Night of the Animals(147)
“I’ve had enough, haven’t I?” he thought, not without real shame. “And I’ve done my bit for the beasts—and for King Harry. What’s the use?”
But this notion of sleeping indoors for good occurred to him as the sweet smell of baking kidneys and puff pastry wafted into his eager face. He was in Astrid’s kitchen, in her flat in Haggerston, where he found himself spending more and more time. With shaky hands, he moved a piping-hot pie, still in its tin, directly to an Italian dinnerware plate painted with large red pears and golden quinces. There was a square nuplastic container of burdock greens that Astrid had sautéed with watercress and put away, and she’d made Cuthbert promise her to eat a bit of the greens if he insisted on “those unwholesome pies.”
“But the pies, they’re good,” he maintained. Astrid was vegetarian, of course, just like his gran had been, and he respected that, but he could not bring himself to denigrate a good kidney pie, could he?
Astrid was away at work that afternoon, where she’d long been reinstated and promoted to chief inspector, with Omotoso moving up to the Met, and Atwell taking her old inspectorship. She was only the second person she knew in Britain to make it past second withdrawal from Flōt, and in her FA meetings, she’d become something of an inspiration. Her own “Wonderments,” it turned out, had worked in unexpected ways. She wasn’t sure she liked or trusted God, or if she even knew how to believe, but her old revulsion was gone.
Cuthbert sat down at Astrid’s dark, walnut-grained kitchenette, and he dumped some of the unheated greens, straight from the container, onto the pie. A ray of piercing June sunlight shot across the tabletop, glaring a bit, and he squinted.
Cuthbert covered the whole plate with HP sauce, and he ate greedily. One hunk after another, without pause, he took enormous portions of pastry and the bright jade burdock upon his fork without bothering to spear anything with the tines. He washed it all down with a big honeyed bowl of peppermint and nettle tea, and when it was finished, with a barely concealed exuberance, he burped.
“That’s a piece,”* he said.
Oh, she wants me to stay here, he thought to himself. To keep out of the cold—and the heat. Why don’t I then?
But could he find a way to leave the Flōt alone forever?
AGAINST THE ADVICE of many acquaintances—for her friends knew better than to say a thing—Astrid had invited Cuthbert after the night of the animals to stay with her without apparent reservations or regrets. It was an odd arrangement, and a big gamble, she knew, but she could not get over a feeling of wanting to protect the man, as best she could, or at least see to his creature comforts for a few years.
“He’s my grandfather,” she would tell skeptics, although she hadn’t known that, really. She was, for the moment, content to leave it at that. “I love him.”
In the year since, both she and he had, after all, suffered great losses. Even in an era of replaceable major organs, the endlessly patient Dr. Bajwa’s cancer could not be stopped. The loss felt cruel for Cuthbert. It turned out that the extra weight and more robust voice Baj had gained on the hijacked frightcopter, right before Astrid’s eyes, was an effect of ?thelstan’s Bliss. A damaged timeline had somehow shrunk his tumors, added to his fat stores, and given him more months of life, which he gave to the poor of Holloway Road, treating Indigents almost to the end. Eventually, the tumors came back, and Baj died in the winter, sending Cuthbert into a panic. The same month, Astrid’s mother, her mind too ravaged by the Bruta7 virus even to recognize her daughter, finally succumbed to complications brought on by it, despite receiving specially ordered NHS Legacy-level care.
AFTER HIS LUNCH, Cuthbert decided to take a little nap. He lay atop the duvet on his plush bed, and he pulled his legs up.
He called, just as his grandmother had, “Kitty-kyloe! Kitty-kyloe!”
Instantly, the little golden cat came running from its hiding place and jumped onto the bed, snuggling into a ball at Cuthbert’s feet. He reached down and scratched the feline behind its ears, and it allowed this, for a moment, then bucked away. It would never relax in human hands, but like many sand cats, it was semi-tamable.
“Yow smelled the pie, did yow?” Muezza leaped off the bed onto the floor, as if signaling for a feeding. (He had to be fed frozen mice.)
After the incident in the lion enclosure, and being seen to by paramedics, Cuthbert had spotted Muezza in the hedges, very near its shattered, aquarium-like exhibit. Unknown to Astrid or anyone, the old man had managed to smuggle the sand cat out in his bundled coat, stowing him like a small melon in a grocery sack.
It was unethical. It was illegal. It was unwise. But Astrid had reluctantly let Muezza stay in the flat. For all its standoffishness, the creature clearly adored both Cuthbert and her. It rubbed against their ankles, cuddled with them on the sofa, and did what it could to destroy Astrid’s ￡200 faux-Iranian rug. She knew, someday, the cat would need to go back to the zoo. But not today.
Muezza meowed at Cuthbert, almost provocatively.
“What is it? Use words, my brother. All the animals have stopped talking to me. Are you next? Am I not al-Khidr?”
The cat did not answer, at least not in words.
“Oh,” said Cuthbert. “Oh my brother, Muezza. Yow must talk. Or I’ve lost the Wonderments.”
Then they both fell asleep.
ASTRID HAD FIXED UP the room where her mother had stayed, and she gave Cuthbert a key to the flat. There was one rule: he wasn’t allowed to drink either alcohol or Flōt in the flat, under any circumstances.