A proclamation was spiked on the door of each looted church.
Venetians, your so-called history
and your so-called faith
have gone out with the tide.
This town shall henceforward be called
by its true name: LUPRIO.
The kind, quiet men of the Company of Christ and the Good Death read the words with startled eyes.
‘Luprio?’ said one of them. ‘It sounds like something to do with wolves.’
on a different stretch of the Grand Canal,
at about the same time
‘WHAT ARE ALL these bony bits in the water tonight?’
The woman leant over the edge of her sandolo, raking her hooked pole through the shattered saintly tibulas and fibulas until she snagged the sack that floated among them.
‘Tsk tsk tsk. More pretties left to drown! This town has no heart, no heart at all.’
Although she was more than seventy years old, the woman deftly drew the Farina Fellina sack towards her with a strong and practised hand.
‘More than one in here, I believe. Not moving, not moving at all. ’Tis dead and gone that they are, the poor pretties,’ she muttered. ‘No heart, no heart. Every night the same. The poor beasts murdered without a thought. And if they don’t drown them in sacks, they leave them out in the streets to starve. Or freeze to death. Or get taken.’
She lifted the sack into the boat. Tutting, she slit the double knot with a fish-gutting knife she drew from her belt. Two lifeless cats tumbled out, joining the half-dozen feline corpses already lying on the damp floor of the sandolo.
The old woman looked sharply at the small tabby and the large black cat.
‘Not in the water long, I’d judge. Mayhap only minutes. Mayhap there’s hope.’ And she picked up the tabby, laid it on the bench beside her, bent over, opened its slack little jaws, and breathed into its mouth, gently pumping its chest with her fists.
She was rewarded with a voluminous sneeze straight into her face.
‘I thought so, thought so indeed, little pretty! You’ll be living another day. Now what about your beautiful friend?’
A minute later Drusilla was also spluttering and spitting salt water.
Ostello delle Gattemiagole
The sign above the door in the Rio Terra Farsetti was painted in untidy blue letters on a plank of pine.
The woman paused underneath. She was dragging the sack of dead cats behind her, cradling Drusilla and Talina in her other arm. They were too weak and dazed to protest, or even to exchange a miaow.
The woman lowered them gently to the ground and produced a large black key from her pocket. The stone was cold under their paws. As the woman opened the door of the Ostello delle Gattemiagole, a smell of cat urine rushed out, sharp as a knife in Talina’s nose.
Although she was a cat now, the smell was horrible to her. Even Drusilla flinched. She mentioned, ‘Of course a cat’s sense of smell is twelve times better than a human’s. Sometimes this is not an advantage.’
The woman appeared not to notice the stink. She stroked Talina’s damp head, saying, ‘There, my pretty ones, in you go.’
Drusilla mewed, ‘I’ve heard about this place. Not good things.’
‘What choice do we have?’ Talina shivered.
The woman shooed them in, closing the door behind them. She busied herself with lighting a pair of gas-lamps and adding coal to the embers of a cosy fire.
The soft yellow glow of the lamps revealed at least three dozen pairs of green, orange and yellow eyes staring unblinking from corners, platforms and a sagging bed. An elegant white cat detached herself from the shadows and walked languidly towards the newcomers.
Drusilla whispered, ‘Oh no, that’s the Contessa! The word on the street is that she runs all kinds of scams and she’s got some ripe old bully-boys working for her.’
As Drusilla spoke, two knock-kneed tom-cats swaggered off their mouldy cushions and stood behind the Contessa. To Talina’s new way of seeing, the red rims of the bully-boys’ eyes were simply black, and simply terrifying.
‘That’s right, that’s right,’ said the woman, who was ladling fish-heads and vegetable peelings from a barrel into troughs on the ground. ‘Welcome the new ones. Show them the ropes.’
‘Welcome’ did not quite describe the expression in the slanted eyes of the Contessa or the battered faces of her retainers.
‘You ’eard wot da missis sayed,’ miaowed one of the toms, a big ginger. ‘You’s one of us now, see, and you’s gotta know da rules.’
‘Da rules! Da rules!’ agreed a grey cat with orange eyes, fawningly. ‘Dat Albicocco, he speak da troof!’
‘Yer not wrong, Bestard-Belou,’ replied Albicocco. ‘And da rules is, “what she sez goes”, all right?’ The ginger pointed his tail at the Contessa, who apparently felt it unnecessary to utter a word.
‘Why?’ asked Talina, despite Drusilla’s discreet nip to her tail.
‘Cos dis is wot ’appens when ye don’t do what she sez,’ Bestard-Belou demonstrated a clout in the air with his ragged paw. ‘Dog-bite-my-ear! Is yew stoopid or something?’
The woman saw none of this. She was already leaving, a spade tucked under her arm and the sack of drowned cats bumping along behind her.
‘Play nice, my pretties,’ she urged, as she shut the door. ‘And remember to groom. There’s a family of humans,’ – she snarled the word ‘humans’ – ‘coming tomorrow, in need of a nice cat.’
‘A noice cat! Heh heh heh!’ sneered Bestard-Belou.
The door slammed and the key turned in the lock.
A young black-and-white cat approached timidly, nudging Talina with his nose. ‘This way,’ he said, in a friendly voice, showing Talina and Drusilla to a cardboard box in a corner. ‘Don’t sit there annoying the Contessa and her boys. Not healthy for you, that. I’m Brolo. Whom do I have the pleasure of … ? And how did you end up here?’
‘How did you?’ asked Talina.
The black-and-white’s eyes moistened. ‘My dear mistress grew sick. I stayed with her till the last, even when she was too ill to find food for me, or herself. No more boned turkey, pâté or Charlotte Russe, my particular favourite – just water and tinned sardines for months on end. Eventually,’ he sobbed, ‘my darling mistress succumbed to a sardine bone stuck in her throat. I followed the funeral cortège to the church. When I came home, the doors were bolted and there was a “For Sale” sign on the house. Her family didn’t want me. Or at least they didn’t want to feed me. So they left me on the streets to be eaten by those … beasts that howl in the night. Fortunately Signorina Tiozzo found me first. Now, how did you two come to be floating down the Grand Canal in a sack? Bad luck or what?’
In whispers, Talina and Drusilla told him.
Brolo’s sympathy enfolded them like a cashmere blanket. ‘Dogs, eh? Wicked Guardian, eh? A cat-hater? Mixed-up magic? What a down-in-the-dumper! Well, let me tell you how things are around here. Oh! Well, well, look at that rat on the window-sill. They’re such eavesdroppers, those creatures. Shoo!’ he called. ‘There’s cats in here who wouldn’t scruple to eat you raw, you know.’
Bestard-Belou and Albicocco were already creeping up to the sill. Albicocco slavered, ‘What looxury! A rat wot serves hisself fresh! Butter upon bacon! I got the hungries on me summat fierce tonight.’
The rat hesitated and then slipped out of sight. Brolo continued with his story.
Signorina Tiozzo loved cats and despised people, Brolo told them, while he generously groomed their wet fur and shared a piece of liver with Drusilla. Talina gnawed hungrily on a withered Brussels sprout, a vegetable which, in better circumstances, she despised.
‘But Signorina Tiozzo loves us in an “I-know-what’s-good-for-you” sort of way,’ Brolo explained. ‘She doesn’t hold with cuddling or indulging us. She provides this magazzino for us to live in. She had a man build those shelves up there so we’d have somewhere to go when the high water comes in. She keeps a fire for us
when it’s cold. And she trawls the Rialto market for fish-heads and bits of veg. And begs liver and kidneys from the butchers. Heart of gold, she’s got!’
Every night, Brolo explained, Signorina Tiozzo went out in her boat, looking for drowned or drowning cats. To the ones who had not survived, she gave a decent burial among the most beautiful flowers in the Botanical Gardens at San Giobbe.
‘What was she saying about the humans tomorrow?’ asked Talina.
‘Anyone in Venice who wants a cat can come to the Ostello delle Gattemiagole and choose one of us. You’ll see how it works in the morning. Look, you’re dry now. Let’s get some beauty sleep. It might be our lucky day tomorrow.’
Drusilla nodded, settling down to her accustomed sleeping position, which resembled a roast chicken. Brolo lay on Drusilla’s left side; Talina settled against her right. In moments, both Drusilla and Brolo were asleep. But Talina lay awake, re-living all the panic and fear she’d not had time to feel properly since she turned into a cat.
‘How utterly foolish I was,’ she lamented, ‘to mix the spell and the recipe! But more to the point, why did Great Uncle Uberto decide to drown us? The brute!’
The snoring of cats filled the air. Drusilla vibrated gently beside her. Talina fought a desire to jab her in the ribs. She wondered, ‘How can she sleep? Doesn’t she realize what trouble we’re in?’
She reminded herself, ‘Well, I guess Drusilla is used to being a cat. And napping most of the time.’
Talina thought she would never get to sleep in that cold, stinking place. Normally, she could never fall asleep without reading first. Even in her bookbed in the tower, even lulled by the sleepy chirruping of sparrows, she could not sleep without first reading until her eyelids drooped.
‘Can I still read now that I’m a cat?’ she wondered. ‘Can I write? Can I hold a pencil, even? How can I become a girl again? Mamma and Papà,’ she broke into a sob, ‘used to say I was a naughty kitten.’
Sad and frightened thoughts chased each other round in circles until she felt dizzy and exhausted. But the warmth of Drusilla’s body was soothing, and so was Brolo’s deep breathing.
The next thing Talina knew, spring sunlight was warming the cardboard box, Drusilla was licking her vigorously, and Brolo was urging, ‘That’s it, look your best, both of you. The humans have arrived. They have children too. Hurry! You want to get to the litter tray before the bully-boys. Oh, too late. Look at them!’
The evil looks of the big ginger cat had dissolved into sweetness. Bestard-Belou had shed his tough expression, rounded his eyes, fluffed up his fur. With their heads slightly on one side, the bully-boys were licking their paws and running them over their ears and giving winsome little purrs, soft as a mother’s kiss.
Brolo whispered, ‘Humans think that’s ever so endearing.’
Signorina Tiozzo bustled in, urging, ‘Come in, do, and see my pretties! In desperate need of love, they are.’ In a quieter voice, she mumbled, ‘I wonder, are you people capable?’
From their cardboard box, Talina and Drusilla could see four pairs of shoes, all of different sizes. The shoes were expensive, polished to a shine. A father, a mother, a boy and a girl, Talina guessed. Looking at their feet, she put the children at around her own age – in human years anyway. Cat years were faster, of course, she remembered.
‘Look at them fancy cloves wot dey’s wearing,’ laughed Albicocco, ‘velvet-trimmed coats ’n’ all. That’s silk and linen damask with watered ground on da woman. Dey’s in the money. I bet dere’s veal and sausages and all sorts at dere ’ouse.’
‘Eugh!’ squealed the little girl. ‘What an utterly repulsive smell. I really cannot be expected to bear it without sickening and dying on the spot.’
‘Wash yer mouth – we is spotlessly clean, girlie,’ growled Albicocco.
‘Clarissa, we’ll give you a dose of Manitoba Gargling Oil when we get home,’ soothed the mother.
Talina, with a good view of the girl’s petticoats, saw that everything was ribboned, ruched and starched. She was momentarily grateful for the comfortable simplicity of her fur.
‘Hold your nose, darling,’ advised the girl’s papà. His voice softened, ‘Look at the dear little fellows!’
Both bully-boys were practically turning themselves inside out with enthusiastic purring. The father leant over to stroke them and the newspaper fell from under his arm. Talina looked at the headline.
‘I can read!’ she thought with relief. But her joy was quickly dampened as she scanned the story about the smashed saints and the strange proclamation about Venice being renamed ‘Luprio’.
The girl Clarissa whimpered, ‘Mamma, you promised me a kitten. I don’t want these big grown-up dirty cats.’
For a second, Albicocco’s face slipped into its habitual sneer. He looked as if he was about to take a bite out of Clarissa’s ankle, which was perilously close to his jaws. But he remembered himself and began to rub up against the skirt of the human mother. The Contessa stretched herself languorously in front of the father. Then she turned her back and looked at him over her shoulder.
‘She winked, the flirt!’ noticed Talina. The father bent to stroke the Contessa’s immaculate white fur.
‘Aren’t there any kittens?’ whined Clarissa. ‘I’m sure kittens don’t reek like these old cats. Peugh, peugh and peugh!’ She fanned herself with her hand.
‘I’ll have that hand off at the wrist, girlie,’ snarled Bestard-Belou.
‘These cats don’t even look very friendly,’ said the mother, holding her skirts daintily off the flagstones. ‘Perhaps we should go to the pet shop at San Luca after all. I heard they have some dear little Persian kittens in.’
‘Dear they shall cost too,’ observed her husband.
Signorina Tiozzo grunted with disgust.
The girl’s brother said, ‘But these cats need a home much more than some spoilt pedigree kitten.’
With a start, Talina thought, ‘Oh my! I think I know that voice!’
‘Oh, just stop talking!’ Clarissa squealed at her brother. ‘We all know you can talk the hind leg off a donkey!’
The cats of the Ostello delle Gattemiagole united in pleading purring. Several rolled over on their backs and showed their bellies, invitingly. Bestard-Belou miaowed and winked, ‘A dear little boy and girl! I likes a little girl to sit on, if she has a plump lap and the key to the larder, both.’
But the little girl pointed at Bestard-Belou. ‘And that one is plainly mad. Winking and twitching like that!’
Brolo stood on his back legs and begged like a dog. ‘Me?’ he miaowed, ‘Me? Me?’
The boy knelt to caress Brolo’s head. Talina, crouching in the box, caught sight of the boy’s face through a cascade of brown curls parted strictly in the middle of a high, pale forehead. A pair of round spectacles balanced precariously on his lightly freckled nose.
‘I knew it!’ thought Talina. ‘Even though he looks a funny colour, that’s definitely Ambrogio Gasperin.’
She whispered to Drusilla, ‘He’s in my class at school. He’s very clever, even though he’s a bit odd sometimes. Argues like you wouldn’t believe. Perhaps I can make him understand … ?’
Ignoring Drusilla’s doubtful look, Talina crept out of the box. But the human family had already stepped back into the street. She could hear them sighing loudly with relief in the fresh air. As Talina reached the door, she was sent flying by the boy rushing back in. He pressed a coin into Signorina Tiozzo’s grimy hand. ‘To help feed the poor cats,’ he said. ‘It’s all I’ve got. But I’ll come back, I promise, and I’ll bring some more.’
‘Ambrogio!’ called his mamma. ‘Come here at once! We are to take luncheon at the Cappello Nero. I don’t want them thinking you don’t wash.’
‘You’d better be off, young sir,’ said Signorina Tiozzo. ‘Bless you for your good heart.’
As Ambrogio hurtled out, he stopped for one second to caress Talina’s head.
‘It’s me! Talina! From Mademoi
selle Chouette’s class,’ she cried, but all that emerged from her mouth was a desperate miaow.
Signorina Tiozzo closed the door with a curdled expression. ‘That family no more deserves that kind young gentleman than Venice deserves you, my pretties.’
Talina leapt to the window ledge – ‘I could never jump like that as a human!’ she thought – and gazed after Ambrogio. He turned back and waved, mouthing the words, ‘I promise!’
She smiled and nodded back. She believed him. She trusted him. Her whole body vibrated with hope and pleasure.
‘I’m purring,’ she realized.
‘There’s a rat arrived for you, Talina,’ Brolo announced in a whisper. ‘He’s badly hurt.’
It was after midnight. Drusilla and Talina were half-dozing in the box, paws and tails entwined. A triangle of moonlight fell on the floor of the Ostello delle Gattemiagole. In the window, the silhouette of a large rat twitched. Where the moonlight touched it, the rat’s fur was visibly slicked down with water and blood.
‘Poor chap,’ Brolo whispered, ‘he’s almost done for. Bad luck or what? You’d better see what he wants, quick-like, Talina. The other cats have noticed.’
Talina was wide awake now. ‘Why would a rat want me?’
Even as she spoke, Bestard-Belou had snatched the rat in his jaws. Through his full mouth, he mumbled, ‘I likes a rat, ye know. I likes a little bit o bone to crunch. I doan hold wid that soft pap da missis give us. I am fond of a pigeon too, if ’tis fat and bony both.’
Albicocco cuffed the rat out of his friend’s mouth, ‘Yer mistaking me for someone who cares ’bout what yew puts down yer ugly froat, Bestardo.’
The rat lay on its back on the reeking flagstones. Three dozen cats drew around it in a tight circle. It opened its eyes, and spoke perfect Felish in an educated tone. ‘Before you eat me, gentle cats, do me the honour of hearing my story.’
‘Do yew see any gentle cats ’ere?’ Albicocco asked.
‘Not a one,’ growled Bestard-Belou.
Talina in the Tower Page 4
