.M. NY — chg my acct — GBM."

Qwilleran's moustache bristled. It was true that the airline office was across the street from the Daily Fluxion Building, and picking up a plane ticket was a small favor for his landlord to ask in return for a good dinner. What irked him was the abruptness of the request. Or was it an order? Did Mountclemens think he was Qwilleran's boss?

Tomorrow was Tuesday. The plane reservation was for Wednesday. There was no time to make an issue of it, so Qwilleran grumbled to himself and picked up the ticket the following morning on his way to work.

Later in the day Odd Bunsen met him on the elevator and said, "Going away somewhere?"

"No. Why?"

"Saw you going into the airline office. Thought you were skipping town." He added a taunting grin. "Don't tell me you're running errands for Monty again!"

Qwilleran groomed his moustache with his knuckles and tried to reflect calmly that curiosity and a keen sense of observation make a good news photographer.

When he arrived home that evening, the third note was waiting under his door. It was more to his liking:

"Mr. Q — Pls bkfst w me Wed 8:30 — GBM."

Wednesday morning Qwilleran went upstairs with the plane ticket and knocked on Mountclemens' door.

"Good morning, Mr. Qwilleran," said the critic, extending a thin white hand, his left. "I hope you are not in a hurry. I have a ramekin of eggs with herbs and sour cream, ready to put in the oven, if you can wait. And some chicken livers and bacon en brochette."

"For that I can wait," said Qwilleran.

"The table is set in the kitchen, and we can have a compote of fresh pineapple while we keep an eye on the broiler. I was fortunate enough to find a female pineapple at the market."

The critic was wearing silk trousers and a short Oriental coat tied with a sash around his remarkably thin midriff. There was a scent of lime peel. His thong sandals slapped as he led the way down a long hall to the kitchen.

The walls of the corridor were completely covered with tapestries, scrolls, and framed pictures. Qwilleran remarked about the quantity.

"Also quality," said Mountclemens, tapping a group of drawings as he walked past them. "Rembrandt… Holbein. Very fine… Millet."

The kitchen was large, with three tall narrow windows. Bamboo blinds kept the light subdued, but Qwilleran peered through them and saw an exterior stairway — evidently a fire escape — leading down to a brick-walled patio. In the alley beyond the high wall he could see the top of a station wagon.

"Is that your car?" he asked.

"That grotesquery," said Mountclemens with an implied shudder, "belongs to the junk dealer across the alley. If I kept a car, it would have some felicity of design — a Karmann Ghia, or a Citroen. As it is, I dissipate my fortune in taxicabs."

The kitchen had a mellow clutter of antiques, copper utensils, and clumps of dried vegetation.

"I dry my own herbs," Mountclemens explained. "Do you appreciate a little mint marinated with the pineapple? I think it gives the fruit another dimension. Pineapple can be a little too direct. I grow the mint in a pot on the windowsill — chiefly for Kao K'o Kung. His idea of a choice plaything is a bouquet of dried mint leaves tied in the toe of a sock. In a moment of rare wit we have named his toy Mintie Mouse. A rather free abstraction of a mouse, but that is the sort of thing that appeals to his artistic intellect."

Mountclemens was putting individual baking dishes into the oven one at a time, using his left hand.

"Where is Koko this morning?" Qwilleran asked.

"You should be able to feel his gaze. He is watching you from the top of the refrigerator — the only down, cushioned refrigerator west of the Hudson River. It is his bed. He refuses to sleep anywhere else."

The aroma of bacon, herbs, and coffee was beginning to swirl about the kitchen, and Koko — on a blue cushion that matched his eyes — raised his nose to sniff. So did Qwilleran.

He said, "What do you do about the cat when you go to New York?"

"Ah, that is the problem," said the critic. "He requires a certain amount of attention. Would it be an imposition if I asked you to prepare his meals while I am away? I'll be gone less than a week. He takes only two meals a day, and his diet is simple. There is raw beef in the refrigerator. You merely carve it in small pieces the size of a lima bean, put it in a pan with a little broth, and warm it gently. A dash of salt and a sprinkling of sage or thyme will be appreciated."

"Well — " said Qwilleran, spooning up the last of the minted pineapple juice. "To make it easier for you in the mornings, when you are headed for the office, he could have a slice of p?t‚ de la maison for breakfast instead of beef. It makes a welcome change for him. Would you like your coffee now or later?"

"Later," said Qwilleran. "No — I'll take it now."

"And then there is the matter of his commode." "What's that?"

"His commode. You'll find it in the bathroom. It needs very little attention. He is an immaculate cat. You will find the sand for the commode in the Chinese tea chest at the foot of the bathtub. Do you take sugar or cream?"

"Black."

"If the weather is not too inclement, he can take a little exercise in the patio, provided you accompany him. Normally he gets sufficient exercise by running up and down the front stairs. I leave my apartment door ajar for his comings and goings. To be on the safe side, I shall also give you a key. Is there anything I can do for you in New York?"

Qwilleran had just experienced the first forkful of chicken livers rolled in bacon and seasoned with a touch of basil, and he rolled his eyes gratefully heavenward. In doing so, he caught the gaze of Kao K'o Kung, perched on the refrigerator. The cat slowly and deliberately closed one eye in an unmistakable wink.

"I have a complaint," Qwilleran told Arch at the Press Club on Wednesday night.