Naja Marie Aidt
TRANS. BY Denise Newman
The Cat
The minute he opened his eyes early this morning, he could sense it. It had happened. Probably during the night. He sensed it even before he got up. He lay under his duvet knowing she’d done it.
When he looks out the window, it’s immediately clear to him, without a doubt; he’s waited so long, and now it’s happened—it had to be today, yep, it had to be today. People say it happens gradually, but people lie. It happens with a single blow, on a single day; he’s always known this, and to hell with anyone who says it’s any different.
Carl Ejner Sørensen tugs at his wide suspenders so they snap against his tremendous stomach.
“That’s how it is,” he says to himself, lumbering into his kitchen, which is so tiny he can barely turn around.
It’s just after eight o’clock, and he glances down into the courtyard to see if the cat is there. It’s rubbing affectionately against an old beech tree shading the bicycles and folding chairs and garbage cans like a large umbrella.
“My, my,” mumbles Carl, rubbing his eyes, still drunk with sleep, “everything’s just as it’s always been.”
He slurps coffee from a chipped mug and balances it along with his large snorting bulk as he moves into the other room of the apartment, a small living room, which also serves as a bedroom. He sips his coffee skimming the local paper, sitting on the edge of the unmade sofa bed.
“Everything’s just as it’s always been,” he repeats, getting up with difficulty. Then he rummages around in his pants pocket for his key and lets himself out.
Carl Ejner Sørensen lives in the Retired Sailors’ and Widows’ Home on the fourth floor facing the courtyard. In front of the home, in fact, right out on the sidewalk, a generous foundation has erected a memorial for sailors drowned at sea, also providing a bench to go with it. The cat is lying on the bench, its fur ruffled by the breeze, and beside it sits a small ruddy-cheeked man with deep furrows in his face, nearly hidden beneath a greasy hat.
“Howdy, Augie,” says Carl.
“Howdy, Carl,” says Augie.
“Well, it was bound to happen today,” says Carl, sticking a wad of tobacco in his mouth. “You don’t always know exactly when it’s going to happen.
But apparently, it was supposed to happen today . . . .”
He sits down on the other side of the cat and looks at the glowing red maple trees shedding leaves all over the narrow street that stretches out before them.
“What’s going to happen today?” asks Augie, who’s incredibly thin and shriveled, and clinging to his crooked cane with his old hand.
“Well, she’s unleashed herself, as you can see. In September, you know, she releases the goddamn colors, and she certainly has.” Carl nods in approval in the direction of the trees and leaves and wind.
“Yep, that’s what you say,” says Augie, “and that’s what you’ve always said.”
“It’s just the way it is,” says Carl, “and damn those who believe anything else.” He shoots Augie a menacing look, narrowing his eyes so that the huge bags hanging under them seem even larger. The cat purrs and crawls up on Carl’s lap. Augie looks down and rakes the gravel with his cane.
“I wonder if Ellen’s coming down today,” he says, reaching his hand out toward Carl to pet the cat.
“Of course Ellen’s coming down. Ellen always comes down; she’s just a slowpoke. You should know that after all these years.” Carl is still gruff.
“Well, she’ll probably come then,” says Augie.
The cat jumps down and chases a couple of leaves drifting across the sidewalk.
“I swear it’s really windy today. It’s got the makings of a decent gale,” says Carl, grabbing hold of Augie’s arm suddenly. “Hey, old boy, you think the wind’s coming from the north today?”
Carl stares intensely at Augie, his face so close that he can feel Carl’s warm sour breath against his skin.
“Hmm . . .” says Augie, turning his head the other way. “It seems more like it’s northeasterly . . . .”
He sticks his slightly trembling pointer finger first in his mouth and then up in the air. Carl does the same. They concentrate in silence.
The cat slips away into the courtyard.
“What are you two pointing at?”
Ellen comes shuffling up, stout and tottering with swollen ankles and her coat flapping. She has bottles in her bag, and they clink with a pleasing sound.
“Hey, there you are,” greets Carl, and Augie smiles from beneath his hat.
“We were just talking about the direction of the wind. But northerly it is, that wind,” he says, turning to Augie, “and you can talk all you want about easterly. Basta!”
Augie ducks. Ellen pats him on the shoulder and fishes out three bottles of beer from her bag.
“Well, here’s to a good morning!” she says loudly, popping open the lids. They clink bottles, and the cat stops in its tracks between the garbage cans. Then he lifts his head and listens. Swaying with tail lifted in the direction of the sound, he starts to purr, heading for Ellen.
“Well, who do we have here? Why if it isn’t Mr. Kitty!—that cat certainly gets around . . .” Ellen says, and then chuckles, putting her bottle down on the bench.
“Let’s see what Mama Ellen’s got for such an ugly fatso.”
She roots around in her bag, and then waves a smoked mackerel under the cat’s nose. He lifts his front paws up and tries to get hold of the booty.
“That cat’s so greedy his eyes are popping out of his head!” Augie chuckles and Carl looks at the trees and the sky, which is dark and full of fast-moving clouds.
Ellen lets go of the fish. The cat devours it end to end with a ferocious sound. All that’s left is a perfect fish skeleton, white and gleaming on the sidewalk. The cat slowly licks his mouth, licks his paws, and flashes his green eyes at Ellen, then leaves the three on the bench.
“That cat can really eat. He knows what he wants from life,” Ellen says, taking a swig of beer. Augie has lit up a cigar. Carl clears his throat and straightens his back.
“Yep, everything’s just as it’s always been. Some get too much, and others go to bed starving all their lives. That’s the way it is. But September, she’s damn well unleashed herself today, and it was right on the nose. Have you noticed, Ellen, it happened today . . . .”
“Oh my God, yeah, I can tell the difference between yesterday and today. But you’ve waited all summer, just as you waited all last year and the year before last, so you must be satisfied that it’s finally happened. Whatever it is you’ve been going on about.”
Augie suppresses a biting laugh and exhales smoke through his nose.
“There you are, Carl, I’m not the only one who can’t see it. But Ellen just knows how to say it in a way that works.”
He looks admiringly at Ellen, whose chubby cheeks redden a little as she pushes out her chest beneath her jacket. Carl looks the other way.
“I don’t give a damn about anyone without eyes in their head,” he mumbles gruffly.
A group of preschoolers strolls up the street in rank and file. Their bright voices and brilliantly colored clothes silence the three of them. Augie waves to a small red-haired girl who’s shouted hi to him several times. The group of children turn the corner, and the wind picks up.
“Damn, here comes Svend Skipper, that odd bird!” Ellen blurts out in a low voice, and their heads all turn toward an old heavyset guy in a sailor’s jacket and rubber boots, staggering out from the courtyard, talking loudly to himself.
He shakes his fist at them and yells, “What are you flock of fools staring at? Just wait, one goddamn day I’m going to get all of you.”
The cat follows after him like a dark shadow along the wall of the building. The sun burns orange.
“I wish he’d go to hell. What an idiot.” Carl takes a swig then burps as his upper body falls forward.
“Yeah, and I hate that Mr. Kitty appreciates his company. He’s getting sick in the head from all his rubbish.” Ellen stamps her heels hard on the sidewalk.
“That’s how it is with cats,” says Augie, “faithless through and through.”
A strong wind blows the hat off him. Carl grabs it in his large fist. “You’d better think about yourself before saying anything like that!” he says, staring into Augie’s eyes behind his thick glasses.
“Hold on, Carl, hold on. Don’t go digging up the past.” Ellen pulls a few more bottles of beer from her bag.
They raise their bottles in silence.
But Carl continues: “Your wife should hear you, Augie! Even though she’s been dead and buried a long time. What a jerk you were, abandoning your wife and child for a slant-eyed dancing girl! And during the war, at that, when everything was so hard. And now, God help me, you sit here talking about faithlessness! I bet you wake up from bad dreams at night. Just you wait, Augie, the past catches up with all of us sooner or later. That’s how it is.”
Carl slams the bottle down on the bench so that beer spills out and drips onto the gravel. Augie’s face distorts nervously as he crushes his hat in his hands.
“Let’s not talk about it anymore, Carl. What’s gotten into you today? You’d think you saw the devil.” Ellen bends forward and lays a decisive hand on one of Carl’s knees.
“I say she’s unleashed herself today. And so no one’s going to shut me up.” He pushes Ellen’s hand away, and a brown gob of spit flies out of his mouth; it lands with a splat on the gravel.
Carl puts a fresh wad in his mouth. Ellen shakes her head and calmly pats Augie’s hand. The bell chimes eleven on the church steeple’s clock. The cat slinks under the bench and falls asleep.
“Well, I think I’ll go up and rest a little,” Augie nearly whispers, getting up.
“Yeah, it’s almost getting to be that time.” Ellen gathers up the empty bottles.
“Well, goodbye then, Carl,” she says, and Augie nods behind her broad back.
Carl lifts his hand without a word.
“What a couple of puppets!” he says to himself, while the other two carefully move against the wind into the more sheltered courtyard.
The cat hops up onto his lap and presses his head into his armpit. A street sweeper fights a losing battle with the leaves as they fly in all directions. Carl takes the cat’s face between his large hands and pulls the fur back so that the lips turn outward, exposing his sharp teeth.
“A wild animal. That’s what you are, and faithless as the devil.”
He pushes him off his lap with a quick shove, and he lands with a screech in the street. Carl stomps up the stairs and immediately falls asleep on the sofa bed. The living room is filled with golden sunlight, the air warm and heavy and dusty.
It’s almost one in the afternoon when the penetrating smell of smoke meets Carl’s nostrils while he’s sleeping. He opens his eyes and gets to his feet. He sniffs once more and walks over to the open window.
“What the hell . . .” Carl opens his eyes wide, shaking his head until his eye bags tremble.
Beside the bench, a huge fire is burning, the flames leap up red and orange from the sidewalk. The wind blows across the street, making the leaves look as if they’re glowing in the dark day. A heartrending scream breaks the gentle crackling from the bonfire, followed by a whimpering and enraged hissing sound. Two green eyes shine full of hate in the orange. It’s the leaves that are burning.
“What the hell . . .” repeats Carl, staring incredulously at the scene. When he figures it out, a smile begins to quiver in the corners of his mouth; it grows into a laugh that shakes his whole enormous body. He snaps his suspenders and slaps his thighs.
“What the hell! That was so . . .”
He sits down with a thud on the edge of the bed, laughing with eyes closed.
The cat lies lifeless and charred on the remains of the fire.
A heavy rain starts to beat down, putting out the last embers. Dressed in raincoats and carrying umbrellas, Ellen and Augie stumble out from the courtyard. They stop in front of the dead cat. Augie looks over Ellen’s shoulder. She claps her hands together and lets out a wail. She clings to the umbrella and to Augie, who’s clinging to her, shuffling uneasily, the wind tearing at his umbrella.
“Good Lord!” cries Ellen. “What are we going to do? That innocent cat!
It’s got to be the work of Svend Skipper, at it again—such a malicious, heartless lunatic! To let that poor animal go up in flames—how could he do it . . .”
She buries her face in Augie’s shoulder and sobs and sobs. The cat lies before them, wet and twisted. Carl hears Ellen’s voice and sticks his baldhead out of the window. The rain beats down on top of it.
“I said it was going to be today!” he roars so that it echoes across the courtyard. “He’s not going to run around the corner with this September. She’s gaining on all of us, I’ll tell you, she’s gaining on us, and she’s a strong lady, see for yourselves how she burns, burns all the crap away! You’d better watch out, Augie; she’s going to get her hands on you, too. You’d better watch out—the past is gaining on all of us!”
Carl’s voice fills the courtyard; the rain beats steady and hard. On the other side of the building’s windowpanes, you can see many small gray wrinkled faces. A couple of people open their windows. Augie turns his face up toward Carl for a moment, then tears himself free from Ellen and hurries across the courtyard. The back door slams behind him.
It rains for the rest of the day.
The next morning at around nine, Ellen arrives pale and quiet and sits down on the bench next to Carl. They drink a couple of beers each. The sun shines low and red on the nearly naked trees.
“That wind took something with it,” says Carl, following the small movements of the branches with his eyes.
The street sweeper has it easy today in the calm street. Ellen says nothing. Carl smiles mildly.
Behind the orange curtain of the third-floor window over the garbage cans, two shifty eyes stare out through fogged up glasses. One hand clutches desperately to a crooked cane.
Augie doesn’t come out anymore that fall.
Naja Marie Aidt was born in Greenland and raised in Copenhagen. She is the author of seven collections of poetry and five short story collections, including Baboon (Two Lines Press), which received the Nordic Council’s Literature Prize and the Danish Critics Prize for Literature.
Denise Newman is a poet and translator based in San Francisco. She has published four collections of poetry and translated two novels by Inger Christensen from the Danish, The Painted Room and Azorno; the short story collection Baboon, by Naja Marie Aidt, which won the 2015 PEN Translation Prize; and, most recently, Aidt’s memoir, When Death Takes Something From You Give It Back: Carl’s Book, a finalist for the Kirkus Prize. She teaches in the writing programs at the California College of the Arts.