By Jeremy Fernando.
‘So who is walking whom …’, Brandy mutters with a huff, her whiskers tingling in the air as if having a life of their own, ‘can you ever tell with people. And dogs.’ It is often difficult to tell if she were asking a question or making a statement. Of fact.
Even if only her own.
She speaks in muted tones so as not to disturb any of the muscles in her face. Or neck. Brandy prefers her whiskers to lie just-so, just so the world knows its presence is merely decorative. She is in no way a part of the tomfoolery surrounding her.
‘Not like with us’, she goes on without a pause, ‘imagine a human walking us? Goodness no — we go where we will.’ There’s no hint Brandy expects an answer from anyone, she certainly leaves no room for one. She is also very fond of the white stripes caressing the ginger fur encasing her. She is in no way a part of the tomfoolery surrounding her.
‘Not like these two ever move’, thinks Cicak to no one in particular. Ever-present, all-seeing, she fancies herself scribe of Block 149. And not just any reporter describer mere transcriber, but auteur, storyteller. In Cicak’s mind ‘if I didn’t write it, it never happened.’ The pen, ah the pen, is mightier than …
Bach sits, back legs splayed, whiskers quivering against his magnificent blackness, front arched slightly so his head is held high. Kinda like the Sphynx, rather mysterious with even less of a nose. Green eyes glinting, always watching, taking everything in. Almost nothing escapes his watchful gaze. He grunts to neither of them in particular. Brandy takes it as acquiescence, not that she could fathom anyone actually not agreeing.
Brandy and Bach were where you would always find them. Lounging. Sprawled atop a round table, tiled eight by eight alternating black and white at the bottom of their block. Yes, not the block, their block — they are rather particular about this. Especially Brandy. Bach would never admit to feeling anything strongly, except on Wednesdays, though for no particular reason, at least none anyone quite knew.
Cicak was determined if anyone were to find out what went on inside the tomcat’s head, it would be she. Bach, ah Bach, he be a bit of a riddle. Failing which, she would invent — no! determine — the truth from a careful study of his behaviour. Whichever came first, it made no difference in her mind. Gaps in tales, that’s what she really minded.
‘Yes’, Cicak thinks to herself — the two of them were where you would always find them — ‘this is a perfectly good way to start this tale’, as she licks the nib of her quill and begins to write on her parchment. That is, if they wanted to be found.
Cicak, on the other hand (feet? setae? spatulae?), has never thought of herself as being anywhere. Just above. Writing. Je suis écrivaine, she decided was what her author bio should, thus would, read.
Void, Cicak continues musing while scampering across the wall, thinking about the entire block of flats stacked atop the void deck they were at, that’s a rather odd name, seeing as it’s holding everything up. Also, she observes astutely, as she were wont to do, rather fitting seeing as here is where nothing ever happens.
Even so, she never lingers in one spot for too long. In a void you learn to avoid, purrs Cicak’s quill, as she licks her lips with her long long tongue, feeling quite clever about unveiling this quip. This wasn’t to make sure something was happening, her quill could quite easily take care of that. No. This was because she had learnt the perils of staying-put for sustained periods — you can’t really trust a cat, let alone a pair of ‘em. Bach does have hungry eyes — beautifully green, but yes, hungry eyes. Thankfully, one look at you and I can’t disguise, while the felines had eighteen lives between them, she has an infinite number of tails.
And tales — that, at least, she is quite sure of.
The pen is mightier than …, ‘I’m on fire’, skipping from foot to foot to foot to foot tail swooshing all around, ‘you spin me right round … ’
‘Dogs will answer to anything the moment you feed them’, Brandy pronounces rather haughtily.
The golden retriever bounced around, snuffling and slobbering. Gaby, our reptilian and feline friends work out from what the leashed man kept calling out. Like her owner, she was constantly yapping, endlessly wagging her tail. Dogs — always emoting like permanent teenagers.
Suddenly, as if struck by inspiration — or lightning — the man turns towards the tiled-table, he has noticed the two cats. Bach doesn’t like the look on his face. It’s nothing mean, just a tad disturbing. He seemed to be approaching them with an idiotic grin plastered on his face, trying to make some ridiculous noise sounding vaguely like ‘meoooow, meooow’.
Clearly he must think they are cows, scribbles Cicak furiously.
The man takes small steps, steadily getting closer, tiny ones, itty bitty ones, inching his way forward — as if playing a pantomime version of a man taking small steps in order to get closer. The air stilled, probably because it was a warm day, also was a phrase Cicak really liked, so was already writing it even as a mild breeze started to drift by. One should never let facts get in the way of a good story. Reminded her of old Sergio Leone and Sam Peckinpah’s she used to watch perched on the ceiling of #07-159. Fondly recalling how her heart went thumpity-thump whenever there was a standoff. How she loved showdowns, tension building as all the different protagonists, heroes, villains, miscreants, clergy somehow always somewhat lurking around, stared each other down, as if time — once upon a time — stood still, their horses neighing nervously adjacently, tumbleweed drifting in the background, sun blazing in their eyes, oh those blue blue eyes. How brave they looked, Oh! how handsome they were. How she wished everything were in monochrome. Cicak would have given another tail to describe the golden retriever as facing us in 30 shades of grey. Facts were never going to get in her way of a good story.
‘Here kitty kitty kitty’. Humans.
If cats, and lizards, could roll their eyes, the moment would have found them looking at the back of their heads. It was a dark and stormy night.
‘Do you think it’d effect a greater furore to wait for him to reach us before sauntering-off between him and the mutt so he entangles himself in the leash when she, Gibby?, Gaby? Grabby?, scampers — as she is wont to, thus inevitably will — after us,’ Brandy muses, almost aloud this time, almost as if she were asking for the opinion of those around her, ‘or shall we pounce on the dog and have her do it for us’.
Bach grunts in acquiesce.
‘Oh this is going to be good,’ Cicak licks the nib of her quill, eyes wide shut so as not to miss a beat, her heart already skipping a few. All that was missing were a slow-motion pan shot with doves flying was how she already decided her story was going to begin, so began to begin it for about the seventh time. Animals strike curious poses, they feel the heat, the heat between me and …
Each time Cicak starts to write, her entire body starts-up — from her long pointed nose to her twitchy twitchy tail — is filled with a tingling, as if what she was about to inscribe came to her from beyond. And she were filled with a warmth enveloping her. If you could see her you would even say she was transformed from leafy green into shimmering emerald, all of which made her feel like there were nothing else in the world she would rather be doing. Nor should be doing. Also that there was nothing the world needed more than what she was doing. Poised over her parchment, quill in hand, Cicak sometimes thought to herself, ‘all I need is a cape’.
The air was still … there was a low whistle humming in the background … tumbleweed was, err tumbling, — ‘okay scratch that, where on earth are you going to get tumbleweed here’ — leaves were blowing as far as the eye could see — ‘despite the air being still?’ — in spite of the cold stillness. ‘You really shouldn’t be trying to edit as you write you know’, grumbles Cicak, to no one in particular.
‘Why don’t you both leap the moment he tries to reach out to pet you, these humans inevitably do, and I’ll pretend to chase after you both. This way, in the ensuring kerfuffle he’ll end up hog-tied, we’ll get to amuse ourselves, and when home I’ll get a treat for being brave. It’s amazing what you can get away with if you know how to make the right sounds.’
Bach grunts, his glittering black fur suddenly glittering a little more, as it does every time his attention has been stoked. ‘I like you already,’ Brandy smiles, smiling her ship-launching smile. There really is nothing more terrifying than the grin of a cat.
Gaby tries out a grunt. Bach grunts in approval. Except maybe a grin without a cat.
The human edges ever closer, still smiling — ‘like one on a fool’s errand would’, Cicak muses — hand slowly inching forward. Brandy and Bach are clearly waiting for that fateful moment he reaches out to stroke them. Cautiously, gingerly, we see him extend his left arm, two inches forward, one inch back, fingers fluttering — ‘coward’ — as the two cats sit there, stilly, as if they were encouraging him, quietly baiting him. ‘The two of them are clearly enjoying the fear in his eyes’, mutters Cicak to herself, despite not actually being able to see any of their eyes. Gaby, Brandy, Bach, eye each other, their silent lucidity in full view to everybody but the man. ‘I almost feel bad for him, just almost’. He clearly knows not what he does.
Suddenly a hiss.
Followed by a shriek — ‘oo choir boy’.
And a leap. ‘Not quite a pirouette, but close enough’.
Then a complete blur: two cats springing forth, well Bach leapt, Brandy flounced, in opposite directions while Gaby hurtled around the human’s spindly legs, the same human who was, at this very instant, making the terrible decision to take a step backwards on legs that could no longer move independently of each other. ‘I suppose he did bring the house down after all’, chuckles Cicak to herself, whilst trying to figure out how to sneak that phrase into her prose. He fell into the void.
The three new friends stood there, towering over said whimpering human, looking exceedingly pleased with themselves. Tumbleweed was tumbling in the background.
‘I take it we’re welcome to swing by for tea sometime too’, Brandy pronounces, abandoning the rising intonation usually accompanying questions. But, then again, she probably wasn’t really asking.
Ooo tea.
‘We’re on the seventeenth floor, third door to the left’, coos Gaby, ‘I’ll make sure a window’s left open for you.’ Brandy and Bach watch as she sashays away, human in tow, tail between his legs, full of admiration for their new friend, not that they would ever let her — nor, come to think of it, each other — catch ‘em being so.
Dogs are usually clumsy mutts, but man can this Gaby glide, nods Cicak with a certain veneration as she scribbles. And those two, those two cats who have something to say about everything, handing out judgments like they are above us all, almost disapprovingly, but really only almost, they seem quite alright too. ‘Thankfully though’, thought Cicak, ‘not quite as high up as me’, wiggling her tail, which is what happens each time she feels rather pleased with herself.
‘Just one question, Gaby, how come dogs go along with all the inanities of these humans’. Turning her head over her left shoulder, Gaby winks cheekily at her two feline friends, ‘well, a girl’s gotta eat’.
What a time was had by all.
This is an excerpt from The Adventures of Brandy & Bach by Jeremy Fernando, published by Delere Press.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jeremy Fernando reads, writes, and makes things. He works in the intersections of literature, philosophy, and art; has written more than 30 books; and been translated into 11 languages. Exploring other media has led him to film, music, performance-readings, and the visual arts; and his work has been exhibited in Seoul, Buenos Aires, Berlin, Vienna, Hong Kong, Lisbon, and Singapore. He is the general editor of Delere Press; curates the thematic magazine One Imperative; is the Jean Baudrillard Fellow at The European Graduate School; co-creator of the private dining experience, People Table Tales; and the writer-in-residence at Appetite, the sensorial laboratory exploring the cross-roads of food, music, and art.
