M I C HAEL S M AL L, W RITER MONDAY, 7 FEBRUARY 2011
CAT’S PAW The leaden weight of that afternoon had pressed all feeling from my extremities; it had clamped the lobes of my ears and numbed the bridge of my nose. Yes, okay, I should have bought a pair of long-johns and a leather cap with ear-mufflers for that winter in Canada, but I was determined not to be beaten by the weather too. When I arrived at his rooms, he was still out at lunch. I huddled up in a corner, watching the flakes of snow melt on my overcoat. They formed a drizzle of blackspeckled water under my chair. ‘And what’s been happening to you, Leon? I’ve missed our chats together these last few weeks.’ The long-bodied man of no more than thirty was sizing me up, with eyes hardening, as he shook off his coat. He tufted his beard and ushered me across to the black-leathered scoop of an armchair. Easing one leg across the other in a manner calculated to make me relax, settling his creases with a finicky wisping of the fingers, he was waiting, watching but not watching. Then in that practised murmuration: ‘I’d like you to share with me some of your recent experiences.’ Oh yes, the voice was caressive, all right, unlike most Canadian voices that are ground out of American gravel. It was like a Debussy prelude floating into my sunsetsombre atelier from a darkening room beyond the room next door. But the blandness of that mealy-mouthed jargon set my teeth on edge. I would not be smoothed over by the dimpling of a skin too finely tanned, a smile that advertised Concern, the forced calm that had me digging my heels into the carpet. I slumped back, giving in to the black belly that tucked my thighs. If only the answers were carved on the ceiling. The doctor positioned a chair opposite me. Behind him, a desk swept clean of paperwork. To my right, a macramé garden was dangling in hesitant twirl between shelves of Reich, Fromm, Berne et al. Above the elevation of his head hung a painting of thick, black horizontal lines: coffins upon coffins upon coffins.