29. Cairo, 1996 — Catwoman
In which Eleanor can't help herself.
An unexpected visitor sparks curiosity and compassion. Yup, Eleanor can't help herself. 
Eleanor
I open the kitchen door that leads out onto the back staircase and she’s waiting for me. Small, thin and dirty, she’s one of the building’s resident cats. She’s a pale ginger tabby, with a white star on her face, white belly and one white paw. Her white is dingy and gray, though, like the building’s exterior. Every apartment block in Cairo has its colony of feral cats, with the tom ruling the colony, and the females each having their own territory. The fifth floor is hers. She has an uncanny knack of being already there, waiting for me, whenever I open the back kitchen door to put out the trash.
Today I notice that her belly looks a bit bigger. “Are you pregnant?” I ask her. She just blinks back at me. There’s also something in her eyes that tugs at me, so I go back into the kitchen, search around in the fridge and come back out with a plate of scraps. She backs away from me, eyeing me, as I put the plate down, keeping her distance. But she doesn’t move away entirely. I step back into the doorway and wait. She waits for a few seconds, then cautiously approaches. In a moment she sets too, the left-over chicken disappearing in an instant. I keep myself very still and quiet so as not to disturb her.
You’re famished.
I start feeding her every day. She will never let me approach her. But we establish a routine. I open the door, she sees the plate in my hand, she moves back as I approach, I put it down, I move back into the doorway and she approaches. We do this for many weeks. And I watch her belly get larger.
One day I ask Abdul, one of the building's bawaabs, if he can get me a box, about “so large” I gesture with my hands. When he brings it up later, I go digging around in some cupboards and decide on a combination of a few dish towels and some old T-shirts.
The kitchen door opens out onto a little annex storage area and then a screen door opens from that onto the back staircase of the building. It’s the staircase the bawaabs and their families use to come and go from where they live on the roof. I’ve never been up there. Every apartment block in the wealthier neighborhoods has its colony of tin shacks on the roofs. There are even goats and chickens up there, I am told.
When I come out with the prepared box, she’s waiting for me, as always, but looks wary when she sees the box in my hands rather than the usual plate. I open the screen door, then put the box down just inside of it, and prop the screen door open. She stays where she is, watching me warily. Then I head back into the kitchen to get her regular plate together. She’s still sitting there when I come out. This time I don’t put the plate out beyond the screen door, like I usually do, but just inside the screen door, about a foot away from the box. I retreat back into the kitchen doorway, leaving the screen door open. She noses the air, but doesn’t move. I wait. She waits. I wait. She waits some more. It goes on like this for several minutes. She out patiences me. Eventually I step back into the kitchen and close the door.
When I check again in a few hours, the food is gone.
I leave the screen door open when I head to the Council the next morning, and it’s closed when I come home in the afternoon: clearly one of the bawaabs being dutiful. I ask Abdul to come up, take him to the kitchen, and show him how I want to leave the screen door open. Concern on his face, he shakes his head adamantly that the door should be closed. I reiterate my request. Eventually, with reluctance, he agrees, the authority—and tip—of the foreigner winning out. The door stays open after that.
Soon she’s coming into the annex once I step back into the doorway.
And then one morning when I open the door, there she is, in the box, two little ginger balls at her belly. She looks up at me warily, but doesn’t move to jump out. I quietly step back into the kitchen, leaving the door open, and prepare her usual plate. Plate in hand I approach her box slowly and quietly. Her eyes never leave me. I put the plate down next to the box, then step back. She doesn’t move but sniffs the air. I close the door quietly.
She’s the first thing I check on when I get back from the Council that afternoon. She’s not in the box, but the plate is empty. I put a fresh plate out, and look at the tiny orange balls in the box. They’re squished up tight against one another, just two. Carefully I pick each one up, nuzzling their tiny soft downiness against my face. Their mews are tiny and insistent. I put them back so that they are nestled into each other.
She’s back in the box nursing when I check on her before I go to bed.
I handle them every day after that and watch with delight as they start to wobble on their spindly legs. Fiona and my other friends from the Council coo over them, but I won’t let them pick them up just yet. At about a week old I notice that there’s a crust around their eyes. It’s still there at ten days old, and they haven’t opened their eyes. I take the first one into the bathroom, wet a cotton round under some warm water and gently, oh so gently, wipe each eye. It takes a while, but eventually the crust is gone. When I check back later that evening, each of their eyes are open—tiny green rings around deep black. In the morning, their eyes are crusted closed again, so I repeat the procedure, and keep on repeating it daily for the next week, the crustiness slowly diminishing until their eyelids become clear.
I check with Wendy, one of the long term expatriates I’ve met at the cathedral in Zamalek, about when to bring them in. She’s a veteran of the Middle East and has adopted her fair share of cats over the years. “Technically at eight to ten weeks old, but I’ve found five to six weeks works much better if you’re going to keep them indoors only—which you must here in Cairo, of course—as that’s before they really start to explore beyond the den.”
“Isn’t that too young for them to stop nursing?” I ask her, worried.
She shakes her head maybe. “It’s not ideal, but it’s what you need to do in Cairo. They can eat wet food at that age. And then you’ll introduce dry food, if you plan to use dry food, when they’re a little older.”
I suddenly realize a gap in my thinking. “Where on earth do I even get cat food in Cairo?” I ask. I’ve never even seen a pet shop in all my wanderings around Zamalek. Wendy, ever the font of local knowledge, gives me directions.
“One more thing, Elle. Make sure you also get flea collars. They’ll be infested with fleas and you don’t want those in your bed and apartment. They’re the devil’s own to get rid of.” She pauses, her eyes taking on a distant look, as if she’s trying to remember something. Then she nods a little to herself. “You might even want to start by giving them a bath. The fleas come crawling out and you can just pick them off that way. But still use the collars too. You never get them all, even with a little baby shampoo.”
The day comes. I invite Fiona, Oliver and Cameron, the trio from St Andrews University, over. We turn it into a little mini-party, putting on one of the cheap music tapes we picked up on our recent trip to Dahab. Cameron stands cross-armed in the doorway of the kitchen, watching Fiona and I set up. “How much more of a cliched single foreign woman can you be?” he ribs me with his broad Scottish accent. “Cats are like rats here. They’re everywhere.”
“Maybe,” I say, a little miffed. “But I love cats.”
“And remember Cam,” Fiona turns around from the sink, “Elle doesn’t have the gift of your scintillating company when she’s home alone here,” and she flicks water at him.
I’m grateful for the rescue. She knows that I’ve been getting lonely in the apartment by myself. She’s lucky: she has two other female flat mates, both volunteers with aid agencies. I can’t hang out with her and the others every night though, I do have studying to do. I’ve been starting to diversify my circle of friends beyond just fellow students at the Council, but Fiona, Cam and Oliver are my closest friends here, and Fiona the closest of the three of them.
“You want to do the honors?” I ask Fiona.
Her face lights up. “Oh goody,” her red curls bouncing as she does a little happy squiggle.
She brings the box in from the annex, puts it on the floor, and picks the smaller and lighter colored of the kittens up, snuggling him under her chin.
“Careful,” Oliver gently chides her, leaning back on the counter next to the sink, “they haven’t been de-flead yet. And I don’t want you bringing fleas over to Cam’s and my place.” He glances over to Cameron in the doorway. Cam uncrosses his arms and tucks his hands into his jeans pockets, a bemused look on his face.
Fiona gives Oliver a tut-tutting look, but brings the kitten over to the sink. The sink is full of warm water. We have baby shampoo, towels, and tweezers at the ready.
“Ready?” I ask her.
“Let’s do it!” She lowers the kitten gently into the warm water. His tiny little paws scrabble and scratch, and he mews pitifully, which sets off his brother in the box, but he’s barely bigger than her hand, and his claws are still soft and don’t do much damage.
I notice that Cam and Oliver can’t resist and they come to look over our shoulders as Fiona and I work. Oliver even snaps some photos. It’s a bit of a tedious process, but Wendy was quite right—on all fronts. Once we have them wet to the skin, working a little bit of baby shampoo into their fur, the fleas just come crawling out.
“Whew,” whistles Cam appreciatively. “That sure is a lot of fleas.”
We all laugh out loud at how pitiful they look when they’re wet. Their bedraggled faces and indignant mews are hilarious. It’s a good thing they’re already used to handling, but they still put up a brave—but puny—fight. Once Fiona is done defleaing the first one, I change the water in the sink and start on the second one, while she gently dries the first one, moving from towels to my hairdryer on its lowest setting.
Finally done, and dried as much as we can, we set them down. They set to furious licking all over. Their white bibs and paws are actually white now, gleaming against their ginger. Even Cam laughs when I put their flea collars on. The collars look enormous on them. They shake their little heads vigorously and claw at them furiously, backing up, banging into the fridge and cabinets and each other.
“Feisty ones you are,” Fiona says. She comes to stand next to me at the sink, bumps her shoulder into me. “So, what are their names then? I know you have names for them already.”
“The smaller, lighter ginger one?” I point. “He’s Themba. And the larger, darker ginger one,” I point, “he’s Tlali.”
Cam lifts one sardonic eyebrow. “Because, why?”
“Because they’re two South African authors I really like. Can Themba and Miriam Tlali.” My heart aches a little. I think of Meredith. We write to each other regularly, but I still miss her. She would know exactly who I was talking about. And Natasha—she also shared my love of African literature. I wonder if we will ever cross paths again.
“Tali,” Fiona tries.
“No, Tlali. Ta-la-li. Tlali.” I correct her.
Oliver bends down to pick up Tlali, snuggling him under his chin. “Oooh,” Fiona teases him, “so you do like cats.” Oliver blushes. “It’s OK, Ol, I won’t hold it against you!” Fiona smirks at him.
“Why don’t you all stay for supper,” I say. “I can whip something up for all of us quickly.”
“Sure,” Cam pushes himself away from the door frame, which he returned to after supervising Fiona’s and my work in the sink. “What can I help with?” Cam might rib me, but he’s also always ready to pitch in and help in the kitchen.
I settle the kittens in the fresh box I’ve prepared for them. They curl up against each other, two ridiculously adorable ginger fluff balls, and promptly fall asleep, exhausted from all the activity.
When Oliver and I come back to the lounge after cleaning up in the kitchen after supper, we find Cam with one of the kittens in his lap. He has the good grace to look a little shamefaced when he sees me.
After they’re gone, I bring the kittens into the bedroom with me, showing them the litter box, and their food and water bowls. For now, I’m keeping those in my room—just until the kittens get settled. I give a deep, contented sigh, pressing my face into their clean soft fuzziness. Shingalana, as I’ve decided to call my apartment, actually feels like home now. Now when I come home from the Council each day, I’ll be greeted not by an empty, echoing apartment, but by two warm, living creatures.
As Themba and Tlali snuggle in tight with me, I drift off to sleep dreaming less of Mahdi, and more of them.
Bonus Material
Eleanor and her cats
Eleanor discovers Arabic music
