In the corner of the room there was a sitar. Several volumes of books and school notebooks had been dropped on the table. After a while Siavosh took a revolver from the drawer and showed it to me. It was one of those old revolvers with a mother-of-pearl handle. He put it in his trouser pocket and said, “I used to have a female cat – her name was Coquette. You might have seen her. She was one of those ordinary calico cats. She had two large eyes that looked as if she had black eyeliner on. The patches on her back were arranged neatly as if someone had spilt ink on a grey piece of blotting paper and then had torn the paper in the middle. Every day when I returned home from school Coquette would run up to me, miaowing. She would rub herself against me and when I sat down she would climb over my head and shoulders, rubbing her snout against my face and licking my forehead with her rough tongue, insisting that I kiss her. It’s as if female cats are wilier and kinder and more sensitive than male cats. Apart from me, Coquette got along very well with the cook because he was in charge of the food. But she kept away from my grandmother who was bossy and regularly said her prayers and avoided cat hair. Coquette must have thought to herself that people were smarter than cats and that they had confiscated all the delicious food and the warm, comfortable places for themselves and in order to have a share in these luxuries, cats had to be sycophantic and flatter people a great deal.

“The only time Coquette’s natural feelings would awaken and come to the surface was when she got hold of the bleeding head of a rooster. Then she would change, turning into a fierce beast. Her eyes would become bigger and sparkle. Her claws would pop out of their sheaths and with long growls she would threaten anyone who got near her. Then, as if she were fooling herself, she would start to play a game. Since with all the force of her imagination she had made herself believe that the rooster’s head was a living animal, she would tap the head with her paw. Her hair would stand up, she would hide, be on the alert, and would attack again, revealing all the skill and agility of her species in repetitive jumping and attacking and retreating. After she tired of this exhibition, she would greedily finish eating the bloody head and for several minutes afterwards she would search for the rest of it. And so, for an hour or two, she would forget her artificial civilization, wouldn’t go near anyone and wouldn’t be charming or flattering.

“All the time during which Coquette was displaying affection she was in fact secretive and brutish and wouldn’t reveal her secrets. She treated our home like her own property and if a strange cat happened to enter the house, especially if the cat was a female, for hours you’d hear the sound of spitting, moaning and indignation.

“The noise that Coquette made to announce that she was ready for lunch was different to the one she made when she was being flirty. The sound of her screams when she was hungry, the cries she made during fighting, and her moaning when she was in heat all had a distinct sound and were different from each other. And their tunes would also change: first there were the heart-rending cries, second the yells of spite and vengeance, third a painful sigh drawn from the natural need to join her mate. The looks that Coquette made with her eyes appeared more meaningful than anything else and sometimes she would display emotions of such human nature that people would feel compelled to ask themselves: what thoughts and feelings exist in that woolly head, behind those green mysterious eyes?

“It was last spring when that terrible incident took place. You know that come spring, all animals become intoxicated and pair up. It is as if the spring breeze awakens crazy passion in all living beings. For the first time our Coquette was hit by the passion of love and, with shudders which moved her whole body, she would sigh with sadness.