Cats in Egypt

I

I can remember, long ago, when the crazy lady down the street, who went by the name “Madame Bovary,” and her cats up and left our quite little town. It was as if Biblical prophecy were fulfilled; as if the much-anticipated Apocalypse had come down from Heaven and destroyed the Earth. “Madame Bovary” (this was not her real name; it was a nickname the townsfolk used because she always remarked how much she adored Flaubert’s Madame Bovary) and her cats lived in the quite section of town for years, as long as I could remember. She was an attractive lady; in suffering through the natural disease of adolescence, I had a severe lust for her. She was not so much the problem as it was her cats, which kept getting into trashcans and under the hoods of cars. She never married, as far as I know and can tell, because all her lovers despised those pesky cats.
         My father always told me that she loved her cats more than life itself, and would treat the pets like they were human children. The exact number that she owned was never fully known, but some estimate it to be about close to a hundred. Once, the inspectors went to her house because one of our neighbors complained that several of Bovary’s cats were on his roof. This turned out to be false, but our neighbor insisted it was true; and it was that Madame Bovary had to give up some of her precious cats. She had a vendetta against Mr. Hooper up until she left in obscurity. Her house is now empty, the cats are gone, and the property is wasting away to nothingness. Nobody has heard from her or her cats. Sadly, no one in our town misses her, except, perhaps, me.
         I have always had a vested interest in psychology, and majored in the field during my years at the university. My field was taboo psychology, since I read often the works of Herman Melville, and I developed a keen interest in human ego, sexual desires, and oedipal nightmares. My main project, which the university did not assign to me, was to study Madame Bovary’s behavior and the reasons why she kept so many cats. Then she left. My degree went to waste. I was determined to interview her, but my father, upon hearing my aspirations, remarked that it would be a “cold day in Hell” before I stepped across that threshold, for the cats guarded that woman like a pack of wolves. And so it was that many of those cats slept on the porch of the house, wailing at any walkers who even thought about trespassing upon the premises.
         Strangely, though, one night before she left (I forget exactly when), she came during early-evening hours to our home, around eight or so, in a drenching rainstorm. My father was home that day smoking on his pipe, and my mother – a strict and devout Calvinist – was sewing in the parlor. Madame Bovary did not bring any of her precious cats with her, but she seemed a little distressed. All this I observed in the living room, where my father was smoking and reading his newspaper. He was quite surprised at her presence, but he welcomed her inside nonetheless. I was doing my usual reading: first the Bible, as my mother commanded, then anything that I wanted to read thereafter. I was reading an anthology of Henrik Ibsen’s plays.
         “Sorry to bother you,” said Madame Bovary on the doorstep. “I live alone, as you know, Sir, and it seems that I have a bat in my attic. I am deathly afraid of them, and I would you to come and make sure it leaves the house. I won’t be able to sleep. I know it’s an odd request, but you’re the only one I know that has experience in working with animals.”
         Ironically, my mother had on Strauss’s Die Fledermaus Overture playing in the parlor. It’s true what Madame Bovary had said:—my father went to college for veterinary studies. It’s the family business on my father’s side. My grandfather and uncles were veterinarians. It was at this time that my mother ceased her sewing to join my father at the door.
         “What’s the matter?” she whispered to him.
         “Oh, it’s the cat-lady wanting me to get a bat out of her attic,” said my father. His mustache wiggled as he talked. “She won’t be able to sleep.”
         “Oh dear,” said my mother.
         Madame Bovary stood on the doorstep, her clothes soaking wet, frowning. My father and mother discussed the incident while I ceased my reading to stare at them. Bovary’s stature and current state reminded me of a nun in a convert, but her physical features were so divine that I fell in love with her again. She was so beautiful, so lively; but I was a boy at the time, and had no way of being with her. There was something about her persona which I would not, for the life of me, decipher, something odd and mysterious that it irked me to no end. I did not know what it was, but I wanted to know. I wouldn’t find out, though, at least then.
         My father said, “I’ll help you, but it’ll cost you, Madame.”
         “Yes, anything – just help me get that bat out!”
         My father left my mother I, in the rain, disappearing just as mysteriously as Madame Bovary had come. My mother breathed why my father would give the crazy lady the time of day, and returned to the parlor. I placed my book down to join her, and when she saw me, she was glad that I gave her some company.
         “Did you read your Bible, son?”
         “Yes, Mamma.”
         “That’s my good boy,” she said.
         “Mamma – what was that about between Papa and the cat-lady?”
         She looked at me solemnly, with a look of desperation, and she said, “Son, she keeps those cats as prisoners, like the Pharaoh kept the Israelites in Egypt as prisoners. Your father is going to Hell, and I doubt he’ll be back for some time. For Peter’s sake, he’s getting rid of a bat! A bat! What’s so wrong with a bat? I could get rid of a bat!”
         My father didn’t return that night, but he came home the next morning. He claimed at the time that Madame Bovary wanted him to fix the flooding in her basement, and other things that went wrong. My mother didn’t believe him; and it was then that I suspected that my parents were on the verge of divorce. They eventually divorced, but it wasn’t final until I entered high school. Once I was stricken with the disease of adolescence, things were revealed to me which had previously been hidden. My mother had an affair before the divorce with the mailman, claiming that he allowed her to be a true woman. My father went on drinking binges at the local bars. I had to choose between them which one I would live with; and so I chose my father because he didn’t commit a heinous sin like my mother had, so she left with the mailman a few days later. I haven’t seen her since.
         We stayed in the same house I grew up in. It belonged to my grandmother. She left it to my father when she died. Then, one day, as I was coming home from school, I saw Madame Bovary on her porch, staring at the house with some of her cats. She waved to me, and I waved back. I saw my father standing on our porch, smiling, as he had the family Bible open. He walked over to the cat-lady’s house. That began a long series of days when I questioned God, morality, and the meaning of life. I went into the house.

II

Madame Bovary was an animal hoarder. As I continued my psychological studies in college, I learned more about the quirk. From what I had learned, she possibly kept all those cats as a means of closure for an undisclosed secret or hidden feeling, sort of like filling in a hole that was formed during her life. Many people use objects, like a picture of a loved one, or an article of clothing; but in Bovary’s case, she used cats, meaning that cats meant something to her during her life, a symbol of the thing that was missing. One day I wanted to interview her about her cat obsession. I never forgot what my mother had said to me that night when my father went to rid the house of the bat.
         My interest in fictional literature grew during my studies. I grew fond of the numerous works of Hawthorne and Dostoevsky. Hawthorne viewed humans as moral objects meant to be studied, especially in terms of behavior and moral applicability. Dostoevsky viewed humans as symbolic of the ideas they represent. For example, if a man was egotistical, then he would represent ego. In Hawthorne’s case, a man was an object, meant to convey the sins of humanity, not as a person with a soul. These ideas were indicative of many of the ideas that I had as a junior psychologist. I have applied, somewhat, in my practice, but I have come to embrace other more accurate psychologists.
         There must have been something in her past that she associates with cats. To hoard all those cats is indeed a problem; and the cat is a tame pet, if a little secretive. However, during my stay at the university, a former colleague of mine had accidently left his copy of Flaubert’s Madame Bovary on his desk during our taboo psychology class. I took it, having every intention to return it when I saw him again. I never fully read Flaubert’s novel, but I have read passages from it. I could not find a suitable passage to support the reason for my town’s cruel pseudonym, justifying it, then, as a practical joke. There was much to be desired.
         One evening, during personal studies with some colleagues of mine, my father called for me from his study (this was before he died); he wanted to speak to me. My colleagues, realizing the lateness of the hour, took leave. My father rarely disturbed me, especially when I was busy working on my term papers or reading. His study was a tall, dark room, like a gothic cathedral, packed to the ceiling with books and statues. He was sitting at his desk, weary, sad, and perhaps even depressed, for what, I don’t know. He sighed when he saw me, motioning to come closer so that he may speak with me. I was frightened, but my father was of good health, so I didn’t suspect any ailment to have possessed him.
         “My son,” he said. “I have been a loyal father to you, yes?”
         “Yes, Father,” I said.
         “Then you’d trust anything I tell you, whether it was something dark from my past?”
         This remark disturbed me, because my father never spoke in such terms. His sentence was grim, dark, and spooky; but I suppose I could trust my father, for he is my father, and anything he told me I would tell no one else, except for my mother – and it is that person I suspected my father wanted me to keep his secret from. I haven’t seen my mother since she left him, and so he needn’t worry about me “spilling the beans” to her, should any opportunity arise.
         “I loved your mother,” he said, looking down at his hands. “I truly did. I thought she was my soul-mate. We were perfect for each other. She loved me for who I was. However, as I am a man, I have succumbed to sin like we all do – we all are the victims of sin, my son, and it’s our job in this life that God has given us to combat it. Humans aren’t perfect by any means; and I even think the Good Lord purposefully gave us the Devil to wage war against.”
         “Yes, Father,” I said.
         “We are moral objects—we must represent angels here on earth, Son. As such, however, the Devil tempted us like he tempted God, as Saint Matthew records. I have tried my best to be a good Christian, to obey God and keep His Commandments. However, even after baptism, we sin, and thus we are indebted to repentance – otherwise, we are sinful and can’t enter Heaven.”
         “What are you trying to say, Father?”
         He looked at me with his sullen, tired eyes, with a brief smile, and said, “What I am trying to say is that I wasn’t entirely faithful to your mother. I succumbed to the sin of lust, like all men do.”
         At this juncture, I was angry. However, as all Christians are required to do, I forgave him of his trespasses, and felt sympathy. He never told me with whom he had an affair, only that he had one before I was born, because he was angry that my mother seemingly flirted with an old boyfriend. He was only unfaithful once and never told my mother because he felt that had he told her, she would leave him, and we worked too hard in his life to have his first (and only) wife leave him. When I was born, he realized the penalties of his mistake, and vowed to remain faithful always, to never marry another woman even after divorce, because he believed souls were united in Heaven, although not on the Earth.
         Soon after, he fell ill from an unknown disease. The doctors couldn’t determine what exactly plagued him, only that he complained of headaches and vertigo. I visited him in the hospital only occasionally. On the day that he died, I had brought a copy of Madame Bovary with me, and a copy of D. H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover, my mother’s favorite novel. When he saw me, he coughed and said that it was his time. However, when he saw Flaubert, he gasped and pointed at the novel, calling it an act of the Devil, and croaked in his bed, alone, with me deeply frightened, my soul shattered, and left with a mystery which my father refused to reveal.

III

The mystery of my father’s alleged infidelity lies within the fictional souls of Emma Bovary and Constance Chatterley. For several days, I was completely absorbed with these two novels. It’s something of a perverted joke, for I never really had interest in Flaubert or Lawrence; but since both novels dealt with sexual infidelity and human psychology, I digested them in my mind. Also, I became infatuated with Ibsen’s plays, for their subject-matter dealt with hereditary disease. I was essentially on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I had to take a break from life itself, so I took a tour of the country, then headed north to Canada, and returned to my late father’s humble mansion in a week. My parents’ infidelities remained in the back of my mind.
         I came home to several of Madame Bovary’s cats resting easily on the porch of my home. They slept like angels, and I fed them on saucers of milk. I am not a cat-person. I prefer dogs, but I wasn’t going to let those cats starve or sleep outside in the cold. These cats were calicos and Siamese cats, not of the basic species of black and white which are so common. The cats that entreated my porch numbered about ten. I allowed them to sleep in the parlor, where my mother’s ghost resided, until Madame Bovary came here to claim them. Her house seemed like it had been abandoned. She hadn’t been home, I speculated, in about three weeks. The cats were sincere and kind, having not disturbed me while I did my studies in private. They kept me company; I began to grow lonely over the course of mourning my father’s passing.
         There came a knock in the middle of the night. I knew at once it was the Madame wanting me to return her cats. When I reached the door, my expectations were correct. There stood the Madame on my doorstep, solemn, sad, but nevertheless happy to see me.
         “I heard about your father,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
         “It’s all right,” I said. “I have your cats.”
         “Yes – but I left them there on purpose. I got rid of my cats…some of them. I had to. It was the only way. Think of these was a housewarming gift.”
         “A housewarming gift?” I remarked, quite surprised. “Why do you say this?”
         She swallowed hard and said, “I got rid of my cats because it was the only way to be closer to you. What I am trying to say is” – and here she struggled – “that I…am madly in love with you.”
         At these words, I almost screamed out of panic, merely out of surprise, because she was twice my age, something along the lines of thirty or forty, and I was twenty-two, still in my youth. I was quite flattered at her remarks, but I had my eyes on some younger women at the university, and had no plans to be caught up with an old timer. I smiled at her and she returned with a brief one, with the windswept cold and the snow, I let her I into my home, to her cats, which she kept as prisoners in the house of bondage.
         “I’m flattered, really,” I said, “but I am into younger types.”
         “Why should age matter in a relationship?” she intoned. “Women at my age like younger men because they have more energy and vitality. You are handsome and dashing; I have fallen for you for a while now. You resemble your father.”
         I did not know what to say. I allowed her to continue. “Love is funny. It comes hard. It’s rotten, too. But feelings aren’t false unless the other person is disregarded. So I guess I’ve been living in a fantasy world shrouded by a romance that’s false.”
         “Don’t say that,” I informed. “Romance is funny, I agree. A romance is false, but love is not false. Love is as natural as breathing. You long for the romance. I don’t long for romance; men tend to fall into that trap, but I am a lonely soul. Stay here for the night, out of the cold. The cats seem to enjoy it here.”
         I led her up the stairs to my private study, my bedroom with a piano and extensive wardrobe. Once in the room, the romance blossomed, and I was stricken with the disease of love, possessed by the lust-demon. She was so beautiful in the twilight of the moon, despite her age. Giggling, she began to strip. I prepared some music – German opera and piano, among my favorite composers being Strauss, Beethoven, Wagner, Reger, Bach, and Brahms. She was down to her brassiere. We kissed. The romance was fierce, and we found ourselves twixt the covers; under the light of the pale-faced moon, the dominant primordial beast within us woke, and we thrashed and wailed like animals in the primitive through the night. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever experienced, in the tradition of the human animal.
         “Don’t stop,” she breathed. “Keep going….I feel so alive.”

IV

She noticed the copy of Flaubert’s novel on the bedside table when she awoke. We were still under the covers, and it was on the verge of daylight. She laughed and said, “How flattering.”
         “I think it’s ingenious,” I said. “It’s typical of current American society.”
         She rose from the bed to put her clothes back on. “Yes, you’re quite right. We are expected to conform to the laws of society; the odd ones are shunned, but the perfect and enlightened ones are worshiped like gods. Even the gods of old were imperfect. The gods were very much like us. So why are we to follow the laws of society and not God?”
         She was so beautiful – of the likeness of a goddess, and yet she was so uniquely human. I, too, felt alive; but I knew deep down she still had her cats. Those cats meant everything to her, and now I have some of them. She had her clothes on, planting another kiss on my lips; and then up the stairs, out in the hall, the mewing of the cats came. She ceased and looked frightened. She was nervous about something, and I knew she didn’t want to say it. Turning to walk out the door, I halted her advances, and ask, solemnly, “Why did you have so many cats?”
         She turned to look at me with glassy eyes. “It’s called closure.”
         “Yes, I know that. I’m a psychologist. There’s something within your psyche you’re refusing to let out, and that’s not good. You must state your feelings, no matter how odd they are.”
         “I am the Lord thy God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage.” With those words, she turned and left the bedroom. I stood there, alone, left to contemplate the meaning of what she had said, quoting God’s Word. Those were the same words my mother uttered when I was a boy; they had never left me, and to this day I wonder what they mean. Soon, however, it would all make sense. Although, it took me a while to determine their meaning, I was left to rot in the mediocre appellations of life. The meaning of those words was simple, really. Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, where Pharaoh held them in bondage and under the divine providence and grace of God, and led to freedom. What did this have to do with Madame Bovary and her cats? The cats were indeed some kind of psychological symbol; it was undoubtedly of the utmost importance that I determine the cause of what had just come to pass.
         There’s an old riddle, as old as the gods of Egypt, that the Sphinx spoke once, “Which creature in the morning goes on four legs, at midday on two, and in the evening upon three, and the more legs it has, the weaker it be?” The answer is, of course, Man. So Man is at the mercy of his own intelligence? No, but he’s at the mercy of his own body and the forces of nature, a prisoner to instinct the primordial order – into the primitive, a phrase which is unto itself meaningless, but is of importance to us as men and women, because we are all reduced to the primitive instincts. I know I was. This sense of enlightenment, then, made me realize that Madame Bovary’s cats were her sub-conscious way of “returning to the primitive,” to escape the bondage of society, to be reduced to a state of non-conformity, and thereby following only the Laws of God, not that of governments, or what another person says, but God and God alone.
         I grew up in a relatively rich family, the paternal side rich beyond their means, while the maternal side evolved in relative poverty. I liked being rich, it’s true; and I often felt sorry for my mother, who never had the childhood that I did, for she had no money or food. However, I was spoiled as a child, my father giving me things which no other child in America could have, and I wish that it weren’t so, because I have a skewed view of life. The concept of a social order was similar to a European point of view, living with manners and governed by a societal king; and so last night I was led into the primitive like she was, and I finally felt human, but in a good sense. I was determined to figure out the symbol of the cats, and the nature of my father’s infidelity.
         My father kept his things in his study, which I was never allowed to enter unless he granted me permission. Since he was deceased, however, I had access to his things. I know he kept journals, what he called his “notebooks,” in his study, usually locked away so that no one could read them. He had countless notebooks, typically used for his radical ideas on religion or history. He had a personal one, where he recorded his thoughts; that he kept inside the desk, while the others were locked away in relative obscurity awaiting to be published. I felt horrible wanting to trespass upon my father’s things, but alas, since he was dead – and maybe his ghost haunting these very halls – I was obligated to do so, even if it meant my own sanity and my soul being possessed with guilt.  I would never go into the private thoughts of my father, but his notebooks – which were to be the products of the American viewership anyway, were at the mercy of my digestion.
         I unlocked the desk’s drawers, pulled out the notebook, and began to read.
         “I have done something I’m not proud of; like Arthur Dimmesdale, as I am a man of faith, I succumbed to the sin of lust, and have disobeyed God’s Commandment, committing adultery. I have come to realize that all men are the victims of such an innate ability to want to mate; and it seems that I, too, have succumbed to other women – and I know what I have done. My wife doesn’t know, and I don’t want her to know…yet. She’ll know eventually, but during her pregnancy, I think it’s wrong for her to know that I have a daughter, bright and fair, about ten years old. It’s something I am not proud of, but the Good Lord shall judge me when I appear before His judgment seat. Oh how I’ve been scorned! Nothing which has happened can prevent me from expressing how I truly feel about things. In truth, my wife is insane – but we are to love everyone else as we love the Lord thy God.”
         Upon reading this passage from his notebook, I was shocked to learn that I had a sister. It’s true what my father had written; I wasn’t so angry as when he told me, but didn’t come as a surprise that perhaps he did sire another child. I was an only child to my parents; and I was intrigued, indeed, to know that I have a half-sister waiting to see me. The problem resided with the surname – did she have my father’s, or did she marry and became the soul property of her husband? I went further into my father’s possessions, and found nothing to suggest a daughter or her name except in that notebook passage. Ah! Maybe he had something in another place of the house? I had to know. I spent the entire day looking throughout the mansion to evidence of my sister, but to no avail.
         I did manage to uncover his literary pursuits, however. I noticed, among other things, in his personal library books by Nathaniel Hawthorne and Henry James. I read these books for a while, knowing that perhaps I could uncover something deep within the fictional worlds which resided within the confines of his psyche. The Scarlet Letter was my favorite, but I also thoroughly enjoyed James’s The Turn of the Screw. The commonality of these works, like the novels of Flaubert and D. H. Lawrence, have a female protagonist shunned for her sexual immorality. But what did this have to do with a potential half-sister? I was agonized over such things, so I took a short holiday to the North Country, to allow my mind to wander and think about the events which have come to me.
         Over the course of my holiday, I began to think about Madame Bovary. That’s the only name I knew her by, and I wanted to know her true name, if she had one. It’s an intriguing name, really, because Flaubert’s Bovary slept with many men just o get back at her husband. Constance Chatterley had done the same thing – but Lady Chatterley’s excuse was that her husband didn’t satisfy her; Bovary did it out of spite. These thoughts made me think of men and why they jump from woman to woman. Is it out of spite? No, I doubt it. I think we do it to satisfy the dominant primordial beast within us, that primitive desire to return to the wild, as things were, to escape from the laws of society and to become almost like animals, like her cats – prisoners to nature in a perpetual house of bondage, our Egypt. So perhaps Bovary’s cats were a means to satisfy that desire. I am of the opinion that men are different than women because men are the providers and hunters. We hunt for things, while women take care of things. We are the victims of some primitiveness of which we have no control, but our minds allow us to control it, unless ego becomes an issue and we are reduced to being animals.
         My holiday to Canada proved worthwhile, but it didn’t satisfy my desires to have the secrets of my father’s past unlocked. Perhaps I wouldn’t solve them; but then again, who would? Maybe Madame Bovary had some answers. It was worth a try, since she knew my father so well. I sincerely thought that she knew something, especially since she acted so strangely that night. Yes, I would go to her house with the now-defunct cats (what she had left) and ask her questions regarding my father’s past, if she indeed knew anything about his love-life, and why she is so attracted to me. When I got back, that’s exactly what I did – and I regret that decision, because my pursuits caused her to leave, and they also revealed something to me which I shall never forget as long as I live in this eternal nightmare.

V

The housecat is a typical pet, perhaps a little better than the dog due to its size and its private habits. The cat does not need attention like a dog, and as such, it’s at odds with the rest of the household pets, a true hunter, a stalker, and arrogant. I never liked cats because their personable, whereas dogs adhere to human interaction, loving their owners unconditionally no matter what. However, the cat in history has received a better reputation; the Egyptians worshiped them as a true domestic pet, and some even ate from the tables of the Pharaoh. Historically, though, the cat has been a sign of ill-omen, bad luck, and a detector of disaster. The cat is also associated with the aristocracy.
         The reason I write this is because when I returned from my holiday, Madame Bovary and her cats had left town, forever perhaps; and it seemed she sold some of her precious felines to some very rich people in the north. She left one of them to me, a calico that I named His Whiskers. He’s been a loyal pet. With this cat was a note, written in a woman’s hand. The note was addressed to me, and signed on the envelope “With love, Flaubert’s Bovary.” I chuckled at this, going inside as a storm was coming. The cat liked me, and slept most of that day. Letters are interesting because they express deep thoughts also. I thought it was some kind of scathing love-letter, her expressing how much she loved me, how she pined for me, but she had to leave because I didn’t understand her. Personal demons are something, but lost souls are another.
         Before I read the note, I reflected on the possibilities. The woman, as portrayed in Flaubert, Lawrence, and James are the victims of society, abused by men usually, and are symbolic of youth and innocence. However, they are sexual creatures like men, and desire more than a man does. It’s an obvious attack, but women deserve respect above anything else, and it should be men who are punished, but society makes man the victim and the woman the innocent. Women are the innocents abroad. Why is it that the man must be punished for his sexual desires? Because society says that the man is the cause of sexual society – afraid of commitment, afraid of relationships, and all they care about is sex. This is not true for all men. Some men are dedicated to their wives. My father wasn’t, but I shouldn’t be punished because of his infidelities. I am merely the victim of circumstance. And when a woman has done what Bovary did, I was shocked but also pleased, because for once in my life a woman wanted me instead of me wanting a woman.
         I opened the envelope, which was a one-page letter addressed to me and signed by her. The letter looked like it was written in a hurry. I put on my glasses, sat down by the window as the snow fell, to the aroma of coffee, and I read until the end.
         
I know this will not make any sense to you, but I must leave. I love my cats, this town, my life, but something has come up where I am deeply ashamed of myself. Ever since that night I have felt guilty, and it’s not your fault; you didn’t know at the time. I didn’t know either until the results came back from my DNA test and the report from your father’s estate. I have committed a sin beyond recognition, and I am not only sorry to you, but to God Almighty, for I am now shamed at my life and my desires. I want you more than anything – I love you; but I can’t be with you, I can’t ever see you again. It’s not natural. It can’t be because society considers it taboo. I know this sounds odd and, quite, frankly, disgusting, but my feelings had to be released. So in the name of God Almighty, I must leave you forever, and my cats. I don’t know where I’ll go, or what punishment will be inflicted upon me. Enclosed is a picture. Maybe that’ll be proof for you.
         Exodus 20:2 – I am the Lord thy God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage.

“MADAME BOVARY”

When I saw that picture, I was shocked. I wanted to scream, but I didn’t, and merely reflected on it for a while. I couldn’t fathom what I had just read nor what I had seen. This woman was there all along, right across the street, and I was oblivious to it all! I set the documents down, running to my study to look through all my psychology books. I spent several long hours looking through them for a cure. Yes, a cure. My father had died from syphilis, as I found out from the doctor who called me, and that I could possibly have it. Passed down to me from my father, a hereditary disease! What’s left? Am I going to be an adulterer? Will I commit that heinous sin? I didn’t want to know, I didn’t want some oracle telling me my fate. I was absorbed in my books, and I couldn’t find a cure: I was diseased now, not only physically, but mentally. This was something that couldn’t be fathomed in this life or the next. I was guilty as charged, although I was innocent until then. I felt so dirty, so wrong, so venial and horrible that I contemplated suicide. It was useless to try and find a cure because the disease had already progressed, forever etched in my memory. I felt so weird…that picture…it’s there. Oh the agony of it all! Ah humanity! The horrific, detestable laws of society!
         That picture of Madame Bovary – she…she…resembled my father!
         As night fell, I took a shower to cleanse myself. Nature allows for a real baptism; but the water from the shower baptized me again. I still felt awful, and wanted to read to take my mind off things, although what had occurred was not curable. I was diseased now, maybe forever. Diseased by the demons from Hell, doomed to wander through life knowing that I had consummated with my… oh, I can’t say it! The mere thought makes me sick to my stomach. The mewing of the cat makes me think of her, and I don’t want to think of her. In fact, I am glad she’s gone now, because I can live a life in peace and solitude for the time being. Now alone forever in my gloomy mansion, I am the victim of a fraud, a false romance, driven my primitive impulses and taboo psychology.
         I have since become a recluse, living live alone without interaction with anyone. His Whiskers has died, alone also, without his family. I cannot consummate a relationship with another woman because of what had happened to me; for now I am later in years, and I suspect I shall remain a perpetual bachelor. It’s something I am not proud of, but nonetheless, whatever happened is of the past. I think about her often, wonder what she’s doing with herself. Perhaps she feels the same way; or maybe she’s dead, wandering through this life as a ghost, not able to see the Light of God, forever tormented for what she did with me. I feel so guilty. I can’t think of anything else. Here in this darkness, I am a poor sap. I am alone, afraid, and can’t bear to see the light because I have shamed myself. Sometimes the feelings come back, but I suppress them. It isn’t natural. I can’t bear to see anything or anyone, because I am of the opinion that my sins are what have stained my soul.
         Maybe I’ll cover my face with a veil when I go out, to prevent the world from seeing my shame. Ah, but we all have veils! My sins are too great for me to state outright to even a minister. I shall move to Canada, away from this place, away from this mansion, and my identity hidden from this wretched place. I have my own house of bondage. I am a prisoner to my sins, and I know it. I cannot escape from the clutches of the Devil. I feel as though I am going insane. Yes! I’ll read for the night, to let these thoughts escape me, and perhaps I’ll confess my sin with my mouth, because God forgives every sin except blaspheming the Holy Spirit. Yes, I’ll repent my sin with my mouth, and God will forgive me, because I committed a heinous act, engaged in sexual immorality, and can halt the demons of my mind. It’s going to be all right. There’s nothing left now but calm and sorrow. I have shamed my father and my family.
         Madame Bovary has written to me from Britain. She gave birth to two daughters. They’re twins, she said; they look like me. She wants me to see them. In my response, I told her I received Canadian citizenship, and I am blind now – blind literally, blind to faith, and blind to life. I am wasting away, I told her. In her letter, she says how awful she felt for us to find out the hard way, but that it was destiny. “A prophecy,” the letter says, “that only a blind seer could determine.” I walk the streets of Ontario with a cane, sad and hopeless; because deep down I do love her like a wife, but she’s…she’s gone now. She’s not like other women. I wish I could see the faces of my two daughters. Why didn’t she get rid of them? Those girls will be scared for life! Oh the agony of it all! I am sorry Lord God! Forgive me! I am truly, nervous, very truly dreadfully nervous and sorry I am!
         They say that cats have nine lives. I have nine lives, too. I have lived them all. The cat is a sneaky little devil, and I realize that now since I’ve been useless. It’s a shame that I wander through life like this. This is God’s punishment for me. I can’t see to do anything. And now, I wish I were in Britain with Madame Bovary. I want to be buried with her. Yes, she’s right – we were meant to be. How? Because I am nothing. Curse my family! Curse my father! I have been stricken with an incurable disease, the disease of syphilis, and I could die at any time now. Who would care? Of Course, no one would care. I am a cat in a house of bondage. I am no longer a free man. I must suffer now for all eternity. Yes, I have denounced my citizenship; I have left my problems in the mansion. The mansion is better off without me. I go there to prepare a place for you. Jesus has no place for me now. I have committed a very bad sin. Useless, really, quite useless; walking in this manner, those girls will be forever scared with that mark, that disease, and a sense of loneliness knowing that their father is also their…oh how I can’t say it! I can’t utter it! It’s too nasty to be uttered!
         “I am the Lord thy God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, the house of bondage. Thou shall have no other gods before me. Thou shall not make thyself an idol and worship it. Thou shall not take the Lord thy God’s name in vain. Thou shall bless the Sabbath Day and hallow it. Thou shall honor thy father and mother. Thou shall not commit adultery. Thou shall not murder. Thou shall not steal. Thou shall not bear false witness. Thou shall not covet thy neighbor’s property.”
         All of them I failed to obey. There’s no place for me now. I must go in silence.