Martin Greenberg - Catopolis

The citizens, grinning, gave him a head start. Then, as a pride, they sprang after him.

“Will he get away?” Spriggan asked, worried.

“No,” Sampson answered.

“What was he? Cat, human, or monster?”

“He was a murderer and thief, the rest is irrelevant,” Tenja answered as she limped back into Grimoire Hall. “I think most humans wish to be a cat at some point. Delavayne was an extreme case.” She began washing a perforated ear.

“You knew the monster was a cat, didn’t you?” Spriggan asked.

“I deduced that someone who discovered the existence of

The Book of Apedemak, and desired it so obsessively, would disguise himself as a cat. It became obvious to me by Sampson’s description-stealth, speed, teeth, and claws-such could only be a cat in this city. That is the primary reason why none of us could detect Delavayne when he first arrived. Nobody could fathom such a horror resembling themselves. It runs counter to feline esteem and our sense of pride. I suspect an olfactory veiling spell at work as well.”

“What about the book?” Spriggan asked.

“I switched it,” Tenja said. “The idea came from a story by Edgar Allen Poe titled

The Purloined Letter. It’s about hiding important documents in the most obvious places. I deduced that Delavayne would overlook that shelf completely once the door to Grimoire Hall was opened.”

“

The Book of Apedemak is upstairs?” Spriggan asked, shocked. “On the cookbook shelf? We ran right by it?”

“Yes.” Tenja began to wash a long scratch on her belly.

“Guardian, may I retrieve it and put it back in its place?” Spriggan asked. His tail flicked with enthusiasm.

“No,” the Guardian said. Seeing Spriggan’s disappointment, Tenja smiled. “You have proven yourself to be both brave and quick witted, Spriggan. The Lion God smiles upon you, I believe. One day when you are older, you may take a glimpse at its pages.”

“One day seems very far away,” Spriggan sighed. Sampson led his son up the steps and through the door.

Later, after Tenja had replaced the great books on their pedestals and bathed her wounds again, she sat on her favorite pillow.

“Now, where was I? Ah, yes. For you, my friend Fergus.”

She started reading

Ulalume.

Luigi had a dense, blue coat with silvery tips that gave it a lustrous sheen. Like all of his kind-Luigi was a Russian Blue-he had large, round eyes the shade of a just-misted philodendron. His head was broad, his rakish ears sharply tapered, and he was fine boned, yet powerfully built.

Luigi had the most regal appearance of any cat in my acquaintance.

Though I knew he could trace his ancestors back to the Royal Cat of the Russian Czars, he claimed to be Italian-and I’d never heard anyone argue the point.

Luigi spoke with a thick accent, sort of gravelly like Marlon Brando in the Godfather movies. He lived in a spacious apartment above an Italian restaurant in an Italian neighborhood that humans had dubbed “Little Italy.”

“Don Luigi” the cats in the ’hood called him.

I just called him boss.

He’d named me Vincenzo the day I came to work for him-that was a wintry morning nearly three years past when he’d caught me nibbling on some Fettuccini Alfredo that had been tossed into the garbage behind the restaurant. He offered me a job, and I was quick to accept.

“You’re very kind,” I told him. Now I can say it in his preferred tongue:

Sei molto gentile!

The boss never asked my real name. Probably, like T.S. Elliot, he figured it was only right that we cats have three-my original moniker, Vincenzo, and Vinnie the Mouser.

The latter is what I usually go by. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

I’m not really Italian either, being a Bombay, or Burmese, but I love the food. Lasagna, ravioli, gnocchi riplieni, cappellacci al vitello e spinaci, and tortellini campagnola are regular dishes on my menu.

Last night it was vitello barolo-oh-so-tender veal with portabello and shitake mushrooms in wine, with just a touch of cream. The night before that was my favorite-calamari riplieni, sweet squid stuffed with cheese and bread crumbs in a delicate tomato sauce.

Per questa sera… I’ve no idea what will be on the menu tonight. Per domani sera… or tomorrow night for that matter. But I’m certain I will find everything tasty. Mi piace l’italiano, after all.

It is a good life, being Don Luigi’s number-one cat-his enforcer, confidant, and appropriator. In exchange for my loyalty and service, the boss makes sure that when I say,

Sono affamato, I’m hungry, I am given something good to eat. Too, he has provided me a fine, dry place to sleep, on a thick velvet cushion in the attic above his apartment. From this lofty perch I can hear the boss’s natterings with Guido, Nino, and Uberto, the Siamese triplets that collect the Don’s take from the businesses in Little Italy. I can hear the passionate yowls from his late-night trysts with Mariabella, the Himalayan madam from around the corner, and with Tessa Rosalie, the sleek orange tabby who recently moved into the flower shop across the street.

Best of all, I can hear the boss play.

I’d not heard a cat tickle the ivories before coming into the Don’s employ. The boss’s tail is muscular enough to join his paws and make chords on the keyboard of a 1920 walnut Italian Florentine baby grand. The boss only plays the music of Italian composers; he says playing anything else is a waste of time. He just finished the main theme from Giacomo Puccini’s

Manon Lescaut. Before that he performed a piece from the unfinished Turandot and a few dozen bars from La Boheme.

It’s like Heaven opening up when the boss plays, the rich notes swirling around the apartment and rising into my attic, consuming me and bringing tears to my eyes. No other sounds are so enchanting.

I live to hear the boss play.

He explained to me once that Italy gave the world the best composers and the best instruments, that piano is a short form of the Italian word pianoforte, which in turn comes from the original Italian term for the instrument-clavicembalo col piano e forte.

I couldn’t care less what you call the thing… I just love the way it sounds when the boss sets his paws and tail tip to it.

In the back of my mind I can still hear the notes. I’ve set my pads in time to the imagined music as I head down the street, looking over my shoulder once to see him looking out the window… not looking at me, but surveying his domain.

“Buon compleanno!” I hear him call to the long-legged Bengal on the sidewalk. Happy birthday.

“Congratulazioni!” he shouts to the Persian outside the used book store. I’d heard she’d recently had kittens.

Imparo I’taliano… I’ve been learning Italian ever since ingratiating myself with the boss, and I’m pleased that I’ve gotten quite fluent. Mi piacerebbe visitare I’talia un giorno di questi! Yeah, I would like to stroll down the sidewalks of Italy with the Don someday and sit high in a balcony during a performance of Gaetano Donizetti’s La Fille du Regiment. He promised to take me and Guido next year if things work out all right.

I hear a shrill call, and my head snaps around. It’s Bianca, the beautiful bicolor Ragdoll I visit when I go to Madam Mariabella’s. I know that Bianca shares her affections with whoever meets the madam’s price at the cathouse, but she claims to have a special spot in her heart just for me. I’d love to take her to Italy with me and the boss, but I know it’s going to be a business trip, and so dalliances won’t be allowed.

I flick my tail at her in a friendly greeting and then pick up the pace. I’m not as fast as I used to be, but I can push my muscles when the need arises. You see, I’ve got quite a way to go on this particular mission, which is why I set out before sunset. It means I’ll be eating late when I get back; I’ve done that numerous times before, and so far it hasn’t upset my delicate digestive tract.