The Silent Plea of Claude Depussy

 

I haven’t posted any of my short fiction here in a long time. In case you’re interested, there is quite a lot of such stuff down in the dusty annals of this blog. There’s links to my stories on the right-hand side of the page you’re currently on. Some of them are even almost okay, I think.

This piece was written for an RTE Radio One Programme last year, but it wasn’t accepted. There was a word limit for the submissions, and a choice of themes were offered. I like to have restrictions like that sometimes; it seems to help me write.

The theme I chose was 'The Patron Saint of...'

 

The Silent Plea of Claude Depussy

Don levels a teaspoon of instant coffee then tips a little back into the jar. He adds water from the kettle and milk from the tiny plastic bottle. He pulls his chair close to the kitchen table and draws his tablet towards him. On the radio, the classics station is playing that Sarabande it often plays. He enjoys the music but resents how all the adverts are directed towards old people. He knows he is old himself.

Out on the window cill, Claude Depussy catches Don’s eye and mews silently. Don knows that the plaintiff appeal would be completely silent even if he was outside. Claude Depussy is not a vocal cat. His mew generally signals a demand for some breakfast. But Don is behind schedule, and he knows that Claude will have already scored his meal from one of the neighbours. Any offering from Don now would be sniffed at, rejected, and disdainfully left for the swifts to argue over.

The social media forum opens easily on the tablet after a few curt swipes. Don reluctantly quit the other one after you know who bought it. Some of his friends had followed him over to this new frontier but he missed connections and the reach he had cultivated in the old place.

He opens a new message and types, “Today is the feast day of…” and then he brings up the online encyclopedia and checks.

“Saint Nicholas Owen helped the persecuted Catholic priests of England find hiding places. Arrested a final time in 1606, Nicholas Owen was tortured and killed.”

Claude Depussy paws at the window. A little rain spatters the glass.

Don copies the text and pastes it into his message. He pares the words down to fit the character limit, adds an illustration showing the unfortunate saint in extremis, then hits send. The message consolidates itself somewhere on a faraway server and then appears on his screen as a formatted fully compiled fact for the entire world to appreciate. Don sips his coffee and waits for possible responses. Claude Depussy slips off the window cill to seek shelter from the rain.

Don was never a person to frequent churches but, on the occasions of the death of each of his parents, he was required to attend. At each of the two ceremonies, the elderly priest had spoken briefly about the deceased, using snippets he had hoovered up in the porch beforehand, and had then slipped into a rather lengthy account of the life of the saint whose feast day it was. The two saints that Don heard about in this way, Ultan of Ardbraccan and Martin of Tours, both presented interesting and challenging life stories. It wasn’t long after the second funeral that Don assumed the practice of posting daily online updates about the Saint of the Day.

He quickly discovered that there wasn’t just one saint for every day. There were many. The lesser of them clamoured for attention on all the minor saint-filled days. This allowed Don to provide a different saint for most days each year so that his readership would not grow jaded. The superstars like St Patrick and St Joseph were gifted days all to themselves.

The classic station on the radio is now playing something that could hardly be defined as classic at all. Don’s coffee has petrified, a milky film forming on the surface. He refreshes the display on his tablet and scans for replies. There are never any replies, not since that man bought the other place and Don quit it on principle. He wishes principles weren’t so costly. But that’s how it seems to be with the daily saints and also with him.

Don stands up and moves stiffly to the sink where he empties the remains of the coffee. The liquid adds something miniscule to the brown stain that is already established around the plug hole. Claude Depussy reappears startlingly at the window and performs a loud silent mew to Don, to the glass pane that separates them, and to the backdrop of misty rain.

Behind him, the tablet pings. He turns and moves back to the screen.

The message is from a woman who calls herself ‘Bess_on_Wheels_67’. Her profile picture shows a fully clothed person, which is, in itself, an encouraging sign. Her text reads.

“Your daily ‘Saint of the Day’ postings bring me comfort and pleasure. xx”

She follows rapidly with another message, “You are the Patron Saint of Patron Saints.”

Don bends and types out the words, “Thank you.” His little finger hovers over the return button that will transmit the message to ‘Bess_on_Wheels_67’ and to the world.

On the window cill, Claude Depussy raises a plaintiff front paw.

Don withdraws his finger and cancels the message. He moves around the kitchen, silencing first the radio, then the tablet, returning finally to the kitchen sink. He stretches over the taps to the window, works the handles, and pushes on the sash to open it a little.

Silently, elegantly, Claude Depussy eases in.