The Metropolis Case_ A Novel - Matthew Gallaway [91]
“Do you think he belongs to someone?” Martin responded.
“Yeah—you.”
Martin made a low whistle. “I don’t know. I’m not really a cat guy—”
“Oh, Christ, have a heart.” She grinned luridly at him. “What is it, the goddam shittiest day in a hundred years or something? The least you can do is take care of a cat.” She disappeared into her apartment and returned carrying a few cans of food, a cardboard box, and some litter. “Look, try him for a few days, and if he doesn’t work out, bring him back—no questions asked.”
Martin felt powerless to say no as he reached through the door to receive the goods. “Okay, yeah—fine—a day or two,” he said when he recovered his voice. “Does he have a name?”
“You know, I think he does.” She put a hand on her hip. “What was my daughter calling him the other day—wait, I got it!—Dante.”
“Dante,” Martin repeated. “Why Dante?”
“Because he’s a poet?” she quipped and then shrugged. “I have no idea what goes through my daughter’s head half the time.”
Martin went back to his stoop, where he found Dante waiting for him in front of the door. “Well, go ahead then,” he said as he ushered the cat through. “I hope you like sixty-seven degrees,” he added, thinking this might encourage the cat to find another arrangement more to his liking.
When Dante did not object, Martin invited him to look around. The cat—who seemed to understand the transaction—began to explore while Martin arranged the litter box in the downstairs bathroom and put away the food. He then spent a few minutes following the cat around as he tentatively poked his head into all of the rooms before going up to the living room, where he sat in front of the window. Given that this was exactly what Martin had been looking forward to—albeit with a drink in his hand, which he now prepared—he decided that, against all expectation, Dante actually had much to recommend him as a representative member of his species. He was attractive, with a bone structure more angular than round, and short fur, so that on the whole he resembled one of those ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs more than anything out of one of those idiotic Sunday comic strips. Furthermore, Dante’s large green eyes made him seem quite intelligent, or at least intelligent enough so Martin had to imagine that the cat—as though he were in fact the Italian poet after whom he may or may not have been named—would be able to speak a few words.
Martin finished his drink, pointed at his mouth, and patted his stomach. “Are you hungry?” he asked. “Hun-gree?” he repeated, thinking that Dante might master the basics. “Shall we go see what we have to eat?” he added, and the cat amenably followed him downstairs into the kitchen, which at least partially confirmed Martin’s sense that he had acquired a seriously intelligent cat.
To Martin’s everlasting gratitude, he had replenished the refrigerator only two days earlier—and not two centuries, as it seemed—thanks to a trip to Zabar’s. He offered Dante a slice of turkey breast, which was readily accepted. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but you could stand to put on a little weight,” declared Martin, who then felt compelled to add: “You probably won’t be shocked to hear that I’m trying to lose a few pounds myself.”
Having addressed the needs of his new charge, Martin sliced himself two pieces of French sourdough; on one he spread his favorite Pierre Robert Camembert and on the other placed several slices of prosciutto di Parma and a sweet sopressata. These he took back to his study, along with a bottle of Shiraz he cradled in the nook of his elbow, a large wineglass, and an opener he carried in the fingers of his left hand, which in the course of the past hour or so had again started to ache. Dante, apparently full—although he did not say so, to Martin’s slight disappointment—sat quietly on the corner of the rug. “Good job,” he paternally addressed the cat, who looked through him with an utter lack of acknowledgment that Martin did not fail to appreciate, for it seemed to reinforce his expectation that Dante was not the sort who planned to run around