Chapter 4 — Repeat offense

I bought proper supplies to secure the balcony.

Actually.

No chair.

No cardboard boxes.

No crate of sketchbooks that even a rabbit could have worked around with a minimum of motivation.

Real protection.

Well, what the nearest hardware store called real protection, which meant a roll of flexible mesh, plastic ties, two tension cords, and a set of instructions that appeared to have been translated by someone who had never seen a balcony.

I came home with everything tucked under one arm, looking like a responsible man.

Eugène was waiting beside the door.

Sitting.

Upright.

Silent.

As though he had already been informed of my intentions.

“Don’t start.”

He blinked.

Too slowly.

I placed the bag on the coffee table, took off my coat, and unpacked everything with excessive concentration. The mesh sprang open without warning and nearly knocked over my mug.

The rabbit startled in his corner.

So did I.

Eugène didn’t move.

He had the emotional stability of antique furniture.

“Everything’s fine,” I said to no one in particular.

The rabbit looked at me.

I couldn’t tell whether he believed me.

I spent the next hour turning my balcony into a feline prevention system.

I attached the mesh to the divider.

Then removed it.

Then attached it again, higher up.

Then realized it was sagging.

Then tightened it.

Then one of the ties snapped.

So I used two.

Then three.

At one point, I found myself crouched on the balcony with a plastic tie between my teeth, the roll of mesh trapped beneath one knee, negotiating with the wind.

Very dignified.

Very professional.

A neighbor downstairs stepped outside briefly to smoke.

He looked up.

I pretended not to see him.

He pretended he hadn’t seen me.

Mutual respect between apartment residents.

When I was finished, I stepped back to inspect the result.

The balcony now looked like a small improvised enclosure for a delinquent animal.

Which was technically accurate.

I pulled on the mesh.

Solid.

I pushed against the divider.

Stable.

I checked the gap between the floor and the bottom of the netting.

Too narrow.

I looked at the whole thing.

Then at Eugène, who was watching me through the glass door from inside.

“There.”

He stared at me.

“You can try, but it’s over.”

He stood up.

Stretched.

Then walked back toward the couch.

Fine.

Message received.

Or ignored.

With cats, the difference was often theoretical.

I spent the rest of the afternoon working on a set of illustrated book covers for a small publishing house. Three mood concepts. A forest. An isolated house. A warm light in the window.

I preferred it to emotionally available vegetables.

It paid less.

Obviously.

I worked almost properly.

Meaning I stayed focused for periods of twelve minutes before glancing toward the balcony.

Glass door closed.

Eugène visible.

Mesh in place.

Everything was fine.

I saved.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Then I received an email from a client that began with:

“Just one quick note.”

A lie.

There was no such thing as one quick note in a professional email.

I opened it anyway.

By the fourth line, they were suggesting we “completely revisit the spiritual direction of the visual.”

I closed my eyes.

Spiritual direction?

For a promotional banner?

I began writing a reply with a level of politeness that cost me several years of life expectancy.

That was when I heard something.

Not a loud sound.

A faint scrape.

Then a small thud.

Then nothing.

My body froze before my brain did.

I slowly turned my head.

The couch was empty.

So was the cushion beside the bookcase.

My gaze moved toward the glass door.

Open. Not wide open.

Just enough.

A breach.

I remained still.

No.

Impossible.

Hadn’t I closed it?

I was almost certain I had.

Almost certain was not an acceptable concept when you lived with Eugène.

I stood too quickly, struck my knee against the desk, ignored the pain through sheer dramatic priority, and crossed the studio.

“Eugène?”

Nothing.

I stepped out onto the balcony.

The mesh was still there.

In place.

Solid.

Well.

Solid except for one spot.

The lower corner beside the wall.

Where the tension had created a slight gap.

Not large.

Just enough for a very determined cat who could become remarkably liquid when he chose to and suffered from a total moral deficiency.

I stared at the opening.

Then at the neighboring balcony.

Silence.

One second.

Two.

Then laughter.

Not quiet.

Not entirely loud either.

A muffled laugh, like someone trying not to be heard and failing with a great deal of personality.

Liora.

Obviously.

Then a sneeze.

Then her voice.

“No, you’re unbelievable.”

I slowly placed one hand over my face.

Fine.

Repeat offense.

The phrase was perfect.

Eugène had done it again.

After reinforcement of the security system.

With premeditation.

I moved closer to the divider.

I couldn’t see inside their apartment yet. Only part of the neighboring balcony, the ledge, a plant much better cared for than mine, and the curtain beside their glass door, slightly open.

“Eugène,” I called quietly.

A gray-and-white shape appeared.

Not on my side.

Of course.

On theirs.

Eugène strolled onto their balcony, tail held high, looking like someone returning from a highly successful official visit.

Liora appeared behind him.

She was wearing an oversized sweatshirt, athletic shorts, and mismatched socks. Her hair was tied on top of her head in a way that seemed to be holding together through optimism alone. She had a tissue in one hand.

And she was smiling.

Far too much.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”

I looked at Eugène.

Then her.

Then the mesh.

Then Eugène again.

“Hi.”

She tried to arrange her face into something serious.

Immediate failure.

“I think your system has a slight weakness.”

“I noticed.”

“A very small one.”

“Not small enough.”

“No.”

She looked down at Eugène.

“He found it immediately, though.”

Eugène sat in front of her glass door.

At her apartment.

As though waiting to be served something.

I felt a very precise mixture rise inside me.

Relief, because he was alive.

Irritation, because he was alive in someone else’s apartment.

Discomfort, because that someone else was Liora.

And because she looked genuinely happy about it.

Which complicated everything.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“You apologize a lot.”

“My cat keeps entering your apartment.”

“My apartment, yes.”

“Uninvited.”

“That part is debatable.”

I looked at her.

“You invited him?”

She gently stroked the top of Eugène’s head.

Eugène closed his eyes.

Absolute traitor.

“Not officially.”

“So no.”

“But I think he felt expected.”

“You can’t encourage him.”

“It’s difficult. His face is encouraging all by itself.”

I couldn’t really argue with that.

It was his main weapon.

Eugène had the face of an innocent animal even while methodically dismantling your social life.

I leaned carefully against the railing. The mesh now separated our balconies in an absurd way. Like a border installed too late between two countries already in negotiations.

Liora stood on the other side.

Not too close.

Not in my hallway.

Not directly in front of me inside a stairwell that was much too narrow.

The balcony created a strange distance.

Close enough to talk.

Far enough to breathe.

I could look at her without feeling as though she had stepped directly into my personal space with her keys, her bag, her voice, and her selective allergy.

It was easier.

A little.

“Did he come over quickly?” I asked.

“Very.”

“How long has he been there?”

She looked toward the inside of her apartment.

“Three minutes.”

“And you let him in?”

“He was already inside.”

“Liora.”

Her name came out before I could stop it.

She straightened slightly.

Not offended.

More amused.

“Yes?”

I regretted it immediately.

Saying her name gave the scene a familiarity I had not approved internally.

“I mean... you can’t.”

“I know.”

“You’re allergic.”

“Yes.”

“Your father is going to kill me.”

“He won’t kill you.”

“He’ll judge me.”

“That, yes.”

“For long?”

“Probably.”

Fine.

Honest.

She suddenly sneezed.

Once.

Then raised her hand.

“I’m fine.”

“You hadn’t even heard my question.”

“I anticipated it.”

“That’s concerning.”

“No, it’s efficient.”

She quickly blew her nose, then leaned toward Eugène.

“See? He doesn’t dramatize everything.”

“He doesn’t understand consequences.”

“Or he understands them and doesn’t care.”

“That’s worse.”

“That’s more feline.”

I should have been angry, I thought.

Or at least firmer.

I should retrieve Eugène, seal the breach, apologize to her parents, install something worthy of a maximum-security prison, and return to my normal life.

Except Liora was standing on the other side of the mesh in mismatched socks, with my cat at her feet, speaking as though this repeated intrusion were simply an obvious fact of the world.

And I didn’t know what to do with the strange relief that caused.

“Are you always this dramatic about him?” she asked.

“I’m not dramatic.”

She looked down at the mesh.

Then at the gap Eugène had crawled through.

Then at me.

“Aurèl.”

Again.

My name, used as a complete argument.

“I secured the balcony because my cat could have fallen four floors.”

“He didn’t almost fall. He changed apartments.”

“Through a balcony.”

“Successfully.”

“Just because a catastrophe didn’t happen doesn’t mean the procedure deserves praise.”

She stared at me for a second.

Then laughed.

Not mockingly.

I understood that before I could even analyze it.

She wasn’t laughing at me as though I were ridiculous.

She laughed because she found my panic easy to read.

Maybe even logical, in its own way.

Funny.

Not pathetic.

The distinction was tiny.

It mattered enormously.

I looked away toward Eugène so she wouldn’t notice that I had noticed.

“Also,” I added, “he’s already done it again. Which means he’ll do it again. Again.”

“Maybe he just needs to see me regularly.”

“No.”

“You say no very quickly.”

“Because the sentence didn’t deserve further analysis.”

“Harsh.”

“Realistic.”

“You should let him decide.”

“That is exactly what I should never do.”

She smiled faintly.

“You don’t like letting things decide for themselves, do you?”

The question came softly.

Too softly for her.

Or too precisely.

I felt something close slightly inside my chest.

A reaction.

Automatic defense.

“I like preventing my cat from dying or making my neighbor sick.”

“Your neighbor?”

“You live next door.”

“That’s true.”

She looked satisfied by a victory I didn’t understand.

Eugène chose that moment to stand, walk into her apartment, and disappear from view.

My body tensed.

“Eugène.”

“He’s only getting a drink,” Liora said.

“Drinking what?”

“Water.”

“Where?”

“From a bowl.”

“You gave him a bowl?”

She froze for half a second.

“No...”

Silence.

“Liora.”

“Maybe.”

I placed both hands on the railing.

“You shouldn’t serve animals that enter your home illegally.”

“I didn’t feed him.”

“You gave him water.”

“I didn’t feed him.”

“That still counts as hospitality.”

“You want me to let your cat die of thirst six feet away from your apartment?”

“He was inside my apartment five minutes ago.”

“We don’t know what he experienced during the journey.”

I stared at her.

She bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

Failed.

She laughed anyway.

And against all logic, I felt my mouth move.

A little. Very little.

An incomplete smile.

Probably invisible.

She saw it.

Obviously.

Her face lit up.

“Oh.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t a smile.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I was going to say you look less angry when you do that.”

“I’m not angry.”

“No. You’re worried, with sharp edges.”

I stayed silent.

Scandalously accurate wording.

I didn’t like it.

Or I liked too much that she had noticed.

“You have a very loose way of describing people,” I said.

“And you have a very complicated way of not saying things.”

“I say things.”

“In three words or fewer.”

“Efficiency.”

“Protection.”

This time, I didn’t answer.

Because there was no answer that didn’t open a door I hadn’t properly looked at yet.

Something moved inside her apartment.

A deep voice crossed the air.

“Liora?”

I straightened immediately.

The father.

Obviously.

Every scene involving Liora seemed to come equipped with a paternal alarm system.

She turned toward the apartment.

“Yes?”

“Are you on the balcony?”

“Yes!”

“Why?”

She hesitated. Bad sign.

I could see it from behind.

Her shoulders lifted slightly.

“To get some air.”

Silence.

I closed my eyes.

Catastrophic lie.

She was wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, holding a tissue, standing beside a bowl of water probably intended for my fugitive cat.

Getting some air.

Very solid.

Her father spoke again.

Closer this time.

“Is the cat there again?”

Liora turned toward me.

Her eyes widened.

As though I were responsible for the answer.

Which was technically true.

Socially unfair.

I shook my head very slightly.

She made a downward motion with one hand, probably telling me not to panic.

It was exactly the kind of gesture that caused panic.

“No,” she said.

Silence.

Eugène chose that precise moment to step back onto the balcony.

He meowed.

Loudly.

Very loudly.

I closed my eyes.

So did Liora.

A long silence followed.

Her father’s voice became deeper.

“Liora.”

She inhaled.

“So, depending on how we define ‘there’...”

I put a hand to my forehead.

Accomplice.

I had become an accomplice.

Without even leaving my balcony.

Her father appeared partly behind her inside the apartment. I couldn’t see all of him, only his silhouette beyond the glass door, upright, solid, immediately concerned.

His gaze moved from Liora to Eugène.

Then from Eugène to me.

Through the mesh.

Me, standing on my balcony.

Empty-handed.

Face probably guilty.

My cat inside his apartment.

Second time.

“Good afternoon, sir,” I said.

Why?

Why had I spoken?

He remained still for a second.

Then answered with the calm gravity that made you want to present identification.

“Good afternoon, Aurèl.”

He knew my name.

Fine.

The file was progressing.

“I’m sorry,” I continued. “I secured the balcony, but he found a way through.”

“I can see that.”

A simple sentence.

A complete conviction.

Liora moved slightly in front of Eugène.

As though she could hide eighteen and a half pounds of cat behind her calves.

“Dad, it’s fine. He’s only been here for two minutes.”

“Seven,” I corrected automatically.

She shot me a look.

Betrayal.

Her father turned toward me.

Mistake.

I should have lied.

Or stayed quiet.

Staying quiet was normally one of my strongest skills.

Liora continued quickly.

“And I’ve barely sneezed.”

Her father looked at her.

She sneezed. Once.

Perfect.

Timing of extraordinary cruelty.

“Barely,” he repeated.

“It’s the dust.”

“On the balcony?”

“Urban air is very complex.”

I lowered my head to hide a smile.

Failed.

I felt Liora looking at me.

She had won something.

I didn’t know what.

She had won it anyway.

Her father sighed.

Not an exasperated sigh.

More the sigh of a man watching an absurd situation turn into legal precedent.

“The cat needs to go home.”

“Yes,” I answered immediately.

Too quickly.

“Good.”

He stepped back, then pointed at Liora with calm authority.

“And you wash your hands afterward.”

“Yes.”

“And not that face.”

“Dad.”

“Liora.”

“I know.”

“You know, and you do it anyway.”

She opened her mouth.

Then closed it.

Because for once, he had summarized the situation with a precision that was difficult to attack.

Her father disappeared inside.

Not entirely.

You could still feel his presence.

Like an administration in the next room.

Liora waited two seconds, then turned toward me.

“Well.”

“Well.”

“We should return the fugitive.”

“Yes.”

Eugène was sitting between us on Liora’s side, looking perfectly satisfied with having mobilized three adult, or nearly adult, human beings around his person.

She crouched down.

“Eugène.”

He looked at her.

“You have to go home.”

He blinked.

“See?” she said. “He understands.”

“He hasn’t moved.”

“He’s thinking.”

“He disobeys slowly.”

She reached out toward him.

Eugène rubbed his head against her fingers.

I watched the gesture. Her hand was gentle.

Contrary to what I would have expected from her, she didn’t pet him quickly.

Or too firmly.

She followed the cat’s movement, let him come to her, then slowly ran her fingers between his ears.

Eugène closed his eyes.

I didn’t know why the detail stopped me.

Maybe because she was always moving.

And there, for a few seconds, she slowed down for him.

For my cat.

The cat who forced her to blow her nose every three minutes.

“Can you send him through?” I asked.

“Over the top?”

I looked at the divider.

The mesh. The drop.

The fourth floor.

My stomach answered before I did.

“No.”

She smiled.

“I’m joking.”

“Don’t joke about heights and cats.”

“Noted.”

She stood and widened the opening near the bottom of the mesh, where Eugène must have squeezed through. I leaned down on my side to hold the structure steady and prevent him from suddenly testing a third, more dramatic option.

We both ended up crouched on opposite sides of the divider.

The mesh between us.

Eugène in the middle.

Liora on one side.

Me on the other.

A perfectly normal scene.

“Come on, Eugène,” she said softly. “Go home.”

He didn’t move.

“Eugène,” I called.

He looked at me.

Very calmly.

“Come here.”

He remained seated.

Liora tilted her head.

“Does he always listen to you like this?”

“Yes.”

“Impressive.”

“Thank you.”

“You can really feel the authority.”

“I’m going to carry him.”

“Wait.”

She reached into her apartment, grabbed something I couldn’t see, then came back with a small piece of fabric.

A sock.

Probably hers.

The one from the original incident.

“You kept the evidence?” I asked.

“It’s my sock.”

“A piece of evidence.”

“A relic.”

“You’re concerning.”

“You’re jealous because he likes it.”

“Your sock?”

“Our bond.”

“Your bond is textile-based.”

She waved the sock gently in front of Eugène.

The cat followed it with his eyes.

Then, with arrogant slowness, stood up.

One step.

Two.

He pushed his nose through the opening.

I almost held my breath.

Liora spoke to him softly.

“There. Very good. We cooperate. We avoid drama. We return home like responsible citizens.”

“He isn’t a citizen.”

“Not yet.”

Eugène finally slipped beneath the mesh and onto my balcony with an offensively fluid grace considering his volume.

I caught him as soon as he was close enough.

He allowed it with the expression of a king temporarily relocated by his staff.

I held him against me.

Not too tightly.

Just enough to make sure he was there.

Warm.

Heavy.

Indifferent.

My heart slowed a little.

I looked up at Liora.

She was already watching me.

Not with her usual wide smile.

With something smaller.

More attentive.

It lasted for a second.

Then she sneezed.

Reality returned.

“Sorry,” I said again.

She waved a hand.

“I’m fine.”

“You always say that.”

“And you’re always apologizing.”

“Because my cat is attacking you immunologically.”

“He chose me.”

“Your respiratory system disagrees.”

“It’ll adapt.”

“That isn’t how it works.”

“Maybe it is.”

“No.”

“You’re not a doctor.”

“Neither are you.”

“But I know Eugène.”

I looked down at the cat in my arms.

“Since yesterday.”

“Great stories start quickly.”

“This isn’t a great story.”

She smiled.

“Not yet.”

That not yet again.

Of course.

She used it the way someone left a door slightly open.

I remained in front of it with a fire extinguisher, an evacuation plan, and doubts.

Inside her apartment, her father coughed.

Not a real cough.

A reminder cough.

Liora rolled her eyes.

“I have to go before he comes out here and reads us the building’s health regulations.”

“He has those?”

“No, but he could write them by this evening.”

I almost smiled.

This time, I didn’t hide it quickly enough.

She saw.

Again.

“See you later, Aurèl.”

“See you later.”

She stayed for one more second.

Then added:

“And reinforce the bottom.”

I looked at the opening.

“Yes.”

“Because he’s clever.”

“He’s stubborn.”

“Like you.”

“I don’t crawl beneath my neighbors’ fences.”

“Not yet.”

I stared at her.

She smiled, delighted by her own absurdity, then went back inside and closed the glass door behind her.

The curtain moved.

Her silhouette disappeared.

Then I heard her, more faintly:

“Yes, Dad, I’m going to wash my hands.”

A pause.

“No, I didn’t put my face in his fur.”

Another pause.

“That’s still a strange sentence, though.”

I remained on the balcony with Eugène in my arms, listening despite myself.

Not out of unhealthy curiosity.

Well.

Not only.

Her father replied with something I couldn’t make out. Liora protested. A drawer opened. Water probably ran in the kitchen or bathroom.

Life resumed on the other side of the wall.

On the other side of the balcony.

I looked down at Eugène.

“You understand that you’re creating a problem?”

He rested his head against my forearm.

A gentle gesture.

Obvious manipulation.

I went back inside.

Closed the glass door.

Locked it.

Then, for good measure, pulled the curtain slightly closed.

Eugène jumped from my arms as soon as I placed him on the floor. He walked straight to his cushion, turned around twice, and settled down as though nothing worth mentioning had happened.

The rabbit watched him from his corner with an expression I chose to interpret as contempt.

“Yes,” I said. “We agree.”

I returned to the balcony with additional ties, repaired the bottom of the mesh, added two layers, then a third.

When I was done, the whole thing looked even less discreet.

Fine.

I was sacrificing aesthetics for survival.

I went back inside, washed my hands, and returned to my desk.

The client’s email was still open.

“Completely revisit the emotional direction of the visual.”

I stared at the screen.

Then looked at Eugène.

Then the glass door.

Then the wall to my right.

Behind it, I heard Liora laugh again.

A short laugh.

Followed by a comment from her father, lower and deeper.

Then her voice, quick, lively, impossible to ignore.

I placed my fingers on the keyboard.

Typed nothing.

This time, the silence of the studio wasn’t quite the same.

There was a kind of passage inside it.

A new place through which the world could enter.

I wasn’t sure I liked it.

I wasn’t sure I didn’t.

I looked at Eugène, already half asleep, perfectly innocent within the general lie of his existence.

“This situation isn’t going to stay an accident, is it?”

He opened one eye.

Closed it again.

No answer.

Obviously.