A Promised Land

       No one would normally want to return from a promised land. But our palestine was all the way wrong. The descendants of King Solomon and Queen of Sheba turned out to be dense, bloodthirsty racists, despite being Africans and Jews at the same time. They kept us weary travellers at the doorway, they mocked the Painter for his pale pinkish skin, and accused him of sorcery when he drew a sketch portrait of a guardian. Even a prince of a Muslim Tuareg tribe had enough common sense to accept his own portrait! No, I’d better not remind myself of that episode. Burrrgh. And then those black Jews nearly drowned me. (Well, frankly speaking, kids of any nation can be true sadists when they lay hands on a kitty.) And they refused me my bar mitzvah! Don’t be the same obscurant as them, I tell my Master. What about bar mitzvah for me? Am I a bad cat? No, he answers, you’re a good cat but a bad Jew. Why? He just snorts. All the usual reasons are spent; he refers to the weakest ones. So, I can’t wear tefillin? Alright, I’d agree to wear a collar like some puny dog. And I can read Torah, I know Arabic, French, and Hebrew. I don’t keep kosher? Look who’s talking! I remind him of an event on our way forward when the whole team has been eating roasted crocodile. Anything is good when the nearest settlement is days away. The birds I strangle in their nests are more kosher than a crocodile, I think. Locust is also acceptable but stiff and unsavoury. And I don’t even look at various crawling critters, and try hard to bridle my predator instincts, which make my ears turn to any squeak or rustle in the grass and tense me up for a jump. But memory comes first. A hole in the ground; a sting; a pain; suffocation; darkness… I stay put. I guess I’m starting to believe in the God described in the books of my Master. And I have an opinion (but wouldn’t share it, or my Master will be upset) that this God is a terribly petty, vengeful old guy. His educational methods are ambiguous. I’m sure that scorpion has crossed my way on purpose, but for the love of God, I don’t know what He wants to tell me by that. Was He irked that I called him by a forbidden name? Did He take a price for returning speech to me? (Or, rather, letting others understand me again—I’ve never stopped talking.) Or did He really mind me eating various treif cattle? One thing is clear: He is not to mess with. That’s what I tell my Master, I know what a fear of the Lord is. I am ready, where’s my bar mitzvah? While we’re both alive. But he is so vexed that I bury him before time. Meanie. I’m a cat and not a donkey, I see that my Master, our only driver and mechanic, has started teaching the Painter to handle the steering wheel and burrow into truck guts. He’s clearly preparing a replacement just in case but refuses to admit that “just in case” is possible. Logic: missing. By divine providence, the Painter copes with the steering and pedals, but the mechanical depths escape his understanding. No head for science. Well. We still haven’t asked his name and call him, behind his back, either Michael, after the title hero of Jules Verne’s novel, or Moses, since we’ve got him in a box, which is not unlike the basket found by a certain Pharaoh’s daughter. The waitress stands by her husband’s side during such lessons, nods, and repeats the scheme of hoses and injectors to herself under breath. So, maybe, we’d still have a spare mechanic. A speculative one, at least. Her tummy gets rounder, and poking around in the motor would be hard for her. The Painter helps her into the vehicle. Now and then she asks to stop, for her to walk a bit and catch her breath and some fresh air. She’s getting motion-sick ever more often. Sure, the road is far from perfect, we rush through rocks and acacias, but… what a stupid waste of water! She says she’ll be fine right till we reach Algiers, but I’m afraid she may miscarry her kitt—baby, that is—or even die herself. In that case, the Painter will be widowed, and my dear Zlabya has received him favourably and hasn’t shunned him as she used to treat neighbour oafs. And I asked God for her to be mine alone! No husband, no children—just the Mistress and her Cat. And thus me, Rabbi, and the Painter pray to the Almighty three times a day, as is customary, and ask for each other’s health. Sheik Sfar has five prayers per day. But my Master tells me that my prayer doesn’t count because I’m a cat. When will he be tired of those disputes? I’m not telling him that it was me who pleaded God to grant him success in examinations. If you choose the right words, God will dip into his purse for a miracle. But He’ll take a price, too. And I’m afraid one day I’ll have to repeat that prayer. Savannah thins out and gives way to a full-fledged desert. No pools, no lakes, no rivers, no villages here and there. The distance between oases is equal to our water supply, and we have to choose the route carefully. That’s what I asked one evening when the elders were sitting and planning our tomorrow’s route by the fire. Why did they want to diverge, I asked. It’s hundreds of kilometres longer. Here’s Chad, here’s Algeria; the route through Hoggar highland is more direct than via Tanezrouft. We had been to Tanezrouft already, why not see something new? Sheik Sfar explained with his usual patience that Hoggar was higher, dryer, more severe than Tanezrouft Plateau, and less populated. Sometimes a bypass is shorter than a straight line. And that we shouldn’t fear that Bedouin tribe. Their prince called it square; we paid with a life for a life, and it meant he wouldn’t take revenge on us. His word was set in stone. Well. I had to confess that before our departure from the tribe, on the way forward, I crouched to the Prince’s tent and tore his portrait good and proper. And peed on it, for even score. That was fair for a psycho bastard like him! Not only didn’t he end Vastenov’s duel with their healer, he ordered to serve desserts right after their blood was strewn by sand. I didn’t eat sweets, but I saw our old men had milk and honey stuck in their throats. This time, even our gentle sheik Sfar suggested to wring my neck, and my Master said he’d contemplate it. The Painter didn’t say anything and just hugged his wife. Okay, it’s my fault, but at that moment, I believed I was restoring justice! That my clawed paw was a hand of God’s wrath! It seems now that God is taking revenge for my arrogance. Hoggar Highland does not like travellers, it bakes us in the daytime and freezes us at night, arranges ravines across our ways, strews sharp stones to deflate tyres, or tears the tracks of our truck… Our Citroen grows worn-out. It demands ever more diesel, oil, and water and screeches ever sharper on the way uphill. Money runs low like water into sand. On our way forward, we buried Vastenov without his wallet. He wouldn’t mind. Still, the road drains our power and stock; it spreads us like tomato sauce over an endless flatbread. Africa is dry and enormous. I’m afraid it is larger than our lives. On the platter of desert, we are not even couscous crumbs. Microbes, just that. Two tents and a truck are lost amidst sand and stone. In the moonlight, the Painter sketches something in his notebook; he does not have time for art by day. His Eve peeks from their tent, her black eyes glistening as she stares at the aquiline profile of her husband. Sheik Sfar tiptoes to the nearest rocks to pee again. He looks even more drawn and yellow to match his last name. The waitress recommends him some herbs for better digestion, and my Master makes him promise to go to a European doctor once we return home. My Master does not sleep well, too; he breathes hard and lies mostly on his back. He claims he is fine, but his hand wanders to his heart now and then. He grabs me and places me on his chest. For warmth, he claims, but I know that cats are believed to heal. I don’t know for sure if I have any talents in this area, but I do my best to sprawl over him like a compress and purr. Something bubbles, beats, flows inside of him. Almighty God, I think. We are so fragile, we are made of yuck. Please let us reach our goal. Let my Master return home. Well, I want to go back to my Mistress, too. Dear God, it’s not a big deal for you, right? Help us, please. Do I need to jerk you by your forbidden name once more? It would be a pity to lose speech again, but it’s not the end of life. And the truck crawls forward, or rather back, and I pray silently and talk to the Master aloud. He’s not sleeping, so I purr into his ear, “At least you two Sfars got your share of adventures. A good drive, and giraffes, something to remember later in life. It wasn’t a complete waste of time.” “Of course it wasn’t!” the Master croaks. “And it was not about the giraffes. We have found our promised land!” Oh my claws, is it a heat stroke? I probe his ear with my paw. No, it is normal. “What land?! Sure, we’ve discovered an ancient city of black Jews, and covered it back, and fled from there ahead of the sound of our yells. You’ve told yourself, there’s no African Jerusalem.” “Cat, my silly cat,” the Master vibrates and grunts; it means laugh. “We have found our promised land. We are going there now. The houses there are made of honey-yellow shell stone, which gives off warmth and almost glows after sunset, like a piece of daylight. The port there is all strewn with baskets of sea fish and whole mountains of silver, and they smell divine! We know all fishermen by name; they give you small fish for free. Seagulls don’t dare to snatch it from you while I stand by your side.” Our home city! I have almost felt biting a fresh, fluttering sardine. Indeed, it tastes so much better than freshwater tilapias from sludgy pools. I failed to appreciate that taste before. After all, I’ve been living by the sea all my life. But after I wandered in the jungle and savannah for several months, the sardine grew a golden halo and celestial smell in my memory. “…cobbled road runs uphill,” my Master is still reminiscing. “In the sun, it’s hot like a frying pan, but you can escape to the library patio, where the street branches near the madrasah. There you sit in shadow by a fountain and thank God for creating free water for all people. Then we drop by the post office, take a newspaper and a glass of mint tea. Two more blocks, and we’re home, our door saves cool darkness for us, my daughter is waiting for me desperately to hug me and ask about the news…” “And I remember it differently. She’s always slugs in her sofa with a book and responds only after you call her three times in a row.” “Cat, your truth is not appropriate.” My Master frowns for a second. “When Zlabya was a little girl, she was always meeting me, and it became a part of the perfect home image for me. My books, candles, smell of pastry, chatting of Zlabya’s friends…” This time, I oblige him and keep silent. If only he had heard what those tender damsels were talking about. A nest of vipers. I guess, while we are away, our house is soaked in the smells of cousin Malka’s tobacco and the perfume of the girls attracted by his fame and charisma. Poor Mistress, she has to stand a siege alone, and I’m not there to scratch the skirts of Knidelette or piss in the shoes of Moar. “And our Moses has found his Eden in the form of his waitress girl. No matter where he settles down, his promised land will be there. I’m sure he’ll find a spot to live in our city.” I fall short of words. Indeed. What palestines can be better than our home in Algiers? Where do I long to be above anywhere else? Well, maybe on the lap of my Mistress, my darling Zlabya. To knead her bloomers, to stick my nose between her breasts, to expose my tummy to her tender fingers… Sometimes I believe it’s me who has written the Song of Songs. Or some other cat living with King Solomon. I was even nearly named Soliman to honour my miraculous healing and my healer. He must be having all sorts of good times with houris in the Heaven of his. If it exists, of course, and if it is anywhere close to his lifetime beliefs. Thus, I remain nameless, and it doesn’t bother me one little heck. “Sleep, Cat,” the Master tells. He addresses me; it’s clear without names. His rough palm, smelling of motor oil, passes once or twice over my side. Okay, okay, I’ll sleep. …I dream of a city on the horizon. A white city by the blue sea, with narrow Maghrebi streets and wide Parisian-style avenues, striped tents of street cafes, red roofs, nets, and baskets along the port wall, a two-story house with grapevine trellis, and my Mistress sleeping on a couch, gracious as a cat, warm and soft, and absolutely alone. And I run to her over chipped eaves and cluttered shop boards, over barrels and carts, over the feet and heads of fishermen and clerks, but the surroundings wither and fall apart, I drown in sand, and the city is yet farther and farther away until it fades like a mirage. I wake up because my Master shakes me and tells me to stop scratching him. I can’t help, I show my claws when I’m scared. And I am scared. If our home is Eden, will we reach it alive? If the road finishes us off, will we wake up on the roof covered with carpets and grapevines? Will Zlabya, the joy of my heart and nose, meet me in the afterlife? Sure, I’ve always known that I’d die before my Mistress, and it has been fine with me. But dying far from her… No, dear God, that wasn’t the agreement. You have guaranteed a promised land to all children of Israel in this life. We don’t ask for much. Rabbi Sfar needs just his daughter, his house, books, crooked streets, and a green patio with a fountain. The Painter will be content with his Eve and drawing easel. And for me (sure, technically, I am not a child of Israel, but a Jew’s cat is almost a Jew, too)… For me, the lap of my Mistress and some ear scratching are enough. And for her to take me in her arms, call me her kitty, ask me where I’ve been with my Master all day long, and to lay me to bed when she reads Stendhal or Hugo, and feed me with fish, and not shoo me away when I plaster myself along her side on a sultry night. And never to marry or have children while I am by her side. Why would she need it all when I love her more than any human could? Maybe I want too much. Maybe God is angry and jealous that I love her as I should love Him, and that I’m merely afraid of Him. It’s so like Him to set some more tests or tricks. I relate it all into my Master’s ear and say sorry for waking him with my kicking and nightmares. The Master strokes my head. Silly cat, he says, it was merciful God who sent our wonderful Zlabya to us. And took your wife, I want to say but swallow those words. Maybe I’m learning to be careful with the truth. Come to think of it… Just half a year ago, I’d claim that my Mistress was made by hereditary background and upbringing, and a pet shop brought us together. But out of all the kittens, puppies, and canaries, she might have chosen anyone else. Or she might have inherited her stature from her grandmother and not from her mother, or anything else might have happened differently. But hundreds of probabilities converged so that a perfect girl could hold one nice cat. Maybe that swarm of probabilities is God. I walk out of the tent. The air is crisp. Setting moon claws at a far mountain ridge. Large, twinkling stars are so low above the dark land as if they try to scrutinise our small, round planet with a tiny cat on its side. A gust of wind strokes my back like a giant hand. I set back my ears and stare into the shiny eyes of the stars. Thank you, I say, and run back to the tent in embarrassment. The next day, we run into an oasis. Three acacia trees and a pit with muddy water in the shadow of a cliff bring us more joy than a suitcase full of banknotes. And we all praise the Creator.