Chapter 5 — A feline excuse

For three days, Eugène didn’t try anything.

Nothing.

No infiltration.

No prolonged staring toward the neighboring balcony.

No paw slipped beneath the reinforced mesh.

No suspicious behavior beyond his usual behavior, which remained suspicious on principle.

He slept.

Ate.

Occupied the couch with the confidence of an undeclared owner.

Sometimes he stared at the glass door the way one stared at a happy memory, but he never acted on it.

So I decided the problem was solved.

An optimistic decision.

Almost dangerous.

The mesh held. So did the ties. The bottom had been doubled, then tripled, with a precision I had so far refused to apply to any administrative procedure in my life.

Even Eugène seemed to have accepted the new border.

Or he was preparing something else.

With him, peace always looked slightly like an ambush.

I returned to work.

Well.

I tried.

The commissions hadn’t disappeared just because my cat had discovered a calling as a neighborhood diplomat. Clients still wanted visuals that felt “more human,” atmospheres that could “breathe more,” covers that were “less cold without being too warm.”

I spent an entire morning working on a forest that was supposed to feel unsettling without causing anxiety.

A fundamental distinction.

Apparently.

I drew trees.

Deleted them.

Added a light.

Removed it.

Saved.

Opened an email.

Closed it again.

On my desktop, behind the software window, a folder called “interiors_selection” had been open for two days.

I minimized it.

Not now.

Personal work had a deeply unpleasant habit of looking over the shoulder of the work that actually paid the bills.

I stood up to refill my glass.

On the other side of the wall, a door slammed.

Not loudly.

Well, loudly by normal standards.

Normal by Liora’s.

I stood still, empty glass in hand.

Footsteps. Quick.

A voice. Hers.

I couldn’t make out the words, only the rhythm. A sentence fired off too quickly, a deeper reply, probably her father, then the sound of keys.

I checked the time.

5:22 p.m.

Practice?

Maybe.

No.

I didn’t know her schedule.

I wasn’t tracking it.

I had simply noticed, by chance, that she often left between five and six with a bag. And came back later, sometimes speaking more quietly. Which could mean exhaustion. Or a bad mood. Or belated respect for the walls.

Neutral observation.

No implications.

I drank my water.

Then returned to my desk.

The next day, the same thing.

Five thirty.

Quick footsteps.

Keys. Voice. Door.

The following day, slightly earlier.

I also noticed that she sometimes came home dragging her feet a little.

Not much.

Just enough for the rhythm to change.

Less impact.

Less momentum.

As though the world weighed more after the stadium.

I didn’t want to know that.

Well.

I wasn’t trying to know that.

But the walls were thin. The acoustic reality of the building forced me to develop passive expertise.

It was beyond my control.

On the fourth day, at eleven in the morning, I was working on a sketch of a window when someone knocked on my door.

Two knocks.

Not her father’s.

His were precise and measured, with the gravity of a notarized document.

These were quicker.

Almost impatient.

My stylus remained suspended above the tablet.

Eugène lifted his head from the couch.

The rabbit didn’t react. Or did so in a way so internal that no one could legally prove it.

I looked at the door.

Then Eugène.

Then the door again.

A second set of knocks.

“Aurèl?”

I closed my eyes.

Obviously.

I stood up, vaguely checked my sweater, my pants, the general condition of the studio, then immediately understood there was no way to improve anything in under five seconds.

The studio was in its normal state.

Controlled disorder.

So, disorder.

Sketchbooks stacked on the coffee table. An empty mug beside the computer. Papers on the floor, though not randomly. Well, not entirely. The guitar in one corner near the lamp. A blanket badly folded on the couch. Eugène on the blanket. And beyond the edge of the bookcase, Demitrius’s territory, discreet enough to exist without attracting attention.

An entire world organized according to a logic only I could defend in court.

I crossed the room and opened the door.

Liora stood on the landing.

Right in front of me.

One foot slightly behind the other, as though she had stopped just before leaving again. She wore jeans, sneakers, and a light jacket open over a sweatshirt. Her hair was tied back, again, though a few strands had escaped around her face. A small canvas bag hung from one shoulder, and she looked like someone who had prepared a request exactly two minutes earlier.

No more.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

She looked behind me.

Not discreetly.

“Is he here?”

I turned my head slightly, even though I already knew.

Eugène hadn’t moved.

He was still on the couch in such a noble position that anyone could have assumed the visit had been scheduled by his staff.

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Silence.

I looked at her.

She looked at me.

Then she inhaled, as though deciding to fully accept the absurdity of her presence.

“Can I see him?”

I blinked.

“Eugène?”

“Yes.”

“Now?”

“If you can.”

“You want to see my cat.”

“Yes.”

She nodded with almost admirable seriousness.

“Officially.”

“Officially?”

“Yes.”

I placed one hand against the edge of the door.

The hallway was quiet around us. Too quiet for a conversation like this.

“Why?”

She opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Then shrugged.

“Because I want to.”

A dangerously simple answer.

No apparent strategy.

No detour.

Just the desire itself, placed in the middle of the landing as though it were enough.

I immediately had twelve objections.

Allergy.

Father.

Open door.

Neighbor.

Cat.

Allergy again.

Studio not prepared.

The social implications of a girl entering my apartment to visit an animal that had already invaded hers twice.

Possible message in the building group chat.

“Hello, please be advised that the young man on the fifth floor is now hosting visits.”

Very bad.

“You’re allergic,” I said.

“Moderately.”

“That’s still allergic.”

“I took an antihistamine.”

I stared at her.

“To come see my cat?”

“Maybe.”

“Liora.”

“What?”

She gave me a small smile.

She knew.

She knew it was strange.

She didn’t seem inclined to apologize for it.

That was the entire difficulty.

“I know it’s a little...” she said, searching for the word.

“Concerning?”

“No.”

“Medically questionable?”

“No.”

“Socially strange?”

“That’s it.”

She pointed one finger at me.

“Socially strange. Not serious.”

“You’re not the one your father will interrogate if you have a reaction.”

“I am.”

“Fine, but I’ll be the one accused.”

“He won’t accuse you.”

I raised my eyes.

She corrected herself.

“Not officially.”

“Reassuring.”

“He’ll just ask why I was in your apartment.”

“Exactly.”

“And I’ll tell him I came to see Eugène.”

“That does not improve anything.”

“Yes, it does. It’s the truth.”

I stayed silent.

In this particular case, the truth had catastrophic potential.

I looked behind me.

Eugène was watching us now.

He had lifted his head.

Very calm.

Very aware that he was the center of the problem.

Liora followed my gaze, and her expression changed. It softened, though in a lively sort of way.

“Oh, he’s looking at me.”

“He looks at everyone as though assessing the rental value of the premises.”

“He recognized me.”

“Probably.”

“See?”

“I don’t see anything.”

“You refuse to see.”

I sighed.

Mistake.

She took it as an opening.

“I can stay for two minutes,” she said. “Really. I’ll see him, say hello, and leave. I won’t touch everything. I won’t make myself comfortable. I won’t conduct an inspection.”

I looked at her bag.

Her face.

The hallway behind her.

Then my apartment.

I could say no.

Technically.

Politely.

Simply.

I could say, “Not today.”

I could say, “It’s better not to.”

I could say, “Your father is right.”

Nothing in my life required me to open the door any farther.

Except Eugène climbed down from the couch at that exact moment.

He stretched.

At length.

Then walked toward the entrance with dramatic slowness.

Liora straightened as though he had personally approved her request.

“See?” she whispered.

“No.”

“He’s coming.”

“He’s walking through his apartment.”

“Toward me.”

“Toward the door.”

“Where I’m standing.”

I lowered my head.

Fine.

I had just lost an argument to my neighbor and a cat.

Humiliating situation.

I opened the door wider.

“Two minutes.”

Her smile appeared immediately.

“Promise.”

“And you don’t pick him up.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t put your face on him.”

“I know.”

“You wash your hands afterward.”

“You really do sound like my father.”

“That’s because of you.”

“That’s touching.”

“That isn’t what I meant.”

She stepped inside.

One step at first.

Then two.

And the studio changed.

Not physically.

Nothing really moved. The coffee table remained the coffee table. The sketchbooks remained sketchbooks. The guitar did not suddenly become anything other than a guitar resting in a corner.

Her presence did what the sounds next door did, only without the wall.

It filled the space immediately.

Not because she was shouting.

Not even because she was speaking.

Simply because she was there.

She looked around with direct curiosity, without excessive embarrassment, though not with cruel nosiness either. She wasn’t snooping.

She simply took everything in too quickly.

The desk. The papers beside the tablet.

The minimized folder on the screen.

The couch. The plants. The lamp near the bookcase.

The guitar.

Too long on the guitar.

Or maybe only a second.

I noticed anyway.

Obviously.

“It’s small,” she said.

I froze.

She immediately turned toward me.

“Not in a bad way.”

“There’s a good way?”

“Yes. Small like... contained.”

“Contained?”

“Yes. Everything’s here.”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t tell whether it was a compliment. Or an observation. Or a gentle violation of my internal organization.

She moved farther inside, then stopped beside the couch because Eugène had reached her feet.

He didn’t rub himself against her.

Of course not.

He sat three feet away.

Facing her.

Perfectly upright.

Perfectly dignified.

Completely unavailable.

Liora pressed one hand to her chest.

“Is he ignoring me?!”

“Yes.”

“After everything we’ve been through?!”

“You’ve been through one sock and two intrusions.”

“That’s already a lot.”

“Not to him.”

She crouched slowly.

I tensed.

She raised one hand without taking her eyes off Eugène.

“I know. Not the face. Don’t pick him up. Don’t breathe him in like a pillow.”

“Thank you.”

“Can I say hello?”

“Verbally, yes.”

She smiled and lowered her voice.

“Hello, Eugène.”

Eugène turned his head toward the window.

Total rejection.

Liora remained crouched, her mouth slightly open.

“He’s snubbing me.”

“He’s at home.”

“He acted important at my place too.”

“That’s his personality.”

“I love him.”

“Bad news for your immune system.”

She held out one hand, palm upward, without touching him.

Eugène didn’t move.

Then he took half a step forward.

Stopped.

Stared at her.

And walked around her hand to rub against the foot of the couch.

Liora remained frozen.

“That was humiliating.”

“Yes.”

“Did you see that?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not going to do anything?”

“About my cat?”

“Tell him to be nice.”

“Eugène, be nice.”

Eugène lay down.

With his back to us.

Liora slowly turned toward me.

“He respects you enormously.”

“We have a complicated relationship.”

She laughed.

Then sniffed slightly.

My attention immediately locked onto her nose.

“You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Already?”

“It’s nothing.”

“You only just came in.”

“And?”

“Your allergy works quickly.”

“And you panic quickly.”

“I’m gathering information.”

“You panic methodically.”

I had no answer.

She stood and looked around again. I watched her eyes move over the piles of sketchbooks. The papers beside the desk. The sketches turned facedown against the table, as though hiding their fronts were enough to make them invisible.

It wasn’t.

She had seen them.

She saw my movement too, tiny, the movement of someone hesitating between stepping in front of them and pretending not to have noticed.

She didn’t ask.

Not immediately.

Her gaze simply moved on, paused at a sheet pinned to the wall, then continued.

“Do you do everything here?” she asked.

I followed her gaze.

Desk. Tablet. Mugs.

Sketchbooks.

“Most of the time.”

“You actually work in that chair?”

“Yes.”

“Your back is going to die.”

“It’s already started.”

“I knew it.”

She pointed at the desk chair.

“That is not a real chair for sitting all day.”

“It’s a chair.”

“Not a real one.”

“It has the essential properties.”

“You mean four legs and a seat?”

“That’s a solid foundation.”

“Your back hates you.”

I almost answered, but Eugène chose that moment to roll slightly onto his side.

Liora turned toward him immediately.

“Finally.”

She moved closer to the couch, then stopped at a reasonable distance.

“Can I?”

She was looking at me.

This time she was genuinely asking.

Not provocatively.

Not with her usual expression of turning every boundary into a negotiation.

A real question.

I looked down at Eugène.

He had settled on the blanket with his paws tucked beneath him, eyes half closed.

Available.

Or preparing a more subtle humiliation.

“You can try.”

Liora reached out.

Slowly.

She touched the top of his head with her fingertips.

Eugène didn’t move.

Then closed his eyes.

Total victory.

Her face changed.

Not much.

Just enough.

The joy became quieter.

“Oh,” she whispered.

I watched her stroke my cat with unusual concentration. She seemed to be holding back her energy so she wouldn’t move too quickly. Her fingers passed between his ears, stopped, then started again.

A sneeze rose.

She turned her head at the last second.

“Sorry.”

“You should stop.”

“Thirty seconds.”

“Liora.”

“Twenty.”

“You’re negotiating with your allergy.”

“I usually win.”

“So does it.”

She smiled without looking up.

“He’s softer here.”

“He’s the same.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“At my place, he was visiting. Here, he lives.”

I looked at Eugène.

Then the studio.

I had never considered the difference that way.

Visiting.

Living.

Another sentence she threw out without warning that remained caught somewhere.

She finally withdrew her hand and stood.

“There. I’m being responsible.”

She sneezed.

Twice.

“Relatively,” I added.

“Relatively responsible is still good.”

She pulled a small bottle of hand sanitizer from her bag.

I looked at her.

“You planned this.”

“Yes.”

“So it wasn’t impulsive.”

“It still was, a little.”

“You took an antihistamine and brought sanitizer for an impulse?”

“I’m spontaneous with preparation.”

I remained silent.

“That makes no sense,” I said.

“To you.”

She rubbed her hands together, then turned toward the studio one more time.

Her gaze moved everywhere, but more slowly now. As though she had begun to understand that things needed to be looked at differently in here.

More quietly.

More slowly.

That unsettled me more than her energy.

“This is strange,” she said.

I tensed.

“What?”

“I imagined you differently.”

“How?”

She thought.

Bad sign.

“I don’t know. Emptier.”

I didn’t answer.

“Not you. I mean, not you empty. Your apartment. From the hallway, you seem very... discreet.”

“That’s a positive quality.”

“Yes. But in here, it’s full.”

I looked at the sketchbooks.

The plants. The papers.

The mugs. The guitar in its corner.

The couch.

Eugène, already pleased with himself.

“Full of clutter.”

“No. Full of things that stay.”

I swallowed.

Very discreetly.

She truly had no right to be that precise.

Not after being here for only a few minutes.

Well.

Far more than two.

I checked the time on my screen.

So did she.

“Oh,” she said.

“Yes.”

“That was longer than two minutes.”

“Yes.”

“I should go.”

“Okay.”

Neither of us moved immediately.

Eugène had fallen asleep again.

The studio seemed to have accepted her presence with irritating ease.

I hadn’t.

Or not in the same way.

She took one step toward the door.

Then another.

I almost relaxed.

Mistake.

Liora stopped abruptly.

Not a slowdown.

A real stop.

Rare.

Her eyes had fallen on the corner beside the bookcase. Demitrius, betrayed by curiosity or a very poor grasp of discretion, had moved several inches outside his territory.

Ears upright. Nose twitching. Cautious gaze.

Liora almost stopped breathing.

“Wait.”

I followed her gaze.

Ah. Fine.

“Is that...”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, as though the memory had arrived a few seconds late.

Then her face lit up.

“Of course. Demitrius!”

I closed my eyes for a second.

Obviously. She remembered.

Not vaguely.

Not the way people remembered a minor detail encountered at three in the morning during an absurd scene.

She actually remembered.

“He’s real,” she said.

“That’s generally what rabbits are.”

“No, I mean... I saw him, yes, but now...”

She stopped.

Something in her voice had lowered.

Not much.

Just enough that Demitrius didn’t retreat immediately.

So she could do that.

Slow down.

I hadn’t expected that information.

Liora took one step toward him.

I raised a hand.

“Slowly.”

She stopped immediately.

Immediately.

Which was almost more unsettling than if she had kept moving.

“I know,” she said.

And she was speaking more quietly.

Much more quietly.

Demitrius’s nose twitched.

From the couch, Eugène opened one eye with a complete lack of interest in the dramatic tension.

Liora looked at Demitrius, then at me.

Her eyes were shining.

Disaster.

“Aurèl.”

“Yes?”

“Can I stay a little longer?”

I looked at the open door. The hallway just beyond it. The available exit.

The original plan, perfectly simple, perfectly dead.

Two minutes.

She had said two minutes.

I looked at Demitrius, who still hadn’t fled.

Then at Liora, standing in the middle of my studio, her hands obediently still, as though all her energy had just learned to stand on tiptoe.

I understood immediately.

The visit was no longer going to be short.

It had only just begun.

“Technically,” I said, “you came to see my cat.”

She smiled.

Very softly this time.

“Technically, yes.”