Кэрол Дуглас - Cat In An Aqua Storm

No one notices my presence. I am a past master at darting into the dark side of a cigarette stand, into the shadowy underside of a potted palm, around the nearest corner.

The unmistakable blurt of an audio tape and stop-and-go chatter of human voices leads me to a ballroom filled with scattered folding chairs, enough tangled industrial-strength electric cords to give Indiana Jones a snake attack and more long bare female legs of the human sort than have been seen since Busby Berkeley choreographed thirties musicals. Most of these unappealingly hairless gams are upheld by shoes of such skyscraper ambitions that my little doll’s collection looks like London flats.

I dart from the safety of chair to chair, pausing only to sniff the smoke and sweat-perfumed air for a scent I will never forget: the faintly powdered pheromones unique to the Divine Yvette.

And still the dames in high heels come and go, talking of feathers and furbelows. Then, while crouching nonchalantly underneath a camera tripod (nobody faced with a camera ever looks down), I find my heart doing a double axel. A piquant feline face haloed in rhinestones is nose-to-nose and toe-to-toe with yours truly. One inhalation and I know that fraud is afoot. This vision exudes an odor of well-worn Dr. Scholl’s instep liners. I see that the shining eyes and sleek body, the tail so cunningly curling up like smoke, add up to a mere satin doll. Like the faux Baker and Taylor, my nearby vixen is a dummy: a shoe masquerading as a fabulous feline. It turns in its sassy tracks and minces on.

I proceed to make my weary way around the crowded room. By now the many scents pleasant and not-so have merged into one overpowering human stink. I retreat in my staccato way, from chair to chair, avoiding the sudden roll of equipment over any of my extremities. One chair proves my undoing when it becomes the center of a flurry of activity.

"Here,” booms a deep male voice, picking up my shelter.

I run along under it and just miss having my rear foot punctured when the chair is suddenly slammed to carpet again. I hunch beneath its shelter, ears and eyes alert for any other sudden dislocations.

"You can sit here, Miss Ashleigh," the same loathsome voice announces.

Ashleigh? What a sweet sound. A swirl of floral fabric tents me with blessed concealment. A pair of pearl-embedded Lucite wedgies come to a prim stop before my nose.

“Thank you, luv," a purring contralto voice says. “Where is my margarita—?"

“Here,” a female voice answers with a quick, oncoming shuffle of ballet-slipper flats.

Feet dance attendance on the occupant of my chair, Savannah Ashleigh herself.

I contain my own purr of satisfaction.

“Ah,” Miss Savannah Ashleigh allows. The retinue holds a respectful silence.

“These are, of course,” says the loudspeaker man, "tech rehearsals to familiarize the crews with the routines."

A camera doilies over like a hungry mechanical mongrel. I sense Miss Savannah Ashleigh sitting up straighter, even as her voice burbles on.

"Tech rehearsals are the best time to get the feel of a show,” she pronounces. "Some of my directors say I do my best work at the rehearsals." Laughter hearty, hers. Laughter polite, her attendants. Laughter silent and unconvinced, mine. "Do you want me to turn left? Right?” Her feet swivel so fast that one translucent heel nearly kicks me in the kisser. "Three-quarters is my best angle.”

I hear the murmur of some camera jockey.

"My—what? Hat. Oh, cat! Of course, my Darling Yvette. Yes, I still travel with her."

I hunch forward, all ears.

"Not here. She was sleeping. I left her carrying case in the dressing room. I could send someone for her—” Said hopefully, even as the camera dollies back and away. “Rats!” Miss Savannah Ashleigh hisses to herself, and inadvertently to me.

Or rather, to my decamping posterior. I, too, am dollying away, slinking among the oblivious feet and chair legs, heading for the dressing room and my own particular Sleeping Beauty. I am a habitué of the chorus girls' dressing rooms at every hotel in town. Nobody is as generous as a hoofer, especially to a dude who has to pound the pavement day in and day out with four feet instead of two.

So I am down the back stairs before you can say “Stage door Louie.” No guard is on duty yet: the show doesn’t start until seven p.m. Since everybody else is beating their feet on the ballroom floor, the windowless depths beneath the stage are dark and deserted, except for muslin-shrouded costume racks lining the concrete corridors, I stick my puss in a few dressing rooms and encounter—more shoes, these in a scattered, unpaired condition... more chairs askew... the poignant twinkle of sequin and rhinestone on abandoned headdresses... the tremulous nod of ostrich feathers dyed a color no self-respecting ostrich would claim.

At last a sound draws my alert ears to another dressing room. I hear a shoe scrape across the bare floor—no sense carpeting a room where spilled cosmetics will soon make it a twin to the deliberately nauseous carpet upstairs. I also hear the apparent gargling of a parrot—ugly birds with uglier beaks and claws.

I dart inside the door and shelter under a row of identical magenta sequined Flamenco gowns with turkey-feather ruffles. A feather tangles in my eyelash, then tickles my nose. I am about to sneeze when I spot a pink canvas bag under the opposite chair. In emblazoned silver letters, I read the name “Yvette.” Behind the pink mesh side lies a dim form.

I control my impending sneeze. No princess wishes to be awakened by an asthmatic prince.

Then the idiotic parrot squawks again and a scuffle erupts in the dressing room's far corner. How dare a scaly, foul-mouthed bird disturb the Divine Yvette’s rest? I turn with a swallowed snarl to the site of the disturbance to see two pair of human legs, dancing. They are doing what is known as an Apache dance in chicer circles than I move in, for the black-clad legs are moving purposefully, with vigor. Her naked gams, however, hang mostly limp, kicking idly at the black-garbed shins.

Then I look up, through an undergrowth of fuchsia feathers and past the constellation of sequins. They are not dancing. I glimpse the woman's face, painted into a slightly iridescent mask of beauty that Miss Savannah Ashleigh might envy. Her head is at an odd angle and her apparent partner has lifted her high in his arms, as if she were a ballerina. She seems to be hanging from a necklace of stars with a sad, forlorn tilt to her motionless mask of a face.

Her partner—only a vague back and black legs—scrabbles away, yet she hangs there, swings slowly, idly from an invisible hook. I smell not only the faint, sleeping fragrance of the Divine Yvette but the slow heavy odor of fear. And death.

I duck back under the feathers, Black Legs scissoring past me so fast that a black sneaker as silent as the Grim Reaper stubs its toe on a chair leg. The chair screeches across the concrete, like chalk on a blackboard. Black Legs curses softly, lurches toward the pale pink ark in which slumbers the Divine Yvette, then kicks—kicks!—the Divine Yvette’s sanctuary into the wall and runs from the dressing room.

I am across the floor in one mighty leap, pawing the pink canvas away from the wall. I hear a plaintive, sleepy cry from within. Had the Divine Yvette not been curled up in utter relaxation, such a blow could have been devastating.