Chapter Eight

"My, my, oh my! Such big, big changes at the Glasnost!" remarked Avvakuum dryly, settling into his trash pile for the evening gathering of cats. A cynical, feigned excitement laced his voice. "Foreigners coming and going at all hours. Moscow officials too. Scaffolds outside, and walls coming down inside!" The old cat shook his head fast, then slow. "None of this bodes well."

"I--I don't think change means change for the worse," said Koshka, but his voice sounded thin and strained.

"What about your widow friend then?" asked the old red cat.

Koshka's head hung low. "Well, I think they're getting ready to--to kick her out." His voice sounded even thinner.

"Probably so. Probably so. And just think, what sorts of human abominations will replace her?" Avvakuum's voice sounded stronger and stronger, fuller and fuller. "And then it will be your turn! Mark my words!"

Koshka nodded, not knowing how to answer. What would life in that old building be like, without the widow? And what would his life be like, when they got around to evicting him? "You're a homeless stray. If you were worth anything, somebody would have you." Hagia Sophia's words returned to haunt him. Where in the cold world would he go, once evicted from the only home he ever knew?

Just then, Feofan Lapa happened by. "Greetings Avvakuum! Greetings all! There are big doings going on at the hotel, I see. And Moscow's involved, of course! That's how we came to visit. My, my, my!"

"It's awful!" mourned Avvakuum.

"It's exciting! Exhilarating!" said Feofan Lapa. "Why, they're changing the whole way this country operates, right in that very building! If they succeed, it will serve as a model for the whole country!"

Koshka's head lifted. He envied Feofan Lapa for his optimism. He was one cat who had seen the world, and he was still very much an optimist.

"It will fail!" said Avvakuum, and Koshka again felt his head lowering.

"Maybe so. Maybe so." answered Feofan Lapa, shaking his paw. "But do not write this country off so easily. It has absorbed many changes, and it has survived."

"But all those foreigners!" lamented Avvakuum.

"Oh, they're been foreigners here before, and we've survived."

"Sure! We've survived. Bah! And what fun it's been! The Mongols! Napoleon! Adolph Hitler! What a jolly time we've had with our dear foreign visitors!"

"Oh, they were many more foreigners than that!" said Feofan Lapa. "And our beloved Cat Chronicles will illuminate those periods for us. Then you will not have such negative feelings about foreigners, perhaps, my friend, Avvakuum."

"Humph! These particular foreigners are particularly strange, anyway!"

"One of them is ten feet tall!" said Misha.

"And he wears a wide white hat that's as big as a swimming pool," said Grisha.

"And there's one skinny man with dark skin who puffs on cigarettes all the time," said Masha the house cat. "He looks like a Nafia man to me."

"You mean 'Mafia'," corrected Misha.

"Yes, we saw the television special!" said Grisha.

"That's Johnny Frisco you're talking about," Koshka said, coming out of his gloomy thoughts. "He's a Kalifornian. That's why he's so dark."

"Oh, how do you know all that?" moaned Misha.

"Why, he's just a very smart cat," said Masha.

And Koshka beamed with pride. "I'm not any smarter than the ordinary cat I've just made it my mission to find out what is going on. And so far, I know that those men with Johnny Frisco are Kalifornians."

"My, how do you find all these things out?" asked Masha.

"I look and I listen."

"Oh. And the others, who are they?"

"They're Texans."

"What?" asked Masha.

"Texans. Kofbois. You know. You've seen the movies."

"Oh." Masha paused, as if digesting a large chunk of new information. "Where are their horses then?"

"Waiting for them in Texas probably."

"And the lot of them are no good!" interjected Avvakuum from deep inside his trash pile.

"Well, I know that both the main kofboi and the main Kalifornia man hate cats!" Koshka added.

"You mean foreigners hate cats too?" Masha asked.

Feofan Lapa stepped up to the top of Avvakuum's trash pile. "My, my indeed! What a coincidence. For it is man's hatred of cats that is the subject of this evening's segment from the Cat Chronicles."

With that, Feofan Lapa stretched out wide across the trash pile, made himself an oval nest, and then reclined ever so slowly. "Close your eyes now and go back with me in time. Go West with me to a village called Stow-on-the-Wold, in the green, rolling Cotswalds, in England."

Around the court yard, cat's eyes closed and cat's heads nodded. Feofan chanted. His voice was lush and rich, and his words painted pictures. "It is the year 1485, and Lizzie, a thin gray cat, lives with Nance, her mistress, in a thatch hut not far from the golden stone manor house of the earl. Nance has reddish skin and hair, and deep-set, loving eyes. She has cared for Lizzie since she found her, a homeless kitten, in the village.

The wind blows, shaking the thatch on the roof, and the air is damp with rain. Nance stokes the fire and Lizzie curls on the hearth.

Outside, horses hooves pound on the cobblestone street, then clomp on the damp earth. They're getting nearer, and Lizzie stands, stretches, and comes to full alert. Maybe it is Thom, the cruel man who lives with Nance.

The door opens, and rain slants across the dirt floor. 'Where is your husband?' demands a low voice. The man is thick and tall.

'He's--he's not here,' says Nance. Her hand rises and clutches her collar.

'And when will he return?' the man demands.

'Who asks?' says Nance. Her thin voice now sounds frightened and firm, all at the same time.

'The bishop's appointed delegate, that is who!' says the man.

'The bishop?'

'Yes.'

'Why the bishop?'

'Where is your husband, woman?' the man repeats, as if reciting from memory.

'He's not here.'

'That we know!'

'He went--he's-' Nance's hands rise to her face, then fall back down at her sides. She takes a deep breath. 'He left me, abandoned me. It was one month ago. I am sure you well know.' She looks straight into the man's thick face. 'So why this pretext?'

'Your husband has left you, woman. That we know.'

Nance's eyes flash. 'For another woman! He left me for a seamstress in Burford.'

The man steps towards Nance. Lizzie hunkers low to the floor, ready to strike, wishing the man were smaller, the size of a rat. 'Your husband has sworn to an oath,' says the man. 'We are obligated to investigate. The bishop has commanded me-'

'Commanded you to what?' demands Nance.

'To investigate. That's all. Woman, do you attend church?'

'I do not.'

Silence.

'Neither does--or did--my husband!' she adds.

'The investigation is not about your husband. Are you baptized?'

'No.'

Silence.

'Few of us peasants here are baptized,' she says.

'You have children?'

'I had a child." Nance's voice quivers. I had a daughter. Three years old. She--she died last winter.' Her hands go to her face. Tears fall.

Silence.

Lizzie wants to rush to her, comfort her, but she holds her ground, fearing this thick man who has invaded their cottage.

The man speaks, as if reciting. 'Did you not call on certain elder women to come to your daughter?'

'She was ill. I asked for help.'

'And did not these certain women use potions?'

Lizzie could see that Nance's eyes narrowed, and that her arms and fingers tightened. 'They--they brought a powder. I do not know what it was. Do you--are you suggesting that-'

'Did they not take blood from your daughter?'

'They let blood, yes!' she answered firmly. 'And do you dare to suggest that-'

'Was that infant's blood used for a black mass now, was it?'

Nance's eyes flash and her hands become fists at her sides. 'How dare you suggest that-'

The man steps forward, reaching for her.

Lizzie crouches low to the ground and hisses, ready to strike.

'Aha!' says the man. 'Is that beast yours?'

'Yes!'

'That devil is yours? You admit to it?'

'That is my cat! You are insane! The things you say! You are insane, or drunk, or both! Or possessed maybe!'

'We shall see who is possessed!' says the man, his thick fist grabbing her by the wrists. 'Men, enter!' he commands.

Four men rush into the tiny cottage. 'I will take this woman, this witch!' commands the thick man. 'You men seize the evidence. The swill in the kettle over the fire. God knows what evil things are in it, so be careful. Take the spices and powders too. Any books or texts. And the cat. Take that dreaded beast that sees in the night! But let it not bite you or claw you, or you too will be consigned to the devil!'

The big-wheeled cart sways and bounces over the ground, then harder over the cobblestones. Then the village of Stow-in-the-Wold recedes into the rolling green hills. Nance sits in the back of the cart. Her hands and feet are tied, her mouth covered by a cloth. But Lizzie sees her eyes. They are afraid, sad, and angry--all at once. Lizzie too is tied, her legs tight against her body, and leather straps keep her from opening her mouth. All the way to Chipping Campden.

The next day, Lizzie, still bound, lies in a cage on a tall planked platform next to the yellow stone-arched market. Next to her, Nance is bound and held by three men in black hoods.

A dusty crowd pushes and shoves around the platform, then the people part, like a river, and up comes an old wrinkled man in red. Four men in black robes help him step onto the platform.

'This is the woman?' he asks.

'Yes, bishop,' says the thick man.

The man in red speaks to the crowd. 'Brothers and sisters, we are at a dangerous time of the year. It is Shrove Tuesday, when these witches set about their evil business.' He points to the cage on the platform, then turns to the thick man. 'And this is her familiar--her devil-beast?'

'Yes, excellency.'

The man in red turns to Nance. 'This, woman, is your familiar?'

'It is my cat, my companion, and my pet!'

'Defiant witch!' snaps the man in red. 'You will be put to death for your sins. And may the lord have mercy on your pitiable soul! Now watch what we do first. You will have the pleasure of seeing what men of God do to familiars of the devil and to companions of witches!'

Two men lift the cage, jostling Lizzie. She would like to howl, but her mouth is bound tight. She would run, but her legs are bound.

'Deacon, do thy sacred duty!' commands the man in red.

A hand with hairy knuckles thrusts into the cage. Lizzie squirms, but in vain.

The hand holds Lizzie high in the air, over the crowd. The hand turns fast, the trees spin, and the clouds run in circles.

'It is the devil itself!' says the man in red. 'The lunar beast! The Gremalkin gray of the Scots! No cat can suffer too much! So says the Lord himself, through our Pope, Innocent the Eighth. Kill it!'

The hand still spins Lizzie. Faces in the crowd flash past. Mouths open, eyes narrow, and a chant arise. 'Kill it! Kill it! Kill it!'

Lizzie spins. A vision of Nance flashes by. A thin body. Bound. Reddish hair and skin. Deep-set loving eyes, now dark with fear.

There is the bright glint of steel, a great shining of light. Then a sharpness, then warmth and flowing that turn to cold and stillness."

Feofan Lapa paused. The seconds passed by, turning to minutes, or so it seemed to Koshka.

"Breathe deep now," said Feofan Lapa. "Come back to the here and now. To the present. Awaken at the count of five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five."

Koshka opened his eyes and stretched. He felt sick. He was sorry for Lizzie, sorry for life, for all the cats who had suffered, sorry the world was so cruel. His own problems seemed nothing, his life an actual blessing. Even the bad memories inside seemed not so bad now.

The trash pile shifted. Avvakuum stretched, then shuddered. "Ai, that cruel story even hurts me, who expects so little from humans!"

"What a sad, sad tale!" said Masha, shaking her head.

"So, just how did cats go from being gods in Egypt to being instruments of the devil?' demanded Misha.

"Yes!" added Grisha. "Why couldn't we have just remained gods, like in Egypt?"

"Ah!" said Feofan Lapa. "That is the problem. And that is the way humans think. By calling us gods, the Egyptians were guilty of creating an over-simplification, a generalization that was too wide to endure. So perhaps it was a question of cosmic balance that brought cats to the other extreme in human esteem."

"Arrgh!" A voice growled under Feofan Lapa, coming from deep inside the trash pile. "Humans have always hated us, pure and simple! And there's nothing more to it than that!"

"Consider these things then, my good friend, Avvakuum," said Feofan Lapa. "Nothing is ever that simple. Why, if Egyptians considered cats as gods, then why do you suppose they came to hate them later?"

"Jealousy!" growled Avvakuum.

"Yes, that's part of it, to be sure. Why else?"

Avvakuum rubbed his face with his paw. "Well, how about disappointment--disenchantment, I suppose?"

"Yes, that's part of it, my good friend. It is easy to disappoint when one is considered a god when one is not a god, to be sure."

"I got it! I got it!" said Misha. "Humans can't understand us cats, so they fear us!'

"And because they fear us, they come to hate us!" added Grisha.

Koshka nodded with approval. "Yes, and because they cannot control us, they might hate us sometimes, I suppose."

"Explain what you mean," suggested Feofan Lapa.

"Well, take dogs, for instance," said Koshka. "A dog has a master, pure and simple. The dog performs tricks for his master--he lives at his master's beck and call. He licks his master's hand, runs after him, rolls over for him, begs for him-"

"We cats would never beg!" said Misha.

"Never! Never!" added Grisha.

"Yes, indeed," said Feofan Lapa. "You are all wise cats. It is our independent natures that humans, at times, dislike. But perhaps there is more to the human's dislike of cats. Does anyone have a clue?"

Koshka scratched his head. "There's something about religion--something I don't understand, but maybe it is connected."

"What do you mean?" asked Feofan Lapa.

"That cat is always thinking too much for his own good!" admonished Avvakuum.

"Let him say what he wants to say," interjected Feofan Lapa. And the orange fur on this kind, giant cat almost bristled.

Koshka swallowed, giving himself time to gather his thoughts and find the right words. "What I mean is--it is hard to express--but, if you are a god in one religion, then chances are you are a devil in the next."

"You watch too much television for your own good!" humphed Avvakuum.

"Let him speak," said Feofan Lapa kindly.

"What I mean," said Koshka again, fighting for time to put his tangled thoughts into words. "Is that religions--philosophies too--they compete for humans, and so what is exalted in one is lowered in the other."

"Precisely! Precisely!" said Feofan Lapa proudly. "What a wise and fine cat you are!"

"Oh, our Koshka is so very smart!" exclaimed Masha, and Koshka felt suddenly bashful.

"What an optimistic, ignorant puss that Koshka is!" hrumphed a voice from deep inside the trash pile.

Feofan Lapa ignored Avvakuum's remark. "Our wise friend, Koshka from the Glasnost Hotel, has hit upon a truth that is borne out in history. Cats were considered divine by the Egyptians, so then how would they be considered by those who conquered the Egyptians? Simply, as not divine--that's all. Imagine how the Romans felt in Alexandria during the times of Julius Caesar, when a mob of Egyptians beat and killed a Roman soldier for accidentally killing a cat?"

"Not good, I suppose," said Misha and Grisha.

"Exactly! So cats would have to prove their value once again. And later, the Phoenicians made great trade out of marketing cats all over their world. And when the Barbarians brought rats into Europe, you can well imagine that cats became valuable once again."

"Then why weren't they made gods again?" asked Avvakuum smugly.

"You know the answer, for your wise neighbor from the Glasnost Hotel has already given the answer. Since cats were divine in the Egyptian religion, then they couldn't be divine in the Roman, or Christian religion. They were considered something pagan, evil, devil-like. And to make matters worse as time went on, the pagan cult of Freya, the Norse Goddess, chose the cat as symbol of their religion, and you can imagine what the Christians thought about that!"

"Uggh!" said Avvakuum from deep in the trash pile. "The middle ages! The bane of all catdom!"

"You are so correct, my deeply-esteemed and deeply-buried friend," said Feofan Lapa sadly. "The middle ages are a low point in the history of cats. For years and years, priests partook in thousands of ceremonies throughout Europe. They burnt cats. They flayed cats. They crucified cats."

"Why, I don't believe it!" gasped Masha.

"It's documented--all of it recorded," Feofan Lapa said sadly. "In 1484 Pope Innocent the eighth--and what a wonderful name for that man--this 'innocent' pope took time out to denounce the cat, and all its friends. In Alsace, priests threw cats into the Easter bonfires. In Vosges, they were burned on Shrove Thursday. In Belgium, they were thrown from the top of towers."

"I can't believe such cruelty!" said Koshka. "I can't believe humans would do such things. Why, the humans I know are so--so kind and considerate! There's the widow Petrova, who wouldn't hurt a soul. There's Anna, her niece. There's-"

"Rassolnikov, Liuba Smetanova, that reverend--all of them such kind and wonderful humans!" came a gruff voice from deep inside the trash pile.

Feofan Lapa nodded and smoothed his fur. "Remember this. Humans are known for the greatest kindnesses as well as the greatest cruelties. That goes for times past, for the present, probably for the future too. And it concerns more than us cats. They are even crueler to one-another, at times. Remember this, fellow cats! Never underestimate the power of a human to compound cruelty or kindness. Now our jobs as cats is to predict when and from whom the cruelty will come, and when and from whom the kindness will come. Our survival depends on it."

"That is exactly the kind of study I have undertaken," said Koshka. "There's something going on at the Glasnost Hotel--it's more than anybody knows. It concerns more than kicking out a kind widow, more than gutting a beautiful old lobby and putting up garish booths and neon signs! There's something going on, and I will find out exactly what it is!"

"Good for you!" said Feofan Lapa. "Follow your instincts, and act on them. Now I am a very old cat indeed. Yet, my instincts tell me that you are onto something. Remember, you must discover when it is best to fight, flee, or flow. I hope you have the strength, the intelligence, and the fortitude to carry through."

"Fortitude-shmortitude!" came the gruff, muffled voice from deep inside the trash pile. "He's just a young dumb cat who can't accept the fact that he lives in a totally absurd building, located in an equally absurd world."

"Well," said Feofan Lapa. "I guess it's all up to Koshka at this point. He will show us whether he is a dumb cat living in a meaningless world, or whether he can make sense of a good world and protect it too. It's a mighty big job, it seems to me."

"A mighty big job," said Koshka to himself. If only he had what it took! If only he was smarter, or stronger, or both! If only he were a Wonder Cat! Then he would tell Masha how he felt.

#

The next day, Koshka's ears turned and twisted. The Wonder Cat Detective Agency detection system had just been activated. There was panting and moaning and screaming coming from the back steps of the Glasnost Hotel, somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors. Then it was quiet, except for occasional whispers, then a rustling of paper.

Koshka dashed up the stairs.

"Oh, my!" said a female voice. "Where did you ever get a bottle of French perfume? And nylon stockings. And--and, why real condoms!"

"It's nothing, me sweet," said a male voice. "I can get more."

"Oh, and my Borya--he's such a boor!"

"I wish it was the old days!" sighed the male. "Why, I could--there'd be no limit to the things I could get for you, my love. Here, let me fondle your bosoms, just one more time."

It was quiet again, except for some rustling and moaning.

"My Borya," came the woman's voice, much later. "He hates all those foreigners, all these foreign things!"

"Those wonderful foreign goods used to be reserved only for high party people, like me!" moaned the male voice. "Oh, those were the days! That's how it should be today too! Those commoners--those base, village Russians--they don't appreciate the finer things in life, like me and you, my pet. Here, let me touch them, just one more time, my sweet!"

#

Saint Petersburg's typically awful winter weather turned even more awful. A stiff night wind whipped up a thick wall of clouds over the gulf, and by morning, that dark wall leaned hard on the city. People walked at a slant, holding onto their hats, grabbing onto fence posts and light poles. Snow and ice chunks blew between columns and down alleys.

Inside the Glasnost Hotel, things were not peaceful either. An ever-watchful Koshka could tell. The Amerikans had gotten into a nasty row the previous day. It started when the leather-skinned Kalifornians began yelling at the squinty-eyed kofbois. Then David the interpreter left the room in disgust. Winston Hale started acting as a sort of referee, until he suddenly burst into tears and threatened to pack up his financial expertise and go back to Marin County. The fight ended in a stand-off, with each side telling the other where to go or where to put something or another.

Then, one day later, the Russians were having at it. The bald-headed bouquet of Muscovite officials had cornered Comrade Rassolnikov in the empty dining hall off to the side of the Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar, just at the moment Koshka was finishing his late-morning treat.

"Comrade Rassolnikov, if this project fails, it will be the last project you ever manage!" The bald-headed bouquet spoke as if in one voice. "Now tell us, why is the restaurant not open yet, why is this hotel not accepting guests, and why are the foreigners not handing over their corrupt kapitalistic hard currency dollars yet?"

"Comrades, please!" said Rassolnikov, wiping his brow. "You must be patient with our efforts. We are witnessing perestroika, in the genuine meaning of the term. You cannot expect miracles, or even immediate progress even. Why, things worked more effectively, you must admit, years ago, when we, the party apparatus, had absolute control over everything!"

"What?" gasped the bouquet. "You are against perestroika?"

"No!" he sputtered, crossing his fingers behind his back. "But re-structuring is not an easy task. Why, we must re-educate people, change expectations, reform systems-"

"Comrade Rassolnikov!" It was a quiet squeaky voice coming from somewhere in the middle of the bouquet. A very short man with a black suit and large black spectacles stepped out from the bouquet, adjusted his lapels, and tapped his cane on the floor. "I am Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka, head of this delegation."

"Greetings, Comrade Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka," said Rassolnikov, the consonants tumbling off his lips. "It is a pleasure to meet you."

The short comrade waved his cane. "We have no time for the pleasantries of introductions, Comrade Rassolnikov. In fact, we do not have the time or the luxury for any fanciful discussions, or even for any explanations of why you are finding it difficult to meet your deadlines." Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka's cane bent as he leaned forward. "The simple fact is this--you must produce a functioning, productive international hotel and restaurant within thirty days, or you will be transferred to a collective farm in the Perm District, understood?"

Rassolnikov nodded, his head lowering more and more with each nod.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes," said Rassolnikov.

"Do not underestimate the importance of this project. It is a model for the country, and we will show it for all the world to see!"

"Yes, Comrade Fyodorov-Fyedinka."

The heads in the bouquet nodded and bowed like a bed of flowers bending in the wind.

"Let me re-iterate how important this project is, Comrade Rassolnikov," said Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka, twirling his cane. "His excellency himself, the premier and Great Comrade and leader of workers and the masses, will visit this establishment in thirty days."

Rassolnikov's face turned purple and his mouth fell open. Then his adam's apple dropped low, as if ready to disappear into his chest, then it re-surfaced and bobbed until finally coming to rest at a point midway in his throat. "Oh," said Rassolnikov, swallowing again and re-starting his adam's apple's long journey.

"There's more!" squeaked Fyodorov-Fyedinka. "The Great Comrade will be here with his wife. You know how fussy and particular she is, and you know how she likes to dig deep into things?"

"Yes, Comrade Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka," said Rassolnikov.

"And with the presence of the great one and the great one's wife, there will come television crews--not only from Moscow, but from the kapitalist countries too. Now do you know what a problem these television people can be?"

"No, Comrade Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka."

"And oh, those Amerikan television people--you would not believe it, Comrade Rassolnikov! They stick a microphone in your face. And there you are, preserved on film forever for your children's children, and they ask you the most embarrassing personal questions, waiting for you to answer. And through their little lenses you look like a liar or a fool, or both, and all the while the cameras roll for all the world to snicker at you, Comrade Rassolnikov."

With that, Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka twirled his cane and stepped back into the bouquet, which then folded up and wiggled through the door.

Rassolnikov wiped beads of water off his forehead. "Thirty days!" he gasped. "Those--those perestroika--those revisionist bastards! And now their leader--the devil himself is coming here, of all places, in thirty days!" Rassolnikov spun around, then stopped in his tracks, as if remembering something. "Here? Here? Hmmmm. The leader is coming here?" He rubbed his chin. "Hmmmm. Here."

Koshka remained in the corner, and pressed himself against the wall, as if becoming invisible. Rassolnikov rubbed his hands together, as if scrubbing them. Then a wide, crooked smile spread across his narrow face. "I'll show them, the devils! I'll show them all! Thirty days, and it will all be over! You try to put down Simion Simionovich Rassolnikov, do you? Hah! You'll disappear into the ash-can of history, you automatons! The old ways--the old days--they shall return!"

Koshka made sure to stay concealed. He was accustomed to hearing people curse their higher-ups. Poor Perezhitkov did it all the time, for instance. So did Rodion the janitor and Osip the waiter. But this was something different. It was not the normal curse from a harried ex-party has-been, to be sure. Koshka crouched lower, remaining alert to every sight and sound.

Now Rassolnikov paced the room, his hands clasped behind his back. "Those wolves in sheep's clothing! Those turn-coats! I'll show them!" He waved his fist in the air. "Soon they'll all tremble on hearing the name of Simion Simionovich Rassolnikov!" He rubbed his hands together, as if warming them by a fire. "Aha! And then the tables will be turned!" He paced the room in a wider circle, spotted Koshka in the corner, and stopped. "Out! Out, damned cat!"

With that Koshka dashed out the door.

"I'll get you yet!" Rassolnikov yelled. "Damned, cursed, devil-cat! I'll get you too!"

Koshka hid in the cellar, trying to puzzle out the situation. Strange things were surely transpiring at the Glasnost Hotel. No one would be able to make any sense of it--with the possible exception of an inquisitive and patient Wonder Cat.

To Chapter Nine

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