Chapter Eleven

"Bang!' went the pipes, and Koshka awoke with a start. The building seemed to heave and sigh.

"There's no water again!" came Liuba Smetanova's scream from her doorway.

There was a commotion on the third floor--voices, doors slamming, and someone banging on pipes. Koshka, a curious cat, headed up from the cellar.

Poor Perezhitkov stood at the widow's door. "What happened here? You have a plumbing problem?"

"I was running bath water, Comrade Perezhitkov," said the widow. "And all of a sudden the pipe groaned and there was no water." She winked at Perezhitkov.

"Well, you'd better let me have a look," said Perezhitkov in his most official voice.

Moments later, he stepped back into the hallway. "I'll need some help on this one," he called out.

Minutes later, Perezhitkov and David came up from the second floor, panting under heavy loads. David lugged a welding torch and pipe. Perezhitkov pulled at a rusted old welding tank.

"Too bad you don't use threaded pipe here, like we do back home," David said, wiping his forehead with his free hand. "Then you wouldn't have to lug around this welding torch and tank at every break."

"Oi, that would be a disaster," said Perezhitkov, wiping the sweat from his eyes. "Then we'd have to rely on some supplier somewhere for the right-sized pipe for every emergency, and we'd never get anything repaired!"

"Well, maybe you're right," said David, tugging at the torch and pipe.

"How long will it be this time?" yelled Liuba from down the hall. She was wearing a white robe, and has wrapped a thick towel around her head. She looked like a stubby floor lamp.

"It won't take long, I hope," said Perezhitkov. There was something strange in the way he was behaving, Koshka decided. His voice, for instance, was lower than usual.

The crew worked its way into the bathroom--Perezhitkov, David, the torch, the tank, the pipe, and the tools. Koshka squeezed in and found an inconspicuous spot alongside the tub.

"What's happening?" came a female voice from the doorway. It was the beautiful Anna.

"It's a plumbing problem," said Perezhitkov, looking up from the tub.

Anna peeked into the tiny spaces. Perezhitkov was sitting in the tub, as if ready to bathe with his clothes on. Another head appeared from behind the sink.

"Meet my assistant," Perezhitkov told Anna.

She squinted.

"This is David, my new helper!" said Perezhitkov proudly.

"The--the Amerikan interpreter?" Anna asked.

"Yes," said David. "But I also have a background in plumbing."

"Yes!" huffed Anna. "And you're trying to kick my dear Auntie out of her apartment!"

David scratched his head. "Well, I-"

By then, Anna had stormed out of the doorway.

Perezhitkov muttered something under his breath. He and David strained and tugged and positioned and finally welded. It was late when they met the widow at the doorway.

"All finished!" said Perezhitkov.

"Did everything go alright?" asked the widow.

"Well, we got the pipe fixed," said Perezhitkov, lowering his eyes.

They parted at the doorway, and Koshka headed for the cellar. It was little consolation that even the best-laid plans of humans sometimes failed too.

#

In winter, the sun doesn't set in Saint Petersburg the way it does in other cities. In fact, the Saint Petersburg sun hardly does anything that other suns do. Like people and cats, it doesn't like cold, so in winter, it hobbles up over the horizon late in the morning, stumbles across the southern sky for a few hours, then tumbles back down in the west.

On this particular day, the sun tumbled even more suddenly than usual, and the city was dark by four o'clock. A few weak light bulbs tried to compensate for the darkness caused by the newly-departed old sun, but to no avail. Here and there, a lone bulb flickered. Down Popov Street, faint swirls of pale neon hung across empty shop windows swirled words like "bakery" or "pharmacy." The lights from the television tower blinked in the distance.

Humans in thick coats and fur hats filled the sidewalk, rushing home from work or standing in motionless ques in front of the food shops. Koshka wended his way between the forest of human legs and headed for the watch factory.

"Good evening, fellow cats!" said Feofan Lapa. "It is appropriate that we should meet on such a frigid evening to continue our story of Ivan the Fourth and the Giorgy Cherney cats."

The cats settled in, Feofan Lapa led them into their restful sleep, and the story began. "For, it was on such a frigid, wind-less night that we begin our tale of Giorgy Cherney the Third.

Now, Giorgy Cherney the Third was born on a hot night near the back entrance of the Church of the Annunciation in the Kremlin. His father was, of course, Giorgy Cherney the Second, who caused the nurse to slip with Dmitry, and Giorgy's grandfather was Giorgy the First, the Blind.

Mazhura, Giorgy's mother, was a Polish cat who dwelled in the foreigners' quarter of Moscow. Giorgy's father had his way with her one day while walking along the Moskva River embankment.

The Kremlin in which Giorgy the Third lived was a foreign place, different from that of his father, different from that of his grandfather. At Anastasia Romanova's funeral, Czar Ivan's eyes seem to turn steely cold and to shrink in size, alternatingly settling deep into his head or nearly popping out of it. The czar wandered the Kremlin with an empty look in his eyes. He held his head low and rigid, his shoulders high, as if perpetually frozen into the stance of a person startled from behind.

It was that time, after the death of beautiful Anastasia, that they started to call the widower-czar by a new name--Ivan the Terrible.

Giorgy Cherney the Third seemed to acquire the characteristics of his master. He was a true night cat, preferring to hide away during the daylight hours and prowl the Kremlin only at night. Only when Ivan beckoned, did Giorgy appear at court during the day.

They were a fearsome sight, the silent man with small eyes darting in all directions, the silent, motionless cat nearby, whose eyes and ears moved to catch every sound and whisper in the room. Unlike his father, Giorgy would take no food from a human's hand. He ate only in darkness, and Ivan made sure the servants left him adequate food around the Kremlin grounds.

Every night Ivan paced, walking the long wall of the Kremlin. Giorgy stood watch, as it were, choosing a spot, then letting his eyes follow his master's pacing. Back and forth. Back and forth went Ivan. Back and forth went Giorgy Cherney's eyes, nights on end--sleepless, silent nights--neither anguished cat nor anguished czar uttering a sound. Whenever a guard or a maid bent to pet Giorgy, he bared his fangs, hissed, and took wide swipes with his paw. Ivan never petted him.

Giorgy's mission, he had decided, was to accompany his master during his late-night hours of torment, and to keep the Kremlin clear of other cats. To this second end, there were many loud nocturnal cat fights.

'Let us stop that infernal cat howling!' a guard suggested to Ivan.

'Let them be!' Ivan said, barely acknowledging the guard's presence. Ivan rubbed his ragged beard. 'Call me my chamberlain, my clerk, my court counsel!'

'Master, it is three o'clock in the morning!' said the guard, rubbing his eyes.

'Call them!' Ivan thundered.

When they had assembled, Ivan led them into the chamber room. 'Let no candles be lit!' he commanded. 'It will be but a moment.'

Ivan took his seat, in the same place where the high-backed throne with the hole had stood. 'Clerk, write down these orders. I, Ivan, czar and autocrat of all Russia, am this day abandoning this infernal, god-forsaken country called Russia. I am leaving the Kremlin, and I shall form a country within Russia. This new country will be my own country, and it will be populated only with servants loyal to me.'

'But, master!' the counsellor gasped. 'We--that is, Russia needs you!'

'You don't need me at all! You--counsellors and boyars--you obstruct all that I try to do! You fight amongst yourselves over trifles. Your only concern is bettering your own lots at the expense of the others.' Ivan rose. 'So now, you are free to fight among yourselves as often as you wish. As for me, I am departing, to make a country without boyars, without counsellors, and without greedy, small-minded curs like you!'

Ivan stormed out of the chambers, and, a week later, he had set up a royal tent down the Yauza River. Giorgy Cherney went with him. Giorgy took it upon himself to wage war with the local cats--making sure they all paid homage to the new cat in the settlement--the royal Kremlin cat, the third of the Cherney line. In a month's time, he had driven all the local cats out of the surrounding villages--mothers with kittens, old alley cats, house cats--all had been banished, save one cat, the quiet Baba. It was with her that Giorgy sired his first litter.

On the birth night, quiet Baba lay, her expression mixing pleasure with exhaustion. Giorgy inspected the litter. 'That one!' he said, pointing towards the darkest and blackest in the group.

'That one?' quiet Baba asked. 'You like that one most--that's your favorite?'

'That one!' he repeated. 'Keep that one. He will be Giorgy Cherney the Fourth, continuation of the great line of Kremlin Cherney cats!'

'I'm glad you like him,' said quiet Baba, her eyes heavy with fatigue.

'The others,' said Giorgy. 'Destroy them!'

Quiet Baba's eyes opened wide. 'What?'

'Destroy them. I will have no fighting or competition among heirs to the great Cherney line!'

Quiet Baba refused. She did so indirectly--not by defying Giorgy's orders, but by sinking into such a gloomy depression that her incessant wails finally exasperated the humans. Crafty Giorgy took away his favorite kitten. The next night, a guard stuffed Quiet Baba and the other kittens into a sack and threw it into the Yauza River.

Two weeks later, the infant Giorgy Cherney took sick and would not eat. His father searched for help--a wise old cat with medical knowledge, or a wet-nurse. No cats were to be found.

A week later, they found Giorgy Cherney crouched in a corner, staring unblinking at a ball of motionless fur. It was the end of the Giorgy Cherney line, and a sign of the evil times to come for all of Russia.

Giorgy Cherney the Third moved with his master, Ivan, inside this strange nation within a nation, to the Alexandra Sloboda, where they dwelled behind the fortified walls. Ivan paced the wooden ramparts at night, and Giorgy Cherney's hardened, sleepless eyes followed every move.

On a bitter evening, Ivan called his son, the young Ivan, to his chambers. By the time Giorgy Cherney entered, the men were arguing in raised voices.

'You are not a loyal son at all!' shouted Ivan the Terrible, pacing the room. 'You and the boyars--you're all crows from the same nest, and you're all out to get me, to frustrate my every move!' His eyes flashed, reflecting the red glow from the fireplace.

'None of what you say is true, father,' said the young Ivan. 'You're, as usual--you just imagine everything and everyone is against you. You--you yourself are your own enemy, father!'

Boris Godunov, Ivan's faithful courtier, was in the room too, embarrassed as is any stranger who finds himself in the middle of a family fight.

'Silence!' commanded the senior Ivan. 'That wife of yours--she's in with the rest of them! And you, you fool! You think she's faithful! You think she-'

Boris stepped forward, not wanting to get involved, but hoping to placate the two.

'Father, I will not stand idly by and let you speak calumnies against my wife!' said the young Ivan through clenched teeth. 'You can insult me all you wish, but leave my wife out of this.'

'Slut! Whore! Traitor!' Ivan screamed.

'You are insane. You will not desist. I am leaving then!' said the young Ivan. He turned towards the door.

'Don't you turn your back on me, you traitor! You ingrate! You flesh of my flesh! Such insolence!'

The young Ivan said nothing, nodded his head, and approached the door.

'Don't you dare leave!' screamed the elder Ivan. 'Don't you show such disrespect to your own father! You scum! You son of a whore!'

Anger flashed in the younger Ivan's eyes. 'I leave you to boil in your own stew, to dwell in the hell you yourself have created.'

'You traitor!' Ivan swung around and glared at Boris Godunov. 'You've put him up to this treason, have you?'

'Please, Ivan. I speak to you as a friend, as a servant. Please, calm down. Sit here a while, then we can discuss things more calmly.'

Ivan did not sit down. He spun around, nearly losing his balance. 'So, it's you too, Boris! Off to the boyars, are you! We'll see about that!' He pulled at his ragged beard, clawed at his own face with his long fingernails, then dashed to the fireplace. 'You'll not leave me, you heathen traitors!' He grabbed the black iron poker, swung it twice over his head then lunged towards Boris.

The blow grazed the courtier, who grabbed his shoulder and slumped into the corner.

'Traitors, all of you! You're like--like poison!' With that, Ivan swung the poker over his head and lunged towards the door.

There was a scream. Then silence. It seemed like minutes passed, but they did not. It was quiet, except for the labored breathing of the elder Ivan. Young Ivan lay slumped on the dishevelled Persian rug, his blood blending in with the rich, deep red of the carpet.

'Oh, my God!' gasped Boris Godunov. 'You have killed your own son! You have ended your own dynasty! You have brought us all to ruin!' Boris limped out of the room, shaking his head as he passed by the man holding his son.

'Ivan! Son!' screamed the father, grabbing his son's head. 'Son, speak to me! Son! My son! My flesh and blood!' He cupped his hands over his son's bloodied temple. The blood still dripped in a fine line, but it was no longer pulsing, and the younger Ivan's eyes were frozen into a fixed stare. 'A doctor!' Ivan screamed at the top of his voice. 'Send me the doctor!'

The minutes passed slowly, then the doctor entered the chamber. The young pale Ivan lay motionless on the crumpled carpet, his father cradling his head, chest, and shoulders. Ivan the Terrible looked up, the glow from the fireplace reflecting off his vacant eyes. 'I have killed my son,' he said. 'Pray for his soul, but not for mine. I am damned."

"And so," said Feofan Lapa. "Thus ends the story of the Giorgy Cherney dynasty of Kremlin cats. It was a family that started with much promise, with many riches and privileges, but it came to an end on a bitter night in a military settlement of a country that didn't exist, soon before Russia's own human dynasty came to its end. We will now awaken from our deep sleep, and we will return to the present time, relaxed and refreshed, when I count to five. One. Two. Three. Four. Five."

Eyes blinked in the darkness of the "Peoples Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory.

"What a sad and gloomy story!" said Koshka. "The part about the kittens--that was especially sad!"

"It's the true stuff of history!" said Avvakuum.

"It is a truly dark chapter in history, to be sure," said old Feofan Lapa.

"What happened afterwards?" asked Misha.

"Yes, tell us!" said Grisha. "What happened after Ivan killed his son?"

"Well, there was a funeral, of course. Ivan the Terrible dressed himself all in black and walked alongside his son's coffin for seventy-five long miles back to Moscow--on foot all the way. They held the funeral mass in the Church of Michael the Archangel in the Kremlin. Ivan poured priceless jewels into the open coffin. When it was closed, he hurled himself on top, howled like a wolf, and had to be dragged away.

"Did he ever get another cat?" asked Misha. "Did he re-establish another cat dynasty?"

"Not at all. Ivan did not look for, nor find, any comfort after the murder from either human or animal. At night, his screams echoed through the Kremlin walls. He howled with laughter or screamed in pain, without warning, as if he were a puppet, as if he were an infant again perhaps, and the regent was pulling the strings.

He found some sort of comfort, it seems, in his jewels. He visited the Kremlin Armory, the building which he himself had constructed, and he stared at his pearls and his golden vessels--not out of greed so much, as out of his belief that gold and jewels held mystical powers."

"Did they?" asked Masha the house cat.

"Not for him. There were no cures, and whatever mystical powers were present seemed to work against him, not for him. In 1584, a heart-shaped comet appeared and hung suspended over the Kremlin. Days later, frightened peasants and merchants reported seeing a large black raven circle the Kremlin walls."

"It must have driven Ivan even crazier!" said Almaz the Persian.

"He panicked," said Feofan Lapa. "Ivan even called for witches from Lapland. They didn't help. He got sicker, finally unable to leave his bed. He ordered the jewels to be brought from the Armory. They included the lode stones that guided lost souls and that held Mohammed in the air in Derbent. Ivan called for his coral and turquoise. He called for a unicorn's horn filled with diamonds and emeralds, rubies and sapphires. It didn't help.

But that night he felt energized, and he called Boris Godunov for a game of chess. During the game, Ivan suddenly pulled at his beard, and his eyes rolled into his head. He fell backward and died."

"Oh, what a terrible, sad ending--so gloomy!" said Koshka. "His whole life was cruel and sad."

"For Russia, the gloom was merely beginning," answered Feofan Lapa.

"What happened then?" Koshka asked, surmising that it would not be happy news.

"Ivan's son from Anastasia, Fyodor, was feeble-minded. Poor Fyodor's one joy and desire was ringing the Kremlin bells. He was called 'Fyodor the Bell-Ringer,' and, understandably, his reign did not last long. Then came the regency of young prince Dmitry, then Dmitry's death--some say at the hands of Boris Godunov. Then came the reign of Boris Godunov. No fewer than three false Dmitry's re-appeared, and before long, the Poles occupied Moscow. No, it was not a good time for cats or for humans in Russia."

"And when was there ever a good time?" Avvakuum snapped.

"Oh, there were good times--relatively speaking," answered Feofan Lapa. "And today, you know--it is a good time too. Almost every period, it seems, is both the best and the worst of times. It can be said about any period, in any country, I suppose."

"I would like to make this time the very best of times," said Koshka. "And there would no doubts--no 'worst of times' to balance off the good!"

"Why, you poor, naive, stupid, dumb cat!" snapped Avvakuum. "Wake up and smell the coffee!"

"I just don't believe life is so awful," said Koshka.

"I'm afraid it is," said Masha sadly.

And Koshka wished he could prove it otherwise.

#

The original plan hadn't worked, but Koshka didn't give up after the first try. Even if humans had failed--well, there was always a chance for Wonder Cat to succeed! Perhaps a variation on the original would pay off, he decided. And so accordingly, on one frosty afternoon, he took a very deep breath, then let out all the air he could. He maneuvered himself between a wall and the heat pipe on the fourth-floor landing, nearly convincing himself that he was, indeed, stuck for the duration.

He howled. "M-r-r-r-o-o-o-w-w-w-!" It was the most mournful, soul-full howl any cat could contrive.

It worked. Within thirty seconds, Anna came bounding down from the third floor, and David came bounding up from the second floor.

"What was that?" asked Anna.

"I don't know. I heard it too," said David.

"M-m-m-r-r-r-o-o-o-w-w-w!" said Koshka sadly, slowly.

"Oh my Lord, look!" said Anna, her hands at her mouth. "That poor cat's caught by the pipe!"

David leaped forward, then bent down on his knees. "Here! I'll pry at the pipe. Then you pull out the cat."

"Poor kitty!" Anna lamented softly.

"Poor little cat!" said David, tugging at Koshka's ribs. "Well, not too very little," he joked. "Or he'd be out of this squeeze by now."

David pried and Anna pulled. It didn't work.

"You wait here," suggested David. "I'll go get something to increase leverage on the pipe."

He left. Anna petted Koshka. "Poor little helpless creature!"

"M-e-e-e-e-o-o-o-w!" Koshka was never happier, nor sounded so helpless. "M-e-e-e-o-o-o-w!" he repeated.

David came bounding up the steps carrying a pole. "Here," he said. "You tug at the poor cat, and I'll work at the pipe with this thing." His face turned red. "We have to be careful not to break the pipe, but I think we can get it!" His face turned redder, and the veins stood out on his forehead. "There! Now, tug!"

Anna pulled, and Koshka worked free. He curled into her arms, snuggling up against her breasts.

David stood by, holding onto the pole. Such a desirable, warm, beautiful woman, thought Koshka. What was wrong with the dumb Amerikan?

David brushed off his hands, then put them in his pockets. "Well, I--er--I-"

"Yes?" asked Anna, pulling Koshka closer to her bosom.

"I--er, um--I guess the cat's free." David wiped his hands together, then on his pants, then he studied his palms, as if reading an important message. "I, er--you-"

"Yes?" asked Anna. "Your hands are dirty. Why, you'd better come upstairs and we'll wash them!"

"Why, er--okay, I guess," he said.

They walked into the communal kitchen. Anna set down the cat on the floor by the stove. "Here," she said, handing David some soap. "But use it sparingly," she joked. "Soap's been in short supply."

"I know," said David, his tongue seeming to loosen a bit. "I've had a heck of a time finding any."

She handed him the bar, then checked the water temperature. "So, I suppose you're scornful of this country and all its inefficiencies, and I suppose you can't wait to get out of here."

"Well, not exactly. It's hard sometimes--just the day-to-day stuff, I admit, but there's a lot to admire. A lot of things that America doesn't."

"Like what?" asked Anna, her mouth opening wide.

"Well, for one thing, people seem less--how can I say it--less consumed with possessions."

Anna laughed and then her eyes softened. "Probably because we don't have many!"

"Also, people seem to be closer to one-another here. There's a lot here to admire, I think. I like it here." He rubbed at his fingers.

Anna studied his palms, then looked up into his eyes. "Scrub them again. There are still some black marks around the nails and knuckles."

"I don't want to waste the soap," he joked.

"Oh, we'll all survive, even if you use the whole bar!"

Koshka was pleased with the general progress of things, but he wasn't yet sure if 'things'--those very types of 'things' that are so difficult to predict--would progress far enough. He kept his front paws crossed, for luck.

Anna handed David a rag. "Here, scrub with this." She studied his hands. "Such nice hands, and they belong to somebody trying to evict my great-aunt from her apartment," she said softly, shaking her head.

"What are you talking about?" he asked. "I don't know anything about any eviction! I swear! Who is trying to evict her, and why?"

"Why, you people converting this place into a hotel. You-they want all the residents to leave."

"Why, that's crazy! Why didn't they just build a new hotel somewhere?"

"I don't know. I suppose they liked the location and the beauty of the building."

"It is beautiful!" said David. "I've always liked art nouveau, and this building ought to be preserved!"

"I agree!" she answered. "And they shouldn't evict people who've lived here all their lives!"

"Why, I agree completely!" he answered, still scrubbing his knuckles. "I'll look into it. I just can't believe--I don't understand why they would need to evict your great-aunt!"

"The Baron too!" said Anna.

"What Baron?"

"The man in the dinner jacket and bowler hat--you've seen him. The one who sings the 'Internationale' all the time."

"Yes, I've wondered about him."

"He's harmless. He just lives in his own world, that's all."

"Maybe we all do," David suggested.

A faint smile crossed Anna's face.

When David's hands were sufficiently scrubbed--actually, when they had become the reddest and cleanest hands in all of Saint Petersburg, then Anna inspected them to make sure they were clean enough. Koshka was highly optimistic at this point. But time seemed to stop moving, and Koshka still did not breathe freely.

"Such clean hands!" David said finally, admiring Anna's work. Then he took a deep breath, as if preparing to leap off a diving board. "It would be a shame to take them back to a typewriter, which is what I've been doing all day."

"Typing?" she asked.

This was the critical point, Koshka decided. The man had made a surprising advance. If it was not matched, and matched pretty damned soon--then the shy man would never make another advance in her direction.

"What kind of typing?"

Oi! Koshka winced, his paws rushing to his head. Such a bland response!

"Oh, just typing."

The conversation was becoming quite boring. All hope was lost, and Koshka's efforts were for naught. He had expended such energy to bring them together, risked his life twice even, but they would make absolutely nothing of the moment! Their conversation was turning to worthless banter.

"I'm working on some translations," David said hesitantly. "You see, I'm here with the trade delegation, but for me, that's a temporary job. It's given me the chance to get over here for a while, and pursue my real interest."

Silence. Koshka shook his head in despair.

"What is your real interest?" Anna asked finally.

"Literature," he answered.

"What literature?" she asked.

Damnation! Anna was still restricting herself to single-phrase answers, as if she were at a police interrogation or an interview for a government bureau job. How could such a beautiful woman be so shy?

"My field is fiction, primarily of the l920's and 1930's," he answered.

Anna's eyes brightened. "Oh, that's right! You're a teacher, aren't you? I am too."

"Yes, I remember," David answered. He looked into her eyes, then quickly lowered his head.

"You do?" asked Anna.

Koshka nearly jumped straight into the air. It was victory, a clear sign of victory. Anna's eyes sparkled with interest. David's eyes sparkled with interest. All was done. Now, it was only a question of naming the wedding day.

"Yes, I remember." David was wiping his hands on his trousers. "Say, why don't we have some snacks and some tea, if, I mean, if that's alright with you."

Her eyes twinkled. "That would be quite alright with me!"

"Only, the snack bar in this building is closed for repairs," he said. "How about the one down on Popov Street?"

"You haven't been here long, have you! The snack bar on Popov street is either closed or it is out of biscuits and tea."

"How do you know?"

"It always is."

They laughed. David's hands rested on the sink board. Only inches separated her hands from his. Her fingers moved sideways, closer to his, barely perceptively. His moved towards hers, even more slowly. Koshka observed every imperceptible movement and clue. He wiped his brow with exhaustion, perhaps the way a diplomat wipes his brow once a final accord is almost reached between the warring parties--once the document is almost signed, but for the fingers on the pen and then the pen finally on the paper.

"Well then, what should we do?" David asked. "It's your country, not mine."

Anna laughed, letting her hands extend along the sink board closer to David. "We could just stay here, in my Auntie's flat. It's a cozy, wonderful place, and she will not begrudge us some tea or some biscuits!"

"Lead the way to the tea and biscuits!" David said gallantly.

Anna took him by the arm, and they walked down the narrow hallway.

Koshka blushed, feeling like an intruder. There was certainly no need to follow them, or eaves-drop even. The moment required privacy. The outcome was already guaranteed. Any fool of the human or feline kind could see the signs.

So, Anna and David walked towards the widow's flat--he leading, she behind him, but actually leading. He turned back every second or two to say something to her, and there was blushing, smiling, and gushing all down the hall.

"Oi!" Anna tripped on a loose floorboard. David caught her by the arm.

"I'm--I'm usually not so clumsy," she said. Their eyes met for a second that seemed to turn into minutes.

Koshka felt warm all over, embarrassed too. It was nearly disgraceful--that two fully-grown humans should act like awe-struck kittens!

Koshka, exhausted diplomat that he was, returned to his cellar headquarters and settled down next to the warm pipes for a well-deserved nap. Humans had failed. Even the nice widow and poor Perezhitkov had tried, and failed. But, the Wonder Cat plan had worked. And Koshka was happy.

Everything would turn out alright now. David, a foreigner, would marry Anna. And then, all was set! After all, the authorities would never evict the almost-mother-in-law of a foreign guest from her apartment! Why, that would make tremendous film coverage for the Amerikan television journalists, who were always poking around for a juicy story.

#

A rumbling echoed in the vent shafts and flues in the cellar. Koshka's ears tuned in, then delivered their conclusion to his brain. Second floor.

He crept up the steps. The noise was coming from Winston Hale's flat.

"Look, this is the last straw!" cried Winston. "We absolutely must eliminate that cowboy fruitcake! Today he was preaching at the front entrance, and the policeman had to tell him to stop blocking traffic! People were laughing at him. This is the last straw," he repeated, stomping his feet on the carpet. "Either he goes or I go!"

"But, I tell you!" answered Johnny Frisco. "We need him. He's our link with the president now. Who would'a thought a guy we picked would take over--that he'd have so much clout? That reverend, he's got the vice president too."

"The prez and the vice-prez fall for a chump like that? How?"

"The president, the vice-president, the vice-president's wife, the ex-president and his wife especially--they all idolize this guy! And his campaign contributions are nothing to sneeze at either!"

"I don't care," said Winston Hale. "It's either him or me! That goes for his wife too. She's as nutty as he is!"

"As smart as he is, you mean," said Johnny. "They make a great team. They rake in money from the religion thing, from the chicken thing too. They're loaded like you'll never be loaded."

"How dare you!" said Winston Hale. "I've made millions in real estate, just since 1985! Why, I have a Mercedes Benz and a BMW, and a house in the mountains and one in the desert and one on the ocean."

"And it's all going to go down the tubes, isn't it?" asked a soft-spoken Johnny Frisco.

"What do you mean?"

"Well," said Johnny Frisco, settling into his chair. "My boys--they've done a little checking up on you, on your "empire," as you call it."

"And?"

"My boys tell me you're going to be in big trouble."

"How? What do you mean?"

"I mean a lot of things. Those bases closing, for one thing. That's what I mean."

Winston Hale swallowed hard. "Oh, that!" he said glumly.

"Right, that! You own the land in the valley near the base, and near the factories make the planes and guns, right?"

"Well, right. Yes."

"And the land where the people live who work in those factories, right?"

"Well, yes. Right. Say, what is this, an interrogation?"

"And you own the stores where those workers and executive types shop, right?"

"R-R-Right," said Winston Hale, softer this time.

"So you see, you can't afford peace! It'll do you in too!"

"Well, Russia isn't the only enemy, you know! We have the whole rest of the world! Why, war can break out anywhere!"

"Yeah, yeah," said Johnny. "But we need a big enemy. Not just any country will do. Some little third-rate middle-eastern dump--it won't do. You need a big enemy, a powerful one--like Russia!"

"Well, so what if we do?" snapped Winston Hale "And what about you, Mister Smarty-Pants? What's your hedge against poverty?"

Johnny smiled, leaned forward and whispered, "Pharmaceuticals, my boy!" Then he winked, leaned back, and lit a cigarette. "It's big international business now. Profits you wouldn't imagine! Think about it. Your real estate thing, it's doomed."

"Why, I've got my seminars, my cable TV program-"

"And no one will pay a dime to see you or hear you if you go broke in the valley, pal!"

"My God, maybe you're right!" said Winston Hale, grabbing at his hair. "I--I can't afford peace!"

#

The widow was busy. Anna was busy. Perezhitkov was busy. And Koshka felt alone, as he'd never felt before. If only Masha would pay attention to him.

That afternoon he decided to be daring. He ventured out into the court yard, toward Masha's side of the block. He found her napping in a patch of sunlight on a sill.

"Why, Koshka!" she said. "How nice to see you!"

"And nice to see you too," he replied. Then he didn't know what to say. His brain twisted and turned, but no words came out.

"Did you come over for something--for a reason, I mean?" she asked.

"No," said Koshka, not knowing why he said it. He felt like a fool. His tail swished foolishly, he thought, and with that, he walked slowly back to the Glasnost Hotel.

"Damnation!" he said to himself. "Why am I so clumsy, so shy? If I was a hero--if I were a, a somebody--then Masha would like me!"

Then a plan gelled in his brain. He would write out exactly what he wanted to tell Masha. Then he would go over it and go over it until he had every word down. And when it was all down, he would go to Masha and tell her.

By next evening, he decided--before the gathering of cats, he would have his speech prepared. Maybe Masha would reject him, but at least she would know he loved her in his own, unheroic way.

#

"We have to stop meeting on the stairway like this, my darling," whispered Rassolnikov.

"What?" gasped Liuba. "You don't want to see me anymore?"

"No! I mean--yes, I do! I mean, my back is killing me from these steps. Ow, what's that?" He reached into his pocket. "Here, my sweet little pigeon, a present for you. I almost forgot!"

"Ohhh!" she cooed. "Mascara! Real Polish mascara! How did you ever get it?"

"It wasn't easy," he confessed. "In the old days, I had access to things you wouldn't imagine. How I miss those days! There's nothing but chaos today! I'd--I'd-"

"My Borya gets more upset every day too. He's in that group, you know."

"What group?" asked Rassolnikov.

"Pamyat--something like that. You know, the people who want to go back to the old ways."

"How far back do they want to go?" asked Rassolnikov cautiously.

"I don't know!" said an irritated Liuba. "Where's my present, my treat?"

"Tell me just a little bit more about Boris and his friends first," Rassolnikov pleaded.

"Oh, You'd need to ask Borya yourself. I can't stand talking to him, much less listening to him. He goes on and on about how people are bringing this country to ruin."

"Hmm," said Rassolnikov.

Then there was silence.

Koshka settled back down for a nap, hoping sweet dreams would warm him up on this, the chilliest of Saint Petersburg nights.

#

But cat wails shattered the quiet of one cold winter night in 1982.

"O-o-o-o-w-w-w-w!" Avvakuum's wail echoed in the court yard.

Koshka awoke with a start. In a flash he was outside in the moon light shadows.

Avvakuum stood, back arched, on the crooked wooden fence. "O-o-o-o-w-w-w-w! On guard, all cats! O-o-o-o-w-w-w-w! Igor and his band are on the march. They're in the park by Kammenny Ostrov Bridge! Spread the alarum!"

And a night that had been quiet was broken by wails that stretched across Kammenny Ostrov. Cat warned cat, and cat warned cat. "O-o-o-o-w-w-w-w!"

Soon cats dashed and darted and swirled across the island, beginning at the edges and thickening towards the bridge. A human listening closely, ever so closely, would have heard the soft pat-pat-pat of thousands of cat paws pounding down the pavement. But humans slept soundly, drugged by their days. They tossed and turned in their beds, unaware of the swelling upheaval in the cat world.

Cats swirled across Kirovsky Prospect. Others sulked from across the bridge, heads low, paws padding across the stones. Somewhere a dog howled.

Koshka marched in rank, behind Avvakuum, with Almaz and Terem and Terek and the other neighborhood cats, and Misha and Grisha, mere kittens.

"I hope I can kill that evil Igor myself!" Misha said.

"Me too!" said Grisha, his words in time with his step. "And ten of his hench-cats too!"

A fighter, a warrior--Koshka was not. But fight he would if he must, he decided. And strangely, only Koshka knew why Igor was making war.

"Attack! Attack!" Avvakuum leapt to the lower branch of a linden. "There he is! Ahead! Igor! Attack!"

The darkness literally swirled in on itself. Soon, two lines of cats stood facing one-another, barely two meters apart. Avvakuum stood high at the center of the east flank. Koshka was close down the line, two cats away.

Ana from across this no-cat's land, Koshka could see a solid line of dark shadows, a row of heads like beads of a rosary. Only the bead in the middle was the biggest. And its eyes were bigger and meaner. The slant of the eyes--Koshka could tell who it was. He'd seen the slit eyes and the mean shape of the head before.

But what if Igor recognized Koshka? OF course he would, Koshka realized. But if he announced the reason for his attack--if he should tell the entire cat world what had provoked him to upset the delicate patchwork pattern of cat treaties and agreements that marked off the whole island?

Koshka would hold his ground, would do what he had to, he decided.

Avvakuum broke the silence. He stepped forward from the eastern cat line, and held his head high in the air. "Igor, you and your band threaten us for no reason we know of."

Koshka couldn't help but tremble.

"I need no reason!" Igor thundered. He stepped forward from his line, and he looked more like a tiger or cougar than a house cat.

Avvakuum trembled, Koshka could tell. But the red cat held his ground. "You threaten us," said Avvakuum. "You threaten our property, our homes, our territories-"

"Your territories!" thundered Igor, his voice turning into a cruel, howling laugh. "I am king of the island cats, you fool! The whole island is my territory!" With that, Igor put one paw forward, then another. His body followed, moving closer to Avvakuum, by degrees. Then silently, the whole line of hench-cats followed suit, shortening the distance between the two cat fronts.

Avvakuum stood his ground. "You can call yourself what you wish, but this property is our property. These homes are our homes, and you will not take them from us."

Koshka could tell that Avvakuum was frightened. The red cat was not a warrior. Yet, Koshka could tell he was ready to fight, if necessary. Poor red cat, thought Koshka. Igor would not hurt Avvakuum--Koshka would make sure of that!

Avvakuum stood his ground. "Let us make peace, not unnecessary war."

"Get off my island!" commanded Igor.

"So be it," Avvakuum sighed, and he took one step forward.

Not a second later, Koshka too stepped forward. Then the whole line of fellow cats followed. Tails bristled and bushed, brushing against the ground.

Igor's eyes narrowed into slits. One dark paw, barely visible in the moonlight, took yet another, almost imperceptible step forward. Then another paw followed. Igor seemed not to breathe. Nor did his line. It was a stone rosary that was suddenly closer to Koshka.

Avvakuum raised his head. Then his paw rose too. "You will not step further into our territory, Igor!"

"Ha!" said Igor.

"Ha!" said his hench-cats.

Igor lifted his paw, and as he did, Avvakuum lowered his body to the ground. It was like a slow pas de deux. Advancing forward only a centimeter or two, Igor turned to the side, his tail waving like an uncoiled snake at the moon.

Avvakuum too turned to the side, the other side, his bushed-out tail combing the ground. His paw slowly, almost too slowly to be called movement, moved forward.

And across the line, two slit eyes disappeared into a blink and then came back round and slanted. The flash of moonlight on a barely-moving paw and "Pow!" There was no pas de deux, and Avvakuum and Igor swirled in a spinning, howling ball of fur, and just then, at that very second there were not two cat lines but one jagged line of howling, snarling, hissing, cats. A black hench-cat fell on Koshka, but Koshka spun, and threw his claws into the cat's soft belly. The hench-cat howled, then retreated.

"W-w-r-r-o-o-o-w-w!" It was Avvakuum's howl. Koshka turned fast. He saw the red cat fall to the ground, one paw to his eye, as if frozen in movement, but all the while Igor lunged, getting closer and closer to the paws that fought him off.

As if there were no time, as if all were still and unmoving, unpassing in time, Koshka lunged.

In no time, which was a very long time, Koshka dived between Avvakuum and Igor, landed on all fours, and turned towards the invader.

"It's you!" hissed Igor.

"Yes, it's me!" said Koshka. There was the smell of blood in the air. Yes, there was blood on Igor's paws, but not his blood. No, it was Avvakuum's blood. Koshka blinked to the side. Yes, Avvakuum lay on the ground, his paw still to his eye.

"You, you murderer!" hissed Koshka. "You destroy and you kill! That's all you're good for!"

"I'll do both to you!" Igor hissed back.

"W-w-r-r-o-o-o-o-w-w!" In no time, Igor attacked, and his claws headed for Koshka's face. Koshka ducked, re-grouped, and dived for Igor's belly. There was a long wail, but the cat stayed pinned to the ground, paws flailing. Igor spun, but his spinning only made it easier for Koshka and his claws.

"W-w-w-r-r-r-o-o-o-w-w-w-w!" Igor slid out of the hold, but in no time, Igor was on his back again, and Koshka was on top, all four paws planted firmly on the ground.

"Alright you murderer," said a breathless Koshka. "Tell me what you did with Katyenka!"

"You'll never, never see her again!" said Igor, turning his head to the side. "Attack, warriors!" Igor called out.

But the hench-cats, seeing their leader lay pinned under Koshka, reared, turned, and dashed for doorways and gates to the west.

"After them! After them!" cried a wounded Avvakuum. Hundreds of cats chased after the retreating line of hench-cats. The line became a jagged edge, then disintegrated into nothing but scared, running, fraidy-cats.

Igor still tried to break free. One claw slashed out at Koshka's face, but the cut was not deep. The feel of blood on his cheek made Koshka's heart beat faster. Igor lunged again, but Koshka bit him at the neck. Koshka shuddered, as if almost sick. There was something fowl--dark and dank and dirty-tasting about the fur and the flesh underneath it.

"Kill him!" said Avvakuum, still holding his eye.

And Koshka could feel murder coursing through his veins as he stood triumphant over the cat that was pinned in a jail made of paws.

"Kill him!" went the chant, but Koshka stood motionless, but for his heart and his panting, over the cat.

Murder. Self-defense, and protection, and war allows it, demands it, and then there was Katyenka poor Katyenka and her kittens, their kittens, and poor Avvakuum, his eye bleeding and Terem and Terek, hot with battle and thirsty for blood--they all demanded kill it, as if Igor were not a cat but just an it that had to be killed, so that it would sound like it was not murder because to eliminate an it is not the same as to kill.

But Koshka couldn't kill. He felt sick, looking down as he did at such putrid hatred. And Igor scowled back, his eyes saying kill me you coward, I dare you.

But Koshka stood, his breathing in and out slower and slower, trying to slow the heart and still the blood coursing in veins and the thirst for murder. But he couldn't kill. For all if it, he just couldn't kill. Not making life, but just having life, he couldn't take life.

"Kill him!" commanded Avvakuum.

"Kill him! Kill him!" chanted Terem and Terek, Misha and Grisha.

But Koshka stood, his eyes looking downward with loathing.

Kill him. Kill him. Igor. King of the island cats. Killer of kittens. Killer of Katyenka. Maker of wars.

Katyenka. It was as if Koshka woke with a start. Katyenka. Sadness filled his soul and his body, taking up all the places hatred had been. Oh, Katyenka, why had she been taken away? Koshka wanted to cry out. At the moon. At the cloud not teasing the moon. At the windows blinking with light in the distance. At the water trickling past under the bridge. Why had she been taken from him?

Kill him. Kill him. It was a chorus now from some faraway place. But then Avvakuum motioned with one paw and Terem and Terek and Almaz nudged Koshka aside.

Katyenka. Why had she been taken from him? Why was life so empty, so mean?

"Kill him!" commanded Avvakuum. "There will be no peace on this island as long as there is a cat who calls himself Igor, King of the island cats."

Terem and Terek went in. There was hissing, and howls. Paws flashing in the moon light just returned from the teasing cloud. Then a long wail, longer than any Koshka had ever heard.

"Ura!" went Avvakuum. "Ura!" went the cats. "Igor is dead, is dead, is dead, is dead!"

The air smelled of blood and worse, of stomachs and torn fur and eyes and hearts and organs too. Koshka couldn't look, wouldn't watch. He limped off to a corner and stared up at the sky that gave out no answers.

And the cruel blue moon went behind a cloud with a smile, its dark light turning darker all the while.

To Chapter Twelve

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