7. French Deserts

Everything reminds Orion Fields of a person he does not remember. The way his backyard’s gate slightly limps to one side, the sound of wet galoshes scratching against marbled floors, the buzz of his electric heater on a cold night – all of it, no matter how strange and bizarre, reminds him of May. His face ruptures into waves of wrinkled creases as he tries hard to bite onto the fuzzy nature of his memories. Where do they go? These lost memories.

When he still remembers nothing, he feels a tremor burgeoning like an aching lump in his throat, a suffocation screaming to show itself out, an admonishment telling him that he’s just a collection of broken parts. The only way to be whole again is hidden in these memories he’s lost, because he just knows that there is a revelation, a key part of his identity, residing somewhere in them. He does remember feeling light when he had those memories. He remembers feeling like he was floating. All Orion feels right now, without them, is heavy.

Orion’s nostrils flare, his chest grows stiff, and then he lets a sigh out through the slits of his teeth, continuing to cradle Dipper, who’s tucked under his arm, licking on its paw. Dipper reacts with stolid indifference as Orion rubs its brown fur and traces his fingers along its dark stripes.

“Hello, there. Someone’s in a good mood.” Orion smiles because not long ago, Dipper would have flinched at Orion’s touch, hissing bitterly and scratching even more wickedly. “It’s growing,” Orion says, pointing at the M-shaped patch of olive-green fur on Dipper’s forehead, much more distinct than other mackerel tabbies of his age. “You tabbies and your myths.” Some of Orion’s favorite tattles about tabbies have to do with the origin of that distinct M-shaped patch.

In an exhibition at the Smithsonian a couple of years ago, Orion had found a book detailing how the Egyptians called their cats ‘Mau’ and marked the foreheads of tabbies with the letter ‘M’ to symbolize their high status; the word ‘Mau’ also denoted their Seers and was the same word used by Egyptians to conjugate the verb ‘to see’. They took this belief far enough even to depict the Moon as a cat, not because they fancied the likeness of the Moon to a cat, but because they believed that when the Sun descended into the underworld at night, carried by the beetle-faced God Khephri, it saw in the darkness through the sight of the Moon.

Then, there was the Christian legend that Orion’s devout mother had tried to woo him with. While Orion’s mother was eventually dismayed at her son’s incognizance towards the certainty of religion, Orion remained beguiled by the idea of an entire faith resting upon a cat tucked next to a baby Jesus in his manger; when Jesus was born, he was struck with a devastating cold and what the prayers of Mother Mary could not resolve away were solved by a tabby that kept Jesus warm. In gratitude, Mother Mary touched the tabby on its forehead while it purred in its sleep, leaving a mark.

In one of his college classes on Middle Eastern Languages and Cultures, Orion learned that Islam had stamped its own divinity on cats. The Prophet Mohammed was said to have adored a cat named Muezza. When a snake tried to poison the Prophet by creeping up his arm, it was Muezza who killed the snake, saving the Prophet’s life. In return, the Prophet bestowed upon cats the ability to always land on their feet and left the M-shaped mark on their foreheads.

So many divine tales around the tabbies. Orion supposed that such a grandiose display of storytelling would make anyone think twice before harming a cat in any way. Yet, this tabby, Dipper, had been found by Orion and Tony in a bird cage on a hiking trail around the Potomac. Slim and underfed, Dipper was curled up against the back of that snide cage, overcome by exhaustion. If divinity can inspire one extreme to transmogrify themselves into martyrs, why can’t it inspire the other extreme to not harm cats?

Three years ago, fatigued by the incessant din of his clacking keyboard and the monstrous grey walls of the corporate cyber world, Orion had convinced his best friend, Tony, to use all their savings and do what divinity couldn’t by opening their very own cat café. It was a ridiculous idea. Had it not been for Tony’s experience working at a French brasserie in D.C., the café would’ve never succeeded in blossoming past a small, rented studio rasped into a small corner of a developing neighborhood in Baltimore, to a larger studio that they owned equally, where they now offered a way for people to experience the joy of cats. They had named the café after Tony’s favorite French dessert: Madeleine.

Half of Madeleine is a purple-walled café serving French espresso and contemporary dishes. There are three small, circular tables for two people each and four white beanbags, all precisely equidistant from each other to Orion’s request. This half also has a giant blackboard behind the barista’s counter, where not only do they list their seven specialty drinks and food items, but where, twenty minutes before opening every day, Tony draws sketches of cats inserted into movie scenes from the late 1900s and early 2000s.

Towards the opposite end of the entrance, Orion maintains a small, curated selection of books on a four-shelf blue bookcase. At the top are books that have a cat playing an important role in them, or sometimes books merely with the word ‘cat’ in them. At the bottom are some of Orion’s favorite books, including a copy of Gail Simone’s Batgirl comics and a book called Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo that Orion had read thirteen times in middle school. Lately, another book appeared there: Psalm for the Wild Built. Orion remembers every detail from the book, but he does not remember how he got it. Tony says it was given to him by Bleep. By May.

Next to the bookcase is a glass door, leading into the other half of Madeleine, a pink-walled, secure cat lounge with a very large window on the right wall, brimming with cat toys and rainbow-colored yarn balls. At all times, three staff members, all in college, sit next to each other, supervising a maximum of 6 customers during a 30-minute session with rescue cats like Dipper. The staff is trained to nudge those they see fit to adopt Madeleine’s rescue cats. Tony and Orion are very clear about their goal: making sure that the cats they rescue find safe, happy homes. After closing, they have a sixty-year-old Vietnamese caregiver, Lily, take care of the cats overnight, while Tony and Orion retire to their shared flat on the floor above.

Orion places Dipper back on the ground, gets up, and stretches his body by the joints. It’s ten minutes before opening, and the first set of their regular customers should be here soon.  

Sometimes, Orion thinks cats are better than people, because they do not overwhelm him. He does not flinch at their touch, and they always, always, ask for permission by throwing their paws out before touching or jumping onto you. People, on the other hand, rarely ask for permission. Orion’s extremely wary of people touching him, not because of the fact that the human body carries thirty trillion bacteria, and definitely not because of the fact that dermatologists tell some fellow humans to shower only three times a week (which is quaint because even though Orion himself dislikes how he feels when he’s wet in a shower, he still does it). Orion does not like people interacting with his skin. It is his, and only his, to control.

Dipper yowls at him as he starts walking towards the lounge’s exit. Tamera, Kelvin, Mabel, Whiskers, Beefsteak, Ice King, Finn, and Jake join Dipper in meowing together. “I have an appointment. I am sorry. I’ll see you, folks, tomorrow, right?” Orion says.

As Orion heads towards the barista’s counter, he hears Tony. “Are you sure you don’t want anyone to be there with you? I can put Sophie in charge for the day,” Tony says, busy with his sketches on the blackboard. Tony’s wearing a blue hoodie and maroon track pants, his back faces Orion.

“I’ll be fine, but thank you,” Orion says, and then changes the subject. “How do you never feel hot in that hoodie?”

Tony shrugs. Tony is a man of very few words, or rather, Tony is a collection of matter perpetually wearing hoodies that has decided to communicate through a pattern of shrugs. “Glasses,” Tony says, pointing at the bottom of the ladder. Orion picks them up and hands it to Tony. Tony puts them on, ogles at his sketch for a minute, and then turns to face Orion. He rubs his wispy mustache and then takes the cap off his head, slightly inching his right shoulder forward. What do you think? Tony asks with that shrug.

“Neat. I don’t recognize the movie.” It’s a white outline of a cat wearing a leather jacket, bending at the knees. Its arms are flung behind its back, and even though the cat is naked, it wears a belt. In front of it are three yellow-scribed fishes with swirling blue lines trailing behind.

“Keanu Kittens,” Tony says proudly. The cat in that sketch is called Keanu Kittens; Orion translates to himself.

“The Matrix?” Orion laughs. “That movie is from a different century. Also, I like what you’ve done with the bullets.” Tony shakes his head. He doesn’t like guns or bullets. Hence, he’s replaced them with fish. Even though Orion does not condone violence of any kind against beings of any kind, if people are determined to be inclined towards violence, he’d much prefer they shoot each other with fish than bullets.  

“Actually, I think my grandfather used to love that movie. He’d get mad when I’d fall asleep watching it,” Orion says.

Tony shakes his head in disapproval.

“Alright. Didn’t know you liked the Matrix that much,” Orion says, checking his watch. He is nervous.

“If anything happens, you call me. I’ll drive there as quick as I can.”

“You don’t know how to drive.”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“It sounds like a threat.”

Tony nods, lifting both shoulders. “If you panic, remember to breathe,” Tony says, holding the inside of his right wrist with his left fingers. It’s a breathing exercise Tony’s been trying to teach Orion.

“You know I can’t find the nerves in my body, especially the wrists,” Orion jokes.

Tony tilts his head and glares. Be serious, he suggests.

“I won’t panic. The Eraser’s nice,” Orion says.

Tony scoffs.

“No, really. We’ve had lunch together almost daily for the last week. She’s been running me through every detail, and I feel…I feel safe around her. Strange, isn’t it?” Orion says, thinking of June. For some reason, he finds himself excited around June, finding her surprisingly warm despite the profession she engages herself with. Orion sees June as a coalescing blend of several musical notes. She’s a person whose every inch is built on a different musical note that harmonizes into a track reminding him of strawberry fields. If someone like June, whom he’s spent such a short time with, can make him feel so warm, then what about someone like May? How can he forget the impact she must have had on him? The times they shared.

As Orion heads out of the café and towards his car, a sixteen-year-old Mazda, he wonders how May and he must have first met. Maybe they were childhood friends who grew up in Canada, until one day, when they were six, her family decided to move to D.C., and they lost touch. Years later, when Orion moved to D.C. for college, he randomly ran into May at an Italian bar, and they reconnected.

Or maybe, they met at that party in the Hollywood Hills during Orion’s senior year. May was playing in a 2010s pop cover band, and Orion requested her to play Coldplay’s Hurts Like Heaven. They’d walked back to their cars after the party. She was wearing a yellow dress with flowers imprinted on it. While walking back, they had playfully lamented wasting the night on each other and then broken into an impromptu dance under the moonlight.

Or maybe May was a famous British actress, and Orion had bumped into her while bringing Tony some juice from around the street corner, spilling it onto her. He took her to his flat across the street so she could change, and while leaving, she impulsively kissed him.

Or maybe they met at a Dans le Noir restaurant, where he met her on a blind date. She was working for an American publisher, and they had exchanged numbers after flirting for a while in the darkness.

Orion smiles, realizing that in an infinite permutation of possibilities, he still got to meet May. And in a few hours, he’ll finally learn how.