The Cat (No Time, part 6)

He was going away for three days. Could she come and stay with his cat, Sonnet?

She’d be happy to. She had nothing else planned. 

She arrived early. He was in a hurry to get on the road. He had a meeting of some sort, although he hadn’t provided any details about what kind of gathering it was. He wasn’t one to do that. Not that he had anything to hide; he just wasn’t talkative, especially about personal matters. She was left with all his books and the cat. Sonnet was a lovely Maine coon, mixed colors, and it wasn’t clear if the cat was male or female. Not that it mattered.

Looking at his library, she found herself trying to understand him better. There were so many shelves, plus some books open on his desk, and a few, closed, that looked like they were waiting for him to notice them. She wondered how many there were altogether. There were volumes in every genre. It all made her head spin, because she’d never know where to begin, yet there was no chaos. He seemed to know where everything was supposed to go.

She then sees a bookcase and noticed it was identified with a tiny undersized sign: Cabinet of Curiosities. She wasn’t sure what that meant, would have to ask him. Knew she wanted to ask, but in the right way: not invasive, just interested in his way of thinking. The house was so different than the one she’d grown up in and the one she lived in now.

She takes a few books from the Cabinet and discovers they are hollowed out books, which have been distributed on the shelves and looked like any other place for them, but there are also quite a few in drawers, since the cabinet was huge and had room for both drawers and shelves. There were also a couple of mini cabinets with glass panes. These looked like small shrines, although there was nothing religious about them. There she saw some rare editions and a small figurine accompanying them. She didn’t know what that meant.

One drawer held a journal. She shouldn’t read it, she knew, but had to skim it to see what it was about, if it belonged to him. It did, and she saw snatches of a lonely boyhood that had led to his retreat into reading. Trying to be respectful, she limited her reading to a few random paragraphs, knowing it might be dangerous to see its entire contents. Dangerous, because if she learned too much, she’d have a hard time staying silent about it. She wasn’t supposed to pry, she knew.

There were so many things stored in the hollow books. A poem by Emily Dickinson. One by Lorca, accompanied by a note that said: “Read it in Spanish 101 in college, and the pleasure of reading in another language was greater than I could have imagined.” Although her own knowledge of Spanish was rudimentary, she read the poem and, astonishingly, felt something similar to the emotion he had described. The poem was included in its entirety and even she with her limited knowledge of the language felt the hooves of the horse as they traveled toward the Andalusian city of Córdoba. There was an English translation on a second sheet of paper, but she didn’t stop to read it:

Córdoba. 

Lejana y sola. 

Jaca negra, luna grande, 

y aceitunas en mi alforja. 

Aunque sepa los caminos 

yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba. 

Por el llano, por el viento, 

jaca negra, luna roja. 

La muerte me está mirando 

desde las torres de Córdoba. 

¡Ay qué camino tan largo! 

¡Ay mi jaca valerosa! 

¡Ay, que la muerte me espera, 

antes de llegar a Córdoba! 

Córdoba. 

Lejana y sola.

The reason for the horseman’s journey to the distant and lonely city was not given in the poem. The reason for the death, the muerte, waiting for him there is not revealed. She feared the poem would haunt her, and was surprised.

Another shelf had a book that simply contained a poem by Emily Dickinson. His accompanying note said: “One of my favorites.”

There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away

Nor any Coursers like a Page

Of prancing Poetry -

This Traverse may the poorest take

Without oppress of Toll -

How frugal is the Chariot

That bears the Human Soul -

There were passages from Kon-Tiki by Thor Heyerdahl. The author had traveled, not in a frigate but on a raft, his route going from South America to the Polynesian Islands. His note said: “I read this as a young boy, but misplaced my copy. Now I have the first edition and got Heyerdahl’s signature when he spoke at my university.” She read the parts he’d written out in elegant cursive and understood why he had been so impressed. Meeting the author must have been a thrill for him.

Another book with young boy protagonist was not familiar to her and she moved on.

In one of the books there were several shiny pieces of mica, labeled “from Maquoit Bay.” She really wanted to know the reason for its inclusion, but still was captivated by the smooth, dark surface that looked it had been etched by thread.

Then came the artist’s books. She thought he might have made them even though she’d never heard him talk about them. Not just a reader of books; a maker of them as well. Accordion book. Meander book. Dos-a-dos book. Flag book. These were the ones she identified, but there might have been more. Oh how she longed to ask him if he was the “author” of these works of art.

There were others. Booklets with pamphlet stitch, enough pages to hold one of his short stories. He writes stories, she realized, and once again wondered why he’d never told her. But why would he, if she had shown scant interest in literature?

The next discovery was odd as well as eerie. Bones made of clay and a copy of the poem “D.E.P.” by Emma Pedreira. Bones linked by slender red cord. What did that mean? This was followed by a passage that had probably been generated by ChatGPT or something similar. From it she deduced that he had tried to track down a book he’d read as a boy. Perhaps it was included to remind him to try to locate it in a used book store. The publication date made that unlikely. The passage read: The strongest match I found is Rusty by Colonel S. P. Meek, a children’s novel about a cocker spaniel named Rusty. It was published in 1938, so it may have been read or reprinted in the 1950s. Rusty is the runt of his litter and proves himself through various adventures, including rescuing people, surviving dangerous situations, getting lost, and competing in field trials. The book is about 296 pages.

Leaves preserved in glycerin. Odd. What did he want with those? What trees had they come from? No note, no identification of the trees, although one leaf was a ginkgo, that she knew. The items continued, one after another, nestled in hollowed-out books that were nestled in drawers. Wrappers from tinned fish, from Portugal and Galicia, very artistic.

She sees that her response to life in her early years had been fright, then flight. His response was to burrow into the words on the pages and pull them around him like a blanket. Centrifugal and centripetal. That described them. 

He returned and immediately noticed her serious face. She did not tell him what she had found. Such a disrespectful thing to do, searching through all those books that had content other than pages. She needed to think about it, and was anxious to leave before he questioned what had happened during his absence. She wanted to know the reason for the curiosities that had been hidden in the cabinet, but had to figure out how to ask him.

Once alone, he curled up on the couch with Sonnet by his side. He was wondering if he should tell her about his ‘curiosities’. He thought about the novel by Douglas Preston and pulled it off the shelf. It was time to reread it. He also wanted to add some items to his collection, and turned to the internet. He printed off some information:

“The earliest pictorial record of a natural history cabinet is the engraving in Ferrante Imperato's Dell'Historia Naturale (Naples 1599).

The highly characteristic range of interests represented in Frans II Francken's painting of 1636 shows paintings on the wall that range from landscapes, including a moonlit scene—a genre in itself—to a portrait and a religious picture (the Adoration of the Magi) intermixed with preserved tropical marine fish and a string of carved beads…”

He noted more of the history to put in a drawer:

“Cabinets of curiosities(German: Kunstkammer and Kunstkabinet, also known as wonder-rooms (German: Wunderkammer, were encyclopedic collections of objects whose categorical boundaries were, in Renaissance Europe, yet to be defined.” 

He carefully noted the source of this information:

https://www.dailyartmagazine.com/cabinets-of-curiosities/

Finally, he took note of the Four Categories of Curiosities:

Naturalia – products from nature and various rare creatures with a particular interest in monsters.

Artificialia – artificial objects created or modified by humans; antiques, works of art.

Exotica – exotic objects, plants or animals collected from distant places.

Scientifica – testaments of humans’ ability to dominate nature (astrolabes, clocks, automatons, scientific instruments).

He thought about his collection and decided to make sure he had items from each of the four. Something made him feel the need to do that, although he didn’t know why. Not tonight, though. It had been a long drive back and he was tired. He fell asleep on the sofa, Sonnet still by his side. For once he wasn’t hiding between two covers. For once he forgot to look to the pages for answers or solace. Or company.