MAGICATS!

by Gardner Dozoi

  I must confess to a certain amount of unhappiness in my early American years, torn as I was from the comforts of the estate and the wisdom of my father, the cat. But I became adapted, and even upon my graduation from the university, sought and held employment in a metropolitan art museum. It was there I met Joanna, the young woman I intended to make my bride.

  Joanna was a product of the great American southwest, the daughter of a cattle-raiser. There was a blooming vitality in her face and her body, a lustiness born of open skies and desert. Her hair was not the gold of antiquity; it was new gold, freshly mined from the black rock. Her eyes were not like old-world diamonds; their sparkle was that of sunlight on a cascading river. Her figure was bold, an open declaration of her sex.

  She was, perhaps, an unusual choice for the son of a fairylike mother and an Angora cat. But from the first meeting of our eyes, I knew that I would someday bring Joanna to my father's estate to present her as my fiancee.

  I approached that occasion with understandable trepidation. My father had been explicit in his advice before I departed for America, but on no point had be been more emphatic than secrecy concerning himself. He assured me that revelation of my paternity would bring ridicule and unhappiness upon me. The advice was sound, of course, and not even Joanna knew that our journey's end would bring us to the estate of a large, cultured, and conversing cat. I had deliberately fostered the impression that I was orphaned, believing that the proper place for revealing the truth was the atmosphere of my father's home in France. I was certain that Joanna would accept her father-in-law without distress. Indeed, hadn't nearly a score of human servants remained devoted to their feline master for almost a generation?

  We had agreed to be wed on the first of June, and on May the fourth, emplaned in New York for Paris. We were met at Orly Field by Francois, my father's solemn manservant, who had been delegated not so much as escort as he was chaperone, my father having retained much of the old world proprieties. It was a long trip by automobile to our estate in Brittany, and I must admit to a brooding silence throughout the drive which frankly puzzled Joanna.

  However, when the great stone fortress that was our home came within view, my fears and doubts were quickly dispelled. Joanna, like so many Americans, was thrilled at the aura of venerability and royal custom surrounding the estate. Francois placed her in the charge of Madame Jolinet, who clapped her plump old hands with delight at the sight of her fresh blonde beauty, and chattered and clucked like a mother hen as she led Joanna to her room on the second floor. As for myself, I had one immediate wish: to see my father, the cat.

  He greeted me in the library, where he had been anxiously awaiting our arrival, curled up in his favorite chair by the fireside, a wide-mouthed goblet of cognac by his side. As I entered the room, he lifted a paw formally, but then his reserve was dissolved by the emotion of our reunion, and he licked my face in unashamed joy.

  Francois refreshed his glass, and poured another for me, and we toasted each other's well-being.

  "To you, mon purr," I said, using the affectionate name of my childhood memory.

  "To Joanna," my father said. He smacked his lips over the cognac, and wiped his whiskers gravely. "And where is this paragon?"

  "With Madame Jolinet. She will be down shortly."

  "And you have told her everything?"

  I blushed. "No, mon purr, I have not. I thought it best to wait until we were home. She is a wonderful woman," I added impulsively. "She will not be—"

  "Horrified?" my father said. "What makes you so certain, my son?"

  "Because she is a woman of great heart," I said stoutly. "She was educated at a fine college for women in Eastern America. Her ancestors were rugged people, given to legend and folklore. She is a warm, human person—"

  "Human," my father sighed, and his tail swished. "You are expecting too much of your beloved, Etienne. Even a woman of the finest character may be dismayed in this situation."

  "But my mother—"

  "Your mother was an exception, a changeling of the Fairies. You must not look for your mother's soul in Joanna's eyes." He jumped from his chair, and came towards me, resting his paw upon my knee. "I am glad you have not spoken of me, Etienne. Now you must keep your silence forever."

  I was shocked. I reached down and touched my father's silky fur, saddened by the look of his age in his gray, gold-flecked eyes, and by the tinge of yellow in his white coat.

  "No, mon purr," I said. "Joanna must know the truth. Joanna must know how proud I am to be the son of Edwarde Dauphin."

  "Then you will lose her."

  "Never! That cannot happen!"

  My father walked stiffly to the fireplace, staring into the gray ashes. "Ring for Francois," he said. "Let him build the fire. I am cold, Etienne."

  I walked to the cord and pulled it. My father turned to me and said: "You must wait, my son. At dinner this evening, perhaps. Do not speak of me until then."

  "Very well, father."

  When I left the library, I encountered Joanna at the head of the stairway, and she spoke to me excitedly.

  "Oh, Etienne! What a beautiful old house. I know I will love it! May we see the rest?"

  "Of course," I said.

  "You look troubled. Is something wrong?"

  "No, no. I was thinking how lovely you are."

  We embraced, and her warm full body against mine confirmed my conviction that we should never be parted. She put her arm in mine, and we strolled through the great rooms of the house. She was ecstatic at their size and elegance, exclaiming over the carpeting, the gnarled furniture, the ancient silver and pewter, the gallery of family paintings. When she came upon an early portrait of my mother, her eyes misted.

  "She was lovely," Joanna said. "Like a princess! And what of your father? Is there no portrait of him?"

  "No," I said hurriedly. "No portrait." I had spoken my first lie to Joanna, for there was a painting, half-completed, which my mother had begun in the last year of her life. It was a whispering little watercolor, and Joanna discovered it to my consternation.

  "What a magnificent cat!" she said. "Was it a pet?"

  "It is Dauphin," I said nervously.

  She laughed. "He has your eyes, Etienne."

  "Joanne, I must tell you something—"

  "And this ferocious gentleman with the moustaches? Who is he?"

  "My grandfather. Joanna, you must listen—"

  Francois, who had been following our inspection tour at shadow's-length, interrupted. I suspected that his timing was no mere coincidence.

  "We will be serving dinner at seven-thirty," he said. "If the lady would care to dress—''

  "Of course," Joanna said. "Will you excuse me, Etienne?"

  I bowed to her, and she was gone.

  At fifteen minutes to the appointed dining time, I was ready, and hastened below to talk once more with my father. He was in the dining room, instructing the servants as to the placement of the silver and accessories. My father was proud of the excellence of his table, and took all his meals in the splendid manner. His appreciation of food and wine was unsurpassed in my experience, and it had always been the greatest of pleasures for me to watch him at table, stalking across the damask and dipping delicately into the silver dishes prepared for him. He pretended to be too busy with his dinner preparations to engage me in conversation, but I insisted.

  "I must talk to you," I said. "We must decide together how to do this."

  "It will not be easy," he answered with a twinkle. "Consider Joanna's view. A cat as large and as old as myself is cause enough for comment. A cat that speaks is alarming. A cat that dines at table with the household is shocking. And a cat whom you must introduce as your—"

  "Stop it!" I cried. "Joanna must know the truth. You must help me reveal it to her."

  "Then you will not heed my advice?"

  "In all things but this. Our marriage can never be happy unless she accepts you for what you are."

  "And if there is no marria
ge?"

  I would not admit to this possibility. Joanna was mine; nothing could alter that. The look of pain and bewilderment in my eyes must have been evident to my father, for he touched my arm gently with his paw and said:

  "I will help you, Etienne. You must give me your trust."

  "Always!"

  "Then come to dinner with Joanna and explain nothing. Wait for me to appear."

  I grasped his paw and raised it to my lips. "Thank you, father!"

  He turned to Francois, and snapped: "You have my instructions?"

  "Yes, sir," the servant replied.

  "Then all is ready. I shall return to my room now, Etienne. You may bring your fiancee to dine."

  I hastened up the stairway, and found Joanna ready, strikingly beautiful in shimmering white satin. Together, we descended the grand staircase and entered the room.

  Her eyes shone at the magnificence of the service set upon the table, at the soldiery array of fine wines, some of them already poured into their proper glasses for my father's enjoyment: Haut Medoc, from St. Estephe, authentic Chablis, Epernay Champagne, and an American import from the Napa Valley of which he was fond. I waited expectantly for his appearance as we sipped our aperitif, while Joanna chatted about innocuous matters, with no idea of the tormented state I was in.

  At eight o'clock, my father had not yet made his appearance, and I grew ever more distraught as Francois signalled for the serving of the bouillon au madere. Had he changed his mind? Would I be left to explain my status without his help? I hadn't realized until this moment how difficult a task I had allotted for myself, and the fear of losing Joanna was terrible within me. The soup was flat and tasteless on my tongue, and the misery in my manner was too apparent for Joanna to miss.

  "What is it, Etienne?" she said. "You've been so morose all day. Can't you tell me what's wrong?"

  "No, it's nothing. It's just—" I let the impulse take possession of my speech. "Joanna, there's something I should tell you. About my mother, and my father—"

  "Ahem," Francois said.

  He turned to the doorway, and our glances followed his.

  "Oh, Etienne!" Joanna cried, in a voice ringing with delight.

  It was my father, the cat, watching us with his gray, gold-flecked eyes. He approached the dining table, regarding Joanna with timidity and caution.

  "It's the cat in the painting!" Joanna said. "You didn't tell me he was here, Etienne. He's beautiful!"

  "Joanna, this is—"

  "Dauphin! I would have known him anywhere. Here, Dauphin! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!"

  Slowly, my father approached her outstretched hand, and allowed her to scratch the thick fur on the back of his neck.

  "Aren't you the pretty little pussy! Aren't you the sweetest little thing!"

  "Joanna!"

  She lifted my father by the haunches, and held him in her lap, stroking his fur and cooing the silly little words that women address to their pets. The sight pained and confused me, and I sought to find an opening word that would allow me to explain, yet hoping all the time that my father would himself provide the answer.

  Then my father spoke.

  "Meow," he said.

  "Are you hungry?" Joanna asked solicitously. "Is the little pussy hungry?"

  "Meow," my father said, and I believed my heart broke then and there. He leaped from her lap and padded across the room. I watched him through blurred eyes as he followed Francois to the corner, where the servant had placed a shallow bowl of milk. He lapped at it eagerly, until the last white drop was gone. Then he yawned and stretched, and trotted back to the doorway, with one fleeting glance in my direction that spoke articulately of what I must do next.

  "What a wonderful animal," Joanna said.

  "Yes," I answered. "He was my mother's favorite."

  The Cat Man

  By Byron Liggett

  You may occasionally have met one of those people—usually old, usually living alone—who keep lots of cats. And we mean lots—six, seven, eight, nine, maybe even dozens of cats. And if you talk to such a person, especially if you dare to hint (oh, so gently!) that perhaps this is just too much of a good thing, then he or she is quite likely to smile at you and say something like: "Oh, there's no such thing as too many cats!"

  Obviously, they have never read the chilling and absolutely riveting story that follows. . . .

  Its real name is Tao Atoll, and it still carries that name on some maps. But after the Cat Man came to the Tuamotus, people started calling it "Cat Island," and it has been known by that name ever since.

  Cat Island is a crescent-shaped little atoll that lies about seventy miles north-west of Puka-Puka. As far back as anyone can remember, it has been taboo to the native Polynesians. They wouldn't go near it for all the money in the world. I don't know what native superstition put the original hex on it, but everyone knows why it is taboo today. No one—white or Polynesian—visits it now; they wouldn't dare.

  I'll never forget the first day I met the Cat Man. Between the World Wars, I was making an easy living running a mail boat among the islands. The mail contract didn't pay much, but I gathered in a nice percentage hauling supplies and picking up a charter job now and then. I was sitting in the Chinaman's at Papeete having my usual, when a native cabbie brought this little gent in to see me.

  I liked him the first time I saw him. He was a small, dried-up little fellow, past fifty, I'd say. He had pale blue eyes and a magnificent head of white hair. He was dressed in a grey linen suit and carried a cane which drew attention to his slight rheumatic limp. He had a kind, intelligent face.

  The cabbie pointed me out to him and he shuffled over to my table. He seemed relieved to have found me.

  "I understand you are Captain Rogers?" he asked.

  "That's right," I said and stood up. "What can I do for you?"

  The little guy took the empty chair I waved him to. He folded both hands over his cane and looked at me with an intense, serious expression.

  "I'm told you have a boat I might charter."

  His manner and the cut of his clothes made me smell money. Instinctively, I began juggling for a bargaining position.

  "I have a sloop, sir," I admitted, "but I also have other obligations at present. Just what did you have in mind?"

  He must have recognized my pitch, because he didn't seem the least disappointed.

  "My name is Foster, Captain," he said, "Gerald W. Foster." He paused, as though waiting for me to recognize the name. When I didn't, he continued, "I'm a writer. I want to charter your boat to take me to Tao Atoll."

  "Tao Atoll?" I blurted out. "What in the world do you want to go there for? There's nothing there but palm trees and rats!"

  The man was undeterred. "Well, you see, Captain, I've just bought the island and—"

  "Bought it?" I said, incredulously.

  The little fellow began to get irritated, and I suddenly realized I was stepping on his dream.

  "Captain, I didn't seek you out to ask your advice on the matter. I've purchased a twenty-five year lease on the island from the local government, and I intend to live there the rest of my life. I assure you, I've investigated the project thoroughly."

  With that I had him pegged. I'd seen others like him come to French Oceania with that same gleam in their eyes. Some of them came to write, some to paint, and some just came in an effort to escape from themselves. Soif des îles—thirst for the islands—is the phrase the French have for it.

  The little gent went on to explain that he wanted my sloop to haul him to the island and set him up. He wanted me to carry all his supplies, some building materials, and a couple of local carpenters to build him a cabin. He unfolded his plans with the confidence of a man who had planned his project well and who knew exactly what he wanted.

  He didn't seem the slightest concerned about expenses. So, when we got down to the financial end of the deal, I quoted him a haggling price one-third over the one I had hoped to get. He staggered me again when he whipped
out his chequebook and made out the full amount in advance payment. Like I said, I knew I would like the Cat Man the first time I laid eyes on him!

  I had five days in port before I had to start my next mail run to the islands. The natives Mr. Foster had hired began loading my boat the next day. He must have spent a fortune for the materials and supplies they were loading on my sloop.

  I lined up a couple of Chinese carpenters for the trip, and they beat a stiff price out of me. I could've got native help for a quarter of the price but none of the natives would tackle the tabooed atoll. The Chinks knew that, too, and were out to make a killing. What did I care? After all, it was his money I was spending. This was a cost-plus deal, so far as I was concerned.

  I was supervising the stowing of his gear when Foster himself brought the cats aboard. They were just ordinary-looking cats, and he carried them in two net bags slung over his arms.

  "What are those things for, Mr. Foster?" I asked.

  He smiled. "They are my pets, Captain. They'll keep me company in my exile. They could prove useful, too. You said yourself there were lots of rats on Tao."

  I shrugged. His answers made a lot of sense, if you happened to like cats, but I don't care for the damned beasts. I looked them over when he dropped them to the deck.

  "Some of them look like females," I remarked.

  The Cat Man nodded and smiled. "Yes, Captain," he said. "I'm taking four females and two toms. I expect I'll have a nice crop of kittens before long. Don't you think kittens are cute?"

  "Guess they are, if you like 'em. You're liable to get more kittens than you bargained for," I added more prophetically than I realized.

  The weather was nice and our trip through the islands was a smooth one. The two Chinese carpenters slept on the deck. The old man spent most of his time feeding and playing with his cats, which were given the run of the ship after we left port.