Russell Hoban - Angelica Lost and Found

‘OK, Cunégonde,’ I said. ‘We’ll give it a try.’

‘What kind of a name is that?’

‘You have to read Voltaire.’

‘Whatever you say, Boss.’ She rubbed against my leg, purring like an outboard motor with a bad cold.

‘You’ve got fleas, right?’

‘Gimme a break, I come from a broken home.’

‘What other kind is there? Wait a minute.’ I found an empty Napa Valley carton and put it in front of her.

‘I can take a hint,’ she said, and jumped into it.

I didn’t want to be seen in the elevator with my Napa Valley cast, so I carried her up the three flights to my apartment. When Cunégonde jumped out of the box I tore up Sunday’s Chronicle into strips, filled the box with my improvised cat litter, primed it and put it in a corner of the kitchen.

‘Your temporary bathroom,’ I said.

She sniffed it and said, ‘Roger that, Boss. Is it chow time yet?’

I spread the ‘Datebook’ of the paper on the floor, filled a bowl with milk, opened a can of sardines, put them in a dish, and said, ‘Your table is ready, Madame. I’m going out for supplies. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. Back soon.’

I went to Noe Valley Pet where I consulted with Annie and bought Frontline for the fleas, cat litter, a litter tray, a basket and blanket for my new friend’s bed, and some catnip for recreational use. I had briefly considered a rubber mouse but rejected it as being an insult to a cat who had probably dined on rats or indeed anything that couldn’t dine on her. I stopped off at Decamere for six cans of Whiskas, and thus laden arrived at my apartment.

‘Honey, I’m home!’ I called as I opened the door.

Shall be exalted? Every single one, really? KDFC got a Handel on Easter with Messiah , all two hours and seventeen minutes of it. In spite of my outburst on the isle of Ebuda I am not a religious person. Jewish to the core, yes, but that’s my personal identity, nothing to do with God who, being omnipotent, has had the power to imagine Himself into being with all attendant perks and privileges.

He certainly convinced George Frideric Handel, who made a career out of his devotion to that exigent deity. It’s hard to be sure which came first. Did God invent Handel or did Handel invent God? Not forgetting that the same arrangement existed between Him and Johann Sebastian Bach. The whole thing is confusing and I dwell on it because there is more to it than meets the mind.

‘I know that my Redeemer liveth,’ sings the soprano. From what are we redeemed? Original sin? Unoriginal sin? I think uncertainty is what we are redeemed from by this redeemer whom we have invested with the power to redeem us. The extra-strength placebo. If you think it works, it will.

And, unaccountably, it does. Listening to Messiah I feel redeemed.

‘Listen, Angelica,’ said Clancy when I finally stopped cutting him short on the telephone, ‘I know I behaved shamefully the other day, but is that a good enough reason to break off a long-standing friendship? I apologise wholeheartedly and I promise never to turn nasty again.’

‘OK, Clancy, I accept your apology and we can be friends again.’

‘Will you have dinner with me this evening? No improper advances, I give you my word.’

I said yes, and we went to a restaurant in the Mission, Delfina on 18th Street. It was crowded and noisy but cheerful. Although the lighting was not intimate the many ceiling lamps were friendly. Above the voices and the clatter of cutlery I could hear the nimble arabesques of John Coltrane’s saxophone in ‘Like Sonny’, one of the tracks I have at home.

‘It’s nice here,’ I said to Clancy, feeling as I spoke more than a little crazed. This place was here with us in it while somewhere else was a nowhere with Volatore in it.

‘And you haven’t even tasted the food yet,’ said Clancy.

‘You order for me, OK?’

‘Right, but first we need to get something sparkly down our necks.’

My attention wandered while he instructed the wine waiter who returned with a bottle and uncorked it, indicating by his expression that Clancy knew what was what. He poured a taster, and when Clancy nodded he poured the golden brightness for both of us.

‘Here’s looking at you,’ said Clancy.

‘Here’s looking right back,’ I replied dutifully as we touched glasses.

It was a very good dinner, with calamari followed by halibut, more sparkling wines, profiteroles, coffee and grappa. All of it delicious and all of it wasted on me. We took turns speaking but it wasn’t conversation. Reality, even when supported by sensory proof, is all in the mind. And the whole evening, Clancy included, was simply not real. No wings, no air rushing past me, no world unrolling below.

When he took me home he said, ‘Probably you’re not going to ask me up for a nightcap.’

‘I’m sorry, Clancy. It’s a reality thing.’

‘Yeah, right,’ he snarled, and drove away.

I was glad to see him go. I was looking forward to a little Jack Daniel’s, some Padre Antonio Soler with the volume down to a whisper, and a cosy chat with Cunégonde whose name no longer seemed right. This cat was more of an Irene. I’d Frontlined her fleas earlier, so she curled up in my lap and purred her satisfaction until it was time to call it a day. I put her in her basket, said, ‘Goodnight, Irene,’ and went to the bathroom. When I came out in my pyjamas Irene was comfortably arranged in my bed and purring so the windows rattled. A real mezzo but no seguidilla.

‘Move over,’ I said, and drifted off to sleep.

Woe! Woe is me! Neither here nor gone, I wax and wane like the moon. And in the dark of the moon I wait in terror, not knowing if I shall ever reach the full again.

How did I dare to break through the boundaries of literary reality! I am a freak, a metaphysical anomaly, an existential desperado, an impossibility that slipped through the net of not-being. Angelica, let me be with you or let me die!

‘Nothing happens on a Thursday,’ said Olivia. ‘Why don’t we close up and go for a drive?’

‘Where to?’ I said.

‘Ocean Beach.’

‘What for?’

‘I want to see the Giant Camera. I’ve never been to it before. Have you?’

‘No, but I’m not sure a giant camera is what I need right now.’

‘When in doubt, try something new,’ said Olivia. So we shut up shop and off we went.

Olivia’s car is a 1941 Lincoln Continental, white. It’s a classic and she claims it pulls a more intellectual type than the Porsche she used to drive. The car’s name is Lucille.

‘It’s what B.B. King calls his guitar,’ she told me. ‘Seemed right for this baby.’

‘Lucille is in a country song too,’ I said. About leaving her husband with hungry children and a crop still to harvest.’

‘Takes all kinds of Lucilles,’ said Olivia. ‘Same as it takes all kinds of Angelicas. And dads.’

‘Aha! I noticed him scoping your legs.’

‘He’s going to do a portrait of me.’

‘Are you sure it’s your face he’s interested in?’

‘Jesus, Ange, what is it with you today? Why do you have to rain on my parade?’

‘Sorry, Liv. I’m a little down today and I guess I don’t want anybody else to be too up. But can I say something about your upcoming portrait session?’

‘Feel free.’

‘He’ll probably do preliminary sketches and most likely he’ll ask for quick poses, fifteen minutes or less.’