Chapter Four

It was evening now, and the shadows in the flat grew long. The widow Petrova and Anna still sat at the table, and they did not light a candle or turn on a lamp. Koshka sat with them for hours, it seemed, and the widow petted him now and then, but no one said anything and Koshka lay on the widow's lap, letting her pet him when she wanted.

"Let's go for a walk!" said the widow suddenly. Koshka rose with a start. "I love how beautiful the city looks in the snow! So clean, fresh, and so new!"

Anna and the widow put on their boots and coats, while Koshka circled, brushing against the two women he loved.

"Let's give a little snack to this nice cat at the Glasnost Hotel," said Anna, and a smile spread across her sad face. They left a dish of meat scraps, but Koshka had no appetite at all. He had never felt so dark and gloomy. The widow's story was so sad. But worse, the cause of that sadness was deliberate human cruelty. Maybe Avvakuum was right, after all.

Later that evening, it was time for the gathering of cats. Koshka slipped out of the widow's flat, crept down the stairs, and headed for the court yard. Avvakuum was in his place and Misha and Grisha were in their places. As was Masha the house cat, and Almaz the Persian too. Hagia Sophia stood perched on the roof top. Koshka took his place. The gloom lay heavy in his heart, cutting him off from his frolicking friends.

"We have visitors coming soon," Avvakuum announced. "They are highly-esteemed cats, from Moscow. They will recite for us from the Cat Chronicles, because there's more than one old red cat like me can remember."

Avvakuum took his place on his trash pile and made himself a comfortable spot. "Which tale do you want to hear this evening?"

"If I may, I would like to ask a question before we start," Koshka offered. He was surprised at his own voice, how sad and low it sounded. "Why is there so much--so much suffering in the world?'

"Because that is the way of the world," Avvakuum said. "And especially of this particular world, right here."

"Why?" Koshka asked. His voice nearly cracked.

"Russia is the land of suffering. Just as trees suffer when they grow--when young sap and sprouts fight against hard bark, so too does Russia suffer."

"More than other countries?"

"More than any other county, I should think. Our great writer--one of the world's greatest writers--talked always about suffering." Avvakuum settled back down into his spot on the trash pile. "So today we will tell a tale about suffering. Close your eyes, and imagine you are in Kiev in the year 1247."

All eyes closed, and Avvakuum continued, his voice hypnotic, mesmerizing, so that all who listened could see the city of Kiev, the River Dnieper and its high banks. Even Koshka, so weighted down in the present with grief, found himself floating back in time and westward, to Kiev.

"Now you have heard a horrible new word, called 'Mongol,' invaders," said Avvakuum. "And they are advancing, just miles from Kiev, sacking towns, murdering, and laying waste the countryside. The Kievan army has disbanded.

Then like a miracle, the Mongols disappear, as if they never were. 'It is a blessing from the Lord who loves us!' say the monks from the Kiev Cave Monastery. And the dwellers of Kiev carry on a thinly-gay, tenuous celebration--as if, for example, the sun had come out onto a green sky through black storm clouds that still lined the east, west, south, and north.

Then there are shouts of warning--people hearing exactly what they do not want to hear. 'The Mongols! The Mongols! They've come back--more of them! They're on the march. They're coming this way!'

Now Volodya the black Ukrainian cat lives in a little house high on the west bank of the Dnieper. He loves his masters, the Vlassko's, a merchant couple, and he loves their two children. The Vlassko's stand on the high river cliff, cup their hands against the rising sun, and look off to the east. 'I see smoke, papa!' says Kolya, the young Vlassko boy. 'I see red fire!' says the daughter.

By noon, a thick line black smoke hugs the ground, and chaos reigns in the city.

'To the west! Let's flee to the west!' yells a peasant beating a mule that doesn't want to pull a slanting cart. A mother sits on top of the cart, holding a baby swaddled in rags.

'It won't save you!" screams another peasant, running to the banks. Dust swirls on the streets. 'When the Mongols come, they sweep across the countryside like a giant, killing broom, and they will sweep right through Kiev, and continue west--all the way to the end of the earth!' The man tugs at his hair and beard. 'There is no escaping them! It is the judgment of the Lord!'

And Volodya the Ukrainian cat wonders why the judgment of the Lord should fall upon an entire city--upon wilted grandmothers, upon grandfathers with calloused hands, upon babies wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Kiev, the golden jewel of the country Rus, is tarnished today. Doors hang ajar, swinging in the hot wind. Shutters hang loose, beating against empty houses. Smoke curls from doused fires. Shops are boarded up. Abandoned dogs bark, and frightened cats wail. Horses rear before over-loaded carts, and every face--human and otherwise--shows fear.

'There's nowhere to go!' says the merchant master Vlassko.

'Then let us go to church and pray, papa!' says the daughter. 'God will be merciful!'

The family runs to Saint Olga's church. Young Kolya grabs Volodya the cat and takes him along. The church is already packed with people. Old men's coughs and babies' cries echo in the tall asp of the church.

The Vlassko's crouch down towards the iconostasis.

'What is this?' screams a woman, grabbing the young Vlassko. 'You have brought a black cat into the Lord's own house? You want the devil's retribution for us all?' she wails.

Kolya holds Volodya tight. "He's my pet! The nicest cat of all!"

'There's a black cat in here!' the woman yells. 'It's the devil himself, it is!'

An old man approaches Kolya and Volodya. 'This is the house of the Lord,' he says. 'This is no place for a cat, a beast.'

'I thought God created all things and loves all creatures!' exclaims Kolya Vlassko, holding tight onto Volodya.

There are screams. Attention falls away from the Vlassko boy and Volodya. Then there's the sound of hooves outside. Bone-chilling screams. The church fills with smoke--first a dull brown presence, then a choking black thing.

'We're on fire!' screams a woman. 'They're burning the church! We'll all die in here!'

Panic fills the house of the Lord. There are flashes of light, when the doors open, and there are screams, deathly screams.

'No one must go out!' shouts a man.

'They are killing us with daggers and swords, right outside the church!' wails another.

'Let us pray for deliverance! yells another man. 'The Lord is merciful. Let us pray to him!' cries a woman.

And all of a sudden, it is quiet in the church. Even the noise of horses and soldiers outside seems quieter, more removed. "Prepare for death!" an old man whispers, and everybody kneels down.

'Our Father, who art in heaven-' The chant goes upward, like the smoke curling upwards along the arches.

'I want out of here!' Volodya the cat says to himself. 'God may be merciful--who knows, but these Mongols sure aren't!' He wends his way through a forest of human limbs to the back of the church. Kolya follows. Volodya finds a hole in the foundation, low to the ground. He slips through and the Vlassko boy follows, but gets stuck in the crevice. Volodya nips at him until the boy works himself free. They run through the brush, down the steep river bank. Behind them is smoke and fire and screaming and horses and oxen. There's a dark space ahead.

It's a cave entrance they've come upon, and the boy follows Volodya descending.

'Here! In here!' says a low human voice. A hand reaches out and pushes the boy deeper into the cave. Volodya follows.

'Where--where am I?' asks Kolya.

'You're in the caves, son. The catacombs. The Kiev Cave Monastery that lines the bank of the Dnieper. Keep quiet and you shall be safe here. The other monks are deeper in the cave, down there!' The monk points towards a dim, candle-lit passageway snaking downward.

The monk leads. Kolya follows, and Volodya the Ukrainian cat follows him. Soon they are in a cavern where men in black huddle against the curving, damp walls.

'Welcome to the Kiev Cave Monastery!' says an old man with a wrinkled face. The cave is damp, but strangely warm. 'We are safe here. God will protect us from the fate that now befalls our sinful brethren above.'

'Amen!' say the monks.

'Lord of mercy!' screams a fat monk who lowers a candle to the ground. 'The boy has brought us a black cat, a sign of the devil among us--the devil in us all!'

'Be quiet, or we'll all be discovered!' admonishes an elder monk.

'This black devil will bring ruin to us all!' whispers another elder.

'Kill the cat!' another monk says in a harsh whisper.

'Make him a sacrifice onto the Lord!" says another.

'No!' pleads the Vlassko boy. 'This is the cat that saved me--that brought me here!' Tears fill his eyes. 'This is Volodya--my cat! He is not the devil! He's the nicest cat that ever lived!' The boy pauses to catch his breath. 'And if you try to hurt this cat, you'll have to hurt me too!'

An old monk steps forward. 'Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you or your cat.' He reaches out. Volodya recoils, burying himself in the boy's chest. 'So, your cat's name is Volodya, is it?"

'Yes,' says the boy.

'Volodya--that's a good name for anybody or anything. It is short for Vladimir--the good prince who brought our country to the Lord!' The monk looks around the room, smoothing the hood covering his head. 'The cat stays! Treat him as a blessed creature of the Lord!"

Avvakuum stretched out on top of his trash pile. "Now I will count to five, and as I do, each of you will come back to the present time, slowly. One. Two. Three. Four. Five."

Koshka stirred, then stretched and yawned, as did the other cats.

"Volodya was a cat who saw much suffering," said Avvakuum.

"What happened to him?" asked Masha.

"And to all the other cats in Kiev?" asked Misha and Grisha.

Avvakuum settled back onto his pile. "Kiev was flattened and Kievan Rus was laid bare, as if it never existed. Neither man nor ox nor cat survived. As for Volodya, the Kiev Cave Monastery was all that remained of Golden Kiev. The monks lived there for one hundred years while the Mongols ruled above. Kiev never regained its former glory."

"And Volodya the cat?" asked Almaz the Persian.

"He lived out his days in darkness, in the monastery, but he never saw the light of day again, never felt sunlight on his back."

"And the boy?" asked Almaz the Persian.

"He grew up and became a monk. He spent his life in prayer, atoning, he said, for the sins of his countrymen against the Lord."

"Hmmmm," said Misha.

"Hmmmm," added Grisha.

Avvakuum shifted position on the trash pile. "You could see Kolya, or the Monk Nikolai, as he was later named, today, if you wanted."

Eyes blinked in the fading Saint Petersburg light.

Avvakuum continued. "The boy who became a monk lies in an open coffin in the Kiev Cave Monastery, to this day."

"To this day?" Koshka asked.

"Yes, to this day. The monks, you see, had devised some secret way for embalming bodies so that even today, seven hundred years later, the boy lies at rest in his coffin."

"It seems cruel, in a way, to embalm a body," Koshka said. "It's contrary to nature's plan."

"Humans are capable of devising much greater cruelties than that," Avvakuum admonished. "They are masters of cruelty to the living! To us! To each-other even more! This is the essence of the Cat Chronicles!" Avvakuum declared. "It's a catalogue of absurdities and of cruelties that were and are, for the most part, unnecessary."

"Oh, life is so, so sad!" said Masha, almost in tears.

And Koshka could not disagree, nor say anything to refute the cynical old red cat. After all, just hours before he had heard the story of the widow Nina and her daughter and the fascist horrors right in his own city.

"Why is the world so cruel?" asked Masha. Her voice sounded so sad, her soft eyes needing strength, protection.

"I wish I knew," Koshka answered wearily.

Masha sighed a world-weary sigh, and her soft body seemed weighted down with the cares of the world.

Oh, how Koshka wished he could protect Masha, shield her. Then he would gain her love, and deserve it too.

#

A thick frost lined the windows of the Glasnost Hotel, diffusing the light in jagged patterns. Koshka sat on the icy window sill, watching the city move in its slowed, winter rhythms. A chill wind broke through the thick window pane. Koshka shivered finally, and leapt to the floor. A warm heat pipe beckoned from down the hall.

The pipes seemed to swell with nurturing warmth, as if the hotel were breathing--as if the old pock-marked building that had seen revolutions, civil wars, and sieges, was a living thing. It was a toasty building, throbbing with life and warmth while the world outside shivered and bent in the wind. Koshka curled in the comfort of familiar surroundings, anticipating a nap.

But his ears turned with alarm, then his eye opened. He spotted a fur hat bobbing up the stairway, then the outlines of a round face underneath. He heard panting, huffing and puffing, and low, breathless curses. It was Comrade Rassolnikov, wearing the same Italian boots.

Rassolnikov pounded on the widow's door. "Comrade Petrova, open up! This is the official deputy himself, Simion Simionovich Rassolnikov! Open up!"

Koshka stepped closer. He worked to keep his teeth from showing. There was something about that man he just didn't like. The door opened, but it was Anna, not the widow. "Mrs. Petrova is not feeling well today," said Anna softly.

"I will not fall for her tricks!" snapped Rassolnikov. "Tell her she has just forty-eight hours to get out!"

"What are you talking about?"

"She knows! The old lady knows! She's been warned before, and now I've taken over here. This place is going under--I mean--undergoing a transformation, and there's no room for the likes of her."

"She's lived here since before the siege," said Anna softly. "And they promised her she could live out her days here. Surely a tiny apartment is not that valuable to the new economic order?" she asked, her voice tightening.

"She has to leave. Those are orders from above. I am simply carrying out orders."

"Well," said Anna slowly. "Maybe you should do more than just carry out orders. After all, you are not a robot, or--or a fascist soldier, are you?"

"Look, woman!" snapped Rassolnikov. "I'm not going to argue with the likes of you! Just get yourself and that old lady out of here, now!"

"We--I want an, an appeal. Surely there's some way, some office or department for-"

"What do you think this is, France or something? There is no appeal! Besides, the foreigners are coming. An Italian, Sam Monella, is already here, in this very building."

"Well I'm sure Mr. Monella won't mind one old, quiet widow living in the same building."

"There's a Polish delegate too, Mrs. Jane Kuye, and, and-"

"I'm sure they won't mind the quiet, almost unseen presence of an old widow now, will they?"

"Look, woman! A very important dignitary is coming! He-"

"He won't mind the presence of an old-"

"I have my orders. This is a very important personage, and he is to be given absolutely everything he wants, and he wants control of the entire building," said Comrade Rassolnikov. "He, you see, is an Amerikan entrepreneur!" he added reverently. "He's known as the king of chicken wings!"

"We used to make fun of those types, remember?"

"I don't remember anything except my orders. Now you just get yourself and the old lady out of this building!" Rassolnikov pushed down on his fur cap and marched down the hall.

Koshka stood already at the stairway, in the shadows. All was planned. Rassolnikov stepped forward.

Bonk! An Italian boot slammed into the side of the cat, but he held fast.

"Ai! Ai! Ai!" A very short man in Italian boots went tumbling down the stairs, his hat bouncing down behind him. He stood up finally, brushed off his leather overcoat, and shook his fist upward. "God-damned ugly, fat cat! I'll get you too!"

But Koshka stood bravely at the head of the steps, enjoying the feeling of victory while below, Rassolnikov brushed himself off, muttered, and stomped out of the building.

Down the hall, the widow's door was closed, but Koshka could hear tearful whispering.

Koshka's feeling of victory was short-lived. The widow was clearly in trouble. And nobody could do anything about it. Least of all, a helpless, overweight cat named Koshka.

#

The next morning, a red-faced Rassolnikov marched up and down the hotel hallways with minions in tow. "Write this down!" he commanded every few steps, and his clerks pulled up their clipboards to their chins and wrote in thick letters. "Put this down!" said Rassolnikov. "'Halls to be painted.' And put this down too. 'Carpets to be replaced. Immediately.'"

Heads nodded, and pens scratched across clipboards.

Liuba Smetanova came swirling down the stairs, a gown and scarf wafting in her wake. "Comrade Rassolnikov? You are Comrade Rassolnikov, I presume?"

He nodded.

She extended her hand. "I am Liuba Smetanova, sent here by the Ministry of Culture to ensure that things go well with our foreign guests."

Rassolnikov bowed, took her outstretched hand, and pressed his thin lips across her knuckles.

"Oh!" she giggled. "Enchante! How tres elegante!"

Rassolnikov puffed up. "I take a certain amount of pride in being a--what you might call 'a gentleman.'"

"Indeed! Indeed!" said Liuba, and her eyes turned oily. "And together--you and I, that is--we can transform this edifice into a truly elegant, cosmopolitan establishment!"

Rassolnikov bowed low. "That is exactly my mission, madamemoiselle."

"It's 'madame,' she offered gloomily. She looked up and down at Rassolnikov, and her eyes opened wide. "Are those--are those foreign boots?"

"Why yes. They're Italian."

Liuba took in a deep breath. "Real Italian leather?"

"Yes. I got them at the Moscow private store for party hierarchy."

"Real leather?" asked Liuba, and her eyes grew wider and wider. Her face grew red, and she tugged at her blouse.

"Yes. Real leather." Rassolnikov's gaze fixed on Liuba's blouse, and his eyes too grew wider and wider.

There was silence. Just a lot of staring back and forth and deep, slow breathing and tongues licking lips.

Liuba's chest heaved and sighed. Her shoulders wiggled back and forth. "Let us, um, meet soon, to--to discuss our objectives."

"I would love to--to discuss objectives with you."

"Come up and see me sometime."

"It would be a delight and an honor!" said Rassolnikov, clicking his heels together. His hands shook, and his face turned redder and redder.

Liuba glared at the clerks with their clipboards and pens.

"Oh, them!" said Rassolnikov, recovering himself. He turned towards his minions. "Now get downstairs and memorize everything I have commanded you to write down!"

The minions marched off. Rassolnikov offered Liuba his arm, which she graciously took. "There is a chamber on the second floor where we can--can discuss our objectives."

Liuba smiled, and her eyes looked into his.

Rassolnikov's face turned red like a pepper. "You know, this could be the beginning of a--a very fine friendship."

Liuba nodded, and together they headed for the second floor.

#

Such a harsh wind blew off the Neva River that not even the thickest fur could stand up against it. For that reason, Avvakuum moved the meeting of cats to the "People's Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory at the end of Popov Street. No humans would disturb the cats there, because the factory had been closed for three years. The managers were still trying to figure out how to get the seven thousand main springs they needed to repair all the broken "Time Marches Ever Forward" watches that were sold with lifetime guarantees.

The cats were agitated this particular evening, and rightly so. Even Avvakuum seemed more than his usual scowling self. It was not just the fierce winter weather, and it was not just the spooky, drafty old factory with its cobwebs and creaky sounds. It was the new presence on the block--Comrade Rassolnikov, and all the changes he had already wrought. Even Misha and Grisha seemed less cheerful.

"I don't like that man with the fancy black boots!" said Misha.

"I don't trust him at all!" Grisha said.

"It's the beginning of the end, that's what it is," said Avvakuum. "Mark my words. No good will come of this--no good at all."

"I'm very, very afraid," confessed Masha.

"This Rassolnikov is not my favorite person either," Koshka said. "But I don't think we need to be quite so pessimistic." He saw his words falling on deaf ears. "I mean, a little change would be good for us, wouldn't it? I mean, things haven't been going all that well, just as you say, Avvakuum, so maybe some changes will help things along."

But in Koshka's own heart, the words seemed hollow. Change! That's what the Mongols brought to Kiev. And poor Volodya, the Ukrainian cat--he was a true wonder cat--he led his master to safety. Koshka felt small and helpless. He, Koshka, was no wonder cat! He couldn't even save a poor old widow.

"Koshka, you naive, innocent kitten!" Avvakuum said, shaking his head and rubbing his whiskers. "Where have you been these last thousand years?"

"Not around here, that's for sure." Koshka's attempt at levity clearly wasn't working. And he himself turned sadder. The old cat's words brought back dim shadows of distant memories, other memories, other cats. And things hadn't turned out at all that time, and it all had been Koshka's fault. All of it.

"Well, neither have I!" said Avvakuum, bring Koshka back to the present. The old cat stretched, arching his back high. "But that's why we have the Cat Chronicles. They give us the past, explain the present, and predict the future." He lowered his head and looked sharply around the room at the gathered assemblage of cats. "Always keep in mind that, when dealing with human beings, the more things seem to change, the less they actually do!"

Avvakuum reclined on a bowed wooden work table and curled his paws under his body. It was the sign that another tale from the Cat Chronicles was about to begin. Koshka found his place on top of a wooden cabinet with glass doors. Misha and Grisha rested on another workbench. Masha the house cat climbed onto a work light that swayed and creaked under her weight. Outside, the street lights shone, making eerie designs on windows that stood covered with thick, jagged frost. The wind howled, and up on Kirovsky Prospekt, streetcars groaned on their tracks.

Then Avvakuum's melodious voice took over. Cat eyes blinked in unison. "We commence with another tale from the chronicles, this one occurring long after the Mongols invaded Kiev," Avvakuum intoned. "Now the Mongols stayed in Russia over three hundred years, you see, long after the fall of Kiev and long after Volodya, the Kievan cat, had lived out his days in the cave monastery.

Now this tale concerns Pimen, the Moscow cat, and the year is 1472. Pimen's master is Ivan the Great, ruler of Muscovy, and Ivan has been in mourning for a long time, since the death of his wife. Like a good, faithful cat, Pimen had done his best to cheer up his master, but to no avail. Ivan bid his time, missing his wife, while the government and the governed suffered.

Late one evening, Mikhail Borisovich, Ivan's friend and aide, came into Ivan's chambers. 'Ivan, my ruler and my friend,' he said. 'I come to you in sadness. The people suffer. The world is changing, and there are opportunities that we are not taking. I have an idea, with many opportunities for us!'

'What opportunities?' Ivan asked wearily. He motioned for Mikhail to sit, with a half-hearted wave of his hand. Pimen the cat sat down near the stove that sent waves of heat across the room whose walls, ceilings, columns, and arches were painted in deep reds and golds.

'My dear friend, Ivan, It's been almost twenty years since Constantinople fell.'

'And of what profit to us is it that a Christian country to our south has fallen to infidels?'

'There is much potential profit!' Mikhail answered. 'You will recall that, since after the time of the Mongols, Muscovy is the capital of our holy Russian church.'

'I recall,' Ivan said, rubbing his tired eyes. 'But I see no connection with Constantinople, nor any importance in it, for now, nor profit.'

'Be patient, and hear me out, my ruler.' Mikhail stood up and began to pace the room. 'Now, Rome, the first capital of the Christian church, fell, we know. Why?'

'It is the sovereign who should ask the questions, Mikhail,' Ivan said half-jokingly. 'But I will play your game with you. Alright. Rome fell after King Constantine left, and it fell because it had been corrupted by the world.'

'Right!' exclaimed Mikhail, like a proud tutor. 'And now, what about Constantinople, the second capital of the Christian church? Why did it fall in 1453, barely twenty years ago?'

'I could easily tire of your history games, Mikhail. You think you are taking me somewhere with your discussions, but you take me nowhere. Constantinople fell because it was invaded by the infidel Turks, and now there are Christian Byzantine refugees living in our Muscovy. None of these things is connected, and all of them together will lead nowhere.'

'Have patience, my czar. It is a complicated and long journey, but the destination makes the travelling worthwhile.' Mikhail paced the room quicker. 'Constantinople fell because, four years earlier, in 1449, the church elders held the Council of Florence, attempting to re-unite with the pagan Roman infidels!'

'So, what are you getting at?'

'We can call it 'the three Rome's!''

'What do you mean?' Ivan looked alert now, and Pimen the cat sat curled at the stove, his ears pricked with interest.

'I mean,' Mikhail continued. 'Rome--that is, the first Rome, fell to infidels when it was corrupted, and the Christians fled to Constantinople. Then Constantinople, the second Rome, fell to infidels after it was corrupted, and the Christians fled to Moscow.' Mikhail was rubbing his hands as he talked. 'Now, then, that means that Moscow is the third Rome, and a fourth there shall never be! Think of it--the importance, the glory, the mission for us Muscovites!'

Pimen the cat marvelled at the way his master's face lit up. It had been a long time since it, or he, seemed so animated. 'Well, I suppose it is possible. It gives us a great sense of mission--a purpose, a high goal. But I am not so sure.' Ivan sat back down, and the light seemed to pass from his face. 'I am not so sure we could, or should undertake such a venture.'

Mikhail bowed. 'For now, I ask you only to consider what I have said. And I will leave you with a folio, some documents you can read at your pleasure, when you will it.'

Now, late that night, when the czar and his household were sleeping, Pimen the cat crept back to the chamber, and by the flickering light of the fading fire in the stove, he read the folio that Mikhail had left for the czar.

There were historical treatises, religious tracts, and an account of the fall of Constantinople. Pimen came to the last document, the story of Zoe Paleologa, niece of the last emperor of Byzantium.

'Of royal blood she is,' said the document. 'It shows in her bearing, her great beauty, in her learning, culture and kindness.'

'Just what my master needs!' said Pimen to himself. He turned the page, and came upon a miniature painting of a beautiful, regal woman with kind eyes and a royal bearing. She was reclining on a stately sofa in a stately room, looking upwards, while in her right hand lay a book. Next to her on the sofa lay curled the most beautiful grayish cat with Siamese eyes that Pimen had ever seen.

He closed the book with his paws, determined that his master would have his Zoe, and that he, Pimen the Kremlin cat, would have his Siamese beauty.

The next day, as was usual, letters went out by courier from Ivan the Great's Kremlin palace to the realm. And in that packet of letters was one to Princess Zoe Paleologa, inviting her to visit Ivan, the czar of Muscovy."

The wind off the Neva had stopped howling, and Avvakuum stood up slowly and stretched. "And that is the story of how Pimen the court cat changed the destiny of Russia."

"What a beautiful story!" Koshka said. And of course, he was most impressed by the part about the beautiful princess (who maybe looked like Anna) and the powerful cat who changed the course of events.

"Well?" Masha asked impatiently. "What happened with Pimen the cat and with Ivan the Great?"

"And with Zoe and the beautiful cat?" added Misha and Grisha.

Avvakuum stretched again, then reclined back on the work table. "Months later, Zoe appeared at the Kremlin, and Ivan, of course, felt obliged to receive her although he was puzzled about the look of the invitation. The writing was not absolutely perfect, you see, and there was a cat hair here and there on the parchment, but he never suspected."

"So what happened?" asked Misha and Grisha in chorus.

"Of course, Ivan fell immediately in love with Zoe. They married. And they stayed married for twenty-seven years. Muscovy grew in importance and stature. The people loved Zoe as Ivan loved her. And together, Zoe and Ivan brought in Italian architects to build the beautiful Kremlin church, the Uspensky cathedral. And for Ivan himself, she brought him a beautiful Persian ivory throne with a picture of a two-headed eagle on it, and that became the symbol of the new empire, Moscow, the third Rome."

"And Zoe's cat?" Masha asked.

"Pimen and Shaga, Zoe's cat, loved one-another from the very the beginning, and they spent their days happily in the Kremlin, playing as the Italians and Russians built the squares and churches."

"Oh, how I love romantic endings!" said Masha, folding her paws before her.

"For once, it was a happy story," Koshka remarked. "And with a happy ending too."

"Foo!" said Avvakuum, his fur bristling. "It may seem happy, but remember that, with humans, the more things seem to change, the less they actually do. In this particular case, the belief that Moscow was the third Rome led to all kinds of cruelties. How many Moscow rulers have marched troops out of Moscow, cramming their ideas down other people's throats? How many decrees have been bellowed from the Moscow Kremlin, and how many cats and humans have suffered and died as a result? And remember that, to this very day, you still have Moscow acting as if it ruled the world. After all, who but Moscow sent us this Simion Simionovich Rassolnikov, and what good will come of that?"

Avvakuum's words drove visions of Byzantine princesses and Persian cats out of Koshka's head. More recent memories intruded--Rassolnikov and the way he treated Anna and the widow. And Koshka was sad. Only in stories did things turn out for the better. If only he, like Pimen, was a wonder cat who could change things for the better. The truth hurt. Koshka had changed things once--all for the worst.

A cold winter wind blew through the cracks in the wall of the "People's Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory.

#

But in l982, it seemed that summer would stay forever. For Koshka, time hung suspended like the green branches that waved across the court yard.

Such blessings! As if Katyenka herself weren't enough, all the world had turned as beautiful as she. The two cats romped through a smiling, sparkling world. Koshka showed his prowess. He leapt, he crept, he pranced, and stalked invisible foes. Katyenka watched with wide, warm, loving eyes.

They groomed one-another, napped together under the sun, and spent their nights in a cool cellar corner.

Then Katyenka turned quiet. She ached all over and one day, disappeared. Koshka panicked. Until he saw the kittens. Five of them. Two miniature Koshka's, two small Katyenka's, and one curious mix of both.

Katyenka carried them gently from place to place, washed them clean, and fed them. Soon she would teach them to hunt and groom themselves.

And Koshka the daddy was never prouder.

To Chapter Five

Back to Home Page for The Cat At The Glasnost Hotel

Back to Home Page for William Jack