Chapter Ten

By late afternoon, the humans had quieted down again. The reverend Billy Bob lay tossing in his bed, mumbling about Mog and Begog, and the Mrs. Billy Bob patted his forehead with a wet rag.

Meanwhile, shadows lengthened and then the whole world turned dark. The cats made their way, one-by-one, tails stiff in the evening frost, to the "People's Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory.

"Tell us more about Giorgy Cherney the Second!" said Misha.

"And about Ivan the Fourth too!" said Misha.

Feofan Lapa raised his paw, and the room fell silent. "My friends, we will go back in time, and pick up the tale from the chronicle at exactly the point we left off yesterday evening. Is that agreeable to you?"

Heads nodded eagerly.

"Good! Now, then, you will recline comfortably. Your heads will get heavy, your eyelids will droop, and your body will become too heavy to move, as we go deep, deep into the past, into the wisdom of our beloved Cat Chronicles.

We are going back, back, back. It is 1543, and this is Moscow. The Kremlin. You will see the images my words paint. You will feel the feelings the words contain.

Now, young Ivan, thirteen years old, stood out on the bell tower that evening after he sent the regent to the kennel. He patted his blind cat, Giorgy Cherney, and told him that waiting made revenge sweeter.

And waiting is what Ivan did. He waited four more years. In the interim, Giorgy Cherney the blind cat passed away, but his son, also called Giorgy Cherney, took his place beside the young Ivan.

The young Giorgy Cherney had listened well to all his father's stories--especially the story of how the elder cat was blinded. 'Be careful always! Be careful!' the elder cat told his son. "Expect cruelty from all quarters!"

He would be careful, the young cat decided. Very careful. And he would be watchful as well--always ready to seize whatever opportunity crossed his path.

'Where's my cat?' Ivan asked his retinue one spring morning. 'Where's Giorgy Cherney?'

'Staring up the stove flue,' said the guard.

'Doing what?'

'He's just staring up the stove flue, your excellency. We think there is a bird caught up in there. A day or two ago, the cook heard some squawking, then some rustling. But that was two days ago, sire.'

'And Giorgy is still at the stove?'

'Yes, sire.'

A broad smile spread over Ivan's face, and he was silent.

Three days later, the guard came to Ivan in his dressing room. 'Good morning, sire. I have news for you.'

'Of those damned boyars?' Ivan groaned. 'They tire me so!'

'No, sire. Of your cat, Giorgy Cherney.'

Ivan smiled. 'What news then?'

'There are bird feathers all over the kitchen, sire. And one smiling cat, licking his paws in the corner.'

'Aha!' said Ivan, his face brightening with a rare smile.

'He is a patient--need I say it--an almost stubborn cat.'

'He is an example for us all!' Ivan answered. 'Come, guard, let us go about our business too!'

In that year, 1547, Ivan decided to have himself crowned. On a cold January day, he marched through Red Square in robes of gold. The boyars, also dressed in golden robes--although not nearly as heavy or as resplendent as Ivan's, showered his path with gold and silver coins. Bells rang throughout Moscow, from the Andronnikov and Troitsky monasteries, and from the Kremlin too. High in the bell tower sat Giorgy Cherney, unblinking, while the pale winter sun glistened across his black fur. 'Ivan, I crown you czar and autocrat of all Russia!' said the Metropolitan Macarius.

Two weeks later, Ivan read a proclamation at court. 'All beautiful and eligible maidens of the realm shall present themselves to me!'

Such a parade of beauties passed by the throne that week. Giorgy Cherney sat at his master's side.

'You, what is your name?' Ivan asked the most beautiful of all the maidens.

The women bowed her head, and her beautiful skin flushed red. 'Anastasia, excellency. Anastasia Zakharina Romanova.'

A week later, Ivan and Anastasia stood before the Metropolitan Macarius on a damask carpet line with sable furs. Ivan drank the goblet of wedding wine, and, as was the custom, threw the goblet to the floor and smashed it with his heel.

Ivan came to love the beautiful Anastasia. She came to love him so, and to love Giorgy Cherney, the Kremlin cat too.

Ivan slept well at night now, Anastasia next to him and Giorgy Cherney at the foot of the bed. Ivan's promises of waiting and revenge receded into the night. Ivan was happy. The boyars were happy, and life was pleasant throughout all Russia.

There were sad moments too. Ivan wanted a son, of course, to continue the Rurik dynasty that had ruled Russia since the beginning, since the days of Vladimir and his cat Olya. Now Anastasia gave birth to a daughter, and Ivan was happy. But the young babe died. Curtains and drapes were drawn all about the Kremlin. Anastasia wore black, and she walked with her head low, as if she had done something wrong.

Then Anastasia had a second daughter. She died too. Ivan and Anastasia grew sad, and their sadness bound them closer together. Giorgy Cherney lay quietly and sadly each night at their bedside, while over the countryside, men and women prayed for the czar and czarina.

Then, a year later, the bells of the Kremlin burst forth as they never had before. It was a crisp cold morning, and a son had been born. He was named Dmitry. Ivan adored him. Anastasia adored him.

But, Giorgy Cherney was not so adoring. The cat was no longer allowed to sleep at the foot of the bed, for fear he might somehow harm the soul of the infant.

An old wrinkled scullery woman with a crooked nose had first made the prophecy. "Beware the black cat. It brings the worst misery to the very place where happiness is greatest!' she called out in her sleep one night, then the next night, and the night thereafter.

Giorgy disliked the old meddlesome woman. She was the same one who kept Giorgy out of the scullery--his favorite place for prowling. After all, what was more enjoyable for a cat than stalking food, even when it would have been otherwise provided on a pewter dish?

Then the infant czarevich was given a wet-nurse, a tall, thin merchant's wife whose own child had just died. Giorgy wanted to like the baby. True, it had come between Ivan, Anastasia, and Giorgy. Yet, both his master and his wife cared so much for the infant, that Giorgy wanted to share the same feelings. Besides, the infant was tiny, like Giorgy himself--a miniature Ivan, on an easier scale. Giorgy wanted to like him, to frolic with him.

'Keep that evil cat away from me when I nurse!" commanded the wet-nurse. 'I've been to Poland and lands beyond. I know what they think of black cats there! Mind you, keep that beast away from me!"

Giorgy Cherney came to hate the wet-nurse, and the feeling was clearly mutual. The wet-nurse screamed at Giorgy Cherney whenever she saw him. She set the servants and guards on edge who then too began to torment the cat.

Giorgy bided his time, enduring the jabs and taunts. Every day he hated the wet-nurse a little more. And the scullery witch too. Then the guards and servants. Soon, he felt surrounded by enemies, and he began to doubt Ivan and Anastasia too. Why didn't they see how their pet was being tormented?

But Giorgy Cherney the Second, always known for his patience, waited. He would get his revenge some day, and, as his father had once told him, waiting just made revenge that much sweeter.

One morning, the nurse was walking with the infant along the River Moskva, taking in the healthful spring air. Giorgy ventured out of the Kremlin too, wanting to stalk the river for games, for diversion. It was good to be away from the scullery maid and the guards and courtiers who hated him.

The nurse walked down towards the landing. She turned, and spotted Giorgy Cherney. "Get that damned beast away from this child!" she shrieked, waving her free hand. The guards lunged at the cat from all directions. Giorgy leapt forward, barely missing the boot of a guard. He snarled at the wicked nurse who had cursed him.

'Get that evil beast, that black devil away from me and this child!' she screamed. 'All you big guards, and you can't take care of one stupid cat? What a useless bit of humanity you are!'

Guards leapt forward. Giorgy ducked, then dodged another.

'Out! Out! Get him out!' she shrieked, waving her free hand.

Two more guards lunged at Giorgy Cherney, and the cat darted and avoided them in an ever-diminishing circle. Giorgy's eyes, filled with fear, now filled with hate too. He lunged at the wet-nurse.

'A-a-a-i-i-i-i-i-!' she screamed. The baby dropped from her arms, tumbled through the brush, and splashed into the water. 'Help! Help! Help, you stupid fools!' the nurse screamed at the guards.

The guards dived into the murky waters, bent low, and grovelled among the rocks. They searched for hours.

The next day, the boy's body was found downstream.

The wet-nurse was driven from the Kremlin. She and her merchant husband, fearing for their lives, dressed in peasants' clothes, climbed into an ox cart, and fled to Poland.

Giorgy was alone once again with Ivan, his master, and Anastasia. But, the former gaiety did not return. Anastasia never overcame her grief, although she gave birth to other children. Giorgy Cherney waited for the warmth and closeness to return. It did not. Anastasia spent days without speaking. Ivan tended to his affairs, ignoring his wife and his cat. It was the palace of no eye-contact. Humans and animals passed in the halls, turning their heads away, speaking only when necessary, and then only in hushed tones and abrupt phrases. It was if the country itself was ailing in the next room.

'I didn't mean it!' Giorgy protested to the Kremlin cats. 'It was an accident. Why, I would never cause the death of any human, even if I hated that human!'

The cats said nothing, turned, and went their respective ways.

Three years later, Giorgy Cherney choked on a bone and died. His son, Giorgy Cherney the Third, took his father's place in the palace. In that very same year, Anastasia took mysteriously ill and died. Russia was not to be the same, nor Ivan, and Giorgy Cherney."

Feofan Lapa shifted on his work bench. "It is a long, sad story, this tale of the three Giorgy Cherney's, and we will continue next time. We will reach the final chapter of the triptych in our next meeting. For now, it is late on a frigid night in a cold world, my fellow cats. At the count of five, your eyes will open and you will feel refreshed. Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

Koshka ventured up to Feofan Lapa, who was brushing his fur. "It's a sad tale about Giorgy Cherney. I don't think he meant to kill the boy, do you?"

Feofan Lapa looked up from his fur. "Few things are simple enough to merit a 'yes' or 'no' answer. Is it not possible that, on some psychic level, he willed it?"

"But if he didn't mean it!" Koshka protested.

"Of course, he didn't 'mean' it, but is it not possible that he 'willed' it?"

Koshka scratched his head. "Oh, I wish I was smart like you, Feofan Lapa. I don't know! That's why I'm asking you!"

"And I don't know either, son. All I know is that, sooner or later, at one time or another in life, each of us will be put to the test."

"Wow! I only wish my time would come!"

"Sometimes it's nothing to look forward to, son. Always remember, however, that our actions sometimes have consequences far beyond what we imagined. That is one step away from not meaning to do something, but willing it. And then, before you know it, the world itself rises up to fulfill your very wish."

"I only wish my time would come!" Koshka repeated. "When it does, I'll be ready for it!" He leapt into the air and did a full circle, as if conquering an invisible, giant foe.

Then Koshka turned sad. Poor Ivan the Terrible. He had lost a son--it was enough to drive anybody mad. And yes, Ivan had caused it. So much the worse for him. And then Ivan lost his beloved, beautiful Anastasia too!

Sleep came hard for Koshka that night. The building's pipes and beams seemed to toss and sigh with the wind. And in Koshka's head, memories swirled like a killing blizzard.

#

War. The word spread like fog over the island, uttered by cat to cat, whispered by old cats, shouted excitedly by strutting kittens. Reports reached the court yard. Ivan was gathering his fighters on the West end, not far from Elagin Island.

Across the wide expanse of Kirovsky Prospekt, a somber red cat named Avvakuum called a war council, and cats gathered from all sides at the court yard behind the crooked Sputnik.

"Igor is on the move," Avvakuum announced gloomily. "I don't know why. No one knows why, but he is clearly preparing an attack. From the strength of his numbers, his objective is clear. He wants to drive us all into the Nevka."

"He can't! He can't!" went the chant. "We won't let him!"

"War is no game, my fellow cats," said Avvakuum glumly. "It is deathly serious business--the most serious of matters." The red cat swallowed. "It is indeed sad, sad, sad. Igor has declared war, and no one knows why."

Eyes blinked, but no one spoke. Koshka's head hung low. He knew why. Perhaps he was the only one who knew. Last spring, one stupid cat had ventured far beyond his appointed territory. One cat had wanted something that belonged to another cat. He didn't know at the time, but not knowing was not an excuse. And spring coursed through his veins. That was no excuse either. Wanting more, and better--that was the transgression, and now the whole cat world would pay for the sin.

Koshka shivered, and his head went lower. Better not to tell the others all the suffering he had already caused, he decided--the death of the kittens, the death of beautiful Katyenka, and now war, and the fatalities to come.

Avvakuum continued. "I don't know why, my fellow cats, but Igor is already marching against us with his fighters. We must prepare. If we do not protect our territories, he will march over us, over our lifeless bodies. Igor shows no mercy, when provoked."

Cats' heads hung low. No one spoke. Koshka's head hung lowest.

"Will we fight, then, fellow cats?" asked Avvakuum, his voice straining for enthusiasm.

"Yes!" said the cats with resignation.

"Will we fight hard, fellow cats?" he asked.

"Yes! Yes! Yes!" Their voices blended into a chant. "Yes! Yes! Yes! With all our might!" they shouted finally. "Down with the bully Igor, and down with his hench-cats!"

A window slammed in the court yard. "Do something to shut up those god-forsaken cats!" pleaded Olga from her third-floor apartment. "They're at it again. Oi, such noise we've had to bear this wretched summer!"

"It's not just cat wailing we've had to endure," Babushka Shura called out from her window. She was waving her hands in the air. "The whole country's going crazy. Where is Comrade Brezhnev, now that we really need him?"

"Dead and buried, and thank the Lord for that!" said Olga, crossing herself. "Now is time for new blood!"

#

"There's no water again today," sighed the widow Petrova. "I think they're trying to drive us all out with their inconveniences!"

"Oh, I wouldn't be so sure!" Anna said. "My apartment block in Moscow is much newer than this building. Yet, the plumbing's off more than it's on. And, you know, Auntie, if we use your reasoning, that means they--whoever they are--they're trying to drive us out of the whole country!"

"Well, you may have something there!" said the widow. Both women laughed. Anna grabbed the feather duster from her auntie, and started dusting the bric-a-brac and perfume bottles.

"No water! No water!" came a shriek from the hallway.

"What was that?" asked Anna.

"Sh!" whispered the widow, gesturing towards Anna. "We'll watch. It's better than television!" The old woman opened the door a crack. She and Anna peered out into the hallway, and the widow winked at her grand niece. "We'll be very, very quiet, and believe me, we'll see a real spectacle--a first-rate show!"

"What in the devil's name has happened with the water?" It was Liuba Smetanova, dashing down the hall in a thick bath towel, the likes of which Saint Petersburg had hardly seen. There was a 'Pepsi-Kola' logo on the towel, and its circle bent into an oval as it followed the thick oval of Liuba's torso. She rushed up to the landing and cupped her hands around her mouth. "There's no water again, you god-forsaken vodka-head! Get it turned back on this instant or I'll--I'll-" Her face turned red, and she couldn't continue. Then she ripped the Pepsi Kola towel from her body and started beating the walls and doors with it. "No water! No water! It's my bath time! Where the hell is all the water? The devil! The devil!" She was stomping her feet now, then jumping up and down. In a final burst of frenzy, she plopped down on the floor, her legs spread wide, her hands tugging at her hair. "Where in the devil's name is my water?"

"Well, there's not much I can do!" came a gruff voice from the stairway. It was Perezhitkov. His voice was muffled, as if he was under the flooring. Koshka took a peek. Perezhitkov's rump was sticking out of a vent high on the wall. The rest of his body had disappeared into the chute.

"Just give me my water!" she said quietly, pleadingly.

"We can't always have everything we want, you know." His voice had acquired an awesome echo that reverberated throughout the building.

"Don't give me your philosophy! I just want my water."

There was a banging on pipes. "Then you don't want electricity?"

Liuba jumped to her feet. "Just what in the devil's name are you talking about, you--you serf?"

"I'm not a serf. There was a serf's liberation, you know. It was a century or two back, I believe."

"Don't talk back to me, you disgusting peasant!"

"I'm not a peasant either, lady. There was a thing called a revolution, remember? Fireworks, strikes, parades? A few years back? Surely you remember?"

"Oh, just hush up and get me my water!"

"I can't."

"What do you mean, you can't?"

"Well, if we turn on the water, then it will drip from this broken pipe onto the conduits in the cellar again. Then we won't have electricity."

"Well, call the plumber then!"

"There's a five-month wait for plumbers, and when they come they don't have tools or parts, or both."

"Well, when are you going to get the water on?"

"I have Osip on it right now."

"Osip, that waiter?"

"No, Osip the apparatchik. The man who gets things done."

"Well, where is he?" shrieked Liuba."

"Getting pipe."

"Where did he go, all the way to Moscow?"

"Certainly not Moscow," Perezhitkov replied. "They've been out of pipe longer than we have. He went to Yerevan. They have everything!"

It was too much for Liuba. She started kicking the wall. "You--you peasants or workers or whatever you call yourselves! You're the reason for all the problems nowadays! You're--you're insolent, lazy, shiftless, drunken-"

Perezhitkov's voice lowered. "Lady, give me half the tools I need and a third of the parts and materials I need, and I could fix anything! It's not our fault. This place--this whole country's a mad house. We're just trying to survive, to do our jobs, and you crazy higher-up's, you-"

"Are you calling us names?" Liuba demanded. "Us--the elite--the nomenklatura? The vanguard of the party--I mean, we used to be the party?"

"You're all of bunch of vanguards of chaos and waste, I would say!"

"Why, how dare you! I can have you sent to Siberia for that! Why, such insolence! And right here, where we have foreigners, visiting dignitaries, refined gentlemen and-"

Perezhitkov backed out of the vent. His face was black with soot. "Lady, take a look at those foreign nuts! They must be rejects from some fruit factory somewhere! That crazy kofboi with the big teeth, and his weepy wife with the stiff hair-do. That guy with the long nose, the leather skin, and all the chains around his neck-"

"I will not have you insulting our foreign guests!" Liuba stammered, turning her back on the landing. "Ah, my precious kitty, Hagia Sophia!" she said, bending down towards her pet. "Come, Hagia, let us repair to our apartment, and escape this--this boorishness!"

Hagia Sophia flicked her tail high in the air. She and her mistress pranced down the hallway and into their flat, slamming the door behind them so hard that plaster fell from the bowed ceiling two doors down the hallway.

"There's the whole mess for you," whispered the widow to Anna. "You can explain all the problems in the country by just listening to those two carry on."

"It happens often?" Anna asked.

"Oh, very often, ever since she moved in. You see, it's like a confessional, or therapy, for them both, I suppose. Liuba runs around the building for a certain period of time in high steam, as it were--in high spirits, giddy with excitement over the smallest things. Then, like a pot on a high burner, she starts to bubble and rock, and soon she's spewing all over the place. When that happens, she runs screaming down the hallway, and poor Perezhitkov, who always tries his best to keep things running--he snaps back at her."

"Poor Perezhitkov!" said Anna. "He works so hard and takes so much abuse. Why does he put up with her shrieking?"

"The man's a saint, in my book. A real saint." The widow's eyes sparkled. "And that handsome young American interpreter who sometimes helps him out--you've met him?"

Anna blushed. "No. I mean, yes--briefly, on the stairs!"

"Well," said the widow. "Such a nice young man, and so handsome! He could spend time with anyone he wants, but he picks Perezhitkov. Isn't that strange?"

"It's a very strange place you live in, Auntie."

"It's a strange time for us all!"

#

The water got turned back on late into the night. An exhausted Perezhitkov had fallen asleep in the cellar, not far from the office suite of the Wonder Cat Detective Agency.

"Wake up, you use-less drunk!" It was Mrs. Perezhitkova.

Koshka awoke with a start.

Perezhitkov rubbed his eyes. "Dearest, oh--I must have fallen asleep!"

"Passed out, you mean!"

"No, it was the electricity, the rotten conduits. I was-"

"You were drinking again, and I won't stand for it!" She pointed to a bulging vinyl suitcase in her hand. "I've had more of your uselessness than I can stand, and I'm going back to Mother!" She turned towards the foyer and yanked her son by his arm. "Come, little Perezhitkov! Let us go visit your sweet little grandmother in Pinsk. Let us get out of this ugly building where nothing works because your father is in charge!"

With that, she grabbed little Perezhitkov's hand and stomped out of the building.

Perezhitkov sat on the floor, barely comprehending what had transpired. Koshka approached and licked the poor man's limp hand.

"Now, no wife, no son--no little Perezhitkov," he sobbed. "God, this building will be the death of me yet!"

Koshka felt sorry for the poor man. Here he was, working so hard, trying as best as he could. And, he still lost his woman. It was sad, although Koshka didn't much care for the wailing, hand-wringing Mrs. Perezhitkova. Still, her departure made poor Perezhitkov sad, and that made Koshka sad too. Sometimes, there was no hope, and no fairness even. Life was like that, Koshka decided. Maybe in the chronicles things were different; cats did adventurous things and life turned out for the better sometimes. But this was life itself, and it never turned out for the better.

#

"He's back! He's back!" David shouted down into the cellar later that afternoon.

"Who's back?" came Perezhitkov's muffled reply.

"Osip!"

The two men ran out to the driveway. Koshka beat them there. A tired, red-eyed Osip stood beaming, his rusty old van so loaded down with pipes and boards and tools that the back bumper almost scraped the road. "It was a success!" said Osip confidently, dusting off his jacket.

Perezhitkov frowned. "You think you stuffed everything we need inside that van?"

"This is just the beginning!" said Osip, beaming with pride. "Wait three days, and you shall see a miracle of which any apparatchik would be proud!"

Perezhitkov and Osip and David unloaded the van, and then Perezhitkov crawled back into the hole in the cellar. An hour later, he turned the water back on at the Glasnost Hotel. The pipes heaved and sighed, as if regaining consciousness. Then sparks flew, like revolution day itself, from the cellar up the flues and vents, to all the floors.

"Turn off the power!" David yelled down the stairs.

"I can't!" came back the frantic reply. "I'm stuck in this god-forsaken hole! You, David! Turn it off. The box is on the side of the building, towards the court yard. Then come down and help me get out of this--this torture chamber!"

David complied. He ran past Koshka in the back hallway, nearly tripping over the cat. Outside, he flipped open the power box and hit the lever. The hotel turned dark. Then he crawled back down into the cellar, and with his hands, found the hole from which protruded the rear half of Perezhitkov.

A half hour later, the two men were back hard at work in the cellar. Besides the electricity problem, the surge of water had broken another pipe.

Liuba had managed to fill her tub in the meantime, but she was clearly not happy. She had to do her bathing in the dark. As Perezhitkov had predicted, the surge of pressure from turning the water back on produced a spectacular series of crackling fireworks in the cellar, related, of course, to the rotten conduits and shields.

"Turn the god-forsaken lights back on!" she shouted from her landing.

"We can't!" yelled Perezhitkov from the cellar. He was wearing his wading boots which he reserved for trout fishing and plumbing repair.

David stood next to him, without waders. "Here," he said. "Let me grab the torch while you hold the pipe with the clamps."

"Where did you learn plumbing?" asked Perezhitkov.

"My dad was a plumber." Together they tugged and pulled until the pipes were in line.

"I thought everyone in Amerika was rich and an executive," said Perezhitkov, tugging at the thick pipe.

"Rich, no. Executive, no," said David. "But actually, plumbers do quite well. They make more than teachers."

"Impossible!" said Perezhitkov. "But you know, it's the same way here too."

They slipped the masks over their faces and lit the torch. Koshka watched the cellar turn an eerie bright blue. White sparks flew off into the darkness. Koshka ran for cover and covered his eyes with his paws. What kind of alchemy was occurring with this Russian and Amerikan team, he didn't know.

"Why in the devil's name can't you turn the lights back on?" shrieked Liuba from the landing. "My television doesn't work, and I'm right in the middle of 'Love Among the Tractors.'" She screamed. "Turn on the god-forsaken electricity! I demand it!"

"I can't," came the reply.

"And why in the devil's name can't you?"

"Because of the water," said Perezhitkov.

"What do you mean, the water?"

"The water shorted the conduits in the cellar."

"I don't care about all your technical mumbo-jumbo explanations! Just get the god-forsaken electricity turned on!"

"We're trying as fast as we can!" said an exasperated Perezhitkov.

"Why don't you call an electrician?" she demanded.

"Can't get one for seven months," came the reply. "Anyway, they're out of crimpers and conduits until the next five-year plan."

"Oh, why do you make things so--so impossible?" demanded Liuba.

"We do the best we can, that's all." Perezhitkov winked at David.

"How can you stand living in the same building with her?" David whispered.

"She's a blessing, in a way. She makes everyone else look easy to get along with."

The two men laughed.

"I want my water and my electricity!" shouted Liuba. "And I want them now!"

"This city's water is so brown, I'd think you'd prefer to take a bath in the dark," said Perezhitkov, ducking as if waiting for her to throw something his way.

"Just-turn-the-god-forsaken-electricity-on!" she said, all in one breath, as if it were one word.

"Look, if we turn on the electricity now--with all those rotting wires and all this water in the cellar, we'd all be in orbit! You think the world needs another Mir space station--this one a crumbling hunk of apartment block?"

"Oh, you-" Liuba was clearly out of words. She stomped her right foot, then her left foot, then tromped back to her apartment. "Borya, get out those god-forsaken candles!" she screamed.

"What candles? We used them all up last time the power was off!"

"A-a-a-i-i-i-1!" The plaintive cry of a temporarily-defeated Liuba Smetanova filled the hallways and landings. "Those were imported candles, you idiot!"

"No wonder they were no good!" came her husband's reply.

#

On the way down the back entrance the next evening, Koshka's ears pricked up. There was a curious kind of whispering on the landing between the third and fourth floors. He crept down quietly, his paws barely touching the stairs.

"Well, it might work, you know," whispered the widow. "Lord knows, Anna needs to meet someone!"

"He's the finest of men!" swore Perezhitkov, holding up two fingers. "I'll see what I can do."

"But how?" she asked.

"You'll see!" whispered Perezhitkov, smiling. "And I'll need your help."

Koshka rubbed his forehead. The humans, it seemed, were devising the same plans he had devised. He hoped they'd have better luck than he.

Anyway, it was supper time, Koshka decided. The humans were not reacting well to darkness caused by the power outage, of course, but it was hardly a disadvantage for a cat. Koshka made his way, as usual, up to the Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar by way of the back landing, which was always dark anyway.

"Get out, you fat alley cat!" came a hiss from the dark. Two eyes shone in the foreground.

"Look, Hagia Sophia, I just came up for a little snack. There are enough scraps for us all, I should think."

"Scraps?" she demanded. "You think I eat scraps?"

"I don't know what you eat, and frankly, I don't much care. If, however, you don't eat restaurant scraps, then that means you certainly won't object to my having some."

"Au contraire!"

Koshka had had a rough day, what with the water in the basement covering his usual haunts and David and Perezhitkov trudging around his favorite cellar spots. He took in a deep breath, counted to five. "Look, Hagia Sophia, I'm hungry. The cellar's closed. I want some food. Okay?"

Hagia Sophia's eyes shifted in location. They were now right in the middle of the doorway. "It is not okay!"

"It is okay," Koshka said quietly. "I'm coming through."

There was a low hiss in the dark, then the beginnings of a feline growl.

"I'm hungry. I'm coming through." He lowered his head, and approached the doorway.

"S-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-s-!" She hissed like a radiator. Koshka felt her bushed-out fur brush him as he passed. "Excuse me," he said as politely as possible. Parts of him were itching for a good old-fashioned scratch-and-claw fight.

"Why, why--how dare you!" she snarled.

He felt the rage well up inside him. One swipe of his paw, and she could be a flying fur ball, heading down the landing. He counted to five a second time. "And who died and made you czarina? Look, I've tried to get along with you--tried to be friendly, then tried to just live in peace, and none of it has worked! So, I guess you'll just have to adjust to the fact that you and I share this building, and that I have as much right around the Glasnost Hotel as you do."

"As much right?" she demanded. "Why, you have no right! How dare you compare yourself to me! Why, you're a stray! If you were any good, somebody would have you!"

The words cut deep, but Koshka stood his ground. "I'm not doing any comparing or judging or condemning," he answered, counting his words and hoping his heart would slow. "I'm going after some food scraps--that's all."

"You--you're an alley cat! An old stray alley cat! Why, you don't even have a master! And, and you're neutered! And, you have no pedigree! You're a mix, and uncultured, un-gentrified mix of a mongrel!"

Koshka's patience was running thin. Oh, how he wanted to haul off and knock that Siamese with his paw. He measured his words carefully. "And who died and made you royalty? Are you a Romanov cat?"

Even in the faint light from the curtain-covered window, Koshka could see her puff up and stretch her head high. "I--I am of foreign extraction."

"So? You deserve congratulations for that? A medal? Maybe a servant or two to do your bidding?"

She sighed. Her fur had smoothed down a bit, but it was clear she was still agitated. "You don't know anything about what's going on here, do you?"

"I'm trying to find out as much as I can. I love this building. It's been the only home I know," he said humbly, hoping to sound conciliatory.

"Well, you're too stupid!" she hissed. "What's going on is more than just the hotel, dumb cat! The whole country is changing!"

"I know that."

"Russia is on the way out!" she snapped.

Koshka's mouth fell open. "Out--out where?"

"Out! Out of existence!"

Koshka was shocked. "What? You actually believe that--that nonsense?"

"Russia is on the way out," she huffed. "It will disappear soon--as if it never existed." She started grooming herself. "So better to start now! Better to adapt, to become un-Russian now, fi that's possible for the lowly likes of you, that is!"

He shook his head. "Why, how can you believe that? True, Russia's changing--has to change, of course, but that doesn't mean she will disappear or that foreigners will take it over!"

"Oh, not in a military sense. They'll be no invasion this time. We'll all just wake up one morning, look around, and say, 'Why, this isn't Russia anymore!'" Her head cocked to the left. "That's all!"

No Russia, Koshka wondered? How could anyone believe such a thing, or even want such a thing? "No Russia? No Mother Russia?"

"And good riddance too!"

Koshka bit his lip, then gritted his teeth. "Hagia Sophia, you are dead wrong, as you shall see eventually! And, in the meantime, you and I will share this building, and it is more than adequate for both of us."

"You'll be gone! You'll be gone!" she sang. "Just like all the rest! You'll be gone! Ha! Ha! And ha!"

"Well, now we'll just have to see about it, won't we?" With that, Koshka turned and headed for the kitchen. Snacks would be hard to find, he knew, what with the buffet closed and all the construction work. Still, there would be something, and whatever it was, he, a skilled and crafty cat, would find it.

"You'll be gone! You'll be gone!" Hagia Sophia sang out from the hallway. "You're out-moded, out-dated, obsolete! You'll see! And if you were any good, somebody would have you, you useless stray!"

He ignored her remark, but her words cut deep. If you were any good, somebody would have you. Surely that wasn't true! Surely there were other measures of a cat! But none came to mind, and hunger ate at him. It had been a very long time since he'd eaten, what with the chaos.

Nose close to the floor, Koshka found some chicken scraps off in the corner. But he hardly had an appetite. "No woman cat--or any cat is going to spoil my mid-morning snack!" he concluded. He attacked the scraps with a vengeance. No Russia? Imagine! What a senseless, vain cat that Hagia Sophia was!

To Chapter Eleven

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