Cat's Pajamas

by James Morrow

  “We would like to see the sources of the gold,” I said to Rodrigo.

  The youth replied, “Gold? Yeah, sure, I can show you some gold.”

  “We would also like to see the gems,” added Harana.

  “And the spices,” added Torres.

  “And the precious fabrics,” added Father Hojeda.

  “We go uptown-man,” said the youth. “We take the subway, eh?”

  So we did. These “subways” proved to be machines most terrible and terrifying: self-propelled coaches linked in serpentine configurations, racing through underground passageways at demonic speeds. All during the trip, Rodrigo engaged in a long, rambling, unsolicited speech to the effect that, while he doesn’t question the sanctity of marriage, he is just as glad his parents got divorced, and while he admits the wrongfulness of thwarting semen on its journey, he would never leave home without a pocketful of manhood sheaths, and while he understands that extracting fetuses from the womb is a sin, he doesn’t know how he’d react if his girlfriend Martina ever became pregnant by him. O my dearest Isabella, it would seem that, before we attempt to convert this city’s Indians to Catholicism, we must first seek to convert its Catholics to Catholicism.

  Reaching the “Pennsylvania” station via the “Seventh Avenue Local,” we climbed back to the surface and followed our guide north to a place where he promised we would see the precious fabrics. He spoke the truth. All the way from the Thirty-fourth Street to the Fortieth, nimble Indian peasants transported silks, satins, cashmere, velvet, gossamer, chenille, damask, and a hundred other exotic cloths (including a wrinkleproof material known as “polyester”), shuttling them about in the form of both uncut bolts and finished suits. At the moment, I cannot say exactly what trading opportunities this bazaar may offer Spain. We saw many Jews.

  “What about the gold?” asked Harana.

  “This way,” said Rodrigo, pointing north. “Gold, silver, gems.”

  He took us to “the Jewelry District,” on the Forty-seventh Street near “the Avenue of the Americas.” Again, the youth knew whereof he spoke. Treasure lay on all sides, nearly all of it under the jurisdiction of Jews wearing dreadlocks, grotesque hats, and long black coats. We must not take anything, Rodrigo cautioned us. If we tried to remove the gold, the policía would intervene, presumably cutting off our hands and feet in the manner, my Queen, of your Santa Hermandad.

  “Are the spices near?” asked Harana.

  “Bit of a hike,” said the youth. “You up for it?”

  Our party traveled west, then north on the “Broadway” road to “Columbus Circle,” locus of an idol bearing a singularly pleasing countenance, then higher still to the Eighty-first Street, where we found ourselves at the source of the spices. Even from the sidewalk we could smell them: cloves, nutmeg, anise, cinnamon, thyme, ginger, basil-a thousand and one Oriental delights, wafting into our nostrils like the expirations of angels.

  Then we saw the name.

  Zabar’s.

  “Jews?” I inquired.

  “Jews,” the youth confirmed.

  We did not go inside.

  Dearest Isabella, could it possibly be that your Second Exodus beat us across the Ocean Sea? Did your ministers by some strange quirk equip the exiled infidels with ships faster even than the Niña, the Pinta, and the Santa María?

  I am back in my cabin now, scribbling by the light of a full moon, a perfect sphere that sails the sky like a burning pomegranate. The tide is rising in Upper New York Bay, lifting the Santa María up and down on her hawser like a ball riding atop the snout of Bronx Zoo seal. The harbor air scrapes my throat, burns my chest, and brings tears to my eyes.

  You must advise us, Sovereign Queen. These Spice Islands confound our minds and confuse our souls. Should we confiscate the gold? Lay claim to the silks and spices? Present our credences at City Hall-man? Attempt to convert the stock exchangers? What?

  Written aboard the caravel Santa María on this 22nd day of September, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Admiral

  TO YOU, DON CRISTÓBAL COLÓN, our Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands to be found by you on your Great Voyage of Discovery, greetings and grace…

  Forgive my tardiness in answering, but we have recently uprooted the Court, the food supplies in Sante Fe having become depleted and its latrines full, with the result that your communiqué of the 22nd went momentarily astray.

  What twisted wind, what perverted current has brought you to the city of which you speak? How are we to account for such a mad and upside-down dominion, this Manhattan where Jews prosper, prevail, and place themselves upon thrones? You are not in Asia, Cristóbal.

  A consensus has emerged here. My King, my councilors, and my heart all agree. You must not linger another moment in that Satanic place. Leave, friend. We have no use for Manhattan’s filthy gold. We do not seek its tarnished silver, tainted gems, rancid spices, rotten silks.

  Predictably, Santángel offers a voice of dissent. He wants you to stay on Manhattan and learn how a city without limpieza de sangre has accomplished so many marvels. I believe it is the Jew in him talking. No matter. My wish, not his, is your command.

  Take the next tide, Admiral. Pull up your anchor, sail south, and don’t stop till you’ve found a world that makes some sense.

  Written in our City of Barcelona on this 1st day of October, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Queen

  TO YOU, ISABELLA, by the Grace of God Queen of Castile, Leon, Aragón, Granada, Sicily, Sardinia, and the Balearics, greetings and increase of good fortune…

  It is my supreme pleasure to report that your royal intuitions were correct. We quit New York within an hour of your letter’s arrival, returning to the Ocean Sea and heading due south as you so wisely instructed. Once again the waves became like mountains, and once again we followed them to our destiny. On October twelth, after a journey of six days, an exhilarating cry of “Tierra!” issued from my lookout.

  The island we found that afternoon bore little resemblance to Manhattan. It had no citadels, subways, beggars, or Chinese inns. We came ashore on a pristine expanse of gleaming white coral, beyond which lay a jungle so lush and green we thought immediately of Eden before the Fall. When the natives appeared, at first simply peering out from among the trees, then walking down to the beach to greet us, we were further reminded of the Golden Age. They were gentle beyond telling, peaceful beyond belief and naked as the day God made them. Unlike Rodrigo back on Manhattan, they eagerly accepted our gifts, placing the red felt caps on their heads, draping the glass necklaces atop their bare bosoms, and jangling the little brass bells like children. They call their world Guanahaní, but we forthwith named it San Salvador after Him whose infinite mercy brought us here.

  Have we at last reached Asia? I cannot say. There are many beautiful islands in this part of creation. We have given them all Spanish names—Hispaniola, Santa María la Antigua, Puerto Rico, Trinidad, Santa Cruz—so God will know from which nation this Holy Endeavor proceeds. In every case, the natives have proven as docile and prelapsarian as those on San Salvador. They are ignorant of horse and ox, innocent of wheel, plow, and musket. Beyond the occasional juju clutched in a brown fist or amulet slung about a sunbaked neck, we find no evidence of religion here. Say the word, and Father Hojeda will begin the baptisms.

  At the moment I am on Hispaniola, watching a dozen maidens frolic in the clear blue waters of a bay called Acul. As the sun descends, it turns the girls’ bare skin the very color of the bronze swords with which we shall keep these people in check. Have I arrived in Paradise, my Queen?

  Written aboard the caravel Santa María on this 17th day of October, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Admiral

  TO YOU, DON CRISTÓBAL COLÓN, our Admiral of the Ocean Sea, Viceroy and Governor of all the Islands to be found by you on your Great Voyage of Discovery, greetings and grace…

  Friar
Deza says Spain is now “on the threshold of a grand and glorious age.” Father Torquemada thinks we stand “on the verge of a Thousand Year Empire such as the world has never known.”

  They may be right. Six days ago, Emanuel I of Portugal asked for the Infanta’s hand in marriage, and she dutifully accepted. The day after that, the Islamic King Boabdil surrendered the keys to the Alhambra, and our victory over the Moors became complete. Then, twenty-four hours later, your missive arrived from Hispaniola.

  O my Admiral, the belief here is that, if you are not in the Indies, you have come upon something no less valuable for Spain, a great pool of unclaimed souls both ripe for conversion and ready to relieve Castile of all strenuous and unseemly labor. When I read your letter to my councilors, a cheer resounded throughout the castle, and before long we were all drinking the same vintage of Marques de Cacares with which you bargained in Manhattan.

  Santángel did not join our celebration. He says Torquemada’s Thousand Year Empire will last no more than a few centuries. “In fleeing Manhattan, Spain has made a fatal mistake,” he insists. “By running away to Hispaniola, Don Cristóbal has merely bought the Crown some time.”

  Last night a violent and frightening vision afflicted my sleep. Like the Golem of Jewish folklore, the idol of libertad had by some miracle come to life, and had by no less a miracle betaken herself to Europe. So heavy were her footfalls that the very mountains of Spain commenced to tremble, then to crack apart, then to collapse upon themselves like ancient Atlantis sinking into the waters beyond the Pillars of Hercules.

  What do you make of my dream, Cristóbal? Could it be that Santángel is right, and the best you can do for Spain is buy her some time? Very well. Amen. Empire is the art of the possible.

  So baptize those brown natives, dear sailor. Put them to work. Punish those who cling to their fetishes and rites. And buy Spain some time, O my Admiral. Buy her some time.

  Written in our City of Barcelona on this 23rd day of October, in the year of Our Lord Jesus Christ 1492.

  I, The Queen

  THE ZOMBIES OF MONTROSE

  DARKNESS. THE LIVING ROOM of Arabella LeGrand, a suburban voodoo queen residing in the fictitious town of Montrose, Pennsylvania. Coffee table, loveseat, bookcase, rug, floor lamp. The bookcase holds a candelabrum, two mixing bowls filled with dirt, and a portable radio from which issues a distressing melody, perhaps something from Mussorgsky’s “Pictures at an Exhibition.” A large spoon extrudes from each mixing bowl.

  Two candleholders with red tapers occupy the coffee table, and a woman’s shoulder bag lies on the floor. As the action progresses, we’ll be invited to imagine three doors in the vicinity, one granting access to the front foyer, one leading to the kitchen, and one opening onto the cellar stairwell.

  Enter ARABELLA LeGRAND, dressed in a Gypsy skirt with large pockets. She is a high-spirited woman of strong philosophical convictions and impressive metaphysical capabilities.

  Lights up as Arabella switches off the radio and begins igniting the candles. She speaks directly to the audience.

  ARABELLA: I’ll never forget the first time I brought somebody back from the dead. I could’ve practiced on any old corpse, but for my trial zombie I picked Lloyd, my late husband. Car crash. Forty-five years old. Poor Lloyd. (beat) He wasn’t particularly grateful when I resurrected him. In fact, he was annoyed. “Damn it, Arabella, now what?” I could see his point, but I needed somebody to lay the new linoleum in the kitchen.

  The moan of a returning zombie briefly distracts her.

  ARABELLA: (cont’d) Right away, Lloyd wanted a new name. He made me call him Jacques. “Jacques,” “Lloyd,” no matter—it wasn’t like I really had him back. My kitchen floor looks great though.

  A second moan throws her out of the reverie. She recovers.

  ARABELLA: (cont’d) Lloyd’s gone now. Malnourishment. A zombie can’t digest anything except the dirt you removed from his grave when you exhumed him. Eventually you run out, and the corpse drops dead, and you have to go revive somebody else.

  A third moan. She can’t ignore it.

  ARABELLA: (cont’d) Maurice? Come on in!

  MAURICE shuffles into the living room from the foyer. His face is pale, black circles under his eyes. He holds a weed puller in one hand, a cantaloupe in the other.

  MAURICE: (zero affect) If I were alive, I’d be feeling mighty hungry now.

  Arabella removes a bowl of dirt from the bookcase and proffers it to Maurice. The zombie receives his dinner.

  MAURICE: Dirt. Yum.

  ARABELLA: Did you finish weeding Mrs. Barlow’s vegetable garden?

  MAURICE: (waves weed puller) The cabbages are almost ripe. The lettuce is ready for picking. (tosses cantaloupe to Arabella) She sent you her biggest cantaloupe.

  ARABELLA: Tomorrow she hopes you’ll pull the worms off her tomatoes.

  MAURICE: (non sequitur) I miss the desires themselves more than I miss their fulfillment.

  Still holding his dirt, Maurice exits toward the kitchen. As before, Arabella speaks directly to the audience.

  ARABELLA: When a person has the power to raise the dead, she develops a strong sense of obligation to the living. In the old days, a zombie queen would use her corpses to help out the workers in the sugarcane fields and the tin mines.

  Arabella hefts the cantaloupe.

  ARABELLA: (cont’d) Mary Barlow can barely afford to buy groceries, so I’ve started sending Maurice over to help her raise a few vegetables. Poor old Horace Bickle used to get up at five every morning to deliver the Montrose Daily Times. It took me all day to teach Marguerite his route, but so far we haven’t had a single dissatisfied customer.

  Maurice returns with his dirt bowl and a canister of whipped cream.

  ARABELLA: (cont’d) Clarence Tucker used to spend all his spare time licking and stuffing envelopes, so I started lending him Françoise. She’s dead, but she has an excellent tongue.

  Maurice pulls the cap off the whipped cream canister.

  ARABELLA: (to Maurice) Whipped cream?

  MAURICE: I can’t taste it. (shrugs) The TV commercial is very persuasive.

  Once again Arabella speaks directly to the audience.

  ARABELLA: Patty Ambrose’s eyesight got so bad she almost lost her job driving the school bus, but now Jean-Louis does it for her. Patty still goes along, riding in the front seat, helping the kids on and off.

  Maurice attempts to frost his dirt with whipped cream. The canister delivers nothing but stale air.

  MAURICE: Faugh. Empty.

  ARABELLA: Listen, Maurice, some people are coming over tonight—the Montrose Public Safety Committee. Be nice to them. They’re not sure zombies are a good idea. They might want to ban you.

  MAURICE: I can pull eighty weeds in less than an hour, roots and all!

  ARABELLA: They say they’re concerned about sanitation issues, but I’ll tell you what really bothers them. They’re furious because I won’t loan my zombies to wealthy people.

  MAURICE: Ah.

  ARABELLA: If I start letting the rich have zombies, the poor won’t get their fair share.

  MAURICE: Metaphysical socialism.

  ARABELLA: Exactly.

  MAURICE: Dialectical immaterialism.

  ARABELLA: Indeed.

  MAURICE: Voodoo economics.

  Still holding his dirt, Maurice starts toward the kitchen in quest of a new whipped cream canister.

  MAURICE: (cont’d) Such a dreamer you are, Arabella. Try being a corpse some time. It will make you a realist.

  Exit Maurice. Arabella addresses the audience.

  ARABELLA: The situation’s getting out of hand. I’ve received insider tips from stockbrokers, new cars from bank presidents, diamond necklaces from brain surgeons. They think it would be so chic having a zombie around the mansion—cleaning the swimming pool, serving the canapés, tending the roses, walking the yorkie. I won’t squander the dead that way.

  Someone
knocks on the front door.

  ARABELLA: (cont’d) It’s open!

  Enter SUSAN WINGROVE, the mayor of Montrose, a middle-aged, no-nonsense politico whose conscience routinely informs her that she has selected the wrong line of work.

  ARABELLA: (cont’d) Hello, Mayor Wingrove.

  SUSAN: Ms. LeGrand. (shakes Arabella’s hand) Are the others here yet?

  ARABELLA: NO.

  SUSAN: (mildly conspiratorial) I came a little early on purpose. I’m hoping I might speak with Herman privately. In his new… condition.

  ARABELLA: (to Susan) You mustn’t expect too much.

  SUSAN: He was a good husband. A little stuffy, but good. Made his own breakfast, built us a patio—he even managed my last campaign. Poor Herman.

  ARABELLA: A skiing accident, right?

  SUSAN: Broke his neck.

  ARABELLA: He’ll want you to call him Gaston.

  SUSAN: What? (American pronunciation) Gaston?

  ARABELLA: (French pronunciation) Gaston. Call him Gaston.

  SUSAN: Gaston.

  Maurice returns from the kitchen, bearing his dirt and a new canister of whipped cream. He sits on the loveseat, sprays some whipped cream into the bowl, and begins spooning the dirt into his mouth.

  SUSAN: (indicating Maurice) That one looks familiar.

  ARABELLA: Maurice used to work at the supermarket.

  MAURICE: Paper, or plastic?

  Finding a slug in his food, Maurice attempts to mimic revulsion.

  MAURICE: (cont’d) Oh, yuck. A slug.

  He pulls the slug free, dangles it in the air—and suddenly eats it.

  MAURICE: (cont’d) Yum. I mean yuck.

  ARABELLA: His name was Eddie Watkins. Lung cancer.