Chapter Fifteen

Blam! Blam! The wooden crate bounced and rattled in the van. Koshka hunched, wincing with each blow. Osip's truck had no shock absorbers, Koshka decided, or else the cold had frozen the fluid inside them. Blam! The truck hit another bump. Was Osip following a road or was he passing over a frozen field? It was hard to tell. Blam! Another bump. It must have been a road--nothing else would have been that bumpy.

How long had Koshka been locked in the back of the van? Overnight. This was the morning of February nineteenth, he calculated. How long had the van been moving, and how fast was it going? He didn't know. It seemed as if the crate had been bouncing for an awfully long time.

And just when it seemed he could not possibly feel any worse, he remembered that he had decided to meet Masha that very evening and tell her he loved her. Now, he probably would never see her again.

"M-e-o-w!" He let out a helpless cry. He didn't have to make it loud. He knew no one would hear anyway--not even the person driving the van. The engine labored on, grunting and grinding, the springs squeaked, and the gears ground on.

However long it had been, and however far they had driven, it was not good. With each passing minute, with each bump on the road, Koshka was getting further and further away from the Glasnost Hotel, from an assassination only he could prevent. As if the distance weren't bad enough, Koshka didn't even know what direction he was travelling!

Could he ever find his way back? He doubted it. In his whole life, he had never been more than six or seven blocks up Popov Street from the hotel, and those ventures had gotten him into the worst trouble of his life. And now, here he was bouncing off to nowhere, with no way to get back--at exactly the time he was needed there most.

Blam! Blam! More bumps, these intent on shaking Koshka to the bone. Then all of a sudden, the wooden crate lurched forward and came to a rest on its side. The van stopped shaking. Bang! It was the van door. A stiff wind cut right through the holes in the crate, and there was a faint light twinkling in.

A man coughed. Then the lid flew open. "Made it, little devil, eh?" It was Osip the former waiter. He reached into the crate. "You didn't die on old Osip, eh? That's good!"

Koshka wanted to leap out of the box and head for home. But how? Which way was home? Osip, as if reading Koshka's mind, wrapped his thick hands around the cat's body and lifted it from the truck.

"Oi, it's a cold one, it is!" said Osip. He trudged through the snow, heading towards the cabin. Koshka looked around. Snow. Snow. And snow. Icicles on trees. An old oak, its trunk broken, the tree's brittle black branches weighted down by snow. Which way was Saint Petersburg, he wondered? Which way would he run when given the chance? Ahead, he spotted a cottage burdened down with snow at the edge of a steep hill, then perhaps a frozen river--it was hard to tell what lay under all the whiteness. They passed long outbuildings that had become the butts of giant snow drifts. Koshka looked around as best he could, given the thick hands holding him. Snow. Snow. And snow. There was nowhere to run, and the snow looked too deep for a cat to get anywhere anyway.

Osip now held Koshka in one hand, and with the other unlatched the door to the cottage. "Allo!" he shouted. "It's me--Osip! Allo!"

"Ai?" came a gruff response. Koshka heard footsteps coming up a stairway, accompanied by a steady tap-tap-tap. "You brought more stuff?" asked a bearded old man who leaned on a cane.

"No, uncle. Just a cat."

"A cat? We're going bankrupt, and all you bring is a cat?"

"I had to, uncle," Osip confessed. "Besides. It'll keep the mice out of the supplies."

"The supplies are rotting anyway!" said the bearded man. "If that hotel thing doesn't come through soon, we're done for as an enterprise!"

"I know, Uncle Vasya," said Osip. "And it's not going very well, at the moment."

Uncle Vasya walked to the stove and poured out two cups of steaming tea. Osip poured some cream into a tin and set it on the floor. "That's for you, cat!" he said.

There was always time to escape later, Koshka decided, and he dashed for the tin. The cream tasted thick and rich.

The two men sat down at the table.

"In my day," said Vasya. "Why, we'd be rolling in money by now!"

"Those were the old days, uncle. Things aren't like that anymore."

"I was the richest apparatchik the country ever saw!" said Vasya, thumping on his chest. "I controlled four construction battalions and dozens of factories! Why, if any one factory or any one site needed anything, they just called on old Vasya, that's what they did! I got it for them, for a good price, and in a hurry too!"

"Yes, I know, uncle. Those were the days alright! The Brezhnev years. But things are different now. You can't do business that way anymore."

"Ah!" said Vasya, thumping his cane on the floor. "Reduced to black-marketeering in my old age! What a disgrace!"

Osip's eyes flashed for a second, then he sipped on his tea. "You're not the only one who suffers. Look at me! A waiter in a cheap hotel!"

"But the hotel construction job--it will make us money?"

"It gets harder every day. But, if we act right, and do it slowly, we can survive. It's not like the old days, and, besides, there are kapitalists involved. Crazy Amerikans. One man rants and raves about holy spirits and waves a big white hat in the air. His wife sobs all the time. A weedy thug named Johnny Frisco puffs on cigarettes through a long holder--they're all crazy. The man with the cigarette holder--he left though, and so did two others. A weasel-type with an MBA, whatever that is, and a Greek named Nick."

"Here, Osip, drink your tea!" urged Vasya. "Nice hot tea is good for you. You're not making any sense!"

"None of it makes any sense, believe me! All these people are insane. Me and Perezhitkov--we have all we can do just to keep things running!"

"So how will you survive in such chaos, sonny?"

"The hotel project's in chaos. Nothing is getting done and everybody is nervous. I offered to fix things up--to get the place opened and operating, provided they put me in charge!"

"Good job, sonny! You're an apparatchik! Just like the old days."

"If it works. It will take time. Some of the foreigners left--they couldn't wait. Too impatient. They want money to flow, like out of a spigot. And, believe it or not, people are actually afraid to take bribes today!"

Vasya's mouth opened wide, forming a big circle surrounded by bushy beard. "You're joking!"

"No. It's true! Why I offered one to a nail factory manager the other day, and he nearly spit in my hand."

"What's this world coming to? If a decent person can't bribe a little now and then, how can they expect to get anything done?"

"That's the question! I don't know the answer."

The two men sat in silence, swirling the thick tea in their glasses. The old man lit a pipe. "Can you get rid of any of our inventory?"

"Like what?"

"The junk in the sheds."

"Now, uncle!" Osip lamented. "Who would want five hundred 'Long Live Brezhnev!' signs. The man's been dead for years! His country's dead too!"

"They're on good plywood, remember!" said Vasya, tamping his pipe with a nail. "They're hardly warped. You could paint over the slogans and pictures! You'd have good wood. And the toilet paper--you certainly can use toilet paper."

"Of course!" said Osip. "As soon as the hotel opens, I'll haul in the toilet paper--it'll take a few truck loads."

"And flowers too!" Vasya reminded him. "We grow flowers this spring and you sell them next fall, right?"

"How am I supposed to sell them, uncle? Dress up in an Armenian folk costume and sit in the subway stations?"

"I'm sure you could sell them somehow. And the perfume too."

"You mean that foul-smelling 'Socialist Midnight in Moscow'? Ugh! No one wears that slop anymore!"

"It was good enough for Nina Khrushchev!"

"And not good enough for anybody today, uncle! Believe me, everything has changed!"

Their talked and drank late into the night, then fell asleep at the table. Koshka waited for darkness, then tested all the doors and windows. Everything was fastened down tight and latched. He was a prisoner. Tomorrow, he'd figure out how to escape, but for tonight, he was exhausted, and sore from all the bouncing in the van. He found an old rag-rug on the floor not far from the fireplace. Soon, he was fast asleep, dreaming of Anna's soft hands, the widow's kind voice, his friends, the neighborhood cats, and most of all, his Masha.

He awoke with a start. Would he ever see Masha again? Would he ever be able to tell her he loved her? And what about old Avvakuum, and Misha and Grisha? Would he ever see them again? Hagia Sophia even? If he didn't make it back, life would surely change for cats and humans alike! And even if he did return, could he stop what was bound to happen, what humans had already deigned? He fell into an exhausted sleep.

The sound of two men snoring awoke him. It was the middle of the night. He stretched, then crept into the kitchen. A vodka bottle lay empty on the table, and next to it, the remnants of a genuine vodka drinkers' snack tray, complete with herring and caviar and even spicy Georgian chicken Satsivi bones. The two men sat in their chairs, their faces pressed to the table. They were snoring and snorting. Uncle Vasya's steady, rhythmic wheezing was enough to shake the window curtains.

The food was tasty--almost as good as the widow Petrova's, and the room was warm and toasty. Koshka licked the tray clean. He could hear the wind beating at the door and window panes. "Don't go out! Don't go out!" it seemed to say. It was not a fit night out for man or beast. It was a good night to stay indoors, curled by a fire. It was the kind of night and the kind of setting some cats dream about--resting in a rustic wooden cottage with a stone fireplace, for instance. The cares of the world seemed to recede into the flashes from the burning logs. What a peaceful, perfect setting for a long winter's nap! This was the fabled country life of the dacha, Koshka decided! He laid his head down on the warm rag rug. Ah, the gentile, noble life of the countryside, thought Koshka! Turgenev! A Hunters Notebook. Chekhov! It was all here, in the warm little dacha deep in the peaceful forest.

But Koshka took in a deep breath and lifted his head, although a part of him didn't want to There was work to be done. The world was at stake. And the Glasnost Hotel too. And the widow. There was work to be done. Koshka pried himself up off the rug, and for good measure, he gobbled up the last of the chicken scraps in the kitchen. He tried the door. It was latched tight. It would take at least four cats to lift the board that held it. He leapt up on the cupboard and tried the window. It was shut fast and latched too. With his paw, he managed to slide the latch over. Then he used the full weight of his body to push open the window. It was only a crack, but a crack was all a Wonder Cat needed. He slid out, and a gust of blowing cold snow stung his eyes.

Snow. Snow. Snow. The sky was dark and heavy with snow. Which direction was south, or north? It hardly mattered. Koshka didn't know which direction he'd come from, so he didn't know which way to go.

The snow was icy cold. He shook his paws, took one last look at the warm glow coming from the cottage, and headed into the darkness.

Where to go? Back to Saint Petersburg, of course! But which way was that? It was easy for Wonder Cat to decide--the first steps at least. He followed the tracks left by the van, keeping low to the ground, but not so low the snow would scrape his belly, and he would be always alert for passing trucks or cars or--or--animals. He hadn't thought of that before. What cat-eating monsters and hunger-crazed beasts dwelled in these parts? Wolves probably. Bears maybe too. Big black Russian bears with swift paws that could lift a cat right off the ground. With luck, they were probably hibernating, and Koshka would be careful and quiet. Would it work? Perhaps the possibility of a warm cat for dinner would be enough to lure them out of their dens. He longed for the rag rug next to the fire in the cabin with the snoring Osip and wheezing Vasya.

Head low, shoulders bent down, Koshka followed the tire marks in the snow with all the single-minded determination of a locomotive on a track. First one paw forward. Then another. Then another. Then another. Then another. Faster. Faster. Faster. Then another, faster. So far, there were no sounds to alarm him. No howling wolves or truck engines. No bears. Just the white, silent night, interrupted only by the sounds of his own paws pattering on the snow.

Then he heard a distant roar. It was getting louder. The ground started trembling. The roar turned into the steady grinding. Something big was crunching down the snow, and it was getting closer.

Koshka dived into a gully, just in time. His paw grazed a bramble bush, and a long truck hurtled passed. Giant tree trunks hung off the back end. The monster truck had sixteen giant wheels--each as tall as any monster need be, and any one of those wheels could have easily and permanently transformed a living, three-dimensional cat into a two-dimensional inanimate artifact.

He crawled out of the snow pile, shook himself off, and picked up his locomotive pace once again. His paw ached. He stopped to pull out the bramble. Even in the dark, he saw deep, dark blood dripping onto the white snow. He took in a breath, gathered his resolve, and crawled back onto the track.

Head low, shoulders hunched with resolve, he trudged onward. He kept his ears pricked, ready for the first signs of a truck or car engine.

R-o-o-a-a-r! Koshka dived again off the road, barely in time. A sedan flashed past.

#

The back stairway was pitch-black, as usual. Two shadows huddled between the fifth and sixth floors. One shadow was short and thin, the other short and fat.

"So, let's not argue politics anymore,' said one male voice. "We have different views, but--but we both want that--that man eliminated. And now's our chance."

"But what about afterwards?" asked the fat one. "What will come after?"

The thin shadow shrugged. "Could it be any worse than--than this?"

"No," said the fat one. "So what do I do?"

"Wait for a contact. From a man who calls himself Valentin."

"That's all?"

"That's all. And you will be rewarded personally as well, for your--for your participation."

"One more thing," said the fat one. "A personal thing. Can we eliminate someone else too?"

"Who?'

"I don't know who!"

"Are you crazy?'

"No, listen to me!" insisted the short one. "It's just that someone is having an affair with my wife. I want to have him done in!"

The thin one swallowed. "We--we'll look into it."

"When I catch that dirty son-of-a-"

"L-l-ook!" said the thin one. "You better leave it to us. It's best not to get involved. We'll take care of it."

"Thanks," said the fat one. "You know, I hate my wife. But still, I can't stand the thought of somebody else-"

"I understand," said the thin one.

#

R-o-o-a-a-r! It was another sedan flashing past.

Koshka leapt to the side of the road.

"Waiting for someone?"

He turned around at the sound of the squeaky voice.

"Why, no, I--I'm just passing through." Koshka studied the owner of the squeaky voice. It could have been a cat, but not quite. The paws were thinner and more dainty, the legs longer, and the torso entirely too big. True, the animal was striped almost like a tabby, but he was wearing a silly black mask across his eyes.

"So, what are you looking at?" asked the squeaky voice.

"Well, I really don't know."

"You're not from around these parts, are you?"

"No," Koshka confessed.

"Are you a city cat, by chance?"

"Why, yes! How did you know?"

"By the simple fact that you're out on the road on a night like this! Any sane, country cat would be inside, somewhere and somehow, at any cost." The squeaky voice stepped closer. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rodya. Rodya the Raccoon."

They sniffed each other and then shook paws. "Oh! A raccoon! I've never seen one. I never hoped to see one!"

"Well, your patience is rewarded. Now pray tell, what is your name?"

"I don't have one."

"You what?" The eyes behind the mask opened wide.

"I don't have one. You see, I was born a stray, in a building, and nobody named me."

"Spoken just like a helpless city critter!" said the raccoon. "You should have named yourself, dummy! That's what we do out here! Why, I picked 'Rodya' all by myself!" His eyes blinked and he studied Koshka. "You look cold. Maybe you should rest a bit--warm up."

"Oh, I'd love to, but I'm in a hurry."

"Haste makes waste. And since you're a city cat, I bet it's fair to say you've never even heard of a raccoons' convention, right?"

"Absolutely right."

"Well, you're in luck. We're having one tomorrow. It's an annual affair. We'll have speeches and entertainment--singing and dancing."

"I'd love to, but you see, I'm in an awful hurry."

"You could meet the hedgehogs--I bet you've never seen one of them either! They're fierce-looking but very gentle. And you can believe an old lonely raccoon, those hedgehogs look like they can hardly move at all, but I bet Lesha the hedgehog could out-race you! And the foxes! They'll be there. You'd have a ball! And there's lots of food too! You'd be an honored guest!"

"I'd like that very much, Rodya, but, you see, I have to get back."

Rodya blinked, and his face turned sad. "Oh. Back to where?"

"Saint Petersburg. It's very important, believe me. Otherwise, I'd be more than happy to stay. By the way, do you know how far, or in which direction, Saint Petersburg is from here?"

Rodya frowned. "Saint Petersburg? What's that?"

"The city. A big city."

"Oh, you mean the place of stone and smoke that smells so bad?"

"Yes, that's probably it."

"Just keep going in the direction you're going. Follow your nose, and you'll find it. It's a very long way, however."

Koshka licked at his paw.

"Say, what's that?" asked Rodya. "A cut! You've been wounded!"

"Oh, I just scraped myself on a bush while jumping off the road, I think."

"Let's have a look at it." Rodya closed one eye and studied the wound. "Looks like you had better not walk on that for a while."

"I--need to get on--it's very important," said Koshka, his eyes starting to water. He stepped back, but his leg gave out and he nearly curled over.

"All I can say," said Rodya. "Is it must be very important--very important for you to want to go on."

"It is."

Rodya bent low to the ground. "Then jump on my back!"

"Do what?'

"Jump on my back! I need my evening run, and, anyway, I'm bored with this part of the forest. Let's head for the birches! And that's the way to the smelly city too. Hop on!"

Rodya lowered himself to the ground, and Koshka hopped up on his furry back.

"Yahoo!" wailed Rodya as he broke into a lumbering run.

Koshka lurched from side-to-side, making sure to hold on tight. Birches flashed past in the silent forest, and stars twinkled through a moving mesh of branches. Koshka held on for dear life.

#

"Heads will roll! Heads will roll!" Rassolnikov stomped through the foyer and up to the elevator. "Heads will roll if this project isn't finished on time!" He glared at Perezhitkov. "And your fat head will be the first!" Rassolnikov banged again on the call button.

No lift.

He banged once more.

No lift.

He kicked the door.

Still no lift.

"To the devil with it all!" he yelled. "Get this god-forsaken elevator fixed, Perezhitkov, you lazy good-for-nothing peasant!"

"The parts are on order, Comrade Rassolnikov," Perezhitkov offered meekly. "They've been on order for two years."

"Where in the devil's name are they coming from, Siberia?"

"No. Mongolia. And you know, Comrade Rassolnikov, with the recent problems there, the parts were shipped to Baku, and you know, with the recent problems there, they were supposed to arrive in Tblisi, but you know, with the recent-"

"Oh, shut up!" shouted Rassolnikov. "Just get this place in order!" He grabbed at his head, nearly pulling out the fringe of his hair remaining. "Lord above, we absolutely need this place to be ready for the leader's visit! That's all! It must be done!" Now nearly sobbing, Rassolnikov headed for the stairway. "Please, Perezhitkov!" he pleaded. "Fix the elevator for me. It's February nineteenth already! Even if it means dealing on the black market. Please. I beg you!" There were tears in his eyes. "The Kalifornians left, you know! I--I just don't know if we will ever open!"

"I'll see what I can do," said Perezhitkov. He stepped into his office and reached for the phone. "Hello, Osip? Yes! Perezhitkov here. A new crisis. We need the elevator repaired. Rassolnikov is going off his rocker. No. I don't know where you can get the parts. Do you? Okay. At once. They'll be a big bonus. Charge them whatever you want. I guarantee it. Sure!"

Perezhitkov hung up the phone, leaned back in his chair, and lit a cigarette. "No job's too big or too small for an apparatchik!" he said out loud. "Even when he's away at his dacha!" He sifted his hands through the stack of papers covering his desk. Unopened letters. Petitions. Notices. Announcements. "Oh, for the good old days!" he sighed. "Oh, for the good old days!"

"Comrade Perezhitkov!" It was Liuba Smetanova. The door slammed behind her. "What is the big idea?"

"What big idea?"

"The big idea of hanging those ugly propaganda banners all over the hallways!"

"I didn't hang them, and I didn't order them to be hung, so it's not any of my business."

"But you're the building manager!"

"I know," sighed Perezhitkov. "But there are five or six other bosses around here--all of whom out-rank me, and you have six or seven government delegations visiting--what they do is none of my business. They're in charge, not me."

"Well, it is my business! They're ugly. They're offensive. Why, we have dignified foreigners and Amerikans living here!"

"They're all crazy, and not at all dignified. So what anyway?

"They're old propaganda signs! They're disgusting. 'Down with Amerikan Kapitalism!' 'Don't let the kapitalist wolves devour the world!' 'Be ever watchful for kapitalist corruption of our beloved, pure, vulnerable youth!' It's disgusting!"

"I agree. But Rassolnikov said we needed something to cover the walls. Comrade Rassolnikov said we needed colors--something upbeat and bright because the halls were too dingy. The Moscow delegates agreed, and they found the posters and banners in the attic."

"Well, take them down!"

"I can't. The delegates say we need propaganda posters. We need 'agit-prop,' he says, especially at a time when there are so many foreigners around, he says."

"Agit-what?"

"Agit-Prop. Don't you remember the good old days? 'Agitation and propaganda'--that's what it stood for."

"But why these horrible posters?" she asked. "They're disgusting!"

"They're the only ones they could find. Rassolnikov said, and I quote, 'I don't care what--just get some posters and banners up--brighten up this place!'"

"But my Simi--Comrade Rassolnikov would never approve of such tasteless slogans!"

"He was interested in the colors, not the slogans," said Perezhitkov, rubbing his forehead.

"Then why didn't you get some softer posters, some of the newer ones--peace and productivity and economic incentives and all that?"

"They can't find them anywhere. The Glasnost and Perestroika Poster Factory off Turgenev Street has a seven-year back-log for orders, and they're not operating now. Seems there's a paper shortage-"

"Well, these simply have to go! If you won't take them down, then you just wait until the Amerikan kapitalist visitors see them! And when they get insulted and leave, and the project fails--then it will all be your fault! And you'll end up working in a road house in Siberia."

Perezhitkov clutched his head in his hands. "I'd give anything to be working right now in a road house in Siberia! Anything, anywhere, except this god-forsaken insane asylum!"

"Now take those posters down!" Liuba stamped her feet on the floor.

Perezhitkov held his head in one hand, and with the other hand, reached in his desk drawer. He pulled out a bottle and unscrewed the top. "Leave me alone, Liuba. Please, just leave me alone."

"Siberia!" Liuba snapped as she turned for the door. "Siberia! Soon you'll be there, getting drunk in a snow bank, you worthless lout!"

#

The lamp flickered in the widow's tiny sitting room. David sat on the divan, his head reeling from the week-long series of meetings. "No wonder the world's in such a mess," he confessed to Anna. "It's absolutely impossible to get anything done. Why opening one hotel is nearly impossible! God, how does the United Nations ever manage to get anything done?"

"Things are that bad, dear?" asked Anna, stroking the fine hairs at the back of his head.

"Worse. They argued all afternoon about the shape of ice cubes for the bar. The Americans want square cubes, but Comrade Nasitnikov, who was once in New York on United Nations business, remembers being served an intriguing chunk of ice shaped like a derby hat, and it had a hole in the middle."

"Sounds intriguing indeed!"

"Yes, but they're worried about the shape of the ice cubes at a time when they should be worried about opening the bar in which to serve the cubes. They're caught up in minutia, they are!"

"Oh that sounds like a very Russian trait. Did you ever hear about the Duma meetings before the revolution?"

"Of course. But it's a typical American trait too. Have you ever heard of 'government by committee'?"

"No."

"Good! If you're lucky, it'll remain that way!"

There were footsteps in the hallway. The door opened. It was the widow Petrova, dressed in her bathrobe, rubbing her eyes. She held a book and a pair of glasses in one hand. "Are you love birds still chatting away?"

Anna blushed. "Yes, Auntie."

"And do you know what time it is?"

David looked at his watch. "Lord! It's after midnight!"

"Oh, to be young and in love!" said the widow. "But you young ones need your rest now, mind you! David must not get sick--he's not used to the cold or the food here. And you, Anna, must get your rest too."

"Yes, Auntie!"

The widow turned towards the doorway. "You know, I haven't seen Koshka in a while. I sure miss him. Have you two seen him?"

"No, Auntie," said Anna. "With all the construction going on--all the disorder and chaos, he may have moved on."

"Oh, I don't think he's the type to ever abandon ship. This is his home. I'm worried. Please keep an eye out for him."

"We will, Auntie."

The widow left the room. Anna turned to David. "That cat, remember, is what brought us together."

"Sure!" said David. "When he got caught between the wall and the water pipe!"

Anna nodded. "Yes, but what about when he was stuck in the window? Poor kitty was always getting himself into trouble!"

David laughed, then rubbed his chin. "You know, it seems he got into trouble when he know you and I would rescue him-"

She completed his sentence. "-Almost as if he wanted us to be together."

"Exactly!"

Anna's eyes turned sad. "I miss him. I hope he's alright."

"Me too. But for now, we must go to bed. I have more meetings tomorrow, and you must help your Auntie."

Her face turned hard. "I must pack tomorrow too."

"Already?"

"Yes, I have to be back day after tomorrow."

"It's not fair! We just met, and now you want to leave!"

"Don't want to," she whispered. "Have to."

"Don't have to," he whispered back, running his fingers through her hair. "Marry me."

She shook her head, making her hair swirl out in a black, graceful fan. "I'm sorry, David. I can't."

"Why not?" he whispered in her ear. "You're not in love?"

"Of course I'm in love!" she protested. "And you know it!"

"Well, then, let's get married! Isn't that what two people in love with one-another usually do?"

Anna shook her head. "Look, we've hardly known each-other a month, and we're from different countries. Maybe we're just in love with--with a fantasy--with something different, unknown, foreign-"

"Maybe I just had to travel half-way around the world to meet the perfect woman!" he whispered.

"Please, don't!" she said, tears in her eyes. "You're just making it harder!" She wiped her eyes. "You know, if you were as much of a salesman on this hotel as you are with me, this place would be built, and over-booked for years by now!"

"And I won't give up until I've booked you!" he said, looking deep into her eyes.

She turned away. It felt so good, being with him, holding him, being held by him. But, she'd been fooled before, and she'd vowed to never let it happen again

. #

"Well, here it is!" said Rodya the raccoon. He was huffing and puffing, nearly rolling over from exhaustion, but trying to sound energetic and strong. "Here--here is the end of the birch forest." He was panting, his sides rising and falling like the gills of a giant fish. "You--you want to go further?" he gasped. His paw pointed forward, out across a wide snow-covered meadow.

"You've helped me too much already," said Koshka. "And I'm really grateful!"

"Well, then, well!" said Rodya, still fighting for breath. "Any time you need help, you--you just call on old Rodya, okay?"

"Okay!" said Koshka. "And if I ever come back this way, you can be sure I'll stop by to visit you."

"Make it fast!" said Rodya, a smile spreading across his tired face. "I won't be around forever."

"You're such a good friend--why, believe me, if I wasn't on a very, very important mission, I would have loved to stay with you!"

"Good luck to you, my friend," said Rodya, rising on his feet. "Wherever life takes you! I don't envy anybody living in a city, but to each his own, I suppose."

"And good luck to you too!" said Koshka.

The two unlikely friends sniffed and shook paws. Koshka headed out across the meadow, turning every so often to nod back at Rodya, who was still standing at the edge of the birch forest. #

"What a time for the power to go out!" said Perezhitkov, handing a flashlight to David. "What do you know about electricity?"

"Not much, I'm afraid. Less than about plumbing." They both crouched in the cellar.

The upstairs door opened quickly. "Turn that blessed power back on this very instant!" It was Liuba Smetanova.

"I didn't turn it off, so we can't turn it back on," shouted Perezhitkov.

"Oh, don't give me all your technical explanations, just turn the blasted power back on!"

"We're trying!" he shouted. He crawled under the pipes and flashed his light around. "Nothing here. Let's try upstairs."

Liuba was still in the doorway. "Turn on the power now, I said!"

"God, how can you stand that woman?" asked David.

"Oh, like I said, a bad one like that makes the good ones look that much better!"

David laughed. Together the two men walked up to the attic. The girders bent and moaned in the wind.

"This was such a grand old beauty, this building!" said Perezhitkov, tapping on a metal beam. "I wouldn't want to live anywhere else. Too bad they're turning it into a hotel. If I had my way, I'd let it be--let it just remain an apartment block, and build my hotel somewhere else."

"Me too!" said David.

They found the problem. A fallen attic rafter had split some wires. Perezhitkov opened his tool box and started splicing, using his teeth for a knife.

"They're really going to evict the people who live here?" David asked.

Perezhitkov bit through the wire, grabbed his tape, and started making connections. "They say they will, but I don't know. The Baron, for instance. He's an old hero, you know."

"What did he do?"

"He was one of the leaders of the international Communist movement. He owned factories, gave them over to his workers, and turned his own home into a hospital. There are statues and plaques in his honor all over Moscow."

"Then why isn't he treated like a hero now?"

"It's sad, in a way," said Perezhitkov. "His memory lives on gloriously, but unfortunately, maybe he himself should have died long ago, I suppose. No one knows he's alive, I guess."

"That's sad."

"It'll be sadder if they evict him from here. I don't think the poor old coot has a very good grasp on reality-"

"I suppose not! Every time I've seen him he's tipping his hat and singing the 'Internationale' as if it was seventy-five years ago."

"Precisely! And if they take him out of his surroundings--put him in a pensioners' home, for instance, I think it'll do him in."

"That's sad."

"And Petrova, the widow. She's a sad story too. Her husband was a colonel, you know."

"I didn't know that." David threaded and held the wire strands while Perezhitkov crimped and clamped. "She doesn't talk about the war."

"He died in the battle of Stalingrad. The widow lost him and a daughter too, right here, during the siege. She's lived in this building as long as anybody, except for the Baron maybe. And forcing her to move--it's senseless, and I think it would be the end of her."

"I agree! I've tried to see what I can do to let them stay."

Perezhitkov crimped the last wire. "And the widow's niece, you like her?"

David's eyes flashed in the darkness of the attic. "Yes."

"And she likes you?"

"Maybe--I don't know. I'm not sure. Sometimes she doesn't act like she does."

"Oh, she does!" said Perezhitkov. "I can tell by the way she looks at you."

David's head and voice lowered. "I'm not always so sure."

"Just take it easy, young man. Things will work out for the better. They always work out for the better."

"I wish I was that optimistic about anything!" David answered, a weak laugh lacing his voice.

#

The meadow turned into tree-less hills where snow drifts made rolling, wave-like contours. Koshka slid down a hill, rolled, righted himself, and fought on.

He shook himself hard, but the heavy snow clung to his fur. He blinked a couple of times, lowered his head, and marched on. His paws felt out each step, trying to decide where the snow ended and the ground began.

"Not built for this weather, eh?" It was a booming voice from off to the side.

Koshka dived into the cover of a snow bank.

"And you're a 'fraidy cat too, eh?"

"Who--who are you?"

"My friends call me 'Yezhy Yozhik,'" said the voice.

"Are you friend or foe to a city cat?' asked Koshka warily, ready to flee, or fight, or both, if necessary.

"Friend!"

"Well then," said Koshka, still unsure of the beast's intentions. "Show yourself then!"

"I'd rather not," came the reply.

"Why not? If your intentions are good, that is."

"I won't show myself for a very good reason!" came the reply. The beast's voice had gotten softer, a little sadder perhaps. "It's because I'm--I'm what many would call ugly. Unspeakably ugly, it's been said. Hideous even!"

"What? You sound alright to me!" said Koshka. "Are you a sly fox ready to attack, or a giant bear who's very hungry?'

"Neither," said Yezhy Yozhik. "I guess you really are not used to these parts. I'm a yozh--a hedgehog. That's what I am."

"What's a hedgehog?" asked Koshka.

"Want to see?"

"Why, of course!" said Koshka impatiently. It was getting very wet and cold inside the snow bank. His own body heat was melting the snow.

"Promise you won't laugh, or gasp, or run, or gag?"

"I promise."

With that, a giant mound started to appear over the horizon, like a fuzzy rising sun.

Koshka gasped, but swallowed hard. Before him appeared the strangest-looking creature he had ever seen, stranger even than the various humans and human costumes he had encountered. This creature was tall, humped-backed, and round, with a long snout that bent low to the ground, like Rodion the Janitor's vacuum cleaner. Worse, the creature's legs were short and spindly, as if a hedgehog factory had somehow run out of suitable parts and had strapped the poor fellow with these weak substitutes. And even worse, quills like fish fins or jagged teeth stuck out from all directions.

"So, you want to laugh?" asked Yezhy Yozhik.

"Well, no," said Koshka. "I suppose I look strange to you--as strange maybe as you look to me."

"Precisely! My quills protect me, and my snout serves its purpose well. And to me, you look sort of pathetic, you know. You're all soft and too sleek and slippery, and your snubby nose is clearly no good at digging anything."

"Well, let's not get too personal!" said Koshka.

"Alright. Alright. What brings a creature like you into the hills and meadows? What are you anyhow?"

"A cat. A city cat."

"Hmm," said Yezhy Yozhik, lumbering closer. His narrow eyes blinked and squinted. "You could be a mutant bobcat, I suppose."

"I hardly think you should be so critical of appearances!"

"Alright, alright! What's your name, city cat?'

"I don't have one."

"Oi, it's true then! Life in the city is unbearable! They don't even let you have a name. Where are you going?"

"Back to the city!" said Koshka.

"Hmmm."

"I have to, you see. It's very, very important."

"Well, you'll hardly make it, the way you're travelling. You need strong legs like mine, a snout for digging out tasty bug treats along the way, a wide body for making a path-"

"I know. I know. I'm way out of my element. Can't you help?"

"You want to go back to the city, back to those strangest creatures of all, those world-fouling humans?"

"Yes, I need to. You see, I belong in the city, maybe the same way you belong here. We all must belong somewhere, right?"

"Right, I suppose. But you won't make it back with that body!"

"Please help me!" pleaded Koshka. "I'd help you if you were lost in the city!"

Yezhy Yozhik sighed. "Okay. Jump on my back."

"I can't. It's too--too spiky."

"Okay, Okay," said Yezhy Yozhik. "Let's see then. Okay, I'll walk through the meadow, and I'll make a smooth path for you through the drifts, okay?"

"Okay!" said Koshka. "And I will be so grateful for your help, Mister Yozhik!"

"Indeed, indeed!" With that, Yezhy Yozhik lumbered off, his thick body rolling from side-to-side as his little legs picked their way through the snow. It reminded Koshka of the old Saint Petersburg bubble-shaped busses, the ones that nearly capsized every time they turned a corner.

But Yezhy Yozhik's body cut a flat, smooth path through the snow. Koshka was surprised how fast the pudgy beast moved, and Koshka had trouble keeping up with him.

"Hurry up, my new big-city friend!" said Yezhy Yozhik, his eyes and snout turning back for a look.

"Okay! Okay!" said Koshka. "Believe me, I appreciate your help. I couldn't make it without you!"

"Oh, it's nothing, nothing at all!" said the hedgehog. "A poor city animal like you, out here all alone--you need a brave, and may I say, handsome hero to guide you!"

"You're beautiful, Yezhy Yozhik!" said Koshka. "Absolutely beautiful! And I could think of no animal who could move so fast through the snow."

To Chapter Sixteen

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