The Wild Cats of Piran

by Scott Alexander Young

“Really?” said Felicia. “Tell us more about this sound fellow!”

  “Well, Martin Kirpan was a man of immense strength, who once lifted up his horses as if they were so many chairs. This was to enable the Emperor’s carriage to pass by.”

  Sounding like he had finished his tale, Dragan leaned against a lamppost. He folded his paws and looked somewhat pleased with himself.

  “Is that it?” asked Felicia. “Is there supposed to be a moral to this story?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Dragan replied.

  “Most definitely not.”

  “Well, Martin Kirpan was such a heroic type that later on the Emperor called on him to be a Giant Killer.”

  “And?”

  “Well, clearly the point is, sometimes it doesn’t pay to draw attention to yourself: You might be asked to kill a giant.”

  “Oh dear, another one of Dragan’s shaggy dog stories,” said Magyar, attempting a smile. Dragan more than matched this attempt with one of his great Chartreux cat grins.

  It is fair to say the stories Dragan liked to recount were the kind that were told in days gone by. In those days ordinary people believed in ogres and trolls and elves that lived in the forest, in fairy godmothers, and in giants who battled with Dragons. In that now-distant world, fair damsels locked up in the towers of enchanted castles awaited their rescue by valiant-hearted youths who were ready to take on any villain. Somehow also in those far-off times, it seemed that the cleverer were much smarter and the foolish more stupid than in our own day and age. Yet it was also a time where everybody, prince or pauper, wizard or fool, owl or cat, knew a goodly store of tall stories to make a long winter’s evening pass pleasantly. For all intents and purposes, Felicia, Dragan, and the wild cats of Piran still lived in that world.

  It was the times that had changed, not they.

  BY THE TIME THEY GOT TO THE MARTIN KIRPAN TAVERN, the Hungarian tabby was still ravenous but also increasingly furious about the whole situation with Beyza. Why, the more he thought about it, the worse it stuck in his claw. The injustice of it all! He was in an altogether reckless, dangerous mood.

  A young human couple was taking coffee with a chocolate cake between them. Magyar’s taste buds were on fire, and his anger made him rash. So he did something that no feral cat of Piran was ever supposed to do. He leapt up onto the table, and for a moment, gazed longingly at the chocolate cake sitting between the couple, a youngish man and woman. It looked even better up close: dark, rich melting chocolate, slathered with delicious-looking cream. The temptation was simply too much. Magyar grabbed the cake with both paws and was about to make off with it when the maître d’ appeared from nowhere.

  The maître d’s arms shot out, and he seized the fat Hungarian tabby by the neck and gave it a good squeeze. Strangulation! Why do bullies always instinctively strangle a cat if they get hold of one? Who can say, but it looked like it was all up for the Magyar mongrel from the puszta. And now, in one swift fluid movement, the maître d’ bundled Magyar into his arms, holding him close across his chest. This might have been partly because one of his customers was yelling at him to stop, but more likely because he had other plans.

  Cat history does record that for thousands of cat years the greatest pleasure of any maître d’ of the Martin Kirpan Tavern is when, unobserved by restaurant patrons, he may torment one of the wild cats of Piran. The happy diners in his restaurant always fail to notice the animal cruelty taking place while they sip their wine and chew their fish. Well, almost always.

  “Stop hurting him!” the young woman said, just about as firmly as she could.

  “Of course, Madame,” the maître d’ said, in the most patronizing tone imaginable. “The little one will come to no harm. I am going to call the local, how do you say?”

  “I don’t know, buster, how do you say?”

  “The SPCA, yes. That is how you say. I take him now to the SPCA.”

  And then the maître d’ shrieked. Why? Because Felicia had, quite instinctively, lunged at the maître d’s leg and dug her claws into his trousers. Somehow he managed to shake Felicia off and, with a kick of his patent leather shoe, sent her flying across the promenade. He still clung to Magyar, who was struggling to free himself, but to no avail. His face a picture of triumph, the maître d’ was about to wheel on his heels and go inside. Once in the kitchen, Magyar’s life expectancy could not be longer than a few minutes. You will remember the maître d’s skill with a meat cleaver.

  Watching the drama unfold from under the cover of a tablecloth, Dragan felt like he had to make an awful lot of quick calculations. For one thing, he could just about guess the amount of time Magyar had left to live. Once Magyar was inside that kitchen, alone with the maître d’: probably about ten seconds. He would have to be saved, and the only way Dragan could see of doing this was by invoking Majikat. But Felicia was halfway down the promenade, licking her wounds. He wasn’t sure she would she approve. Plus, it was daylight, which no cat really likes for practicing Majikat. Also, although there weren’t many human people around, there was still that young couple, both of whom, Dragan sensed, had seen right through the wild cats of Piran. Nevertheless, it had to be done. Magyar must be saved! He’d be able to convince Felicia there had been no alternative, because there really hadn’t.

  The precise instant Dragan began meowing the Majikat Meow, everyone froze. Without exactly knowing what he was doing, the maître d’ very quietly, very passively unfolded his arms and let Magyar go. (If he had known what he was doing, he wouldn’t have done it.) Freed from his clutches, the Hungarian tabby sprinted off as fast as he could in a blaze of fast-moving orange fur. There was the Majikat again, changing the course of events. The spell cast, Dragan now ran hurtling toward the maître d’. But then, a stitch in time before him came Felicia, running up the maître d’s trouser legs and onto his waistcoat.

  “Che bravo (How beautiful), Dragan!” she cried to him. “Well done!” So, she obviously approved of his use of Majikat. Well, that was a relief. Felicia came to a stop on the place just above the maître d’s chest where Magyar had been enfolded in his long, wiry arms. There was a long strange moment when the maître d’s eyes met with hers.

  Who with any natural sympathies or finer feelings could despise such a noble creature as this oriental cat? Not to mention those eyes, which shone like dewdrops on a lotus leaf. Even the maître d’, for just a split second, had to admire the slender animal’s dazzling eyes and immaculate coat, the color of midnight.

  The maître d’ looked quizzical, as if trying to understand his own behavior. But Felicia hadn’t quite finished with Gaston the maître d’, because then it came: THWACK! A big punch socked to the face, right between the eyes. Instantly, he collapsed onto the floor. Now, it might seem hard to believe that little Felicia’s delicate little paw could deliver an almost knockout punch to a human of that size. But perhaps she was still in the Majikat “zone.”

  Dragan and Magyar just watched, finding it hard not to admire this splendid cleanup operation by their Queen. Felicia held her ground a moment longer. She stared at the maître d’, even as he got back on his feet. Then she took a moment to look long and hard at the young couple, whose names were Zach and Niki. Her gaze was hypnotic, and well she knew it. When she blinked, Zach, Niki, and the maître d’ alike all felt dazed and confused, unsure about what they had just seen. That of course had been Felicia’s intention. She meowed again, softly this time, but with an edge of contempt, and ran away in the direction of Ribiski (Fish) Lane.

  The young couple were both struck dumb for a moment. But the black cat’s hypnosis was only partially successful: they knew something strange had just happened. Just as they were trying to process it all, the maître d’ was already back on his feet, flapping his hands in the air and apologizing profusely for:

  “This beastly interruption! Really it is unpardonable!”

  “What is really unpardonable is you, and the way you treat those poor cats!” said the young woman called Niki
. She was quite out of breath with astonishment and emotion. It is also fair to say she had quite strong views on such matters.

  “Would you care for any more coffee, Madame?” the maître d’ said by way of answer in the most insincerely sincere way imaginable.

  “No, thank you,” the young man named Zach answered for her, “just the bill please.”

  From the day it opened in 1714 and for three hundred years, the maître d’s at the Martin Kirpan Tavern had lived in a constant state of hostility with the wild cats of Piran. And all because the maître d’s were worried that the cats would destroy the “atmosphere and reputation of quality, service, and professionalism” they had “worked so hard to establish” for lo these many years.

  Who could really blame them?

  IF MAGYAR HAD KNOWN JUST HOW GOOD A TIME Beyza was having, he would have really been furious. Mind you, the evening before she had only just avoided some kind of hideous death dreamed up by Fisko, a teenage boy who saw all of life as a very fast and rather brutal video game.

  Fortuitously, Fisko’s older sister Ivana had been up and about in the villa when he arrived home with Thor slobbering at his side and Beyza wriggling in his backpack. She hadn’t been able to sleep, Ivana had said. She had come downstairs and found Fisko in the kitchen. She saw him wrestling the cuddly white cat, about to wring its poor neck. You see? Bullies and cats and strangulation—again! Anyway, upon seeing this, something inside of her snapped.

  Call it a sense of common decency, if you will. Or even if you won’t.

  “Fisko, don’t be so stupid. Look at him! He’s gorgeous.” Humans are notoriously poor at identifying cat gender, but Beyza, who was listening, didn’t mind if this nice young girl thought she was a he. As long as there was one human present who wanted to save her! Fisko had growled his response.

  “I’m not letting you have it. You’re the stupid one. Think you are the big boss around here because Mama and Papa are away. I do whatever I want.”

  “Okay, fine. Do what you want with the cat.”

  Beyza didn’t like the sound of this at all. She let out a perfectly understandable whimper.

  “But just know that I’m going to tell Katya and all her friends,” Ivana continued, “and they will all know you are a very sad and troubled boy.” At the very mention of this girl named Katya, the boy Fisko’s whole attitude, posture, and aspect switched down a few gears. Ivana continued on at him.

  “So, is this really what you want? For every single girl in town to think you are some kind of sick-o-path,” she said, meaning of course to say “psychopath.”

  The statement had been left hanging in the air for a few seconds, while poor little Beyza wriggled some more and prayed to the moon and the stars above for her deliverance.

  “C’mon Fisko, give me the kitten. I’ll take care of him.”

  “You are to tell Katya I gave you this—just so you can give to her.”

  “Oh, all right. Just give me the kitten, Fisko.”

  “I don’t think it is a kitten; she is fully grown. And it is a she, not a he. But, here, you can have her. For now, but you are to give this cat to Katya Marinovic!”

  “Yeah, whatever, Fisko. Go and play some stupid video game or something.”

  With a final show of stubborn reluctance, Fisko handed the adorable white Angora over to his sister and went sulkily to the garage, taking Thor the German Shepherd with him.

  BACK IN THE CRYPT AFTER THAT PERFORMANCE AT LUNCH, Dragan was relieved not to be censured for using his judgment and casting a Majikat spell. There were weeks to go before the new moon. The wild cats would certainly have to ration their use of Majikat until the next lunar cycle. More than three spells, they all believed, would unleash chaos: the delights of paradise, perhaps—but also the terrors of the damned.

  Felicia had the good sense to realize that a lecture wouldn’t do much good in the case of Magyar. Besides, they were all so very tired. So they did what cats do in such circumstances, when their bellies are full and it’s mid-afternoon. They found a quiet spot and fell into a deep sleep. Felicia dreamed that she was the captain of the pirate ship Fancy, with a crew made up solely of cats—the wild cats of Piran. Magyar dreamed of Beyza, of course, running across a wheat field on the Hungarian puszta. Dragan had a dream in which Martin Kirpan was brought back to life, wandered into the Martin Kirpan Tavern, and proceeded to tear the place apart—completely—using only his bare hands.

  You may not be aware of it, but the average cat sleeps around sixteen hours a day. As must be plain, the wild cats of Piran were never average in any way. But they slept around sixteen hours a day, anyway. (Everything else you read about here happens in the seven or eight hours a day when they are awake.) After such rich dreaming, all of the cats woke up and then ate some more—before going back to sleep again for a while. This time, however, it was a dreamless sleep. They were in a realm so dark, thick, and obscure that it defies description.

  Except of course to say: “Purrr​rrrrr​rrrrr​rrrrrr​zzzzz​zzzzz​zzzzz​zzzzz​zzzz.…”

  However, it would be well for readers of this chronicle to remember that if General Rat ever slept, it was with one eye open. So we’d best keep our eyes open, for we definitely have not seen the last of him.

  5

  Night Visions

  Dragan goes on a midnight stroll and is witness to not only an unbelievable scene but also language that makes his whiskers curl.

  It was late afternoon, and Felicia, Dragan, and Magyar had just had a long nap. When they awoke, they all had one thing in common. That is to say, they were all hungry. But deciding to avoid the restaurant promenade, they made their way to the home of a magnificent, stout Italian woman named Signora Fortuna. (This means “Lady Luck” in Italian, and that’s certainly how the cats all thought of her.)

  Sure enough, here she was at 47 Boniface Lane, and it was as if she had been waiting for them. This fine, generous woman was wearing a white frilly apron over a dress that would have already been out of fashion in the 1970s, and a pair of ancient but sturdy house slippers. As she swept her doorstep she sang the tune of a love song she’d learned as a young girl but whose words she’d later forgotten. Signora Fortuna seemed to be perpetually watering the plants and sweeping the mat on the terrace outside her home. Yet inside, the house must have been a hive of activity, too, for there were usually sheets and pillowcases hanging on her balcony; and, almost always, the smell of good cooking wafted from her kitchen. Her friendly manner aside, it was these delicious aromas that brought the wild cats of Piran back time and time again to her cozy little landing.

  “Buon giorno! (Good day!) Well if it isn’t my favorite little animals. I’ve got a nice fish stew I can let you have a little of today, if that sounds good, my dears.” All three cats nodded their heads in unison and licked their paws. Signora Fortuna smiled broadly, not seeing anything the least bit strange in the psychic connection she had with the feral cats of her hometown.

  Soon, an impromptu luncheon was served along with generous saucers of milk, all consumed in grateful silence by Felicia, Dragan, and Magyar. Each cat was thinking the same thing: how unpredictable these human beings could be! Why, they were almost as complicated as cats sometimes—cruel and barbaric like the teenage boy Fisko, or the maître d’ at the Kirpan Tavern. But then, just occasionally, how nice they could be too: like some of the young waiters at the Fontana Restaurant in Piran, who even fed them scraps, or dear old Signora Fortuna with her potluck lunches.

  It really was rather baffling.

  IT WAS WELL THEY HAD A GOOD MEAL, for several of the wild cats of Piran had a long night ahead of them. They were, you will doubtless agree, a pretty fearless sort of a crew, with the occasional exception of Magyar. The most obviously warlike of their number was Dragan, but that evening he too saw something that gave even him pause.

  The tough old Slovene Chartreux cat was tiptoeing clumsily along a cobblestone roof on his hind legs and feeling content with the entire world
, or at least the entire world of Piran. He was a cat in the night on a cool tile roof, feeling good about his place in the grand scheme of things, as we should all do from time to time.

  “Gaze at the winged lion!” He smiled to himself as he recalled the slogan Felicia had been chanting, just a few nights before, right before she had saved his life.

  “Gaze at the winged lion that grasps territories, seas, and stars.” Dragan said it softly to himself and to no other. He had to admit, it felt good, perhaps because all cats dream of flying, even if they won’t admit it out loud.

  All of a sudden, a strange sound carried on the night air brought him to a sudden stop. Careful not to make any noise, he bolted across the tiles onto the gutters. This was a better place from which to observe May 1 Piazza, or the “small piazza,” as it is also known. Down below him on the piazza was a most peculiar vision, and to Dragan, or any other cat, a most decidedly alarming one. The whole piazza, the entire square, was filled with—there is no other word for it—rats. Dozens and dozens of rats: does and bucks (female and male), brown rats and black rats, young rats, old rats, rats who were little larger than mice, and rats who were nearly as big as cats.

  They were lined up in ranks on the square, all facing a smaller group of rats that stood above them. These rats had hoisted themselves up onto the large, stone rainwater cistern and the two statues of cherubs that stand together on May 1 Piazza. There was something military about the entire arrangement.

  Mind you, they were all twitching and sniveling and sniffing like rats always do. And yet by rat standards, they were a disciplined body of troops. They were also a captive audience. Now so too was Dragan, as he listened in while the rat leader addressed the rat rabble. For there was a rat leader, that much was clear. He was a burly-looking specimen with an eye patch.

  What the rat leader—General Rat, of course—had to say was completely unintelligible, at least as far as Dragan was concerned. You see, like most cats, Dragan didn’t speak or understand a word of Rat. He had absolutely no interest in doing so, either. But whatever the irate leader was saying, plainly it was strong stuff; for in no time it whipped up the twitching mass of rodents into a fever. Together as one, the Rat Army began chanting a slogan. Whenever the General finished a particularly emotional passage of rat oratory, its troops called out it in unison.