Chapter Eighteen

The locomotive slowed, and the cars rattled and swayed. Koshka stretched upward against the wall of the car, and managed a peek out through a crack in the planking. It was getting dark, and the train was coiling its way around a long curve. He could see the locomotive ahead, straining forward, with its thin wisp of steam, about thirty cars ahead. Ahead, he also spotted smokestacks and a brownish haze hanging low over the horizon. His nostrils pinched. Yes, it was the smell of the city, unmistakably Saint Petersburg! His fur bristled, and his blood coursed faster through his veins.

"Faster! Faster!" he said, under his breath, to the train. Every minute counted, every second. But the train finally finished rounding the curve and did not pick up speed. Outside, the trees grew more scarce, and those that remained were thinner, scrawnier. Clack. Clack. Clack. CLACK. The rhythm slowed. The train passed over a bridge and then, one block later, a tired woman in a quilt jacket held down a black-and-white striped barrier, while behind her, trucks chomped and strained at the bit. Their drivers cursed, lit cigarettes, and stared at their watches.

Koshka's ears pricked up. He thought he heard a familiar city sound--a streetcar grinding around a turn. Yes, sparks flew from the lines overhead! Yes, oh, yes! He was in Saint Petersburg! At last! A city he though he might never see again!

But, his mission was only beginning. Where would the freight train go, he wondered? He had never seen any trains in the city, but he knew the Finland Station was not far from Popov Street, and that passenger trains pulled into Finland Station. Why, Anna had mentioned that to the Widow Petrova, just days before! Somehow, he had to jump over to a passenger train, he decided. There was so little time--why, this was the evening of February twentieth. The great leader was scheduled to visit the Glasnost the very next day!

The train ground to a halt, then jerked forward, cars bumping and grinding. Indeed, there had to be a faster way into the city's center, Koshka decided. He peered out the door, over a sea of railroad tracks. On the other side of a yard, he spotted a passenger train easing its way along an overpass, gathering speed. That was it, he decided! It was time for a Wonder Cat move.

He bolted from the freight car, and in long strides raced across the tracks. In one graceful, soaring move, he cleared the last of the tracks and leapt onto the back of the last passenger car before it stretched out onto the overpass.

"What the hell was that?" muttered a workman knocking icicles off the underbelly of a grain wagon.

"I have no earthly idea!" said his companion. "Maybe it was a rat."

"No. It's too big for a rat."

"Maybe it was a perestroika rat!" joked the other. "You know, bigger and better!"

Both men laughed.

Koshka huddled in the back of the train, smoothing down his fur, waiting for his heart to slow down. He was hungry, dreadfully hungry, but he didn't dare going into the car. What would they do with a stow-away cat, he wondered? At the very least, he'd be tossed off the train, and then he'd have to find another way to the Glasnost Hotel. He huddled on the metal grating at the back of the car. The door leading to was slightly ajar--ice had formed in the jamb, and a snowy mist covered the door itself.

The train slowed, and the buildings grew taller and thicker. This was the city--gloomy lines of squat grey nondescript towers, wide streets with busses and trolleys, men and women huddled from the cold in wool and fur, children, miniature versions of the adults, walking beside them. This was Saint Petersburg alright, and these were among its millions of humans. Old bent women swept snow off sidewalks in a slow, uniform rhythm. A young woman in a black coat pushed a baby buggy with thick wheels through a snow drift, and trucks laden with dirty ice and snow rumbled down the avenues. Koshka had never seen so many towers or trucks or people. He was afraid. How would he ever find his way home?

Instinct, he decided. Instinct and a little faith in himself would get him there. There was no other choice. The train limped on.

It was already turning dark. "Finland Station!" shouted a man in a black cap. Passengers reached overhead for their suitcases and buttoned their coats.

"Finland Station in five minutes!" repeated the man as he passed down the aisle. "Comrades, be prepared to exit the train fast--it leaves five minutes after it stops."

He walked up the aisle, checked his watch, and kicked open the door leading to the platform. He lowered his head from the wind, lit a pipe, and threw a match to the floor.

"What?' he asked, spying Koshka. "A cat?" He bent down. "Are you somebody's pet now, are you?"

Koshka coiled up towards the wall.

"Now don't be afraid!" said the conductor. "Come here!"

Koshka stayed in the corner, his back pushing against the wall.

"I won't hurt you, kitty, but a train's no place for a cat now, is it? What in the devil's name are you doing on a train?"

He bent down and petted Koshka's back. "Okay. You just stay there. I don't know where in the devil's name you're from or where you're going, but just stay there, if you like. Mind the wheels, that's all!"

The man pounded his pipe against the wall until a wad of tobacco fell to the floor. He put the pipe back into his pocket, and stepped back into the car. "Finland Station! Welcome to Saint Petersburg, the hero-city!" he called out. "Two minutes now! Two minutes!"

Clack. Clack. Clack. C-l-a-c-k. The rhythm slowed, and the train glided alongside a platform crowed with people and buggies and crates. Koshka took a deep breath. One. Two. Three. Four. He leapt from the step, and landed on all four paws on the platform. What would they do with a cat in a railway station? He didn't want to find out. He slid fast under a cart loaded with suitcases, and when there were no legs within immediate sight, he bolted across the platform. One. Two. Three. This was a job for Wonder Cat. Not breaking stride, he flew from the platform, right over the tracks, and onto the next. He barely made it over the edge. His trail dragged over the track. Then he took three steps on the run. One more leap, and done! Two more platforms to go.

Luckily, no one seemed to notice the cat jumping from one platform to another. Then a little voice called out, "Look, Mama, a kitty-cat!"

Koshka slid under an empty cart.

"Now, Vanya, I've told you not to make up stories, haven't I?" said the woman leading him. "Now come with me! Papa's getting off this very train!"

"But, Mama, I did see a kitty-cat!" said the child.

By then, Koshka was out from the cart, across yet another platform. At the edge of the station, he stopped dead in his tracks. There was a wall ahead--a barrier between him and the unknown.

One. Two. Three. Four. This was another Wonder Cat job. He took a deep breath, arching his back and tensing his hind legs. It was higher than he'd ever leapt. Zap! He scrambled up to the top, his hind legs furiously pushing his rump over the edge.

"What in the devil's name was that?" a voice called out, but before Koshka could hear a reply, he was off the wall and running across slippery pavement, the street outside the depot.

His paws slid along a track dug into the pavement. The rail was vibrating, and the air itself seemed to hum, keeping time. Danger! To his left, an iron behemoth on rails headed his way. He had seen those monsters before, but from the safe distance of Popov Street. He dived off to the left.

It was a metal and rubber jungle. Trucks. Cars. Busses. Trolley busses. People. How would he ever find the Glasnost Hotel?

#

Comrade Rassolnikov pulled up the collar on his leather overcoat and slipped out of the foyer of the Glasnost Hotel. He hopped a bus, got off at the subway station, then took four trains in a circuitous route.

A half hour later, he was in the Gostinny Dvor Department Store on Nevsky Prospekt, staring down at an assortment of drab neckties.

"Don't even bother looking at those!" said the clerk. "We don't have any in stock."

"Then why in the devil's name do you have them on display?"

The woman shrugged, then glared at Rassolnikov. "We need something to display nowadays, don't we?"

Rassolnikov shook his head. There was so much wrong in the city, and things were still getting worse every day. How much better had the l970's been! He looked at his watch. Soon, the country would be back on course, and Simion Simionovich Rassolnikov would be its new hero.

He glanced over at the trousers section. It was empty. No shoppers. No clerks. No trousers. He looked towards hats and gloves. Yes, there was a clerk there, leaning against a row of empty shelves. A man in a thick coat sifted through a bin. He held one black glove in his left hand. "No mate for this one?" he grumbled.

"If it isn't there, it isn't there!" snapped the clerk.

The man sighed with disgust, then tossed the glove back into the bin. He walked over to the trousers section.

"Valentin!" whispered Rassolnikov.

"Yes," answered Valentin.

"We agreed to meet here, but look, there's no one here, and no merchandise. Let's re-meet in twenty minutes at the record store, just down the street.

They left the Gostinny Dvor by separate exits. Twenty minutes later, Rassolnikov was studying the list of records pasted on the walls of the shop. He walked up to the clerk. "I'd like to listen to number 5007, please."

The clerk frowned and looked at her list. "The Red Army Chorus? You actually want to listen to that stuff?"

"Yes, I do, for your information!" he snapped.

The woman shrugged. "Listening booth number three!" she snapped, pointing towards her left.

Three minutes later, Rassolnikov stood in the cramped booth while the Red Army Chorus sang about fields and meadows and the hero Chapayev roaming the Urals. There was a short rap on the door, and then Valentin slipped inside, checking the hallway behind him. "I'm worried about that Borya Smetanov," he whispered. "I think he's unstable--too big a risk."

"Everything will work!" Rassolnikov assured him. "Remember, I'll be there too, in case anything should proceed off-schedule."

"Are you sure you can get the American into the room at precisely the right time?" asked Valentin.

"That's my job, and I assure you, it will be done."

"How?"

"Suffice it to say that I will tell this young American gentlemen something about his Russian fiance and her great-aunt, and that what I tell him will be more than enough to entice him into the office."

"Then what?"

"Simple and efficient! You get the gun into the room, and do your part from the window, then you escape through the false bookcase. I push the American into the room, and, that's it!"

"How do you make sure the American doesn't tell a story that will stick on me and you and the group?"

Rassolnikov wiped his lip. "The American won't be saying anything at that point. He will be, how do they say it in the capitalist countries--he will be meeting his maker at that point." Rassolnikov smiled to himself. The plan was simple and ingenious. He, Rassolnikov, would be the man who caught the assassin single-handed. He would be a hero. They would probably name a street after him. He relished the sound of it--Rassolnikov Avenue, or, Rassolnikov Prospekt. He would, of course, have a career of easy and well-compensated service in the ministry with the requisite accouterments--a dacha in the country, a sleek Zil limousine with a chauffeur who saluted.

The Red Army Chorus sang "Song of the Volga Boatmen." Rassolnikov pulled up his collar. "So now, my friend, you just report that all is proceeding as planned, and on schedule, and we will see one-another tomorrow afternoon."

"One final reminder," said Valentin. "I will not shoot while the leader is facing the crowd on the steps. It is better to wait until precisely the moment that he turns to enter the building."

"Why?" asked Rassolnikov.

"I leave those questions to the experts! But they tell me that when the leader turns to enter the building, it is at that moment that the KGB's attention will be focused on his entering, so when they hear the gun shot, they will then turn back around and they will suspect the shot was fired from the crowd.

Rassolnikov nodded as Valentin continued. "You must remember, then, to step away from him at the precise moment he turns to enter the hotel. Understand?"

Rassolnikov nodded.

"Then give me the sign. Put your right hand into your pocket at the very moment the leader turns to enter the hotel."

"But--but then the KGB will think I'm reaching for a gun!" Rassolnikov protested.

"That's precisely the point!" said Valentin impatiently "You will divert their attention."

"But, but, they might shoot me!"

"Hardly!" said Valentin. "They will be standing right next to you. You will simply put your hand into your pocket and take it out immediately. By then, it will have diverted their attention sufficiently, and I will have had enough time."

"I hope it works. I'm worried."

"It will work," Valentin insisted. "And remember, there's a healthy reward for you in it too."

"A ministry career?"

"Perhaps."

"Access to special shops--like the ones party members had?"

Valentin nodded.

"And, and, we will have all those private shops again, right? Just like the old days?"

Valentin smiled a thin smile. "Just like the old days!"

The music stopped. Rassolnikov left first, heading towards the front door. He walked back to the clerk and handed her the record. "The sound quality is very bad. I will not buy it."

The clerk shrugged her shoulder again, in the way that all clerks shrug their shoulders in such situations. "With music that awful, who cares about the sound quality?"

Rassolnikov stiffened. "And I suppose you listen to some corrupt, deafening, capitalistic decadent atrocity that is called music nowadays?"

"Zvuki Mukh!" said the clerk.

"That figures! When I was your age, young lady, a person would be arrested for listening to such trash!"

He left the shop and stepped up to the sidewalk. How awful life had become! In his day, young people wore Pioneer scarfs and longed for the day they could join the Young Communists League. Soon, life would be back on its right path.

Nevsky was jammed with pedestrians. He turned right. Things would change soon enough, he comforted himself. Soon, there would not be groups like Zvuki Mukh, and yes, once again, young hoodlums could be arrested for corrupting their own minds.

#

The reverend Billy Bob was feeling especially blessed that evening. He felt himself filled with the spirit of the Lord, and the Lord was at that very moment filling the reverend's voice his voice with a resonating rich tonality, just like in the old days, before a radio revival. "Tomorrow marks a new day," he told his wife in dulcet tones. "Everything is planned, and it will all work, I know it, my little darling! It will be as if a great burden is lifted from our souls! Think of it! We'll have people flocking to our ministry, and television stations will be scrambling all over one-another, trying to get to us. Damnation to the devil, and Hallelujah!"

"Yes, I can see it all now!" said Mrs. Billy Bob, clasping her hands in joy. "I can see those headlines now! 'Renowned Minister Witnesses to the Lord's Vengeance!'"

"Amen!" said the reverend. "And how about, 'World Seeks Counsel from Leader Reverend Billy Bob Buck?'"

"Amen and hallelujah!" whooped the Mrs. Billy Bob. "And how about, 'New Prime-Time Network Television Show Tracks Down Russian Communist Devils!'

"Amen!" said the reverend.

"Why, I'm so happy, I could just cry!" And she did. She pulled out a hankie and wiped her lashes dry.

"And you know, honey," said the reverend. "It won't hurt the chicken business none either. Why, we'll have to hire extra accountants just to count all the money that'll come pouring on in!"

Mrs. Billy Bob smiled and rubbed her hands together. "My! What will we ever do with all that cash? Let's see. Why, we could build another house--or a new wing on the old one. You know, honey, I'm s-o-o tired of that white furniture and that white shag carpet!"

"Whatever you want, precious."

"And my closet is just too cramped and small! I can't even move in it! Why, if I only had a closet with shelves for all my shoes and hangers for my gowns and dresses--why, I'd be the happiest little girl in all of Texas!"

"And if you were happy, honey, then I'd be the happiest little minister in all of Texas too! But you know, I'd like a little ranch too. Nothing too big. Just a few thousand acres--maybe some wild game to shoot at once in a while. And one of them four-wheeler jeeps! None of that Japanese foreign junk for me! A real good ole American Jeep, with air conditioning and an automatic transmission and reclining leather seats! A li'l ole' TV set and a CD player stuck in the dashboard, my oh my! I can see me in it now! A shiny gold-plated Jeep with a big ole set of genuine Texas longhorns on the hood!"

"We'll get it all, my sweet," said Mrs. Billy Bob. "Come tomorrow, and all our earthly dreams come true. Let me tell you, I can hardly wait! You got the Nieman Marcus catalogue with you, honey?"

"Naw, I left it in Dallas. We'll get to it though. We'll buy 'em out!"

"And to hell with all those pagans and christians in sheep's clothing who criticize us!"

"Amen! The Lord never said we had to be poor. And we do believe in that abundant life idea, don't we?"

"Hallelujah!" she said. Then a frown crossed her face. "I just hope it all works tomorrow."

"It will, precious. It's not really all that hard, you know. Sort of like shooting elk, I suppose. Except this is for a good cause, and all."

"And the lord did put a burden on us, didn't he?"

"Why, yes!" said Billy Bob. "Why, you just feel that heavy burden! It's our mission. And remember, it's the Lord's work we're do'in. No one can look down on us for that!"

"And imagine, tomorrow we go home!" sighed Mrs. Billy Bob. "I can already smell that glorious honeysuckle! And imagine, I get to see a real, genuine hair-dresser! One who knows what he's do'in with hair spray and a curling iron, for a change!"

Billy Bob reached over and patted her behind. "Honey, just you wait 'til tomorrow. All our dreams start coming true!"

#

"This is our last meeting together, my friends!" said Feofan Lapa. "We Moscow cats will certainly miss you!"

"And we'll miss you too!" said Misha.

"A whole bunch!" added Grisha.

Masha the house cat leaned over the edge of her light fixture. "The place just won't be the same without you! Things just keep getting sadder and sadder around here. Lonelier and lonelier too."

"Tell us one last story! We're going to miss you a lot!" pleaded Misha and Grisha.

The Moscow cats bowed, and Feofan Lapa took center stage. "I believe it's time for my beloved red Saint Petersburg colleague, Avvakuum, to resume his recitations from the chronicles."

Avvakuum begged off with a swipe of his paw. "Argh! You're leaving tomorrow. I have a lifetime here--whatever's left of it. You tell us a tale, please, only make it realistic--not a happy tale or a fun tale. Make it like real life, if you please. And from this century too."

Feofan Lapa bowed, smiling. "Alright, your gloominess. I will accede to your wishes and tell you a gloomy tale--from this century even. For this century has certainly seen its share of gloom already!"

The cats settled down, and Feofan soon had them all in a trance.

"The year is 1938, my friends, not so long ago at all, and our cat's name is Mitrofan. Now Mitrofan was a particularly fortunate cat, in that his master was the poet Nikolai Zabolotsky, and Zabolotsky is, to this day, our hero. That round man with his round glasses is the champion of all animals--cats, geese, ducks, bulls, chickens, dogs even!

Now late one night, Mitrofan was asleep at the foot of his master's bed in the Leningrad flat. There was a timid tap at the door, a room away. Mitrofan came to the alert immediately, his ears rotating, ready to pick up any sound. His master mumbled and turned in his bed.

There was another knock. Still the master slept. Mitrofan pawed at the sheet and blankets. The master stirred, but still slept. Mitrofan nudged his master's shoulder, then his chin. The master awoke.

There was another knock at the door. 'Who?' asked the master, his voice still thick with sleep. His wife stirred, then turned on her side, still asleep. The master stumbled to the study, then to the door. Mitrofan followed, in the shadows. Instinct--the tonal quality of the knock perhaps--something told Mitrofan that it was danger itself at the door.

'Who is it?' whispered the master.

'Sasha!' came the whisper. 'Sasha.'

'Oh, Sasha! It's you,' said the master, opening the door. Mitrofan let his muscles un-tense. Sasha was a frequent visitor, a fellow poet, an old friend. There was no need for alarm. But, Mitrofan wondered, why the late-night call, especially during the days when all Russian feared the Kremlin insomniac and the midnight knock on the door by his henchmen?

'Let me in,' whispered Sasha.

'Sasha, I haven't seen you in weeks! What's wrong? You look terrible--so pale, unhealthy! You need fresh air--get into the country for a while. You-'

'Sh-h-h!' he snapped, motioning the master away from the door. 'We must whisper, and we must be fast. I may have been followed.'

'What's happened with you, my friend? Whatever it is--whatever you need, just let me know. I'll help. I'll-'

'It's not me,' said Sasha, his eyes lowering. 'It's you, Nikolai Alexandrovich.'

'Me?'

Mitrofan sensed his master's voice tightening.

'Yes, you,' said Sasha.

'Oh, whatever it is, I'm sure it's not so serious. Look at all that's happened so far, and we're still here, still writing too. What is it this time?'

'You have a wife now, two children.'

'I know, and I know you didn't come here in the middle of the night to discuss my family situation.'

'You must think of them, Nikolai Alexandrovich.'

'But I've done nothing to provoke any attacks. You know, those party people--they're like an old beast, and you don't dare go poking at them. They recoil, then strike. I know that. I've behaved myself, writing tame little things-'

'They're not tame little things, according to them,' sighed Sasha. 'They've brought up your Triumph of Agriculture again. They're calling it anti-communist, a caricature of socialism-'

'That's rubbish! It's nothing of the sort! It's a dream, about a time, far into the future, when man no longer has to exploit animals. Why, just as the tractor can free the horse from the slavery of the plough-share, so-'

'I'm afraid you have provoked the beast, Nikolai Alexandrovich. You know that subtlety is not their strong suite. Your latest poems--the committee denounced them--each and every one of them--this very evening.'

Mitrofan winced. He had overheard enough whispered conversations about Mandelstam, Gumilev, Akhmatova, Tsvetaeva, and the others--he knew that denunciation meant arrest, then exile.

But the master seemed blessedly oblivious. 'Come, Sasha! Poems about autumn, about bulls and birds and cows and horses-'

'You don't need to convince me, Nikolai Alexandrovich. But, please, listen! You're in danger. The committees want optimistic, down-to-earth poems. Lines like this--Oh, watch nature smile, as it's dying all the while--that's not what they'd call socialist positivism.'

'I don't care what they call it!'

Mitrofan winced again. Just last week, there had been footsteps in the night, then the knock on the door had come right down the hall. There were muffled shouts and threats--a woman's sobbing, then a man hauled off by two soldiers. Mitrofan saw the whole sad scene from the doorway.

'Please, Nikolai Alexandrovich, I beg you,' said Sasha. 'It may be too late. Simply leave with your wife and children, now! Go to the country for a while, back to Vyatka maybe. Things could blow over, you know.'

The master's fists tightened. 'I will not give in to those thugs. I have done nothing wrong. I have written nothing wrong and nothing against them, and I will not let them make me act as if I were guilty, when I am innocent.'

Tears welled up in Sasha's eyes. 'Please, think of us! We need you. These are difficult times, and so many of us are gone--in prison, exiled, who knows where-'

'It is a time to remain firm, not to give in to evil forces, thereby giving them strength they do not deserve.'

Sasha fingered the brim of the hat in his hands, shook his head, and left quietly.

The master sat at his desk, his head in his hands. Mitrofan leapt onto the table, curling his body around the ink well.

There was a rustle of cloth from the bedroom. 'Everything's alright?' the master's wife asked.

'Yes, dearest. Just an old acquaintance. Nothing to fuss over.'

'Then why did he come in the middle of the night?'

'He's in trouble, I guess.'

That night, neither the master nor Mitrofan slept.

And sleep from that evening forward was a fitful thing, so three nights later, when there were footsteps in the hall, Mitrofan was far from sleep. The steps grew louder, then stopped. The cat could hear the breathing at the door. There were two of them. Then silence, for what seemed ages. Then three knocks in quick succession. The master stirred, then left his bed and wife and headed through the study for the door.

'Who is it?' asked the master.

'An old friend!' came the response.

Mitrofan coiled, ready to lunge, and snarled. 'Mitrofan!' snapped the master. 'Quiet! You'll awaken the children.'

The master opened the door.

In stepped two men in tall black boots. One flashed something shiny on his lapel. 'Gather up two day's clothing, an overcoat, boots, mittens, and come with us!' said the taller of the two men.

The shorter man snapped on the light, then pulled a pistol from his breast pocket. 'Now, where are your subversive materials?'

'What subversive materials?' asked the master.

'You know what I mean, traitor!' snapped the man.

The door from the bedroom opened. 'Dear, is it-'

"Get back inside and keep the door shut!' snapped the tall man. 'Or you'll be going too!'

He kicked the door shut, then pulled at the drawers, spilling them on the floor. 'Alright, where are they?'

'I have no subversive materials. I-'

Whack! The man slapped the pistol across the master's face. Mitrofan coiled. It was too much. His master was the gentlest, kindest man! He never raised his voice, much less his fist, and here was a thug--a smelly, repulsive man with thick, oily boots. Mitrofan coiled, then sprang, his claws digging into the man's thigh.

'What the-' The man fell back against the door. Then the gun in his hand raised up in the air, catching the glint from the bare light bulb. Mitrofan snarled and sprang back, ready to strike again. But the gun came crashing down. There was a flash of light, brighter than that from the bulb, and the room spun for a moment, then all went dark and cold.

Now word spread through the building what had happened. The cats gathered in the basement. Their beloved Mitrofan was gone, they learned, and two men were leading his master, their beloved champion, down the back stairway.

The cats charged, plunging and snaring, howling, and clawing, but it was of no use. The men in thick-boots kicked their way down the steps, across the sidewalk, and pushed the master into the back end of a black truck that said 'meats and produce' on the side."

Feofan Lapa himself sighed, as if his own story had gotten to him. "And that, my Saint Petersburg friends, is the very night that the Mitrofan Memorial Society was formed right here in your city, not far from where we now sit. Always remember our hero, Mitrofan!"

The cats stirred. "That was the saddest story!" said Masha.

"A typical story!" snapped Avvakuum. "There are thousands of stories like that one, and worse! Just from our own century."

"Unfortunately so," admitted Feofan Lapa. "Our century has not been kind to people or to cats. But, my dear friend Avvakuum, there were moments of peace and beauty too."

"When?' he growled.

"The Mitrofan Memorial Society spread throughout your city. And during the dark times of the l930's and l940's and beyond, cats met and trembled in the city's cellars, giving one-another comfort and solace, while above them, the humans trembled, waiting out the same dreadful fate. And things have improved since then, you must admit."

"Hardly!" snapped Avvakuum.

"You can sit here and complain all you want, my dear friend, and so can the humans. That in itself is certainly a change!"

"A lot of good complaining does!"

"When there is the freedom to grumble, there is the potential for improvement," said Feofan Lapa. "Remember that."

"What happened to the master?" asked Misha.

"Yes. What happened to the champion of animals?" asked Grisha.

Feofan Lapa obliged. "He worked in labor camps in the far east for seven years, then he came back. And he wrote poems about animals and about nature and about all the suffering that's in the world, for every creature! He retired to Tarusa, a beautiful little spot on the Oka River. He lived among cats and dogs and geese and ducks and bears even. He wrote in his garden in the summer and spring and fall, and he took naps on benches with his animals standing guard. One morning in l958, he awoke, then he fell into that long sleep from which no human or animal ever awakens."

"And so that was the end of our champion!" said Avvakuum.

"Not at all! His poems live, even though he doesn't. Humans study them and memorize them. And when he died in Tarusa on the Oka, his body was sent to Moscow on a train. And all the animals along the way--horses and cows and geese in the villages, and wolves and bears and foxes and deer in the forest--they all paused and bowed their heads as the train passed. And in Moscow, cats came out of their cellars and left their court yards to pause on the sidewalk to watch their champion pass. And humans did the same. There was no official parade or funeral. No announcements of the burial even. But everyone knew. Word had passed. And men paused and held their hats on the street and women carrying flowers wept, and the master was laid to rest in the cemetery, and even today, it is hard to find a moment when someone has not placed fresh flowers on his stone."

Feofan Lapa wiped his eye with his paw and surveyed the workroom of the "People's Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory. "Cats of Saint Petersburg, you can be so proud of your Mitrofan. Never forget him or his master!"

And with that, Feofan Lapa nodded towards his Moscow brethren, the cats from the Yauza River Feline Elders' Congress. "We are leaving, my Saint Petersburg brethren. This is probably our last night in your beautiful city. We will remember you always."

"We'll miss you!" said Misha.

"So much!" said Grisha.

And all the neighborhood cats nodded and sighed in agreement.

#

A candle burned in the window, and the heat from the flame formed a perfect circle in the frost on the window pane. The pleasure of it was too much. Anna screamed, or wanted to scream. David was everywhere--on her and in her, touching places never touched before, probing and taking, faster and faster. There was a flash of light, of warmth spreading inside her, and he moaned and then arched downwards on her. The room receded into soft white colors and sounds.

It was quiet. They lay together. Anna crouched in his arm, and her hair splayed across his chest.

"I love you," she said. "More than I ever thought possible, more than I ever wanted even!"

"I love you as much," David said, tightening his arm around her. "Marry me!"

"Oh, David!" she pleaded, curling into his side. "It won't work. It can't work. It's doomed. You know it!"

"I don't!" he protested. "And I don't share your pessimism."

"Realism," she corrected.

"Call it what you want, but maybe you should, just for once, take the big leap. I mean, risk something. And if you lose, well, so you lose, and then you have the right to be a pessimist!" He sat up and leaned on his arm. "But if you don't take the leap, don't take the risk, then you'll never know, and you'll never win."

"I'm afraid," she whispered. "Afraid that nothing will turn out right. Nothing."

"I know the same fear, dearest," said David. "But we could leap together. We have to try! To hell with the odds, and to hell with the dangers! Let's do it!"

"How I'd love to have your faith in life!" she said.

"Believe me, dear. Things always turn out right in the end. You just watch. Even this miserable situation here, with your aunt and her apartment and the crazy hotel--watch! It will turn out alright in the end!"

Anna shook her head. "You Americans are such--such optimists! I mean, it's probably in your genetic make-up. After all, your ancestors--they left everything they had to start out new. You're all incurable optimists and positivists--that's what you are!"

"And you Russians then are all pessimists and philosophers--that's what I say."

"Maybe so, but we are also survivors. We have always survived."

"You know," said David, leaning on his elbow. "Think what a combination we would make! Take one part optimist and one part pessimist. Mix with one part positivist, one part philosopher, and one final part survivor. Think of what you'd get! A perfect human being!"

"I forgot one thing," whispered Anna. "You Americans are also very persistent." She studied his face and smiled. "I love you. Just give me some time. I need something--a sign from the heavens maybe. A miracle."

"This hotel opening tomorrow would be miracle enough, I think!"

They laughed. There was a rattling of keys in the door of the next room.

"Oh my God! It's Auntie!" shrieked Anna.

Faster than anything, David and Anna were dressed, and the bed sheets were smoothed.

"More late-night conversations?" asked the widow. There was a twinkle in her eye. "I should think all that talking would wear both of you out!"

To Chapter Nineteen

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