The Summer Book by Tove Jansson Read Free Book Online Page A

almost there!”
    Sophia took another step. She got her hands over the topmost plank and didn’t move.
    “Now come back down,” Grandmother said.
    But the child didn’t move. It was so hot in the sun that the channel marker shimmered and quaked in waves.
    “Sophia!” Grandmother called. “My stick fell down in the pool and I can’t walk.” She waited and then called again. “It’s bloody awful, do you hear me? My balance is bloody awful today, and I’ve got to have my cane!”
    Sophia started down. She moved steadily, one step at a time.
    Damned child, Grandmother thought. Confounded children. But that’s what happens when people won’t let you do anything fun. The people who are old enough.
    Sophia was back down on the rock. She waded out into the pool for the stick and handed it to Grandmother without looking at her.
    “You’re a very good climber,” said Grandmother sternly. “And brave, too, because I could see you were scared. Shall I tell him about it? Or shouldn’t I?”
    Sophia shrugged one shoulder and looked at her grandmother. “I guess maybe not,” she said. “But you can tell it on your deathbed so it doesn’t go to waste.”
    “That’s a bloody good idea,” Grandmother said. She walked off across the rock and sat down beside the air mattress, just outside the shade of the violet parasol.

The Cat
     
     
    I T WAS A TINY KITTEN WHEN IT CAME and could drink its milk only from a nipple. Fortunately, they still had Sophia’s baby bottle in the attic. In the beginning, the kitten slept in a tea-cosy to keep warm, but when it found its legs they let it sleep in the cottage in Sophia’s bed. It had its own pillow, next to hers.
    It was a fisherman’s cat and it grew fast. One day, it left the cottage and moved into the house, where it spent its nights under the bed in the box where they kept the dirty dishes. It had odd ideas of its own even then. Sophia carried the cat back to the cottage and tried as hard as she could to ingratiate herself, but the more love she gave it, the quicker it fled back to the dish box. When the box got too full, the cat would howl and someone would have to wash the dishes. Its name was Ma Petite, but they called it Moppy.
    “It’s funny about love,” Sophia said. “The more you love someone, the less he likes you back.”
    “That’s very true,” Grandmother observed. “And so what do you do?”
    “You go on loving,” said Sophia threateningly. “You love harder and harder.”
    Her grandmother sighed and said nothing.
    Moppy was carried around to all the pleasant places a cat might like, but he only glanced at them and walked away. He was flattened with hugs, endured them politely and climbed back into the dish box. He was entrusted with burning secrets and merely averted his yellow gaze. Nothing in the world seemed to interest this cat but food and sleep.
    “You know,” Sophia said, “sometimes I think I hate Moppy. I don’t have the strength to go on loving him, but I think about him all the time!”
    Week after week, Sophia pursued the cat. She spoke softly and gave him comfort and understanding, and only a couple of times did she lose her patience and yell at him, or pull his tail. At such times Moppy would hiss and run under the house, and afterwards his appetite was better and he slept even longer than usual, curled up in unapproachable softness with one paw daintily across his nose.
    Sophia stopped playing and started having nightmares. She couldn’t think about anything but this cat who refused to be affectionate. Meanwhile Moppy grew into a lean and wild little animal, and one June night he didn’t come back to his dish box. In the morning, he walked into the house and stretched – front legs first, with his rear end up in the air – then he closed his eyes and sharpened his claws on the rocking chair, after which he jumped up on the bed and went to sleep. The cat’s whole being radiated calm superiority.
    He’s started hunting,