I have to admit that I have been lucky throughout my life.
It is nice to be appreciated for what one does in life. A way to feel that the community appreciates your attempts to contribute meaningfulness is to grant an “Award“. I received many awards throughout life for scientific and literary work.
One that may seem Lilliputian to most readers but rises to a magnificent stature to me is being granted the “honorary citizenship” of the medieval town of Pizzo: the “San Giorgio d’Oro”. I was the second among only three to receive this award in the millennial history of Pizzo (nothing like being a big fish in a small pond!).
There are other recognitions of more international proportions to be proud of, but something that was missing by my subconscious was the one from my native town: Milano, where I was born and raised and where I went through my complete education from daycare to kindergarten, elementary, middle, high school and the University of Milan Medical School.
I would have hoped that someone from by hometown would care about my modest achievements; to at least prepare a little certificate to hang on the wall.
It never happened till yesterday when, walking along the falling autumn leaves of the “Parco Lambro” I found this wonderful dedication (see picture below) from an anonymous fan. Thank you so much to you, my unknown friend!
One may argue this is no match to the Nobel prize but, you know what? Someone else may counter that:
“it is always better than nothing!!!“
Life achievement award: a porta potty dedicated to me in the most beautiful park of Milan, …by an anonymous fan – thank you, wherever you are! Milano, November 26, 2023
We went skiing, just to break the boredom of the gloomy winter days and get out of the confined spaces we lived in. When you cannot meet new people you are stuck with whoever you happened to have around when the restrictions started. It does not feel like a prison, but it does not feel like freedom either, stranded with co-inhabitants and not exactly by choice.
The second time we went was the best. She was in a good mood, maybe because a lot of fresh snow had fallen recently. Crowds were sparse even in the weekend, as compared to normal times, due to the restrictions. It was a Monday and there were even fewer people. We went up and down the slopes so many times that I lost count.
She felt more confident than the first time, and mastered the black slopes without problems, so I easily relinquished my caution. At one point I stopped at the top of a really steep double black slope. It was so inviting, I was drawn to it, and the fact that there were no skiers adventuring there made it even more attractive. I asked her if she minded if we split and meet at the bottom. She was silent and I understood that she did not like the idea. Had I been with anybody else I would have jumped down to enjoy a moment of excitement, but with her I just felt like a pathetic bragger. So, I dropped the idea without speaking a word and we continued in the easier slope.
Towards the end of the day, while sitting in the lift going up the mountain, we saw a squirrel jumping erratically in circles in the snow between the trees. She was so amused at the little squirrel who seemed to be searching without success for the nuts buried in the fall. “Squirrels often forget where they bury their food”, her friend who knows everything about all animals had told her. Her childish amazement was so captivating. Her big brown eyes were smiling through the ski googles. I felt like caressing the lock of her curly hair that had escaped out of the ski mask but refrained from doing it. In that short yet infinite moment our surroundings transformed into an enchanted place. The sun, veiled by clouds, pretended to be the moon, making us laugh at it, while the icicles hanging from the rocks below glittered like the wand of a fairy.
I know that if it weren’t for the circumstances, she would rather be somewhere else. She will return to the life she longs for as soon as it will become possible. The memory of a squirrel jumping around in the snow, her sweet laughter and the magical winter afternoon will stay in my heart forever.
This is a very short story inspired in part by true events but also meant to represent an allegory: the young woman is the spring of life seen at sunset by an aging man.
I hope that you will enjoy it.
Sunset at solstice – Photo by Denise Tarasuk, Nova Scotia, June 21 2023
The swan song
The silver Swan, who living had no note, when death approached, unlocked her silent throat. Leaning her breast against the reedy shore, thus sang her first and last, and sang no more: “Farewell, all joys! O Death, come close my eyes!”
The silver swan by Orlando Gibbons
***
“If an old man speaks in a crowded street and nobody pays attention, does he still make a sound?”
We were sitting in front of each other, a Martini in his left hand and a frozen Margarita in mine, when he continued:
“My grandpa used to garnish the family dinners with his World War I stories. I still carry vivid memories of those recounts. I was the only one listening. Nobody else did. Neither did he. He spat words out of the mouth mechanically for the consumption of the innocent grandchild. I was the only one naïve enough to care. I remember this one:
It was the third year. We had done our turn, and the company or whoever was left of it was set to go back home. And then the captain says: “We are gonna go nowhere. The country needs us, tomorrow we go out and we will fight for freedom.” We looked at each other and said nothing. Sure enough, the next day, instead of going home we are in the trenches. First thing, as soon as the shooting starts, the sergeant holds up his riffle and snipes at the captain’s head. Nobody says nothing. Two days later we were home. –
Grandpa took out the dentures from his mouth; they were too loose, and a crumb of the torta del Paradiso was stuck between them and the palate. Then, he turned the index finger upside-down and judiciously scraped the crumb off. That made him gag a little and so he guzzled a good sip of Barbera. Then, he returned the dentures into their original position, puffed, rubbed is nose and forgot about the grandson waiting for the next story.”
Pretty sure it is an apocryphal recollection, maybe a dream of Grandpa, but this and other fantastic stories came out of his mouth after sufficient imbibing to be dismissed by all and, as years went by, also by me.”
After another sip of Martini and a scratch of the head, he continued:
…And grandpa, walked along the streets arguing loudly with himself. There were no cell phones then, nor EarPods and people thought that he was just a craved old man; but he was a visionary ahead of his times. There would be no qualms now.
…But now, just like grandpa, it’s my turn to be a dusty antique; a relic to be displayed in a vintage store, a gramophone with a scratchy voice.”
After another sip of Martini, he concluded with an affable smile turning the dark blue eyes towards me:
“You see? The biggest fear of aging, is to become irrelevant.”
The piercing eyes seemed lost, ambivalent between studying my reaction or staring toward the deep abyss of the future.
I had no idea about where all of this was coming from. Yet I had no propensity to encourage more of the strange conversation.
Instead, I tried to lighten it up:
“Come on! Don’t be silly! You are an icon among friends, admirers, fans. You will never be obsolete! And you will never be even close to irrelevant to me. You know that I love you!”
“Thanks!” he replied with an ironic smile: “I love myself too, or at least I used to!”
No point trying harder.
I sat silent looking at the idol of my life. A gentle soul under the hide of a grumpy old man.
“It is not just about oblivion; it’s more than that. While the world fades around, standing in front of the mirror of my conscience, I see regrets, I see the treasures that I squandered. Too many ghosts to share the emptiness with. A vague fear of the unknown is the angel of the night. One wants to shout, to tell everyone, to ask for merci, but who is there to listen? Who wants to be bothered by the whimpers of an old man?”
“As an old friend once said, an open door always makes you pause, wondering which way to go.
But what if there is nowhere left to go? Everything becomes purposeless and the distant horizon far from being a challenge becomes an insignificant nuance. How many times can I go to bed at night ready to die to wake up alive next mooring and wait for the next chance? See? This is my curse; the limbo at the twilight of life.”
***
We said goodbye. I hugged him tightly. Standing rigid like a flagpole, acquiescent, he accepted the embrace. As my hug lasted too long, he put his hand on my shoulder, squeezed it gently, kissed lightly the top of my head, and said:
“Time to go now. But first I want to give you this.”
It took a gift box out of the pocket and held it on the open hand. I opened it. It was a pin; a red rose made of coral on a white gold stem with little diamonds adorning two yellow gold leaves.
***
Day passed, then months. Life was neither good nor bad, it was simply empty.
I missed him. He had been my mentor since my post-doc days. I continued in his department as a faculty member. I grew up under his protection. We were very close. I saw him go through difficult times, personal and professional. I saw him jump into retirement. I saw him lose his wife to cancer. Our relationship became intimate, comfortable, even loving. He never expressed any feelings for me, beyond what’s appropriate for a professional relationship.
But a woman knows; I saw his pride, when I gave a talk, when I received an award; it was more than paternal affection. I knew just exactly how he felt. And I waited and waited till all commitments disappeared, no wife, no children around. He was an aging old me, and I was still young and attractive. Though we became closer and closer, he never responded to my subtle hints. It was just a lovely friendship.
Yet, I never married.
Then, he disappeared.
He did not return my messages. No one came to the door when I rang the doorbell. I worried, we worried, we informed the police. Searches were begun, but he was nowhere to be found; he became a “missing person” and with time nobody cared anymore except for me.
Women have physiological needs, and besides, they are compelled to please their parents. I convinced myself that he was gone. I had relationships, then I married, and I had a daughter, whom I love very much.
Years passed.
As I said, life was neither good nor bad, it was just empty.
***
Few years after the disappearance, I received a letter. The familiar chicken scratch spelled my name and address. It came from a far away place somewhere in the South China Sea.
“My dear,
Sorry for disappearing suddenly. I had to do it. I love you. I always did since the first time I met you. Your spirit full of life, your uplift personality, your beautiful smile. But you were the “hope diamond” of my life. I had commitments and even worse, we lived in two different words which by chance happened to cross each other. Forty years separate us. What a irony of life, to meet the right person at its crepuscule. I know that you loved me, and this is why I had to go. Give you a chance to find your own life.
I was happy here, leaving in a medical resort, taking care of cancer patients till now when I became one among them.
This is my swan song, I just wanted to let you know that I love you.”
That night, I talked to my husband, I told him everything and said:
“I have to go see him; I have to find closure.”
The seaplane landed at the shore of the quiet resort. Few locals came to greet me at the pier. They brought me to the village chief. A sweet old man with a very dark skin and a very white head. They spoke English quite well.
I asked about him. The elder looked at me without saying anything. Then, he walked out of the hut inviting me to follow.
Protecting the eyes from the sun with the palm of one hand, he raised the other arm toward the summit of a close by hill:
“The Doctor is there, resting in peace.”
I asked to be carried up there. They pulled out an old Toyota fit for the jungle, and we reached the summit.
Under a tall meranti tree a pile of dirt surged among tropical flowers.
As I approached, I saw a slate planted vertically at the head of the fresh mound. A rose was carved at the top and, below it, this sentence was engraved:
“I knew that you would be here.”
***
More years passed. Life still is neither good, nor bad. But it isn’t empty anymore.
Tangled gardens, Grand Pre, Nova Scotia – Photo by Denise Tarasuk July 2022
Moments: Present and Past
Monday, July 4th, 2022
Time: 4:17 pm
Windsor, Nova Scotia
73 degrees: glorious sun and slightly windy
Yesterday’s rain is gone
Sunrise: 5:36 am
Sunset: 9:06 pm
Perfect for a late evening walk to watch the sunset
Biscotti with Radiant Raspberry Liqueur with Heavenly Rose and Geranium
After reading the book a while ago and watching the movie Love and Gelato on the television last night, I decided today, as it was pouring rain, it was the perfect afternoon to make biscotti. I had dreams of biting into a crunchy homemade Italian biscotti for as long as I could remember.
There is nothing so delicious as a beautifully twice-baked biscotti where the end is dipped in chocolate after baking and set aside on a long rack to cool. Perhaps, it was five years ago, maybe even longer, when I decided, the time had come to start baking again. I used to bake everything from bread to the traditional Canadian goodies that our country is famous for. However, the idea of a double-baked biscotti intrigued and scared me simultaneously.
I have never had a biscotti in Italy; perhaps it was always a scoop of gelato that made me happy on my many visits to Italy. There are so many flavors of gelato to pick from. The mere experience of looking, dreaming, imagining, and tasting one of the flavors makes shopping for the perfect gelato a beautiful experience.
In the book Love and Gelato, there is a quote for those who dream of going to Italy.
“You know, people come to Italy for all sorts of reasons, but when they stay, it’s for the same two things.”
“What?”
“Love and gelato.”
No one goes to Italy to taste biscotti! Now in the USA and Canada, you can find biscotti at a local café and sip on the coffee of your choice on most street corners. I, however, have never tasted biscotti in a café. I am gluten-free; therefore, if I am to taste a biscotti, I must learn the art of making the sweet, crunchy treat that sounds so good.
One wonders how biscotti got its crunch. Why would someone double bake the biscuit? I am sure most Italians could explain the story in full detail or revise my dairy, but this is what I know. Biscotti di Prato was first created in the 14th century in Tuscany. They were made from almonds and required double baking to prevent the biscotti from molding. In Tuscany, they are called cantucci. Is it possible that if someone asked for a biscotti in the Tuscany region, they would not know you wanted the almond favorite delicacy? I really did not know the answers to my questions.
The thought of making biscotti made me procrastinate. Where would I find the time for baking, and the art of making biscotti sounded tricky? I do not have an Italian grandmother or a Nona to show me the little tricks to create the perfect crunch after gently biting into the toasted biscuit known for its vanilla and almond flavors that gently excite the palate.
I carefully planned out the whole baking expedition. I lined up all the perfect ingredients. Carefully mixing the flour and dry ingredients together as instructed, I added the two eggs and the vanilla and almond extract.
The dough did not come together, so I added another teaspoon of vanilla extract. Oh, I thought to myself, this is not going well; the dough was still dry, and there was no way I would be able to form the dough into a perfect form on a cookie sheet. The vanilla extract was empty, and so was the almond extract.
I thought about all the baking difficulties that living at sea level brings. Baking on the Bay of Fundy, where the tides roll in and out twice daily, is tricky. Even the best bakers have a difficult time. With that thought, I broke out the Radiant Raspberry Liqueur with Heavenly Rose and Geranium. Really, I was in a predicament! What would you do? I put two teaspoons of Raspberry Liqueur in the dough and poured a thimble for myself as I was a wreck by this time.
A miracle took place! The dough came together. Into the oven, it went, but the worst was yet to come. After baking the dough for the recommended time, the dough did not look golden brown or resemble anything like biscotti. I baked it for an extra ten minutes until it was golden brown, cooled the biscotti as directed, and then carefully began slicing the biscotti on the bias with a serrated knife. Each piece broke and shattered into pieces.
I decided that waiting another five minutes and try cutting with a vegetable knife on the second batch was the only option. Perfect, the blade with a clean edge made a difference.
Although the first batch of biscotti looked like it had been through a potato masher, the second batch held together. I flipped them on their side, and into the oven, they went again. I baked them for another five minutes until they looked crispy, crunchy, and golden brown.
My husband entered the kitchen just as they came out of the oven. He peeked over at the biscotti, “They look pretty good.” He picked one up and said, “WOW! This taste great.” He nodded with a devilish grin. “Perfect with a cup of tea.”
I smiled and thought, “It must have been the Radiant Raspberry Liqueur with the Rose and Geranium.
Weather: Sunny and very muggy; it promises to rain
Sunrise: 5:29 am Oh! How very wonderful to watch the sunrise.
Sunset: 9:02 pm. Completely wonderful to think there is sunshine right up to 9 pm
Pressure: 29.83 Hg
A Perfect Cup of Chai Masala
When guests arrive at our home, I always offer a cup of chai with fragrant Indian spices. Sometimes I receive a phone call in the afternoon asking if a friend could come over for a cup of chai. They explain that they are desperate! They long for a good chat and a cup of chai with some warm Indian spices.
I have had many such requests in the past, but it always surprises me when my Indian friends tell me their chai is horrible. Could they please come over and have a cup of decent chai? They are lonely or feeling stressed and need a good heart to heart. They would love to sit in my backyard and have a hot chai cup with all the sweet spices.
Today I met with my dear friends, out in the country, along the old Dyke Road. They asked how I made my chai and what spice packet did I use? Where did I buy the tea?
I explained that all the spices are from India, but I would gladly grind up cloves, cardamom, and cinnamon as a gift. I promised to type a recipe and invite them over to learn the art of making chai. How much water to boil, the perfect amount of sugar to add, a dash of ground spices, and a touch of milk make the perfect cup.
Making chai is an art, and the recipe has a secret. Once beginning the process, I do not take my eye off the chai, or it does not turn out. Chai is like a sweet baby; it knows when you are not paying attention. Chai is delicate and demanding; the taste is worth the effort.
The spice mixture is a blend of cardamom, cinnamon, and clove. Cardamom brings joy to the heart. Perhaps joy is the greatest gift one can give to a friend or a loved one.
As I drove along the old Dyke Road, admiring the beauty of the fields lined with colorful lupins that caught my eye, the largest deer I have ever seen jumped out in front of my car. I slammed on the brakes and quickly came to a halt. The deer, followed by two pheasants, dashed for the bush, leaving their long tales sticking out for me to see. Then a dove flew over my car, sending a message of love, joy, and peace.
Directions for Chai Masala
Grind two pods of cardamom, one clove bud, and a small piece of cinnamon with a mortar and pestle
Bring two cups of water to a boil
Add the spice mixture
Add 2 tsp. of orange pekoe tea
Add 2 to 4 tsp. of sugar
Bring to a boil
Add ¼ to ½ cup of milk depending on taste preference
Shadows at the ASCO booth – Photo by F. Marincola, Chicago June 5 2022
…Paul continued:
“You know, I am also selfish: I never recognized Naomi for what she did for me. I never thanked her for taking me under her wing as her own son and for standing by me day after day. Instead, I only resented her for bossing me and Turo around. I have been so self-centered. But I am looking forward to recognizing her and everyone else for the help that turned me into what I am. I prepared a speech for the party. Do you want me to read it to you?”
***
…But the party never happened…
The night before graduation, Naomi and Arturo were crossing the Washington Bridge towards Manhattan when a truck deviated from its lane, flipped, rolled over, and smashed them. Paul did not have a chance to thank Naomi, and that regret sculpted his life.
***
After graduation, my relationship with Paul faded. Returns from college rarified. Then, my parents chose to repatriate in Villaricca, near Naples, where, in our absence, properties had been nurtured by loyal managers, farmers, and ranchers harvesting exotic fruits, making delicious wines, and raising water buffalos to produce mozzarella. My parents wished to raise me according to our culture.
After the move, letters from Paul also lessened till they ended save for the customary greeting cards around the holidays. We invited him several times for a visit, but he never seemed to find the time. Preoccupied by the vicissitudes of teenagerhood, I then forgot about him.
Then, I was accepted at Cornell University for graduate school. My parents encouraged me to return to New York to complete my education now that they were confident in my devotion to our ancestry. I returned to this apartment, where we are dining now, which is also where Paul grew up. That is his piano! My parents used the apartment for occasional returns to America to check on our business here and kept everything unaltered and pristine.
When I entered the apartment after so many years, all came back as vivid as when I left, and with it, Paul’s ghost returned. Nothing had changed, including my little girl’s room. So was Paul’s room with the pictures of us and his friends playing around in the Bronx.
In New York, I had the impulse to reach out to Paul, but I had no idea where he was and feared his reaction. I dreaded a rejection; I could not bear the thought that he would not care about me anymore. Also, I was busy enough nurturing new acquaintances at Cornell.
I kept postponing till one day I saw Paul’s photo on the front page of the newspaper. It was a good picture, where he appeared just as I remembered him; my handsome lowkey stepbrother, donning his typical stern and inquisitive demeanor.
The article mentioned a premiere at Carnegie Hall, just two blocks from here.
With my heart throbbing, I texted to the old phone number:
“Hi Paul, this is Lauretta! Do you still remember me? I am in New York. Moved here a few months ago for graduate school. I just saw your picture in the newspaper.”
I sent it without much expectation for a response. Instead, after a few seconds:
“My Lauretta! Of course, I remember you. I missed you, where are you. I want to see you.”
And so, that evening the doorbell rang and Paul was back home after fifteen years. He had cancelled all commitments and instead he sat in front of me in this terrace, right where you are sitting now.
We talked about my troubled teenage experiences, and about my failed marriage that lasted only one year, the decision to come back to America to perfect my education and start a new life. He recounted his college and graduate school times. He flew through classes and by graduation he was well known in music circles. Hollywood noticed him first and he was contracted to compose music for shows, documentaries, and movies. This is how he met Jerry, to become his lifetime agent.
With that head start, he was noticeable in other circles and his compositions were acclaimed, recorded, and choreographed across the Country.
After hours, he dwelled and thrived in Wayne’s honky-tonk world. When school allowed, he joined Wayne to New Orleans where they lived in the French Quarters absorbing the subtleties of jazz, or Nashville, at Lower Broadway and the Grand Ole Opry. There, Wayne’s band had broken in with a combination of country and rock and roll music. They made many friends.
While Paul never achieved the technical aptitude to perform at that level as an instrumentalist, his compositions made it. Paul and Wayne dwelled in rock and roll in Memphis, and lived in Austin, and Motown, and Chicago. But the sweetest was the Bronx, where they returned to play in bars and nightclubs. By the end of graduate school, Paul was well-known for classical and modern composition while Wayne, without receiving formal training, had become, with his band, the hitter that we all know.
Later, Paul and Wayne decided to move to Paul’s old apartment in the Bronx. Paul bought the entire building, remodeled it, and created two upper apartments for him and for Wayne. At the lower level were servants and security guards. Everyone knew them in the neighborhood and tolerated with pride the noise and eccentricity that occurred behind those walls.
Life was active with people going in an out. Among the frequenters, beautiful strippers were hosted. Wayne enjoyed women and the temporary entertainment that casual relationships can offer. For Paul, it was different. He was interested in their stories, their dreams and disappointments, their philosophy of life searching for his mother’s story through their smiles, sighs, and tears.
But their relationship had faults. Whether because of his mother, or Naomi, or organic depression, Paul lived at the boundaries of angst, in the twilight of dejection. What drove his music greatness were the pains of the heart. Even music was just a distraction to alleviate solitude. When composing was insufficient to mitigate the angst, binges with Wayne complemented. Crazy Wayne lived to enjoy life, beating the drums till tired and turning into women, alcohol, and drugs afterwards. That influence caused Paul’s dependence on an alternate life. What was fun for Wayne, became for Paul a necessity to quench a vague and rootless sense of guilt.
He also had no romantic relationships, only casual encounters tainted by the fear of disappointing. In each woman he saw his mother, or Naomi. Both asking him:
“Why didn’t you care for me when I was alive?”
He told me:
“Truth is that love doesn’t sound like the wind going through reed pipes. It sounds like the dullness of an empty tin can drifting down the street at the flightiness of winds.”
***
That evening, after spending hours exchanging the stories of our lives, Paul slept with me. If he was a kitten, he would have purred all night. He fell asleep with the head on my chest as if we were back to childhood. Since then, Paul returned often and unannounced. He took me for granted and I let him because I knew that I was all that he had. I gave him the keys to the apartment, but he always rang at the doorbell. Never used the keys.
I helped him but not enough. His self-destruction continued. The greater the success, the more dissociated he was from it and the more resented it, the deeper he retreated into a solitary life with Wayne in the Bronx. He resented his agent, Jerry; a scrawny guy, who talked too much, could not complete a sentence because he nervously laughed at his own words even before delivering a supposed punch line, which made no one laugh. You can imagine, knowing Paul, how much that behavior irritated his nerves. He would say of Jerry:
“Why can’t Jerry be normal? Why does he have to piss in his pants when he talks to me? Do I look like a freak?”
Despite the wealth, they lived in the old building from which each morning Paul could look down through the window across the intersection at the shop, expecting to see Turo and Naomi open to the customers.
About three months before your performance, Wayne died of overdose. Paul found him lying in the living room, with wide open eyes and a drumstick in his hand. Paul recollected the warnings from his friend’s therapist:
“You got to do something!”
But he did nothing. Once again, he had failed the loved ones by negligence.
Within a few days Paul sold the building of his youth to the first offer and moved to California, to a small community on the Pacific Coast just South of San Francisco, called El Granada, where the foghorn cries every eight seconds, and the sea lions complete the melody. Years before, he had bought a home in El Granada with a view of Pillar Point Harbor. It was a retreat where he and Wayne dwelled at the Dynamite Society in Miramar and other similar clubs. Paul loved the Ocean front, the power of the winds that silenced the pain of the soul. A low-key community, a mixture of farmers, fishermen, and Silicon Valley nerds.
Three days before your performance I received a call from Stanford Hospital:
“Are you Laura? Paul recorded you as emergency contact! He is in the ICU unconscious. Just needed to let you know.”
“What happened?”
“He was found unconscious in his home by his agent; it could have been a suicide attempt with benzodiazepines. Fortunately, it must had just happened. The paramedic resuscitated him and with a gastric lavage and respiratory support he should be fine. The EEG is active, but consciousness has not returned. We must wait and see.”
By the time I arrived in California and went to the hospital, Paul was recovering. He denied the suicide intent but agreed to suicide watch.
Jerry had saved his life. The night before the accident, Jerry was distraught by a conversation they had. Paul was drunk, the speech was slurred, words made no sense except for the recurring theme that life was not worth a penny.
“Sell Wayne’s and my copyrights and use the money for the homeless.” He told Jerry before hanging up.
So, Jerry jumped on the first flight from New York to San Francisco and, when he opened the door in El Granada, found Paul lying, barely breathing on the couch of the living room.
I asked Paul:
“Did you thank Jerry for saving your life? If it wasn’t for his devotion, you would probably be dead now.”
“Yup! And he would have to find another customer!” answered Paul.
As much as I adore him, I was really upset by the cynical remark, and I could not control myself.
“Paul, Jerry cares about you, he has been taking care of you and Wayne for years. He is the reason why you have a stable income and you have not squandered your fortune. He protected both of your baffled souls. Jerry loves you. Your cynicism is totally inappropriate”
Paul looked at me with astounded eyes. Then to justify, he said:
“Sorry, it was just a joke.”
“Yes, but it is not funny!”
“Well, Jerry would probably laugh!”
“Paul…” I continued. “You can destroy yourself, kill yourself if this is what you wish, but that is not going to change what happened to your mother, Naomi or Wayne. If you want to amend, think of those who love you. Do not disappoint more of us. We are asking nothing more than for you to be happy. You have all that a man could have, talent, money, and a most interesting soul. Your regrets are unfounded. You did not do anything terrible to anyone. Yes, you could have done better. We all could have done better. Myself too, with my marriage, with my friends, my parents. But this is all in the past. It is the future that counts. Here, is your opportunity to amend. Stop that worthless machoism, that senseless, contrived, and unproductive self-pity. Get back to real life. Accept that there is nothing wrong to say: “Thank you” to those who love you. There is nothing wrong to cry whether you are chopping onions or not.”
***
This is why Paul could not come to your performance.
Yet, as I was about to leave his hospital room to go back to New York, he called:
“Lauretta, please tell that young woman, that I am sorry for not being able to make the premiere.”
See? He remembered and cared for you!
And now you know Paul’s story. I made it as short as I could. Are you sure that you still care for him now that you know what you are getting into?”
And Giselle replied without hesitation:
“I love him. Even more now than before. I feel Paul inside of me. I understand his soul: it is difficult to feel when one is overwhelmed by emotions.”
“Then, let’s give him a call!”
***
“Paul? How are you? You sound good! Are you home? I have an admirer of yours sitting in front of me, at your place. It is Giselle, the ballerina! She is so great but, even more important, she is so nice! She is a Broadway star just like you! Do you want to say hi to her?”
The phone was passed to Giselle’s shaking hand.
‘Hi Paul, I am Giselle, the girl that you met in the cafeteria in Milan. I know that you will not remember but I want you to know that in those few moments you shaped my life.”
But Paul said:
“Giselle, I remember you. I remember your name, and I remember your eyes and I remember that you wanted to be like me, and I remember that I told you that I wanted you to be better than me! Now you are! I heard about you and not only from my cousin. You are making history and thank you for liking my music. Maybe, one day, when I am better, we could see each other again, if you would like.”
“I would very much like it.”
***
By the end of the narrative, dinner was over, darkness had descended on the park and the two ladies looked at each other while enjoying a glass of Amaretto di Saronno.
The night was getting old, the emotions had taken a toll and Giselle accepted the offer to sleep over at Laura’s place. Laura made her sleep in Paul’s room.
As she laid down in Paul’s bed, she hugged his pillow that destiny had preserved for her. She recollected the chain of events from the day she met Paul till this unforgettable evening when she spoke to him again. All seemed natural and logical. Everything was predetermined since the day of her birth. Someone had been watching them both from a distance.
Playing in the streets – Photo by F. Marincola, French Quarters, New Orleans, April 10, 2022
In the beginning, Paul looked with suspicion at the piano, wondering how one could carry that mastodont into parks and streets. Soon, however, the instrument roused his curiosity. Teasing the keys, he discovered that it was out of tune. This observation rather than displeasing, intrigued him. He was fascinated by the consonance implied by the ordered succession of intervals, chords and scales and the dissonance resulting from the plentitude of wavelengths that lived in between; sounds discarded by the harmonic system that still thrived in the realm of nature. Paul envisioned the keys of the piano as rigid integers opposed to the analog flexibility of the violin’s nodes.
When the technician came to tune the piano, he followed each movement like a kitten tracking a moth across a window, pricking up the ears to the tuning fork. Since that mystic experience, Paul spent whatever time he was allowed listening to himself playing in turn the piano or the violin, circling analog vibrations around integers to better represent the continuum of nature’s voices. This did not result in sloppiness but rather honed Paul’s appreciation for tonal music with its melodies and harmonies, cognitive, at the same time, of deviations that belonged to the singing of birds, the whisper of the wind, the rumble of thunder and seas: experiences that could not be controlled but only imitated by scripts.
The piano became his battle ground; ten fingers created infinite harmonies around a violin’s melody turning him into the improvised conductor of an imaginary orchestra. When the teacher came equipped with books written in a foreign language consisting of symbols rather than letters, Paul, who till then had played by ear, was introduced to the logic of music. He soon realized that music was the pleasurable interpretation of mathematical concepts, and compositions could be crafted through the exercise of the mind without need for instruments; this was Paul’s encounter with the obsession of composing. From then on, there was no more need for Naomi to motivate Paul; his ambition had taken off like a chick that has learned to fly.
Then, serendipity brought the final touch. It came from the basketball courts in the Bronx, where Black and Latino children hung out rain or shine. Like most tramps growing up in the Bronx, Paul boasted an athletic built and a confident attitude that prepared him for any competitive challenge. In the courts, he was good enough to be tolerated and even accepted by the street gangs, to the point that his Caucasian friends cheered him as “El mestizo blanco”.
There, Paul was introduced to hip hop music, and culture. Though he did not think much of the stylized repetitiveness of rap, the environment attracted him, the mixture of physical and mental activity and the communion between a simple script and creative alliterations, discursive singing, and sportive dancing under the absolute governance of rhythm.
Among members of a gang, an older black boy maintained a special affection for Paul. Paul observed the boy staring at him much too often. When eye contact occurred, a smile erupted showing a bright row of white teeth that stood out of the dark skin. In the beginning Paul was unnerved and avoided interactions but one day he confronted the older guy:
“Why do you stare at me all the time?”
The boy seemed embarrassed but, after recovering, he rebutted:
“I like you man! I have seen you play in the park. I think you play good the violin! The fingers know the hell where to go; but the rhythm; the rhythm is what you need. You worry too much about the melody …but what gives life to music is rhythm. It looks, when you play, that you are walking on scorching charcoals rather swinging on a dance floor! What are you afraid of?
Two gang members circled around them, while the boy continued:
“You should play with us.” And turning to the newcomers: “That’s the chico in the park! The violin player. He plays good the violin and that could go well with my steel pans! We never tried that. Worth giving it a try. We can make it good.”
Since Paul seemed hesitant, the boy stretched the arm with the open hand to encourage a handshake:
“Hi, my name is Wayne, moved here a year ago from Jamaica. Nice to meet you.”
It was a bond that lasted a lifetime; perhaps the only friend Paul ever had.
***
Dinner was served: grilled sea bass dressed with fresh basil, a touch of virgin olive oil, roasted slices of garlic and arugula.
“I was unsure about how to fix a ballerina’s diet. I assumed that you prefer light food during the performance season. I hope that you like it.”
But Giselle was speechless. Every word originating from Laura’s mouth resonated in her heart as if she was raised in the Bronx and had lived each moment of Paul’s life.
Laura, recognizing Paul’s intensity in Giselle’s, smiled and, cutting the small talk, continued:
“… but Wayne lived in his own world split from reality. Percussions of any kind or shape were the sole heartbeat of his planet; other facets of life did not exist. He could not keep the fingers still for a moment, or the hands and arms. He would beat on the subway rails, take plastic bins to the park, and juggle self-made drumsticks while grocery shopping. “Crazy Wayne”, that’s what they called him in the neighborhood. He was a legend, and everyone loved him, because of his talent and sweet demeanor.
In the wake of Wayne’s popularity, the two formed a band: “The Oriundos” that played at parties, bars, and later clubs. The eleven-year-old Paul gave up the violin to take on the electric guitar and the keyboards to become the band’s mascot. He never became a virtuoso like Wayne and other band members but compensated with creativity and compendiousness. He composed in support of Wayne’s mastery till compositions took a life of their own and the Oriundos became recognized not only for technical talent but also originality. The band became popular in adjacent neighborhoods, in most part, colored communities.
Paul success made him popular and established him as a weekend child prodigy …but in Naomi’s eyes “he remained just a big fish …in a very small pond”.
Therefore, toward the end of 8th grade, Naomi, reacting to the feedback of teachers and friends, and acknowledging Paul’s potential, addressed the boy in front of Arturo:
“Paul, you told me years ago that you aspired to become a musician and you proved that you have the potential. Now is the time to fulfill your dream. I talked to Arturo, and he agrees with me.
There is a magnet high school in New York called Fiorello LaGuardia. It is for children gifted in math and music. Auditions will come soon. …But …there is a but …you need to be resident of New York City. …I talked to your aunt, your mother’s sister. She lives in Manhattan. It is a very wealthy, upper-class family. They would be happy to take you back into the family where you belong. …It is complicated Paul, but you have never been formally adopted. Arturo never thought about it before or after your mother died. Neither did I. We took it for granted that you were our son. Technically, you are an orphan, and you are up for adoption. Here is a wealthy family related to your mother willing to take you. You can live with them during the week and return home on weekends. Nothing will change; this is the chance of your life.”
“But what about you? Who is going to help in the shop?”
“Do not worry about us, we will be here as usual, happy to know that you have a better home. We will be here waiting for you. And the business is doing well. We can support your studies.”
This is how an until then unknown cousin became my stepbrother. I was four years old then, about ten years younger than Paul, yet I remember the day when I met him as if it was yesterday.
He came with Arturo and Naomi; it was an awkward spectacle. They came dressed for a wedding: dark suit and tie for both Arturo and Paul, dark silk blouse and high heel shoes for Naomi, who held a tight grip on a purse with hand-gloved hands demoting her looks to those of a grandma.
Paul sat still at the far corner of the living room couch, stiff like a marionette. He was pale and the face was rigid. The neck did not turn but he rolled the eyes to explore the surroundings. Then, when he noticed me, he relaxed, turned toward me, and smiled. I fell in love with him on the spot, if it is appropriate to use such term for a four-year-old. I will never forget the contrast between his weary expression before and his smile piercing from the soul like a sunray in an overcast day.
Words of support were offered by my parents, who tried to make comfortable the humble couple.
According to my mom, Naomi, being the practical lady, insisted to cover the costs of schooling and boarding. She proudly explained that the family business was going very well, and they saved plenty of money to be used for Paul’s education. They were just thankful for the hospitality at a suitable location.
My mom recollected that my dad was about to decline any support; they could have easily taken care of Paul’s needs, but she squeezed his shoulder. She did not want to humiliate the foster parents. They had earned the right to take care of the boy as much as they could afford. If needed of course, they could always help. When Arturo’s eyes watered and became too red to hide, my mom smiled and said:
“Your Paul will always be your Paul; we are just happy to help.”
***
Paul flew through the audition, his theoretical skills were fine, and the music talent way above expectations. He could play several instruments with proficiency, understand, and discuss different styles of music, interpret, and perform unfamiliar pieces after taking a perfunctory glance at a script, and the compositions crafted for the Oriundos denoted a gift for creativity that could benefit from formal teachings. It was obvious that the boy bore a natural talent.
So, Paul lived a parallel life as a model highschooler during the week and a street player during the weekends.”
***
“…Are you OK?”
Laura hesitated and interrupted the narrative; she saw tears in Giselle’s eyes.
“Is everything OK?”
Giselle dried her eyes with the paper napkin and nodded with a subliminal smile.
“Yes, I am fine. It just feels strange. I feel that I lived each moment as if you were recounting my rather than Paul’s life. I am an orphan too. Federico and Maria adopted me. I lived all my life as a guest. My adoptive parents are wonderful to me, but …it is difficult to explain; it is difficult to explain how it feels to have never known your own parents; one always longs for acceptance, like an immigrant feels in a foreign country. I remember looking into Paul’s eyes on the day we met. It may be my imagination, but in those brief moments, we read into each other eyes, just in a glance, our untold story.
But please, don’t mind me; go ahead.”
“The high school years were the best in Paul’s life …and mine. I had the big brother I had never hoped for. Perhaps because of his experience with Turo, Paul treated me as a peer rather than a little sister. Whenever he could, he would take me with him. During the weekends, I frequented his modest place in the Bronx, had quasi-Kosher dinners mixed with linguini, salami, and prosciutto. Naomi made Matza ball soup, which was my favorite and introduced me to gefilte fish. I was the only one, who shared enthusiasm for it, while both Turo and Paul developed undiagnosable abdominal irritations on such occasions that prevented them from eating. And I followed the band to the performances in parks and clubs, Turo and Naomi accompanying me. Once, Turo told me:
“Figure, we thought that we were going to lose a son, instead we gained a daughter.”
The Oriundos elected me as their mascot and taught me to sing. I sang in the streets or square concerts, just one song to warm up the audience, while Wayne smiled at me and winked at the pace of the rhythm. He would nod his head before each measure to prime me. He then taught me how to play the drums, or at least he tried with the patience of an angel.
Those were magic years. Then, Paul’s graduation day came, and my parents organized a party at the Empire State Building. Paul was very emotional in the days that preceded the party.
I remember that I was sitting on his lap in Central Park, and I asked:
“Why are you sad? Aren’t you happy that school is over?”
“You know Lauretta, I must tell you a secret: I am not a good person. My mom died because of me. One day, long time ago, I threw a big temper tantrum, making her very upset. In the end she said: – if you continue to be such a brat, I will leave you. – This is what she did. The next day she disappeared for good, and sometime later they found her dead. Now I wonder if she would be proud of me, but I will never know.”
I was only eight years old then. I did not know how to react, and I just cried:
“No Paul, you are not bad, you are my big brother. You are the best brother that a sister could have!”
I felt embarrassed for crying:
“Come on, come on Lauretta, don’t cry.” Said Paul. And I resented being treated like a little girl. So, I rebutted:
“Why don’t you cry if you really miss your mom?”
To which Paul replied with a rare smile:
“Because, as Turo says, real men are not supposed to cry even when they chop onions!”
You cannot imagine how many times I reflected over that moment; how many child psychologists I consulted. None of them believes that Paul recollection is accurate. It is only a subconscious reflection of guilt. I talked to Paul about it so many times to console him. But he is stubborn, and he swears that this is in truth what happened, and that he is the cause of his mother’s death. A burden that he has been carrying for life and has shared only with me.
…But going back to that fateful day in Central Park,
…Paul continued:
“You know, I am also selfish: I never recognized Naomi for what she did for me. I never thanked her for taking me under her wing as her own son and for standing by me day after day. Instead, I only resented her for bossing me and Turo around. I have been so self-centered. But I am looking forward to recognizing her and everyone else for the help that turned me into what I am. I prepared a speech for the party. Do you want me to read it to you?”
This is the conclusion of the story of Lucy just as a reminder that everything eventually ends, and hopefully, only good memories are left.
Queen of the hill – Photo by Ena Wang
After a sixteen-year tenure at the National Institutes of Health, I had the unique opportunity to build a research institute in Doha, Qatar.
It was a tough decision to leave the prestigious NIH, the permanent position, the outstanding people who supported me and my home where I planned to retire. As emotional as I was, the decision was finally made when my two grown up kids kicked in.
“Mom, you are too conservative, and you never take risks. Now we are both independent, it is time to take some risk and experience something new.”
“Look who is talking!” My own kids lectured me.
It was true that since I became a full-time employ at the NIH, never in my mind I thought that I would leave till retirement. It was a dream working environment: a stable position with gradual promotions; not highly paid but sufficient for a comfortable life. Detaching from it could be a lifetime regret, and … what about the house, …the cat? How am I going to take care of Lucy if I take the new position?
“People travel with their pets all the time. I am sure there is a travel agency that can take care of Lucy.”
The die was cast.
To sell the entire households’ items, find a renter and packing the necessary belongings was not as challenging as arranging Lucy’s international travel: medical exam, vaccines, international travel permit, arrangements, payments, flight ticket, specific requirements for the size of cage. Much more than a human being had to deal for international travel.
Both my daughters came back home to help and see me Lucy off. It was emotional to leave the Country and the kids behind. But not much concern from the kids about me but a lot about Lucy.
She had no idea about what was going on but with no reservation she showed frustration and loathing for the cage and the car.
She used the high tone and charged meow to tell us:
“I don’t like this and am not happy.”
Before checking her in, we took her out of the cage to let her know that everything would be OK. I held her to calm her down and then the kids came with tears, …not for me but for the cat. She hugged my neck like a baby hold mom’s neck. She looked at the unfamiliar surroundings with her big green eyes and turned to me. She put her face against mine and pushed and rubbed very hard. She was so big then.
Her beauty caught the attention of the people who worked at the airport. The flight departed at night when the airport was quiet. All staff working there came over to pet Lucy and show admiration. My daughters were so proud of being the Lucy’s owners. The staff’s attention to Lucy made our separation and my departure more bearable and even joyful for a moment.
“Time to go.”
I held Lucy for the last time before putting her back into the cage that she hated. I told her that she will be OK, and I will see each other on the other side of the world.
Not sure if she understood anything that I said, she looked at me with trust and a big cat kiss again. We all worried whether she would be OK during the fourteen hours flight. Tears ran down from our faces. It was the first time ever that I left the kids behind rather than them leaving me.
“Let us know when you land in Doha and how Lucy does. …Love you mom. …You will be fine as you always do”. My kids encouraged me with a big hug and a smiling face with tear in their eyes.
“I will. Take good care of yourself. Love you too.”
Animals were not allowed in the passenger cabin at Qatar Airways. I have no idea how Lucy spent her time in the luggage cabin with other animals. I just hoped that she would drink some water to survive the long trip.
I arrived in Doha when it was evening. My first question was where to claim my pet. A lady with my name on a sign welcomed and brought me to a comfortable lounge while she took care of the immigration clearance. The lounge was state-of-art in design and more so was the service. When I was escorted out, all my luggage and the big cage with Lucy were waiting for me carried by a service person.
“Lucy, baby. Are you OK?”
She was obviously relieved to be done with the flight and still quite alert. She did not mess up the cage and was happy to see me rubbing against me when I reached her. My heart melted by seeing her. She made me feel not completely away from home.
***
Lucy spent four years with me in Doha and adapted to the change without problems. She did not seem bothered by the hot weather and rather liked going out into the balcony to watch the beautiful and luxurious lifestyle at the Pearl, an artificial island spanning nearly four-square kilometers where the most exotic emirs’ yachts where parked and where beautiful Qatari ladies in black abaya visited for their high-end shopping. Her black tuxedo coat fit perfectly with the culture like a natural abaya.
Life went back to normal, and we resumed our routine like when we were in the States. She became even closer to me since I am the only person she saw and slept with each day.
Lucy was never friendly with other animals and in particular cats, and she was rather mean to them. She was annoyed by dogs till after a while she totally neglected them. But she would not let go with cats. She would hiss and fight them to protect her master and the territory. One day, a friend dropped his cat Polino, a beautiful white long hair Burmese cat with a little orange patch in his face and a huge, orange tail long like the one of a wolf that he would keep upright all the time when he settled at my place. Such behavior was no way acceptable for Lucy.
The moment when Lucy first faced Polino in the living room is unforgettable. Lucy showed him who was in charge. With a loud and scaring meow, she tried to intimidate Polino. Then she chased and attacked Polino mercilessly to defend the house with all her power. The message was loud and clear:
“This is my home and my mom.”
Polino on the other hand had a quite kind personality and was not interested in fighting. The only place where Polino could safely retire without being scratched was the countertop where Lucy could not jump. Lucy kept running around it though, mad with me because she felt that I allowed the other cat into her territory and did nothing to help getting rid of him.
She hissed not only at Polino, but at me. I tried to hold her to calm her down and show that I loved her more than the other cat. But she would not allow me to touch her. Even worse, she attacked me, bit me, and scratched me like a wild cat. I chased her around the apartment and cornered her against the big cage that I used to carry her to Doha and forced her into the cage. Her meow was loud, rude, like that of a caged angry lion. With bleeding hands, I felt a chill all of sudden, I wondered whether Lucy had rabies. She had never been like this before even when I adopted her. She bit me sometimes but not with that kind of anger. With my medical background, my first action was to search whether rabies was endemic in Qatar. If so, maybe I should go to the hospital to get a shot. My mind was spinning, Lucy was meowing and hissing from the cage while Polino ignored what was going on and kept looking around for food.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number of a colleague and longtime friend for consultation.
“Hi Emmanuel, how are you?”
The answer was cheerful and assuring.
“Are you OK?”, he asked.
I said: “yes and no.”
“What’s going on?”
I put the phone close to Lucy’s cage:
“What do you hear?” I asked.
“The sound of a very angry cat. What is going on?”
I told him why Lucy was so mad. Most importantly, that I was bitten and scratched by her and felt sick.
“Did she get the rabies shot?”. Emmanuel is an immunologist, and the question reflected his professional knowledge.
“Yes, she did.”
I felt better and relieved.
“I still feel chilly and sick though.” I said.
“Do you want me to take you to hospital?”.
“No, I am OK now and will call you if I feel worse.”
A few minutes later, my phone ringed. It was Emmanuel.
“I think that you may have a Bartonella Henselae infection caused by the cat scratch.” He had a diagnosis for me.
“I searched online.” he said.
“However, it should not cause an acute fever and it should come with a latency of a week.”
It was obvious that the chill had nothing to do with the scratch.
We discussed the cat behavior and laughed about Lucy’s jealousy. I felt much better and thanked him for his help.
I thought that I had to keep Lucy in the cage overnight because I was afraid that she would storm the apartment and attack me and the other cat during the night. A good night sleep was precious for me.
First thing after waking up was to jump out of bed and run to Lucy. She was much calmer. Her eyes were back to normal, and she did not hiss at me anymore. I touched her through the metal cage to make sure she will not bite me again. She assured me that she was Lucy, …mom’s baby. I let her out with caution knowing Polino was just behind me. She came out with dignity, and the head and tail stood up to show that she was the master there. I held her up and gave her a lot of attention rubbing her to calm her down. talking to her and holding the belly up on my belly, I cut her nail first to prevent further damage to me or Polino.
I fed her with her favorite meat and treats and plenty of fresh water on the floor while Polino received the same on the countertop. She hissed at Polino but with less conviction since she felt assured that mommy still loved her. She eventually gave up hissing and started to eat. She was hungry and exhausted. After a whole belly of good food, she seemed content as long as Polino did not try to get my attention and kept a distance.
Lucy and Polino, the odd couple – Photo by Ena Wang Doha circa 2016-17
***
During my last year in Qatar, my friend was offered a position in the States and decided to leave Doha. All was arranged for the move except for his cat, Polino that he bought as a little kitten at the pet marked of the Souk Waqif in Doha close to the Corniche. It would be a lot of paperwork to bring Polino to the States and his owner decided to keep him in Doha asking me to adopt him. I hesitated because of the memory of the short cat sitting experience but I was attracted by Polino’s beauty and gentle demeanor. In the end, I said yes thinking that they would eventually get along.
When they met for the second time, Lucy still reacted with anger but much less than the first time. She greeted Polino with no more kindness than the first time, but she was better with me; at least she did not attack or scratch me.
I kept them separate when they ate and prepared separate litter boxes. There was plenty of space in the magnificent huge two-bedroom apartment and a long balcony.
I was the divider between them whenever they were in the same room, white the fluffy white on one side, and the tuxedo one on the other. Lucy always put up her best performance to show Polino that I was her mom and not his, even though I loved Polino no less then Lucy.
I guess female animals including humans are more protective and jealous than males. Polino on the other hand, was always cheerful, playful with a naïve and wondering expression. He was so beautiful, soft, and much fluffier than Lucy. He never initiated a fight or argument with Lucy but followed her around like a kitten would follow the mom. He wanted to play with her and be close to her, but Lucy could not care less. She would give him a very stern look like an adult would to a mischievous kid in public:
“Behave yourself!”
With time, they got along better without fighting anymore except for one specific area: my bed.
For the previous thirteen years, Lucy had been the only one to share the bed with me. We went to bed together and woke up together.
She knew when it was time to go to bed and when was the time to wake me up.
She responded to my order:
“Let’s go to bed” without ever missing.
She always slept on top of me or in my arms no matter how hot or cold.
Polino must have done the same with his master and expected to continue the routine of that circadian rhythm. But Lucy would not allow him to get on the bed, no matter how hard he tried for the first six months. It was constant battle between the two of them while I was sleeping. Lucy surveyed the bed like a knight protects the queen. To mellow the relationship, I will hold her in my arm and put Polino on the bed to show them it was OK, and that I loved them both.
Things changed after six months. Lucy finally gave up on Polino and allowed him to get on to my bed during the night but only at the foot end while she rested on my head. This bipolar territorial positioning never changed till Polino passed away. Peace was reinstalled in the apartment and no more fighting occurred between the two of them. Lucy maintained her dominant posture and annoyed demeanor while Polino was careless and happy all the time.
***
After four years dedicated to Sidra Medical Research, I decided to return home to the States to continue my career in cancer immunotherapy with the conviction that cancer can be cured by the patient’s own immune system. I notified my organization six month ahead according to the policy which give me a lot of time to work out the details for the move.
Relocation was seamless organized by my hiring company in the States. The only difficult part was how to deal with the two cats. First, Polino had no medical records, vaccinations, and microchip implantation. All documents, permissions and flight arrangements had to be ready within a few days of departure.
The departure was emotional. I loved what we had built in Doha, the people there, my fellow employees, whom we recruited very selectively one by one from all over the world. This team of one hundred and seventy-four members under me was like an extended family. Tears often ran down in those days even though the decision was made six months before. It had been a very rewarding experience, an experience I would treasure for the rest of my life.
Those who have never being in the Middle East and only see images and news on TV may not appreciate it. People there are extremely kind, polite, honest, and respectful. It is the saftest place I have ever been with no violence, no thefts, robberies, gun shots… I was often asked by people who heard that I lived in Qatar
“How does it feel being a woman there?”
Of course, those question came from the perceptions derived from the news.
“As any woman in the US could feel”, I answered.
“Do you need to cover your face and wear black?”
“No, as long as you do not wear miniskirts or spaghetti tank tops, you are accepted with respect” I explained.
***
I bought a dog-size cage big enough to hold both Lucy and Polino. Knowing how Lucy felt about Polino, I tried few times to put them both in the cage to get them used to coexistence in preparation for the long journey home.
The day finally arrived, and I was ready to go home with my two companions and dependents. The motion around distracted them from each other. I checked that food, water and security locks were in order and, we started the journey together.
After the fifth teen-hour flight from Doha to Los Angeles, I wondered whether the cats had killed each other. I rushed through the customs to the luggage claim. The cage was there with both cats still alive. However, my biggest suitcase was missing. I checked in all the possible ways and reported the lost, but there was nothing I could do but accept the fact. The luggage with all my important belongings had disappeared without a trace to be never recovered. Thanks God the cats were alive, although extremely stressed and disoriented in a littered cage.
I was picked up by my friend at the airport to drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco to avoid that the cat had to suffer another transfer without their mommy close to them.
In the car, I opened the cage to let them out hoping to reduce the stress. I tried to feed them and provide water. Neither had the appetite for food or water. Polino, the sweetest cat in the world, sneaked under the seat and refused to come out, no matter how hard I tried. Lucy was not in good shape either and threw up even though there was nothing in her stomach.
The recovery from the trauma of the trip took a few days. Lucy started eating and drinking the day after while Polino returned to his previous owner who had left him with me.
Life seemed to be back to normal again and Lucy regained undisputed control and the territory.
The trip, however, left a permanent scar on her memory and her physical condition. She lost weight for the first time without forcing a diet. She was still as beautiful as sixteen years before when I met her at the animal shelter; still as smart, sharp, and sensitive. She must have been so happy to finally get rid of Polino. She was too old to be chased by a younger cat.
***
The first time I noticed that Lucy was sick was when I went on a trip and left her at home to be taken care by a neighbor in San Mateo. Lucy had always been clean and she well-maintained her litter box. But this time, when I returned from the trip, the apartment floor and carpet were scattered with her throw up. The neighbor, who took care of her must have been disgusted and had not cleaned up after her. She must have missed me and was stressed. My return and presence changed everything. She ate and played like the old Lucy and even gained some weight.
***
My life reached a turning point. With three job offers in totally different geographic locations, New York City, Maryland, and Belgium, I had to choose. One more relocation leaving San Francisco, where I just settled. Lucy would not appreciate moving again except, perhaps going back to Maryland where I kept my old home, the house where I adopted her and lived for the first ten years.
In the week when I had to make the decision to accept or reject the offers, two things happened.
First, a colleague and friend introduced me to a new startup company in the Bay Area which meant no need for relocation. Simple and easy. Among the four positions, this one was not ideal professionally. The most attractive one was in Belgium. The position, package, international tax protection and global responsibility for the United States, Europe and Asia were intriguing. As in other occasions, I consulted my kids and longtime friends.
Second, I was invited by my life-time colleague, and friend to an Italian dinner in Half Moon Bay. We had worked together for twenty years. He helped me professionally and personally during all those years. There was mutual support, respect, friendship, and trust build through those years, especially when critical circumstance demanded. He had a family that most people dreamed of with 3 beautiful grown-up children, two of them identical in age to mine. He divorced about two years before and settled alone on the Ocean side of the Peninsula, Half Moon Bay. He was the only person that I had known for such a long time except for my friends in Tucson, Arizona where I first landed in USA. I admired and felt that the same was reciprocated by him. I could talk to him straight out of my mind without thinking whether it was politically right or wrong nor afraid of using the wrong tense or words because of my imperfect English. He was an immigrant like me. It was him who encouraged me at the beginning of my career in the States to take a higher management position when all I wanted then was just a stable job with limited responsibilities. It was him who gave me all the credit at work not like others who take advantage of their subordinates. I was grateful and lucky to have a boss like him for all those years.
The restaurant was an authentic Italian one, Mezza Luna Restaurant. It literally means Half Moon in Italian for Half Moon Bay. The owner was an Italian friend and welcomed us. A special table with flower decoration was reserved for the two of us. One of the two most favorite foods of ours, Chinses or Italian. The owner of the restaurant greeted us with a bottle of Prosecco.
The topic for the evening was my future professional options. I had consulted with my executive coach, Mary as I told him. She had done the analysis for me, and it was clear that the best choice encompassed a move.
Even though he agreed that all the preferred choice was outstanding and a true step up, he reminded me of how unique the Silicon Valley is and how much he loved the place and the opportunities there. He then painted a wonderful future for us together and proposed to share my life with him. He surprised me with an official proposal and a beautiful diamond ring as a testament of devotion and commitment. The conversation become very emotional and tipped the balance of my job selection.
“How many years we have been working together? Why don’t we move in together and start a new life together?” He asked.
“Our kids are all grown up and independent, we are not young anymore. We can help each other and age together.”
Having lived by myself for fifteen years, I was used to be alone and to be comfortable with a simple, low-key life with my Lucy. On the other hand, it was nice to think of having a companion especially when getting older. However, adapting to a new life with someone at this age was intimidating. Being born and grown up in China, even though I had adapted a lot to the US style of living, I remained concerned that fundamental culture differences, habits, mentality and tastes might be completely different between the two of us.
Even though aging, he was still very charming. He made me laugh all the time, helped me through all those twenty years professionally, being smart and well recognized. Things ran through my mind, …a Chinese way of thinking, while I was holding the diamond ring in the box, a perfect cut three carats brilliant with two royal blue sapphires at each side. Tears ran from my eyes and from his. I tried the ring on my finger and it fit perfectly.
A “yes” came out of my mouth that changed everything.
I accepted the offer in the Bay area. Terminated my two-bedroom lease facing the lagoon in San Mateo and brought Lucy with me into this new journey with him.
Every breath you take, every move you make, every step you take I’ll be watching you…Photo by Ena Wang, Half Moon Bay circa 2019.
***
Lucy adapted egregiously to the new environment in Half Moon Bay easily and gained a reputation as a good but snobbish cat. She had no problem to show her loyalty and closeness to me. She only ate food and treats from me and slept on my side exclusively. Her old shenanigans to wake me up at six in the morning sharp continued in the new home by pushing anything on the nightstand to make noise, but they occurred only on my side of the bed. She realized she had an extended territory in the well-fenced back yard, where no other animals could easily enter. And she took pride in her responsibility to chase away other cats and racoons. She would stand behind the French door at the night to keep her eye on invaders. She even enjoyed the beach when we carried her with us holding on to my shoulder.
Even though she looked still as beautiful as she was years before, we noticed some changes in her habits. She ate much less and less frequently. She urinated and drank a lot. She lost weight though she remained still very sharp and nimble. She still liked her prominent position during dinner sitting on a chair between us and listened to our conversations till the last word was said.
We took her to the pet clinic, and she was diagnosed with urinary tract infection and hyperthyroidism. We started the treatments religiously and she seemed to improve, peed less but still randomly outside of the litter box, which had never happened before. We put two litter boxes for her convenience and tried to help her remember that the litterbox was clean and easy to find. Every day, the first commitment was to look around and spot her pee on the carpet or floor. The amount of cat stain destroyer that we used ranged in gallons and the varieties tested were uncountable. We were eventually exhausted and frustrated by Lucy’s unpredictable behaviors. It reminded me of the joke that aliens would be confused when looking down at Earth perceiving pets as kings and humans their slaves.
This situation lasted for two years simple because we could not make the decision to put her down. She had such an innocent gaze, so lovely and beautiful. She was part of our life, our dependent, our responsibility. We agreed many times that it was time to put her down peacefully, without suffering. Every time I ended up crying while Lucy perplexed looked at me. She reminded me of my parents, who passed away battling with cancer and made me ponder about my foreseeable future.
“So hopeless”, my best friend’s mom once told me when she lost her beloved husband of more than fifty years just before she passed away. I wonder if Lucy felt the same way and tried her very best.
To take care of her and avoid her suffering during a flight, we traveled by car. Fourteen-hour trips from San Francisco to Tucson Arizona without stops. We put down all the back seats of our Audi Q7 to make enough space for her to wander around, find the litter box, cradle, food, and water. On the first trip she literally slept in my arm most of the time like a baby because of the motion sickness, then, it after few times, she became used to.
We noticed that Lucy started to have problem walking, hearing and lost sense of direction. She was lost in the house often standing in the middle of the hallway without responding to anything. She cried loudly when could not see anyone around and peed anywhere she felt like. The house was soaked in Nature’s Miracle OXY to remove the cat smell. Her life was not as enjoyable as before but rather painful. Her veterinarian had prescribed a bottle of sedative to help her with the pain and calm her down. We never used it till the last days.
As much as I want to keep Lucy alive after these nineteen years, I started to imagine myself in her position. My conversation with my kids even when they were young, came to play:
“If I am not enjoying life anymore, suffering and becoming a burden to you, let me go. No resuscitation, no pain. Just let me go with dignity. It is my will.”
I wished that Lucy could speak and tell me how she felt and what she wanted. We started to discuss what we should do with Lucy, taking her to vet and euthanize her? Tears ran from my eyes thinking of it.
“Maybe it is better to invite the vet at home to put her down so that she will not suffer a last stress going to the clinic. I can’t recount how many times we went over this exercise and ended up doing nothing. We even joked about “as the Lucy conundrum” when decisions were hard to make.
We started to give her the sedative to make her feel better. She slept like an angel in her new cradle but barely ate anymore. She still drank.
Then, I had to go on a business trip for two days while my companion at home took care of Lucy.
I was at the meeting break and got a call from him.
“Lucy is gone”, the voice was sad and firm.
“No”, I said, and tears ran down my face.
My voice caught the attention of people around me; I was literally crying over the phone. I was not there with her when she took her last breath. She probably was wondering where mommy was.
Would she resent me for abandoning her during her last days?
Was she missing my arms holding her?
“How did it happened?” knowing she was not doing well before leaving, I asked.
“She just slept away peacefully by my side while I was working in my office”.
For nineteen years, we had been always at each other side, in the good, the bad, and the terrible times. The last day of her life I was not there. I felt guilty and sad. Overwhelmed I ran to the restroom to avoid questioning eyes.
“Are you OK?” A soft and kind voice rose from behind of me.
I turned around and saw a lady with a meeting badge staring at me concerned. I turned toward her with a smile while tears were in my eyes.
“I am OK, thanks.”
“Anything I can help?” she asked.
I told her that I lost my best friend cat, who lived with me for nineteen years, and her name was Lucy. She was relieved and said that she lost her dog few years before, which was hard too.
We buried Lucy in our backyard close to Polino who was killed by a car not long since I brought him from Qatar to the US.
I still talk to Lucy and imagine her waiting for me when I come home. My daughter recommends that I should get another cat.
No cat can replace Lucy, my loyal friend.
Nothing like a good nap! Rest in peace Lucy and wait for us. Photo by Ena, Half Moon Bay, circa 2019
Who is a friend? Someone who knows you, who takes your side, who never betrays you, who unconditionally accepts you. Is this part of human nature ? Or is it a characteristic that more closely approximates the soul of a simple pet? This story may shed light on the depth of a bond funded upon unspoken terms that thrive without covenants and words, but in the simplicity of daily reaffirmations. This is the story of Ena and of her cat.
Indeed Lucy was a quite remarkable and famous cat, on the front page of a short stories book, inspirator of poems, and a great companion to all who knew her. She is now resting in peace close to Polino’s grave: the only animal companion that she ever had as with whom she lived as the oddest couple.
To be continued in: Lucy, un unforgettable cat conclusion
Green eyes – Photo by E. Wang
Lucy, an unforgettable cat
Seventeen years ago, my older daughter volunteered at the Manyland humane society. I visited her with my younger daughter to show mom’s support and pride for taking care of the homeless animals. Grown up with animals, I got a nick name of animal whisperer. With my passion and love for animals, I toured the facility and met those who needed a home and love. Walking by the cages, a black and white, long hair tuxedo cat caught my attention. She looked at me with green and innocent eyes and passionately rubbed against me when I touched her through the cage.
“Can I hold her?” I asked the staff.
She reminded me of my cat Mimi when I was a child. Mimi had a perfect black and white symmetrical tuxedo, white collar, belly, legs, and paws. Mimi was a buddy, and very playful. He loved the good scents of clean laundry and set in the middle of the bed spread when the new sheets were set as Gengis Khan would on his throne. Mimi disappeared after seven years living with us. He had been the best friend and pet for the four of us siblings. Even my mom who was overwhelmed by her busy patient care activity as an obstetrician and gynecologist, appreciated Mimi’s occasional visit at her clinic during the night when she was on night shift. Mimi left one day, as every other day hunting for a present to bring us and disappeared without a trace. His image remains carved in my brain as the perfect handsome cat.
Lucy resembled Mimi but she was bigger, had longer hair, and the body coat was asymmetrical with a black nose tip to perfect a balanced beautiful white face. Her eyes were green and shining when gazing at me and filled with kindness. She seemed to try to understand what one wanted from her. She was very chubby with a big belly, which made me think that she was going to have kittens soon.
Always there looking at you – Photo by E. Wang
I was blessed by her unexpected passion when I held her. Not sure if it was because of my biased remembrance of Mimi or was her friendly nature, I really had fun and became attached to Lucy. Without intention to adopt a cat when I was dealing with two kids, busy work, and a marriage separation, I enjoyed the short company and passion that Lucy offered me. On the way out of the humane society, my curiosity drove me to the registry, and I requested Lucy’s file: 2-year-old, female, the owner gave her away because she bit people and his kids: in fact, the owner had a baby.
“That is impossible!” My mind stood by Lucy.
“They must have given all the love to the baby and tried to get rid of Lucy.”
…I asked the staff:
“What will happen to Lucy if no one adopts her?”.
The answer was:
“We will have to put her down”.
“But she will have babies soon!”, I said the to the staff at the front desk.
He looked at me with a smile and said:
“That is impossible.”
He flipped Lucy’s medical record and pushed it in front of me:
“Neutered in 2004; she also had a biopsy of a back mass: benign fat tissue.”
“She will not be able to have babies”, said the staff.
In summary she was just a fat and mean cat, although very cute.
I drove home with Lucy in mind. Her eyes and the passion she showed toward me when I touched her made me think of the possibility of adopting her.
“What would the kids think about adopting a cat? Who will take care of her when I am busy traveling?”
Dinner time as usual. School updates, friends, and some joke around TV shows.
“Mom, we should adopt Lucy.”
I guess the kids read my mind and felt how I interacted with the big fat cat.”
“Your dad hates animals” I replied.
Although separated, I still considered him part of the family.
“It is your life. You seem to like this cat a lot”, my younger one defended me. Obviously, she liked Lucy no less than I and she had spent quite a lot time at a friend’s home, who fostered cats.
“It will be a lot of work and commitment to adopt a cat. It is different from a foster home which is temporary.”
“You have us to help you take care of her.” My younger one said with confidence and responsibility.
“Yes, you have us. We can take care of her, change the litter and feed her.” Older Sheila joined in support.
“Let me think about it.” The conversation ended there.
The following day at work, I told my colleague about the weekend activity and of course about Lucy.
Having two dogs, two cats and three children, he told me how much fun his family had especially the kids and how manageable it was.
Without consensus from my separated husband, I went back to the shelter and filled out the adoption form. I was relieved doing my part and now let the humane society make the decision whether I could adopt Lucy.
A week passed and finally a mail from humane society arrived.
We were eligible to adopt Lucy. Cheers and excitement among the three of us; preparation started: cage to bring her home, litter box, food, treats, toys. It was the happiest moment during an unhappy time.
***
The day came to pick up Lucy and it was uneventful. She seemed not to care much about the process, the excitement, nor the future ahead. She had no problem demonstrating her distaste for the cage and meowed her head off while scratching the metal door all the way home. Three of us could not calm her down till we arrived home.
It was magic when Lucy was released at home, a relatively large house with two and half levels and 4 bedrooms. She surveyed every space, corner and level and seemed satisfied, much better than the humane society cage. No problem to find food and litter. She settled for the night.
I was woken up as usual by the alarm. Jumped in shower, made sure that I would not be late to take the kids to school.
Lucy was there. She looked at me asking for attention. I padded her in her head and then turned my attention to the mirror, a tired face with shadows under the eyes.
“Need a little make up” I concluded.
While I worked on the eyelashes, Lucy attacked my right leg.
A sharp pain made me turn around. There were four well-defined little holes in my right calf with blood surging and scratches on the sides. I saw Lucy running like crazy downstairs, expecting to be punished for the crime.
Her profile had clearly warned the adopters:
“She bites people and kids”.
A surge of anger rose from the physical pain. I yelled at her running downstairs loudly:
“NO!!”.
I felt stupid and frustrated for not listening to the shelter staff that she was a little monster that may not be tamable.
Time was running and school could not wait. I put on a bandage and called the kids:
“Let’s go”.
No time to discipline her.
“Are you OK, Mom?” The kids were concerned.
“Be aware of Lucy. She bites.”
I was glad that Lucy’s target had been me and not the kids.
“Don’t hold her close to your face. She can scratch your face and eyes.” I warned them.
Being a medical doctor, I remembered a girl who lost an eye because of a cat scratch which led to severe infection.
“Let me take care of the cat from now on.”
“Did you feed her?”, asked Sheila.
“She has plenty of food in the auto feeder.” I answered on my way to the garage.
“I have to cut her nail”, to protect the kids and myself.
***
Got home late as usual, the kids were both in the family room and Lucy was there laying by them, peaceful and innocent. It seemed like nothing had happened in the morning and she did not look at all like the nasty cat who bites people from behind.
Contrary to the morning, Lucy was very passionate with me, meowing at me and following me around. She was smart enough to tell who would feed her with not only regular food, but canned meat and special treats.
I picked her up and held her to my left shoulder. She split her front limbs and held my neck in between her paws retracting the sharp nails. It was like a baby holding mom’s neck. My heart forgave her for the moment of wildness in the morning and melted when she rubbed her face against mine.
“Why did you bite me in the morning?” I whispered hoping that she could understand. A book about cats stated that cat can understand every word one says to them.
No response but a big rub on my face from her; a cat kiss. May be that was her way to apologize?
“She must have been abused in the previous owner’s home,” I discussed with the kids.
“She was simply revenging her abuses by attacking the previous owner and now me. She must think human beings are all the same and deserve the same treatment.”
The kids agreed.
“We need to be patient with her. Thanks God she does not have rabies”.
***
Our relationship with Lucy improved by the days. She felt more and more at home and part of the family. Although she attacked me a few more times without being punished, she gave up her revenge after few months living with us and never let herself go mad again ever after.
Peace at home and joy of her company stabilized. Lucy transformed into a tamed cat, passionate and lovable.
She could tell if it was me coming home or the kids. She was always the first one to greet me by the garage door and she shared the bed with me. She became a third daughter accepted by my kids because she understood that I was the mommy.
When I call her:
“Lucy, come to mommy.”
She was always there as expected, and she never missed.
Like training a dog, she learned that when I gave her a treat, she had to give mommy a kiss, and a kiss again, a cat kiss, a head rub.
No rebellions, no arguments, but always there waiting for me. My kids complained that I gave more attention to her than to them, which was not true, but it was a good point.
“She grew bigger since we adopted her.” My daughter said.
It is true that Lucy was big and heavy. The highest level she could jump was the bed.
“Let’s see how heavy she is.” I said.
“How? …She will not stand on the scale without moving!”.
Lucy eventually learned to sit still on the scale, but only after 15 years and after losing half of her weight – Photo by E. Wang
I picked Lucy up and stepped on the scale, and then let her go and weighted again.
“She is 15 pounds.” My daughter said after the math.
“We need to put her on a diet”.
“Go search for diet food for cats, dry and wet food.” I ordered.
The family was united around Lucy with different responsibilities while she behaved like the master.
To make Lucy exercise, we played hide-and-seek with her. The game was to hide somewhere in the house and ask repeatedly
“Where is Lucy, where is my Lucy?”
She would hide, sneaking close and then, jump right in front. She would find you every time and she showed pride for her success with a triumphant face and a mischievous shaking of the beautiful long hair tail, not so thick, but fluffy and soft.
***
December 19, 2009,
Maryland had a record precipitation of snow; 17 inches! The ice and snow together pulled down the powerlines in a historical neighborhood predicament. Life without power is hard in modern society. Without power in wintertime is a nightmare, no heater, no light, no stove, no hot water, no landline phone, and no pump in the basement to pump out water. The only thing working was the gas fireplace, the life saver. The two tanks of tropical fish could not be heated up without electricity. The three big red parrotfish showed signs of suffering.
“I have to save them.”
A creative way to keep them warm was to put them in a stainless still pot on the top of the mantle above the fireplace. Proud of my smart survival skills, I pulled out all the big and small tropical fish out of the 10- and 15-gallon tanks except one, the big tireless tank cleaner. I thought that it would tolerate the cold and may not even sense the temperature change. Excited about the fish rescue, and thankful for the gas fireplace, I picked up Lucy, who was following me back and forth trying to understand what I was doing. She jumped up onto the table where the tank rested, and she was finally able to see inside from above without the lid rather than watching through the glass.
I felt exhausted after all the commotion. I held Lucy to keep her and myself warm and went to bed hoping that the power would come back any time soon.
I was woken up as usual by Lucy at 6 am, my daily alarm clock. She would make any possible effort to make noise to wake me up, push everything on the nightstand to the floor, flip slippers, jump up and down and kiss me on the face.
But this morning was a little different. She did not play her tricks this time, but she delivered a simple cheerful meow.
“Morning breakfast is her can food treat. The cold weather makes her hungry early.” I thought.
She led my way down to the kitchen that passed by the living room. But she became so excited running toward the living room rather than the kitchen, where her food was, and she stopped at the entrance of the living room. She sat there and watched me.
I saw something black on the beige carpet and dreaded that she had thrown up. I walked toward the black thing to try to clean it up. A soft, sticky, and still wet thing was in my hand: the big tank cleaner fish, completely intact except for a tiny piece of the mouth that was nicked.
Lucy happy and proud kept meowing at me. Her green eyes were so shiny, naughty, and satisfied. She must have been frustrated for a very long time, each day trying to capture those creatures in the tank without hop because of the lid. The day without electricity and the mindless owner who logically thought that the heating lid was not necessary to cover tank when the power was off gave Lucy the chance to show how capable she was, and I should have been proud of her for catching the big tank cleaner fish.
***
When my kids move to college, Lucy became my only companion. She could sense my emotional shifts with perfect consistency. When I was cheerful and happy, she showed happiness and cheerfulness by jumping on me and shaking her head left to right. She meowed to tell me
“I am happy for you.”
When I was sad and cried, she ran to me, quietly rubbed me again and again to tell me:
“It will be OK; I am here for you.”
When my breath was short and heavy during exercise or yoga, she would be there trying to rescue me with a light push; her way to show involvement. When I finished up with Savasana, she would lay at my side to share the relaxation, the imagination with me on the yoga pad. I wondered if her mind was as empty as it should have been.
After the divorce and with an empty nest, Lucy became even more essential in my life. She was all I had, and I was all she expected. She offered me warmth in cold winter nights with her big fluffy body and tail around my neck and her face against my face. I would be suffocated to death if did not turn my face aside. She was my shadow around the house and when I worked in the fenced back yard.
Never been an outdoor cat, she was intimidated by noises and strangers passing by. She found a place under the large hitchhiker elephant ear plant by the green house, and she would hide under it whenever there were noises. However, she was not afraid of the noise made by the chipmunks. Opposite to her shy nature, she would follow the noise and patiently wait till she could capture or chase the chipmunk. In the end, she behaved like a dog with the master and responded to my calls or claps of my hands every time
…except for one day.
It was a hot summer day.
Dreading to cut the grass which grew so fast and covered about a quarter of an acre, I waited till the sun went down to avoid the brutal blaze with more than eighty-five percent humidity. Exhausted by the labor and heat, I rushed to a quick shower after being done with the lawn because an army of teenagers coming for a sleepover were starving and waiting to be served my homemade Chinese food. As I started to prepare the dinner, I realized that the fluffy tail was not brushing my legs and there was no meowing for food; that was the special treat time that Lucy never missed.
“Lucy?” I called loud.
“Where are you baby?”.
No response.
“She must be enjoying the companies in the basement with the kids,” my instinct told me.
“Baby, treat time!”
No sign of her. I felt a bit betrayed by her.
Suddenly, I heard a squeaky sound from the basement, where the kids were.
I run to the basement, and I met Lucy on the stairs. The squeaky sound came from her mouth. She had caught a little mouse which somehow got inside the house. Panicking and scared, I caught Lucy in my arm and grabbed the little mouse out of her teeth by force. Never heard such a loud non stopping meowing. She was obviously excited about her achievement and at the same time upset by my contemptuous action.
I did not want to upset the kids and interrupt their fun. So, I disposed of the dead mouse quietly. The disappointment was colossal for Lucy. She looked at me with condescending and perplexed eyes. She refused to eat her most favorite treat that day. Because of her heroic action, the pest control was able to find a little whole on the outdoor frame of the living room where the little mouse could enter and sealed it: problem solved!
***
After sixteen-year-tenure at the National Institute of Health, I had a unique opportunity to build a research institute in Qatar…
Francesco Marincola 