The Golden Cat

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The Golden Cat Page 11

by Gabriel King


  In the shadows by the oceanarium door, a spiral iron stairway led to the lip of the fish-tank. From there you could look down on the water, itself bathed in the greenish light of the powerful aquarium lamp. Tag climbed it and looked down on the little sharks, turning and weaving in the hallucinatory light and silent tranquillity. They reminded him of dogs, unassuagable and muscular dogs: though they had a quality of patience no land animal could ever possess.

  He hated them.

  6

  A Changed World

  The sun limned the tiles of the turrets of the cathedral with silver light, throwing its whitewashed façade into dusky relief, so that the columned portico grew complex with shadows. Pigeons sheltered from the punishing afternoon sun in the shade of the cornices like randomly grouped mantelpiece ornaments. Amongst the gigantic magnolias and the banana palms, tourists sat and ate sandwiches, each family or pair facing away from the next, to make their own separate space. Beyond the imposing black gates, with their twin lampposts and spiked railings, the statue of a rearing horse and rider appeared to be emerging in a heat haze from the midst of an ornate urn.

  Sealink gazed around her. It all looked as benign as ever. How often had she inveigled titbits out of the unwary in such places? She was such a bad girl when it came to food.

  Further up the sidewalk she found the Café du Monde packed with a mixture of locals and tourists consuming café au lait and beignets. Not much for a hungry cat there. The sparrows that frequented the café, picking their way between the tables for fallen crumbs, were on a permanent high. Hooked on icing sugar by a diet of sweet doughnuts, they bobbed around like manic toys. With barely a gram of fat on them, they weren’t worth eating; and catching them, in their oddly distracted state, was too easy for sport – a quick paw among the chrome chair-legs, a swat across the old brick tiles and it was all over. They went down with their scaly legs pointing skywards, the reflections of the ceiling fans dying slowly with the light in their eyes.

  Sealink loved the Café du Monde for reasons of nostalgia: but it was in Jackson Square her real targets lay – the hot-dog stands, the bars and the trash cans from which an enterprising cat (a cat like herself) could con a meal for one; with luck, for two. This would mean crossing Decatur. Sealink and Red sat on the edge of the kerb and stared up and down. The four-lane street was busy with traffic: a bizarre mixture of modern automobiles and mule-drawn carts – gaily painted in bright pastel colours for the tourist trade – one of which hove into view.

  ‘I’m Joey, and this here’s my mule, Shine,’ they heard the elderly carter explain to his passengers, a pair of thin Japanese youngsters clutching cameras and guidebooks; and a large couple in matching warm-up suits they had bought in Biloxi. ‘Eats like a elephant and pulls like a ox, when she ain’t standing still, which is what she most prefers. She knows I don’t carry no whip, and sometimes she likes to take advantage.’

  Shine stared patiently through her blinkers at the ground between her feet. Complicated harness-lines and traces looped across her back and a bright red human’s hat was perched on top of her head. Someone had cut rough holes in the fabric, through which the mule’s ears sprouted indignantly. A curious fellow feeling stole over the calico. Other animals she’d never had much time for – there were always so many cat-things to do – but something about the mule’s trammelled patience took her attention.

  ‘Hey, hon,’ Sealink said softly, walking up under Shine’s nose. ‘Don’t be so downcast. Sun’s out and all. Least there’s only five of them to haul.’

  The mule turned its velvet muzzle to her, sniffed cautiously.

  ‘You say that.’

  ‘I do.’

  A wicked light came into her dark eye. ‘Do you know how I got my name?’ she asked obliquely.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Jes’ take care that you watch when I gets down the street a little ways.’

  By now, the carter was in the driving seat and was well into his customary spiel: ‘…and when you go into Old Louie’s, you tell him Joey sent you and he’ll give you a whole ten per cent offa your check…’ The customers were nodding sagely: another piece of inside information to note carefully for future use. It was the usual old scam. The next moment, the lights had changed and the carter flicked the reins with a theatrical, ‘Ho up, Shine!’ and the gig was off with a mighty creak and shudder.

  Choosing their space between traffic, the calico and marmalade cats nipped neatly across to the opposite side and watched the cart roll ponderously down the road. Just as it reached the old brewery, there was a lurch and a shout. The carriage skewed sharply to one side and one of the tourists dropped its camera over the edge with a shriek of outrage. Within moments there were only two passengers on the cart, and Joey was handing back money and bobbing his head and apologizing for the poor behaviour of his mule.

  Red grinned from ear to ear.

  ‘See she’s reduced her load, again.’

  Sealink thought for a moment.

  ‘Do you know how she got her name?’

  Red grinned even more widely. ‘Poor old Joey. I only been here a coupla days, and already I know! How come humans are so slow? Heard he got her from some old guy quit the carts last year. She kept losing him custom. Called her “a shyin’ fool”. Shine for short. Figures if she keeps it up they’ll have to retire her. She says there’s a real nice place called the Elysian Fields where the old mules get to go for a rest. She reckons she keeps on misbehavin’ she’ll get there quicker.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen of how humans treat animals they no longer find useful to them, that ain’t likely to be the way of things,’ Sealink said darkly.

  A flickering, split-second vision:

  Hundreds upon hundreds of cats pouring over a darkened clifftop, down towards a booming, sucking sea…

  Now where the hell had that come from? Sealink had been trying very hard not to think about any of that stuff. Hurriedly, she replaced the bad memory with a good one. Food. Of course; food. Spicy food. Boudin with chilli sauce…

  McIlhenny’s Tabasco.

  Sauce of the devil.

  Nothing like it in all the world. Its arsonous memory licked across her tongue, to sear dark thoughts away.

  ‘You hungry, or something?’

  The big marmalade was watching her with interest. Feeling his gaze upon her, Sealink shook herself out of her reverie.

  ‘Why you starin’ at me like that?’

  ‘You’re droolin’.’

  ‘Then I guess it’s time to eat.’

  ‘Thank the Lord.’

  The two cats snaked between human feet, slipped through the traffic on Decatur and headed down St Louis, past the French Market Inn towards the Napoleon House. At the junction with Chartres, a mule-cart was stationary by the side of the road. Joey the carter was sitting on the sidewalk with his head in his hands. Shine tossed her head gently from side to side to make her bit-rings jingle. She had no passengers left at all.

  *

  The two cats turned right and ran down the sidewalk, keeping close to the shadows, beneath balconies of curlicued ironwork and windows blinded by peeling shutters in the pastel colours of faded silk flowers; under cars and pick-ups, from one point of cover to the next.

  Sealink strode out in front, trotting backwards to communicate her enthusiasm face to face. ‘Babe: you’re going to love this place, I swear. Finest damned shrimp this side of the Gulf, and I should know, ’cause I’ve been around the whole darn world and I’ve ate the best of the best. Hmm-mmm. Been eating here since you was a twinkle in your Momma’s eye.’

  ‘Sure don’t look older than a twinkle yourself.’

  ‘Why that’s real poetic, hon,’ Sealink told him. ‘You-all make that up yourself?’

  Red pretended to study something at the end of the street.

  Sealink snorted.

  ‘Aw, honey, I ain’t hurt your feelin’s, have I?’

  She was developing a soft spot for him. Doubtless he reminded her of
all those mistakes of her youth, with their free and easy swagger and sweet lying eyes. ‘That’s too bad.’

  A hundred yards or so down the street she stopped at a restaurant doorway. Enticing smells wafted out from beneath a black and white rectangular sign; but the door was firmly shut, and the squares of glass in the upper part of the door advertised a closed sign. Taking no notice of such hindrances, Sealink stood tall on her hind legs and raked at the woodwork until little flakes of white paint eddied to the ground. All around the brass door-plate, the frame showed gouges and scratches that bore witness to years of such abuse, though someone had recently repainted with white gloss paint, so that the marks showed ghostly beneath the sheen. The door rattled, but no-one came. Sealink looked annoyed.

  ‘Are you sure this is such a good idea?’ Red looked anxiously up and down the street.

  ‘You kidding? I’d kill for this guy’s blackened shrimp.’

  ‘Sure, but folks have got kind of inhospitable with cats round here.’

  ‘Not with me, honey.’ Sealink stood up on her hind legs and peered between the window squares, then threw her head back and gave out an ear-splitting yowl. ‘I always had an understanding with the chef, y’know?’

  She pounded at the door again.

  A few seconds later the locks rattled and a large, bearded man stuck his head out. The calico gazed upwards. Blackened catfish. Chicken gumbo. She could smell it all over him. My, could he cook! A huge purr came rumbling up from the depths of her throat at all the good old memories.

  The man, who had been staring vaguely across the street, looked down suddenly at his feet and found that a large black, white and orange cat was applying herself to his ankles, purring her head off and twisting sinuously around and around in blatant sycophancy. Not far off, another cat, a marmalade with an odd eye, was staring nervously at them both.

  ‘Hey!’ said the chef. ‘You can’t come around here, baby.’

  Sealink turned the purr up a notch, to a volume that would clean rust off a boiler.

  ‘This gentleman and I go way, way back,’ she told Red. ‘Pecan-coated drumfish a specialty. Oh yes.’

  So saying, she raised her head to give the bearded man the benefit of her most adoring gaze. That gaze promised volumes. It promised deep rewards for the right contender. From Ankara to Zeebrugge, that gaze had divorced humans from their cooking. It had not failed her yet.

  Red looked on, somewhat at a loss.

  ‘Now come on, honey,’ the big man said, as she fawned around his ankles one more time. ‘You tryin’ to bring me trouble?’

  Sealink, meanwhile, was giving Red the hard stare.

  ‘So,’ she said. ‘You’re my pimp, or something? Are you gonna earn your dinner? Or am I the only one to have to humiliate myself today?’

  Red returned her gaze for a moment longer than was necessary for mere politeness, then abruptly looked away. Dipping his head, he started to bump it somewhat shamefacedly against the chef’s trousers, purring as best he might.

  The chef looked pained.

  ‘Come on, Red,’ he protested. ‘Two against one ain’t fair.’

  Red was delighted.

  ‘Hey, he knows my name!’

  Sealink sighed.

  ‘Look at yourself a moment, babe. Was he going to call you Blackie?’

  The big man glanced warily up and down the street, and seemed to come to a decision.

  ‘Hell, I can’t have you starve. Though—’ he regarded Sealink askance ‘—it don’t look like you’re in much danger of that, to me.’

  He disappeared inside and returned a moment later bearing a large dish of orangey-pink shells, which smelled briny and tart. The sight of boiled crawfish so close at hand had both cats salivating furiously. Little mewing noises escaped from Sealink’s mouth. She couldn’t help herself. Suddenly she was so hungry— Crawfish! She felt like rolling in them! The man put the dish down onto the sidewalk a little way from the restaurant’s doors then hurried back inside. At once two furry heads were butting at one another in their eagerness to feed.

  ‘Where’s your etiquette, boy? Don’t you know you should let your elders and betters eat first?’

  Red said something unintelligible. Spiky orange legs waved out of his mouth. Sealink shouldered him out of the way with gargantuan ease and applied herself to encouraging the soft parts out of the shells. A paw pressing here, and the quick twist of a claw there, and out popped the succulent meat. They were so engrossed that neither of them noticed the tide that swept upon them out of the shadows—

  *

  Sealink felt cool shade fall across her back. For a second she thought nothing of it; then it was followed by a rancid smell, as of infection and sickness, which permeated even the food she was eating.

  She looked up sharply.

  The sidewalk was full of cats. Maybe two dozen had crept out of the alleys, the parking lots and the constructors’ debris around the Wildlife and Fisheries Building. Sealink blinked. Adrenalin shot through her like white light, like power in a circuit. For a moment, the newcomers reminded her so clearly of the alchemical cats that she was back in that other time, trapped in a warehouse with the Alchemist himself, while his proxies advanced on her like a tide. ‘Tag! Tag!’ she heard herself call. ‘What you got us into here?’ Shadows danced across non-existent walls. Then she was back in New Orleans again, a little embarrassed, because they were only runny-eyed ferals with scabs on their faces. Fur that had once been of all different colours – tabby and tortoiseshell, black and white – had become so dry and dusty as to appear a uniformly faded grey. They were silent. Their eyes were dull. None of them was looking at Sealink or Red: instead their attention was fixed with horrible avidity upon the dish of crawfish.

  Red had got close to the bottom of the bowl and was doggedly chasing the remaining food around with his mouth. Impatience made him clumsy. Bits of shell were pushed over the edge, where they fell with a papery whisper to the ground. There, propelled by a breath of wind, one drifted past Sealink and was at once seized upon by three of the silent cats. Ignoring the calico completely, they ragged feebly backwards and forwards at the shell, snarling and hissing between locked teeth.

  Red looked up, saw the newcomers and jumped backwards in horror. With a howl and a huge leap he hurled himself clear into the road and ran off.

  ‘Thanks a bunch, hero,’ Sealink muttered.

  Rarely averse to a fight, the calico nevertheless considered with some anxiety the situation confronting her. She was to all intents and purposes alone, since the only thing that could now be seen of Red was the bob of an orange tail-tip disappearing around the corner of the Rue Conti, while all around her were twenty deranged-looking cats. Not the best of odds. She’d already had one scrap since arriving back in the city of her birth. It was becoming tedious.

  They crept closer, drawn by the smell from the dish. Sealink’s eyes glinted. They were in a tight bunch now, too compact a group to charge through, too many to leap over. Instead, she inserted a paw under the dish and flipped it skywards, where it spun and wobbled for a moment, showering down scraps as it went. As above, so below: beside themselves with panic and voracity, the ferals scattered in twenty different directions, fanning out across the ground in eerie mirror image of the flying crawfish. Flakes of shell and meat rained down upon the sidewalk. In the havoc that ensued, Sealink picked her moment and wove with statuesque grace through the squabbling, empty-eyed cats, out into the road.

  For a moment, she looked back, puzzled, still hearing something in her head, still catching the faded echo of that other fight. ‘Just what is going on in this town?’ she asked herself.

  Then she was out of there.

  *

  ‘You want to tell me what you playin’ at?’ she demanded once she’d caught up with the big marmalade tom. ‘Your actions have put me in a dangerous mood, hon.’

  Red’s lazy eye regarded her sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that. Instinct, I guess – why fight when you can run? And the
re were a lot of them. ’Sides which, why hurt ’em more than they already been hurt? They’re starvin’.’

  ‘I seen hungry cats before. Hell, I been a hungry cat before. But I ain’t never seen anyone that desperate for food. Specially not here.’

  ‘Well, I figure a lot’s changed since you been in the Big Easy—’

  ‘It ain’t good enough to say that. It ain’t even the shadow of a explanation.’

  ‘—and as for me, I been on the road a long time, and I ain’t used to company. Anyhows, seems that everyone I hook up with comes to grief.’

  ‘What a surprise, when you run off like that. And bein’ on the road ain’t nothin’ to do with it. I been on the road since before you was born and I ain’t never ratted on a friend. Where I come from, friends stick together, no matter what the odds.’

  Red bristled. ‘Well, I ain’t your friend, and I ain’t going to be responsible for you.’

  ‘Sure and I don’t need any male to be responsible for me, sonny. I seen things in my time’d make your whiskers curl and your dandy orange fur turn white, babe.’

  Red laughed.

  ‘Tough enough,’ he said. ‘You’re fun when you’re angry. I like a queen with a raspin’ tongue. Get sick of them boardwalk babes, make you run your errands for ’em, lick ’em here and there where they can’t reach. “Hey, Red—”’ His voice took on a wheedling tone: “‘Whyn’t you fetch me some nice shrimp? Would you just clean that little spot on the back of my head? The big ol’ black cat over there keeps on lookin’ at me and lickin’ his black ol’ lips, and it ain’t nice: would you go ask him to stop?”’

  Sealink grinned, despite herself.

  ‘I see,’ she said, ‘that you have et some of that particular catfish in your time.’

  He acknowledged this to be true.

  ‘So what’s happened to your sad sorry-ass tale of a vagabond no self-respectin’ female would want to be seen with?’

  ‘Where’s the self-respect in rolling on your back for any traveller comes along?’ countered Red. He struck a pose. ‘They were as cheap as trash. I had my way with them and said bonsoir. I ate them up because they did not capture my heart.’

 

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