James, Fabulous Feline

by Harriet Hahn

  James slipped off Shep’s shoulder and pranced over to Ursula and Anne, who were sitting on the floor.

  “We’ll never look like James,” Ursula was saying.

  “I know it,” said Anne sadly. “He’s such a darling, but it does make the illusion that we are cats much harder to sustain.” She stroked James affectionately.

  “All right,” said Tony, “let’s try it again.”

  The dancers assembled. James sat on his stool.

  “James,” called Tony, “we need you.”

  James shook his head.

  “You don’t want to do it?” asked Shep.

  James nodded. I thought for a moment he might change his mind, but he curled up on the stool and closed his eyes.

  The rehearsal proceeded without him.

  Some long time later, we sat in the sitting room watching the news on the tube. We had enjoyed a little whiskey and quite a lot of crab salad.

  “You really wanted to do that part, didn’t you?” I asked when the news was over.

  James nodded.

  “You heard Ursula and Anne talking?”

  James nodded.

  “You were right, you know, it will be better in the long run as an all-people show.”

  James nodded.

  “You’ve done a superb job as consulting director.”

  James grinned.

  “You’re almost as good a sport as Helena,” I said, hoping I was not touching too sore a spot.

  James had been sitting at the other end of the sofa. He stood up, walked three steps, sat down next to me and worked his head under my hand, and we sat cuddled together, content.

  Mrs. March knocked.

  James jumped up. I opened the door. James ran out and sat on the stairs the way he used to do.

  “Is James here?” asked Mrs. March.

  “He’s right over there,” I said, pointing and laughing.

  James gave me a wink and flirted his tail.

  “He looks more like himself,” she said happily. “I hope he hasn’t been getting into mischief.”

  “No, indeed,” I said and grinned happily.

  Opening night came for Cats International. Roger provided seats for Helena, Lord Henry, James and me. He had elected to stay backstage with Poppy and Shep. James abandoned his seat early in the performance and sat on a light batten watching Anne and Ursula, so Ellen managed to usurp James’s seat. The performance was a delight. The audience was unusually enthusiastic, and even before the reviews were out everyone knew the production was a huge success.

  Roger hosted a post-performance opening night party in the grill room of the Cafe Royale. James was tempted to climb the baroque carving surrounding the mirrors that line the walls of this restaurant but instead rode on Shep’s shoulder and looked at himself in the mirrors. I took the opportunity to tell Helena how James had decided not to perform in the finale.

  “Wise James,” she said, as he collapsed beside her after having been tossed in the air by Shep. “Not many actors I know would voluntarily give up a splendid part they had been offered for the good of the show. I’m proud to know you.”

  James gave Helena a long wistful look.

  “James,” she said seriously, “you are one of my very best friends. You always were and you always will be.”

  At that moment Roger proposed a toast to Shep for his inspired concept. Tony followed this with a toast to James for his choreography. James stood on the table on his hind legs and waved both paws. Roger tried to propose a toast to Poppy Balsom for her stunning set, costumes and makeup, but Ellen managed to distract him and Lord Henry made the toast instead. The BBC had covered the opening night and the party as well, and the next day James and I could see him riding on Shep’s shoulder on the morning news. He was not greatly impressed. After all, he had been on television before. However, I was delighted to see he was his old enthusiastic, intelligent self. The pall of guilt and self-reproach that had hung over him since the tournament had lifted. He was a cat redeemed.

  He spent the morning checking on new tenants at Baron’s and the afternoon at Thwaites with Marilyn sorting Persian forgeries from genuine stamps while I went off to have a meeting with the curator of the Huntingdown Museum, a treasure trove of eighteenth-century painting and sculpture with a few pieces from the earliest Christian period. The director is Costain Cummings, a ponderous chap who takes a long time to get to the point when he talks, but who is enormously respected in museum circles for his knowledge and integrity. The Huntingdown Museum is housed in a charming Georgian mansion. In the garden at the back, in what were once the stables, is a gift shop where reproductions of pieces of sculpture in the museum are for sale as well as prints of the most interesting paintings and art books.

  The original collection was made by a Miss Huntingdown, and it has a reputation as one of London’s small but choice museums. I have known Costain Cummings for some years, and when I got to London I called him to tell him of my foolish search. I had just heard from him. He had at his museum a terra-cotta maquette, or small model, of a marble statue of the actor David Garrick as Shakespeare done by Roubiliac. This statue had come on loan to the Huntingdown for study from the art collection of the Folger Shakespeare Library. He thought I might like to see it. Since it was just such a model for some other Roubiliac sculpture I was hoping against hope to find, I would indeed. I had gone to the Victoria and Albert Museum to see a marble statue of George Friedrich Handel by Roubiliac, but I had been unable to examine it closely. I particularly wanted to take James with me as he was the only one who had seen the monogram.

  One morning early, a few days after the opening of Cats International, James found time in his busy schedule to go to the museum with me, so I took him in a cab in the carry-bag to the Huntingdown. The museum was not open for visitors at that early hour of the morning, but the guard at the door had been alerted that I would be there with a large bag, and I was shown to the curator’s office, where I introduced James.

  “It is with the greatest pleasure indeed that I meet the illustrious Sir James,” said Costain, starting to bend to the floor to shake James’s paw. James hopped on Costain’s desk and they shook.

  “Now, without further ado, and dispensing with ceremony, I will come right to the point and show you the terra-cotta model our fine sculptor made of the Shakespeare marble. Of course, it does not resemble Shakespeare as many people think he looked because it is really a portrait of David Garrick, the great actor and friend of Joshua Reynolds and Samuel Johnson, but it is a really fine piece of work, as I’m sure you will agree.”

  At last he stopped for breath and produced from a large cupboard beside him a beautiful statue about eighteen inches tall, superbly detailed, dramatic in feeling and full of life. What a splendid craftsman was L-F. R. I began to wish there were more of these handsome pieces. James sat on the desk and examined the piece with great care. At last he looked at me and nodded. Then he pointed his paw at the bottom edge of the statue and there, at the base, almost hidden by the sole of Shakespeare’s foot was the tiny monogram L-F. R.

  “I will be happy to consult with my colleague at the V and A and suggest that he send a minion to find the monogram on the Handel statue. I am sure it is there. That will give you an additional assurance. Is there anything else I can do for you to assist you in your search?”

  “Not at the moment,” I answered, beginning to sound like Costain. “I will just have to wait until Peter Hightower’s search of some Dresden correspondence is complete and then perhaps I will have a more substantial lead.”

  James listened to this exchange and let out a small yowl. He then solemnly shook hands with Costain Cummings and after many flowery protestations of friendship, we parted.

  When we got back to Baron’s, James insisted that I come up to the office. I said a cheery hello to Mrs. March, who was busy on the telephone. James pointed to a small reproduction of an Egyptian cat god, Bastet, wearing gold earrings, which I had gotten for him last year. I picke
d up the statue and next to it was a small box containing a pair of gold earrings.

  “Want these, too?” I asked.

  James nodded and bounded down the stairs to flat twelve. I let us in. I put the statue on the table and, as James insisted, I put the earrings on him, through the holes in his ears, which had been pierced for these very earrings last year. He stood on the back of the easy chair and looked at himself in the mirror. He grinned. He turned his head first this way, then that. He shook his head, making the earrings wave back and forth. He tried different expressions. At last, in an effort to see himself from around his shoulder, he fell off the back of the chair.

  “Oh, James,” I cried, picking him up and hugging him, “you are yourself again.”

  He squirmed out of my arms and began to pace up and down the windowsill to regain his dignity, but he couldn’t carry it off and grinned his old evil mischievous grin.

  With earrings in place, he went back to work, sitting on his table at Baron’s for the rest of the day.

  In the afternoon Helena, who had been up to see her doctor in London, where she and Lord Henry were taking Lamaze instruction on the birth of the heir, dropped in with him to be followed shortly by Roger and the ever-present Ellen.

  I served tea to Helena and Ellen, and Laphroaig to James, Lord Henry, Roger and myself. James found some anchovies and little shrimps in sauce in the larder and we had those with crackers.

  “No petits fours?” asked Ellen.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  James sneered.

  “You two see a lot of each other,” said Helena pleasantly as Ellen wrapped one arm around Roger’s knee.

  “I do think Roger is absolutely wonderful,” said Ellen, giving him a soulful look. “I just wish he would let me do more for him. Even if I am busy as the star of Hunt the White Hunter, I could do more for him but he just doesn’t ask.”

  Roger looked uncomfortable.

  “Dear me,” said Ellen, looking at her watch, “we must be getting on if I am to have dinner and get to the rehearsal on time.” She didn’t actually say “Come on, Roger” but the words were in the air and Roger got up and took her off to dinner. He didn’t even seem to mind it.

  James sat on the windowsill and watched them go down the street. He sniffed.

  “Bring Poppy around soon,” I suggested.

  James and Helena nodded to each other.

  “I’ll do what I can to bring those two together, but you know Poppy, she is so independent. She likes Roger very much, but she wishes he were poor, and she certainly is not interested in chasing him. It isn’t her style,” said Helena.

  “It certainly is Ellen’s style,” said Lord Henry, and with that they left for Haverstock Hall.

  We should all have had more confidence in Roger’s good sense. He began to visit Cats International just before the performance while Poppy was checking makeup. He would sit and inspect the cast with her and then he would ask her out for supper. She went often but insisted on paying her own way.

  “She’s determined to take nothing from anyone,” said Roger to me one day.

  Then one day when it rained in the morning and the sun shone for three whole hours in the early afternoon only to turn gloomy in the late afternoon, Peter Hightower arrived and brought a very frail, old man who walked on thin legs with the help of a beautiful ebony cane. The cane had an ivory head carved in the shape of a bending woman. His thin frame was clothed in a handsome, if old-fashioned suit. His face was almost expressionless but his blue eyes were alert.

  I helped him into the apartment and settled him in the easy chair.

  “Let me introduce Herr Hendler,” said Peter.

  The old man inclined his head and I bowed. James sat on the coffee table and looked dignified. His earrings, which he wore all the time now, gleamed in the lamplight.

  “Would you like something to drink?” I asked. “Perhaps some tea, or sherry or whiskey?”

  There was a gleam in the old man’s eyes. “Sherry, please,” he said. Peter joined him and I poured whiskey for James and myself, and then I sat down to wait for Peter to elucidate.

  “Herr Hendler is the man who sent us the Dresden correspondence, which, it appears, we will auction sometime in September. It is a real treasure and should bring very good prices.”

  Herr Hendler’s eyes gleamed. He sipped his sherry.

  “However, we are not here to talk about the collection. It appears that Herr Hendler is a direct descendant on his mother’s side of the uncle of L-F. Roubiliac.”

  Herr Hendler nodded and finished his sherry. I refilled his glass. He smiled a cracked smile.

  “It appears that L-F. stayed and worked in Dresden and after some years migrated to England, where he became very successful.”

  “Very successful,” echoed Herr Hendler in a heavily accented, barely audible voice.

  “Would you like to tell the story?” asked Peter.

  “Nein,” said the old man. I guessed his English was not very fluent.

  “It appears,” Peter continued, “that sometime in the 1750s our boy sent two terra-cotta models of statues he had completed in marble to his uncle as gifts. These pieces, each about twenty-four inches high, were taken to Argentina when the branch of the family that had inherited them moved to Buenos Aires around 1910. These pieces may well still be in Argentina.”

  For a moment I didn’t know what to say. So, as late as 1910, two models did exist. I was full of questions, but one look at Herr Hendler told me he would not be able to answer many. He was, at the moment, feebly trying to brush James off the back of the big chair. James, however, was still intent on admiring himself in the mirror and paid no attention.

  Herr Hendler’s eyes were growing dim. He put down his empty sherry glass. His hand trembled. He looked beseechingly at Peter. James bounced on the back of the chair to make his earrings shake.

  Peter looked concerned and got up. “Do you want to go back to your hotel?” he asked. The old man nodded and struggled to his feet with my help. He shuffled to the elevator with Peter at his side.

  “See you and James tomorrow,” Peter called as the elevator descended slowly.

  James and I returned to the flat. I was almost dancing. James looked puzzled.

  “I’ve found them,” I crowed. “Two models.”

  James shook his head.

  “Well, no,” I agreed. “I haven’t found them yet, but I’m closer.”

  The next morning we went to Thwaites, where James waved a paw and went to find Marilyn while I stopped off to talk to Peter in his office.

  “Herr Hendler is certainly feeble,” I said as I sat down.

  “And perhaps, last night, just a little drunk,” said Peter. “He loves good sherry. But back to the story. He suddenly decided to sell this correspondence, which has been in his family for generations. He wants to be able to divide the proceeds himself rather than let his children fight over it. I only hope he lasts till after the sale. He is very happy with us here at Thwaites, so he is going home tomorrow.”

  “How will I find out the name of the Argentine family?” I asked with some anxiety.

  “Never fear,” said Peter confidently, “I’ll get it out of one of his children. His oldest son particularly, who is getting on in years himself, is eager to have the material sold and is trying to be very helpful. I will get the answer from him soon.”

  When I left Thwaites I was euphoric. It appeared the impossible might come true. I called Costain Cummings and told him the news.

  “If it should befall that you do indeed lay your hands on the two models, be good enough to let me see them and photograph them for our archive, will you?”

  “If my principal agrees, I’ll do so gladly,” I answered. “We’ll be in touch.”

  I went off for dinner with a group of dealers.

  Next morning when I opened my door I found María’s cart, on which she carries linen, towels and cleaning equipment, in the hall outside flat eleven, which is next door to
mine. The door to the flat was open and María and James were looking at a sinkful of dishes. Clothing was strewn all over the apartment. A towel had been used to clean a pair of black leather shoes. It was covered with shoe polish. Nail enamel had hardened on the wash basin in the bathroom.

  James was looking unhappy. Clearly these people should never have been accepted.

  “Funny,” said María as she started to pick up the used towels. “People this messy are always the first to get mad if you leave any dirt in the apartment.”

  James pricked up his ears. Then, his eyes partially closed, he left the apartment purposefully. I went out about my business.

  In the early afternoon I was in my apartment studying an auction catalog in preparation for bidding when I heard a noise in the hall. Out of curiosity and because I was bored, I peeked out the door to find a very untidy woman in an angry conversation with María.

  “You certainly didn’t clean the room,” she said harshly. “There was this white powder all over the rug in the sitting room.”

  María, who comes from Spain but speaks excellent English, looked helpless. “No habla inglés,” she said. “No entiendo.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said the woman and slammed her door. I opened mine a bit more and winked at María. She winked back.

  James spent the next day at Baron’s and about four in the afternoon I heard something at my bathroom window. I opened it to find James stepping very carefully into the bathtub. I ran a little water in the tub, just enough to make a pool at the end, and James delicately washed a combination of jam and soot off his front paws. He then flicked the plug chain, unplugged the tub and stepped out onto a towel I had laid on the floor for him. He sat on the towel and licked himself into shape.

  In the hall I heard shouts of anger. I opened the door a crack.

  “We’re leaving!” I heard coming from upstairs.

  Mrs. March murmured something I could not hear. She never yells.

  “The week we paid for is up and I will not stay here longer.”

  “Just come down and look,” the woman yelled. “There are towels strewn all over the place and some sticky black tracks on my clothes, and in the tub—a mouse, a dead mouse.”