Catlantis

by Anna Starobinets

  Baguette watched Noir from his window. His tail was twitching nervously but on the whole he remained calm. First of all, he knew that Purriana couldn’t stand filthy dumpster pigeons (she had once written to him that she liked quail—and since there were no quail in their yard, he knew that Noir didn’t stand a chance). And second of all, there was no need to bother about the feat because he had already accomplished one. Two winters ago, he had traveled from the past into the future, fought an army of chiming clocks, infiltrated into the Land of Good Girls and rescued Polina from that world of the past. Now that had been a real feat! Dumpster Noir could catch all the obese pigeons he wanted. Baguette was way above pigeon-catching—literally, from his twelfth-floor window.

  Instead, he purrenaded Purriana from his window, ate his dinner, sang purrabies to the Petrovs and thought he had nothing to worry about.

  He was wrong.

  One March evening, when Noir had caught a particularly juicy pigeon and two sparrows to boot, Bonehead brought Baguette a letter from Purriana. The letter read:

  My Dear Baguette,

  Our wedding is scheduled for the middle of spring, so we do not have to wait much longer—only a month separates us from eternal cat bliss . . . Unfortunately, something is troubling me. My dear cat, you are not yet ready for our wedding. I must remind you that before we can get married, you must accomplish a feat. A feat in my honor!

  Baguette answered immediately:

  My Breathtaking Cat,

  The thought of our upcoming nuptials fills my heart with sheer joy. Believe me, I am ready for our wedding. Do not worry about the feat—it’s done. You see, two winters ago I traveled from the past into the future, fought an army of chiming clocks, infiltrated into the Land of Good Girls and rescued Polina from that world of the past. So there’s your feat. I will leave the catching of slow and clumsy street pigeons to Noir. I do not bother myself with such trivialities.

  The next letter from Purriana was delivered by Bonehead after his morning walk.

  My Darling Baguette,

  That won’t do. You did not rescue Polina for me: you did it for the Petrov family. As for catching pigeons, that’s not what I am suggesting at all. Who needs our pigeons, with their bird flu, their lackluster feathers and their tough meat? No, no, I am expecting something greater from you, my knight in shining armor, because you are ginger—a pure ginger.

  Baguette read the letter twice to himself and then a third time out loud to Bonehead.

  “Why doesn’t she like what you did for the Petrovs? They’re great people!” exclaimed Bonehead.

  “She wants the feat to be in her honor.”

  “But I thought you said the feat was a mere formality?”

  “I did say that,” admitted Baguette, “but my bride-to-be doesn’t seem to agree. Evidently, she really does think of me as a knight . . . all because of my ginger coat . . . What’s that got to do with it? Well, regardless, I’ll do what she commands.”

  Baguette replied on a scrap of paper, in his decisive, masculine handwriting:

  My heart belongs to you, O Wonderful Cat. What feat do you desire? Order me and I shall abide.

  “He’s gone completely insane!” mumbled Bonehead as he carried the letter to Purriana. “ ‘Order me and I shall abide?’ I don’t even say that to Papa Petrov, and he says it to some stray?!”

  Purriana took the letter into her soft paws, quickly looked it over and scrawled a short response:

  Meet me at midnight on the roof.

  CHAPTER 5

  Disappearance

  Polina sobbed, her head buried in Baguette’s favorite pillow.

  “He’ll come back!” her older brother Vadik reassured her, although he himself was not hopeful—he had heard that runaway cats rarely returned home and instead got lost in the big, noisy city.

  “We’ll put up ‘Lost Cat’ signs,” said Papa, “and someone will surely find him!” He, too, wasn’t hopeful.

  “I told you we should have put bars in the windows!” Mama scolded.

  “Darling, he left through the door,” retorted Papa. “What do you expect when all he hears is talk of bars?”

  Bonehead lay sadly on his doormat. He knew better than anyone that Baguette had run away to be with Purriana. Bonehead did not approve of this decision, not one bit, but since the cat was his friend he had even helped him run away. Earlier that evening, when Bonehead and Papa returned from their walk, he had grabbed the grocery bag from Papa’s hands and began running around the apartment, leaving a trail of yogurts, cheeses, cookies and cold cuts all over the floor. Papa dashed after Bonehead, forgetting to close the front door—and with the greatest of ease Baguette fled the apartment.

  “I’ve already come up with what the sign will say,” Vadik said. “ ‘Lost Cat. Ginger, long-haired, pure-bred, prone to heroic acts. If found, please return to the Petrov family.’ ”

  “No, no, that won’t work,” said Mama. “Think about it. Who would want to return a pure-bred, heroic cat to his original owners? Plus, you don’t have anything about a reward. Without a reward, finders become keepers.”

  “What can we offer as a reward?” asked Polina.

  “Something useful,” said Mama, “but not too expensive.”

  “OK, we’ll write this: ‘Lost Cat. Ginger, mixed-breed, easily frightened. If found, please return to the Petrov family for a modest reward.’ ”

  “I don’t like that last part,” said Papa. “ ‘For a modest reward’ seems discouraging. How about this: ‘Reward: Papa Petrov’s monthly salary’?”

  “Darling, as always, you’ve got it!” said Mama. “Your salary is just right—after all, it’s the perfect sum to buy nutritious yogurt for the whole family—ten whole cartons. But it’s not too big. As for me, I’m ready to give my diamond ring for our cat. Of course, the diamond isn’t real, but it’s still very pretty. I’d be proud to show it off at a party.”

  “And I’ll give away the medal I got for getting straight A’s,” said Vadik.

  “And I’ll give away my cactus,” added Polina, “my very favorite cactus, which is always green, even in the winter.”

  In half an hour’s time, Vadik had hung signs up all over the neighborhood:

  LOST

  GINGER CAT

  He is meek and a mixed-breed, so he’s not much use to anyone. If found, please return him to us, the Petrovs. As a reward you will get Papa’s monthly salary, Mama’s ring with an imitation diamond, a gold medal and an eternally green cactus.

  The signs hung on the sides of buildings, inside breezeways, on lamp-posts, on trees and at bus stops. The spring breeze fluttered them about, playing with the tear-away strips of telephone numbers. It ripped down some of the signs and carried them far, far away—to other streets, to other towns, and even to other countries.

  CHAPTER 6

  Rendezvous

  The round yellow moon hung in the night sky like the surprised eye of a cat.

  “Let’s see what they’re offering for you,” dreamily purred Purriana.

  She and Baguette had been rubbing noses and looking into each other’s eyes when one of the signs fluttered over in the wind.

  “ ‘As a reward you will get . . .’ Wow!” Purriana rubbed her eyes with her striped paw. “Money, diamonds, gold . . . The Petrovs must really love you!”

  “And they respect me,” proudly added Baguette. “Although . . .” Baguette carefully read the sign, “ ‘He is meek and a mixed-breed’ . . . Meek? Mixed-breed? Me, the cat who accomplished a heroic feat all for them?! No, they don’t have an ounce of respect for me! Not a drop! Well, then, I won’t be returning to them. I’ll just go wherever the wind takes me.”

  “Well, it just so happens the wind is blowing in exactly the right direction. My great-great-grandmother lives in the attic of that neighboring building,” said Purriana. “Let’s go there.”

  “Why do I need to see your great-great-grandmother?” asked Baguette.

  “She’ll tell y
ou about your feat . . . the one you must accomplish in order to marry me,” Purriana responded modestly.

  “The feat? Yes, of course, the feat . . . but still, why your great-great-grandmother? Why don’t you tell me yourself? After all, this feat is to be in your honor!”

  “Well . . .” For a second Purriana hesitated. “My great-great-grandmother knows more about these things.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she knows everything. She’s an oracle.”

  “A what?” Baguette was confused. “What kind of animal is an oracle? Or . . . or . . . ora . . . you’re not saying she’s a mouse, are you?” Baguette’s fur stood on end.

  “No,” laughed Purriana. “She’s not a mouse.”

  “That’s good,” sighed Baguette, “because, I’ve got, you know, an instinct. I catch mice—I can’t help it. It’s a good thing your great-great-grandmother isn’t a mouse, but a . . . a . . .”

  “An oracle,” repeated Purriana.

  “Yes, an oracle. Well, I hope that’s still a member of the cat family.”

  “An oracle,” explained Purriana, “is a type of prophet. She can see the present, the past and the future. She’s been waiting for you for quite some time.”

  “For me?” asked Baguette.

  “Yes, for you,” insisted Purriana, “because you’re ginger.”

  “What does that have to do with it?”

  “You’ll see.”

  And so they set off for the neighboring roof.

  CHAPTER 7

  The Oracle

  “Good evening, Great-great-grandmother. I’ve brought you the ginger cat named Baguette,” said Purriana.

  “Good evening,” came a voice from the farthest corner of the attic. “Come closer, my children.”

  Baguette and Purriana came closer. The great-great- grandmother was curled up in a rocking chair. She was very old. Her fluffy, stripy, smoky-gray tail hung all the way down to the floor. Her graying whiskers, curled up at the edges as if in retro-fashion, were wispy from old age, and above her ears you could see white patches of skin where the fur was thinned out. Her striped fur had lost its luster but was well groomed and had the cozy appearance of a soft rug. Her eyes were closed.

  “Even closer,” she insisted. “I want to take a good look at the ginger cat.”

  “Maybe if she opened her eyes, she could see me better?” whispered Baguette, but still he came right up to the chair and, as a sign of respect for the elder cat, rubbed against one of its legs.

  “No, she couldn’t,” whispered back Purriana. “Great-great-grandmother is blind.”

  “But . . .” began Baguette, but stopped as a soft paw slowly and carefully began to feel his nose, ears, back, tail and paws.

  “Ginger!” elatedly exclaimed Great-great-grandmother after she had finished her inspection. “He is completely ginger, purely ginger, entirely ginger, undeniably ginger.”

  “How can you tell?” asked Baguette. “Not only are you blind, but your eyes are closed.”

  “I am an oracle,” Great-great-grandmother said proudly. “I can see the present, the past and the future. I do not see with my eyes.”

  “What do you see with?” asked Baguette. “Your paws?”

  “My young friend,” explained the old cat, “like all oracles I see with my inner eye, not with my paws. The questions you ask are rather ignorant. If I could not see that you are a ginger cat with the most honorable bloodline, I would think you were uneducated. But I can see that you are clearly pure-bred. Thus, I solemnly greet you, O worthy descendant of the ginger Catlanteans, and—”

  “Ginger . . . cat . . . Who?” interrupted Baguette.

  “Another ignorant question!” Great-great-grandmother exclaimed in frustration, flicking her tail.

  “Excuse me, I must simply have misheard. Who am I the descendant of?”

  “You are the descendant of the Catlanteans,” graciously repeated Great-great-grandmother. “The ginger Cat-lanteans,” she said with emphasis.

  Baguette felt like he was going to start molting from all his ignorance and embarrassment.

  “And who are the Catlanteans?” he asked timidly.

  For a few seconds, the oracle looked at Baguette in shock. Her gray tail swung from side to side like the pendulum of a clock. Finally she turned to Purriana.

  “Does he really not know anything?!” she asked her. “What dumpster did you dig him out of?”

  “He’s a house cat, that’s all,” replied Purriana.

  “Oh, that’s all,” Great-great-grandmother said with relief, her tail returning to stillness. “So, he’s an orphan? He grew up without parents?”

  “Yes, without parents,” confirmed Baguette. “I was raised by humans, the Petrovs.”

  “The Petrovs . . . Hmm, the Petrovs,” the oracle repeated, deep in thought. “Ah, the ones who live on the twelfth floor?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “Yes, they are good people,” the oracle pronounced after a short pause. “They do not hurt cats, they give them treats—a frankfurter, some chicken skin. They have a dog, too, a respectable fellow. He does sometimes chase Noir, but he treats all other cats with respect . . . Yes, they are good people, but people can never replace cats. Do you remember your father?”

  “No,” Baguette shook his head sadly.

  “What about your mother?”

  “Only a little bit. I remember that she was ginger and fluffy and always talked about France . . . I think her great-great-great-grandfather came to Moscow from France a long time ago. In a delivery truck with long loaves of bread.”

  For some reason this made the old cat laugh.

  “Long loaves of bread!” she repeated.

  “What’s so funny about that?” asked Baguette.

  “Nothing, my ginger friend,” said the oracle, who had stopped laughing. “It’s just you really do not know anything about your ancestors. But I will tell you about them now. Once upon a time, when apes had not yet turned into humans and wolves had not yet turned into dogs, there was an island in the middle of the ocean called . . .”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Legend, as Told by the Oracle

  Once upon a time, when apes had not yet turned into humans and wolves had not yet turned into dogs, there was an island in the middle of the ocean called Catlantis. The inhabitants of this island were the beautiful and mighty Catlanteans—a race fathered by Pussiedon. One day the terrible god came down from the heavens to visit the island. As he was strolling through the fragrant flora of Catlantis, he happened upon a beautiful multicolored panther in the undergrowth. The panther was so frightened by the sight of the mighty Pussiedon that she ran away.

  “O beautiful panther!” Pussiedon yelled after her. “Why are you running away?”

  “It’s you. You look so terrible and threatening—it makes my fur stand on end!” replied the panther from the undergrowth.

  “Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you,” said Pussiedon. “It’s true, I am indeed terrible but your beauty has filled my heart with love. I like the four colors of your coat: white, like pure mountain snow; gray, like the sky before a thunderstorm; black, like the deepest ocean and ginger, just like a carrot.”

  “All right, I won’t run away,” agreed the panther. “O mighty god, what is it that you want?”

  “I like your multicolored coat so much that I, a real immortal god, would like to take you as my wife, O simple mortal panther.”

  “Very well, then,” said the panther and walked out from the undergrowth.

  “We shall have the wedding immediately!” said Pussiedon. “And you’ll birth me six kittens—but we can leave that until tomorrow. I will call them the Catlanteans. The first Catlantean will be white, like pure mountain snow. The second Catlantean will be gray, like the sky before a thunderstorm. The third will be black, like the deepest ocean. And the fourth will be ginger, just like a carrot.”

  “What about the fifth and sixth?” said the panther.

  “Oh,
yes, I forgot about my daughters,” Pussiedon realized. “The fifth will be striped: you can pick whichever colors you like best. And the sixth will be spotted: I’ll leave the spots up to you as well . . . And now come here, so we can finally get married!”

  “Before we get married, I have one more question,” said the panther.

  “Yes?”

  “Since you’re immortal and I’m mortal, how will our Catlantean children turn out?”

  “Hmm, I don’t know. Let’s get married, have children and then we’ll see. I do hope they take after me . . .”

  “No, that won’t do, my dear,” said the multicolored panther. “I need some sort of guarantee. I need to be certain of their fates.”

  “Fine,” nodded Pussiedon. “I’ll explain. Since you are mortal, our children won’t be able to live forever. However, since I am an immortal god, one life will clearly not be enough for them. I will give each of them nine lives.”

  “And their children?”

  “And their children, and their children’s children. In fact, all the descendants of our Catlanteans will have nine lives— that is, as long as—”

  “As long as eternity?” interrupted the panther.

  “No, my dear, nothing lasts that long. They will have nine lives as long as . . .” Pussiedon looked around in search of something he could rely on. “As long as they inhale the aroma of these wonderful Catlantic flowers.”

  “All right,” agreed the panther, “that works for me. After all, Catlantic flowers aren’t going anywhere, are they? Which means that the Catlanteans and their descendants will always have nine lives!”

  “So, we’re getting married?” Pussiedon asked impatiently.

  “Yes, dear.”

  And so they were married. The next day the multicolored panther gave birth to six kittlanteans. Four boys: one white, like fresh mountain snow; one gray, like the sky before a thunderstorm; one black, like the deepest ocean and one ginger, just like a carrot. And two girls: one with white, gray, black and ginger stripes, and one with white, gray, black and ginger spots.