Nate took a long last look at the Catmobile. He patted the bonnet. Then he invited them for a stroll through the garden to see his car yard.
Figaro was bounding ahead along the path, when they heard a familiar horn tooting. They all jumped with fright.
‘The Catmobile!’ yelled Dora. ‘Someone is stealing the Catmobile!’
‘No, they’re not,’ said Nate. ‘A thief wouldn’t toot the horn. Not unless he was a fool.’
‘Or a monster,’ said Figaro.
‘Look!’ cried Dora, turning the corner. ‘The thief is at the wheel!’
They raced towards the car.
‘It’s only Rumba!’ cried Figaro, the first to arrive. He hugged Rumba with relief. ‘How fabulous to see you! What are you doing here?’
Rumba shook his head sadly at Figaro. ‘Marta was lying down with her headache, so I caught the train home. But from the carriage window I saw Marta’s car. Here, outside Nate’s. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had to pull the emergency cord. Oh, Figaro, what were you thinking? Marta will be so mad!’
Fig looked down at the ground.
‘Pleez to excuse us, Señor Rumba,’ said Dora. ‘Is all my fault. See, there was Señor Figaro feeling unhappy and there was I feeling like to explore –’
‘And here am I, all are ready to go for a drive,’ said Nate. ‘I am a great driver, one of the best, as you may know.’
Rumba looked at Nate. ‘No, I don’t know. You go too fast. Dora here is at least a Cool Cat driver – she wouldn’t take any risks with Marta’s precious car.’
Dora looked anxious. ‘I am never meaning to go for such a LONG drive. Just a little explore, and now is getting dark.’
‘Well,’ said Figaro, ‘why don’t we go up to Nate’s, have a little snack, then drive back?’ He turned to Nate, his tail wagging. ‘What have you got to eat? Anything besides apples?’
Up in the tree house, the air was booming with salsa dance music. Nancy was trying out steps in the middle of the room.
‘Hey there,’ she said. ‘What do you think of this?’ And she jumped up high like a pogo stick, clicking her heels in mid air. ‘You see, I’m inventing something new for the Grand Fiesta tomorrow.’
Figaro made straight for the kitchen, where he and Nate cooked up something surprising with bananas and cream and maple syrup.
When their plates were empty, Nancy turned up the music.
The room sloshed with sound. Drums spattered louder than rain on a hot tin roof. Guitars stung the air, giving Figaro such goosebumps up and down his nose that he had to sneeze.
With eyes closed, Nancy swayed like a palm tree. Then she was wiggling like a fish. As the pace picked up, she shook and twisted and twirled.
Her face was lit up with music rolling in like the sea, and Rumba remembered the waves whomping into shore back in Cuba.
His foot started to tap. His mind raced. He saw blue and red and yellow boats, fishermen singing as they hauled in gleaming nets of fish. Maybe I can write about that, he thought excitedly. A new song. Maybe it will go like this…
He found some paper and jotted down the notes in his head. He stopped thinking about Marta and her headache and his worry about the car. He stopped thinking about getting back to the café in time. He could only think of the tune in his head and how it sparkled like the sea under the moonlit sky over Cuba.
Figaro couldn’t keep still, either. He leapt up to dance with Nancy but she twirled out of reach, so he began to bark and race around the room.
And that’s when he spotted the conga drums.
About a million times he’d wanted to have a go at the congas back at the Cool Cats Café. But no one had ever let him. Now he eyed the two drums lined up like friends.
When Nancy let out a Whoooeee!, leaping onto the table, he bounded over and flung himself upon them. And somehow, Nancy’s music told him what to do. He played those drums with his whole body. He made them talk, shout, shuffle, dance. He made roaring rhythms and cheeky chatter. Why, he loved these drums, he loved this sound that filled him up to his eyeballs. He loved music and everyone in the room and Rolando back at the café and all the Cool Cats, including Marta who had let him ride in her car (even though she didn’t know it).
Figaro played until his paws burned. Then his eyelids drooped, his bones ached, and he dropped where he stood. In a snap he fell fast asleep.
‘Did you see that?’ Nancy cried, pointing at Figaro. ‘He was a wild thing. He made those drums sing! He’s got rhythm…Who’d have thought it? I know, I’m going to do The Wild Figaro Dance!’ and she danced wildly all over the table, just like Figaro playing the congas.
But Rumba wasn’t watching. He was writing furiously on his paper and darting quick glances at the congas. Every now and then he’d stop and hum a little. A smile quivered his whiskers, and when Dora came and looked over his shoulder at what he’d written, she smiled too.
The moon had risen over the tree house by the time they turned off the music.
‘Be my guests. Sleep on the sofa,’ Nancy said to Rumba and Dora. ‘It’s very comfy.’ And she danced away to bed.
Rumba laid back, his hands behind his head. He was too excited to sleep. He hadn’t felt so happy in ages. This was what life was all about – music, friends, being together. He got out his mobile and rang the Cool Cats Café. The answering machine told him that the café was closed until tomorrow night when there would be a Grand Fiesta with Music, Song and Dance, and Everyone was Welcome.
‘The Cool Cats are probably all asleep,’ he said to himself, and hummed the song he’d just written for the Fiesta. Only a small splinter of worry scratched a spot under his ribs, but when he turned over it went away.
Chapter Four
The Monster Dream
Figaro was padding through a strange town, on the hunt for chicken drumsticks. He could smell them, but he couldn’t see them.
Up ahead was an old bashed-up car. Maybe the smell was coming from there? He put his nose in the air. Mmm. He climbed in. What was under the dashboard? Something wonderful, something greasy and not quite fresh and really interesting. But where was it?
He leant over to examine the back seat.
And that’s when it happened. A furry grey monster sat up.
Figaro’s heart went wild.
The monster had its head turned away.
He wanted to see its face, and he didn’t want to.
Ever.
He barked at it.
Slowly, slowly, the monster turned its head around.
Figaro stared. He couldn’t breathe. He longed to run like the wind, away, away! but his legs had frozen beneath him.
Now.
Now he would see the monster’s face. Now he would know what –
– aaaeeeeeeeeeeee!
Figaro yelped.
– vroooommmmmmmm!
He opened his eyes.
‘Wake up!’ It was Rumba, shaking him. ‘Hear that? Someone is stealing the Catmobile!’
They held their breath and in the silence, sure enough, there came the sound of a revving, roaring engine.
‘Ay Caramba!’ Dora yelped, leaping up. ‘Marta is never forgiving me!’
‘It’s the monster,’ cried Figaro, who wasn’t really awake yet.
Rumba pulled him to his feet. ‘Come on, let’s go – maybe we can catch him.’
In a blink the cats were out of the tree house and trickling down the ladder. Figaro’s legs got looped together like the number eight. He tried to stop, look, and keep going all at the same time. But it wasn’t easy.
Outside the moon shot a cold white light on the night world. And it left the road empty. No car. No Catmobile. Only two black stripes from burning rubber. ‘The good-for-nothing, he’s taken the car!’ cried Nancy, running to meet them.
‘Who?’ cried Dora.
‘That wicked cousin of mine, that’s who!’
‘Not…Nate?’ said Figaro.
‘Nate your mate,’ hissed Rumba. ‘Ha!’
In the distance there was a sudden squeal of tyres – a scream – the sickening sound of a crash – then silence.
A breeze rustled the trees.
Rumba was the first to move. He tapped Figaro on the shoulder. ‘Run like the wind,’ he said, pointing up the road. ‘The noise came from up there, just round the bend. We’ll follow.’
Figaro took off. He wanted to reach the awful crash, and he didn’t want to.
It was just like the dream.
His heart drummed in his chest. His paws pounded the pavement. All around him the night was so still, the moonlight so bright.
He was almost at the corner when something loped out, up ahead. He fell over his front feet. When he’d righted himself, he saw only a blur of grey fading into the dark.
He closed and opened his eyes three times, but the bushes looked the same.
Dark and thick and quiet, as if nothing could ever disturb them.
‘Why are you standing in the middle of the road?’ Rumba called out behind him. ‘You’re not there yet. Keep going, just round that bend!’
But Figaro couldn’t move.
Rumba caught him up.
Figaro pointed at the bushes. ‘Can you see something in there? A grey monster?’
‘Oh Fig, for heaven’s sake,’ said Rumba. ‘Now is not the time.’
Dora and Nancy came panting up behind. They were gazing at the road ahead. A figure was rounding the corner, limping slowly towards them.
‘Nate!’ Figaro called out. ‘What happened?’
Nate was trembling when he reached them. Figaro couldn’t help putting a paw around his shoulder.
‘You good-for-anything bad cousin of Nancy!’ said Dora. ‘Where is Marta’s car?’
‘I…um…well, I couldn’t sleep,’ said Nate. ‘I kept thinking about that Catmobile, and how good it would be to…well, take it for a little spin. And really, everything was going fine, but then, oh it was terrible. This grey monster swung right out in front of me!’
‘Aha!’ cried Figaro. ‘Did it say aaaaeeeeee?’
Nate shuddered. ‘I don’t know. It was like a ghost. One minute it was there, and the next, it was gone.’
‘YES!’ crowed Figaro.
‘Well, but it doesn’t matter,’ said Rumba. ‘What are we going to do about Marta’s car?’
‘Ooh, she will be so angry, so mad, so hot cross buns –’ fretted Dora.
‘Is it completely trashed? Or just a little bit? Can you fix it? Can you get it started?’ asked Rumba.
‘I don’t think so. I tried turning the key but it just coughed and died. I was coming to get help.’
Rumba snorted. ‘Fine mechanic you are! Well, come on, let’s go and see the damage.’ He turned to Dora who had started to cry. ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad.’
They crept up the road under the fierce white moonlight. Nate wanted to come, and he didn’t want to. ‘You must feel like you’re in a dream,’ Figaro whispered to him. He gave Nate a ride on his shoulders, even though Rumba frowned at him.
And when they rounded the corner, just a little further up the road and off to the side, they saw the Catmobile.
‘Oh!’ shuddered Dora and Rumba and Nate and Nancy.
The left side of the car was dented in, scrunched up against a tall red gum.
Figaro moaned with unhappiness. Then he spotted a flash of movement from behind the tree.
‘Quick, did you see that?’ he said.
‘Did you hear that?’
Everyone nodded. But no one could speak.
Nate whispered, ‘It’s a ghost monster.’
Rumba whispered back, ‘It’s coming from behind that tree. Let’s all hold paws and creep up on it. Ready now?’
They clutched each other, in dread. Together, they went forward, one fearful step at a time.
‘All right, don’t shoot, I give up!’ cried a voice.
A grey, furry shape unfolded from behind the red gum. It flattened itself against the tree, standing straight and strangely familiar before them.
They blinked. They shook their heads. They looked at each other. They looked back at the monster.
‘ROLANDO?’ said Figaro.
‘AAEEEEEEEEEEE!” said Rolando. His fur stood on end so that he seemed electrified. He was twice his normal size.
‘You look just like my nightmare,’ said Figaro, wonderingly.
Rolando’s eyes filled with tears. He stopped saying aeeeee and cleared his throat. ‘All day I clean and soap and sponge and carry. But I have to tell you, my heart is not in it. Cleaning is not my passion. It is not my true desire.’ He gazed at the Catmobile, and sighed.
‘Well, that’s understandable,’ said Figaro. ‘Me, I hate cleaning. Rumba does it every Monday. But poor you, you have to do it every day.’
Rolando sighed again.
‘And you get so tired,’ Figaro went on. ‘Is that why you fall asleep in rehearsals and –’
But Rumba grunted with annoyance. ‘What’s going on here? Why are we talking about cleaning and being tired when Nate has just smashed Marta’s car?’ Dora let out a wail. ‘Smash, crash, bash. Oh, these are terrible words!’
There was silence as everyone thought about them.
‘Are you the monster I keep seeing at night?’ Figaro was walking all around Rolando. He prodded him with a paw. ‘Grey and furry? Tall and dusty? Flat and skinny?’
Rolando nodded, looking at his feet.
‘And are you the monster that hides when I come looking?’
Rolando nodded. ‘I slide onto the back seat.’
‘And are you the monster who lies as still as a travelling rug?’
Rolando nodded.
Figaro shook his head in wonder. ‘So how do you do that?’
‘It’s easy for me,’ Rolando shugged. ‘I fall asleep at the drop of a hat.’
‘It’s a sloth thing,’ said Rumba.
‘Well, why didn’t you SAY you were the monster when I told you about my nightmares?’ said Figaro.
Rolando’s fur quietened, and he covered his damp eyes. ‘I didn’t think Marta would like me in her car. I was scared. I am so sorry, Figaro.’ He looked at Nate. ‘And I am very sorry to you too, Señor. I did not mean to give anybody a fright. I just had to be near the Catmobile. Aaeeee!’ he said mournfully.
But Nate was limping around the car, running a paw over its body. ‘This car is a work of art.’ He turned to Rumba. ‘You know, I never really went to mechanic school, what with Grandfather being struck by lightning and all. So I just picked up some tricks here and there.’ He wriggled uncomfortably. ‘I wish I knew how to fix this beauty, I really do. But I wouldn’t want to make even more of a mess… Oh blast and drat it, I’m sorry.’
Rolando suddenly straightened up. He looked at Nate, then back at the car. His fur sprang to life again, so he looked tall and handsomely electrified. ‘But I could fix it. Back home, I was the town mechanic. People would bring me their cars, whenever they had a problem. They said I had the magic touch.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s because cars are my passion.’ And Rolando smiled at Nate.
Everyone stared. No one had ever seen Rolando smile. He had a lovely smile, like the sun coming out.
Nate smiled back.
Rolando’s fur stood up even straighter. ‘You know,’ he whispered to Nate, ‘I will tell you a little secret. I give the Catmobile a special tune up now and then – spark plugs, shock absorbers, this kind of thing. I know her like the back of my paw. I keep a few tools under the spare tyre in the boot here.’
Nate gave an even bigger smile. He clapped Rolando on the back. ‘Well, come on then, let’s see if we can’t get this beauty started. The dent in the body looks bad, but I don’t think the engine is too damaged. And mate, why not leave the cleaning, and come and work with me in the car yard? You’d be doing me a favour!’
Rolando gave a small aaaaeeeeee! of joy.
>
Chapter Five
Fiesta
In the morning, Figaro and Rumba and Dora and Nancy took the Very Fast Train. They arrived at the Cool Cats Café just as the sun was rising over the beach.
When Rumba saw the rosy sea and smelled the briny air, he clapped Figaro on the back. ‘Wait till Marta hears our new song,’ he said. ‘You remember what you have to do?’
Figaro scratched behind his hear. ‘Yeah, sure,’ he said.
‘And you are not mentioning the car, or the pitiful fate that is befalling it,’ whispered Dora.
‘I know that,’ said Figaro. ‘Nate and Roly are driving it up tonight, right?’
‘Only if it is cured,’ said Dora.
‘Fixed,’ said Rumba.
‘Ah, yez,’ said Dora. ‘A cat is being cured, a car is being fixed.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ sighed Rumba.
The café was quiet inside. A stripe of sun lay like a gold rug on the wooden floor. Empty coffee cups and plates of pizza crusts were scattered around.
Nancy went off to rest. Rumba tiptoed over to the piano. Figaro inspected the pizza crusts.
As Rumba softly played the opening bars to the new song, Dora began to hum.
‘What is this music, Señor Rumba?’ said Marta, coming in. She yawned. ‘Why you are not playing our Fiesta songs? Oh, I slept too long! For why someone did not wake me?’
Rumba stopped playing. Dora fiddled with her whiskers.
‘There is no time to lose,’ Marta went on. ‘You see, I am not happy with my solo, Rumba. Is not enough exciting. It does not crash over me like lightning and lift me up like the wave. Is this that gives me the headache. We must work hard today.’ Marta rubbed her head. ‘Dora, wake the Cool Cats. I will step outside now and take a breath of fresh air. Then we must to begin.’
Figaro and Rumba and the Cool Cats Page 2