the story of Leon

Me and Mally were seated at the desk. I asked her what she knew on Leon. The cat, she said. Yeah, the cat, I said. Mally kept to the thing she had been doing. The cat, she said. You were drunk, I said. I was drunk she says. Stonedrunk, I ask. I defenitily had a little bit of drunk, she says. Leon was nothing else but a mini kitten. The colour, I ask. His colour? She sews, starts thinking. Tabby bengale sandy dots, she says. Tabby what, I ask. Tabby bengale sandy dots, she says. Like a marble cake, she says.
I write it in the small and dark notebook, marble cake.



Leon slipped in the camper, marble-caked, the gag cat, Mally and her boyfriend where doing grapes near L, somewhere in Beaujolais she says. She can't remember. Sometimes I do remember, she says, and then I forget again. She can't remember. But you met Leon, I say. He came into the camper, she says. Somewhere in Beaujolais, she says. It rained. And then you and Leon, I say, the day you and Leon met, in the van. My van, Mally says, my red van, my Volkswagen. The red thing, I ask. No, she says. Boyfriend, I ask. Yes, she says. She had a Volkswagen and a boyfriend.
At the border, she says, it took no time to put Leon in a winebox. In a what, I ask. In a winebox, she says. He loved it, she says. It used to have bottles inside, she says. It didn't have bottles inside, it had Leon inside, she says.