Chapter Five

The Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar had a new "closed" sign hanging over the old "closed" sign that Perezhitkov had put up to keep the quotas down. The new sign said, "Closed temporarily for high-level restructuring and management adjustment talks."

Koshka decided to investigate. A thick layer of dust had settled over the layers of grease that always covered everything in the snack bar. Koshka picked his way between the stool legs and table legs and found himself a secluded niche in the back corner, by the delivery entrance. It was a good place for a nap, and a good place to catch whatever conversations developed around the tables.

Soon he heard heavy footsteps. "They're--they're coming in fifteen minutes!" It was Mrs. Perezhitkova's voice. "Why couldn't you have cleaned up this filth?"

"The sink was leaking all over the floor again," said Perezhitkov, squatting on the floor. "I had to replace this pipe, fast! I'm almost finished. I have to-"

"You're as useless as ever!" she snapped. "Why, look at this place! It's an embarrassment to anybody--much less to Moscow officials! Now, get out of my way, you ignorant peasant!"

Perezhitkov's face turned red, but he stood his ground. "I have to finish fixing the sink, or in about five minutes, this place will really be a mess."

"Tell it to our Moscow official! He abhors dirt!"

"Comrade Rassolnikov is not so tidy himself, my dear little pigeon," Rassolnikov offered timidly from under the sink. "He has egg stains on his tie."

"That's part of the pattern, idiot! It's a French tie, and they go in for geometric designs."

"Three-dimensional designs that smell of old eggs?"

"Don't argue with me! Anyway, Rassolnikov is the least of my concerns at the moment. We have foreign visitors coming too, I'm told!"

Perezhitkov sighed. "They'll all be the death of me yet! I wish those Moscow officials could get me some decent pipe."

"If you were worth anything, you'd be a Moscow official yourself by now!" shrieked Mrs. Perezhitkova.

"I presume everything is ready?" boomed a voice from the corridor. It was Rassolnikov. He stepped into the buffet, sniffed, put on his pince nez, shook his head, and walked up to Perezhitkov. Rassolnikov bent down to the sink, and his face went from white to red to purple. "This place is in chaos! The Moscow Hotel and Restaurant Restructuring Delegation is coming just at this very moment!" he hissed. "Or I'd deal with you right now!"

"Yes, Comrade Rassolnikov," said Perezhitkov. "This sink--it needs to-"

"And don't call me 'comrade!' I don't consider you an equal in any way, you lazy, shiftless nobody!"

"Yes, sir, comrade--I mean, Simion Simionovich Rassolnikov. But the sink-"

"Here we are, trying to impress our superiors from Moscow, and a drunken lout like you has to threaten the whole thing!"

There was more noise down the corridor, and then the sound of approaching footsteps--a multitude of them.

"Now, behave yourself!" Rassolnikov commanded Perezhitkov. "Or I'll have your job and your head!" He turned towards the doorway, which was filling up with men in dark suits. "Welcome! Welcome, comrades!" he said. "Welcome to the site of our lucrative enterprise--an example for all!"

Perezhitkov climbed out from under the sink, wiped his hands on his trousers, and started slipping back towards the kitchen.

"Stay here!" hissed Rassolnikov, gritting his teeth.

"Cut the speech-making and show us around this dump!" commanded one short man with thin lapels.

"Welcome, welcome!" said Rassolnikov, almost singing. "I am newly-appointed. This is our snack bar here--an ideal place for residents and guests to-"

"It's filthy!" came a voice from the crowd.

"It's a dump!" came another. "No one would want to sit in here, much less eat here!"

Rassolnikov smiled widely, his face turning a darker purple. "I am newly-appointed here. We offer an array of items here-"

"Then why are the supply rooms empty?"

"Well, I am newly-appointed, but I have been told there have been delivery problems and quality-control problems, I am told--you know, the usual. No meat or flour or bread or vegetables, for instance."

"Look!" said a particularly round face in the middle of the crowd of black suits. "Your job is to overcome problems, not explain them away. Your job is to make this a model enterprise for the whole federation! Why, if the Amerikans can come all the way over here and sell meat and pizza and Pepsi-Kola, then you must show them that we too can sell food and make money in the process too!"

"Yes, your deputy-ship," said Rassolnikov. "There have been supply problems, and employment problems here, but--but I am newly-appointed, and I--we will overcome them!"

"You damned well better!" said the round-faced man. "And quick! This place has to be up and running as a hotel and a restaurant within thirty days, or heads will roll--yours first!"

"Th--thir--thirty days?" Rassolnikov swallowed hard.

"I've seen greasy dumps before, but not like this!" said one Moscow voice.

"It'll be a miracle to get anything running here in thirty years, much less thirty days," said another.

"We have our orders," said the first. "We must inspect the rest of this miserable operation. Remember, it'll be our heads that roll."

"Oi!" the Moscow brethren said together.

They headed down the hall. "Here we have the linen supply room," said Rassolnikov, pointing through a doorway.

"Where's the linen?" asked another voice, thick Muscovite consonants rolling off his lips.

"Well, you see, the plan calls for shipment of fifty new table cloths, but because of delivery problems and the textile problems, we--uh, we have no linens."

"How do you operate a first-class dining hall without linens on the tables?" bellowed another voice, also in a thick Moscow accent.

Rassolnikov swallowed. "We--we don't have the tables yet either, Comrade Moscow Representative. The lumber problem and the railroad problem, you see, we-"

"You mean, you mean, you have a dining hall without linens and without tables?"

"Not exactly, your representative-ship. You see, we don't have a dining hall--at least yet, that is."

"What the-! The plan says right here you have a dining hall!"

"It's a room we don't use, your comradeship. It's expansion area."

"And what then have you done with all the foodstuffs and meats and vegetables that have been shipped to you for your non-existent dining hall?"

Rassolnikov's face turned redder and redder. "For the most part, your representative-ship, those deliveries have been non-existent too."

"Chaos, I say! Chaos! And you'd better come up with some good explanations--better than the drivel you've given us! I can't believe it. The Amerikans are coming, and this place is chaos, pure chaos! The abyss!"

"A restaurant that's not a restaurant and a hotel that's not a hotel--that's where we are!" hrumphed one of the bald men. "And we know a hotel when we see one. Why, we've even been to London even. Fine hotels those Brits have! Why, some have elevators even, and mattresses that aren't too lumpy." The man looked around the room and screwed up his face. "And you call this a hotel? You have no rooms to let on two floors, no dining hall, no key ladies on every floor, no bar--how dare you call this place a hotel!"

"What are we going to do, comrade director?" whispered another bald head.

"Blow up the whole god-forsaken place and start over!"

"But the kapitalists--they're coming!"

"Well, then, hmmmm. Let's see." He turned to Rassolnikov, who flinched. "Do you have tarps around here?"

"Tarps? You mean a kind of fish, your directorship?"

"No, dunderhead! Tarps! Tarpaulins! Canvas!"

"Well, just a moment, I'll check on that right away for you." Rassolnikov ran towards the back entrance. "Perezhitkov!" he yelled.

No answer.

"Osip!" he yelled.

There were footsteps, then Osip appeared, wiping his face with a napkin.

"Do we have any tarps around here?" demanded Rassolnikov.

"Why, yes, we do," said Osip. "A few years ago, we ordered lace, and they delivered canvas. And instead of five meters, they dropped off five hundred meters of thick canvas, and they wouldn't take it back. It's rotting in the cellar."

"Well, don't just stand there! Bring it up!"

So there was frantic running back-and-forth, up-and-down, and dust and paint particles all over the place. Pretty soon the whole buffet and the whole empty dining room and the bar and the kitchen were covered with a sea of canvas.

"There!" said the Moscow deputy, glancing around a room that looked like one giant canvas snow drift. "I hope it works, and if not, heads will roll!"

"It should work!" said another Moscow delegate. "It's worked in every other city we've been in."

The room reverberated with pounding. The walls themselves seemed to shake.

"What's that pounding?' asked one Moscow official.

"What pounding?" asked Rassolnikov.

"B-o-o-o-o-m!" There was a loud explosion, then a rushing sound, like from a waterfall.

The Moscow deputies dashed towards the kitchen. Rassolnikov followed. Mouths opened in horror. Poor Perezhitkov squatted under the sink, his hands clutching a rag around the drain pipe. He was wet and grimy and black, as were the floor, the walls, and the ceiling.

"It's the grease trap!" Perezhitkov explained. "I tried to fix it."

The room filled with a sour, heavy stench--so strong that Koshka dashed for the hallway.

"I'll--I'll deal with you later, you saboteur!" Rassolnikov told Perezhitkov.

The bouquet of bald deputies covered their noses and eyes and retired rapidly into the bar. Koshka had seen and smelled enough. He headed out to the back landing.

"It's you again!" snarled Hagia Sophia. "How many times do I have to tell you to stay out of here?"

"Come on now, there's room enough for two of us, don't you think?"

"Not for the likes of you, you nameless breed-less alley cat!"

Koshka tried to keep his patience, but she was making it more and more difficult. "I am not an alley cat, if you please. I am a house cat, and as for my breeding, I am a genuine tabby. Notice the blending strips, if you will--the symmetrical black markings, the patches of white-"

"You dare talk back to me?" she shrieked.

"I'm not talking back, Miss Hagia Sophia." He tried to control the anger coursing through his veins. "But I lived here long before you came, and I think we could be at least civil to one-another, and I think I'm entitled to-"

"You're entitled to live in the alley with those other mangy Russian low-life cats!"

He worked to keep his voice low. "I am entitled to live here, actually, and I hope you come to accept it, in time."

"You'll see what happens in time, with the new changes!" she said. "And in the meantime, just make sure you stay out of my sight!"

With that, she turned around, flicked her tail, and disappeared. Her voice echoed down the dark hallway. "You're a homeless stray. If you were any good, somebody would want you!"

The words stung. Koshka retreated back to the cellar.

#

You're a homeless stray. If you were any good, somebody would want you.

The words stayed with him all day, cutting deep into him. He tried using the best cat logic he could muster. If he had a master--well, he'd still be the same cat, so what Hagia Sophia said made no sense, no sense at all, he decided.

But the sting and the gnawing emptiness came back. He wasn't really homeless, he calculated. He had the hotel, the place whose name always changed was his. In addition, he concluded, he almost had an owner--the widow Petrova cared for him! And, and so did Anna for that matter, and she was beautiful! Yes, it was like belonging to two people! Koshka congratulated himself for his clear thinking.

But the sting of Hagia Sophia's words came back. "You're a homeless stray. If you were any good, somebody would want you."

#

"Auntie, maybe you should consider moving!" It was the voice of Anna, grand-niece of the widow Petrova. "After all, this place is crazy, what with all these officials running around, and canvas all over the building and crabby janitors and that Liuba Smetanova picking away at you."

"Liuba is just a little cranky at times, my dear."

"You're ignoring what I'm saying," said Anna firmly. "It would be nicer for you--quieter and calmer for you, if you moved somewhere else. Why, you could come back to Moscow with me!"

"Oh, I could never leave Saint Petersburg! All my memories are here, Anna. Maybe when you're older, you'll understand. I simply can't leave here. Why, they'd have to come push me out!" The widow turned towards Koshka, as if to change the subject. "Come here, kitty!" She picked him up and stroked him under the chin.

Koshka purred.

"Take this cat, for instance," the widow told Anna, holding Koshka forth like a trial exhibit. "He's been here a long time now--since the Brezhnev years, I believe. This is his world--the only one he knows. It would be hard for him to move anywhere else. Cats are creatures of order. They need it, and when their order is upset, they do not thrive." She patted his head, and he nodded. "See, it's as if he understands. He belongs here, and nowhere else. And I am the same."

Anna's face turned sad. "I understand, maybe. You know, I've wanted such a feeling of belonging--a place where I fit and am accepted--I've wanted that for a long time."

The widow brushed crumbs off the table. "And it wasn't with Boris?"

"Boris left me, Auntie. He had another woman."

"Oh, I didn't know," said the widow. She wagged her finger at Anna. "But you just wait, young lady. The right man will come along, and then no matter where you go or where you are, it will always feel right!"

"I wish it were so, Auntie."

"It will be! It will be!"

Anna wiped her eyes.

"And don't you go giving up hope either! You're young yet, and one day--when you least expect it--there will be your man!"

"Okay, I'll keep up hope" said Anna, wiping her eyes. "But are you sure you should not move from this crazy place?"

"Absolutely sure!" said the widow.

Anna's smile disappeared and she put her hand on the widow's shoulder. "If that's what you want, then I'll fight right along with you! Why, I'll march down to the city housing office today! They cannot kick you out of your home, just because of some stupid, new money-making scheme of theirs! I won't let them do it!"

"Add me to the list," said Koshka to himself. He wished there was something the Wonder Cat could do at that very moment, but there wasn't. He decided to remain patient. The right moment for action would come. then he, like Volodya and Pimen before him--he would make a difference.

There was a sharp knock on the door. Liuba Smetanova stepped in. Hagia Sophia was in her arms. "Aha, I see you're harboring that ugly tom cat!"

"He's not an ugly tom cat," said the widow softly.

"Well, he's been bothering my kitty, my Hagia Sophia again--if you know what I mean, and I think you do, and I won't stand for it! It's--it's disgusting!"

Hagia Sophia blinked, looking like a helpless maiden, recently rescued.

The widow frowned. "This cat? Bothering yours?"

"Yes! He's been tormenting my beautiful imported kitty! It's--it's disgusting!"

"I hardly think so," said the widow softly. "This cat's been fixed. He wouldn't bother your Hagia Sophia. Besides, he's the gentlest, nicest, most well-behaved kitty I've ever seen!"

"Well!" said Liuba shrilly. "You just make sure he stays away from my Hagia Sophia, or someone will pay for it!" She slammed the door and left the room.

"Do you see what I mean?" asked Anna. "That woman is intolerable. Why don't you get away from her, move in with me in Moscow?"

"Leave Saint Petersburg, the most beautiful city in the world? I couldn't think of it. Here is where I belong, dearie, and here is where I stay."

#

It was a bright January morning, as bright as Saint Petersburg ever gets in the winter. The sky was a pinkish blue, and Popov Street lay covered with last night's dusting of snow. Koshka finished his breakfast of bacon scraps and was preparing for a nap. A cold wind blew across the foyer.

"Look sharp there, men!" yelled Comrade Rassolnikov. In walked two men in work uniforms. They strained, their backs bending under the weight of a large plate of glass.

"Put out that damned cigarette!" Rassolnikov yelled. The worker reached for the cigarette, but in the process, the glass started to wave and sag, and the face of the man in the back turned redder and redder.

"Careful! Careful!" commanded Rassolnikov. "That glass came all the way from Hungary. Look--it's perfectly straight, not wavy or pitted! Careful, damn it!"

The man's face got redder. His back bent and sagged.

Crash! One perfectly straight, not wavy or pitted pane of Hungarian glass was now a collection of shards on the foyer of the Glasnost Hotel.

"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Rassolnikov jumped up and down and stomped his feet on the glass. "Now clean up this mess! Now!"

"We're on break," said the worker, lighting another cigarette.

"We don't do anything without orders from our union supervisor," said the other.

"A-a-r-r-g-g-h-h!" Rassolnikov's face turned purple and twisted in rage.

Other workers and delivery people came and left. By noon, the foyer was filled with wavy glass panes, crooked door frames, warped doors, uneven wood panelling, and bent boards of various sizes.

"What is all this stuff?" asked poor Perezhitkov, wiping his red eyes with a handkerchief.

"This is your allocated reconstruction materials," Rassolnikov said.

"This junk? This debris?"

"I beg your pardon! Do you dare challenge my authority, particularly after spraying raw sewage all over my kitchen? These are new doors, right from the Moscow Door Factory. And these are door frames, right from the Rostov factory."

Perezhitkov shook his head wearily. "The frames are crooked. And the doors are the wrong size. They won't fit."

"They'll fit!" Rassolnikov insisted. "It says right here on the order papers that they'll fit! Now you just stay out of the way, peasant, because by tomorrow evening, my crash battalion of shock workers will have completely re-built the interior of this edifice!"

Perezhitkov shook his head, sighed, and disappeared back into his office.

An army of young, ruddy-cheeked workers filled the foyer.

"You have your assigned duties, men!" Rassolnikov commanded. "Now hop to!"

"Nails, your deputy-ship?" asked one worker.

"Nails?"

"Yes. Nails. We need nails to put things together, you know. We might be shock-workers, but we're not miracle workers."

"Where are the nails?" demanded Rassolnikov from the battalion commander.

"What nails? Nails are not my responsibility."

"To the devil!" fumed Rassolnikov, jumping up and down in his boots.

"I could get nails," said Osip the waiter quietly, stepping out from the shadows.

"How?" asked Rassolnikov, almost imploring.

"One side of beef from the snack bar, and I'll get you all the nails you want."

Five minutes later, Osip came down the stairway, huffing and puffing, embracing a five-foot hunk of fatty meat. And an hour later, the shock workers had all the crooked nails they wanted.

"If it had been fresh beef, without mold spots," Osip explained. "I could have gotten straight nails."

"You did just fine, Osip!" said Perezhitkov, beaming.

Sawdust and plaster chips flew. Men hit their fingers with hammers and swore. Boards broke, and workers grunted.

This was clearly no place for a cat, especially one who didn't like change. Koshka headed up to the widow's floor.

She was in the communal kitchen. "What's all that pounding?" the widow asked Liuba.

"What in the devil's name do you think they're doing? Making this into a hotel, finally, that's what they're doing! They called this dump a hotel fifteen years ago, but it was just an old, run-down apartment block. Then they put that new sign out, 'The Glasnost Hotel,' even though it wasn't a hotel at all, and even though no one except common neighborhood people ate at the snack bar, and now they're finally turning this dump into a hotel!"

"And what about us then?" asked the widow.

"Well! As for me, I have connections. I am on the culture committee, and my Borya is well-placed. He's been abroad, you know--well, to Latvia actually, which is almost abroad these days, and we will occupy a remodeled guest suite on this very floor. As for you, my dear, I'm afraid you'll be moved to one of those giant apartment blocks outside the city. They can be charming at times, really. A vase here, a picture there--it can help. And sometimes they even leave a tree or two standing for shade around the bus stops."

"Not if I can help it!" the widow said softly.

"And certainly not if I can help it!" Koshka said to himself.

"Oh, I hear those new areas can really be quite pleasant!" chimed Liuba. "And in five years or so, they'll have a subway line going way out there. Why, you'll be able to get into Saint Petersburg in no time!" Liuba turned her full attention back to the black pot rocking on the primus stove and spewing froth in all directions.

The widow returned to her apartment with her soup kettle. She and Koshka feasted on a thick cabbage soup.

"I have to see what's going on down there," she announced suddenly. Koshka rose from his after-dinner nap.

She took the stairway down towards the ground floor, and Koshka followed. He would never let them send her off to some brand-new, character-less concrete block out in the middle of nowhere. This building, this widow--they belonged together. They'd survived so many things together, they both merited repose. Why couldn't they just let them be? Koshka crept down the steps worn smooth with age and bowed from use. The building's pipes seemed to heave and sigh. The widow stepped off the landing, heading towards the dusty old foyer.

What a shock! It was chaos! What used to be a normal apartment building lobby was now something quite different. The walls forming Perezhitkov's office had disappeared, as had the walls for Rodion the janitor's closet and the abandoned store spaces next door. The air was thick with sawdust, plaster, and sweat.

Shapes emerged from the dust--erie shapes. There was a long row of gleaming white counters and booths. Rassolnikov hit a switch, and bright signs crackled and flashed all over the place. "Welcome at Glasnost Hotel!" said the topmost and biggest sign.

"Please to have good visit and spend much of foreign currency!" said a sign underneath.

And underneath that there were separate signs for each booth, written in Finnish, English, German, French, and Italian. "Aux le Excursions." "Le Bella Circus and Night-Life tours." "Die Folk-Dancing Konzerts." "Real Money (Foreign Currency) Only."

And underneath all those signs there was one sign in Russian. "For foreigners only. Russians and other scum--stay away!"

Rassolnikov beamed.

Workers still scurried about, dabbing a bit of paint here, sweeping up a dust pile there, hammering a panel here.

"Very nice! Very nice!" said Rassolnikov, smiling and tugging on his lapels. "Now this place is starting to look like something!"

The widow looked in horror, mouth open. "Why, those were marble walls they pulled out, and the fixtures--they were brass, and of such a beautiful design!"

"It was old-fashioned junk!" said Rassolnikov.

"And the parquet floors! Why they've ripped up the beautiful parquet floors!"

"We have to make way for the new!" said Rassolnikov. "The old is going out in dump trucks!" He turned towards the widow. "Yes, all the old is going out in dump trucks. This is a new world now, a new era!"

The widow shook her head.

Rassolnikov pulled out his pince nez and peered into her face. "You, madam, will be gone--just like the others, and just like the junk on those trucks."

The front door creaked open. In walked, or rather, marched a curious, somber figure. Koshka nodded in recognition, then studied the gallant figure. The man was dressed to the nines, as usual, wearing little shiny black slippers that somehow never seemed muddy or streaked, spotless white spats, striped trousers, a dinner jacket with tails, a chesterfield coat, and a grey lamb's wool hat.

It was the Baron. He and the widow were the oldest residents at the Glasnost Hotel. The Baron paused, set his glasses on his nose with great ceremony, leaned on his ivory walking stick, and peered around the foyer. "Ahem!" he said, clearing his throat. "Ahem!"

"Who in the devil's name is that?' asked Rassolnikov.

"The Baron," said the widow.

"Who? What's his name?"

"The Baron. No one knows his name, so we just call him the 'Baron.' He's been here forever. I heard his full name once--It was a difficult name--perhaps a Germanic surname that underwent Austrian and Lithuanian permutations-"

"I'm not interested in your linguistic analysis!" snapped Rassolnikov. "Who is he and why is he here?"

"He lives here."

Just then, the Baron removed his hat with a grand sweep of his hand. "Arise, you prisoners of starvation!" he sang in a clear, thin voice. "Arise, you wretched of the earth!"

"What--what's he singing?" demanded Rassolnikov. "Is that some anti-Russian foreign decadent drivel?"

"It's 'The Internationale'," said the widow.

Rassolnikov stepped right up to the Baron. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?"

"For justice thunders condemnation! A better world's in birth!" sang the Baron. He was about a foot taller than Rassolnikov.

"Don't talk back to me, young man!"

"No more tradition's chain shall bind us!"

"Don't you threaten me with your bourgeois trash!" snapped Rassolnikov.

"Arise, you slaves, no more in thrall!"

"How dare you-"

The widow stepped up to Rassolnikov and whispered. "He doesn't hear you. You see, the Baron lives in his own world."

"I can see that plainly!"

"He thinks it's l923, you see. They say he's thought that since 1923, can you imagine?"

Rassolnikov shook his pince nez in the general direction of the Baron's nose. "See here, you remnant from the past! Pack your bags and get out of here! This is no place for the likes of you!"

The Baron sang on, as if Rassolnikov wasn't standing an inch from his chin. "The earth shall rise on new foundations! We have been naught, we shall be all!"

Rassolnikov's face turned red.

The widow intervened, taking Rassolnikov by the arm. "He's a people's hero--the Baron is. He helped during the civil war. He's under government protection, he is."

Rassolnikov spun around on his heels. "No one told me anything about him and or about any government protection! So, it does not exist. I am the special government delegate here, and my word is law. No, he--and you, for that matter, too--both of you will be out of here by Monday, or I will have the militia drag you out! And your paltry belongings will be thrown onto the sidewalk!"

Koshka bared his fangs, ready to strike. The widow turned. "You could have a little more empathy--a little more feeling for the past."

"Get out!" snapped Rassolnikov.

With that, the widow turned and headed up the stairs. The Baron followed. "'Tis the final conflict!" he sang. "Let each stand in his place!"

Rassolnikov stomped one foot, then the other. "Get out, you--you subversive! Get out!"

Koshka backed up until he was in position, lifted his tail, and let loose a long healthy spray.

"What the-" demanded Rassolnikov, staring down at his boots.

For Koshka, it was a singular moment of pleasure.

"Get that fat, sneaky beast out of here!" Rassolnikov commanded to no one in particular.

Koshka knew when he wasn't welcome. He dashed down the narrow stairway leading to the poster pile in the cellar.

The poor Glasnost Hotel, he thought. They were taking the poor old building and gussying her up to where she'd want to cry about it. It was a shame. Why couldn't they just have let her be?

Maybe Avvakuum was right, Koshka thought. Life stank--and all because of those damned humans.

Outside, a winter wind howled.

#

But in the summer of 1982, the leaves rustled in the warmth and flashed green across court yards and streets. It was a perfect kind of day for lovers' strolls, so Koshka persuaded Katyenka to let their kittens sleep a while on their own, and he took his Katyenka down the boulevard that followed the Nevka. The whole world wanted to stretch and bathe in the light. Even polished grilles of lorries and cars smiled in the sun.

And along the boulevard, it was almost a parade, the way humans and cats and dogs even passed slowly along the slower-flowing Nevka. No cat nor dog nor human nor any creature was as beautiful as Katyenka. She was summer itself--life, the world, and nature distilled down to its very thickest, ethereal essence.

And none was prouder than Koshka. What fortune, what life, what blessing! Prancing, head held high, along the Nevka, and next to a creature of love and beauty that wanted only him, and he, only her.

Their backs and sides sometimes touched in their prancing, and the sunlight played off her softness. Her eyes--he couldn't look at them or even think about them. He'd lose his way surely, or forget who he was, or that he was, even.

#

The curtains were drawn and the blinds shut in the stuffy room.

"No, no!" pleaded Liuba. "Don't take off the boots! I love--I mean I really love a man in foreign leather!"

"But, I've never done it with boots on."

"Just do it!" snapped Liuba. "Please, oh please! Do it!"

Sheets and blankets rustled. The old bed sighed and creaked. Then it was quiet, except for a long male sigh. "I--I can't--I just can't seem to-"

"What?" came Liuba's shriek.

"There's--there's too much on my mind. Yes, that's it! This project--there's too much on my mind."

"Hmph!"

To Chapter Six

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