I wish that I could forget that day. I really do. But I can’t.
It was the last day of the year. The streets were empty and cold. Colder still was my heart, much colder; and much more empty, my soul—not that there exists an instrument for measuring such things.
I sat by the stove and stared into space, lost in thought. What naïve hopes and dreams I still carried in my heart burned faintly there among the embers. All of a sudden, Tora came scampering into the room. Tora is the family cat. He dove straight into my lap and clung to me by all fours, shaking. What could be the matter, I wondered.
“Young master,” he said in a whisper, “you are the only one who loves me, the only one who cares . . .”
“Ugh!” I thought to myself. “Not another dream! I am sick of dreams! But then I am even more sick of reality.”
I sat motionless and silent.
Tora started up again. “Young master,” he said, “I can’t go on. I have lost all hope.”
“Oh, shush! I myself lost hope long ago, but you don’t see me complaining!” is how I would have answered had I not pitied the poor creature. So I said nothing.
Tora went on. “They all call me lazy—your father, the maid, the cook. And for what? Because I have stopped catching mice! But I am not lazy, I tell you. I simply refuse to hunt. I no longer have it in me. Just look at my teeth, my claws—are they not still sharp? Ah! But you see, the problem is here,” he said, tapping his breast, “in my heart. For deep down, I have lost the will to hunt. And now the mice have gotten into the pantry and are eating their way through the rice. They are biting holes through the bread and are pilfering the sweets. In fact, just the other day, I heard your mother complaining that they had nibbled the pages of her favorite book—What was it again? Ah yes, Kroptkin’s The Conquest of Bread! ‘Oh, those naughty little mice!’ they all say. But they are not naughty—they are starving! Literally starving. And if they can’t eat, they must die. Oh, young master, you must believe me. Look into my eyes!”
Tora had worked himself into a frenzy, and dug his sharp claws into my thighs that I might take him more seriously.
“Ouch! You stupid cat. Don’t get smart with me! I can’t believe you are getting worked up over a couple of starving mice. Look at Russia or Germany or Austria, for that matter—a hundred million people are starving there, maybe more. But do you see us humans raising the alarm? Really, I hope those disease-infested rodents starve to death; so much the better!” is how I would have answered had I the strength to do so.
Tora went on: “Because I refuse to hunt, your father has ordered that I not be fed. But you knew that, didn’t you? Well, let me tell you, I am starving now, and I cannot stand it; the pain is near unbearable. And if I try to take something for myself, they will call me a thief and begin to shout. But my stomach grumbles, young master, and I am too famished to steal. Oh, I can’t go on! They all think that not feeding me will make me want to hunt again. But it won’t work, I tell you. For deep down, a part of me is gone—the killer’s instinct. Oh, I can’t go on! So I must be mad—yes, if I were human, that is what they would call me—mad!”
“Yes, perhaps they would. But behind your back they are more likely to call you a ‘moron’ or an ‘idiot’ or worse,” is what I would have said had I the strength to do so.
Tora went on: “You see, it all started one day when I was in the pantry, waiting for the mice to show up. I knew it was the rice that they wanted. And indeed, when they arrived, they were all chanting, ‘Rice! Rice! Give us the rice!’ over and over. There was, as it were, a sea of them. So I went to work. I must have killed a hundred, a thousand, ten thousand—who knows, really? But the more I killed, the hungrier I became. There were big mice, little mice, black mice, grey mice, males, females, parents, children! All chanting wildly, as if their words were scripture. ‘Rice! Rice! Give us the rice,’ they shouted with each new wave. Oh, there seemed to be no end to them. It was as if an infinite number of mice—from the dawn of time to the end of days—were rushing upon me all at once. And with each new wave, their chanting became more terrible, more tenacious: ‘Rice! Rice! Give us the rice!’ they cried again and again. All of a sudden, I began to feel strange. At first I thought that I was hearing the cries of mice, but among them I heard something more familiar—the cries of cats! Louder and louder they grew, till they drowned out the mice, and all that I could hear were the ear-splitting cries of my brothers and sisters. ‘Rice! Rice! Give us the rice!’ Indeed, there was no mistaking it. What I heard in those cries were cats. I was afraid. I lost control. I ran. For a long time, I sat shivering in a dark corner, the cry of ‘Rice! Rice! Give us the rice!’ resounding in my ears, interminably. My hairs bristled for hours, days, months, it seemed. That is when I knew I could not go on, for I had gone mad. That is when I began to see that the mice were in fact my brothers and sisters, that they too deserved love and compassion! That is when I lost the will to hunt. And so I was forced to steal. And do you know what? Then it all made sense—how the mice are my true brothers and sisters. Well, now my friends all call me mad, even those nearest and dearest to me. ‘You are a mad cat!’ they cry and run away. I have been found out. Everybody in the house knows my secret. So yesterday your father ordered that I be hanged. But I do not want to be hanged! That is why I need you, young master. I need you to buy me morphine. I need you to put me to sleep. I need you to take pity on me!”
Tora had spoken for a long time; and to make sure that I was still listening, he dug his sharp claws into my thighs once more.
“Ouch!” I cried. “That hurt!”
I returned to my senses. In my lap I saw Tora, clinging to me by all fours, shivering. I stroked his back gently, still somewhat dazed. The fire from the stove had gone out, and with it my hopes and dreams.
My father crept into the room. Like a thief he stole up behind me, and thrusting out a bag, he pulled it over Tora’s head.
“Ah-ha!” he shouted. “I got him! I got the little beast!”
I started and nearly fell over.
“Father!” I cried, catching my breath. “What—what’s gotten into you?”
“This little beast is mad. Mad I tell you! Just be thankful that he didn’t scratch you. I just spoke to the animal doctor. He says I should kill him now, before he ends up hurting one of us.”
“And you’re going to do it?”
“Of course,” he said, as if no explanation were necessary. “I meant to do it yesterday, but he got away, the sly devil.” And he went towards the door.
I could hear Tora crying, writhing, trying to get out of the bag. But his voice was oddly weak and empty. It was the loneliest voice in the world.
I got up and ran to the door.
“Wait!” I cried, grabbing hold of the bag my father carried in his hands.
“What do you want?”
“Don’t you feel sorry for it?”
“Sorry for what? It’s a mad cat.”
“Don’t say that, Father. Please, I’m begging you. Let him go.”
“Fool!”
“At least, don’t beat him to death, please. Let me kill him. Let me go and buy him some morphine. Let me put him to sleep.”
He stared at me.
“What a sentimental little brat you are! I have never heard of anything so stupid.”
“But Father, please . . .”
“Shut up!” he shouted and struck me square in the jaw.
Then he left the room.
I began to feel strange.
“Young master!”
It was Tora. But this time I wasn’t dreaming. I could actually hear him.
“Please, you must save me! Save me!”
Soon his voice was joined by the voices of other cats and mice, and together they formed a ghastly chorus.
“Young master, we are starving; they are killing us!
“Young master, please, you must save us!”
The cries echoed. I tried to cover my ears, but it was to no use. They echoed through my body, till the very tips of my fingers were tingling, such was their strength. Then the number of voices multiplied and grew louder. They were strengthened by an infinite family of cats and mice—stretching from the dawn of time to the end of days. I no longer understood what was happening. I understood nothing at all. There was but one thought—one thought that came to me from the black and swirling abyss of my world—
“I can’t go on!”
It came to me so clearly, as if it had been carved in white relief.
“Rice! Rice! Give us the rice!”
“Young master, please, save us! We are starving, they are going to kill us! Young master, please save us!”
“Help!” I cried, half in a daze. “Somebody! Anybody!”
A servant girl appeared at the doorway.
“Is the young master alright?”
“Come here,” I murmured.
The servant girl took a few steps into the room. She looked concerned.
“Does the young master need something?”
“Closer, closer . . .”
“Tell me, young master, what is it you need?”
I put my lips to her ear and whispered: “I want you to fetch me some morphine.”
The servant girl stepped back in shock.
“And what—what might the young master want the morphine for?”
“I can’t go on. I’m a moron, an idiot, mad.”
The servant girl’s face turned white as a sheet.
“What on earth are you saying?”
“You see, I had this thought: that we all might be brothers and sisters—the cats, the mice, the servants of the house, all of us. In fact, it is not merely a thought, but a conviction. I feel it strongly, here, in my heart. We all deserve love and compassion. We are all brothers and sisters . . .”
My voice trembled.
The servant girl stared at me, silent, tears shining in her eyes.
I wish that I could forget that day. I really do. But I can’t. I can’t . . .