The Cat Who Had 14 Tales

Gertrude had jumped up and poured him a cup of coffee, and he said: “I wish you would teach that man of mine to make coffee. He makes the worst zootje I have ever tasted. In Holland we like our coffee sterk with a little chicory. But that fellow, he is-s-s a smeerlap. I would not put up with him for two minutes if I could get around by myself.”

SuSu was rubbing her head on the Hollander’s vest buttons, and he smiled with pleasure, showing small square teeth.

“Do you have this magnetic attraction for all cats?” I asked with a slight edge to my voice. SuSu was now in raptures because he was twisting the scruff of her neck.

“It is-s-s only natural,” he said. “I can read their thoughts, and they read mine of course. Do you know that cats are mind readers? You walk to the refrigerator to get a beer, and the cat she will not budge, but walk to the refrigerator to get out her dinner, and what happens? Before you touch the handle of the door she will come bouncing into the kitchen from anyplace she happens to be. Your thought waves reached her even though she seemed to be asleep.”

Gertrude agreed it was probably true.

“Of course it is-s-s true,” said Mr. Van, sitting tall. “Everything I say is-s-s true. Cats know more than you suspect. They can not only read your mind, they can plant ideas in your head. And they can sense something that is-s-s about to happen.”

My sister said: “You must be right. SuSu knew you were coming here tonight, long before you rang the bell.”

“Of course I am right. I am always right,” said Mr. Van. “My grandmother in Vlissingen had a tomcat called Zwartje just before she died, and for years after the funeral my grandmother came back to pet the cat. Every night Zwartje stood in front of the chair where Grootmoeder used to sit, and he would stretch and purr although there was-s-s no one there. Every night at half past eight.”

After that visit with Mr. Van I referred to him as Grandmother’s Ghost, for he too made a habit of appearing at eight-thirty several times a week. (For Gertrude’s coffee, I guessed.)

He would say: “I was-s-s feeling lonesome for my little sweetheart,” and SuSu would make an extravagant fuss over the man. It pleased me that he never stayed long, although Gertrude usually encouraged him to linger.

The little framed picture he had given us was not exactly to my taste. It was a silhouette of three figures—a man in frock coat and top hat, a woman in hoopskirt and sunbonnet, and a cat carrying his tail like a lance. To satisfy my sister, however, I hung the picture, but only over the kitchen sink.

One evening Gertrude, who is a librarian, came home in great excitement. “There’s a signature on that silhouette,” she said, “and I looked it up at the library. Augustin Edouart was a famous artist, and our silhouette is over a hundred years old. It might be valuable.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “We used to cut silhouettes like that in the third grade.”

Eventually, at my sister’s urging, I took the object to an antique shop, and the dealer said it was a good one, probably worth several hundred dollars.

When Gertrude heard this, she said: “If the dealer quoted hundreds, it’s probably worth thousands. I think we should give it back to Mr. Van. The poor man doesn’t know what he’s giving away.”

I agreed he could probably sell it and buy himself a decent wheelchair.

At eight-thirty that evening SuSu began to gurgle and prance.

“Here comes Grandmother’s Ghost,” I said, and shortly afterward the doorbell rang.

“Mr. Van,” I said after Gertrude had poured the coffee, “remember that silhouette you gave us? I’ve found out it’s valuable, and you must take it back.”

“Of course it is-s-s valuable,” he said. “Would I give it to you if it was-s-s nothing but rommel?”

“Do you know something about antiques?”

“My dear Mevrouw, I have a million dollars’ worth of antiques in my apartment. Tomorrow evening you ladies must come and see my treasures. I will get rid of that smeerlap, and the three of us will enjoy a cup of coffee.”

“By the way, what is a smeerlap?” I asked.

“It is-s-s not very nice,” said Mr. Van. “If somebody called me a smeerlap, I would punch him in the nose . . . . Bring my little sweetheart when you come, ladies. She will find some fascinating objects to explore.”

Our cat seemed to know what he was saying.

“SuSu will enjoy it,” said Gertrude. “She’s locked up in this apartment all winter.”

“Knit her a sweater and take her to the park in winter,” said the Hollander in the commanding tone that always irritated me. “I often bundle up in a blanket and go to the park in the evening. It is-s-s good for insomnia.”

“SuSu is not troubled with insomnia,” I informed him. “She sleeps twenty hours a day.”

Mr. Van looked at me with scorn. “You are wrong. Cats never sleep. You think they are sleeping, but cats are the most wakeful creatures on earth. That is-s-s one of their secrets.”

After he had gone, I said to Gertrude: “I know you like the fellow, but you must admit he’s off his rocker.”