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  FELIDAE

  Akif Pirinçci

  A novel of cats and murder

  Special U.S. Edition

  FELIDAE

  A novel of cats and murder

  Special U.S. Edition

  First American eBook-Edition

  Copyright © 2011 by Akif Pirinçci, Bonn, Germany

  Translation Copyright © 1993 by Ralph Noble

  Cover design by Ursula Pirinçci © 2011

  Cover illustration by Andreas Liss © 2011

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American

  Copyright Conventions.

  For Uschi and Rolf, the best!

  And Cujo and Pünktchen, the brightest!

  And God made the beasts of the earth according to their kinds, and cattle, and every thing that creepeth upon the earth after its kind. And God saw that it was good.

  —GENESIS

  THE WORLD IS A HELL! What does it matter what happens in it? The world was so created that one sorrow follows another. There has been a chain reaction of suffering and cruelty on earth since its creation. Yet perhaps it is no better elsewhere, on distant planets, stars, and galaxies … Who knows? The crown of all that is loathsome in this universe and unknown universes is, very probably, the human race. The human race is so ... so evil, mean, cunning, egoistic, greedy, cruel, insane, sadistic, opportunistic, bloodthirsty, malicious, treacherous, hypocritical, envious, and—yes, this above all else—just plain dumb! Such is the human race.

  And yet, what about the others?

  1

  If you really want to hear my tale—and I strongly urge you to do so—you must get used to the fact that it's not going to be pleasant. On the contrary, the mysterious events I suffered through last fall and winter finally made me realize that a life of harmony and tranquility is a brief affair—even for my kind. I now know that no one can avoid the horror that surrounds us, and that chaos can descend upon us all at any moment. But before I bore you with a lecture on the abyss we are all in danger of falling into, let me tell you this tale, a sad tale of evil.

  It all began when we moved into that damned house.

  What I hate most in life is moving and everything that goes along with moving; and since I believe in the theory of reincarnation, I'm convinced I must have hated it in my earlier lives too. Even the slightest irregularity in my everyday routine plunges me into a deep well of depression, which takes a great deal of mental effort to climb out of. But my simpleminded companion Gustav, and those like him, would change their home-sweet-homes every week if they could. They have elevated decoration to the level of an insane cult. They consult magazines on moving (which, in turn, keep them moving on a regular basis), hold heated debates about interior design late into the night, come to blows about the shape of toilet brushes for the optimal maintenance of hygiene, and are constantly looking out for new and better houses. Supposedly, the average American will move up to thirty times in his life. I have not the slightest doubt that such a practice irreparably damages mental health. My explanation for this harmful habit is that these pitiful fools have no equanimity and try to compensate for its lack through incessant moving. It's nothing less than a full-blown neurotic compulsion. Surely the Good Lord didn't give human beings hands and feet for the sole purpose of constantly transporting furniture and kitchen utensils from one dwelling to the next.

  Despite which, I must confess that the old apartment did have its shortcomings. First of all, there were those billion steps you had to run up and down, day in, day out, if you didn't want to become an urban Robinson Crusoe. Although the building was built recently, the architect apparently thought the elevator was a diabolical invention and expected the inhabitants of his Tower of Babel to practice the old, tried-and-true method of step-by-step locomotion.

  Then, too, the apartment was far too small. Although, to tell the truth, it was big enough for Gustav and me; you know how it goes: after a while, you want more and more. Your place has to be cozier, it has to be more spacious, expensive, and stylish—but I'm sure you've heard this all before. As a young rebel, you still have your ideals (if you don't already own a dream apartment). But later, if you still don't have your dream apartment and you find out that you aren't exactly the big bad rebel you thought you were, what is your fate? A year's subscription to Better Homes and Gardens.

  So that's why we moved into that damned house.

  When I first saw it from the rear side window of a Citroën CX-2000, I thought Gustav was playing a nasty joke on me—which would hardly have surprised me, considering his rather immature sense of humor. Months before I had heard him talk about "an old building,” "renovation,” and "putting in time,” but since Gustav understands as much about renovating houses as a giraffe does about stock market speculation, I thought this was merely a matter of nailing a little nameplate on the door. To my horror, I now realized what he had meant by "an old building.”

  Admittedly, the residential area was elegant, even romantic. A dentist would have to convince his patients that they needed to have a considerable number of cavities in order to take up residence here. But it just so happened that the sad structure that was to be our future home looked like a rotten tooth in comparison to the turn-of-the-century dollhouses that surrounded it. Embedded in a tree-lined street of houses that were picture-postcard perfect, a street where the renovation mania of all those wizards looking for a tax write-off had wreaked havoc, this majestic wreck seemed to have sprung from nothing less than the imagination of a horror film scriptwriter. It was the only building on the street that had not been given a face-lift, and I tried to keep myself from imagining why that was. The owner had probably been looking for years for a sucker who would even dare to set foot over its threshold. And if we ourselves went in there, no doubt the whole house would tumble down on our heads. I already knew Gustav was no genius, but only now was the true extent of his idiocy becoming clear to me.

  The front of the building, embellished with a number of cracked, ornamental plaster baubles, resembled the visage of a mummified Egyptian king. Gray and weathered, it glowered at you as if it had demonic intentions for the living. The window shutters of the two upper floors,which as Gustav had mentioned were empty, were partly broken, but shut. Something uncanny emanated from these upper floors. You couldn't see the roof from below, but I would have bet my life that it was in a state of complete dilapidation. Because the ground floor apartment into which I and my muddled friend were to move was about six feet above street level, you could only catch a glimpse of the interior through the windowpanes, covered with filth; in the harsh, merciless afternoon sun, I could make out its stained ceilings and tasteless wallpaper.

  Because Gustav only uses a particularly inane baby talk with me, which doesn't bother me since I would employ the same primitive language if I chose to speak with him, he emitted some guttural sounds of enthusiasm when we finally came to a halt in front of the house.

  If you have gained the impression that I harbor hostile feelings toward my companion, you are only partly right.

  Gustav … well, what is Gustav like? Gustav Löbel is a writer. Yes, a writer, but only a telephone book would recognize his intellectual contributions to the world. He pens "novelettes" for "women's journals" of such clever brevity that the plot exhausts itself well within the space of half a page. Mostly, he derives the inspiration for his strokes of genius from the vision of a hundred-dollar check - his "publishers" would never fork out more. Yet, how often have I seen even this conscientious author struggle with himself, searching for an apt conclusion, for a spectacular dramatic effect (at least within the bounds of his genre), or for a variation on adultery that has never been thought of before. For only b
rief periods does Gustav write what he really wants to, abandoning the imaginative world of legacy hunters, violated secretaries, and husbands who never notice that their wives have been prostituting themselves behind their backs for the last thirty years. Since Gustav studied history and archaeology, when he writes what he wants to he composes treatises on ancient civilizations—especially on Egyptian divinities. This, however, he does at such boring length that all these works, sooner or later, turn out to be unsalable, and his dream of someday making a living from them has been receding further and further from reality. Although his appearance is not unlike a gorilla's, and although he is the most extreme example of obesity with which I am personally acquainted (286 pounds), he still retains, to employ a euphemism, a childlike, if somewhat feebleminded, charm. His attitude toward the world is based on tranquility, congeniality, and complacent self-satisfaction. Gustav seeks to avoid all that threatens this holy trinity. Ambition and stress are foreign words to his harmless, easygoing spirit; mussels in garlic soup and a bottle of Chablis are worth far more to him than a challenging career.

  So that's Gustav: my exact opposite. It is no great wonder that we get in each other's hair every now and then. But I think I'll let the subject go for now. Gustav does provide for me, shields me from the daily, banal inconveniences, protects me from danger, and the greatest love in his sheltered life remains none other than Yours Truly. And although I must confess that it is at times extremely difficult, I do respect him.

  After Gustav had crammed the car into the slot between the chestnut trees in front of the house (Gustav never did understand how to park a car; parking is quantum physics for him), we both got out. While he maneuvered the entirety of his awe-inspiring mass in front of the building and regarded the house with a gleam in his eyes, almost as if he had built it himself, I made an immediate scent check.

  The musty stench of the monster hit me like a sledgehammer. Although a mild wind blew, the dry rot in the house smelled so strong that it sent my nasal receptors into a state of shock. I realized in a flash that this unpleasant smell did not rise from the foundation of the building, but crept down from the upper floors, and was now about to extend its stinking fingers into the apartment in which we were about to, if not precisely live with dignity, at least exist. There was something else as well, something unknown, strange, even threatening. It was extraordinarily difficult even for me to analyze these barely perceptible smells, and I can claim without false modesty that my two hundred million olfactory cells, even compared to those of others of my species, are unique in their power of discernment. Yet no matter how much I moistened my nose, I could not identify these unusual scent molecules. I therefore called upon my good old J organ for help and grimaced, licking the air and pressing my tongue against my palate.1

  This had the desired effect. I now discovered a further, and peculiar, odor beneath the dry-rot stench of our new home. It, however, had no natural origin, and it was some time before I could classify it. But at last I knew what it was: a potpourri of chemical smells.

  Of course I still didn't have the faintest idea what specific smell this haunted house was emitting, but at least it was now clear that synthetic chemicals were involved. Everyone knows the odor that penetrates hospital corridors or a pharmacy, and my powerful schnozzola distinguished just this smell from among the repulsive fumes of decay that that corpse of a house produced. But I was still without an inkling of the horrors that were to descend upon me, and I stood on the sidewalk beside my friend, who continued to beam with joy.

  Gustav rummaged at length in his pants pocket before he finally conjured up a worn metal ring with numerous keys. He pushed one sausagelike finger through the ring, then raised the tinkling keys up somewhat while stooping down toward me. With his other hand, he patted my head and made jubilant chuckling sounds. I assumed he was attempting one of those rosy speeches that a groom customarily delivers to his bride before carrying her over the threshold of their new home. He kept jingling the keys in his hand while pointing to the lower first floor to make clear the connection between the keys and the apartment. At times my dear Gustav had the charm of a country bumpkin and the pedagogic talent of a blacksmith.

  As if he had divined my thought, a sweet, knowing smile flitted across my friend's face. But before he could decide to actually carry me like a bride into our new house, I streaked out from between his fingers to the low-lying doorsteps. While I was padding up the flimsy steps, still covered with yellowing fall leaves, I noticed a rectangular patch on the brick wall beside the right doorpost that was a shade lighter than the rest. Rusted screws were driven into its corners; the heads of the screws were broken off. I speculated that there had been a doctor's office or a laboratory in the house once, which would also explain the smell of chemicals.

  An interruption abruptly put an end to this ingenious train of thought. For, while I stood before my future house door, my gaze fixed on the missing nameplate—presumably of Doctor Frankenstein—another, this time very familiar, scent penetrated my nostrils. Ignorant of the territorial laws of this district, and without the slightest respect for propriety, one of my kind had left behind his rather importunate calling card at the right doorpost. Since I had just moved in, however, the status of ownership was now clear; naturally, I insisted upon my right to obliterate all previous signatures with my own. And so, swiveling 180 degrees, I concentrated with all my might and fired away.

  The environmentally safe, all-purpose jet that shot out from between my rear legs inundated the spot where my predecessor had left his calling card. Order had once again been established in the world.

  Gustav smiled idiotically behind me, smiling the smile of a father whose baby says "goo goo" for the first time. I understood Gustav's little pleasure, because Gustav himself sometimes seemed to me to be a sweet little "goo goo”. His simpleminded grin breaking into jubilant grunts of joy, he waddled past me and opened the house door with an old, rusted key. After some rattling, the door swung open.

  Side by side, we made our way through a cool foyer to our apartment door, which gave me the impression of a coffin lid. A shaky staircase on the left led to the two upper floors from which Death himself seemed to waft downward. I took it upon myself to inspect the upper floors as soon as possible to find out what in fact was going on up there. I must confess, however, that the mere thought of wandering by myself through those rooms made me tremble in mortal fear. Gustav was dragging us into a godforsaken dungeon, and he didn't even realize it!

  At last the door flew open and we marched, step by step, onto a veritable battlefield.

  It was, to be fair, an impressive apartment, only it just happened to be in a state of utter upheaval. That, however, wasn't the real problem. The real problem was Gustav. My dear friend was in neither physical nor mental shape—not to mention his lack of skills with tools—to take on a ruin like this and bring it up to par. If he was seriously considering such a plan, the brain tumor I had long suspected him of having had grown to critical dimensions.

  Slowly, cautiously, I crept through each room taking in every detail. Three rooms branched off to the right of the spacious corridor; they competed fiercely among themselves for the honor of being the best example of ruin and decay, all the while bringing to mind memories of The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. These rooms were all rather large and faced south toward the street, so that presumably they would be flooded with sunlight on mild spring and summer days. But it wasn't possible to witness this effect now because the afternoon sun had just begun to slip around the corner of the house. At the end of the corridor there was a further room that I assumed was the bedroom. A door opened from this room to the outside. Off to the left of the hallway was the kitchen, which you had to walk through to get to the bathroom.

  The rooms looked as if they had only been occupied by worms, cockroaches, silverfish, rats, and various insect and bacterial empires since the Second World War (or maybe the First?); the notion that human beings had lived here recently seemed a
bsurd. There were gaping holes in both the moldy parquet floor and the ceiling. Everything smelled of rot and the urine of certain indefinable creatures that had attained a developmental stage just high enough for them to be able to urinate. In the face of this horror, only my high tolerance of pain and my faultless hormonal equilibrium were to thank for my not suffering an immediate nervous breakdown.

  As for Gustav, he had suddenly become schizophrenic. After I had returned to the corridor, bent down with grief from my survey of the last room I assumed was the bedroom, I spied my poor friend standing in the middle of the kitchen carrying on an animated monologue. To my consternation, I discovered that the enthusiastic conversation he was holding with the ancient kitchen walls by no means had as its subject the depressing state of the dump we were in, but, quite the contrary, served to express his excitement at having finally arrived in the Promised Land. Somehow, I felt sorry for the man, seeing him there, whirling around again and again, arms stretched out as if in prayer or in the thrall of a cultic rite, the whole time babbling to himself as if he were delivering a speech to the apartment's colonies of insects and bacteria. He seemed like one of those decrepit, alcoholic bit-part actors in a play by Tennessee Williams. Gustav was no tragic hero, and no audience was going to cry its heart out when he took his leave of life in the last act. Gustav's life was the very ordinary, deathly boring drama of the sort television producers base their programs on for the afflicted masses, programs that announce: "Fat doesn't have to be a way of life!" or "Lower your cholesterol level!"

  Who was this man, anyway? A plump, not particularly intelligent man in his mid-forties who wrote affectionate Christmas and birthday cards to his so-called friends who might visit him once every ten years; a man who had invested all his faith in the pharmaceutical industry in the hope that it would discover a wonder drug for his advancing baldness. He was the ideal victim of insurance agents; he had had a total of three or four unhappy sex episodes in an unhappy sex life with wretched creatures picked up during late-night visits to singles' bars, women who would empty his wallet before slipping away early the next morning while he was sleeping off his intoxication.