Madame Sarah and the young vagabond
The instant short story
She's known as Madame Sarah in the neighborhood. She has lived there forever. Her residence is one of those Brussels houses, three stories high and narrow, like a small tower. On the front façade, rectangular windows, only one on the ground floor to accommodate the polished wooden door, and two on each floor up to the red-tiled roof. There are curtains on the lower window, always drawn, as if light prevents its existence.
Madame Sarah appears to be a hundred years old. Today, she wears short green rubber boots. She is quite hunched, like half a biscuit dipped in coffee. Every morning, she goes out early, her cart in hand. She strolls with her solitude, accompanied by the incessant noise of the four-lane Boulevard, heading to the small corner grocery store. Every day, except Friday, for it's Amir's prayer day, the owner of the bazaar. And prayer is sacred. He took over the shop when his old man died, cancer, an old man's disease that struck him without much warning. Death doesn't keep count. It makes mistakes. He wasn't even forty years old. Since then, Amir and I occasionally share a joint in the back of the store. Sitting on chip cartons, he smiles at me and says, "It's harām," but that doesn't stop him from doing it. Amir doesn't talk much; he listens, gazes at me with gentle eyes, not lingering too much, and retreats behind his gap-toothed smile, which makes you want to adopt him. He's alone now.
I lean against the bus shelter below Madame Sarah's place. I can see her from afar, returning with her cart that she drags like her cross. Maybe I could help her. I've tried once or twice to approach her, but I don't know, I didn't really dare. Old age is somewhat frightening. I stare at the wall across the street; there's a small niche, the size of a foot, embedded in the facade, at ground level. In my foggy mind, I imagine it as a custom-made passage for city rats. I see a rat with curved whiskers, followed by its joyful and rambunctious little ones, squeezing in playfully. They're soaked from head to paws. It was time they sought shelter; the rain intensifies. In reality, this hole in the wall is a shoe scraper, a boot cleaner, something to remove mud from one's shoes. The nine-twelve bus just left. People got off, others got on. I'm just standing here, without much of a plan for the day. It's a bit cold.
I live on the ground floor now; my hips and back hurt, and I wouldn't risk the stairs anymore. I had double glazing installed to muffle the constant noise of cars, and I keep the curtains closed to lull the outside agitation to sleep. From this street-facing room, my gaze passes through the connecting rooms and settles on the glass veranda at the end, an extension of the garden, which a fine drizzle brushes today. It's a halo of light, the green lung of the house.
Like every morning, I wake up to the harmonious symphony of meows from the young and old ones. They're everywhere, squabbling like children. They come in all sizes and fur types. Some knead my blanket with their sharp claws, while others wait patiently near their bowls, their eyes imploring and their mouths slightly open, emitting soft chirps. They are the sunshine of my life.
It's eight-thirty on the living room clock. I put on my shoes and step down the small front porch. My ankle boots are lined with a thin layer of sheepskin, and I can slide my feet in effortlessly. I make my way calmly to the grocery store on the corner. I love this old-fashioned routine, having all the time in the world to be on time. Every day, except Friday. The walls of the crowded bazaar display black and white photos of the neighborhood before the highway invaded it. The boulevard used to be a one-way street lined with silver lime trees. One can almost glimpse the colors of autumn. Young Amir helps me place the few provisions of the day on the checkout counter. Cat food, cans and kibbles, a few vegetables, potatoes, and slices of white ham. He adds some soft cat food; he knows they love it.
On the way back, as I pull my cart on the uneven cobblestones, I spot the young vagabond of the neighborhood. I've seen him at the grocer's; I think they're friends. Leaning against the bus shelter, he sits on the wet ground, seemingly absentmindedly staring at the facades of the houses in front of him. I'm not really scared; he doesn't seem harmful. He approached me once or twice while I was coming back from my errands, but I don't have much to steal except the cat food. He roams the streets and shops during the day; as for the night, I don't know, I hope he's not cold. He's still just a child; I don't even know his name. It's quite sad to see that.
In the kitchen, I unload my cart while dozens of little paws nearly make me stumble. There's no way I can make my way to the fridge; these little creatures are insatiable, but youth will pass. There's mischievous Juliette, the tortoiseshell, and her three barely weaned kittens. Big striped Titus, the undisputed master of the household, and finally, Fly, the black-coated princess of the living room. On the radiators, beneath the windows, I've placed a striped cushion, like the ones used to protect garden plastic chairs in the summer; it's the patriarch's throne. The girls share the floral fabrics on the sofa's armrests, and the little ones don't sleep much. I put water to heat, and through the window, I see the trees bending; the wind has finally picked up. I haven't planned much for today; it's a winter day, the kind I love, endless time for daydreaming. The tea is ready, it seems.