Traveling with my cat
I found him behind my neighbor’s garage. They were both retired and about to move to Florida, and they would rather sell most of their belongings than spend the money to ship them south.
I was eleven years old that year, and I was looking for a book about Tarzan, or Clarence Mulford's "The Adventure Epic of Dragon Cassidy". Maybe it's a Mickey Mouse. Spillane's restricted novel. I found them all, but then I had to face the harsh reality. They were fifty cents apiece (Give Me a Kiss was even a full dollar), and I only had a nickel.
So I kept looking around and finally found the only book I could afford. It's called Travels with My Cat, and the author is Miss Priscilla Wallace. Not Priscilla, but Miss Priscilla. For many years I thought MISS was her last name.
I flipped through a few pages, expecting to find at least a few photos of half-naked Aboriginal girls. There are no pictures at all in the book, it's all text. I wasn't surprised; I had somehow expected that an author named Mies would not post naked women in her books.
I thought the book itself was too flashy and feminine for a boy training for Little League—the lettering on the cover protrudes from the surface, and the front page is elegant Smooth, tawny, silky cloth covered the cover, and it even came with a bookmark tied with a smooth ribbon. Just as I was about to put it back, it opened to the page that read: Volume 121 of a limited edition of 200 copies.
This makes me look at it differently. For just a nickel I could own a true limited edition book - how could I say no? I walked to the garage with it, dutifully handed over my nickels, and waited for my mother to finish picking (she always picked, but never bought—buying meant spending money, and She and my father never paid for something that could be rented cheaper or, even more cost-effectively, borrowed for free).
That night I faced a big decision. I didn’t want to read a book called Travels with My Cat by a woman named Mies, but I spent my last nickel on it—well, at least until I got the next one weeks of pocket money ago—and I've read my other books so many times that you can almost find the marks of my eyes on them.
So I reluctantly picked it up and read the first page, then the second - and suddenly I seemed to be transported to colonial Kenya, Siam (the old name of Thailand) and the Amazon. Miss Priscilla Wallace's descriptions of things made me feel like I was there, and when I finished reading a chapter, I felt as if I had actually been there.
Those were cities I had never heard of. The names of the cities were full of exotic sentiments, such as Maracaibo and Samarkand (a city in eastern Uzbekistan in the Soviet Union) and Addis Abbey. Pakistan (the capital of Ethiopia), and some names like Constantinople (the port city of Istanbul in northwest Turkey) I can't even find on the map.
Her father was once an explorer, long ago when explorers still existed. She had been with him on her first few trips abroad, and he undoubtedly introduced her to the customs and customs of those distant lands. (My own father was a typesetter. How I envied her!)
I half expected the chapter on Africa to be filled with raging elephants and man-eating lions, and maybe Africa is So - but that wasn't the Africa she saw. Africa may have blood-red fangs and claws, but to her it reflected the golden morning light, and even the dark, shadowy places were full of wonder, but not terror.
She can find beauty everywhere.
She writes about two hundred flower sellers lining the banks of the Seine in Paris on a Sunday morning, and about a single fragile flower blooming in the Gobi Desert, and somehow you know they are as stunning as she describes them.
Suddenly, the buzzing alarm clock woke me up. This is the first time I stayed up all night. I put the book aside, got dressed, headed to school, and hurried home after school so I could read it as quickly as possible.
In that year, I read it no less than six or seven times. I can even recite some passages verbatim. I fell in love with those distant foreign lands, and maybe a little bit in love with the author. I even wrote her a superstitious letter, addressed to: "Somewhere, Priscilla Wallace," and of course it was returned.
Next, in the fall, I fell in love with novels by Robert A. Hine and Louis L'Aim, and a friend saw "Traveling with My Cat" and was feminized by it The cover and the fact that it was written by a woman made me laugh, so I put it on my bookshelf, and for the next few years, I forgot about it.
I have never seen the places full of wonder and mystery she described. There are many things I have never done. I never stood out. I was never rich or famous. I have never been married.
As the years passed and I reached my forties, I was finally ready to admit that nothing unusual or surprising would happen in my lifetime. I wrote half a novel that I never intended to finish or publish, and I spent twenty years searching in vain for someone I loved. (That was just the first step; the second was finding someone to love me, which was probably more difficult, but I never got around to that either.)
I'm tired of this city, I'm tired of rubbing shoulders with people who have success and happiness that I don't have. I was born and raised in the Midwest, and eventually I moved to Northwood, Wisconsin, where the most exotic cities were Manitowoc and Minocqua and Wasau, which is comparable to Priscilla The Macau described in La Wallace's book is a far cry from Marrakesh and those glorious capitals.
I work as a copyright editor for a local weekly newspaper, and for this newspaper it is far more important to tell where to find a restaurant or to place a real estate ad correctly than to spell the names of people in a news story correctly. important. It's by no means the most challenging job in the world, but I'm content with it and I'm not looking for any. The dream of fame and fortune in my youth has passed away along with the dream of love and passion in my youth; in this age of forty, I just want a stable life.
I rented a small house by an unknown lake, about fifteen miles away from the town. It's an old house that still has charm: it has a vintage-style porch, a swing that's almost as old as the house, a dock that stretches out to the lake for a boat I never owned, and even a dock for a cabin. A drinking trough used by the owner's horses. There’s no air conditioning, but I don’t really need it—in the winter, I curl up by the fire and read the latest paperback horror novel.
It was a late summer night, with a hint of Wisconsin chill in the air, and I was sitting by the empty fire, reading a story about a gun-spattered car chase that noisily passed through. Berlin or Prague or some other city I will never see. At this time, I suddenly couldn't help but wonder, will my future be like this: a lonely old man, sitting by the fire every night, reading and reading Novels to pass the time, maybe a blanket covering his legs, and his only companion was a tabby cat...
For some reason - maybe the idea of ??tabby cats - I'm reminded of "Traveling with My Cat" again. I never had a cat, but she did; she had two cats, and they were always with her.
I haven’t thought of that book for years. I don't even know if it's still there. But for some inexplicable reason, I felt a strong urge to find it and read it.
I walked into the guest room, which was filled with glove boxes that I had yet to unpack.
There were about twenty boxes of books. I opened the first box, then the second box. I dug out Bradbury and Asimov and Candler and Hammot, and digging deeper I got Ludlam and Apple and two tattered Zane Gray novels— —and then, suddenly, there it was, as graceful as ever. The only limited edition book I own.
At this point, about thirty years later, I once again opened this book and started reading. I was completely captivated by it, just like the first time I read it. Every detail in the book is as exquisite as I remembered. And, just like thirty years ago, I lost track of time and read until dawn.
I didn't get much done that morning. My mind filled with its beautiful descriptions and insights into worlds that no longer existed—and then I began to wonder if Priscilla Wallace was still alive. She may be an old woman, but maybe I can rewrite that old superstitious letter and finally send it off.
At lunch I went to the local library, determined to find out what other books she had written. But I found nothing, either on the bookshelf or in the card file cabinet. (It was a friendly old country library; computerized queries wouldn't be possible for at least another decade.)
I went back to the office and started searching for her on my computer. I found thirty-seven different Priscilla Wallaces. One is an actor in low-budget movies. One teaches at Georgetown University. One is a diplomat based in Bratislava (a city in south-central Czechoslovakia). One is a hugely successful breeder of ornamental poodles. One is a young mother of a group of sextuplets in South Carolina. One was a crossword writer for the Sunday comic strip.
So, just when I was convinced that the computer could not find her, the next line of text suddenly appeared on my screen:
"Wallace, Priscilla, born Born in 1892, died in 1926. Author of the book: "Traveling with My Cat"
1926. It was too late for a letter, thirty years ago or now; she had been dead decades before I was born. Despite this, I suddenly felt lost and resentful - resentful of her untimely death, resentful of those people who were still alive and well in the years after she left, but who could never see the nowhere she saw. The beauty of absence.
People like me.
There is another photo there. It looked like a reproduction of an old sepia tintype photograph of a delicate girl with auburn hair and large, dark eyes that seemed to me to have a hint of sadness. Or maybe it was just me who was grieving, knowing that she died at thirty-four and that all her passion for life would die with her. I printed out the page, put it in my desk drawer, and took it home with me at the end of the day. I don't know why this is done. There are only two sentences above. But no matter what, a life - any life - deserves more. Especially a life that could reach out from the grave and touch me, a life that could make me feel, at least when I read her books, that maybe the world wasn't as boring as it seemed to me. .
That night, after I heated up my cold dinner, I sat down by the stove and opened Travels with My Cat again, just flipping through my favorite chapters. In one, a majestic elephant team marches against the backdrop of snow-capped Mount Kilimanjaro, and in another, she is mesmerized by the scent of flowers as she strolls through the gardens of Versailles on a May morning. There is another paragraph, at the end, which is also my favorite paragraph:
“There are still so many beautiful places waiting for me to see, and so many adventures waiting for me to do. I can’t help but long for such beautiful days. Eternal life. My faith comforts me, and I sincerely believe that no matter how long I leave this world, as long as someone still opens this book and reads it, I will regain my life."
This is true. is a comforting belief, definitely more enduring than any belief I have ever pursued.
I never left any mark, no trace to let others know I had lived here. Twenty, maybe thirty years at most, after my death, no one will know that I ever existed, that Ethan Irving—my name you have never heard before and doubtless never will hear again— A man who once lived, worked, and died here tried to spend every day in an ordinary way, not causing anyone any trouble, and that was all his achievement.
Different from her. Perhaps, he has a lot in common with her. She is not a politician, nor is she a warrior queen. Not a single monument has been erected to her. She wrote only one short, long-forgotten travel book, and died before she could write another. She has been dead for nearly three-quarters of a century. Who else remembers Priscilla Wallace?
I drank myself a sip of beer and started reading again. Somehow, the more she described the exoticism of those cities, the primitive wildness of those forests, the less exotic and primitive they seemed, the more they seemed like extensions of home. The more I read it, the less I understand how she did it.
I was interrupted by a splash on the porch. Damn raccoons, they run wild every night, I thought—but then I heard a distinct meow. My nearest neighbor was also a mile away, which was far enough for a wandering cat, but I figured I could at least get out there myself and take a look, and call him if he had a collar. Owner. If not, at least I can get rid of it before it gets into trouble with the local raccoons.
I opened the door and stepped onto the porch. No doubt there was a cat there, a white kitten with a few brown spots on its head and body. I bent down to pick it up, but it took a few steps back.
"I won't hurt you." I said softly.
"He knows," a woman's voice said. "He's just shy."
I turned around - and there she was, sitting on my porch swing. She gestured, and the cat jumped across the hallway and into her lap.
I had seen this face earlier today, staring back at me from a sepia tinplate photograph. I stared at it for hours until I had memorized its every outline.
That's her.
"It's a beautiful night, isn't it?" she said, and I still stared at her, dumbfounded. "So peaceful. Even the birds have gone to sleep." She paused. "Only the cicadas are still awake, playing their symphony for us."
I didn't know what to say, so I just stared at her, waiting for her to disappear.
"You look very pale," she said after a moment.
"You look real," I finally said hoarsely.
"Of course," she replied with a smile. "I am real."
"You are Miss Priscilla Wallace and I must have spent so much time thinking about you that I started hallucinating."
"Do I look like I'm hallucinating?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "I've never had hallucinations before, so I don't know what they look like—unless they look like you." I paused. "I think you are more beautiful than them. You have a beautiful face."
She smiled at this. The cat jumped up in fright and she began to pet it gently. "I think you want me to blush," she said.
"Are you blushing?" I asked, secretly hoping that I wasn't blushing.
"Of course I do," she replied, "although I've had my doubts since coming back from Tahiti. What they do there!" Then, "You were just reading "And Travels with My Cat, right?"
"Yes, I was just reading it. It's been my most cherished book since I was a kid."
"It's one of my favorites. A gift?" she asked.
“No, I bought it myself.”
“That’s really nice.
"
"The happiest thing is that I finally met the author who brought me so much joy," I said, feeling as if I had become a clumsy child again.
She looked confused, as if she wanted to ask something, but then she changed her mind and smiled again, which was just as lovely as I thought it would be. Beautiful cabin," she said. "Have you always lived on the lake? ”
“Yes. ”
“Is anyone else living here?” ”
“Only me. "
"You like to be alone," she said. It was a statement, not a question.
"Not really," I answered. "That's just the way it is. People don't seem to like me. "
Damn, why am I telling her this? I couldn't help but think to myself. I never even admitted it to myself.
"You seem like a really nice person. ," she said. "It's hard for me to believe that people wouldn't like you. "
"Maybe I'm exaggerating a little," I admitted. "Usually they just don't pay any attention to me. "I feel a little uncomfortable. "I don't want you to talk to me. ”
“You are lonely. You need someone to talk to," she replied. "But I think what you need more is just a little confidence. ”
“Maybe.
She stared at me for a long time. "You look like you're waiting for something terrible to happen." "
"I'm waiting for you to disappear. ”
“Isn’t that terrible? "
"No," I said immediately. "That's terrible. "
"Then why don't you just accept the fact that I am indeed here? If you're wrong, you'll know it quickly. "
I nodded. "Yes, you are Priscilla Wallace, that's right. That was indeed her way of protesting. ”
“You know who I am. Maybe you should also tell me who you are? "
"My name is Ethan Owen"
"Ethan," she repeated. "That's a good name.
"You think so?"
"I wouldn't say that if I didn't think so." She paused. "Should I call you Ethan or Mr. Owen?"
"Please call me Ethan. I feel like I've known you a lifetime." I felt another embarrassing outpouring begin. . "I even wrote you a book fetish letter when I was a child, but it was returned."
"I love book fetishes," she said. "I've never received a book fetish letter. No one has ever written to me."
"I'm sure hundreds of people would like to write. They might just not be able to find your address."
"Maybe." she said doubtfully.
"In fact, just today I was thinking about sending it again."
"Whatever you want to say, you can just tell me." The cat jumped On to the porch. "Ethan, you're uncomfortable leaning against the railing like that. Why don't you sit next to me?"
"I'd love to have that," I said, standing up. Then I thought about it again. "No, I'd better stay here."
"I'm thirty-two years old," she said cheerfully. "I don't need parental care."
"With me, you don't," I agreed. "Besides, I don't think we have any reason to need them."
"So what's the problem?"
"Seriously?" I said. "If I sit next to you, some part of my hip might rub against you, or I might inadvertently touch your hand. And..."
"And what?"
"And I don't want to find out that you're not really here."
"But I am."
"I hope so," I said. "But I can believe that more easily by staying here."
She shrugged. "As you wish.
”
“Tonight I have fulfilled my wish. ” I said.
“So why don’t we just sit here and enjoy the smell of the Wisconsin night and the breeze?” "
"As long as you are happy," I said.
"I am very happy to be here. It makes me happy to know that my books are still being read. "She was silent for a while, staring into the darkness. "What's the date today, Ethan?"
"April seventeenth. "
"I mean which year. "
"2004. "
She looked a little surprised. "It's been so long? "
"Since...? "I said hesitantly.
"Since I died," she said. "Oh, I know I must have been dead for a long time. I no longer have a tomorrow, and my yesterday has become so long ago. But the new millennium? That's too much" - she seemed to be searching for the right word - "too much. ”
“You were born in 1892, more than a century ago. "I said.
"How do you know? ”
“I looked you up on the computer. "
"I don't know what a computer is," she said. Then, suddenly: "Do you also know when and how I died? "
"I know the time, but I don't know what happened.
"Then please don't tell me," she said. "I'm thirty-two years old, and I've just written the last page of my book." I don't know what's going to happen next, and maybe you shouldn't tell me. "
"Okay," I said. Then to borrow her words, "As you wish. "
"Promise me. ”
“I promise. "
Suddenly the little white cat looked nervously into the yard.
"He saw his brother," said Priscilla.
"Maybe it's just a raccoon," I said. "They're troublemakers. "
"No," she insisted. "I understand his behavior. It was his brother there.
No doubt, after a while I heard a clear meow. The white cat jumped out of the porch and ran in the direction of the sound.
"I'd better be there Catch them before they get completely lost," Priscilla said, lowering her legs from the swing. "This happened once in Brazil and I had to spend almost two full days trying to get them back. "
"I'll go with you, wait while I get the flashlight," I said.
"No, you will scare them, and the flashlight is very useful for running around in a strange environment. They are of no use either. "She stood up and stared at me. "You seem like a nice guy, Ethan Owen. I'm glad we finally met. She smiled sadly. "I just hope you don't feel so lonely." ”
Before I could lie to her and tell her that I had lived a full and rich life and was not lonely at all, she was walking off the porch, into the yard, and into the darkness. Suddenly I had a feeling I have a feeling that she won’t come back. “Will we meet again? "I watched her disappear from sight and shouted after her.
"That's up to you, isn't it? " came her answer in the darkness.
I sat on the swing, waiting for her and her kittens to appear again. Eventually, despite the cold night air, I fell asleep. When I woke up By this time, the morning sun was already shining on the swing.
I was alone.
I spent almost half of the day trying to convince myself that what happened the night before was nothing more. A dream. It wasn't like any dream I'd ever had, because I remembered every detail of it, every word she said, every move she made. Of course, she didn't actually visit. But I couldn't stop thinking about Priscilla Wallace, so I finally stopped what I was doing and started searching for more information about her on my computer.
There is no more information under her name except those two simple words. I tried searching for "Traveling with My Cat" but found nothing.
I looked to see if her father had also written a book about his adventures; but he hadn't. I even contacted a few hotels where she had stayed, either alone or with her father, but none of them kept records that far back.
I tried to follow the lead from lead to lead, but to no avail. History has almost swallowed her up, just as it will one day swallow me up. Apart from that book, the only evidence I have about her existence is the two sentences on the computer, which add up to only a dozen words and two dates. No wanted criminal can disappear from the face of the law so cleanly as she did in front of the world.
Finally I looked out the window and realized that night had fallen and everyone else had gone home. (There’s no such thing as morning and evening shifts at a weekly newspaper job.) I stopped at a local diner for a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee before heading back to my lake house.
I watched the ten o'clock TV news, then sat down and opened her book again, just to convince myself that she had indeed existed. After a few minutes I felt uneasy, I put the book back on the table and walked out of the room to get some fresh air.
She was sitting on the swing, exactly where she was sitting last night. There was another cat nestling next to her, a black kitten with white paws and eye circles.
She noticed me looking at the cat. "It's a stare," she said. "I think he's named after his cat, don't you?"
"I guess so," I said distractedly.
"The white one is Gig because he likes to be naughty all the time." I said nothing. Finally she smiled. "Which one of them ate your tongue?"
"You're back," I said at last.
“Of course, I’m back.”
“It’s me reading your book again,” I said. "I don't think I've ever met anyone who loves life so much."
"There are so many things to love!"
"For some of us. "
"They're all around you, Ethan," she said.
"I'd rather see it through your eyes. It's like you are reborn into a new world every morning," I said. "I guess that's why I keep your book, that's why I keep reading it again and again - to share what you see and feel."
"You can feel it for yourself."
I shook my head. "I like the way you feel better."
"Poor Ethan," she said sincerely. "You've never loved, have you?"
"I've tried."
"That's not my problem." She stared at me curiously. "Have you ever been married?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't know." I decided to give her as much as I could An honest answer. "Maybe because none of them are as good as you."
"I'm not that special," she said.
"To me you are. You always have been."
She frowned. "I hope my book adds color to your life, Ethan, not ruins it."
"You didn't ruin it," I said. "You just make it more bearable."
"I wonder..." she mused.
"What?"
"Why I'm here. It's baffling."
"Baffling is an understatement," I said. "It should be said that it is unbelievable."
She shook her head distractedly. "You don't understand. I remember last night."
"Me too - every second of it."
"That's not what I meant." She said absently Stroking the cat. "I had never been called back before last night. I wasn't so sure. I thought maybe I would forget everything every time I was called back. But today I still remember last night.
"
"I'm not sure I understand what you mean. "
"You can't be the only person who has read my books after I die. Or even if you are, I have never been called back before this, and not even you can. "She stared at me for a long time. "Maybe I'm wrong. "
"About what? ”
“Perhaps the reason I was brought back here was not that I was read. Maybe it's because of you, that you need someone so desperately. "
"I -" I became excited, but immediately calmed down. For a moment, it felt like the whole world stopped with me. Then the moon appeared from behind the clouds, An owl hooted and flew away on the left.
“What’s wrong? "
"I wanted to tell you that I wasn't alone," I said. "But that would be a lie. "
"There's nothing to be ashamed of, Ethan. ”
“There’s nothing worth bragging about. "There was something about her that made me say things I'd never said to anyone, including myself. "When I was a boy, I had such high expectations. I want to love my job, and I want to do something great. I want to find a woman, love her, and stay with her forever. I'm going to see for myself the places you describe. Yet, year after year, I watched these hopes fade away. Now I'm settling in just to pay my bills and go to the doctor for regular checkups. "I sighed deeply. "I guess my life could be described as a complete dash of hope. "
"You're going to have an adventure, Ethan," she said softly.
"I'm not you," I said. "I wished I was, but I'm not . Also, there are no longer any wild places. "
She shook her head. "That's not what I meant. Love is also an adventure. You have to risk getting hurt. "
"I'm already hurt," I said. "That's not worth mentioning. "
"Maybe that's why I'm here. You cannot be harmed by a ghost. "
Damn it, no, I thought. I asked loudly: "Are you a ghost? ”
“I don’t think so. ”
“You don’t look like it either. "
"How do I look? she asked.
“It’s just as cute as I imagined.” ”
“Times have changed. "
"But beauty is eternal," I said
"That's very generous of you to say, but I must look very old-fashioned. In fact, the world I know must seem very primitive to you. "She was in high spirits. "It's a new millennium. Tell me what happened. ”
“We’ve walked on the moon – and we’ve landed on Mars and Venus. "
She looked up at the night sky. "The moon! she exclaimed. Then: "Why stay here when you can go there?" ”
“I’m not a risk taker, remember? ”
“What an exciting era you live in! she said eagerly. "I always want to see what's beyond the next mountain." And you - you can see what's behind the next star. "
"It's not that simple," I said.
"But it can be done," she insisted.
"Maybe one day it can be done. ," I agreed. "Not in my lifetime, but one day. "
"Then you will die with regrets," she said. "I'm sure I will. "She looked up at the stars, as if imagining she had flown among them. "Tell me more about the future. "
"I know nothing about the future," I said.
"My future. Your present.
I told her as much as I could. She was fascinated by the fact that hundreds of millions of people now travel by air, by the fact that almost all of them have their own cars, by the fact that train travel is almost extinct in America. . And the concept of television broadcasting fascinated her; I decided not to tell her how boring life had become since the advent of television.
Color films, talkies, computers—she wanted to know them all. She longs to know