Cat in the rain

(Author- Ernest Hemingway)

There were only two Americans stopping at the hotel. They did not know any of the people they passed on the stairs on their way to and from their room. Their room was on the second floor facing the sea. It also faced the public garden and the war monument. There were big palms and green benches in the public garden.

In the good weather there was always an artist with his easel[1]. Artists liked the way the palms grew and the bright colors of the hotels facing the gardens and the sea.

Italians came from a long way off to look up at the war monument.  It was made of bronze and glistened[2] in the rain. It was raining. The rain dripped from the palm trees. Water stood in pools on the gravel[3] paths. The sea broke in a long line and slipped back down the beach to come up and break again in a long time in the rain. The motor cars were gone from the square by the war monument. Across the square in the doorway of the café a waiter stood looking out at the empty square.

The American wife stood at the window looking out. Outside right under their window a cat was crouched under one of the dripping green tables. The cat was trying to make herself so compact that she would not be dripped on.

‘I’m doing down and get that kitty,’ the American wife said.

‘I’ll do it,’ her husband offered from the bed.

‘No, I’ll get it. The poor kitty out trying to keep dry under a table.’

The husband went on reading, lying propped up[4] with the two pillows at the foot of the bed.

‘Don’t get wet,’ he said.

The wife went downstairs and the hotel owner stoop up and bowed to her as she passed the office. His desk was at the far end of the office. He was an old man and very tall.

‘It’s raining,’ the wife said. She liked the hotel - keeper.

‘Yes, yes Madam. Awful weather. It is very bad weather.’

He stood behind his desk in the far end of the dim room. The wife liked him. She liked the deadly serious was he received any complaints. She liked his dignity. She liked the way he wanted to serve her. She liked the way he felt about being a hotel-keeper. She liked his old, heavy face and big hands.

Liking him she opened the door and looked out. It was raining harder. A man in a rubber cape was crossing the empty square to the café. The cat would be around to the right. Perhaps she could go along under the eaves. As she stood in the doorway an umbrella opened behind her. It was the maid who looked after their room.

‘You must not get wet,’ she smiled, speaking Italian. Of course, the hotel-keeper had sent her.

With the maid holding the umbrella over her, she walked along the gravel path until she was under their window. The table was there, washed bright green in the rain, but the cat was gone. She was suddenly disappointed. The maid looked up at her.

‘Have you lost something, Madam?’

‘There was a cat,’ said the American girl.

‘A cat?’ the maid laughed. ‘A cat in the rain?’

‘Yes,-’ she said, ‘under the table.’ Then, ‘Oh,I wanted it so much. I wanted a kitty.’

‘Come, Madam,’ she said. ‘We must get back inside. You will be wet.’

‘I suppose so,’ said the American girl.

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[1] A frame used for supporting the paper or board that you are painting or drawing on

[2] If something glistens, it shines because it is wet or covered with oil

[3] Small pieces of stone used for making paths and roads

[4] To stop something from falling by putting something undet it or against it