The Cats by Destini Lynch

ONAT KUTLAR

The Cats Onat Kutlar

Onat Kutlar

The Cats

What’s the use of remembering our old friend who

lived with his flock of dead cats? His hair is not grow-

understand your sudden disappearance. I stopped by

ing anymore. He is conscious of nothing. And perhaps

your apartment. The landlady had no information. At

he is enjoying a long sleep. All of which means I can get

the train station, I described you to the station operator,

dressed and go out on the street without worries.

asking if he saw someone that matched the description.”

I’ve been in this city for six days, just walking

“I have been worried since last week. Couldn’t

In obvious disbelief, he pointed at the mass of

around the remote neighborhoods, the quiet streets,

people with a sweep of his arm, and asked, “How on

along the muddy banks of the nearby stream. I don’t

earth would I know?” Disappointed, I returned home,

know the crowded districts or the people living in them.

thinking that if you’re not in trouble, you’d show up

Have I been perhaps afraid of being recognized? I

sooner or later.

don’t think so. A week ago, I was fired from my job.

But I don’t feel afraid. On the contrary, I am wander-

man. Wearing a felt hat, fur riding breeches and knee-

ing around like a camel on the loose, poking my nozzle

high army boots; strapped on his back was a vintage

in any hole I well please.

Martini rifle from the War of Ninety-three. He asked

whether you were back. I told him I knew nothing, not

I went downstairs. On the mail desk was a let-

ter addressed to me. Strange. Who could it be from? Who would know my address in this city especially since I had left without telling anyone? I nervously opened the envelope. “Dear Friend” began the letter. 2

“Two days ago someone stopped by. A strange

even where you had gone. He began telling me things. He had to find you. You had tortured and killed a friend of his. He added a heap of other bizarre allegations. In any case, tomorrow, at four o’clock, he will be 3

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waiting for you at the roadside teahouse near the train station. He said he has an account to settle with you. Please don’t forget to call me, I am dying of curiosity.

“Yours, S….

“Note: The scoundrel is the one who gave me this

address. I don’t know whether it is correct or not. Perhaps this letter will sit on a mail desk somewhere and won’t reach you. In any case, you have my best wishes.”

The letter sent me into a fit of laughter. Try as

I did, I couldn’t understand its plain absurdity, and kept laughing all the more helplessly. The hotel clerk cast a reproachful glance at me from over his glasses. Shaking my head, I dashed out the door. An autumn afternoon greeted me on the street. It had rained last night. A few fallen acacia leaves were floating on the rain puddles formed on the asphalt. I passed by cars, the crowded entrance of the movie theater, the post office. I thought about the letter. It sounded absurd. And ominous perhaps. Someone wishing to settle accounts with me. Concerning our dead friend. A man with boots and a felt hat. Carrying a 5

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Martini rifle as well, maybe a muzzle-loader. Regardless, I

was scared. A chill ran through my body. My head began

moved by an urge—similar to the unintelligible reflex of

spinning like the head of a bank teller who realizes that

a sluggish turtle—to get up, get dressed and hurry out.

he miscounted thousands of bills. I re-sorted the bills and

At first I thought of following the whim of my feet and

began counting again: all the way back from the first day I

go wherever they wished to take me. But before too long,

stopped going to work.

I noticed that my subconscious had intervened and was

The morning of October 22nd, I found myself

leading me in a particular direction. A strange chain of as-

disinclined to go to the office. I longed to stay home or

sociations swept me into a crowded maze of recollections,

visit a friend, in other words, spend an loafer’s day. What’s

and then, prompted by a faded memory lodged in there,

more, my mood didn’t seem at all unordinary to me. As

led me to an irresistible curiosity. Little by little, the bou-

though I had skipped work many times in the past when I

levard was getting wet by the light drizzle. Absentminded-

didn’t feel like going. Yet, in reality, my nine years—heav-

ly, I crossed over to the left shoulder to avoid being hit by

ens! it has been almost nine years—in the civil service have

cars approaching from behind. My hands in my pocket, I

had such a mechanical regularity that, for two thousand

walked toward the four-way intersection, reeling with that

six hundred and ninety-two mornings, the big clock in the

strange, childish curiosity inside me. I stopped in front of

town square struck eight-thirty exactly when I walked by

the door of the small building adjacent to the elementa-

the Mayor’s Hall. Neither a step too soon nor a step too

ry school with rose-colored façade. The door was sealed

late. That’s why I often felt a certain affinity to all those

shut. I stood and waited, as if it was supposed to open

philosophers famous for their belief in universal design,

right away for me. Soon, I felt impatient. I was running

and even imagined ridiculous schemes.

late. The time had to have been two minutes before nine.

While laying in bed thinking, I was suddenly

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The Cats

I checked my watch. It was two minutes before nine.

clogs was staring at me without saying a word. His eyes

I imagined that even the accountant who habitually

were clouded by that old sorrow that always teetered on

arrives out of breath was already sitting at his desk.

the edge of crying, just as I’ve known him. Anxious, bit-

The boss, with his glasses lowered, must be surveying

tersweet, like an over-ripe fruit. But always silent. The

the desks. I was doubly ashamed--which I would have

same as he was back in those days when I used to watch

been spared, only had the door opened. The boule-

him with intense curiosity, at times peeping through the

vard led straight to the office building where I worked.

holes on the door or the windows not fully closed, at oth-

The bus stop was two steps ahead, and the bus was

er times sneaking into a corner when he opened his door

approaching. It would have been so easy. Frantical-

to let a customer in.

ly, I knocked on the door. Clouds of wood dust came

off the ancient slat-joints. Suddenly a pair of clogs re-

Then, as though noticing a harmless animal, he slowly

verberated on the stone floor of the quiet Armenian

knelt down and began straightening the stake that held

courtyard. Then the door opened with a rumble as if

up a disheveled rose bush.

coming off its hinges. I snuck in, closing the door be-

tween me and the approaching bus.

The modest plants that crowded the beds—most people

At this very moment, no one in this city could

wouldn’t even call them flowers—would have no place

imagine the existence of a quiet, secluded and infinitely

in expensive solariums. Wild, cross-bred, thorny roses,

calm space right next to the crowded, noisy boulevard.

scraggly aloe plants, hollyhocks, emaciated chrysanthe-

Once the door closed, everything remained outside. I

mums. Most of them had lost their leaves, their buds

stood at the threshold. My old friend perched on his tall

had withered. But my friend, his beard getting caught in

With a vague gesture, he moved his shoulders.

The courtyard was the same as I remembered.

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the serrated leaves of the rose bush, kept on scratching the soil around the stems with great care.

“For shame,” I said softly, “is this how you greet a

friend you haven’t seen in ages? Not even a hello?”

Taken a back, he looked frightened. Trying to

smile, “No, not at all,” he said,” “I was preoccupied, that’s all. Welcome. Don’t mind me. Welcome.”

He spoke haltingly, and perhaps with a stutter. I

walked toward the house. The door to his room was left slightly open. Pushing it, I entered. I was immediately filled with a smell that I first found odd, then remembered distinctly, and quickly became accustomed to. Like one of those inimitable smells that you knew belonged nowhere but in, say, an old fashioned printing house, an auto repair shop, a winter stable, or a leather store.

The smell of glue and sheepskin. I sudden-

ly felt at ease, went and sat in a chair. Hanging on the walls were ouds and violins. The ouds’ bodies were covered with mother-of-pearl inlays of indescribable beauty. Beneath my feet, an old kilim not big enough for the 13

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length of floor. A rush-mat folded and laid-over the ex-

gether. There were perhaps twenty of them. If he gave an

tra space. And the cats?

hour to each, his day was spent. Then those ouds.

The door opened and my friend entered. All of a

He sat, took one of the ouds down, set it on his

sudden—who knows where they were all hiding—a flock

lap. Warped, the instrument had only two of its strings

of silver striped cats filled the room. They flew about, flash-

left. He touched them with his fingertips. Puffs of dust

ing across the ceiling, like long streaks of light. I watched

rose off its mother-of-pearl inlaid belly. Dusty sounds. He

them for awhile.

strummed for a long time. And perhaps he was tuning

My friend told me their stories in great detail. I

it. A strange, primitive melody flowed out of the strings.

already knew those stories. He left his house maybe once a

I experienced a sense of peace that I had not known for

year, if that. The rest of his days were spent with the cats.

years. I desired to spend a few days, or perhaps even lon-

These were strange creatures. One could even say that

ger, in this dark room. True, he and I weren’t very close.

they didn’t look like cats. When touched, they disintegrat-

But what would be the harm? I could take care of his

ed, drifted in the air, disappeared. They had been living

cats; he would be pleased.

long lives. Cared for by that head buried under the tan-

gled bushy hair that little song birds would have enjoyed

Lifting his head, he began speaking excitedly.

nesting in. For years, food was brought to them. They had

seen no daylight ever since they opened their eyes to the

myself. In the old days, it was different. When I was young,

world. Like the skinny, yellow sheaves of wheat sprouting

I used to walk the streets, hour after hour. When I could I

inside the sun-deprived, damp granaries, they were sallow,

took care of some cats. But nothing like these. They

lacking in character, self-interested. My friend fed them to-

were alley cats. Muddy, ungrateful. Just when you

“Your cats are beautiful,” I said. “Yes, aren’t they beautiful! I raised all of them

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warmed up to them, they left you. I used to walk up

and down the streets, trying to find them. I spent years

“I don’t understand what you mean,” I said. “Are some

doing this. Until I realized.”

cats good?”

He paused, then spoke very slowly.

“Alley cats belong in the alleys. I left them

smile, he loosened up. “Of course,” he said. “But nev-

alone. Instead, I decided to raise my own. If you know

er mind. Please be careful. Give both of your cats the

how fragile they seemed at first. And perhaps they ex-

same amount of food. If you feed one more than the

isted before I found them. I wouldn’t know since I was

other, it’ll grow stronger and kill the other.” He thought

busy with those alley cats. But eventually I came to my

briefly. “True. How would you know. Anyhow. In the

senses. Raised my own breed. Fed them like I fed my-

past, when my cats were young, I showed them to no

self.”

one. At the slightest glance, they dissloved. I buried the

He stopped abruptly. Looking into my eyes,

“That is, are they both good?”

He still looked puzzled. Then, with a pitying

ones that died inside the ouds.” His sorrow deepened in

“Do you have cats?” he asked.

his face. “Now, they have grown older. For some years,

“Yes.”

I have been letting whoever knocks on my door see

“Many?”

them. Now they are the ones who are afraid. Afraid

“No, just two.”

of my cats’ glances. Just one look, and people disinte-

“Are they both good?”

grate, run away, vanish.”

“Good in what sense?”

“Are they afraid?” I asked. “Of what?”

He looked puzzled, as if he didn’t understand

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“I wouldn’t? Why do you think so?”

my question. 16

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Stressing every word, as if he wanted to pla-

I can’t recall how long I stayed with him. Ear-

cate me, “Because you like them,” he said.

ly on, I felt happy to be experiencing a certain peace

Now it was my turn to be puzzled. These were

of mind. But soon my happiness waned, in fact dis-

not exactly creatures that inspired affection. I scanned

appeared, and I found myself in an old room, living

the room while keeping an eye on my friend. One of

with an odd man and a bunch of ungrateful cats. That

the cats flashed across, tracing a half circle between

marked the beginning of the unremitting and inexpli-

my face and the ceiling lamp. Noticing that I was

cable relationship between us: animosity. I don’t know

watching, it stopped abruptly. Like a stone held afloat

how or why it came to be so. It perhaps resembled

in the air. Curling its tail, it stared at me. A pair of iris-

the unhappy predicament of a fly that is stuck on one

es that looked like overlapping parentheses. I stared

side of the window and, not knowing it, trying to get

back intently. Eyes feral, icy, inscrutable. This was such

to the other side. Its endless effort. Even today, I don’t

a high-stakes gamble that I had to postpone trying my

understand it any better. But the animosity was estab-

luck. The cat swished down. Completing its circle, it

lished. I think it was on the second day. I wanted to

disappeared among the folds of the rush-mat.

pick a chrysanthemum from the garden and set it on

“You’re probably right,” I said.

my breast pocket. Perhaps it wasn’t worth the effort—a

“I’d very much like to live among your cats.”

pale blossom with most of its petals withered. Still, I

My friend moved his fingers. As he strummed,

wanted to. Just when I turned to my friend and said,

dusty, discolored cat hair kept falling out of the ornate

“I’ll go and pick a purple chrysanthemum. For my breast

belly of the instrument.

pocket,” suddenly a fourteenth cat that I had not seen until

then (although I had sensed its presence) came out of

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its hiding place and flung itself toward me. I recoiled. With a frightening gaze, it brushed past my nose, missing my face. I felt faint. Then the back of the chair, how it hurt my shoulders…

“What on earth is going on!” I screamed.

My friend was startled. “Calm down, please calm down! It’s nothing. It happens sometimes. Simply a misunderstanding.”

I couldn’t pull myself together for an hour. And

the purple chrysanthemum withered on its stem. The following days were even more frightening. I couldn’t even describe everything they did at night when we went to sleep. And in the daytime… Say I fidgeted while the oud was being played, they immediately cast evil glances at me, enervating me with their piercing meows. I did consider leaving, escaping their antics. But the street, the noise, the crowds, my family and the rest that had remained on the other side of the door now seemed to me like the details of a remote past; even thinking of them would be nothing more than daydreaming. 21

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If I recall, it was the third day. Close to the noon

cover their old shapes within seconds. It was like drawing

hour. My friend and I were seated facing each other, think-

lines in the water. Finally, toward dawn, the idea came to

ing. The cats were not around. I happened to ask him if

me. It would require time, but seemed the most realistic. I

living inside the house ever became boring, whether or not

was surprised that I didn’t think of it sooner.

it would be possible to open the door and establish some

kind of contact with the street. When all of a sudden a

its difficulties. Were it not for my conversations with the

few of those demons leapt form the corners of the room

bearded guy perhaps the results would not have been

and hurled themselves at me, “Enough is enough!” I said.

positive. I began with the good cats. First I fed them.

“Can’t you make these cats behave? A few in particular…

They fattened like pigs and soon began stealing the food

They are beginning to get on my nerves.”

from the other cats’ bowls, claiming the others’ favor-

ite places. It didn’t take too long for the obvious con-

No sooner than I uttered these words, several

The next day I set my plan in motion. It had

more cats came leaping at my face.

sequences to follow. Around noon, a big fight erupted.

My friend protested, “I can do nothing. I raised

Despite the bearded guy’s efforts, one of the cats died. It

them to be like this. I can do nothing. With all due respect,

disintegrated for the last time, unable to recover its old

you should behave yourself.”

shape; it vanished and returned wherever it was that it

Blood shot to my temples. I could barely restrain

had come from. The bearded guy was deeply saddened,

myself. It turns out that this rascal was intent on overpow-

and wept for hours. Just when things began to calm

ering me with his cats. I spent the entire night thinking of

down, a second fight claimed the life of another cat, and

a solution. How to eliminate the cats. It would certainly be

he became ill with inconsolable sorrows. I moved his bed

difficult. Touch them and they disintegrated, only to re-

to a pleasant spot and made him tea. He asked for his

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oud. After tuning it a little, he hung it by his head. His

sadness knew no end. He wept and wept, stuttering in

throughout the ceilings of the old house. The floor-

misery, unable to figure out the cause of the fights.

boards were soaked so badly that, come springtime, the

Without pity, I went about my business. Every

rush-mats would surely begin to sprout. I wasn’t even

day, one or two more cats disappeared. The rank smell

going outside; the open air in the courtyard had too much

that permeated the room began to subside, along with

oxygen for me to bear. But when I could no longer suffer

the silvery lines that forever spiraled near the ceiling,

my life indoors—that was the day when the sick man had

tracing unintelligible shapes.

just about exhausted the dregs of clean air left in the room

with his final gasps, and prepared himself to die—I threw

My friend spoke less and less. The oud hung

The rain would not let up. Water leaked

by his head. He didn’t even feel like tuning it. He

myself outside. I walked in the rain like the drunk.

grew thin, his eyes sank in their sockets. I wanted to

call a doctor. He categorically refused. He would not

to my friend that living among his cats had worsened his

eat; he even stopped drinking the milk that was deliv-

illness, that they brought him nothing but despair. Then

ered to his door every morning. Our days assumed a

I spoke of the health hazard. All those rotting carcasses in

manic rhythm. Leaping, clawing, dying cats, the odor

the middle of the room. Let go of them, I told him. Let

of disease, sleepless hours… Even though I knew that,

me open the street door. Let’s leave everything behind and

if matters didn’t improve, I would kill him one day, I

check you into a hospital or some other clean place. No

still catered to his every need—not that he had many.

longer able to speak, he let out a faint wheezing sound.

Who knows, perhaps I refused to accept that he was

He gestured “No” with his eyebrows. He stared at the

dying—a fact that was as clear as the day.

dead cats lovingly, as if they were still alive. He was

In the afternoon, the last cat also died. I explained

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thinking about the past, the orphan ouds stuffed with cat hair.

That’s when I rushed and latched on to the

door, as if it were freedom’s gate for a man incarcerated for a long time. I opened it, letting the street noise flood in. I drank two bottles of soda in the rain. Bought half a kilo of carob beans. Ran from one stop to the next in order to catch the bus. Later, I walked into a photography studio and obtained exactly twelve id pictures.

Then I took a bus and traveled to G______.

For six days, I wandered around G______. Always in the remote neighborhood, along the muddy banks of the nearby stream. And still a letter managed to arrive and found me. Someone was looking for me. A man with knee-high boots and a Martini rifle. Yet, no one had seen me leave. Besides, I hadn’t done anything wrong. The guy had died of his own accord. -- Was he dead? — Panic seized me. I felt cold and trembled in that damp, breezy, peaceful afternoon. A new account 29

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to settle. I went to the station, and took the first train to

ed. Evening arrived. He didn’t. I considered going home,

my hometown.

but decided against it. What if he came when I was gone

The roadside teahouse near the train station. I re-

and didn’t find me? I sat, wrapped in my coat. The own-

alized that I had never been there before. Five to ten small

er of the teahouse came by a few times; afterwards, shak-

tables in front of a wooden cabin. Round, red-and-white

ing his head disagreeably, he retired to his hut and went

tarp canopies stretched across wooden poles. Their edg-

to bed. I didn’t even blink until morning. Then, evening

es tattered by the wind, fluttering. From time to time, a

again. My mouth tasted like tar from drinking all that tea.

piece would break off, briefly glide like a butterfly before it

I was down to my last two kurush in my pocket. My knees

was swept away by the locomotive smoke. The rain had

were shaking from hunger and the chill in the air. I did not

stopped; the air was warm. I dragged my tried body to

move away from my table even once. The legs of my chair

a table and sat down. I began to wait. The only witness

sank in the grassy earth. Several days passed like this.

of the incident—I am the only witness; how come he is a

witness?—wished to settle an account with me. Let him.

the tarp canopy above me. It’s almost dawn. The four-for-

We might as well wipe the slate clean. After so many days

ty train is still on the other side of the mountain. I feel

of animosity, fighting, gloom and fear, let’s end the ordeal,

faint. Hunger claws at my stomach. The owner of the

come what may. I felt like a person who was trying to catch

teahouse hasn’t come by my table for three days; he only

a speeding train that no one believed he could. I was blind

casts occasional glances in my direction as if glancing at

to everything else.

a harmless pile of rubbish. Inside, they are smoking opi-

I ordered a cup of tea. Fixing my gaze on a spot

um. In that miserable little hut. Someone must have died

on the road where I wouldn’t miss even a stray bird, I wait-

yesterday. The men are washing the altar stone where the

The wind finally carried away the last shred of

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coffin would be laid for prayers. One of the washers is wearing knee-high boots. And a felt hat. Perhaps it is him. He looked at me momentarily. The victory is his. What if I get up and walk to him? No chance for that. My eyes can see nothing anymore. Only the wind. It has started tearing at the next canopy. Carrying it away bit by bit.

The Cats was written by Onat Kutlar and translated from Turkish by Aron Aji. Photographed in San Franciscioâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s finial district. Typeset in Baskerville eleven poitns over nineteen point eading. Designed, typeset and bound by Destini Ellease Lynch.