Felidae on the Road - Special U.S. Edition (3 page)

The last thing I saw after that was a shining mountain. It consisted of metal suitcases stacked on top of each other and covered with stickers saying things like 'Kennedy Airport' and 'Sydney', suggestive of wide cosmopolitan experience. They reflected the sunlight flooding in from the study. So that was it! This wasn't just a one-off visit to Romeo's pad, oh no, Juliet was about to take the whole place over. But I had no time to explode with anger. My flight reflex and my disillusionment had wound me up to such an amazing speed that I could have smashed my way right through a wall at that suicidal tempo, had a wall suddenly appeared in front of me. It's one thing to think up fantastic comparisons, something else entirely to face them when they turn real. Because the wall had in fact been there for quite some time, in the shape of that mountain of suitcases. I didn't even try to slam the brakes on, and before I could work out further the meaning of this turn Fate had taken, my skull collided full tilt with the heftiest of the suitcases, which was standing up lengthwise. It looked more like a tombstone than a suitcase, such was my brain's last conscious thought: my own tombstone with a particularly cogent comment by Schopenhauer carved on it: 'The truth is that we are meant to be miserable - and miserable we are!'

CHAPTER 2

I
should have lingered in my faint, because no state of unconsciousness, however profound, can be worse than the sudden disruption of all a person's cherished daily routines. And nothing can do more devastating damage than a female descending like a biblical plague on the life of a confirmed bachelor, a life which you could only have described as blissful. To put it as a politician would, the alliance between Gustav and me, founded on liberty, equality and fraternity but even more on cosy congeniality, was being shattered by a totalitarian usurper employing all the relevant methods of administrative terrorism. Under this new rule of terror, the slightest misdemeanour was mercilessly punished. The real tragedy of it, however, was the fact that my companion, having reached the absolute nadir of debility, was not in a state to put up much resistance.

No sooner had I come round again - and I was surprised to find the two of them had put me on the bed in the bedroom instead of chucking me straight in the dustbin - no sooner had I come round than I heard, as if from distant battlefields, our new generalissima in the process of seizing power. Hers was a really low-down strategy. She thought everything was wonderful, just wonderful - I heard words to that effect in tones suggesting the lengthy application of a goods train's emergency brakes - but hadn't Gustav noticed how sterile those white-painted walls made the flat look? Just like a man! No notion of the psychosomatic interaction of wall colour with personal well-being. Herself, she could never bear to live in a place that wasn't painted apricot-pink. As for the replica of a Babylonian frieze ornamented with gold leaf on the wall - good heavens, were we living in a museum? A Lichtenstein might be expensive, but still, it would be an investment. Of course tastes differed, but the study really had all the charm of a Calcutta pawnshop. To call it chaotic was too kind a description. Gustav had better go straight into town and buy a stack of files so that she could organise his papers. If he thought she'd failed to notice the half-eaten chop in the sink, he was wrong. And did he know that eating meat could actually
kill
a person? Well, diet wasn't the only thing about to change around here. And as for that br - that animal, even living creatures of 'extremely low intelligence' should be trained to do certain things. No, no, she didn't bear a grudge because of the contretemps just now, but after all Gustav wasn't Tarzan, still less was she Jane, and she had no intention of spending the rest of her life as some kind of Mother Teresa of domestic pets. To be honest, she really preferred dogs ...

Was anything more needed to show me that my days in the Garden of Eden were numbered? The answer was obviously yes. For the perception of misfortune usually goes hand in hand with lazy compromise; the mammalian brain seems to be so constructed as to make the best of even the most hopeless situation. At such times you tend to play the optimistic clown, even when you'd need potatoes instead of eyes not to notice you were in deep trouble. You start deceiving yourself and coming to terms with disaster. And that's what I did too. Things are never as bad as they seem, I thought - a surprising lapse into the sententious which was the first step towards lowering my standards. I even went to the trouble of trying to put myself in
her
emotional situation, although robot warriors don't have one. A woman is not a man, I told myself with grim logic, and she'd be a pretty poor representative of her sex if she didn't drag her fool of a companion into the wonderful world of flowers on the dining table, Easter walks together, and the nagging about clothes and haircuts that ends only in the grave. Admittedly Gustav wasn't a man in his twenties, assailed by turbulent hormones, leading a cave-man life in student digs surrounded by foil ready-meal trays and the poisonous gases from his dirty socks. Over the years, however, despite the high cultural level of our life together, a certain lackluster element had crept in. It frequently does when an all-male society gets set in its ways. Wouldn't the hand of a loving woman bring a little freshness and sunshine into a pedestrian existence, which might function smoothly but was gradually fossilising, what with all the rituals of the bachelor life? I asked myself that question in all seriousness ... and next moment I yelled back the answer: Nooooooo! Good heavens above, was the curse this tarted-up cow - I bet she used mouth spray - was the curse this silly old moo had laid on my poor friend affecting me too? How come I was regarding a sour old dragon who obviously wanted me up in front of a firing squad as a self-sacrificing newly-wed bride?

Over the next few days my fears were to be confirmed, indeed far exceeded. Here are some extracts from the wrathful diary I kept in my mind, reproduced by kind permission of my photographic memory.

Day 1

Didn't sleep a wink all night. Horrible woman keeps making noises in her sleep. Noises like squeals of torment from King Kong's cage. Wondered if grotesque parody of snoring was just to annoy me. Came to no conclusion. Stupid man snores too. His version, however, more like the comfortable burping
of grizzly bears in hibernation; have always found something soothing, even beneficial to quality of sleep, about it. Now, however, two kinds of snoring united in frightful duet, symphony of horror fit to rival rutting cries of aurochs.

Horrible woman is fanatical early riser - sign of horrible people in general. The moment her old red alarm clock starts clattering, like Satan calling his followers to deeds of sin, woman sits bolt upright in bed. Waking process therefore noisy too. Woman's figure not bad, but general appearance rather skinny. Inadequate concealment of wreckage left by innumerable crash diets. Makes stupid man get up early too and have breakfast with her. Breakfast celebrated with as much ceremony as Ascension Day Mass in the Vatican. Takes about as long too. Stupid man goes to endless trouble to seem awake. Well, no choice, has he? Non-stop chatter inflicted on us by Archaeopteryx rules out morning meditation anyway.

In melancholy mood, indulge in memories. Before era of dark power, day began with loving customs, aforesaid love able to thrive only when partners mutually respect and inspire each other. First, opening my tin of food, frying a few bits of liver, addition of liver to my dish, or maybe fish with a beaten egg in a separate saucer. Fragrance of freshly brewed coffee filling our cosy kitchen. During Gustav's lavish breakfast, all kinds of delicious tidbits jumping off the table
entirely of their own accord
, straight into my waiting mouth. Those were the days! Days of joy and tenderness. But now ... Had to shout several times in very undignified manner to attract attention. Either horrible woman's hypnotic power causing dereliction of duty, or he daren't make me centre of his life as before, since consequence would be criminal jealousy. If latter supposition correct, have not only been deceived in him for years, have also been deceiving myself. Which is much, much sadder.

A heart is breaking ...

Day 2

Stupid man out at work all day, so had chance to observe horrible woman in private. Feel like Einstein of anthropology, since all my hypotheses dead right. Woman may make self out fanatical vegetarian (don't ask me why; woman hates animals even more than her wrinkles, misuses every variety of fruit and vegetable on God's earth as face masks to do away with those). However, caught her ordering five kebab skewers from snack delivery service at lunch-time, devouring same with bestial greed of cannibal. Noticed me watching; was so cross threw huge can of hair-spray at me.

Woman also chocaholic. OK, spends hours preparing pygmy-sized dishes to strict calorie counts, but also frequently subject to attacks of acute sugar addiction. Chocolate bars concealed in cunning hiding-places all over flat, like mines, or no, more like secret drinker's treasured supplies. Woman makes straight for hidden chocolate if above-mentioned attacks come over her. Have to hand it to her powers of memory; even dog of genius couldn't remember that many buried bones. Expression on woman's face as fangs sink into poor innocent chocolate in no way inferior to grimaces during kebab orgies.

No end to woman's repellent habits: serious historians now know telephone invented especially for human female. Almost erotic relationship of women in general to that great achievement in communications technology offers fruitful field of study to anthropologists. Real world-beaters, however, to be found among research subjects as a whole. Horrible woman streets ahead of all rivals. Sure bet for gold medal in competitive rabbiting on. Couldn't easily be beaten at random picking of numbers from address book - result of pure boredom - or amazing idiocy of conversation then conducted, idiocy being proportionate to length. During said conversations, everyday incidents like purchase of plastic earclips at very reasonable price analysed in their every metaphysical aspect, likewise harmless encounters with men blown up into astounding Arthurian sagas. Long-suffering man who pays phone bill, proper Charlie in my view, needs to have brought off business
coup
of his life today. One of many conversations, lasted over an hour, was with girlfriend in Florida. All at stupid man's expense. And stupid is the word.

Murderous plans taking shape in mind ...

Day 3

Made two observations; said observations flatly contradict each other. Surreptitious rustling and gurgling in night, made me think Creator inflicting ghosts on us as well as that beast, as if she wasn't enough. Guessed wrong. Man and woman making love! Jumped straight up on bedroom chest of drawers to make close observations of unique phenomenon. In light of stupid man's bizarre anatomy, process not without problems. Was flabbergasted: process apparently worked perfectly well, though no detailed study possible because duvet hiding much from view. Main points, however, as follows: 1. Judging by unrealistic sexy noises, horrible woman simulating deep feeling throughout. Faked orgasm verging on ludicrous. Genuine version of similar salvo of moans possibly heard on occasion by Richard Gere but never by stupid man, you bet your life. 2. Though fascinated by entire show, had good reason to fear stupid man might suffer heart attack any minute. Several times previously had been obliged to witness grunting of
Homo masculinus
during sexual act (when stupid man, using remote control, inadvertently switched to down-market commercial channels), so was to some extent familiar with subject. But euphoric wheezing emitted by globular mound under duvet more reminiscent of loud whimpering of patient on operating table when medical staff going easy on anaesthetic. Could hardly tell whether sounds of pain or pleasure predominant during whole show. Revolting business, all things considered, even if supposed to be love! How nonchalantly, by comparison, my own kind propagates the species! But
they
never learn! Got no thanks for purely scientific curiosity but to come under fire from horrible woman again. Woman became aware of my interested observation of unilateral climax, screeched, grabbed chrome tissue-box holder, slung chrome holder at me with muscular force of doped female Romanian shot-putter. Missed again, though got closer than last time; no damage except to antique mirror on chest of drawers behind me. Hysterical little idiot!

Next morning, totally different programme. Talk about incongruity between loving vows of a spring night and disillusionment of everyday life! Anyway, woman's claims on my own territory becoming clearer and clearer. Stupid man seems to be gradually realising has made mistake of life - but alas, too late! Third World War broke out during breakfast discussion. She absolutely determined to put own 'ideas' about furnishings, financial investments and life-style into practice, no quarter shown. Apparently woman was once interior decorator. Also psychologist. Also artist. Also ... well, don't ask me what woman is now! Divorcee, probably. In same shrill voice as always scares off dear little birdies in garden just as yours truly about to spring, stupid man told to renovate entire flat from top to bottom to suit her taste. When man made some objections - man's degenerate cells seem to retain a few male hormones after all - screeching became howling hurricane threatening to sweep us away. Naturally woman has no armaments to atomise him, for instance rocket launcher or such-like, so reached for most reliable weapon of her own kind, started shedding tears. Man instantly defended self and signed own death sentence in imaginary treaty as mentally concluded by such couples: stupid sucker said would do everything, but everything woman wanted if woman would only stop that miserable weeping. Since bawling working so well, woman speedily rattled off more wishes in between heavy sigh and next fit of sobbing: wish list began, oddly, with asking man to throw away old white cotton underpants and please, please buy some of the trendy coloured sort. Really, if not all so sad would be riotously funny. But laughter dies in my throat when I wonder what part allotted to me in woman's diabolical game. Because after cooked-up reconciliation, ending with both of them thoughtfully eating boiled eggs (and instructions from woman for man to decapitate egg with clean knife-cut in future instead of peeling shell off top), woman turned head to me, very slowly, with kind of bittersweet smile executioner might give principal actor in drama. Suddenly saw that had lost battle ages ago, and must leave Promised Land for ever.