Free The Dalai Lama's Cat and the Power of Meow by David Michie

mystery of the scent would have to wait.
    But not for long, I promised myself.

C HAPTER F OUR
    Isn’t it curious how, very occasionally, we have a strong and inexplicable feeling about a complete stranger? Most of the time, someone we don’t know is just someone we don’t know. Perhaps we form an impression of them on account of how they dress, speak, or move. We usually have no expectation, no feeling—good or bad—when we first encounter a new person.
    But the moment one particular woman appeared at the Himalaya Book Café, I knew she was trouble. Petite, elegantly attired in black, her dark hair immaculately coiffed, she carried herself with a regal bearing. She paused for a few moments inside the front door and surveyed the establishment though hooded eyes as though she’d come to judge it and had immediately found it wanting.
    From my perch on the top shelf of the magazine rack, I felt provoked. Who was this dreadful woman? I wondered. My drowsy siesta came to an abrupt halt. How dare she stand there with that disdainful smirk on her face?
    I followed her movements intently as one of the waiters greeted her politely and showed her to a table. Fatefully, it was the banquette at the very back of the café—the one nearest me. She perched on the seat in a way that minimized her physical contact with it, as though she’d been asked to sit on a compost heap. She ordered a bottle of sparkling mineral water.
    As she waited, she glanced around the place as though everything about it was woefully inadequate. From her features, she appeared to be in her sixties, accustomed to genteel refinements and to having her own way. The disapproval on her face suggested that the gentle, baroque music was too classical. The thangkas on the walls too Buddhist. The white linen tablecloths insufficiently starched.
    The waiter arrived back and poured effervescent water into a gleaming glass with a practiced flourish. But this somehow repulsed the woman even more. Head jerking back, she held her breath until she seemed about to explode.
    Then she sneezed.
    She fumbled inside her handbag, seized a handkerchief, and wiped her nose. She glared at the waiter, who stood wearing a concerned expression, before shooing him away as though he had no right to be there. Her eyes filled with tears. She took a few deep, labored breaths. She sneezed again.
    As she continued to dab at her face, she glanced around as though grievously slighted by the management of the Himalaya Book Café. She looked from one side to the other, until, with a certain inevitability, her gaze fell on me. For the first time her eyes met mine—in their dark, brown depths was a look of pure hatred.
    By now, the omniscient Kusali was already gliding smoothly across the restaurant to her table.
    â€œBless you, madam.” He bowed sympathetically as she sneezed again. “May I—”
    â€œGet that . . . thing out of here!” she said as she pointed at me furiously. “I’m allergic!”
    â€œAllow me to show you to another table, ma’am,” Kusali said as he pointed to a table near a window on the other side of the restaurant.
    â€œDon’t want another table,” she wheezed. “I want that ”—she flicked her hand dismissively—“away from me!”
    â€œMoving to another table would have the same effect,” reasoned Kusali.
    â€œThis whole place is probably full of cat hair,” she said as her eyes streamed and she sneezed again. “Just get it out of here!” she demanded imperiously.
    Over the years, I’d seen Kusali indulge some outlandish requests made by café patrons. But on this matter he was steadfast.
    â€œThat’s not possible, ma’am,” he replied.
    â€œWhy not?!” The woman’s voice rose sharply.
    â€œThe magazine rack is her place. She likes it there.”
    â€œAre you mad?” The woman trumpeted into her handkerchief.