and cats and other animals wandering around our house. When an animal looks like that it’ll die soon.
I touch it. It feels bony and hot and its fur is full of little tangles and knots. Its nostrils spread and tremble, my smell’s new to it. Its face isn’t catlike, more like an ape’s. Or a person’s.
Mikael asks me, in a tense whisper, to be careful.
“It’s not a cat; it’s a troll,” he says. I don’t know the wordtroll, but I realize he’s telling me it’s actually a wild animal, a cub he’s found.
“And he hasn’t eaten anything for two days.” Mikael’s voice can hardly be heard.
“He’s really sick,” I say again.
I remember what I did when I found the dog’s den under the house. I don’t know how it finally turned out with the puppies, as the letter from Manila had come already, and my father and brother were taking me the next morning to Zamboanga and putting me on the ship from Cotabato. They told me I was going to be a nurse. I was delighted, because I thought I’d do well as that. After all, I’d just been caring for a litter of small still-blind puppies whose mother had been run over by a jeep.
I take hold of the cat food and gesture with it, until Mikael goes into the kitchen, and I hear the sound of a can opener. He comes back with it open. I push my finger in and curl it. The cat food’s like thick coarse mud. I hold my finger out carefully in front of the troll’s mouth, and he pulls his head weakly back, frightened, his round head trembling like a cat’s. I breathe on my finger, warming the food and putting my own smell on it. I hold my finger out again, and now the troll sniffs it, suspiciously. But then a small pink tongue comes out of its lips, and he gives a lick. Once. Twice.
I burst out laughing with triumph, and because the tongue’s tickling my finger. I meet Mikael’s astonished look.
“He’s never eaten cat food before.”
“Perhaps we must give it like this. He thinks I’m his mamá.”
I don’t know if Mikael understands, but his eyes are unbelieving, delighted, covering the wild distress beneath.
Mikael watches while the troll eats a few pats of the brown paste. Then the troll shuts his eyes, leaving just a shining line between the lids. He hasn’t felt well enough to clean his eyes; thereare little yellow specks in the corners. I get up, hand the can to Mikael and go off to wash my hand in the kitchen sink. Mikael follows me.
“Thanks a million,” he says. I shrug and raise my eyebrows: no big deal. But I’m prouder and happier than ever before in this country.
Mikael puts the can on the countertop and, to my surprise, takes my hands in his, squeezing them and raising them to his chest. “Thank you,” he says again. And, scared, I swing around, resisting, and disappear into the hall, quick as a shadow. But before I can squeeze the door soundlessly shut behind me, I can’t help glancing back at the kitchen door: Mikael’s standing there with an expression I can’t understand, and my heart thumps, thumps, faster than it has for a long, long time.
ANGEL
No, Pessi’s not well. He eats and drinks and empties his bowels, but he’s not well. His coat doesn’t shine, there’s no fire in his eyes, he plays without enthusiasm. He sleeps day and night—as if in a fever.
I myself hardly eat or sleep, my hold on work’s gone. I can manage the routine stuff but haven’t produced anything particularly creative. The Stalkers that Martes gave me lie in a corner. That damned jeans deadline seems far off, but in reality it’s only a few weeks away.
Palomita realized as soon as she saw Pessi.
Something has to be done. Soon.
ECKE
I’ve got a box seat; the only thing that’s missing is a pair of opera glasses, and the drama’s first-class reality TV. Angel and Dr. Spiderman are sitting in the Café Bongo’s back room. Together. I’m not the only one following the action. It’s the most interesting thing that’s happened in this mangy dump for a long
I touch it. It feels bony and hot and its fur is full of little tangles and knots. Its nostrils spread and tremble, my smell’s new to it. Its face isn’t catlike, more like an ape’s. Or a person’s.
Mikael asks me, in a tense whisper, to be careful.
“It’s not a cat; it’s a troll,” he says. I don’t know the wordtroll, but I realize he’s telling me it’s actually a wild animal, a cub he’s found.
“And he hasn’t eaten anything for two days.” Mikael’s voice can hardly be heard.
“He’s really sick,” I say again.
I remember what I did when I found the dog’s den under the house. I don’t know how it finally turned out with the puppies, as the letter from Manila had come already, and my father and brother were taking me the next morning to Zamboanga and putting me on the ship from Cotabato. They told me I was going to be a nurse. I was delighted, because I thought I’d do well as that. After all, I’d just been caring for a litter of small still-blind puppies whose mother had been run over by a jeep.
I take hold of the cat food and gesture with it, until Mikael goes into the kitchen, and I hear the sound of a can opener. He comes back with it open. I push my finger in and curl it. The cat food’s like thick coarse mud. I hold my finger out carefully in front of the troll’s mouth, and he pulls his head weakly back, frightened, his round head trembling like a cat’s. I breathe on my finger, warming the food and putting my own smell on it. I hold my finger out again, and now the troll sniffs it, suspiciously. But then a small pink tongue comes out of its lips, and he gives a lick. Once. Twice.
I burst out laughing with triumph, and because the tongue’s tickling my finger. I meet Mikael’s astonished look.
“He’s never eaten cat food before.”
“Perhaps we must give it like this. He thinks I’m his mamá.”
I don’t know if Mikael understands, but his eyes are unbelieving, delighted, covering the wild distress beneath.
Mikael watches while the troll eats a few pats of the brown paste. Then the troll shuts his eyes, leaving just a shining line between the lids. He hasn’t felt well enough to clean his eyes; thereare little yellow specks in the corners. I get up, hand the can to Mikael and go off to wash my hand in the kitchen sink. Mikael follows me.
“Thanks a million,” he says. I shrug and raise my eyebrows: no big deal. But I’m prouder and happier than ever before in this country.
Mikael puts the can on the countertop and, to my surprise, takes my hands in his, squeezing them and raising them to his chest. “Thank you,” he says again. And, scared, I swing around, resisting, and disappear into the hall, quick as a shadow. But before I can squeeze the door soundlessly shut behind me, I can’t help glancing back at the kitchen door: Mikael’s standing there with an expression I can’t understand, and my heart thumps, thumps, faster than it has for a long, long time.
ANGEL
No, Pessi’s not well. He eats and drinks and empties his bowels, but he’s not well. His coat doesn’t shine, there’s no fire in his eyes, he plays without enthusiasm. He sleeps day and night—as if in a fever.
I myself hardly eat or sleep, my hold on work’s gone. I can manage the routine stuff but haven’t produced anything particularly creative. The Stalkers that Martes gave me lie in a corner. That damned jeans deadline seems far off, but in reality it’s only a few weeks away.
Palomita realized as soon as she saw Pessi.
Something has to be done. Soon.
ECKE
I’ve got a box seat; the only thing that’s missing is a pair of opera glasses, and the drama’s first-class reality TV. Angel and Dr. Spiderman are sitting in the Café Bongo’s back room. Together. I’m not the only one following the action. It’s the most interesting thing that’s happened in this mangy dump for a long
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