Chapter Sixteen

The impossible happened, for no reason at all. It was a warm February afternoon. Even the sun seem reluctant to leave, loitering as it did, low to the ground off Vasilievsky Island. And across town, off Popov Street, Babushka Shura ran through her court yard. "A puddle! I just saw a puddle!" she shouted, waving her net bag in the air. "I saw a puddle on Popov Street! It's the very first puddle of the year, it is!"

A window opened. "What's all the commotion?" asked a tired male voice.

"A puddle! A real, genuine puddle! I saw a puddle! It's an omen of spring, it is!"

"Don't I wish, Babushka Shura!" said the male voice. "Hell, we've got a month of hard winter left! Your puddle will soon disappear!"

The window slammed shut.

But it was almost like spring. Children ran up Popov Street with the flaps on their caps flopping loose, and cats lazily strolled the court yards.

Then the sun disappeared and a wind blew up from the Neva. Soon Babushka Shura's puddle turned back to a slippery, shiny glaze. It was winter still, to be sure, and a frigid evening wind blew in from the gulf, just to prove it.

Then it was time for the gathering of cats. Sleek figures slinking low to the ground slid through the cracks in the walls of the "People's Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory. Cats huddled on empty work benches, on overhead conveyers, and in parts bins. Masha the house cat hung from the old light fixture and swung back-and-forth like a circus trapeze-lady. Misha and Grisha tried to catch her with swipes of their paws, but missed.

"Oh, why don't all of you grow up and act your age!" hrumphed Avvakuum.

"We don't want to! We don't want to!" chanted Misha and Grisha.

Feofan Lapa and the cats of the Yauza River Feline Elders' Congress entered the room. All turned quiet, even Misha and Grisha. Masha stopped her swinging.

Feofan Lapa leapt up onto the highest work bench. "It is a sad day, my friends. It is a day for partings. We Yauza River cats, we have discovered, are going back to Moscow."

"Why?' asked Masha.

"We simply go wherever our leader, Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka, takes us," came the reply. "He is a very important personage, we are told. And wherever he goes, he takes his cats with him. He is leaving soon, we hear, and so then are we."

"Oh, how sad!" said Masha, hanging from the motionless light fixture. "Oh, we'll miss all of you so much!"

"We'll miss you!" said Misha.

"All of you!" said Grisha.

A general murmur and meow's of approval swept through the audience. Feofan Lapa raised his paw, and the crowd turned silent. "We Moscow cats will miss all of you too."

Masha climbed down from her trapeze. "You know, when you came here, Feofan Lapa, you promised to tell us happy stories. You said that life wasn't as bleak as Avvakuum has been telling us, and you promised to tell us happy tales from the chronicles. But look! We heard the gloomy story of Ivan the Terrible's three Giorgy Cherney cats. We heard only one happy story, about Galya-Falya. And our own Avvakuum, although we respect him dearly, is so very gloomy! Where are the happy tales? Tell us a happy tale, please!"

"Yes, tell us a happy tale!" begged the cats.

Feofan Lapa shook his gray head. "Each cat has to make for its own happiness. You see, the world is both horribly gloomy and wonderfully giddy, depending on where you fix your focus."

"Focus-Schmokus!" snapped Avvakuum. "It's all gloomy!"

"We certainly know where his focus is fixed," said Feofan Lapa. "But where is our optimist friend, the cat from the Glasnost Hotel?"

"We haven't seen him in the longest of times!" said Misha.

"No! Not for days!" said Grisha.

"I--I miss him so!" said Masha.

"Is he alright?" asked Feofan Lapa.

"A naive optimist like that--he's probably gotten himself into more trouble than he can deal with," said Avvakuum.

"I checked the hotel yesterday morning," confessed Masha. "I went to the cellar, and I went to the attic and the snack bar too. I asked Hagia Sophia, but she hissed at me. So I looked some more. I saw no sign of him at all. I'm worried!"

"Let us wish him well then, wherever he is," said Feofan Lapa. "I miss his presence, and I hope all is well with him."

"Tell us a happy story to make us feel better!" said Misha.

"Bah!" hrumphed Avvakuum. "He can't tell a happy story. Failure. Grief. Loss. Death. Cruelty. That's life for you. And now at the Glasnost Hotel, we have more foreigners than we know what to do with! Mark my words, whenever there are foreigners, there's trouble! Big trouble!"

"That's not always so!" said Feofan Lapa. "Although, we must admit, we have a lot of trouble with them. So now, all of you settle down and we will hear about the story of Fu-Fi the French cat."

Feofan Lapa reclined on his workbench, and the other cats followed suit, resting and reclining as best they could in the cold, wherever they could. Soon they were mesmerized

"It is the year seventeen hundred and sixty-one," sang Feofan Lapa. "And we are in the beautiful palace of Catherine the Great in Saint Petersburg, which is the severe and beautiful city of Peter the Great and of Galya-Falya. For from their struggles arose a magnificent city from the mud flats, and a palace as beautiful as any in Europe, for it was built by Europeans. French gentlemen and ladies, Italian counts and countesses, English lords and ladies, German dukes and princesses--they all visited this international city often. For, it was Catherine's desire, as it was Peter's desire, that this new city and this new country be as European as possible. It was a new age for the dark country of the Giorgy Cherney cats and the Pimen cats.

Our cat, Fedya, lived in the Winter Palace. Vasilli, the czarina's own cook, fed him delicacies from the kitchen, and Vasilli's wife and children watched after him.

Then all of a sudden, Catherine let Vasilli go, and she hired a French chef who came bearing pots and pans and knives and cleavers, all the way from Paris.

'That cat--she is tres uglee!' lamented Pierre Mouton-Canard, the new chef. 'Thees eez an ugly country, but of all ze ugliness I haf seen, thees cat is ze ugliest!' He shook his meat fork at Fedya. 'Too much fat and soup bones! Too much porridge! Just like his masters!' he lamented.

Fedya fell silent under those insults. He felt guilty, although, how he was at fault, he didn't exactly know. Maybe it was his doing that Vasilli had fed him so much food, or his doing that he needed a layer of fat to protect from the winds off the Neva. Maybe it was his fault that his fur was a drab, monochromatic brown.

'That uglee cat!' said Pierre. 'Take heem out of my kitchen! Put him in ze cellar!'

And so, Fedya took up a new residence, in the cellar of the palace.

Then one summer day, the ladies of the court ran into the palace tittering and giggling. A coach had just arrived from the border, and it sagged under the weight of its cargo. The coach stopped, and out hopped two foreigners. They looked around through long, jeweled lorgnettes held to their faces, squinted, frowned, and walked into the palace.

Fedya, being the curious type, soon found out the newcomers were two Frenchmen--Mssr. Gran-Ouille, the dressmaker, and Mssr. Belle 'Ette, the tutor. That was reason enough for the tittering among the court ladies, but in addition, both men were bachelors, it was rumored. And there was one final surprise too. As the foreigners walked into the palace, the perfumed coachman lifted a big straw basket from inside the coach.

'M-e-o-w!' said the basket. The court ladies peered inside, and out leapt a pure white cat, the whitest and Frenchest cat any of the court ladies had ever seen.

'My, how white!' said one of the court ladies. 'I've never seen anything as white as this French cat!'

'My, how fluffy!' said another court lady. 'I've never seen anything as fluffy as this French cat!'

The cat bowed and nodded, then she proceeded to groom itself while seated in a royal, upright posture.

'Does it have a name?' asked a court lady, fanning her thick, rosy cheeks.

'It is a she,' said the dressmaker. 'And her name is Fu-Fi.'

'My, how French!' said the fattest court lady. 'How very, very French!' All the court ladies blushed and wiggled their fans.

For days, the ladies of the court hovered around Mssr. Gran-Ouille, the tailor. Olga, the shortest and thickest of the court ladies, held out a picture of a French maiden in a long white flowing dress. 'Make me a dress so I look like this!' said Olga.

'Oui! Oui!' said Mssr. Gran-Ouille, bowing low to the ladies.

'And make me a veil and a bodice and a flowing gown!' said Liubov, the court lady.

'Oui! Oui!' said Mssr. Gran-Ouille, bowing again.

Meanwhile, Pierre Mouton-Canard was busy in the palace kitchen waving his spoons and licking his fingers, tending to thin pancakes, puffy pastries, and egg-pies with strange names and even stranger fillings.

'Aha!' he said, pulling a tall, waving pastry in a round pan from the oven. 'Zees eez the perfect souffle! Ze Catherine--she will be so pleased!' He spun around and a smile stretched across his red face.

But he didn't see Fu-Fi the French cat, who was grooming herself next to the stove.

'Oi!' The chef flew into the air, and his souffle made a long arc across the kitchen, landing flattened against the tile wall.

'Oi, my perfect souffle! She is ruined forever!' lamented Pierre Mouton-Canard. 'And take thees awful cat out of thees kitchen!' he ordered.

So Fu-Fi was sent down to the cellar, where it was determined that her job was to re-educate Fedya. The two cats made a very strange couple. Fu-Fi was thin and white with delicate paws and long legs and long white hair. Fedya was short and thick and stubby all over.

'I will teach you how to be a proper cat!' said Fu-Fi. She studied him up and down, then frowned. 'Although that may be quite impossible!'

So, for the next months, Pierre Mouton-Canard cooked in the kitchen, Mssr. Gran-Ouille designed dresses for the court ladies, Mssr. Belle 'Ette tutored the children of the court, and Fu-Fi tutored Fedya.

'Lift up your feet, Fedya!' Fu-Fi commanded. 'Walk like you're proud! Strut!'

Fedya tried, but he tripped.

'Oh!' said Fu-Fi. 'You are really impossible! You're fat and you're ugly.'

Then winter came. First, a wind blew off the Neva and drove every leaf off the trees. Then the river froze, and snow covered everything.

'There eez no fresh fruit!' mourned Pierre Mouton-Canard in the kitchen, wringing his hands. 'No fresh vegetables! How can I cook without vegetables?' He hit himself over the head with his spoon and started weeping uncontrollably. 'Ai, there eez no fresh fruit or vegetables! Oh, how can I cook? Oh, how can I live?' He threw off his toque blanc, jumped on it, and tugged at his hair.

'Mon d'ieu!' wailed Mssr. Gran-Ouille from the sewing room. 'Zere isn't enough lace in all of Europe to cover zees women! And they all want to look like virgin princesses!' He shivered. 'Better to make myself a fur coat from all thees horeeble cold!' He rubbed his hands together by the fireplace. 'And a fur hat too! Ay, thees weather, it is no good!'

'Merde!' wailed Mssr. Belle 'Ette, the tutor, from the class room. 'These crude brats--they cannot, will never speak French! And they speak it so horribly, they should not speak it at all. Ai, those awful consonants! These children--they are peasants!'

And down in the cellar, while all this commotion was going on upstairs, Fu-Fi the French cat was having her own problems. 'Don't stumble around like that!' she commanded. 'Hold your head high! Prance!' Here, look at me!' she told Fedya. And she pranced around the cellar like a royal horse--legs lifting high, head held back and high.

'But I'd never see the mice if I walked with my head that high,' confessed Fedya.

'Ow!' Fu-Fi made a horrible face. 'Mice! Who would ever think to eat those things when there are pastries and souffles and quiches!'

Clearly, things were not going well inside the palace. And outside, the wind blew unrelenting, shaking the window panes and pummeling the walls. Soon, frost covered all the windows, and icicles hung from the dormers and eaves and flowed down columns and pillars. Fu-fi spent her days shivering and snarling at Fedya.

The ice of unhappiness held the palace in its unrelenting grip. Something had to be done, Fedya decided, although he didn't know what. Being a cat, and an extra curious one at that, he decided to snoop around.

One night, he chanced upon a whispered conversation between the tutor and the dressmaker. And the very next day, a document, written in a careful hand, went out from the palace to France. There may have been a paw mark here or there, a stray cat hair somewhere too, but the courier didn't notice.

A month later, in the thick of an awful winter, when things were at their very worst, Catherine suddenly called all the foreigners to her throne. She held a parchment in her hand.

'I have received an answer to--to certain--to my enquiries in Paris,' she said.

Pierre Mouton-Canard the chef looked at Mssr. Gran-Ouille, who shrugged his shoulders but said nothing. Mssr. Belle 'Ette scratched the side of his long nose.

Catherine squinted at the parchment. 'My emissaries have a few things to report,' she said. 'First of all, you, Pierre Mouton-Canard, are not a palace chef as you assured us you are. You are a simple peasant cook from a small, nameless village, without the training and experience you feign. Why, even Fedya, my poor cat, has lost weight feeding on your garbage! None of us would last a winter with your cooking!'

Pierre Mouton-Canard bowed his head low, but said nothing.

'And you, Gran-Ouille,' said Catherine, pointing her finger at the tailor cowering in the corner. 'You are no dressmaker for gentile and refined Parisians of nobility, as you so claimed. You are a simple tailor from the provinces, and reports say you are usually so drunk you need two Frenchmen to help you thread a needle!' She put down the parchment. 'Which, in a way, is fortunate,' she added. 'Given the sorry sight of things you have designed for my court ladies.'

Mssr. Gran-Ouille bowed his head low, but was silent.

'And you, Mssr. Belle 'Ette!' said Catherine. 'You told us you were a professor at the Sorbonne! A nobleman?'

He nodded sheepishly, his face turning red, his head hanging low.

'You are a pig farmer by profession! And you've been teaching our children that London is a small outpost in the French Empire, have you not?'

Mssr. Belle 'Ette bowed his head even lower, but was silent.

The very next day, a coach weighted down with passengers and luggage left the palace square and headed westward. Gone from the court were Pierre Mouton-Canard the chef, Mssr. Gran-Ouille the dressmaker, and Mssr. Belle 'Ette, the tutor. Gone also was Fu-Fi, the French cat.

'Ura! Ura!' went the whole court.

'Get me Vasilli, my Russian cook!' commanded Catherine. 'I want good old meat pies--platters full of them! And borshch and cabbage soup and pickled herring!'

'Ura! Ura!' went the court.

'And get me my robes, my caftan too!' commanded the czarina. 'These flimsy lace things--why, a person could freeze to death!'

Things went back to the way they were. The palace once again became the exclusive domain of Fedya, and Catherine the Empress became happier and happier with each pound that Fedya gained.

'Bring me my favorite cat!' commanded Catherine on the coldest of nights, and Fedya slept in the royal bed, under a feather blanket.

As for Fu-Fi, after a long journey, she returned with the tutor and the cook and the dress-maker to France. She spent her days regaling the Paris cats with tales of far-off Russia, a mysterious land filled with palaces, tall, slender cats, caviar, and herring.

None of the Paris cats believed her stories, but these were the days before television, and listening to her was better than listening to the other French cats whine and complain about their masters."

Feofan Lapa stirred. "That is the end of our recitation from the Cat Chronicles about Fedya and Fu-Fi."

"Oh, it was a wonderful tale!" said Misha and Grisha."

"It was 'good riddance' to those horrible foreigners!" grunted Avvakuum. "And I wish we could do the same!"

"Thank you for this happy tale," Masha told Feofan Lapa. "And thank you for all your tales. Too bad you all have to leave us!"

"We must. We must," said Feofan Lapa.

"But you are lucky to travel so! I've never been away from this neighborhood," said Masha. "How do you do it?"

Feofan Lapa smiled. "It's a strange tale in itself. Comrade Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka, you see, has a fondness for cats. When Comrade Fyedinka was very small-"

"He still is very small!" snapped Avvakuum. "He's about the same height as a six-year old boy. And he's bald too!"

"Yes," said Feofan Lapa. "But he is a good man and a kind one."

"Why does he travel with his cats?" asked Masha.

"I will tell you, without interruption perhaps. When Comrade Fyedinka was very young, he lived in a village deep in the Russian forest. One day, he got very lost, and his cat led him out of the forest, back to the village. So now, whenever the deputy Fyedinka travels, he brings his cats with him. It is we, the Yauza River cats, who have elected to travel with him, living, as we all do, at the estate of Comrade Fyedinka, on the Yauza River."

"And you are returning to the estate?"

"Perhaps, or we shall stay in the Andronnikov monastery again. We love the chalk-white walls and round towers. We have not decided. All we know at this point is that we depart when Comrade Fyedinka departs, and that will be after the grand opening ceremony, with the prezident and his wife in attendance. It will be soon."

"Then let us have a going-away party!" said Misha and Grisha.

"If it is your wish," said the kind old cat.

So the Saint Petersburg cats quickly scattered--Masha to her home, Misha and Grisha to theirs, Almaz to his, and the Kirovsky Prospekt cats to theirs.

A half-hour later, the cats re-assembled in the watch factory. There was music and singing and dancing and eating. Only Avvakuum seemed unhappy. He spent his entire evening by the snack bar, picking at the herring. "Pieces too small!" he grumbled. "Not like the good old days!"

"Oh, why don't you have a good time, you old red cat!" said Masha. "It's such a gay party! I--I just wish Koshka was here with me--with us, to enjoy it."

"Bah, you think too much about that dumb optimist!" snapped Avvakuum.

"Maybe I do," Masha said softly.

#

Sam Monella sat at his little desk in his room, his little feet resting on a blotter. Kay Pasa stood, slinking in the doorway. A curl of smoke rose from the tip of her black cigarette holder. Mr. and Mrs. Billy Bob sat facing Sam Monella. Mr. Billy Bob was strangely composed and quiet. His white hat lay in his lap.

'My blessed wife, my life's companion is right!' the reverend said in an uncharacteristically soft, non-oratorical voice. 'Our revenues are way the hell down! We lost two television stations in Southern California, can you believe that? They're the easiest mark, and we've lost it there. Plus in the midwest, we're down two stations. Even the Lutherans have backed out on us, can you imagine? Virginia Beach--why they've backed down on us too. And our warehouses are filling up with tapes no one buys and books no one orders. You'd think I was a sensual pervert or something, like that Louisiana Communist, Jimmy Swaggart, or that Jimmy Tam Baker!"

"Jimmy and Tammy Baker," corrected Mrs. Billy Bob. "We had them over for dinner once, remember, honey-pie?"

"Yes, and that pervert didn't eat his batter-fried chicken wings! Why hell, I don't know what's gone wrong since then, but our chicken sales are way down too. People nowadays have something against tallow and lard. It's those damned new-age commies, that's what it is!"

"It's not your fault, honey, and it's not your doing," said Mrs. Billy Bob. "It's just a change in the world, and that's why we're here, remember?"

The reverend nodded.

Sam Monella pulled out a cigar and Kay Pasa gave him a light. Sam leaned back in his chair. "I'm here too for a reason. I don't care about all 'a you problems with television. I have 'a my own reasons, and I can 'a tell you, everything is planned down to the second!"

"I'm worried. What if it doesn't go just right?" asked Mrs. Billy Bob.

"It will," said Sam. "We make 'a sure. Everything get done on time. Then the big boss man come, and my Uncle Uzi, he do all the talking." He reached over and picked up a violin case. "My uncle--he locked up in 'a here, and he want to do some talking real soon."

"And he better talk queek and talk right!" said Kay Pasa. "My country--my Cuba--she is in such a big trouble. We don't need no loans cut, no weapons cut. We need a new friend in Moscow, that's what we need!"

"Uncle Uzi--he take care of that!" said Sam.

"But what is the guarantee for afterwards?" asked Mrs. Billy Bob. "How can we be sure the next leader will be worse--I mean, better for us?"

"Easy!" said Sam. "Look how everything has been going lately. And besides, our plan will work. Everything is planned and 'a done, all in advance. Don't you worry about nothing!"

"How do you make sure the right people take over afterwards?" asked Mrs. Billy Bob.

"It's easy," said Sam. "We get assassination blamed on an American."

"An American?" she moaned. "Why does it always have to be an American?"

"It has to be! That way, people go back to old ways! You see, if they think, it was an American, then the anti-American people--they take over, you see?"

Mrs. Billy Bob nodded and smiled.

"But who did you pick?" whispered the reverend. "Winston Hale, you know, is gone."

"That's alright," answered Sam. "We have a new one. David Thompson, the interpreter."

"Good!" said the reverend. "I don't like that midwestern weasel anyway! And so, when the commies find out an American did in their leader, then they go back to their old ways, right?"

"You are not so dumb," Sam answered.

"Hot damn!" said the reverend, slapping his knee.

Mrs. Billy Bob smiled. "I just hope it works." She patted her husband's knee, then looked Sam in the eye. "If it doesn't, believe me, the very least of your worries will be that I will demand every red penny back that I've paid you."

"It has to work!" said the reverend. "People are turning away from us in droves! We need a target--a devil, an enemy, and Commie Russian devils have always been perfect!" The reverend waved his hat in the air. "Lord, give us back our enemies!"

"Shh, honey-pie!" whispered Mrs. Billy Bob.

"It's okay," said Sam Monella. "We gotta the best security here. No microwaves come in. Walls are sound-proof. All details--they are taken care of. Nothing can go wrong."

"Nothing can go wrong," repeated Kay Pasa.

"Nothing can go wrong," said the reverend Billy Bob. "Sweet Jesus and Hallelujah!"

"I hope you are right," said Mrs. Billy Bob. "I just hope you are right."

#

Bare branches waved in the winter wind. Koshka, having bid farewell to a tired Yezhy Yozhik at the edge of meadow, found a path and kept to it.

He came out onto a narrow roadway, and followed it in the direction the hedgehog had suggested. Koshka passed a fence. Then another. A wooden cottage stood leaning into the wind on one side of the road. Then there was another cottage, bigger. Soon, he was in a village. He found a sign that said "cafe," and in a rusted, dented bin in the back, he found some morsels--enough to keep him going.

He headed out onto the main road, keeping low to the ground. He could hear children's voices in the background. They were probably on their way to school.

"Hey, Vanya, look at that fat cat!" shouted one.

Koshka ignored the remark, keeping low to the ground, maintaining the same dogged pace.

"Yeah, look at that tubby tabby!" came another voice.

Koshka kept on.

Whack! Koshka felt a sharp jab, and there was an explosion of color before his eyes. Suddenly, there was a deep, stinging burn in his eye, then something heavy and sharp smashed into his side, knocking him off the road. He looked around. Ai, he couldn't see out of one eye! He turned his head every which way. A snow ball, or, better, an ice ball, had hit him right in the eye. He rolled over then quickly righted himself, heading back towards the rut in the road.

Another snow ball flew overhead, missing its mark.

"Get that fat cat! Get that fat cat!" came the voices, now closer.

Koshka lowered his head and broke into a run. He stumbled. It had suddenly become hard to gauge distances.

"Get that fat cat! Get that fat cat!" came the voices. Snow balls flew overhead or fell short or to the sides.

Koshka kept running--his instincts honed, his heart pumping fast. He leapt sideways, just in time to avoid a snowball. But the snowballs were getting closer and the voices behind him were getting louder.

Instincts honed, Koshka stopped in his tracks all of a sudden. Then he leapt to the right, over a high picket fence, and scrambled up a tree.

"Get that fat cat! Get that fat cat!" came the voices from below.

Koshka looked down at six children in thick fur hats and long coats and high boots and big mittens.

"Get it, Misha!" yelled one voice. But the snowballs fell short of their mark, and Koshka leaned forward on the bending branches high in the tree.

Safe at last, Koshka's breathing slowed, and his thoughts turned to another day, long, long ago, when boys the same age had taunted another cat. Koshka turned sad all over. "What is the use?" he asked himself. "Even if I could make it back to the city in time? Humans are so cruel, it would make no difference!"

A shutter slammed open below, pulling Koshka out of his reverie. "You little hooligans get out of here!" yelled a voice. "Shoo! Get off to school with you!"

A thin woman in a tight scarf came running out of a cottage with blue shutters and a blue door. She was waving a thistle broom. The children scattered.

"Pick on someone your own size, hooligans!" yelled the lady. She looked up the tree. "Poor little beastie, come down now! It's safe now. I won't let them harm you."

But Koshka wouldn't come down. Then the children disappeared, and the lady went back into the cottage. Only towards darkness did Koshka pick his way down, branch by branch. It was hard. His eye hurt, and it was difficult gauging the distance between branches.

When he ran out of branches, he leapt to the ground, and headed for the fence.

The cottage door opened again, and the woman set a steaming pot down on the stoop. "Here, poor beastie!"

Koshka approached. The aroma of chicken broth drew him towards the steps. It was a delicious, thick, steaming chicken soup--the best he'd ever tasted or even imagined.

The woman came back out on the stoop and picked up Koshka. She stared into his face. "Oi, they hurt your eye, those little hooligans!" She carried him into the house, and against his will, daubed his eye with a smelly chemical, then wrapped him in a warm feather quilt.

It was warm and toasty, and heaven on earth in the snug little cabin. But duty called. He climbed out from the blanket and headed for the door.

She snatched him from behind. "I don't know whose cat you are, or where you're going, or what's so important to you, but you look a wreck! You're tired and roughed up and you'll be hungry again soon! So you rest!" She bolted the door. "You rest up! Whatever it is, it can wait!"

He didn't flinch from the warm hands petting his fur, and soon he was curled on a warm lap, deep in sleep, dreaming of life in the forest with a giant raccoon and a hedgehog as companions.

#

Back at the Glasnost Hotel, things were moving right on schedule. A whole convoy of trucks lined Popov Street, their engines fuming and rumbling in the cold, their drivers stamping their mittens together. When workers unloaded one truck, it pulled away, and the caravan sidled forward, each truck waiting its turn to be tended. There were knife trucks and fork trucks and spoon trucks and ladle trucks too.

Up in the Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar, Osip stood at the newly-built reception desk. He looked like a minister in his pulpit.

"You there!" he signalled to three workers with a pane of glass. "Bring that into the kitchen."

"Sure, boss," said the worker.

"Do it right the first time, and there'll be an extra bonus in it for you."

The workers nodded and smiled.

Osip walked across the room. "And you, start laying the carpet from the far end," he suggested.

"Okay, boss!" said the workers.

"Do it right the first time, and you get a pack of American cigarettes!"

"Terrific!" said the workers.

Behind Osip, men and women in quilted jackets pounded on the walls while others carried in tables. Men and ladies in white shirts smoothed out stiff white tablecloths, and others wiped the bases of crystal goblets, lifting each one carefully and putting it back down.

Perezhitkov walked in from the kitchen, a drumstick in his hand. "Great meat!" he said. "Great sauce too!" He took another lick, wiping his lips with the tip of his necktie. "That crazy Billy Bob--he certainly knows how to make a tasty sauce. He calls it 'Bar-bee-kay'."

"'Bar-Bee-Que!'" corrected Osip. "And be careful so you don't spill the sauce on the new tablecloths!"

"And they made something called hot dogs too!" said Perezhitkov. "Imagine! They're thin little sausages, and the skins aren't made of plastic! You can actually eat the skins without getting constipated! Those Amerikan kapitalists! I tell you, it's heaven on earth!"

"Don't drop those wieners on the new carpet!" said Osip.

"You upset about something?" asked Perezhitkov, wiping his lips with his tie.

"Just deadlines, that's all. Time is running out on us."

"But you've mobilized a whole army. I haven't seen so many trucks or so many workers since the l970's, when Prezident Nikson came to town and we had to re-paint everything along his route! He-he! You remember those good old days?"

"Yes!" snapped Osip. "But if I get this thing finished on time, my good old days are still in the future!"

Rassolnikov entered, squinted, and shook his finger at Osip. "Chaos! Everywhere is chaos!"

"It's not chaos," said Osip quietly. "It's called work--organized work, and it's all going to be done on schedule."

"It better be, or heads will roll!" said Rassolnikov. "Why, there's barely twenty-four hours!"

"I know," said Osip. "We'll have it all finished and ready!"

"You'd better!" snapped Rassolnikov. "A lot depends on it. An awful lot!" His eyes narrowed as he spoke.

#

"What are you doing, Auntie?" asked Anna.

"Oh, just packing a few things, that's all."

Anna and David stopped in their tracks.

"But I thought you said you'd never move?' asked Anna.

"I said it, and, yes, I won't ever move. Still, one must always be prepared for the worst. The hotel is opening soon, very soon, and I suspect I might be dragged out of here, if worse comes to worst."

"Well, worse won't come to worst!" protested David.

Anna took his arm. "I--we appreciate your concern, but, you know, life here has a way of just running on, like a warped record with no tune or melody, and we must accept what it gives us."

"Why, that's the most passive, gloomy, subservient-"

The widow sighed. "Anna might be right. I don't see much chance for improvement, to be honest. Neither here, in my personal situation, nor in the situation with the whole country. I've always criticized Anna for being too pessimistic, but I think perhaps this time she is right." With that, the widow lifted another valise, and removed two pictures from the wall. "These are war pictures," she said. "My, we all had such hopes then!"

Anna held her great aunt and handed her a kerchief.

"You shouldn't give up so easily," said David through clenched teeth. "There's got to be something that can be done! Something!"

Both women looked at him in silence.

To Chapter Seventeen

Back to Home Page for The Cat At The Glasnost Hotel

Back to Home Page for William Jack