“You have been away. Did you enjoy your village? Molena Point,verdad?”
Kate laughed, telling herself she should be pleased that he would remember.“It was nice to be home in the village, yes.” He was such a shy, kind person. There was no need to be rude to him. He was only very curious-and so easy to hurt, easy to rebuff, backing away if he felt unwanted.
There was a reluctant, almost stray quality about Ramon. He was a loner. A shy, needy person and a loner. She gave him a smile.“It’s nice to be back in the city. Very nice to see you.”
Her friendliness eased him. When he had taken her order and brought her sandwich, he fetched his own cup of coffee and sat down opposite her, glancing at her diffidently.
“You were all right when you were in your village, senora? You had a happy time?”
“Oh, yes, Ramon. Quite happy.” What was he getting at? He couldn’t know that she had left the city frightened, had been frightened, in a painful undercurrent, the entire time she was at home, and was still scared.
She said,“There have been-no more terrible incidents?”
Why had she said that? She hadn’t meant to mention the cat killer, she didn’t want to hear about him. It came out before she thought.
“No, senora. No incidents. Maybe that man went away. Except…” He glanced out at the street, his white skin going paler, the rust-colored scar on his cheek seeming to darken.
“Except, maybe an hour ago when I took out the trash, I saw three cats running, very frightened, into the alley as if something was chasing them.”
“City cats, Ramon. They run from cars, from dogs, from small children.”
“I suppose.” Ramon finished his coffee and rose. She wanted to ask if he’d gone into the alley where the cats had run. Had he seen anyone chasing them?
But she didn’t ask. She was so foolishly obsessed. At least she could keep her fears to herself.
She ate quickly, irritated with herself, paid her bill, and left; she looked back once, to see him standing in the window watching her. He had turned theopensign around to readclosed,and had pulled the sheer white curtain across the lower half of the glass. She supposed he had an errand; he did that sometimes, left after the noon rush, returned in time to prepare for the dinner hour.
Heading up Stockton, she decided not to look for a cab. The sun felt good on her shoulders. She liked watching the clouds racing overhead trailing their shadows swift as birds across the pale hillside houses. She swung along until soon, above her at the crest of Russian Hill, the white walls and red tile roofs of the museum glowed beneath their dark, twisted oaks. Hurrying up the hill, only once did she glance behind her.
Seeing the street empty, she slowed her pace. She entered through the iron gate slowly, taking her time, enjoying the welcoming ambiance of the bright gardens.
The museum’s cats were everywhere, sunning on the walks, rolling over, smiling lazily as they watched her, cats as sleek as the marble felines that gleamed on the sculpture stands. Cats peered out at her from the geraniums, looked down from atop the stone walls and out through the gallery windows. She had such a sense of oneness with them, almost as if she could read their thoughts-of sun on their backs, of the warm sidewalk, the taste of water in a bowl.
But then suddenly the cats turned wary, slipping away into the bushes.
Afraid of her? Was her two-sided nature so apparent? And did that frighten them?
Were none of them like Joe Grey and Dulcie, so they could understand her?
Soon only one cat remained, watching her unafraid. A sleek torn as white as alabaster. He looked at her for a long time, then he, too, vanished, just where sunlight struck through the leaves. He’d had dirt on his face, or some sort of rust-colored marking.
Approaching the main door, she paused to read the quotations inscribed on clay tablets along the garden wall.
Some claim that the cat came to us from the vanished continent of Atlantis.
Our companion the cat is the warm, furry, whiskered, and purring reminder of a lost paradise.
That one made her smile. She recognized that quotation, she thought from some French artist.
But the next inscription stopped her.
Dark the cat walks, his pacing shadow small.
Dark the cat walks, his shadow explodes tall,
Fearsome wide and tall.
Ramon’s words. That was what Ramon had said, the day he brought the newspaper that had so upset her.
Backing away from the plaque, she sat down on a bench, her hands trembling.His shadow explodes tall, fearsome wide and tall.
Ramon couldn’t know what those words meant. To Ramon, they would be no more than a poetic image. She read the lines again, trying to put down her unease.
A movement at the corner of her vision made her look up. Ice filled her veins.
The man in the black overcoat stood out by the street. Dense black against the clear colors of the garden.
He stood looking at her, his face in shadow, then turned slowly away, moved casually down the hill to disappear between the houses.
She thought to run after him and get a good look-grab his shoulders and swing him around, get a look at his eyes.
But she didn’t have the nerve. She hurried inside through the mullioned glass door to the safety of the galleries.
Losing herself among the rich oils and watercolors, she found some ink drawings by Alice Kitchen, then discovered a Miro and two delightful Van Goghs. And a Picasso she didn’t care for. Too stark and impersonal. She stopped to admire the primitive portrait of a black Manx playing with a mouse, the mouse so real she could almost feel the silkiness of its fur and the prick of its little claws.
Moving slowly through the gallery to the visitors’ desk, she slipped her billfold from her pocket to pay the admission fee. The attendant was a stocky, dull-haired woman rather like a box with thick legs. She watched Kate sullenly, looking her up and down.
Why must short, meaty women bristle at her simply because she was slim and tall? She couldn’t help how she looked. It embarrassed her when people saw her only from the outside, and didn’t care to discover what she was like within.
Andthatthought almost sent her into nervous and uncontrolled laughter.
Even the attendant’s eyes were dull, her expression discontented. Maybe she had an unhappy home life. Maybe she longed for a fortune’s worth of plastic surgery and cosmetic rejuvenation.
Icanbe catty, Kate thought, amused.
She gave the woman a hesitant smile and laid her hand gently on the marble counter in a gesture of friendship.“It’s a lovely museum, the work is magnificent. And the cats look so happy, so many beautiful cats.”
“Certainly we have cats.” As if she’d heard that same remark more times than she cared to count.
“They’re lucky to live in such beautiful gardens.” Did she have to add another inanity?
The woman sighed.“They were all strays. Cats who found their way here hungry and lost. Or cats that were dumped by some uncaring person.” As she spoke of the cats, a warmth crept into her voice, and she returned Kate’s smile. “The cats are our welcoming committee. People seem to slow their pace, watching and petting them, and so take more time to enjoy the galleries.”
Kate nodded.“I understand you have a library in the museum? I’m doing research for a magazine article,” she lied. “On the history of the smaller museums in northern California. But this museum-this one is special. I just moved to San Francisco. I’d like to learn more about the museum, I’d like verymuch to join.” She opened her checkbook.
The woman handed her a membership form.“I will hold your dues until your application is approved. Are you looking for something in particular?”
“Some diaries. A man who lived in San Francisco in the fifties, a building contractor. I understand Mr. McCabe was a close friend of Alice Kitchen. I’m interested in her drawings, I’m planning a rather long article about Kitchen’s work. I understand that Mr. McCabe knew her as a little girl, that he encouraged her talent-and that he designed and built the museum? I’ve never heard his first name.”