Excerpt
Agnes Aubert's Mystical Cat Shelter
Chapter 1I paused on the threshold of the shop to stamp the frost from my boots. It settled on the sills and cobblestones at night now, a fine white fur, as if winter were a great beast who skulked through the city while we slept, leaving bits of pelt behind. At least the snows hadn’t arrived yet, which was some relief.
I removed my gloves, surreptitiously checking my sleeves for cat hair. The landlord, an older, narrow man, watched me with an expression of gravity disproportionate to the situation.
“It’s a good size,” I said, finally giving up the attempt at honesty. The shop was not as bad as some of the others, but even if it were, I was desperate to find something to compliment. I noticed only a little mould in the corners, and no evidence of mice, though it was perhaps half the square footage claimed by the newspaper advertisement.
M. Levasseur smiled, not quite hiding his relief. “It is that,” he said. “You will not find anything larger in this neighbourhood, mademoiselle, where folks work hard and learn to make do.”
He gave me a pugnacious look, as if readying himself for an argument. I only smiled, feeling a stab of relief—this suggested that I was not the first to enquire about the place. And now that I had seen it, I could guess which side—landlord or tenant—had been rejected.
“Good location for a charity,” he went on. “The Sisters of Salvation have their shop across the square. And Saint-Jean gives free meals almost every day.”
“Oh?” I said nervously, pretending to be surprised. On my walk there, I had passed Saint-Jean, a pretty but worn-looking stone church at least a century old, and the Sisters of Salvation, which provided free clothing to those who could not afford any. I had, in fact, made use of both during especially lean years.
A foghorn sounded, and I heard the rumble of ships being unloaded at the river wharves, smelled the mingled algae and soot. I could not help thinking that an isolated location such as this, tucked in amongst warehouses and far from the bustle of the city, was not ideal for my particular needs.
You’ll make do, a little voice lectured me. It added in its pessimistic way, You’ve been turned down eight times. Stand up straight.
I adjusted my posture and smoothed the tension in my face, aiming to project the confidence of a seasoned businesswoman. It was more difficult after a long day; my back ached, and on the whole I would have preferred to be at home in a hot bath.
“Why are you moving?” M. Levasseur said bluntly, as if already anticipating an unfavourable reply. He struck me as a frowning sort of man, with the perpetually lowered eyebrows of one who makes a study of disapproval, but nevertheless he seemed to be warming to my presence, and especially to my approval of his property, those abundant eyebrows levitating higher on his pale face.
“I was renting a shop on Rue Sainte-Roseline,” I said simply.
“On—” His expression changed. “You weren’t there? Where it happened?”
I did not want to discuss this. And yet I very much wanted him to feel sorry for me, so I made myself say, “You read about it in the papers, then?”
“Of course. They said a dozen shops were blasted.”
“Yes—I’m afraid mine was among the hardest hit. It is, at present, barely habitable. My landlord, Mme. Richard, will verify the particulars.”
I opened my folder and removed a piece of paper. On it were a half-dozen references, their names and addresses neatly typed.
“I know her—a good woman.” His face, I realized, had reddened a little on my behalf. “Goddamn magicians! Duelling in broad daylight, in the middle of a street full of decent, hardworking folk. But isn’t it just like them?”
“Indeed,” I said, my throat tightening. “So you understand my haste to move.”
“Goddamn magicians!” he said again. Abruptly, he seized my hand and pressed it. “You have my condolences.”
Embarrassingly, his concern brought tears to my eyes; I cry as easily as I blush—namely, at the drop of a hat. At the same time, I felt the uncoiling of a familiar resentment, which had long been apt to emerge at the mention of magicians. I didn’t like this side of myself, and endeavoured to push the anger down. Anger had always struck me as an impractical emotion, anger at magicians even more so—not that the inequity of their power, and the poor use so many put it to, did not warrant it. And yet if one were to be angry about that, one might as well be angry at the whole world.
M. Levasseur took me on a tour of the upstairs apartment, his manners notably improved. It was as dismal as the downstairs shop, poorly insulated and rather dirty, and the hot water in the bathroom sink barely trickled. But the upstairs was just for me, so I didn’t worry over it too much. The bedroom window afforded a view of the St. Lawrence and had a ledge wide enough to accommodate even His Majesty’s ample behind. He had a fondness for window ledges, and I could easily picture him there, lazily sunning himself.
“I can see you’ll be no trouble,” M. Levasseur said as we made our way back downstairs. “I never like arguing with my tenants. Ruins the relationship. Just last week I evicted a woman from an apartment not far from here. She had two children, but did she tell me when she signed the lease? I don’t like renting to children—you never know what they’ll do to a place. When she fell behind on the rent, it was almost a relief.”
“Ça alors,” I murmured.
He was at least good enough to seem chastened by the look on my face, for he added quickly, “It’s a matter of upkeep—maintenance doesn’t come cheap. I take my responsibilities seriously, unlike some. You wouldn’t believe the stories I hear.”
“Any in particular?” I said, because I was beginning to wonder if M. Levasseur’s poor opinion of his colleagues might not be taken as a recommendation. And yet the human heart is an eclectic thing, an assemblage of prejudices and affections, and I’d known the man for only ten minutes—how was I to know how the ledger was weighted in his case?
He eyed me, seeming to take my measure. My face is round and frequently red, for reasons sometimes related to emotion and other times to no factor I can identify, which together with my wide-set eyes makes me appear younger than my thirty-five years, as well as earnest and overeager. Élise likes to joke that I look as if I am forever on a mission to sell cookies. I am unexceptional in every other respect, from my hair—naturally curly, but rather unruly and more pale than it is any specific colour—to my mundane height and figure, but I’ve found this to be an advantage in dealing with the sort of individuals who resent those who stand out.
“If I had a daughter,” he said at last, “I’d warn her away from the place on Rue des Hirondelles, for one. Can’t keep a tenant, and no surprise. Something not quite right about the owner. You hear odd stories . . . Then there’s that restaurant in Montgomery Square—the basement floods at least twice a year.”
“I appreciate the advice,” I said, though I was disappointed it was not more relevant. I wasn’t looking to rent a restaurant, and I didn’t need to enquire further to know I’d never be able to afford a shop on Rue des Hirondelles. It was odd, though—this was at least the third time in a week I’d heard mention of that particular street. First Élise had suggested we canvass the shops there for donations, then a man handing out flyers had tried to convince me to attend a musical performance at one of the cafés.
I shook my head. A coincidence, no more.
“Let’s get started on the application,” he said, politely pulling out a chair for me at the rickety table. He drew a wrinkled bundle of papers and a pencil from his vest pocket. “What sort of charity do you run? I don’t need specifics, just a general idea. I’ve got it—you knit sweaters for orphans, hein?”
Here was the moment. I steeled myself and said, “It’s an—animal charity.”
“Ah!” he said. “You raise money for the elephants or some such? I’ve heard elephants are having a time of it these days.”
I had the sense that he had not given much thought to elephants before now. “Not elephants, no. Cats.”
“Cats?” he repeated, and never have I seen a look more blank. “What about them?”
Despite the cold, I felt a prickle of sweat along my hairline. I’d practiced the conversation in my head, and yet still I felt it drifting off course and towards the same conclusion the others had. “The city has a large cat population—”
“That it does,” he said, frowning. “I had a colony set up shop behind a building of mine. Unsanitary little things. So you take care of them, do you? It’s not a bad idea, though they do keep the rats down.”
“Ah,” I said with a forced laugh. “We—yes, we take care of them. Though not in that way. My organization takes them in, cleans them up, ensures they’re adoptable, then tries to find them a comfortable home.”
