by Michael Ende
“But you don’t know my Maestro at all,” meowed the insulted cat. “He’s usually a totally different person.”
“To you, maybe!” screeched Jacob. “He’s got you all buttered up—and fattened up as well, as anyone can see.”
“Who do you think you are?” spat Mauricio, now properly miffed. “How come you know everything better than I?”
“Don’t you have eyes in your head?” screamed Jacob. “Just take a look around here! What do you think all that is, anyway?”
With outstretched wing, he pointed at the shelves full of innumerable jars.
“That? That is an infirmary,” said Mauricio. “The Maestro himself told me so. He is trying to heal the poor gnomes and elves. What do you know about it, anyway!”
“What do I know?” Jacob Scribble was getting more and more beside himself. “Shall I tell you what that is? A prison, that’s what that is! A torture chamber is what that is! In reality your wonderful Maestro is one of the very worst people there are in this whole world, that’s what he is! And that’s a fact, you nincompoop! Ha ha—a goody-goody! A benefactor! Don’t make me laugh! You know what he can do? Pollute the air, that’s what. Poison the water, make man and beast ill, destroy fields and forests—that’s what your Maestro is really good at, and nothing else!”
Mauricio choked with outrage. “You . . . you . . . you take that back, you slanderer, or else . . . or else . . .”
His fur bristled so, he looked twice as fat as he already was. “I shall not allow you to insult this great man. Apologize, or I’ll teach you what respect is, you jailbird!”
But there was no stopping Jacob now that he was warmed up. “Just you try!” he screeched. “You fat milquetoast, you flabby couch potato! The only thing you’re good for is playing with balls of yarn and sprawling out on the sofa! Beat it, you saucer licker! Or else I’ll wrap you up in a package and send you back home to your cute little kitty-cat clan!”
Mauricio’s eyes started to glow like hot coals. “I stem from an ancient lineage of Neapolitan knights. My ancestors go all the way back to King Oedipuss. I won’t stand for my family being insulted! And certainly not by some fly-by-night scoundrel like you!”
“Ha ha!” screeched Jacob. “Then your ancestors used up all the brains in the family for themselves and didn’t leave any for you.”
Mauricio whipped out his claws. “Do you have any idea whom you are talking to, you miserable molting dervish? You are in the presence of a great artist. I am a famous minnesinger and melted the proudest of hearts before I lost my voice.”
The old raven burst out with an impertinent laugh. “I can believe that you’re a mini-singer with your mini-stature and your mini-brain. Just don’t get so uppity, you puffed-up bottle brush!”
“Illiterate lowbrow,” spat Mauricio with profound disdain. “You don’t even know what a minnesinger is. And your language comes right out of the gutter, you miserable vagabond!”
“I don’t give a hoot,” Jacob screamed back. “I’ve got freedom of beak, because I’ve got one after all, but you don’t, you crummy cat baron . . .”
And all of a sudden, before either of them really knew how it had come about and who had started it, they were a bundle of feathers and fur rolling around on the floor. They scuffled about and the sparks flew. The cat bit and scratched and the raven pecked and pinched. But since they were both pretty much the same size and strength, neither could gain the upper hand. Sometimes one of them fled and was chased by the other, and sometimes the other way around. Without noticing it, they had fought their way back into the laboratory. Jacob had sunk his beak into Mauricio’s tail and this hurt the little cat horribly, while, at the same time, Mauricio had the raven in a headlock so that he was slowly suffocating.
“Give up,” groaned Mauricio, “or else you are a dead duck!”
“You give up first,” coughed Jacob, “or else I’ll snip your tail off!”
And then both let go at the same time and sat facing each other, all out of breath.
With tears in his eyes the little cat tried to straighten out his tail, which no longer looked elegant in the least but had been bent into a zigzag, while the melancholy raven eyed the feathers scattered on the floor, feathers he really couldn’t spare.
Yet, as is often the case after such skirmishes, the two of them felt relatively peaceable and ready to make up. Jacob was thinking that he shouldn’t have been quite so rough with the fat little cat, and Mauricio was wondering if he hadn’t perhaps done the poor, unfortunate raven quite an injustice.
“Please forgive me,” he meowed.
“I’m sorry, too,” croaked Jacob.
“You know,” Mauricio said after a while in a trembling voice, “I simply can’t believe what you said before. How can someone treat a great cat artist like myself so well and be a nasty villain at the same time? It’s not possible.”
“I’m afraid it is,” said Jacob, and nodded bitterly. “I’m afraid it is. He didn’t treat you well at all. He only tamed you in order to pull the wool over your eyes. My boss, Madam Tyrannia, tried to do the same with me. But I didn’t let myself be tamed. I only faked it. But she didn’t notice. I pulled the wool over her eyes.”
He laughed cunningly. “In any case, I managed to find out a lot about her—and about your fine Maestro as well. What’s keeping him so long, anyhow?”
They both listened, but there was nothing to hear. Only the sound of the stormy wind whimpering and whistling outside the house.
In order to reach his absolutely sorcery-proof secret cellar, Preposteror had to go through a veritable labyrinth of subterranean passageways, each of which was magically sealed off by several doors, which could be opened and closed only in an ever so complicated manner. It was a time-consuming procedure.
Jacob slid closer to Mauricio and whispered in a conspiratorial voice, “Now listen up, kitty. My madam is not only your Maestro’s aunt, she also pays his salary. He supplies her with whatever she wants, and she makes big deals with all that poison stuff he brews. She’s a money witch, you understand?”
“No,” said Mauricio. “What is a money witch?”
“I don’t know exactly what it is myself,” Jacob admitted. “She does magic with money. Somehow she gets it to multiply on its own. Each of them is already bad enough, but when money witches and laboratory sorcerers get together—good night!—then things get really gloomy in this world.”
Mauricio felt terribly tired all of a sudden. This was all simply too much for him and he longed for his velvet cushions.
“If you’re already so well informed,” he said with a bit of a whine, “why haven’t you long since gone to our High Council and reported it?”
“I was counting on you,” answered Jacob Scribble gloomily, “because I have no proof up to now that the two of them are in cahoots with each other. I can tell you, as far as human beings are concerned, it’s money that makes the world go round. Especially for the likes of your Maestro and my madam. They’ll do anything for money, and with money they can do anything. It’s their nastiest magic spell, it is. That’s why we animals didn’t get wise to them up to now, because we have nothing like it. All I knew was that one of our agents was spying on Preposteror as well—I just didn’t know who. Well, I thought to myself, together with this comrade we’ll finally get the proof we need. Especially this evening.”
“Why especially this evening?” Mauricio inquired.
Without any warning the raven let loose a long, portentous croak, which echoed through all the rooms and chilled the little cat to the marrow.
“Excuse me,” Jacob said, quiet once again, “that’s just the way we are when something’s brewing somewhere. Because we can feel it ahead of time, you see? I don’t know what they’re up to yet, but I’ll bet my last feathers that it’s outrageously humanish.”
“What?”
“Well, you can’t say swinish, can you, because swines don’t hurt anyone. That’s why I made a special flight here through n
ight and storm. My madam doesn’t know anything about it. I was counting on you. But you’ve clued your Maestro in, so now we can forget about everything. I really wish I had stayed in my warm nest with Amalia.”
“I thought your wife’s name was Clara?”
“That’s a different one,” Jacob croaked indignantly. “Besides, we’re not discussing my wife’s name but the fact that you’ve made a mess of everything.”
Mauricio gazed at the raven in confusion. “You always seem to see the dark side of things wherever you look. You are a pessimist.”
“Correct!” said Jacob Scribble dryly. “And that’s why I’m almost always right. Wanna bet?”
The little cat put on a sulky face. “All right. What?”
“If you’re right, I’ll swallow a rusty nail; if I’m right, you’ll do the same. Agreed?”
Mauricio tried hard to appear as cool as possible. Still, his voice trembled a little as he answered, “You’re on! It’s a bet.”
Jacob Scribble nodded and immediately began inspecting the laboratory. Mauricio ran along beside him. “Are you looking for the nail already?”
“No,” said the raven, “for a suitable hiding place for us.”
“What for?”
“Because we have to eavesdrop on our hosts.”
The little cat stopped in his tracks and said indignantly, “No, I will do no such thing. It is beneath me.”
“Where?” asked Jacob.
“I mean, it is quite simply not chivalrous. It is not done. After all, I’m not a rogue!”
“But I am,” quoth the raven.
“But one doesn’t eavesdrop,” explained Mauricio. “It just isn’t done!”
“Well then, what would you do?”
“I?” Mauricio thought it over. “I would simply ask the Maestro straight out, face to face.”
The raven gave the cat a sideways glance and croaked, “Very sound, Count! Face to face—I can just see his face.”
Meanwhile, they had arrived in a dark corner in front of a large metal barrel with an open lid. It was labeled TOXIC WASTE.
The two animals eyed the writing.
“Can you read?” asked Jacob.
“Can’t you?” said Mauricio with a slightly condescending air.
“I never learned,” admitted the raven. “What does it say?”
Mauricio couldn’t resist the temptation to show off in front of the raven. “It says GARBAGE, or . . . no . . . it says FUEL . . . although that looks like a z at the beginning . . .”
At that very moment a sound like the howling of a siren could be heard coming closer through the wuthering winds outside.
“That’s my madam,” whispered Jacob. “She always makes such a hellish racket because she likes to make a big entrance. Quick, let’s hide in the barrel!”
He fluttered onto the rim, but the cat hesitated.
Now a shrill voice could be heard ringing out of the fireplace:
“Ring ring! Knock knock!
You’ve got a visit.
The door you unlock
And look, who is it?”
At the same time, a gust of wind howled down the chimney, flattening out the flames of the green fire and sending thick clouds of smoke billowing into the room.
“Oh my!” coughed Jacob Scribble. “She’s here already. Quick, kitty, hurry up!”
The voice from the fireplace came closer and closer. It sounded as if someone was screeching through a long pipe.
“Profit makers,
Give evil thanks
To movers and shakers
In piggy banks!”
Then suddenly a grunt could be heard from the chimney and the voice mumbled, “Wait a minute . . . I think . . . I’m stuck . . . hang on . . . okay . . . yes, here we go.”
The raven hopped about on the rim of the barrel and croaked, “Come on, will you! Move it! Jump!”
The little cat jumped up and the raven pushed him in with his beak, following close behind. With all their might they managed to close the lid at the last second.
The shrill voice from the fireplace was very close now.
“Can the world be bought?
Why not? Why not?
Can the world be sold?
If you’ve got enough gold!
Well, here’s the dough,
So don’t be slow!
Let’s quit the rapping . . .”
Now a veritable hailstorm of coins clattered down the chimney; then there was a hefty plop in the fireplace, the cauldron of potion No. 92 tipped over, its contents sizzling away in the embers (Mr. Pick-Me-Up’s Diet would not be going on sale for the time being), and, in the midst of the flaring flames, sat Tyrannia Vampirella, who squeaked,
“Why aren’t you clapping?”
When they think of a witch, most people picture a haggard, wrinkly old woman with a big hump on her back, a string of hairy warts on her face, and one long, solitary tooth in her mouth. But nowadays witches usually look completely different. In any case, Tyrannia Vampirella looked just the opposite of all that. Admittedly, she was relatively short, at least compared with Preposteror’s tall frame. But she was incredibly fat. She was literally as wide as she was tall.
Her wardrobe consisted of a sulphurous-yellow evening gown with a good deal of black stripes, which made her look like an oversized hornet (sulphurous yellow being her favorite color).
She was dripping with gems and jewelry; even her teeth were made of solid gold, with sparkling diamond fillings. Each and every one of her chubby little sausage fingers was adorned with a ring, and even her long fingernails were gold-plated. On her head was a hat the size of a car tire, the brim of which jingled with hundreds of coins.
When she crawled out of the fireplace and stood up, she looked like a floor lamp of some kind—a very expensive one, of course.
In contrast to the witches of former times, she was immune to fire; it didn’t faze her in the least. She merely slapped out the little flames still flickering on her evening gown with mild annoyance.
Her pug face, with its wobbly hanging cheeks and shopping bags under the eyes, was so heavily made up that it looked like a window display in a beauty parlor. In place of a pocketbook she carried a little safe with a combination lock under her arm.
“Hellohoho!” she called, attempting to make her shrill voice sound sweet, while peering all around. “Is anybody ho-home? Yoo hoo! Bubby!”
No reply.
Now, Tyrannia Vampirella hated it if no one paid any attention to her. Above all, her impressive entrances were extremely important to her. The fact that Preposteror had not been present at her spectacle already made her furious at him.
She instantly began snooping around among the papers on the table, but she didn’t get very far, since she heard footsteps approaching. It was Preposteror, who was finally returning. She hastened toward her nephew with outstretched arms.
“Beelzebub!” she twittered. “Beelzebubby! Let me have a look at you! Is it really you?”
“It is I, Auntie Tye, it is I,” he said, contorting his face in bitter creases of joy.
Tyrannia tried to hug him, which she managed only with difficulty on account of her impressive girth.
“It’s you, my oh so precious nephew,” she crowed. “By the way, I knew it was you from the start. Who else could you have been?” She giggled so hard that all the coins jingled and jangled.
Preposteror tried to escape her all-encompassing embrace and grumbled, “I also knew that it was you from the start, Auntie.”
She stood on tiptoe in order to pinch his cheek. “I hope you’re pleasantly surprised. Or were you maybe expecting a visit from some other cute little witch?”
“Not at all, Tye,” Preposteror protested peevishly. “You know me. My work leaves me no time for such things.”
“You bet I know you, Bubby,” she countered impishly, “and better than anybody else. Wasn’t I the one who brought you up and paid for your education? And as far as I can tell, you’re still
living high on the hog—at my expense.”
Preposteror did not seem to enjoy being reminded of this. He answered grumpily, “And vice versa, by the looks of you.”
Tyrannia released him from her embrace, took a step back, and asked menacingly, “What are you trying to say?”
“Oh, nothing,” he said evasively. “You haven’t changed a bit in the half century since we last saw one another, dearest Auntie.”
“You, on the other hand, have aged terribly, my poor boy,” she said.
“Is that so?” he countered. “In that case, I must tell you that you’ve grown incredibly fat, old girl.”
They stared angrily at one another for a second; then Preposteror said in a conciliatory tone of voice, “Anyway, it’s nice that the two of us haven’t changed where it counts.”
“You bet.” Tyrannia nodded. “We’re still just as much of one mind as we ever were.”
The animals were squeezed so close together in the barrel that they could hear each other’s heart beating. They scarcely dared to breathe.
The inane discussion between sorcerer and witch continued for a while. It was apparent that they were feeling each other out and that neither one trusted the other. But eventually their supply of small talk was exhausted.
In the meantime, both had taken seats opposite one another and were staring at each other through slitted eyes, like two poker players before a big hand. A frosty silence filled the room. A thick icicle formed between them in the air at the point where their gazes met, and fell with a clink to the floor.
“Now let’s get down to business,” said Tyrannia.
Preposteror’s expression remained inscrutable. “I figured you didn’t just come to share a New Year’s punch with me.”
The witch sat up straight in her seat. “Where the devil did you get such an idea?”
