James the Conniosseur Cat

by Harriet Hahn

  In the next paragraph there was considerable praise for the director and his imaginative production, and Shep boomed his delight so that all the customers in Frank’s gave us interested stares.

  At seven we were all assembled, including Mrs. March and Peter Hightower. James was now adept at arranging the seating, and had made sure Lord Henry and Helena were next to each other on the big sofa. Shep had to be content with the biggest easy chair.

  “Puss in Boots” read the title on the TV screen, and then appeared the grinning face of our James. The James on the screen slowly winked a conspiratorial eye, and James himself winked back.

  Without doubt, James was in the same class as all the great hams of history. Though he had no voice, his pantomime was unique. The rest of the cast became a backdrop against which James played. When he was not on the screen the pace dropped, but Shep had wisely kept these moments to a minimum, and at the end of the half-hour performance, our group was weak with laughter. James had thrown manners away and was clawing Shep’s denim shirt and howling.

  As we watched, a star was born.

  “James,” Mrs. March said sternly, “you are caterwauling!”

  James stopped short, in mid-caterwaul.

  “It is time for us to go,” said Mrs. March.

  James maneuvered himself off Shep’s chest with considerable dignity, bowed to us all, and strode to the door.

  “Cheerio, old star cat!” called Shep.

  James inclined his head, lifted a paw and placed it before his mouth to indicate silence, then graciously saluted us all and strode off after Mrs. March.

  CHAPTER 9

  The excitement died down. Things went back to normal. Cat lovers wrote letters to James, which were read to him to his delight, but soon other personalities came along, and his star faded. Shep, who was planning any number of cat features, found funding hard to get, and negotiations took some time, so “Dick Whittington’s Cat” was still in what he called “pre-production.”

  Among the letters James received was one from Miss de la Rue. She congratulated him for his performance in “Puss in Boots,” but suggested:

  “I hope, dear James, that while you are indeed a most successful performer under Shep’s direction, you would one day consider playing a part worthy of your real talents. You ought to consider Bastet. It would be a great challenge.”

  We read this letter one evening when Lord Henry, Shep, Helena, and Peter Hightower were all assembled.

  “Who is this Bastet?” asked Shep, scenting another possible show.

  “Bastet was a cat god of the Egyptians,” said Peter Hightower, who knows almost everything.

  James plopped down on the coffee table, lapped a little Laphroaig, and looked off into the distance, his mind full of the possibilities of godhood.

  Before long, Shep took Helena off for dinner. Lord Henry watched them go wistfully, and then he, Peter Hightower, James, and I all went to Frank’s. All through dinner, James was abstracted, and as soon as we returned, he headed upstairs before Mrs. March came for him. In fact, he did not even announce his return to Mrs. March, so she came to my door looking for him, and she and I spend a futile half hour going from flat to flat. At last, completely mystified, we both returned to her office to find James curled up on the desk.

  The next day he persuaded me to read Miss de la Rue’s letter again. After I finished, he still looked somewhat puzzled.

  “Do you know what a god is?” I asked. It was a stab in the dark, but I was getting pretty good at reading James’s mind.

  James shook his head uncertainly, as if to say, “Not really.”

  “Well, particularly with ancient people, gods were personifications of the forces that controlled the world. They had power and were regarded with awe and adoration,” I said as a start.

  James smiled a little.

  “A god generally had a small or large temple and was treated with great honor. Gods were supposed to control the lives of people and be able to make things happen. People still believe in various gods throughout the world. None believe in a cat god at the moment, however, that I know of. The ancient Egyptians had lots and lots of gods, some with the heads of jackals, some with the heads of birds, and they did indeed regard cats as gods. They even mummified some cats.”

  James looked unhappy at the idea of being mummified.

  “It’s a fine old notion, but of course cats are not gods.”

  James gave me a very severe look, and I found myself saying, “At least I don’t think so. What can I do for you, sir?” I added.

  Suddenly I had an inspiration. “Do you want to see a cat god?”

  James beamed.

  The very next day we went to the Egyptian section of the British Museum. After doing a stint in the reading room, we went outside and sat on the steps and ate sandwiches, and then I stuffed James in the carrying bag and went up to the Egyptian section. I showed James some pages from the Book of the Dead that had small cats in them, and some sculptures of cats. At the end of the trip we stopped off in the museum store, where we found a reproduction of a black stone Egyptian cat with gold rings in its ears.

  James banged my leg until I bought the little sculpture.

  We took it home and put it on the shelf next to the Staffordshire cat Lord Henry had given us some time ago.

  James was developing a new expression, one of meditation in which it appeared his mind was far, far away. He was not asleep, just concerned with cosmic problems.

  After a while he began to pat the earring. Then he patted his own ear and gave me a sharp poke.

  “James, I can’t get you an earring. In the first place, you would have to have your ear pierced.”

  James’s eyes grew big.

  “Yes, a vet would have to poke a small hole in your ear to put the ring through.”

  James shook his head; that did not appeal to him. But two days later, when Helena came by wearing gold hoop earrings, James investigated, discovered these were held on by clips, and made Helena try one on him.

  The effect was splendid. James did his “god” look. He sat like the Egyptian cat and twitched his head slightly and the ring swung back and forth.

  He shook his head and the earring fell off.

  He rubbed his ear. It hurt where the clip had pinched it. “I’m going to have my ears pierced next week,” said Helena. “Want to come and have it done at the same time?”

  James thought this over and finally nodded slowly.

  “Good,” said Helena. “I’ll check it out with Mrs. March, but since I’ll pay for it I’m sure she won’t mind.”

  The following week, James, in his carrying bag, and Helena, in a new green suit, went to the doctor’s and each had an ear-piercing job. James was not content with one, and had both done and came home with two studs, one in each ear. Helena said he was stoic and did not squeal once. I noticed he drank a little more than usual that evening, however.

  That same evening, as Helena sat with James on her lap, she said “Shep is really a darling fellow, isn’t he?” James nodded enthusiastically.

  “He is very talented at what he does.”

  James agreed.

  “He is full of fun and ideas, isn’t he?”

  We all agreed.

  “Should I marry him? He’s asked me.”

  James leaped off her lap as though she had pinched him, sat in his godlike pose on the coffee table, stared at her with a stern and glowering look, and slowly shook his head. Then, to be sure she understood, he returned to her lap, patted her sharply to gain her attention, and vigorously shook his head. Emphatically no!

  “Right you are!” Helena laughed. And when Shep, bounding ahead, and Lord Henry, following diffidently, both appeared to take her to dinner, she turned them both down, saying only, “I thank you both for the invitations, but I shall spend tonight by myself.” Then she went on her way alone.

  Shep and Lord Henry looked at one another, a certain reserve between them.

  Suddenly James turned
playful. He pranced around, grinned at us all, cocked his head so we could all admire his ear studs, and at last, laughing together, we all decided to go to Frank’s for dinner. It was a spirited evening. James teased the waitress, performed tricks for the other patrons, and generally extended himself to be amusing. At the end of the evening he attacked the bowl of chrysanthemums on our table. Taking a flower at a time in his mouth, he distributed one to each of the remaining customers. At last we trooped back to Baron’s and went our separate ways.

  James was now absolutely committed to godhood. First he must get some proper earrings. It was a weekend, and in the yard of St. James Church a market had been set up. I put James in the bag and off we went. However, once in the yard, where stalls were set up to sell all sorts of things—scarves, jewelry, clothing, watches, pottery—James could not stand being cooped up in the bag in the face of such an abundance of objects. He leaped out and began to roam around, but of course he was not tall enough to see the tables, and the owners were not happy to have a strange cat walking all over everything, so I ended up carrying him on my shoulders.

  Finally we found a stall with earrings for pierced ears, and a suitable set of circular rings almost exactly like that single ring on the statue. I bought him a pair, and we returned to Baron’s Chambers, where I removed the studs and inserted the earrings. They looked spectacular, and James paraded around the room, peered into mirrors, and generally preened. Finally, after looking at himself enough, he indicated that the time had come to go to Thwaite’s and show off.

  We trotted over to Peter Hightower’s office, where he often worked on weekends. When Peter saw James he let out a great roar of laughter and said, “Come along. Our antiquities expert is here looking at a collection to be auctioned soon, and he must see this.”

  James, somewhat taken aback at being laughed at, nevertheless agreed, and off we went to the third floor, where, in one of the safe storage rooms, we found a number of men: Mr. Young, who greeted James with a smile but no warmth; a fat man with a pointed black beard who was examining some gold statues; and two or three other men who were watching him. Peter Hightower greeted the fat man and presented James with great dignity. “Ah, Bastet,” said the fat man, also keeping a straight face.

  “This is the cat that saved our Constables,” said Mr. Young. “Peter Hightower says he’s unusual, so we let him roam around. He has never done any damage and seems to have done some good.”

  “James has been studying Egypt,” I said.

  James had noticed that one of the tables in the room was lighted from behind, and he leaped on it and posed as an Egyptian cat. The light glinted off his earrings. He assumed his most imperious pose, and even the fat man was impressed.

  “He certainly has the feeling of an Egyptian sculpture,” he said. “Do you suppose James would consent to come and pose for a while at the showing of this material?”

  He was asking me, of course, but James nodded vigorously.

  Then he stalked the tables, looking at all the gold and alabaster objects lying there. He looked especially carefully at a pair of golden goddesses about a foot high. Finally he patted Peter on the arm and drew him to the two objects.

  Peter called the fat man to look at the two goddesses. “Hmm,” said the fat man, “these are really not a pair. I had better check them carefully. How did you know, Peter?”

  Peter brushed this question aside. The conversation became general, and as I listened, I noticed one of the men who were also in the room looking at James with great concentration.

  So James and Peter Hightower examined the objects laid out on the table. From time to time Peter would ask a question and James would nod “yes” or shake his head “no.” Occasionally James pointed out something to Peter, who looked again at an object and then nodded his head.

  There were a lot of people in the room and no one paid much attention to Peter and the cat except a tall, dark man who was dressed in an expensive suit that seemed to have been made for someone of a slightly different shape, and wore highly polished shoes and a bowler hat.

  Mr. Young, who was surveying the room, noting possible big buyers, approached this man as he was watching James’s every move.

  “William Young is my name,” said Young. “I don’t believe we have met. I am the director of Thwaite’s.”

  “Mahoud Poachway,” said the dark man in a soft voice, never taking his eyes off James.

  “Interested in Egyptian art, are you?” Young continued.

  “Profoundly,” Mr. Poachway answered with a sigh.

  “Well, there is some very nice stuff here,” said Young, looking around with a self-satisfied smile. An assistant approached and whispered in Mr. Young’s ear. “Excuse me,” said Young, and left hurriedly.

  Mr. Poachway paid no attention, but approached the table.

  “My Lord Bastet,” Mr. Poachway breathed as he got close to James.

  James turned sharply at the sound of his new name, which he had been trying out in his own mind at that very moment.

  Mr. Poachway’s already large brown eyes grew huge. He bowed his head.

  “God of my city, accept my prayers,” he said reverently.

  James was intrigued. He nodded and smiled and patted Mr. Poachway on the arm. His earrings trembled.

  “Dare I ask,” hissed Mr. Poachway, “will you grace my shrine?”

  James paused. He was not quite sure what gracing a shrine involved, but he was clearly in the presence of a man who idolized him on sight. This man must be very perceptive indeed. James, ever ready for adventure, nodded affirmatively without a further thought.

  Mr. Poachway, stunned, stood helpless for a moment.

  James jumped off the table, waved to Peter Hightower, and trotted purposefully for the door. No one in Thwaite’s paid him the slightest heed. Mr. Poachway followed in a daze.

  The two of them stood on King Street, Mr. Poachway in a trance and James eager for an adventure.

  “How will I get my lord to my shrine?” Mr. Poachway asked the wind.

  James tapped him on the ankle.

  Mr. Poachway stooped down reverently. James jumped into his arms and then pointed imperiously at the taxis that filled King Street at that moment.

  His eyes wide with wonder, Mr. Poachway flagged down a cab and gave an address on Effra Road in Brixton. The cabdriver looked surly but agreed. “Watch that cat,” he said, and drove off.

  In due time, the cab arrived in front of a seedy building on a rundown street.

  Mr. Poachway, still reverently clutching James, paid off the driver and descended some stairs that led to a basement apartment. Over the door of the apartment was a sign reading THE TEMPLE OF BASTET. James noted that the small yard was full of weeds, the sidewalk cracked, and the dustbin overflowing. He began to have second thoughts.

  Mr. Poachway unlocked the door of his basement flat and carried James into a hall that extended the length of the apartment. On the right was a single door; on the left were three. At the end was a window covered with bars, which admitted light.

  Mr. Poachway opened the door on the right. “Welcome to your shrine, Lord Bastet,” he said with awe, and carefully put James on the floor.

  James found himself in a long, narrow room extending the length of the flat, and filled with folding chairs. At the far end, a long table was draped in some sort of shiny fabric. On it stood, in the middle, a pyramid with the top cut off to provide a sitting spot for a plaster replica of the cat with the earring. On either side of the pyramid were two tall tapers and a number of votive candles. A quantity of paper flowers—somewhat dusty—were distributed about, and an incense burner was at one end of the table. Directly in front of the pyramid was an empty brass bowl.

  The whole room looked dingy in the light of the afternoon sun that shone in from the windows opposite the table.

  James was not pleased. If this was a godly temple, it needed work. He marched the length of the room, leaped on the table, jumped to the top of the pyramid—kno
cking the plaster cat off in the process—and sat on top of the pyramid scowling.

  Mr. Poachway, eyes wide with wonder, walked up the aisle between the chairs and prostrated himself before the altar, getting his suit dusty in the process. Then he got up and hurried out of the room. He returned a few minutes later, dressed in a long, flowing blue and white striped robe and a white turban.

  He presented himself once more, touching his forehead to the threadbare carpet.

  James, delighted with all this attention, gave him a haughty nod. Mr. Poachway backed down the aisle and left the room. James sat on the pyramid and smiled until Mr. Poachway was gone.

  Once alone, James hopped off the pyramid and examined the room closely. There were a pair of windows at the opposite end, which were closed, barred, and looked out into a dingy airshaft, and all the chairs. Not a very prepossessing temple. James had had a much more exalted idea of the surroundings appropriate to a god. However, sounds outside sent him scurrying to his position on top of the pyramid.

  The door opened and people began to file in. Mr. Poachway approached the altar, bowed to the ground, lit all the candles and the incense, and stood next to the altar, smiling and nodding to each of the members of the congregation. These members were young, middle-aged, and old, both men and women, but apparently all poor.

  When the last person had entered, the room was almost full. Mr. Poachway motioned the last person to close the door.

  The congregation bowed their heads and Mr. Poachway prostrated himself before James while the congregation chanted over and over, “Bring us your love, Great Bastet.” Incense filled the air, and James felt exalted.

  Then Mr. Poachway rose and, standing directly in front of James, faced the congregation. James hopped off the pyramid and tapped Mr. Poachway on the back. The congregation gasped. Mr. Poachway also gasped and turned around. James was back on the pyramid and pointing imperiously to a corner of the altar.

  Mr. Poachway bowed and moved to the corner. From this new position he announced, “Bring your troubles to Bastet. She will advise.”

  It was James’s turn to be surprised. “She?” Bastet was a goddess?