As I left the station I was handed a copy of the interview. It was printed on a long ream of paper, the kind with little holes down each edge that fed into the printer. I pocketed the transcript, unsure if I was even meant to have it. It didn’t seem very police to me, but then the whole experience didn’t seem very police. I didn’t care. I was just glad to leave.
By now it was late, the dark of the city oppressive against my skin. I thought of my friends, how many pints down they’d be, whether they’d be wondering where I was. Then I thought of the countless nights I’d ditched them, to stay home engaged in some stupid argument on the phone. An argument over a word, the proper pronunciation of an é in French, nonsense semantics or a philosophy about books. God she was infuriating. I guess that wouldn’t happen anymore. I guess those conversations were over.
I cut across the road and made my way down an alley, realising I had no real idea where I was. Ahead, the neon sign of a jazz bar announced itself to the street, the curling tubes of blue and red like a beacon. I thought of the moth—the way it had battered itself against the light before dropping to the ground—and imagined myself as that nocturnal creature, flapping my way forward toward the sign. I was hungry, I realised. All I’d been offered was water and I didn’t know how many hours had passed since then. As I reached the entrance to the bar, a cat stepped out from the stairwell. It glanced my way, glassy eyes silent but with a nonchalance that seemed almost human. I've had a whisky, those eyes said. Then it was gone, pawing its way down the pavement and soon lost to shadow.
I made my way down the short flight of steps, the door at the bottom plastered with a thousand flyers for acts long past. The dull thwomp of double bass resolved to a rich and expressive tone as I opened the door and stepped inside. A trio was on the corner stage, the bassist’s hand dancing along the fingerboard as a muted trumpet emitted its constrained melody, backed by the gentle and syncopated swish of brushes on snare. I’d always loved jazz. Of all the kinds of music, jazz felt the purest. Like a language, communicated with nothing but feel.
Making my way to the bar, I wondered why I hadn’t been here before. I settled on a stool and ordered a whisky, thinking of the cat from the stairwell. A fox, a moth, a cat. All in one night. When the whisky arrived, I half expected there to be a grasshopper perched on the rim. There wasn’t, of course. There was just the ice and the cool amber of a Japanese brand the barman assured me was good.
With the jazz fulfilling the desires of my ear, a bowl of roasted nuts for my stomach, I removed the transcript from my pocket and began to read, scanning the words. I couldn’t help but laugh. Had I really said all that? It was melancholy, a diversion, a sprawling current of existential crisis. It was the kind of rhetoric Noémie threw at me when she was in one of her moods, the words beaten into my brain so many times that, in my panic, I’d been able to regurgitate them without effort. If the whole thing hadn’t been about her, I might have found that ironic.
But then my eyes caught on something. At the very end, in block lettering different from the rest, were three words:
FOLLOW THE CAT.
Belated hello. I’m late this week. I think that’s the first time that’s happened in over a year of SLAKE. I’ve been buried in work, snowed under by deadlines, and whilst writing remains the snowplough, the engine hasn’t had much fuel.
A good number of months ago, I began a short story exchange (~500 words, back and forth) with
. It began with the following line:“Maybe we’re not meant to remember dreams.”
I ran with that1 and let the story go where it wanted. Then I handed it off to Terry to continue. You can read my part here:
and Terry’s follow-up within one of his ever-enjoyable Start The Week posts (link).
It’s been far too many months since (sorry, Terry), but the above is my continuation of this little experiment in collaborative fiction. I hope you enjoyed.
What I mean is, I wrote it one evening at a work retreat, hiding from colleagues.
“It glanced my way, glassy eyes silent but with a nonchalance that seemed almost human.”
Ain’t that the truth!
I am convinced that either all cats were human in their past lives or they study our every move when we aren’t watching so they can perfect them….
Love the intrigue Nathan…
There are so many cool details in here, Nathan. Like the é and the moth and the nuts at the bar. It makes everything into mystery — like is this all connected or is it a game in the mind? Murakami vibes but very Slake. It’s nice to see some elements of your style transgress projects.