“Well, what is the meaning of this?” he then huffed, trying to sound as grumpy as possible. “Interrupting a tomcat while he’s eating?!”
“My name is Felicia. Piacere di conoscerti (It’s a pleasure to meet you).”
“Well, I mean to say, they call me Dragan. There’s plenty here if you’d like to dig in.”
“Sei molto gentile (You’re very kind).”
There is no greater bond for cats than sharing food, which you will agree is a sound proposition all around. Suffice it to say, the two cats had immediately hit it off. Which is to say, they started bickering and sniping at each other from their very first meeting.
To Felicia’s utmost surprise, the little Slovenian town had very quickly begun to feel like home. But it was more than that. Here, finally, everything she had ever learned about leadership, from the Navy man of Naples, the pirate Edward England, and from Napoleon himself, Felicia could put into practice. As must be clear by now, Felicia was not a cat you could cage for long. Throughout her long journey from her hometown of Naples all the way to Piran, she had lashed out more than once at those who had tried taming her. Yet those first two or three decades in Piran had been a walk in the park compared to what was in store for her. All of Felicia’s cleverness, strength, and intuition would soon be stretched to the limit, as you, perceptive reader, doubtless foresee.
3
Kitty-Napped
In which the cuddliest member of the colony is taken from her sweetheart, and a sobering example of General Rat’s idea of justice is evidenced.
Dawn and the first fingers of sunlight tinged the floodlights over Piazza Tartini. This is the main market square in the center of Piran. That morning, like every other morning, the famous fiddler Tartini’s statue, violin in hand, smiled over the piazza with an air of wicked merriment. His ghost, the devilish violin player, was upstairs in an attic on a house on that very piazza, locked in his nightly struggle to beat the Devil. But that’s another story, which we shall save for a little later in these chronicles.
As far as we need be concerned, on Piazza Tartini that morning, all was still and quiet. Then, bounding across the square went Magyar and his ladylove, the cuddly white cat named Beyza. Running fast as they could, the two cats disappeared from the scene, and the large public place resumed its stillness, its ever-so-quiet majesty.
The lovestruck feline duo continued racing uphill until, a little breathless, the two of them came to a stop at the corner. Magyar looked at her with hopeless devotion: she was such a special creature. After all, there aren’t that many feral—that is to say, wild—Angora cats in this world, but little Beyza, she was one of them. At a formative age (only onto the second her of nine lives) she had been forced to live in the wild. She had been rescued and taught survival skills by none other than Magyar. Beyza was still a lady of leisure at heart, spectacularly lazy and highly adept at pretending to be less intelligent than she really was. In this way she was able to manipulate most humans and plenty of tomcats—especially Magyar—to get whatever she wanted.
They had paused at the spot where the long, winding Rozmanova Lane met with Gorianova Lane. (Yes, aren’t they marvelous names?) Beyza leaned against a wall, trying to appear cool and nonchalant, not as if she had just run out of breath.
“You’re faster than you look!” she huffed and puffed.
“Well, I know who’s chasing me,” spluttered Magyar.
“You embarrassed me in the crypt, talking so big again!” Beyza scolded him.
“But I thought you liked me to be a manly sort of a cat. You know, a real tom,” he said, in a mock-pathetic tone.
“I said I wanted you to be a gentlecat, not a show-off.”
Their eyes met, and all of a sudden the reason one of them had been chasing the other was forgotten. This was how it always was with these two. They had been starstruck lovers ever since the orange tabby had laid eyes on the bundle of furry white Turkish delight. That had been a long time ago, on the puszta, or the prairies of Hungary. But on this particular evening in Piran, once they’d caught their breath, the two cats cuddled up to each other in a highly affectionate manner. If any of the other cats had been around, they would have pleaded with them to desist. But the love cats’ state of slightly sickly happiness was not destined to last for long.
There was the sound of them at first, for as you’ll remember, a cat’s sense of hearing is the strongest of its five conventional senses.
“Look, we can get two!” somebody was now shouting.
Then there was the smell and sight of them: a dog and its human racing toward them at a clip. This was Fisko, the cruelly infantile boy who had thrown a rock at Dragan just a few hours earlier. Now he was running toward them yelling orders to his fierce-looking German Shepherd.
“Come on, Thor! After them!”
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” the canine animal named Thor managed by way of response. Clearly he was the thinker of the pair. Well, perhaps thinker is stretching it a bit, but something in his cranium must have been sending messages that powered the dog’s legs forward, and sent him hurtling toward two very frightened cats. This was no time for Magyar and Beyza to discuss strategy. It was no time for heroics, either. Running was the only thing for it, so they both SPLIT—Beyza in one direction, Magyar in the other.
Magyar was alright; he was too fast and too slippery for either man or beast. His feet, which had raced across the great prairies of Hungary, the puszta, had no trouble disappearing around a corner and shimmying up a drainpipe, out of sight. He jumped onto the rather flimsy ledge of one of the roofs and swung up on top in a surprising display of athletic grace. He sat down on the tile roof and breathed a heavy sigh of relief. Then, in his most philosophical manner, he began to discourse:
“Doing they are what!? This is Night of Time!? Disgrace! Sleep—Ever they don’t?” Magyar continued to bellyache backward in his raspy voice: “Agree you must dear, I mean you must agree.… Dear? Beyza? Are you …”
Then suddenly he stopped blithering and a chill ran down the spine of the old battler from Hungary.
“Beyza?” He waited again.
There was no reply. There was no sound at all. There was no Beyza. Poor, besotted, bewildered tabby cat. Magyar knew it in his femur. He knew it before he even had time to stop and pause and bite his paws with sadness and shame for being such a fool. He had left Beyza behind with that boy and that vicious dog! He was a selfish, silly old puss. Hadn’t she repeatedly told him so? Why hadn’t he listened?
Enough time wasted in useless remorse. Magyar picked himself up and bolted straight back the way he had come. The corner was deserted, but with his acute sense of hearing Magyar began to trace the sound of Beyza’s muffled cries. Muffled? What was that? He concentrated as hard as the greatest of Hungary’s famous concert pianists. Still following the sounds, he took a right turn back onto Rozmanova Lane.
The truth of it was, Magyar already knew in his brittle cat bones where the sounds were coming from. There was a dull laugh and a low canine growl mixed in with Beyza’s sad mewling. Beyza must have been captured by the brutes. No other conclusion was possible. The noises led him to the villa that Felicia had described earlier. Magyar finally drew up close enough to see that Fisko had a small backpack slung over his shoulder, inside of which had been stuffed a Turkish Angora cat: his beautiful, fluffy Beyza.
Magyar considered for a moment jumping up onto the backpack and tearing it open with his claws. That would have meant invoking Majikat to make him even stronger and faster, a real adversary for the German Shepherd. But without Felicia’s permission? For all his bravado, Magyar didn’t dare risk it. But without Majikat, it was hopeless. There was something intimidating about this boy’s swagger. There was definitely something intimidating about the German Shepherd, stopping and sniffing the air as it made its way up the path to their front door. So Magyar held back, and waited in the shadows. The gate and then the door of the villa clicked shut. Magyar’s poor old heart sunk in
to the soles of his paws. Because, oh, how terribly sad he was that he could not “let the cat out of the bag.”
Down on the streets below, shuttered windows were being pulled open, and lights were switching on inside houses. The old seaside town of Piran was beginning to yawn and stretch into a state of awakening. This is the saddest time of the day for most feral cats. It is the hour when the world of shadows and play and mystery, the feline world of the night, is replaced with the rather more humdrum and human world of daytime. It was doubly sad for Magyar, who had lost Beyza, his ladylove.
AND WHAT OF DOINGS A RUNG OR TWO LOWER in the food chain? Referring generally to Rattus Norvegicus? You haven’t forgotten them, now have you? You will recall a certain Private Rat had been sentenced to some sort of dreadful punishment by General Rat. So it was that Private Rat was carried to a back alley behind the waterfront restaurants along the promenade. By this time, the private was blubbering:
“Please, please no: I’ll do anything.… I’ll even … take a bath!”
A couple of the other rats shuddered at the very idea. A bath!? Truly, as far as most rats were concerned, that was a fate worse than death.
Instead the two guard rats bundled the prisoner into the tiny little courtyard at the rear of a restaurant-cum-tavern named after Martin Kirpan, which we shall henceforth refer to as the Martin Kirpan Tavern. They hid behind the back door to the kitchen, waiting for it open. The instant the door swung open, the two guards heaved the squealing Private Rat in front of it and ran away as fast as they could. Stepping outside at that exact moment was the maître d’. (The term means the master of the restaurant and is French, which this gentleman liked to think he was.)
The maître d’s real name was not Gaston, as he invariably told people it was, hoping to affect an air of Gallic sophistication. He was an uncomfortably tall, wiry man with oily hair and luxuriant moustaches brushing his cheeks. He had been on his way outdoors to smoke one of his stinky little cigars. Almost immediately, though, he saw the rat scuttling for cover and swung into action without a moment’s hesitation. Not knowing which way to run, Private Rat ran between the maître d’s legs and toward the kitchen inside.
“RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!!” screamed the maître d’, spinning on his heels and following the hapless private inside. The rat, frightened out of his wits, ran straight toward a corner and tried to hide under a large sink full of dirty cutlery. But this kitchen was that of the maître d’, his home turf. He saw exactly where the rat had fled, and he knew just where to find a good, sharp cleaver. Private Rat tried to make a run for it, but the maître d’—Gaston—had him cornered.
“Why, you filthy little vermin!” he shrieked, bringing the cleaver down on the rat’s neck, severing his head from his body. We are sorry to distress the sensitive reader with an account of such barbarity, but these are the sad facts of the matter.
As far as General Rat was concerned, his one working eye watching from the safety of his telescope, the execution had gone off splendidly. Rats don’t have much of a sense of humor—just the same, they all laughed along obediently when the General rolled back his head and cackled loud and long. What a witty fellow their leader was, as well as being a strategic and tactical genius.
Unsurprisingly, perhaps, Private Rat later became the chief ingredient in a rather good Ratatouille. But that’s another story, eh, best told by someone else? Anyway, if the rats of Piran would do that sort of thing to each other, imagine what they’d like to do to the wild cats of Piran! On second thought, for now, you’d better not. The fantasy life of a rat isn’t anywhere we recommend spending more time than strictly necessary.
IT WAS AROUND MIDDAY WHEN MAGYAR WOKE UP. He had been sleeping for seven hours. Now that might sound like a lot—especially in the midst of a crisis—but for a cat of his shape, proportions, and disposition, it was really no time at all. Stirring in his shaded nook under a tree, he stretched and yawned and generally untangled himself. It took him a moment or two to register Beyza’s absence. His whole nature and force of habit were so attuned to her being present. To say he feared the worst is to put it mildly. That brute of a boy and that savage dog, what terrible plans had they in store for his beloved? Just as he was pondering this, Felicia and Dragan came ambling up the path toward him.
“You look a bit off-color, Magyar. Not your usual orange self?” This was Felicia.
“Upset a little I look! Too be would you! Kitty-napped was Beyza night last!”
“Oh, Magyar,” said Dragan. “You poor, daft old tabby!” This was about as sensitive and consoling as Dragan ever got. Sentimentality was not really his style.
All at once, there was a noise from the villa that gave everyone pause. It was the sound of the front door opening. To avoid being seen, or sensed, the three cats crouched even lower in the neighbor’s kitchen garden. But it was not the big lumpish boy and his vulgar pet German Shepherd they saw this time. Instead, a human girl of about sixteen years old appeared, carrying something in her arms. This was Fisko’s sister Ivana, and the “something” was an Angora cat. It was Beyza, of course, purring away contentedly in the girl’s arms. She smelled as if she had bathed in lavender that morning.
“C’mon now, you little cutie, we’re going to buy you a nice studded collar,” the girl said. Beyza meowed loudly in protest at the very thought of having to wear a collar. “And we’re also going to find you some nice, luxury cat food.” Beyza, who could be a fickle, rather spoiled creature, squirmed and purred with pleasure at the mere mention of luxury.
The three cats present watched closely as the girl unlatched the front gate. So Beyza was alive, after all. She was also unharmed by boy or dog, which naturally was a tremendous relief to all concerned. Yet, after the happiness at seeing her in one piece, other, more complicated emotions ensued. As far as Magyar and the others could see, the little white cat was being treated like a feline princess. It certainly didn’t look as if Beyza was trying to escape. Watching as the girl walked toward the village taking Beyza with her, Magyar didn’t know whether to be angry, sad, or both.
“Don’t worry, Magyar. We’ll get her back,” said Felicia.
“Anyway, she will soon get tired of being spoiled,” added Dragan, trying to be helpful.
“Beyza? Spoiled? Tiring of?” Magyar gave a bitter, hollow little laugh and then sunk into a silent sulk. This was actually worse than if he’d shouted and rolled around thumping his paws on the ground. He was thinking dolefully about the barn he used to sleep in, about their little spot on the puszta, the Hungarian plains.
“I still know my way back there,” he said glumly. Cats, as you may know, are famed for their navigational abilities. They can find their way home anywhere. For a long moment none of the cats knew what to say to Magyar, he looked so despondent.
“C’mon, let’s follow and see where she goes,” said Felicia. As usual, it was down to the Queen cat not only to come up with practical solutions but also to keep spirits up among the cat clan. Though she loved him deeply, in some respects she longed for a partner to take the place of Dragan, who was useful when it came to hand-to-hand combat but, it sometimes seemed, little else.
4
Something Fishy at Lunch
Luncheon is served, and it transpires to be a much more complicated recipe for misadventure than just simple fish chowder.
It was a little after midday as three wild cats moved stealthily behind the girl named Ivana, who was walking briskly down the path to the center of the old town. A light breeze brushed over their fur and a foghorn sounded as a ship sailed into the port of Portorose, the more modern-looking seaside resort next door to Piran. It was in the direction of Portorose that Ivana was headed, with Beyza, the white cat, bundled up in her arms. She eventually led the cats—Felicia, Magyar, and Dragan—to a car parked just outside of Piran’s old town, which she started up and promptly drove away in, taking Beyza with her.
Beyza was practically the tabby tomcat Magyar’s entire reason for living, and now
she was in the hands of another.
“She’ll be back later, Magyar,” said Felicia, the wild cat Queen. “Don’t worry.” Yet if it’s possible for a cat to have a “hangdog” expression, then that’s how Magyar looked at that precise moment. But then, something else began to stir inside his old Hungarian tabby constitution. Faintly at first, and then stronger and stronger. No, it wasn’t just indignation. It was his appetite, and it was a craving that would brook no refusal. The poor fellow hadn’t had a bite since the evening before, and now he was ravenous. Felicia, who had been studying him hard, sensed this change in mood.
“Come on, Magyar, you Hungarian tough nut,” she said. “They’ll be serving lunch on the promenade any time now.”
“I’m sure we will all feel much better on a nice, full stomach,” agreed Dragan, the bluff old warrior, thinking as much of his own tummy as anyone else’s.
Magyar had to quietly admit that this was indeed sound thinking.
“Tell us a story as we walk, won’t you, Dragan?” said Felicia, trying to keep things light. “I thought I knew most of what there was to know about this country. But you never cease to surprise.”
Dragan gave a short, gruff laugh. Ever the proud Slovenian, he was glad to oblige with a story. He paused to consider for a moment: “Well, you know our favorite tavern, The Martin Kirpan?”
“Of course.”
“Did you know Kirpan was a Slovenian folk hero?”
“That, I didn’t.”
“Aha! Well, I reckon ol’ Martin Kirpan would be turning in his grave if he knew how the tavern built in his name was being run. Kirpan was both a country bumpkin—and one of nature’s gentlemen. Unlike the maître d’, he was completely above cruelty to animals, such as we! Not only that, there are things about his legend we could all learn from.”
The Wild Cats of Piran Page 3