A Strange State of Affairs Ch. 4

“The light.  It’s too bright.  Will someone turn that off?” 

            “I think she’s coming around, Doctor.  What should I do?”

            What a nice voice…so mellow.  But it’s so bright in here…

            “Try not to let her overexert herself.  Those were a lot of stitches.”

            Oh, and that one sounds like…an old man, Scrooge-like, with a beard and all…

            “Why isn’t anyone listening to me?  That light is too bright.”

            “Hush, hush.  Poor girl.  I wonder what you’ve been through.”

            Elevine woke to see a pair of liquid dark eyes gazing worriedly at her.  She blinked slowly, drinking in the sight �" it had been a long time since she had seen anyone watch her with such burning concern. 

            The rest of the face came into focus, and her eyes immediately widened.

            The eyes that were burning down at her belonged to none other than Fye Celis, the jewel of Eastern Kor’s art world.  He was a painting prodigy, his talent first exhibiting itself at the age of four.  At ten, he was already hosting gallery shows and appearing on talk shows (plentiful in the land of Kor) to discuss his art.  El herself had greatly admired his works and Fye himself, a fact that her mother recognized and often teased her about.  She had swooned over the open friendliness of his face, marveled at his towering height and lanky build �" yet in his photos, his eyes were always detached.  Those deep brown pools had never shown much emotion in his press pictures, yet they burned with concern right now.  Concern for her welfare!!  If Elevine had been a white cat, she would have blushed.

            The man �" Fye �" brushed his hand against her head.  She meowed pitifully, and his handsome face grew worried.  “Still not feeling so good, girl?”

            Elevine nosed his hand, and he stroked her head with his long, thin fingers.  His tan skin contrasted with the darkness of her fur, and she observed him as he petted her, a purr rising in her throat.  If only her mother could see her now!!

            The other voice who she had heard �" the Scrooge-like one �" turned out to be a spitting image of the figure she had drawn up inside her head.  However, instead of a beard, he sported an iron-grey mustache and a peppery goatee which he stroked and curled about his thin pinky.  “Fye, I believe she will be well now.”  He thrust a bottle of pills into the artist’s free hand, the one that was not occupied with placating a feline.  “Just give her these whenever she seems a little stiff.  They should be strong enough to relieve her from the pain for a few hours or so �" oh, and only three a day!!  We don’t want another animal around here that’s been tampered with, young man.”

            The young artist grinned wryly, one side of his mouth turning upward in a sardonic half-smile.  “Right,” he replied.

            The doctor reddened and cleared his throat.  “Well, in that case, goodbye.”  He gathered up his black satchel and departed.  “And see to those reporters, son!!  They’ll swarm you again if you don’t do something soon!!”

            The door of the chalet slammed shut; silence resonated within the walls.  Elevine looked up at him, at Fye, and meowed.  Maybe things were becoming a little better…

            A series of sharp staccato raps interrupted her observation of her savior, who sighed and went to answer the door.

            The moment he opened the door, Elevine’s ears were assaulted by a loud squeal.  A blonde mess of expensive clothes and tackiness flung itself inside the room.  El recognized the reporter from earlier, a woman who was of moderate age but was so heavily made up and bedecked with paste jewels and designer brands that it was hard to focus on merely her face.  She flung her arms wide, inhaled. 

            “So this is your home, you elusive rascal.”  Digging in the vast depths of her quilted purse, she yanked out a microphone with a flourish, simultaneously touching up the ostentatious rouge on her lips.  As she smeared red paste all over her pouty mouth, her eyes lit on El.  “Oh, how sweet.  A cat.”  Her voice, twangy and falsely smooth, did not sound enthusiastic.

            “Can I help you, madam?”  Fye inquired from the doorway.  The short, pudgy cameraman was still heaving his way up the steps with an armload of equipment.  Fye noticed the sweat beading the stout dwarf’s forehead.  He had also seen the consequences of failing to obtain an interview with the elusive Mr. Celis. The cameraman had a family to feed, so Fye had let him in.  But the woman...

            Just exactly how many layers of powder did she have on her face?

            Elevine hunched low and watched the scene.  For a long time, no one spoke.  The reporter was too busy simpering at Fye, and El felt a sudden urge to hiss at her silly face.  As for her crony, he had finally managed to heave his truckload of equipment up the drive of Fye’s house and deposited the tangle of electronics unceremoniously on the carpet �" with his diminutive height, he had easily cleared the bar that was Fye’s arm propped up against the frame of the door, a warning against the entrance of the unwelcomed.

            “Why, yes…” the woman simpered, “We’d like to get an interview with you.  Dear, do you know that your fans out in the art world are getting a bit antsy?  I’m sure they would love to know what you’ve been doing.”

            Fye tensed.  “I’ve been busy.”

            “So what have you been doing?”  Fye was quiet again.  The woman laughed.  “Oh, that’s just cute.  The great artist is still too shy to open up about his work.  Dear, I’m afraid that if you don’t show us something, people will think you’re…losing your touch.”

            So that’s what she wants!!  Elevine’s inner voice sounded powerfully within the prison of her mind.  She wants to get a sneak preview of his work!!  That evil little…!!  Why couldn’t she just say?  It’d hurt me if someone came and criticized my life’s blood so cruelly…then again, I’d just throw them out of the house.  Fye, do something!!

            But Fye was immobilized by her prying comments, his eyes distant and his shoulders stiff.  He sighed, and then composed his face.  “Please, join me in my studio.  There’s one piece that I will be exhibiting in two weeks �" unfinished, of course.”  He strode through the spacious parlor, passed the living room in which El watched them from the tabletop she was reclining on, and through another door.  For a one-storied house, it was really quite large.  Elevine lay on the table in a sprawl and sighed through her nose.  She heard the reporter’s shrill squeals of delight and felt a tiny twinge of pity for Fye, a man who had previously been portrayed as a fearless light-hearted character by her idolizing mind.

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    The woman and her lackey followed him into the studio, where he closed the door gently after taking a quick peek at the cat prostrated on the table in the dining room.  He smiled softly, and then turned to face the impatient audience before him.

            The woman stuck out one of her claws, the one that was not tightly gripping her purse.  “I’m Lilha Mosley,” she breathed, “I haven’t properly introduced myself yet.  And this is my partner, Will.”  She gestured to the gruff dwarf besides her, who let out a grunt.

            Fye nodded, and there was an awkward silence.  Lilha spied a navy blue sofa against one of the grey walls and bustled towards it, plopping herself down.  She brushed her hair quickly with her fingers and gestured to the cameraman, who pressed a few buttons on his oversized camera and pointed it at her.  “This is for our evening piece tonight.  Let’s just get the interview parts first, alright?”

            Fye nodded again.

            “So,” Lilha announced, “Here we are, inside the studio of the elusive Fye Celis.”  The cameraman panned about, showing the whole room. 

            Fye clenched his jaw.  Luckily, his most important works and projects were not in this room; they were hidden in the attic. 

            The woman stabbed the microphone in his face.  “Can you tell us what you’ve been working on lately, Mr. Celis?”

            The artist smiled genially at the camera, a façade of friendliness masking the annoyance on his face.  “Of course, I haven’t finished it yet, but…” He turned and dug around on a shelf, extracting a tiny bottle filled with glinting silver substance.  “I intend to use this to paint.  Liquid argent.”

            He held out the jar in one hand and a blank canvas in another.  

            Lilha stared at him, mouth slack.  “…Metal?”

            He nodded.  “But that’s not it.  I intend to use my feet to paint instead.  I think I’ll just slop it onto the canvas and stand on it.”  He shot an alluring grin at the camera. 

Lilha’s face was red with embarrassment.  Her face straightened as she remembered that she was on camera.  “Alright, then.  Well, anything else you’d like to show us?”

            Fye mused for a while and shook his head.  Flashing another alluring smile at the camera, he replied, “No, but I have a show at the Grand Puri Tellurim next week.  If you’d like to see what I’ve been up to, you might want to attend.”

            “Alright,” Lilha simpered at the artist and the camera, “This has been Lilha Mosley, reporting from the studio of Fye Celis.”

            “And…we’re out,” the cameraman grunted.  He heaved the camera over his shoulder and blundered out the door.

            Lilha Mosley turned to Fye, eyebrows clenched.  “With those brief answers, your fans will really think you haven’t been up to anything.  And my boss will scold me for not getting any more out of you.  Are you trying to make me look ridiculous, sir?”

            Fye shook his head.  “Ridiculous?  I could never make you look worse than what you already do to yourself.  I suppose it’s natural?  Women pride themselves on that.”  He grinned at her, and she reddened under his smile.  Growling, she flung herself out the door that he propped open for her with one foot.  Hearing them exit and drive away, he looked about at his studio, tucking the bottles and material away.  “Cat?” he called, “Are you still there?”

            Elevine staggered drowsily to her feet.  They had finally left!!  Fye took a seat by the table and settled his forehead austerely upon it. 

            “Reporters,” he mumbled, “The media vultures.”  He looked up at El.  “And how did they manage to find me?  No one knows where I am, not even my agent!!  That’s what I dislike the most about reporters.  Once they get whiff of a target, they stalk him like a bloodhound.  Alas.”  He returned his face to the table.

            Elevine sighed weakly.  Her back felt sore, but she inched towards him and they lay silent for a while, nose to nose.  He reached out a hand and flicked one of her ears, then sat erect.  “So, what shall we call you?”

            He stared at the cat, black and sleek save for the stitches and poultices smeared on her back.  “I was never really one for names,” he disclosed sheepishly, “That’s why I’m an artist, not a writer.  My agent does all the naming for me.  She’s really quite good at it.”

            Elevine was mustering all of her brainpower into the effort of saying her name.  “Elevine,” she mewed, “Elevine!!”  But all that came out was a drawn-out yowl.  “E,” she managed to enunciate, “Meeeeeow.”

            Meanwhile, Fye was still staring at her.  “Maybe something with an A…,” he muttered, “Or…maybe…an E?”  He looked into El’s eyes, dark and bright.  “How about…’Elala’?”

            Elevine stared at the man, at his sparkling brown pools of light.  “Elala” was close enough to “Elevine”, she supposed.  He’s probably shorten it to “El” anyway.  She mewled and rubbed her face against his hand.

            Fye smiled.  “’Elala’ it is, then.  ‘El’, for short.”  He stood and clapped his hands together.  “So, El.  What do you want for dinner?”  He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, making a face at the clutter inside.  “Fish?”

            Upon hearing the word “fish”, she remembered the days spent by the pool and the poor fish she had killed.  She remembered his dying expression, gills bloodied and eyes boggling.  A feeling of revulsion crept up her spine, and she hissed vehemently.  Fye heard the tirade she was conducting in the dining room and called back soothingly to her.          

“Alright, alright!!” he cried, “No fish!!  Just calm down before you tear that wound open!!”  He rushed in to settle her back onto the table.  El obliged �" she suddenly felt nauseous �" and lay back down, watching him rush about preparing dinner.

After a meal of hearty clam chowder and spaghetti, Elevine felt her body slowly gaining strength.  She hoped Fye hadn’t found his new pet too strange.  After all, normal cats did not wolf down spaghetti the way she had at dinner.  El had noticed once or twice that Fye had stopped eating his portion of food to stare at her.  She resolved to act more cat-like in order to avoid arousing any suspicion.

Feeling drowsy after the meal, El let herself be carried in protecting arms onto the sofa.  She stretched leisurely, and then twisted her back.  Fye heard her yowling and immediately popped a pain tablet for her �" the pill was huge, but she managed to swallow it. 

He lay for a while on the sofa in the living room, a tan affair that sat on a brown-and-black striped rug.  Elevine looked about sleepily at the room; the parlor, living, and dining rooms were coated with unobtrusive shades of beige.  The studio, so far, was the only room that was painted a different color.  As Fye stared at the television set up on a low table between two shelves, Elevine watched the back of his head.  He ran a hand through his deep brown hair and laughed at the program; his locks fell naturally back into place.  El’s face fell.  If only her hair were so…obedient.  Then again, now she had fur �" short and smooth.  Why on earth, of all things, had she been turned into a cat?  What a loss of dignity!!  Suppose she were to be stuck this way forever?  Then, she remembered where exactly she was.  Ah, well.  One could do worse than a first-rate artisan.  If she were truly to be a cat, she might as well do it to the best of her ability.