The Egyptian Cat
“The Egyptian Cat Blues”
By Aran Meredith
There is a mummified cat in the museum.
THERE IS A MUMMIFIED CAT TROTTING IN THE MUSEUM.
Well whatever, forget about it.
Refined, attentive, and always ice-coldly cool, that’s what Atzamof was. This smug little bugger has been striding around the world since the last millennium.
He used to be something, but never in love.
A short story of a mummified cat striding around the Cairo Museum like it’s nobody’s business. Picture purrfect for laughter and fluff. Featuring a divorced historian and a feline smug thug.
A hopelessly romantic little parody written in third-person diary, if there is such a thing.
…قط مصري…
It was a sunny day down Atzamof’s tomb.
Although he usually refers to his humble abode as the imperial nest-crypt. But tomb would do for now. He had serious business to look after other than getting bogged down to some preposterous teleological shenanigans. Or was it really teleological?
The daily routine of Atzamof (Or as he reiterates, ATZAMOF THE GREAT): he wakes up, and goes straight back to sleep, in his designer custom-made coffin.
Then he eats his brunch: some grave robber, or a slim yet yummy archaeologist. Most unfortunate.
In the afternoon he would usually have tea with master, this is a bizarre act his master picked up from a broke English graduate student they haphazardly let go of, like, a century ago. The bitter cat piss they imported from Anubis Inc became a novelty, then a routine, then a habit. Who on earth still drink Assam without milk and sugar in the 21st century? Persians? He meant, barbarians?
Oh my, he despises those new words.
It gets quite boring sometimes. After a while. A while is a long time.
But not today. For today Atzamof got stuff to do. More precisely, he got a lot of stuff to do.
For instance, he ought to visit his late cousin who got stuck in a fake crystal cubicle inside the nearby zoo of dead stuff, or as humans of today call it, the museum. No matter how ambivalent he was with Albion, they need to chat, and it is of utmost importance for him to get his money back, one way or another.
As he ruminated about such trivialities, Atzamof gracefully shrugged off his bandages, inserted two identical emerald beads as faux eyeballs——those silly humans won’t notice anyway, they got so infatuated with their silly little shiny rectangle thingy they won’t even take into account if the sun got eaten by a gargantuan snake.
He narcissistically gazed into the impeccable reflection on some dry-cleaned silverware flower holder, now, who’s that handsome fellow? He nodded his master’s signature arrogant nod. Like a real, living, royally educated cat.
Now, now, the only thing left to do, is certainly not to say goodbye to master, Atzamof hated goodbyes. He consciously bit his lower lip with his fangs, the only thing left to do is to scout around for a safe escape route to the zoo.
“It is settled, you must admit the just reimbursement of my due.” He rehearsed. No. What fifty shades of cray cray is the “just reimbursement of my due”? Unlike him, Albion never frequents the royal library much, in fact, much more likely he never even heard about the little free book storage facility, in life and in death.
“It is settled, you must give me back my money you owned.” He was hesitant to be so direct, borderline vulgar, but much more understandable. “As soon as possible.” He added in his head, “Like, RIGHT NOW.”
……
…قط مصري…
Spooky humans, spooky humans, yum...family pack.[1]
Spooky humans were roaming around doing stupid things.
The cat quietly observed through a heartily sheet of glass.
There was a mummified cat trotting in the museum, but people were so preoccupied with their little black boxes that seemed to have glued to their hands to notice. Atzamof could not tell if he was more terrified or butthurt with such a keen notification.
Eventually, the glass sheet morphed into a colourful screen. Four functional sides, boxed an unnervingly immersive experience. This would make a stimulating simulation bred with a fantastic fanfare. Aha.
Where are they from from? Where are they going from here? Adorned with their overpriced junks, going around doing their businesses. He reckoned he should stop over-philosophizing, since all those thoughtful thoughts only gave him a stomachache.
Then he realized, he hadn't eaten since last week. On the bright side of things, that was quite a chatty lamb.
So much for [NO FOOD IN THE MUSEUM].
“Hey! Cousin.” A jolly sound.
“What?” He replied with a reserved nonchalance that deserves a display case of its own.
“You got weed?” Had there weren’t so many fanatical tourists around, he’d be already bashing the glass case inside out.
Since when did he finally catch up with those pollutants of the current time? Atzamof shook the vague feeling of disgust out of his system, and pretended to have missed the remark, remarkably.
“Meow.” He pleaded pathetically, pressing both of his paws on the rim of the glass box. Why it always went wrong in person…em, in cat? “Meow, meow, meow.”
Because people only care what people do, two viciously arguing mummified cats seemed to be ignored, right in front of their eyes.
He could vividly recall and perfectly recreate the exact moment both of his eyes lit up.
“Era il giorno ch’al sol si scoloraro, per la pieta del suo factore i rai, quando i’fui preso, et non me guardai, che i be’ vostr’occhi, donna, mi legaro…”[2] As if time stopped, the clay jar came back together, he was swimming in a pool of the finest Shedeh, he murmured to himself.
“Just a few more months…” Albion rambled, “Hey ya, what are you looking at?”
Suddenly he grew very quiet.
Their eyes met, Atzamof was not the first to break eye contact. He deplored the brevity of such a perpetual moment. Ay, how life is short, love is long. He felt a thousand tiny cactus buds sprouting in his thousand-year-old heart. Wait, the heart was still securely in the gilded jar down his nest-crypt, hence it didn’t make much sense to comment so. But he couldn’t care less about being rational now.
He was so wordless, with all of his feline splendours. How could Re bring such a stunning creation to this big, bad world? Oh my, those glass-cutting cheekbones, those deep-set almond eyes, and the impeccable occhiali d’oro, so delicate yet so strong at the same time. Perhaps not even Re, he distractedly noted.
She slowly walked around the glass box, dwelled and gently pondered shortly, the museum’s dim light warmed up her cheeks, creating an ethereal glow. While Albion played dead semi-convincingly, considering the extent of his braindeadness.
Then she left, taking Atzamof’s heart with her. All that was left was a subtle wisp of rose-tinted patchouli, some tuberoses, and a soft purr of pure clean musk.
Atzamof correctly identified it as the Portrait of a Lady, a classical composition almost worthy of someone so…so…he could not find the correct word, even with all the Greco adjectives in his arsenal.
“What are you talking just now?” After the final trace of the titillating scent was nearly gone, he finally asked. Impatient of been ignored, Albion had already gone back to his immobile state.
It is decided, although he didn’t get what he was coming for, he got the whole world.
Left a note of “Going away for a while, bye~ for now” for his master to be delivered by a slippery lizard courier, Atzamof went not with his brain but his heart. For the benzoin, amber and rose.
…قط مصري…
Although affair at a crowded room should never settle in court, pink bubbles and fluffy champagnes always slip through. Atzamof is proud to announce, after his purrfect execution of his charm attack, they flawlessly progressed to the point that they are cohabitating together, while impatiently waiting for their official marriage license.
Or in the humans’ terms, their International Health Certificate for Pet Transport.
What happened in the Nile Ritz-Carlton stays in the Nile Ritz-Carlton.
“Located in the heart of Cairo, between the Nile river, Tahrir square and the Egyptian Museum. The hotel features panoramic views of the Nile Corniche and only a stroll across to Qasr El Nil Bridge and Cairo Opera House.”
The cat jumped on the cherry wood writing desk, glided near the custom-papered booklet, batted Bambi eyes. He was practically preening.
Stylish with a stylized price tag, yet after all, a room is just a room. Atzamof gazed dreamily into the colourful shapes splattered on the wall, barely a kitsch imitation of cubism, and saw a blue cat, and the graceful figure of lady, petting the cat.
Speaking of which, his blushing bride should be speaking in some smarty-pants human congregation right now. He pawed over the stack of colourful programs on the writing desk, there it was: International Conference on Interdisciplinary Social Studies, Anthropology, Archaeology, History and Philosophy.
Atzamof judgingly skimmed through the featured papers of the year, a horde of interestingly boring and boringly interesting topics, as always…“The Myth of Meow: An Analysis of the Paralinguistic and Iconographical Functions of Feline Symbolism in Late Dynasty Egypt, Laura Burkhardt”.
He’d rather have it as Dr. Laura Burkhardt, Associate Professor of Catcatgo University, Egyptology; Her Most Beautiful Majesty, Light in Darkness, Love of His Life…
Atzamof is willing to give 8 of his 9 lives to cohabit happily ever after with the Prof, he would worship her, warm her queen-sized bed, cook her fresh corpses, pluck some lutes, he had worst nights, meow.
Doubtlessly he is quite old for her (what is a fortie something lady doing with a 586 -BC-borne dandy? What a cradle robber…), but what to do with love at first sight?
Not really, he remembered her, she was chubbier and paler when she was younger, and slightly less visually impaired. So this is it, if it be so, let it be. He needed to recognize reality and learn to live with it. After all, it was love at first sight, love at second sight, love at all those unsightly sights.
…قط مصري…
Watching the sand clayed rain seamlessly gliding through the taxi window, after applying two pumps of sanitizer, she removed her glasses and rubbed her eyes.
To be honest, she was so sick of the after parties and the accompanied schmoozing, heavy drinking, intellectual faecal smearing, et cetera.
Not now. Now she got a new cat to worry about. It was a fling on a whim, noted, so were the thirteen taxidermized predecessors currently sitting regally on her bookshelves. At the same time, the cat reminded her of something, as the good book said, remote yet familiar. She always had a soft spot for picking up strays, especially those with expressive green eyes.
Disregarding the falling rain, she detached the 4-inch designer pumps she briefly entertained a parasitic relationship with, and tiptoed through the chateau lobby, head held high.
Laura suspected, either she was stoned with her three fingers of vodka on whiskey, or the cat was reading her manuscript.
The fucking cat was proofreading her manuscript. With her limited edition Pelikan extra-fine.[3]
She would better be drunk.
Despite so, she continued her mission to storm the mini-fridge to which she held a mutualistic relation with, singlehandedly poured some more pathetic Svedka into the equally, if not cheaper instant coffee. That makes two of us. She miserably quaffed it all in, like it was the fountain of youth, cure of all diseases, solution of all human conditions and mental dysfunctions…
His belle dejectedly albeit gracefully fell on the velvet plush marriage bed, splaying a cascade of golden locks, on the ten thousand counts Egyptian cotton embroidered sham.
Atzamof jumped to his lady’s soft belly.
He got brushed off.
Atzamof climbed back to the California king-sized bed and jumped again.
He got brushed off again.
Relentlessly, the cat directed his watery fake Bambi eyes toward her’s, open-wide, et d’une voix gémissante.
This is a tried and true last resort tactic he selectively employs, to trip his master for more prime cut humans.
When light from the big bad moon hit the twin emeralds, silently he CONQUERED. So much for superficial charms.
Laura gave up, pulled off her ic! berlin glasses and dropped them on the nightstand, along with the obligatory tome sent by her friendly colleague. He got picked up.
The cat *purred*.
His human blinked and swiped right switched the music from her in-ear jukebox to “play on black box” in an utmost immoral act.[4] There’s always a time for the classical, or dare she says, opera, but times like this deserves its own sugar pop.
Atzamof flicked his unfluffy tail, hummed with the beat, but happened to have missed a few lines of the current lingua franca: Sillylish.
“Wow~ Bring your body, baby, I could bring you fame...
...Come sit on daddy’s laps
’Cause I’m a fucking handsome hamster...”[5]
As history repeatedly told us, this much hubris and preening would only yield to fun-for-others fiascos.
Laura blinked twice, suddenly the music was cut short.
The glamour is over. She reinstalled her glasses, inspected the cat with a diagnostical gaze, with stone-cold objectivity mediated by intrasubjectivity and all, and finally saw.
After seeing his human finally seeing him, the mummified cat was terrified.
He bit off a piece of faded bandage, for a long time in a while, in doing so, nervously.
It only took three seconds. One…Two…Got you.
“You, and your dusche of a master ate mein dissertazione advizor.” Laura calmly proclaimed word by word, her metallic accent slipped through. No need to be so dramatic. She picked up the leftover tome to weld as the ad hoc chosen weapon for domestic violence, but did not go through, put the book down again, and left for another room in the suite, but left the door half open.
“Wait——let me make it up for you,” he picked up his left faux eyeball and hurried on while plucking it back to his socket, “let me be your dissertation cat!”
Without fully knowing how much trouble he had caused to her, career-wise and sanity-wise. Still, he was getting desperate.
“Too little, too late.” Laura opened the minibar and took the first bottle in it, then immediately spit out in the sink, hot sauce, the cat hated it when she binge drink.
What a fool he was, but on the bright side of affairs, occasionally bad decisions came with good results.
The night ended unexpectedly with both of them on the floor, the minibar ransomed. Let’s say, he’s staying for breakfast.
…قط مصري…
“Wakey wakey.” After doublechecking the prof’s hellish schedule written with ink in the colour of dried blood that stuck on the wall, the cat doublespoke, and gently nudged with his disproportionally large and bandaged head.
“What time is it?” Laura was ambivalent over whether it is more surreal to ask an undead cat the time, or the time itself. She also happened to have forgotten the innocuous Omega Speedmaster currently perched on her wrist, to opt for consulting the mythological creature instead. Great.
“There’s always time for tea.” The cat sassed out, and pushed forward a silver platter with ginger lemon tea service he preemptively ordered, and a dead mouse he snatched from the kitchen alleyway as a pleasant plus one.
“That’s very nice of you, thank you.” Atzamof chose to ignore the sarcasm, and appreciatively engulfed his own gift given back to him in one go, quite successfully so.
Atzamof sat by the bathroom door, curiously watching the prof putting on three layers of human patties: one for the sun, one for other silly humans, one for him (he hoped). Pretty before, DIVINE after.
“I’m obliged to ask you to not murder anyone while I’m away. Period.” She wearily proclaimed, while reattaching the pair of her painful parasites near the atrium.
“Meow.” Atzamof nodded innocently, and figured the prof deliberately phrased it as not to murder instead of not to kill.
That penny pitching assistant professor from Catcatgo sounded like a good candidate, the prof could do well with one less competitor.
Atzamof cold-bloodedly calculated whether he can travel to and back from the Smart Human Bantering Hall in time for some heartily homemade dinner (pun intended), and decided to settle for the rude young historian of Latin American Foreign Relation instead.
After all, he was just on the next floor.
Time to organize another most unfortunate “accident.”
Done. Just like that. With fresh ingredients stocked in the fridge, Atzamof found he still had an afternoon to spare. For he refused to sit on the porch and soullessly gaze toward the door, like what a pathetic puppy does.
Curling up to a soft toilet paper ball on the carpeted floor where his human’s scent lingered, Atzamof went back to sleep, he dreamt of Laura.
[1] This epic line is partially ripped off from Things We Do in the Shadows (TV).
[2] Francesco Petrarca, Il Canzoniere, 3, ln 1-4.
[3] In case you are curious, the Maki-e Peacock one.
[4] Whoever plays trashy music out loud at 3 a.m. deserves the bullet, there we said it.
[5] The first line belongs to The Weekend, “Wicked Games”, the second two are fleeced from Arrian Senecat, “The Moon is for Fools”.
End score
Here lies a cloyingly self-gratifying piece, written in revenge of a cat who stole my salad, in front of a little less than twenty people.
Hail Satan, hail Kafka, two handsome bastards. For your laughers only.
Suggested soundtrack: MIKA, “Les Baisers Perdus”.
Daily dose of catnip: “Feline Spotting in Cairo Museum“.
