etty eyes on mine as he puffed out his plump cheeks；

still　holding　the　empty　pot。

“Have you ever seen a dead cat？” he asked。 His nose was exactly like his

mother’s。　Was　she　watching　us？　I　looked　around。　The　shutters　were　closed　on

the enchanted second…floor window in which I’d first seen Shekure after so

many　years。

“Nay。”

“Shall　I　show　you　the　dead　cat　in　the　house　of　the　Hanged　Jew？”

130

He　went　out　to　the　street　without　waiting　for　my　response。　I　followed　him。

We　walked　forty　or　fifty　paces　along　the　muddy　and　icy　path　before　entering

an　unkempt　garden。　Here；　it　smelled　of　wet　and　rotting　leaves；　and　faintly　of

mold。 With the confidence of a child who knew the place well； taking firm；

rhythmic　steps；　he　entered　through　the　door　of　a　yellow　house；　which　stood

before　us　almost　hidden　behind　somber　fig　and　almond　trees。

The　house　was　pletely　empty；　but　it　was　dry　and　warm；　as　if　somebody

were　living　there。

“Whose　house　is　this？”　I　asked。

“The Jews‘。 When the man died； his wife and kids went to the Jewish

quarter　over　by　the　fruit…sellers’　quay。　They’re　having　Esther　the　clothier　sell

the　house。”　He　went　into　a　corner　of　the　room　and　returned。　“The　cat’s　gone；

it’s　disappeared；”　he　said。

“Where　would　a　dead　cat　go？”

“My　grandfather　says　the　dead　wander。”

“Not　the　dead　themselves；”　I　said。　“Their　spirits　wander。”

“How do you know？” he said。 He was holding the chamber pot tightly

against　his　lap　in　all　seriousness。

“I　just　know。　Do　you　always　e　here？”

“My　mother　es　here　with　Esther。　The　living　dead；　risen　fro