Monday
Our nearest neighbor Ella Mae and her 14-year-old cat Msr. Snuff live just across the little courtyard from us. At least Ella Mae says there is a Msr. Snuff in there. He’s an inside cat, and I’ve never seen him. I’ve never been to her apartment, nor she to mine, but she’s a pleasant enough neighbor.
Our identical wrought iron balconies, just big enough for one chair and a tiny table, face each other. It’s close enough that sometimes we exchange chitchat (or as the Fench say, tittletattle) back and forth. She doesn’t have parties or play loud music or come in late at night and slam her door. I’ve never seen anyone at her place but her. She seems a bit of a loner,, and in a way, I’m somewhat flattered that she’s friendly to me. The other neighbors never mention her. There seems to be some kind of an unspoken agreement to give Ella Mae her space.
Although she’s from the US, she tells me she has lived in Paris for many years. “I’ve been here so long you can call me a native,” is her frequent comment. I think I detect a bit of the South in her speech and ask her one time where in the States she’s from. Her answer is vague: “Oh, East Coast, West Coast. I moved around.”
What Ella Mae does like to talk about is her age. “I’m much older than you would guess,” she says, as if that explains everything. I don’t want to be put in the position of having to guess her age, so I usually don’t comment when she bring it up. I’m concerned my guess would not be what she wants to hear.
Her short-cropped and spiked hair is dyed a fiery flame-red. She wears lots of makeup with a slash of black eyeliner that extends beyond the outer corners of both eyes to give her a Cleopatra look. Her clothes always make a statement. She’s tall, about 5’10” and slim-hipped, and she flaunts both with too tight clothes, often accented with multicolored finely woven shawls and short ponchos. Her trademarks are fishnet stockings, high heels and lots of jewelry — gold hoop earrings, multiple bangle bracelets and an oversize diamond nose stud. When she’s relaxing at home and sitting out on her balcony, she often wears a kimono. My favorite is the black silk with a gold dragon embroidered across the back. To me, Ella Mae epitomizes the eccentric expatriate, and I find her to be somewhat intriguing.
I have no idea what she does — artist?writer? independently wealthy? a prostitute? — and I wouldn’t think of asking her.
One balmy afternoon, I sit on my balcony indulging in the soothing warmth of the sun and writing in my journal. Ella Mae pops her head out her door and calls over, “I’m going out of town for two days. Would you be an absolute dear and feed Msr. Snuff while I’m gone? Just once a day is enough. He’s no trouble.” She takes me a bit by surprise and I can’t think of any good reason to say no, so I agree even though I don’t want to. About an hour later, she knocks on my door and hands me the key to her apartment. “See you Wednesday night,” she calls over her shoulder as she leaves.
That evening, Bernie and I head over to her apartment. I’m secretly looking forward to seeing it. I expect something flashy like Ella Mae herself. To my surprise, the inside of her place is dark and oppressive. All of the ceiling-to-floor faded green cotton draperies are dusty and pulled tight across the windows. When we walk in the door, the cat is lurking somewhere in a dark corner.
I turn on the wall light switch and a big, fat, black cat suddenly squalls and leaps through the air up onto my arm, twisting and scratching. I scream, Bernie barks wildly, the cat takes off running with Bernie close behind and hides somewhere in the back of the apartment. He doesn’t come out at all during the time it takes me to open the can of cat food, put it in his bowl, and give him fresh water. “Msr. Snuff, oh Msr. Snuff, dinner is served ,” I singsong call to him. Silence. Bernie, however, wags his short stump of a tail in appreciation. He likes it when I sing.
The next day, I wear a long sleeve sweatshirt and jeans to armor my body against cat scratches. The lurking Msr. Snuff quickly becomes a scary pattern, and he lies in wait in half-hidden places to jump me when I come in — to the side of the coffee pot on the kitchen counter, behind the green plastic dustpan leaning against the wall, under the ironing board that is set up in the living room. Each time, just before I open the door, my heart speeds up until it’s pounding in my chest. Fear of the lovely Msr. Snuff makes me dread those first steps into the living room. At least he doesn’t go after Bernie. Smart cat. He knows a dog with a big mouth when he sees one.