Lilian Braun - The Cat Who Could Read Backwards

"I have a vacancy downstairs," said Mountclemens. "Small but adequate — and furnished rather well. It has a gas fireplace and some of my second-best Impressionists. The rent would be insignificant. My chief interest is to have the place occupied."

"Sounds good," said Qwilleran from the depths of his lounge chair, with memories of Caesar salad and lobster bisque still soothing him.

"I travel a great deal, viewing exhibitions and serving on art juries, and in this dubious neighborhood it is a good idea to have signs of life in the front apartment downstairs."

"I'd like to have a look at it." "Regardless of rumors that I am a monster," said Mountclemens in his most agreeable tone, "you will not find me a bad landlord. Everyone hates a critic, you know, and I imagine the gossips have described me as a sort of cultivated Beelzebub with artistic pretensions. I have few friends and, thankfully, no relatives, with the exception of a sister in Milwaukee who refuses to disown me. I am somewhat of a recluse."

Qwilleran made an understanding gesture with his pipe.

"A critic cannot afford to mix with artists," Mountclemens went on, "and when you hold yourself aloof, you invite jealousy and hatred. All my friends are here in this room, and I care for nothing else. My only ambition is to own works of art. I am never satisfied. Let me show you my latest acquisition. Did you know that Renoir painted window shades at one time in his career?" The critic leaned forward and lowered his voice, and a peculiar elation shone in his face. "I have two window shades painted by Renoir."

A shrill howl came from Kao K'o Kung, who was sitting in a tall, compact posture, gazing into the fire. It was a Siamese comment that Qwilleran could not translate. More than anything else it sounded like a portent.

On Thursday The Daily Fluxion published Qwilleran's first profile of an artist. His subject was Uncle Waldo, the elderly primitive and portrayer of livestock. Qwilleran had carefully avoided comment on the old man's artistic talent, building his story instead around the butcher's personal philosophy after a lifetime of selling chuck roasts to housewives in a lower-middle-class neighborhood.

The appearance of the story revived interest in Uncle Waldo's pictures, and on Friday the unimportant gallery that handled his work sold all their dusty canvases of beef cattle and woolly lambs and urged the old man to resume painting. Readers wrote to the editor commending Qwilleran's handling of the story. And Uncle Waldo's grandson, the truck driver, went to the offices of the Daily Fluxion with a gift for Qwilleran — ten pounds of home, made sausage that the retired butcher had made in his basement.

Friday evening Qwilleran himself was accorded some attention at the Press Club as he distributed links of knackwurst. He met Arch Riker and Odd Bunsen at the bar and ordered his usual tomato juice.

Arch said, "You must be quite a connoisseur of that stuff."

Qwilleran ran the glass under his nose and considered the bouquet thoughtfully. "An unpretentious vintage," he said. "Nothing memorable, but it has a naive charm. Unfortunately the bouquet is masked by the smoke from Mr. Bunsen's cigar. I would guess the tomatoes came from — " (he took a sip and rolled it on his tongue) — "from Northern Illinois. Obviously a tomato patch near an irrigation ditch, getting the morning sun from the east and the afternoon sun from the west." He took another swallow. "My palate tells me the tomatoes were picked early in the day — on a Tuesday or Wednesday — by a farmhand wearing a Band-Aid. The Mercurochrome comes through in the aftertaste."

"You're in a good mood," said Arch.

"Yep," said Qwilleran. "I'm moving out of the plastic palace. I'm going to rent an apartment from Mountclemens."

Arch set his glass down with a thud of astonishment, and Odd Bunsen choked on cigar smoke.

"A furnished apartment on the first floor. Very comfortable. And the rent is only $50 a month."

"Fifty! What's the catch?" said Odd.

"No catch. He just doesn't want the house standing empty when he's out of town."

"There's gotta be a catch," Odd insisted. "Old Monty's too tightfisted to give anything away. Sure he doesn't expect you to be a cat-sitter when he's out of town?"

"Quit being a cynical press photographer," said Qwilleran. "Don't you know it's an outdated stereotype?"

Arch said, "Odd's right. When our messenger goes to pick up the tapes, Mountclemens sends him on all kinds of personal errands and never gives the kid a tip. Is it true he's got a houseful of valuable art?"

Qwilleran took a slow swallow of tomato juice. "He's got a lot of junk lying around, but who knows if it's worth anything?" He refrained from mentioning the Van Gogh. "The big attraction is the cat. He's got a Chinese name — something like Koko. Mountclemens says cats like to hear a repetition of syllables when they're being ad, dressed, and their ears are particularly receptive to palatal and velar sounds."

"Somebody's nuts," said Odd.

"This cat is a Siamese, and he's got a voice like an ambulance siren. Know anything about the Siamese? It's a breed of supercat — very intelligent. This one can read."

"Read?"

"He reads the newspaper headlines, but they have to be fresh off the press."

"What does this supercat think of my photographs?" Odd said.

"It's questionable whether cats can recognize pictorial images, according to Mountclemens, but he thinks a cat can sense the content of a picture. Koko prefers modem art to old masters. My theory is that the fresher paint gets through to his sense of smell. Same way with fresh ink on a newspaper."

"What's the house like?" Arch asked.

"Old. Declining neighborhood. But Mountclemens cherishes his place like a holy relic. They're tearing down buildings all around him, but he says he won't give up his house. It's quite a place. Chandeliers, elaborate woodwork, high ceilings — all carved plaster."

"Dust-catchers," said Odd.

"Mountclemens lives upstairs, and the downstairs is made into two apartments. I'm taking the front one. The rear is vacant, too. It's a nice quiet place except when the cat lets out a shriek."

"How was the food on Wednesday night?"

"When you taste Mountclemens' cooking, you forgive him for talking like a character in a Noel Coward play. I don't see how he turns out such dishes with his handicap."

"You mean his hand?"

"Yes. What's wrong with it?"

"That's an artificial hand he wears," said Arch.

"No kidding! It looks real, except for a little stiffness."

"That's why he tapes his column. He doesn't type."

Qwilleran thought about it for a few moments. Then he said, "I feel sorry for Mountclemens, in a way. He lives like a hermit. He thinks a critic shouldn't mix with artists, and yet art is his chief interest — that and the preservation of an old house."

"What did he say about the local art situation?" Arch asked.

"It's a funny thing. He didn't say much about art. We talked mostly about cats."

"See? What did I tell you?" said Odd. "Monty's lining you up for part-time cat-sitting. And don't expect a tip!"

The unseasonable weather, warm for February, ended that week. The temperature plunged, and Qwilleran bought a heavy pepper-and-salt tweed overcoat with his first full salary check.

For most of the weekend he stayed home, enjoying his new apartment. It had a living room with bed alcove, a kitchenette, and what Mountclemens would call ambiance. Qwilleran called it lots of junk. Still, he liked the effect. It was homey, and the chairs were comfortable, and there were gas logs in the fireplace. The picture over the mantel, according to the landlord, was one of Monet's less successful works.

Qwilleran's only complaint was the dim lighting. Light bulbs of low wattage seemed to be one of Mountclemens' economies. Qwilleran went shopping on Saturday morning and picked up some 75's and l00's.