I left my house early in the morning without washing my face in cold water, as I usually do. One of my neighbors stopped me and asked as he cast an inquisitive eye on me, “Has the water in your house been shut off because your bill was overdue?”
The grocer asked as he poured the sugar I had ordered in a paper bag, “Why haven’t you eaten breakfast? Have you forgotten that to protect your health you must start the day on a full stomach?”
The butcher said as he cut the red meat into small pieces as I had requested, “You’re making a mistake because you let your wife go too far in insulting you. The more you ignore her insults, the less she will respect you.”
The baker said as he weighed the bread I had ordered, “Reading with a faint light before sleeping is harmful to the eyes.”
The vegetable vendor said as he took the money for the vegetables I had bought, “How could you not get angry at your wife’s frostiness in bed last night? If I were her husband, I would’ve divorced her right away.”
A black dog said as he busily dug into a pile of rubbish, “In a few hours you’ll go to work. Your boss will insult you, and you’ll be too scared to talk back.”
I did not appreciate the dog’s interference in something that did not concern him, and gave him a hard kick. He barked as he scampered off in pain, but did not run away as I had expected and prepared to attack me. So I hurried out of there and went home to put away the things I had bought. There, I decided not to go to work that day so as to enjoy the absence my wife, who had gone away for three days to visit her family. I went into my favorite room and sat at a table made of wood over which white papers were scattered. I imagined I had written on the white paper that it was raining, and all of a sudden it started thundering and heavy rains fell. I also imagined that cats could fly, and suddenly my black cat flew around the room, not hiding his annoyance. He almost crashed into the light bulb dangling from the end of a wire attached to the ceiling. “Can’t you see I’m writing?” I said reproachfully. “Keep still and stop making all this noise so I can carry on writing before the words fly from my head.”
“What could you be writing?” asked the cat as he settled on the surface of the table. “You’re not a student or a writer.”
“I’m trying to write a story about Hitler and Abla,” I answered.
“Three’s no such thing as Hitler and Abla,” the cat said. “There is Hitler and Eva, and Antar and Abla.”
I was full of admiration for the cultural level of my cat. “Where did you get your education?” I asked. “Which school was it?”
“God save us!” The cat exclaimed, shocked. “If I’d gone to school I would’ve forgotten how to fly.”
I went back to my writing. “What are you writing now?” The cat asked.
“I’m writing a story about Hitler and Abla,” I answered. “And don’t accuse me of ignorance. I put Hitler in place of Antar for a reason. As soon as the story is published, the critics will see it as a portrait of the clash of European and Arab cultures. Every culture has its own values.”
I heard no comment from my cat. I looked at him to find out why, and found him sleeping. I took up my pen as I take hold of a spoon, proceeding like someone who was about to write thousands of words without stopping. The cat opened its eyes and asked, “Are you going to write about me?”
“I’m going to write a novel,” I said, “whose title will be Abu Hashem’s Lamp, and thus far I haven’t got beyond the title, but its subject is still cooking on a slow fire.”
“But your title,” said the black cat, “is stolen from a famous novel whose title is Umm Hashem’s Lamp.”
“What I’m going to write will be the second part of that novel,” I said, “completing what the dead writer had started.”
My cat said as he yawned, “I’m sure if the writer were alive today and knew of your intention to write such a story, he would die instantly.”
I waved a wooden ruler about, threatening the cat, but he flew away towards the window overlooking the garden. “Open this window a little,” he said. “The air in this room is stifling. We’re going to suffocate.”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” I asked. “I open the window, and you fly away and never come back.”
I imagined he was staring at me, admiring my cleverness. After a few moments of silence, I said, “Are you angry because I didn’t open the window for you?”
“And why should I be angry?” he asked in surprise. “If I fly out into the garden, a bird can swoop down and eat me.”
I looked at him fully, admiring his concern for safety, but I suddenly became aware he was staring at the white papers on the table, looking puzzled. I asked what the matter was, and he said, “You talk a lot about what you’re writing, but in front of you the paper has remained blank, without even one word. Are you writing with an invisible ink, or is it that you haven’t written anything and are satisfied to talk about what you would like to write but haven’t yet written?”
“You’re talking like a detective now,” I said, jesting, “and not like a friend who’s with me day and night.”
I sat back, deep into something that resembled thought, and my black cat came near and asked inquisitively what I was thinking about. I answered that I was thinking about the future, and he asked, “In the future, do you intend to buy a gun to hunt down the fish that will damage the garden by jumping from tree to tree?”
I said, “I’m thinking that in the future scientists may succeed in inventing a mysterious box with an illuminated screen on which people will appear moving and talking.”
“Are you mocking me?” the cat asked in anger. “What you’re talking about has already been invented. It’s the television. But you haven’t bought one because you’re cheap.”
“If I’d bought one,” I answered, “it would’ve drawn me away from you and prevented me from talking with you and keeping you company.”
The cat was silent for a few moments, then suddenly said, “I’ll buy you a set, even if I have to ask for a loan from Somalia.”
“I didn’t know you loved me that much,” I said to the cat with a trembling voice.
“It seems you forgot I was a cat,” he said, mocking, “and that cats don’t love anyone.”
I was angry for a minute or two and said nothing. Then, I took up the conversation with my cat again. I begged him to go wandering around in the homes of the neighbors and listen to their secrets, then come back and tell me what they were saying, that I may get some amusement and be saved from a boredom that was about to kill me. To my surprise, the cat became angry and said, his tail thrashing, that he wasn’t an informer or gossip monger.
“Are you content to have me die of boredom?” I asked.
“Go out for a while,” the cat said. “Who’s keeping you locked up in the house?”
“Where shall I go?” I asked.
“Visit your friends,” he said.
“And where are these friends?” I asked.
“Go to a coffee house,” said the cat.
“It’s not my custom to sit around in coffee houses,” I said.
“Wander about in the streets,” said the cat.
“Loitering requires strong legs, which I don’t have,” I said.
The cat took pity on me, and was about to set out for the neighbors’ houses. I asked him to take particular care to get news of men who were like fire and beautiful women who were like butterflies. He came back in a few hours to tell me at length about a female cat as white as snow, whose meowing was more beautiful than music. I told him I was sick and couldn’t get out of bed to call a doctor, and asked him to call one right away before I died. “You die,” the cat said, “and I’ll gobble you up slowly.”
I ordered him to stop joking, and he asked, “What shall I say to the doctor? Meow, meow?”
“Speak with him as you’re talking with me right now,” I said.
“Every cat is permitted to talk only to one person in his lifetime,” the cat said. “Sadly, I chose one who’s short-lived, and I won’t be able to talk to anyone else after your death.”
“Since I’m going to die,” I said, “I must share my wealth with the poor.”
“Quiet,” said the cat. “Keep quiet, and don’t let me die of laughter.”
“And I must say goodbye to my family and relatives,” I said.
“You’re the last living person in your family,” the cat said.
“It’s not proper that I should die without seeing my wife,” I said.
“There’s no reason to see her,” said the cat. “She might let out trills of joy.”
“And who will bury me?” I asked the cat.
“Have you forgotten you won’t be needing a funeral or a grave,” said the cat, “because I’m going to gobble you up and invite my friends to join in with me?”
I then closed my eyes and died and waited for the cats’ teeth, hoping they would be strong enough to tear cold flesh apart.