It starts with an 8 AM phone call. It is Nathan.
“Bonjour. C’est important.” He insists that we meet for coffee. Now.
Nathan suggests we meet at Cafe Lulu, just around the corner from his place. I’ve never heard of it, but it’s easy to find and Nathan assures me that dogs are allowed inside so Bernie can come as well. It’s a pleasant walk. Maybe I should get out in the early morning more often. Entire flocks of birds are chirping their wake-up calls, cats are doing their morning yoga stretches and looking for sunny spots. The air is full of the rich and intoxicating scent of pink jasmine which sprawls over the brick wall next to the front door of the cafe. A young man in a white apron is outside sweeping and washing down the curb, a regular morning ritual in France.
Inside, the cafe is tiny, dark and windowless. I shiver and wish I’d brought a sweater. This is a virtual cellar. Trying to get used to the dim light, I miss it at first. I’m more focused on checking the empty tables for Nathan. Then I see it, close enough that I could reach out my hand and touch.
Along one wall is a glass display case. Inside are the bodies of eight stuffed house cats. The shelves are covered with smudges that look like paw prints. The case is dusty and so are the cats. Their coats look moth-eaten. This must be the work of an amateur taxidermist.
It is simultaneously compelling and repulsive.
Peering more closely, I feel a near elecric shock of recognition. Stuffed for eternity, his back arched and mouth slightly open is Ella Mae’s cat, Msr. Snuff.
Tufts of his hair are missing. Cobwebs hang from his ears and whiskers. His golden glass eyes stare out at Bernie and at me without blinking.
Oh, merde.