Chapter Six

Koshka's fur bristled with excitement, and anxiety cut through the chill morning air. With good reason. A crowd had been gathering since daybreak on both sides of Popov Street, and by noon, people were spilling out onto the street. Heads bent and necks twisted.

"Back to the curb! Back to the curb!" commanded Dmitry, the neighborhood militia man. "Keep the streets clear for traffic!"

"What traffic? Who'd drive down this god-forsaken crooked dead-end, rut-filled dirt path anyway?" yelled an old man with a bushy beard.

"You'll see soon enough!" Dmitry answered. "Now get back to the curb! Back to the curb!"

No one paid him any mind. Koshka picked his way through a forest of human legs, reaching the end of the sidewalk. His ears twisted and turned, picking up the rumble of motorcycles in the distance. His heart pounded, and he circled the human legs, unable to remain still. There was no doubt--something unusual was about to happen.

"Back to the curb!" Dmitry commanded the humans. "You are breaking the law!"

"Oh, to the devil with your Soviet law, you Stalinist!" came a voice from the crowd.

"Who called me that? Who said I was a Stalinist?" Dmitry demanded. He made fists in the air and danced on his feet like a boxer. "Show yourself, you despicable coward! Why, I'll knock you on your skull so hard you'll think it's--it's-"

Poor sputtering Dmitry was clearly at a loss for words. He sounded like a truck running our of fuel.

"Until what? Until it's l933 again?" someone in the crowd offered.

"Get back to the curb, you lawless revisionists!" Dmitry threatened.

And all the while, the sound of motorcycles got louder and louder Koshka's ears followed the roar as it came closer and closer, growing louder and louder.

"Clear a path! Clear a path!" Dmitry yelled when the noise grew almost unbearably loud.

And the crowd in the street parted, almost magically. People fell backwards and gasped as one. Mouths hung open, eyes opened wide, and hands swung limp. And no wonder! Four motorcycles raced past, then screeched to a stop, followed by an ungodly apparition.

"What in the devil's name is that?" someone gasped.

"That, comrades," said Dmitry knowingly. "That's called a Kadillak!"

"A what?"

"A Kadillak! It's an Amerikan car."

"That long thing's a car?"

"Well, it's what they call a "Lookshurey Kar." A stretch limozeen, it is."

"Yeah, but it's three times longer than our Zil and Chaika limousines!"

"Well, that's Amerika for you. I guess!" Dmitry answered. "And us too, pretty soon, with all our restructuring."

"Someone needs to restructure your head, you hopeless optimist!"

"Just make a path!" Dmitry commanded. "This is a very long car!"

And indeed, it was the longest car Koshka, or anyone, had ever seen. The front bumper was nearing the Glasnost Hotel entrance, but the back end was still down somewhere on Kirovsky, it seemed. Koshka couldn't see who was inside because the windows were as black as an Finnish night.

The limozeen slid to a slow stop, and necks in the crowd craned forward. Dmitry saluted.

"Who the devil's in that car?" asked Babushka Shura. She tugged at the thick knot in her scarf. "Eighty years I've lived! I've seen revolutions, civil wars, world wars, but never have I seen an automobile such as this one!"

"Oh, everyone in Amerika has a car like that!" said a younger woman, about seventy years old. "Didn't you see that 'Dallas' program on TV a few years ago?"

"You mean the program they showed that night to keep us from marching for democracy?"

"No, that was the time they showed the movie 'Grapes of Wrath,'" Babushka Masha said.

Heads nodded. "Yes!" said Babushka Olga. "And in that movie, those lucky peasants had a giant truck with furniture hanging off it in all directions! What luxury those Amerikans have!"

"What luxury!" people murmured, heads bobbing and nodding all the while. Eyes glistened as they scanned the Kadillak fore and aft, from stem to stern.

The driver's door opened, and the crowd gasped. A thin man in a cap rushed out from behind the driver's seat, dashed around the car, adjusted the keppochka on his head, and opened the rear door. Necks really craned now, and Koshka too stretched from under a forest of human legs to catch the sight about to emerge.

There was a blur of white. It was a hat, he thought. Yes, it was a hat--the biggest hat he had ever seen or even imagined, with a brim that was even bigger. Underneath the hat, he spotted a shock of thick, silver-white hair, and under it, a long, long chin that stretched down towards a long, long body. At the other end of that body, Koshka spotted two very tall boots with high, narrow heels and sharp, pointed toes that were lined in silver, and, and--yes, it could have been spurs--Koshka had seen an Amerikan "kofboi" movie on television once. Yes, he decided, after deliberation. They were genuine spurs alright!

No wonder the car was so long, Koshka decided. It was merely proportionate to the height of this giant creature under the giant hat who was alighting from it. The giant straightened up, touched the brim of his hat, squinted as if he was in a bright desert sun, and smiled. His teeth shone pearly white. "Hi, y'all!" he said in a scratchy, high-pitched voice. "Howdy, brothers and sisters in the Lord! My name's the Reverend Billy Bob Buck, and I'm here to make you rich and abundant in the wealth of the Lord!" He removed his hat and waved it in the air. "Whoopie! Hallelujah, and praise the Lord!"

"What in the devil's name is he shouting about?" asked Babushka Shura. "Is this an invasion again? Are we at war?"

"I'm sure it is!" said Babushka Olga. "Napoleon acted just that way when he marched into the Kremlin! He was shorter, though, I think. Much shorter. I saw him in 'War and Peace'."

The creature under the white hat leaned on his car and turned to the crowd. "I'm right glad to be here with y'all, and believe me, ye shall be washed in the wealth of the abundant lord, and ye shall be made whole!"

"Just what is he saying?" asked Babushka Masha. "Does anybody here know English?" she shouted.

A young man shook his head. "I've studied English for ten years, granny, but I've never heard anything like that!"

"Maybe it's Polish!" suggested Babushka Masha.

"Polish isn't that ugly!" said a man with a Polish accent.

Babushka Shura rubbed her forehead with the tip of her scarf. "This could be a dark day for us all!" she wailed. "Is it war? Is it an invasion?"

"I have no earthly idea what he's saying," said the young man, taking off his thick glasses and blowing on the lenses. "I've never heard anything like it. I don't think it's English, or German, or, or anything!"

A cloud passed over the dim winter sun, and across the street Avvakuum shook his head and howled.

"It's an omen, for sure!" said Babushka Shura, pointing at her red cat. "A dark day for us all!"

"And a hearty welcome to ya'll too, brothers and sisters!" said the creature in the giant white hat. "This is the dawn of a brand-spanking new day!"

From across the street, Avvakuum howled again. And on the rooftop, Hagia Sophia blinked.

#

Poor Perezhitkov had to take time off from all his plumbing repair chores to organize a welcome party for the Amerikans in the newly-created lobby of the Glasnost Hotel. Comrade Rassolnikov came wearing a purple paper party-hat.

The bouquet of bald Moscow Hotel and Restaurant Restructuring Deputies and a crowd of Amerikans filled the room. The Amerikans, for the most part, had big teeth which they displayed by smiling often--too often. The men were wore fancy boots with pointed toes and high heels, and black strings with rocks around their necks instead of neckties.

Off in the corner, a hired ensemble of retired railway workers played "Somewhere My Love" on out-of-tune balalaikas, but the music was barely audible anyway. The Amerikans, to put it as delicately and as politely as possible, were a very loud group of people.

"How'rya do'in, good buddy?" yelled one red-faced man. slapping his hand hard across the back of another man with an equally red face.

"Right fine, buddy! Right fine!"

"You had any of them there finger-food things?"

"You mean them black, oily fish eggs there? Not on your blessed life! Why I wouldn't feed that slop to my hogs at home, if I had any hogs--round my oil wells, that is."

Another Amerikan threw off his wide-brimmed hat and whooped at the bar. "Why, hell! You mean you got hot gol-danged beer, and you ain't got no ice to chill it down with?"

The bartender, who was really Osip the waiter in a red bow tie and white shirt, smiled helplessly, looking at the interpreter. "What in the devil's name is he saying?" asked Osip through his teeth.

Ivan, the interpreter straight from the pedagogical institute, shook his head. "Look, they assigned me this thing, telling me these people speak English. Well, I don't understand a word these people are saying. I studied English at the institute, not this strange dialect!"

Up walked Rassolnikov, wearing his shiny purple paper hat. "Welcome to Glasnost Hotel! Welcome to Glasnost Hotel!" he said in his best English. "You are liking my party hat? It comes from New York, you see. I had a cousin once who was in New York once. And I studied English for two whole months myself, mastering the language perfectly, as so you can see so well!"

No one seem impressed. One kofboi shook his head. "That's the gol-danged dumbest damned hat I have ever seen!"

Rassolnikov bowed and smiled grandly. "Have koktailz, my friends and Amerikan Kapitalist comrades! Bar has koktailz! Vodka, much vodka. Good for peace and friendship!"

One tall kofboi sidled up to the bar. "Gimme a screwdriver, good buddy!"

Osip stared blankly ahead.

"He wants a tool of some sort--I can't make it out," offered Ivan, the interpreter.

"A screwdriver, good buddy!" the kofboi repeated, louder and slower. "Uno screwdriver, amigo! Comphrehende?"

Osip scratched his head. "What the hell does this giant want?" he asked under his breath.

The interpreter scratched his head.

"A screwdriver, amigo!" said the kofboi. "You know, good buddy! It's vodka and orange juice!"

The interpreter scratched his chin, nodded, then mumbled something to Osip.

Osip smiled, bowed, and poured out a glass of vodka.

"Why that's right fine, but where the hell is my orange juice?"

The interpreter bowed. "We have no orange juice, sir Kapitalist."

"No orange juice! Why what the hell kind of bar is this? How come you don't have orange juice?"

Osip and the interpreter conferred. "Because we have no oranges," said the interpreter.

"Why, hell then!" The Texan lifted the glass and downed the vodka in one shot. His face turned blue, then red. His eyes watered and he gasped. "Right fine screwdriver anyway, I reckon!" he whispered hoarsely. The glass slid towards Osip. "Gimme another one of them there screwdrivers, good buddy!"

#

"So what's going on over there at the newly-named Glasnost Hotel?" asked Avvakuum that evening. "There's plaster flying around, foreigners coming and going, and I'm sure it's all for no good purpose now, is it?"

Koshka didn't know how to answer. The last thing he wanted to do was agree with that gloomy old Avvakuum. "They're doing some remodeling, that's all."

"Remodelling--reshmoddeling! They're dismantling things, that's what they're doing! And more than just a building! They're dismantling the whole blessed country!"

Koshka couldn't think of a thing to say. He shook his head, fearing that after all was said and done, Avvakuum was right--absolutely and perfectly right.

"This is chaos, my friend," said Avvakuum. "It's pure, genuine, undiluted Russian chaos! And you know, there's one thing that Russia is very capable of creating, and it's the same thing that Russia absolutely cannot abide by, and that's chaos. Mark my words! This is merely the beginning of stormy times--of a cataclysm! It's the advent of darkness and, and--the abyss!"

"Sometimes I think you over-react," Koshka suggested.

"Not this time! Mark my words! Mark my words!"

"Aaaaa-vvaaaa-kuuuuuum!" It was poor Babushka Shura, yelling for her cat.

He nodded. "Poor old woman! She pretends to feed me good food and I pretend it's good enough. You see, this is the land of pretend! It has always been so, and always will!" With that, he curled his tail and headed for dinner, taking his time. His head was still shaking. "This is the beginning of the end, the beginning of the end, the beginning of the end."

Koshka wished he didn't agree, hoped he didn't, but in fact, he agreed already. He wished there was something Wonder Cat could do.

#

The party ran late into the evening, and the Amerikans got louder and louder by the hour. The next morning, Koshka stood in the foyer and examined the damage, trying hard to forget Avvakuum's dismal assessment of the situation. Koshka shook his head at the bright, blinking neon signs that stung his eyes. He squinted, trying to remember where the walls used to be. He looked at the garish lights, the chrome and white booths, the debris on the floor. It was one of those moments when it is very difficult for a cat to remain an optimist.

The elevator light blinked. The thing was working--maybe it was an omen.

"What a lovely entrance we now have to our beautiful hotel!" It was Liuba Smetanova, and she was carrying Hagia Sophia. Liuba stepped into the foyer and turned around so that her dress swirled and fanned out behind her. "How dignified it is! How tres moderne and chic it is!"

"We've done our best," said Rassolnikov, stepping into the foyer. "We've used the finest materials available, even when they weren't available for just regular projects, and we've done things on a--western--shall we say, on a kapitalistic, continental scale!"

Hagia Sophia looked around disdainfully, then leapt from Liuba's arms. She tried out her claws on the new carpet. In the corner, Koshka sniffed at the strange, thick stuff. A label attached to the rug said something like "shagg-karpettink."

"Come here, dearest!" said Liuba, scooping up her pet. "We must keep you away from--from riff-raff!" She glared at Koshka. "From riff-raff, alley-cats, uncultured, and dirty-minded males!"

Koshka could tell when he wasn't wanted. He headed across the room, towards the back stairway.

"Who continues to allow that shabby, greasy alley cat on these premises anyway?" Liuba demanded, adjusting her dress.

"It's that old woman, Petrova," said Rassolnikov. "And soon enough, we'll be rid of both her and her tom cat. And that crazy Baron too."

"Not soon enough!" piped in Liuba, brushing back her hair. "Why, how can you expect to create an elegant, continental atmosphere with the likes of that ugly cat?" Her finger pointed right at Koshka. "Anyway, it's not the widow's cat," she continued. "It's a stray--just a common ordinary stray, and it ought to be eliminated!"

"I'll get my men on the project right away!" said Rassolnikov. "I hate cats."

Liuba's mouth fell open, and she clutched at her Hagia Sophia.

"Well, most cats, I mean," said Rassolnikov. "Like that fat, slimy creature!" He lunged towards Koshka, but tripped over a loose end of the shagg karpettink, and landed flat on his face. "Damned cat! Useless, damned fat cat!"

In a flash, Koshka was safely hidden in the cellar, deep inside the rubble pile, under old posters of Brezhnev and Andropov and Chernenko. "What a fitting place for me!" he thought. "Dumped into the ash can of history."

#

But then it was evening, and time for the gathering of cats. Koshka gathered his courage and crawled out of the cellar, being careful to avoid humans. He paused in the doorway to brush off plaster dust and poster particles.

The cats were already assembled at the "People's Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory. Avvakuum glared at Koshka from atop his sloping bench. "And where have you been, enjoying life as usual? Having a good time as the whole world falls apart around you?"

"I was in the cellar, hiding for my life."

"Oh, my!" said Masha, her paws rushing to her face. "Did they hurt you?"

"No. Not physically at least," said Koshka. Then he was sorry he said it. If anything, he didn't want to look like a coward in front of Masha.

"Well!" said Avvakuum. "Maybe the world is educating you at last."

Koshka bowed his head. He could think of nothing to say. He was ashamed, in front of Masha especially.

"Tonight!" said Avvakuum, his voice rising. "We have special guests. Because of recent transfers and moves on the human plane, we have a most esteemed contingency of Moscow cats visiting." He motioned to his left. Heads turned and eyes blinked. Four thick orange cats stood off in the corner. "We have renowned visitors tonight!" announced Avvakuum. He raised his paw in a sweeping gesture. "Cats of Saint Petersburg, I want you to meet the esteemed Yauza River Feline Elders' Congress!"

"The who?" asked Almaz the Persian, his gray whiskers crinkling.

"The Yauza River Feline Elders' Congress!" Avvakuum said impatiently. "Why, it's the oldest cat organization in all of Russia! It was formed five centuries ago in Kolomenskoe, the wooden enclave of Czar Alexei, father to Peter the Great! Of late, this honored group of elder cats has been housed in the Andrei Rublev Chapel inside the hallowed white walls of the great Andronnikov Monastery."

The guest cats bowed and nodded humbly as Avvakuum sang their praises. "This group takes its name from the mighty river that flows into the River Moskva--the great but unheralded River Yauza." His voice lowered, going back to its normal tone. "And we Saint Petersburg cats are privileged that the Yauza River Feline Elders' Congress will contribute to our meager understanding of the Cat Chronicles!" Avvakuum bowed low, yielding the floor to a tall orange cat with long whiskers.

"Good evening, fellow cats," said the orange one in a melodious voice. "My name is Feofan Lapa, and I am here to tell you of the great history to which all of us have been parties! We cats have played a part in the history of Russia, as well as in the history of other countries. And we will explore that history with you. So now make yourselves comfortable, because I will take you on a long journey back into history, to the very beginnings, back as far as collective memory can take us."

Feofan Lapa spoke in golden tones. The cats all felt pleasantly drowsy. Koshka stretched out on the ledge of a storage bin, and Feofan Lapa's words wove their magic, painting vivid pictures in his head.

"We are going back now, back as far as any cat can go. We are of the tiger, of the jungle, of the steppes, of the mountains."

Koshka's body felt heavy. He felt as if he couldn't move a paw, even if he wanted to, and he didn't want to. He felt weightless, somehow asleep, but Feofan Lapa's music--the slow measured cadence of his chant--both excited and relaxed him. With every sentence spoken by Feofan Lapa, Koshka saw bright images in his head--sharp outlines, bold colors.

"We are of man, of the fifth dynasty of Egypt, five thousand years ago. Mustafa Mau, a short-ear cat, has been adopted by Osi, the young daughter of a prince and princess. Mustafa Mau eats off his Osi's plate, and his food his cut into bite-size pieces for him.

'Here, eat this!' said Osi one day at the table. She handed him a juicy piece of beef. 'Be a nice cat, and eat this beef.'

Mustafa Mau obliged.

'I don't like that cat,' said Osi's father, the prince Reingu. 'He stares at me so--I don't trust him. He is aloof. He is-'

'He is the best kitty in all the land!' said Osi, hugging Mustafa Mau. But she feared her father. 'Here!' she said, handing Mustafa Mau to him. 'Here, father! You pet him too!'

The prince stretched out his hand reluctantly, but Mustafa Mau leapt from Osi's arms and dashed to the doorway, where he stared back at the prince with unblinking eyes. At the same time, a cloud covered the sun, and the room darkened for a moment.

'That beast--he must go. He is bad luck. He is up to no good!'

'But, my beloved husband,' intervened Osi's mother. 'He is a dear pet for our daughter, and moreso, he and his fellow cats save our granaries--the king himself has said they are valuable in the granaries.'

'I--I just don't trust that beast,' said the prince.

Now all that night, a hot wind blew through the city, the temple, the grounds, and through Osi's house. Drapes waved in the wind, and palm fronds broke from their trees. The prince could not sleep, and he was pacing the palace floors. Clouds covered the stars, then the moon, and it became very dark. And all the while, the wind blew harder and harder. It was a rainless storm, an omen of bad things. Mustafa Mau lay curled like a half-moon on the flag stones.

'My sir prince, there is a relative of yours at the gate, your cousin,' came the soft voice of a trusted household servant.

'Send him in,' said the prince wearily.

The cousin stepped into the room and bowed low on the carpet. 'Forgive me, cousin, for I am out of breath. I have run all the way from the palace. Your highness, the king, has died this very hour!'

'Ai! Ai! Ai!' said the young prince. 'My beloved uncle, the king, is dead?'

'This very hour, prince. He took ill this afternoon. As if by omen, a cloud passed over the sun at the very moment he took sick.'

'Ai! Ai! Ai!' repeated the prince.

'Your lordship,' said the messenger. 'You must come to the temple now, then to the palace. You will be the king now, if you will! The people await your word.'

The prince shook his head slowly, walked to the window, and peered out the portico. The night was black. Nothing was discernible. 'It is as if night itself has overtaken the world, and will never relinquish it,' he said to himself.

The wind blew harder, but there was still no moon, no light. 'It is a sign from the heavens of unending disaster,' said the prince to himself. 'If only the darkness would end, right at this moment--it would be a sign of hope. It is as if light will never return to us--as if I should not be king.'

But it was dark. Then the prince looked down upon the cat. 'He is curled in a moon shape,' the prince said to himself. And he looked closer. There was light in the cat's eyes--a deep reflected light, as if it were the sunlight reflected by moonlight reflected by the cat's very soul.

And the prince stared at the erie light, and soon the room brightened. He turned and peered out the window, and the moon became visible, and then the stars. Mustafa Mau rose nobly and stretched. The wind let up at that moment, and the drapes became still.

'I will come with you,' said the prince to his cousin. And he bent towards Mustafa Mau. 'And I shall bring with me this--this bringer of light into darkness, this god!'

From that day forward, Mustafa Mau lived in the palace, under direct protection of the king. A rule went out across the land that cats were gods, that they should be protected and worshipped. And that is the tale of Mustafa Mau."

With that, Feofan Lapa stretched his limbs. "And now we return, beloved Saint Petersburg cats, every so gently, to the time of the present."

As if awakened by command, the cats all began to stretch too.

"It was a wonderful tale!" said Misha.

"I love the part about being gods!" said Grisha.

"And a lot of good that did!" muttered the ever-gloomy Avvakuum.

"Oh, a lot of good that did do!" answered Feofan Lapa with a lively smile across his aged face. "Why, cats were worshipped as gods in Egypt for two thousand years after that."

"One of the few times in history, then, I suppose, when humans were kind to us!" said Avvakuum.

"It was one of the many times when general human kindness outweighed human cruelty--by a very wide margin, my learned friend," answered Feofan Lapa.

"I don't believe it, my esteemed Moscow colleague."

"Then listen," said Feofan Lapa in a voice that was firm and kind. "In Egypt, the goddess, Bastet, a cat, came to symbolize both virginity and fertility, if you can imagine that! In those days, it was a crime, punishable by death, for a human to kill a cat. And, when a house cat died, it was mummified and mourned, just as any other member of the family. And King Osorkon the Second built a city called Bubastis, east of the Nile, whose sole purpose was cat worship, and every year there was held the great festival of Bubastis, and hundreds of thousands of people attended."

"Wow!" said Almaz the Persian. "What a time to have been alive!"

"Indeed!" Koshka said. "To have such power--cats would have set the world right."

"Hardly," said Feofan Lapa wearily. "Sometimes we cats are not much better than humans, really--with our fighting, our competing, our selfishness."

Koshka nodded, and his mind flashed back to the cat wars. Then through the frosty factory window he spied a certain haughty cat prancing on a roof top. "Yes, I would like to make peace with a certain cat," he admitted.

Feofan Lapa smiled. It was a world-weary cat smile. "The Egyptians paid dearly for their love of cats, it is said. In the year five hundred B.C., the Persians were fighting the Egyptians, and the Persians were losing at the battle of Pelusium. Then the Persians got an idea. They disappeared, and the Egyptians thought they'd retreated. But, days later the Persians returned, releasing a whole pack of cats on the battlefield. The cats, of course, were frightened, and the Egyptians, of course, tended to the cats. It was not a good day for the Egyptian army. The Persians were victorious." Feofan Lapa's smile faded. "It is a funny tale, in a way, and perhaps not true, but, you know, I somehow want to agree with our friend, the elder Avvakuum. When it comes to cruelty and absurdity, no one surpasses the humans."

"Yes, those humans are really crazy!" said Almaz.

"Especially the ones at the Glasnost Hotel," Koshka said to himself.

"How interesting it must have been to live in a time or greatness as Mustafa Mau did," mourned Masha the house cat. "Nowadays, all we have is a fight over carpets and foyers, and whether the Amerikans or the Russians will cook the best meals in the Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar."

"This Egyptian tale is my favorite tale from the Cat Chronicles!" said Misha.

Grisha nodded. "Yes! I love the idea of a cats being gods!"

Koshka scratched his chin. "I don't know why, but I prefer the tale of Ivan's cat, Pimen."

"But why?" asked Misha and Grisha in unison.

"Pimen was an important cat."

"You mean that in Egypt, Bastet and the cat-gods weren't important?" they demanded.

"Oh, I'm sure they were. But I like the tale of Pimen writing to the Byzantine princess, Zoe Paleologa, because Pimen was a cat of action. His letter brought Zoe to Moscow. He made all the difference."

Misha and Grisha nodded.

"Ah, so you are a cat of action then, or would like to be!" said Feofan Lapa, rubbing his whiskers.

"I would like to be a cat of action," Koshka answered. "Yes, I would like to do something--I would like to help the widow Petrova, for instance. I would like to be Wonder Cat. Like Mustafa Mau, or Pimen, or Vologya. If only I had the opportunity!"

And to himself he added, "Then maybe Masha would love me."

#

"Meetink! Meetink! Time for beeg meetink!" Comrade Rassolnikov called out in his best English as he marched through the hotel. "All come to beeg important meetink in the Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar!"

Being the curious sort, Koshka was not one to miss a meeting, particularly one held in a snack bar. He headed right for the Perestroika, up the dark back stairs.

The Russians, including the bouquets of bald Muscovite dignitaries, sat in the back, fidgeting in their seats like a bunch of schoolboys. There was Perezhitkov, slinking low in his chair, his belly rising before him like a helium balloon. Next to him sat Lidia, his wife. Her arms crossed her belly, her fingers barely touching--looking as if they strained to meet one-another. Next to Lidia sat little Perezhitkov, a miniature rendition of his father.

There was a rustling at the back of the room. "Excuse me! Excuse me!" In rushed Liuba Smetanova, teetering on four-inch heels. "Excuse me!" she repeated, knocking an old Russian off his chair. "Oh, a foreigner--or a dignitary!" she said, spying a fancy watch on the wrist of a Muscovite. "Oh, my! Pardonez Moi!" She seated herself with much ceremony in the second row, making sure her skirt was properly adjusted, and her blouse, and her hair, and finally (with the aid of a mirror), her makeup. She pulled a large tube out of her black purse, and smeared a purple paste across her lips. "Now, there!" she said, placing her hands on her lap. "I'm ready, oh so ready, and where are these delightful, refined foreigners we've been waiting for such a long time, too long a time indeed?"

"Of course those foreign devils will keep us waiting!" snapped Borya Smetanov. "It makes them feel important!"

"Oh, hush!" said Liuba. "You're always so--so anti-foreign!"

"And you'd do anything for a foreigner, wouldn't you?" he snapped.

"Shush!" she hissed, adjusting her dress. "I just appreciate a little refinement, that's all!"

Ten minutes passed, in silence. There was only the smallest amount of fidgeting--most of it from a purple-faced Muscovite who tugged at his shirt collar. Little Perezhitkov fidgeted too, pulling at the tie around his neck, but Mrs. Perezhitkova slapped him every time he moved.

"We're ready already! Ready already!" Liuba sang out in a soft voice. She turned towards her husband and growled. "Who's in charge here--you?"

"I won't have anything to do with foreign devils! That sap Rassolnikov's in charge."

"Oh--well, we--I'm sure they'll be here soon."

"When you got foreigners involved, nothing works," muttered Borya Smetanov. "It is a dark day when we let them take over anything, even a run-down dump and a god-forsaken greasy snack bar."

There was a rustling in the hallway, then footsteps--more clomps than footsteps, actually. In walked Rassolnikov with a bundle of papers under each arm. Behind him came the Amerikans, led by the giant creature with the enormous white hat and teeth.

"Howdy! Howdy! Howdy!" said the tall kofboi. The shorter kofbois (who, by normal Russian standards were extraordinarily tall anyway) nodded and showed toothy smiles.

The tall man took a chair, and the others followed. Legs stuck out from under the table.

Rassolnikov stepped up to a crooked podium that rested on top of one of the tables. "Comrades and esteemed foreign kapitalists! Today marks the beginning of a long journey--a necessary first step in the economic re-structuring of our great nation, a time for-"

"Shut up and get on with it!" came a grumble from the back of the room.

"Only after I have finished a proper introduction for the kapitalists!" snapped Rassolnikov. He grabbed both sides of the podium and leaned into a speech that went on for an hour about peace and friendship and incentives in a socialist economy, the need for all-out effort and innovative thinking in an environment of strict discipline and obedience to directives.

Feet shuffled, eyes turned red and blinked, and mouths gaped open then closed.

Rassolnikov turned to the last page of his notes and took a deep breath, as if getting ready to plunge into a pool. "And so, my dear comrades and kapitalists! It is with the utmost of utmost pleasure and with the highest of high anticipation that I introduce to you our kapitalist contingent and its esteemed and very wealthy leader, Billy Bob Buck! Would one of the Amerikans here want to introduce their rich leader?"

A snore popped out from somewhere deep in Perezhitkov's throat. He awoke, startled, opened his eyes, then shut them again. Mrs. Perezhitkova poked him in the side, then straightened herself on the seat. "It's the kapitalists' turn now, stupid!" she snapped. "Stay awake!"

A kofboi in thick black glasses grabbed a glass of water, then stood up. "Brothers and sisters, today marks a new beginning!" With that, he sat down, took off his glasses, and wiped them with his napkin.

"What in the devil's name was that?" asked Borya Smetanov. "That's not a speech! Why, he's hardly said a word!"

Then the giant kofboi in the white hat stood up and squinted. "My brothers and sisters, the time of the lord is at hand! Er, I mean, we have gathered here--I mean, we have come here to work on an enterprise--to open a hotel and restaurant combination that will rival any in the whole dang-blasted world!"

"A question, please!" came a voice from the Muscovites in the back of the room. "How do you intend to make this hotel a profitable operation?"

"Prophets?" asked the kofboi. "Prophets, well there's Ezekiel--the great Ezekiel-"

"Maybe our good buddy the Reverend Billy Bob would like to set for a spell," said another kofboi on the dais. He stood up, cleared his throat, and opened his mouth. "The reverend Billy Bob, you see, sometimes gets carried away with his words. He has peculiar spells once in a while. He gets a word of knowledge now and then. But do not presume that all his oars aren't in the water, or that his elevator don't stop at the top floors, if you know what I mean and I think you do. He is a sharp man--a good businessman, and at home, his line of deep-fried chicken wings sell on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line, and his franchise empire consists of over five hundred 'lil tin chicken shacks that stretch from one ocean to the other!"

"But what can he do for us?" asked the same Muscovite.

Billy Bob took the podium. "Why, my brothers and sisters, we can turn this here spot around to be'in the most popular eaterie in all of the whole danged country, that's what we can do! And, we can make a mint at it!"

"How do you do that?"

"It's all figured out by the experts," said the reverend. "We start with what them California fellahs, my new partners, call a concept. Then we get an image, and then, these fellahs say, we move through marketing to position ourselves-"

"What the hell is he talking about?" asked another Muscovite. "I've never heard those words, and I've studied English since second grade!"

"Oh, shut up you old washed-up, anti-reform reactionary!" snapped another Muscovite.

"Whack!" the first Muscovite punched the second Muscovite, who spun back and hit a third Muscovite.

"Please, comrades!" admonished Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka, their short leader. "Let us behave ourselves here!"

"Now, if I can continue," said the kofboi reverend Billy Bob. "We have put together a consortium here that can produce economic miracles in the hotel and beverage industry. We, the Lubbock and Permian Basin Gospel and Restaurant Franchise Club, have combined with a group of Californians-"

"Kalifornians?" asked the Muscovite, still smarting from the whack on his head. "What are Kalifornians? It sounds like a new vegetable."

"Keep quiet, idiot!" snapped another Muscovite. "Kalifornians just happen to be the smartest and the richest of all Amerikans!"

"Now," continued the kofboi reverend. "We don't always understand our brothers from California, but believe you me, them fellows know what they're doing when it comes to bidnet--I mean, business." He pulled a brochure out of his pocket. "Here, let me read you some of this high-powered stuff here. His eyes squinted at the glossy paper. 'We have combined our creative forces with a gentleman who is coming here this very evening. He heads a think-tank in California that has honed down the principles of entrepreneurship and share-segment marketing to a bare minimum that we believe will translate here into exceedingly high profits'" The reverend looked up and a broad smile spread across his face, like butter over bread. "I mean, we're talking about money. I mean, like mucho denero in the bank. I mean like filthy, oil-well rich--that's what I mean!"

There was a shout from an Amerikan in the back. "Hey, Johnny Frisco! Hey, it's Johnny Frisco!"

Koshka had seen this man before, ages ago, it seemed, when the black Zil appeared for its second visit. In walked Johnny Frisco, his yellow hair shining in neon. He was wearing thick black sunglasses and three gold chains around his neck. Bracelets and rings sparkled in the harsh florescent light.

"Why, Johnny Frisco!" the kofbois on the dais chanted, rising in unison.

"Hey!" said Johnny, walking down the aisle like a prize-fighter. He waved his hand as if he were conducting an orchestra. "Hey, like sit down, man! Be cool! Be cool!"

Koshka crouched in the corner, afraid even to blink, for fear of missing even one word or one gesture. This was all too important for him, for the other cats. This was history. Never before had he, or any other cat witnessed such a collection of people. Every cat in the city knew foreigners were all a bit strange, and that the foreigners who visited Russia were the strangest of all. Still, Koshka was not prepared for this strangest of strange encounters--the one between the Kalifornian contingent of Johnny Frisco and the Lubbock and Permian Basin Gospel and Restaurant Franchise Club.

The Kalifornians shook hands with the kofbois, while the Russians sat and gaped at the spectacle.

"Now, let us have genuine koktail party!" said Rassolnikov. The balalaikas broke into "When the Saints come marching in." The Russians stood up and mingled with the Amerikans who stepped off the platform.

The room filled with conversation and with smoke--the sweet smoke of Marlboros and Winstons and the dry, flat smoke of Yava Russian cigarettes and old-fashioned Russian papyrosy.

The reverend Billy Bob worked the crowd, pumping hands and showing his teeth.

"Hey!" said Johnny Frisco to no one in particular. "We need an interpreter here!"

"We got plenty of Russian interpreters," came the answer.

"Naw!" said Johnny. "I mean the cowboys. I can't understand half of what that reverend-guy says!"

At that very moment, the Baron passed through, raising a champagne glass. "Arise, you slaves, no more in thrall!"

"What the hell was that?" asked Johnny Frisco.

"That's the Baron," said little Perezhitkov. "He thinks it's l923."

Nick, Johnny Frisco's friend, shook his head. "I don't think I like any of this."

"It'll work," Johnny whispered. "Just be patient. We'll make a mint!"

"I don't know, Johnny. Something stinks. They're all crazy here! That reverend and his cowboy buddies. That Russian in the purple party hat. That Baron guy. It all gives me the heebie-jeebies."

"Just you wait for Winston Hale, the man," said Johnny.

Just then, the door opened, and a band of light shone through the smoky room.

"Winston Hale!" gasped Nick. "Hey, everybody, it's Winston Hale!"

"What is this Winston Hale?" asked Rassolnikov in his best English.

"He's the free world's best financial genius, that's all!" said Johnny. "Why, he's been on every talk show in the USA, and he gives seminars and classes all over the country. He's on cable TV every night."

"What is seminar?" asked Rassolnikov. "And what is cable TV?"

"You got a long way to go, buddy," said Nick. "This Winston Hale--he's got an MBA from Stanford!"

"What is MBA, and what is a Stanford?"

Nick shook his head. In the back of the room, Winston Hale smoothed down a shock of rust-colored hair, adjusted the lapels of his white linen coat, and headed for the reverend. Winston's shoes were so small, it was as if he had no feet at all.

"Blessed good to meet you!" said the reverend Billy Bob, extending his hand. "Why, I've seen the way you operate on TV, and I am impressed to no end!"

"And I can say the same about you, honey!" said Winston Hale. "So let's get to work, and get out of dreadful place!"

"Dreadful it is!" said the reverend. "They're atheists all over, and worse, they don't know the bottom line on a profit-and-loss statement from a bread line!"

"Oh, that's a good one!" said Winston Hale. "Now, let's get things rolling!" He rubbed his hands together, then walked up to Rassolnikov. "Mister Rassolnikov, I believe?"

"Why, yes," answered Rassolnikov.

"We're going to make sweet music together here!"

Rassolnikov frowned.

Just then the Baron passed, ivory walking stick in one hand, champagne goblet in the other. "For justice thunders condemnation!" he sang. "A better world's in birth!"

It was more noise and smoke and cologne than Koshka could bear. He headed for the cellar.

#

But back in 1985, it was a summer warmer and fuller than Koshka ever remembered, and he strolled with his love along the Nevka. The river never seemed so pure or majestic, and it never sparkled so.

Even the world of humans had turned magical. Stone and stucco buildings blushed in the sun, and polished grilles of lorries and cars flashed smiles. How much because of Katyenka, Koshka couldn't tell. He'd never been so full or happy, had never been in love.

Together they walked along the boulevard all the way up to the bridge, then turned for the stroll back down the boulevard.

"What's this?" It was a snarl. A dark shadow stood out separate from a bush, and soon Koshka spotted a tawny-colored cat. It was neither striped, nor a tabby, nor had patches like a short-hair.

"Katyenka!" the shadow spoke. "Where have you been, and what are you doing with--with this?" he demanded, glaring at Koshka.

Koshka held his ground. He felt his paws digging into the pavement. "Katyenka's with me." His words came out like spikes. "My name is Koshka. I'm from down the boulevard, from Popov Street." Automatically, he turned sideways, showing this intruder a bushy tail. "And who are you?"

"Igor, King of the island cats, that's who!" he snarled. "And Katyenka, she's mine!"

Koshka's heart pounded, and he crouched low to the ground. Every piece of him wanted to, craved lunging forward at the shadowy tomcat. But he measured his words. "You are who you are, and you can call yourself what you want, but Katyenka--she can chose who she wants." As Koshka spoke, his eye turned for a sideways look at her.

Katyenka cowered, her head lowering and her paws nearly folding under her. Her eyes flashed with fright. "I--I chose Koshka here."

"What?" bellowed the tom, throwing a glance at Koshka. "You pick this--this mongrel cat with no name? You just get up and come back to the colony with me. You'll get yours yet! Who do you think you are, wandering off like that!"

"I--I choose Koshka," she said softly, still crouching.

"You heard what she said," Koshka interjected. "So we will thank you to let us pass."

Igor hissed.

Koshka held his ground. "I will thank you to let me pass, or I will force you out of my way--whichever you choose. Either way, Katyenka and I are going back down this boulevard."

Igor hissed again, and his bushed-out tail tapped at the pavement.

Koshka and Katyenka passed.

Koshka assured her and reassured her that all was well, but his heart pounded all the way down the boulevard.

#

The back entrance was as dark as ever. Two shadows merged on the landing between the fifth and sixth floors.

"Oh, how I love foreign leather!" panted Liuba. "Give it to me with those boots on."

"I am crazy--crazy with desire for you!" whispered Rassolnikov.

There was moaning and sighing, then it became quiet. The single big shadow separated into two smaller shadows.

"And what exactly is it you find so attractive about me?" asked Liuba.

"Well," said Rassolnikov. "Your--your bosoms. Here, let me just fondle your bosoms!"

"Is that all you find attractive in me?" she snapped.

"No, no! But just let me feel those big hot-"

"Tell me first!" she commanded.

"Okay! Okay! Your--your sophistication. How's that? Your sophistication, your elegance. That's what I admire about you!"

"Mmmmm," said Liuba. "Tell me more!"

"It's your--flair, your fashion, my dearest! Now, let me fondle those big hot-"

"You're so different from my Borya!" she said. "He hates my--what you call sophistication. He's such a boor! A genuine Russian boor!"

"My dear," said Rassolnikov, his voice muffled in her blouse. "You deserve more. You should have a--for instance, a deputy, someone with access to special shops, to hard currency-"

"Keep talking!" she commanded. "Tell me more! Tell me more!"

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