A LARGE GRUBBY FOOT IN A GOLD SLIPPER
NYRB ClassicsApril 2021Selected by Barbara Epler
Every Natalia Ginzburg book is a hundred times worth reading, but the novella Borghesia features Siamese cats – animals, needless to say, with a real presence. A widow named Ilaria (“thin and wrinkled with short, woolly grey hair and big blue eyes”) has always had a very complicated family and never had a pet before. Now she has a cat who, though terribly nervous, regards Ilaria as “the protector appointed to substitute for its mother, a distant feline figure whom it would never meet again”. As such, when she changes his litter, he turns “somersaults for joy, as if delighting that someone was attending to its sand”. Alas, that kitty (blue-eyed like Ilaria) isn’t long for this world. When, after just two weeks, he dies, and despite her family disliking cats, she almost immediately gets herself another one: “This feeling of being valued so by a cat filled her with a strange sort of pride. It was a pride that seemed rather pathetic and stupid to her sometimes; hardly worth dwelling on really … She thought to herself how everything that bound people to animals and animals to people was strange, poor, sad and mysterious.” And yet sometimes not so strange and sad as what binds people to people, especially when your children are pretty ratty. — Barbara Epler
Ilaria knew her brother-in-law was not an animal lover at all. Besides, he had chosen her carpet and paid for it and had it put in for her, and he might say cats ruined carpets. This, in fact, was what he did say. He also said cats made carpets smelly and full of fleas, and that the carpet must be absolutely flea-ridden already. Ilaria said, as far as the smell was concerned, she had sprinkled April Breeze on the carpet. Pietro said he hated the smell of April Breeze, the Devotos used it, and he had begged them to stop doing so. Ombretta said she could feel the fleas jumping up her legs, and she stretched out a muscular, brown leg and a large grubby foot in a gold slipper. The woman doctor, the one she had been with for two weeks, had four cats, but they were angoras and did not have any fleas. Aurora said they must beat the carpet every day from now on. She was very lazy by nature, but she loved to plan great cleaning sessions.
To Ilaria’s mind, neither peace nor calm emanated from that cat, only worry and apprehension. It was a terribly nervous creature and used to dart and squirm about everywhere. It would hide under cupboards, then pounce on her head suddenly and rummage about and suck her hair. It seemed to know that of all the people in the world, she was the protector appointed to substitute for its mother, a distant feline figure whom it would never meet again. When she took the yellow tray into the kitchen to change the litter, it used to turn somersaults for joy, as if delighted someone was attending to its litter. Later on, it was the somersaults that stood out clearest in her memory when she thought of this cat. One night, it seemed to have a cold and a bit of a temperature. She thought it would die, it seemed too small to survive an illness. Next morning, she phoned Signora Devoto, who gave her the name and address of a vet. She wrapped the cat in a little tartan shawl and took it there. Whenever she thought of this particular cat afterwards, she thought of tartans: Signora Devoto’s bag and the tartan shawl the day it had a temperature.
There were a lot of people with cats and dogs in the vet’s waiting room. Several hours passed by. She spoke to a woman sitting near her, who had an enormous dog on a lead. “This is the first time I’ve been here,” she said. “Yes, I can tell you’ve never had an animal before,” said the woman. Ilaria was struck by this and wondered how the woman could tell. Perhaps it was the fact that her cat was wrapped in a shawl. Everyone else had theirs in suitable pagoda-shaped baskets, so convenient for travelling or for taking them to the vet. That day, she felt as if she had truly penetrated the circle of pet owners and animal lovers, a very special group of people united by a tenuous and yet extremely close bond.
This first cat had a very short life indeed. When Ilaria worked out afterwards how much time had passed since the day the servant appeared with the box and the bag, she realised it was scarcely more than two weeks. The cat recovered from the cold and began to dart and squirm about the house again, but then it died at home, accidentally. She had been to the supermarket with Ombretta, and they were on their way home loaded with heavy bags. When they got to the front door, they saw Aurora holding something wrapped up in newspaper. She threw it into the dustbin. “Your cat’s dead,” she said. Ilaria noticed, as she had done at other times in her life, that her daughter derived acute pleasure from bringing her bad news. She sat down on the stairs and started to cry. “It was Uncle Pietro,” said Aurora, “he didn't mean to. He just didn't see it.” Ilaria said she did not want to hear any more. The three of them took the lift upstairs, and Ombretta sang the cat’s praises, saying how beautiful and intelligent it was, and how healthy and lively. While it was alive, she had found it a sickly, annoying little creature. When they got in, Aurora's husband, Aldo, was carrying some books downstairs with the help of Cettina. Pietro was sitting in the armchair looking pale. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t my fault. I was carrying some books. I wanted to fill up these shelves of yours, they’re so bare and I’ve got far too many books. Look, it’s not my fault, I didn’t see it. It’s no good you staring at me like that.”
“It really wasn’t his fault,” said Cettina. “Why don’t we go out and get another one? There are plenty of cats around. If you like, I’ll bring you one straight away.” Aldo said perhaps they could send Ombretta to ask that woman doctor, the one with all the cats. “Angoras they were,” said Ombretta. “With no fleas,” said Aldo. “They had all that lovely long hair, but it was so clean and never attracted fleas.” ◉
The Turkish Angora is a breed of domestic cat with a long coat, often white in colour. There is no scientific evidence that Angoras do not catch fleas.