Eguisheim is the village that eats its own tail, the Ouroboros, the alchemist’s emblem, the ring on my index finger. Fashioned from two concentric circles, Eguisheim is a memory of infinity mortared to last forever and a day. Already Eguisheim has been devouring itself for a thousand years, washing down the dusty centuries with sips of the local sparkling wine.
The infinite village has already dressed for its immortality: thick as a death-mask, plaster cakes the façades, and they’ve all been given a makeover in Chanel’s spring palette. Like corpses contorted with rigor mortis, the homes lean against one another at uneasy angles. Vigils of marigolds fill window-boxes and climbing roses embalm balconies.
I could hunt infinity through these circling streets all evening, but then I meet the cat. He is a streetking, this cat. Though it’s only seven and the sunlight has hardly started slanting eveningward, he is frocked out in his tuxedo. He struts it up on the fender of a yellow cruiser for a few glamour shots, but then he lets me get intimate.
When I shut my eyes, he feels like my homecat after one of her ruthless summer shedding. This French charmer even lets me indulge my fetish for feline bellies. As Calvin says: “Nuzzling tiger tummies is one of the greatest pleasures of life.” The alchemists hunted eternal life through arcane symbologies and the periodic table, but all I need is a cat’s true love to feel immortal as a god.