beyond him . . . A mystery that on reflection he assigned to the inherent feeling of security in her warm, feminine being.
Or something biological along those lines.
But someone definitely not affected by symptoms of weariness in connection with the unexpected visitor was Stravinsky.
Stravinsky was a cat, and in a way Ulrike Femdli’s most noticeable contribution to their shared home. This state of affairs had been in existence for no more than five months: it ought to have happened much sooner, but Van Veeteren’s idiotic dithering had delayed the project and, indeed, almost wrecked it altogether – but thank goodness her persistence had eventually won him over. Thank God, he frequently thought.
They had known each other for five years. Van Veeteren knew that for the rest of his life he would not want any other woman. The weeks in Rome had brought him much satisfaction, including an awareness of this fact.
For his part, Stravinsky was eight years old, almost nine. He had been given his name because of a partiality unusual in cats for The Rite of Spring : he couldn’t care less about any other music, classical or modern, but whenever he heard this work he would always lie there as if petrified, on tenterhooks from the first note to the last, brooding over some esoteric mystery that presumably existed only in his own (and perhaps the composer’s?) imagination.
In outward appearance Stravinsky was black and white, in a pattern rather similar to that on a Gruyderfelder cow. He had been neutered at the age of two, and was normally quite gentle and quiet. On the whole. But as he lay on the window ledge as usual this early morning in autumn – and to his surprise saw a meal fluttering into the room – it mattered little that he was both sterile and fairly full already.
With all due deference to Whiskas and Kitteners, a living booty was not to be sniffed at. It took him no more than three or four leaps, no more than five or six seconds, before he was able to get his teeth into it.
By the time Van Veeteren heaved himself up onto his feet, his heart pounding like a piston in his chest, it was too late. Stravinsky had already dropped the swallow, which was slithering around on the floor, flapping away with its two broken wings. The cat sat there, watching intently as the bird tried in vain to escape, while Van Veeteren wondered for one confused second (a) what the hell had happened, and (b) what the hell he could do about it.
When that second was over, he hissed at the cat – with the immediate result that he hyperventilated and almost collapsed in a heap. Stravinsky grabbed his prey in his mouth once again, rushed off into the living room with it and took cover under the sofa.
Van Veeteren closed his eyes, recovered and rushed after it. Swore loudly and pointlessly, and hammered several times on the cushions, but the only response was a muted growl and a few heartbreaking peeps. He staggered into the kitchen, took a carpet-beater out of the broom cupboard and tried in vain to poke it under the sofa. Stravinsky stayed put for a while, then sprinted out with the bird in his mouth and sprang up onto the top of a bookcase.
Van Veeteren stood up, and paused to think. Contemplated the cat up there just under the ceiling. It had dropped its prey once again, and was examining it with what seemed to be almost scientific interest. Studied it in all seriousness, with the same neutral expression on its triangular cat-face as usual. Van Veeteren couldn’t help but wonder what on earth was going on inside the animal’s head. In Stravinsky’s head, that is: nothing at all was going on any more in the swallow’s head, it seemed.
He stood there, carpet-beater in hand, wondering what to do, and allowed his train of thought to continue.
Just what was it in the cat’s programmed instincts that made it drop its booty and study it in this way?
It was impossible not to reflect and be surprised by it. To keep letting its victim go
Or something biological along those lines.
But someone definitely not affected by symptoms of weariness in connection with the unexpected visitor was Stravinsky.
Stravinsky was a cat, and in a way Ulrike Femdli’s most noticeable contribution to their shared home. This state of affairs had been in existence for no more than five months: it ought to have happened much sooner, but Van Veeteren’s idiotic dithering had delayed the project and, indeed, almost wrecked it altogether – but thank goodness her persistence had eventually won him over. Thank God, he frequently thought.
They had known each other for five years. Van Veeteren knew that for the rest of his life he would not want any other woman. The weeks in Rome had brought him much satisfaction, including an awareness of this fact.
For his part, Stravinsky was eight years old, almost nine. He had been given his name because of a partiality unusual in cats for The Rite of Spring : he couldn’t care less about any other music, classical or modern, but whenever he heard this work he would always lie there as if petrified, on tenterhooks from the first note to the last, brooding over some esoteric mystery that presumably existed only in his own (and perhaps the composer’s?) imagination.
In outward appearance Stravinsky was black and white, in a pattern rather similar to that on a Gruyderfelder cow. He had been neutered at the age of two, and was normally quite gentle and quiet. On the whole. But as he lay on the window ledge as usual this early morning in autumn – and to his surprise saw a meal fluttering into the room – it mattered little that he was both sterile and fairly full already.
With all due deference to Whiskas and Kitteners, a living booty was not to be sniffed at. It took him no more than three or four leaps, no more than five or six seconds, before he was able to get his teeth into it.
By the time Van Veeteren heaved himself up onto his feet, his heart pounding like a piston in his chest, it was too late. Stravinsky had already dropped the swallow, which was slithering around on the floor, flapping away with its two broken wings. The cat sat there, watching intently as the bird tried in vain to escape, while Van Veeteren wondered for one confused second (a) what the hell had happened, and (b) what the hell he could do about it.
When that second was over, he hissed at the cat – with the immediate result that he hyperventilated and almost collapsed in a heap. Stravinsky grabbed his prey in his mouth once again, rushed off into the living room with it and took cover under the sofa.
Van Veeteren closed his eyes, recovered and rushed after it. Swore loudly and pointlessly, and hammered several times on the cushions, but the only response was a muted growl and a few heartbreaking peeps. He staggered into the kitchen, took a carpet-beater out of the broom cupboard and tried in vain to poke it under the sofa. Stravinsky stayed put for a while, then sprinted out with the bird in his mouth and sprang up onto the top of a bookcase.
Van Veeteren stood up, and paused to think. Contemplated the cat up there just under the ceiling. It had dropped its prey once again, and was examining it with what seemed to be almost scientific interest. Studied it in all seriousness, with the same neutral expression on its triangular cat-face as usual. Van Veeteren couldn’t help but wonder what on earth was going on inside the animal’s head. In Stravinsky’s head, that is: nothing at all was going on any more in the swallow’s head, it seemed.
He stood there, carpet-beater in hand, wondering what to do, and allowed his train of thought to continue.
Just what was it in the cat’s programmed instincts that made it drop its booty and study it in this way?
It was impossible not to reflect and be surprised by it. To keep letting its victim go
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