Reserved for the Cat (4 page)

The artists were sympathetic, but penniless. No one was buying paintings. The Philistines were on the ascendant. They could not pay her to sit.

At the end of the third day of fruitlessly hunting for a position, she returned to the garret knowing there was only one course left to her . . .

She would go back to the
Folies.
She had just enough time to alter her one good dress; tighten the bodice, drop the neckline. She would go, not to the stage, but to the bar, and she would linger and flirt, sidle up to anyone who did not already have a
grisette
and hope . . .

She dropped her face into her hands and cried. What a ghastly thing to hope for! That some ordinary, uncultured man would hand her enough money to pay the rent for another few days so he could take her into his bed! And then she would have to do it all again the next night, and the next—possibly even more than once in the same night!

It had been one thing to hope for a rich old man, well mannered, dignified, who would take care of her. That would not have been so bad, it might not have been bad at all. It would certainly have been no worse than an arranged marriage. She had seen some of the patrons and they seemed kind, they often gave the little girls sweets and nosegays of violets. There was some dignity to the idea, courtesans were established, they had a kind of respect—and if the arrangement was not forever, or the man was careless or cruel, well, that was not so bad as being tied in a lifelong loveless bond of drudgery to some old man for whom one was unpaid cook, nurse, housekeeper. A poor man, a legal spouse, could be just as cruel and abusive as a rich one. More, actually; the only people a poor man could take his frustrations and anger out on were his wife and children. A courtesan at least had a gilded cage, servants, luxuries. Good food, a soft bed and fine wine, beautiful clothes and jewels would make up for a very great deal indeed.

But this! This was—sordid. And once she started on this path—how could she ever hope to rise higher? Many were the tales of courtesans who fell to the streets but few of those who managed the journey in reverse.

But what choice did she have? Tomorrow she would be
in
the street, and even more vulnerable, unless she got money tonight.

A voice—

Startled, she choked off her sobs and looked wildly about the little room. The golden light of the descending sun, filtered through the Parisian smoke, filled the garret. And there was no one there. No one and nothing, except for the rangy tomcat, a brown tabby, who sat on the windowsill. He was no one’s cat, but he had been around and about for as long as Ninette could remember—him, or at least, one just like him. In good times he got their scraps, and in bad, at least he was a warm companion in bed. Maria would never have allowed that, but the cat had always insinuated himself inside somehow, and out again before the morning fires were lit. And as he never had fleas, Ninette had been happy to share her blankets.

So now she was hearing things . . .

You are not hearing things. You are hearing me,
the voice said.

Again, she looked wildly about. “Who is there?” she demanded, her despair fueling her anger at this unasked for invasion. “Show yourself!”

You are looking at me, Ninette.
The tomcat jumped down off the sill and strolled up to her.
It is the cat. Call me Thomas if you like.

Her mouth dropped open as the cat jumped up onto the little table and sat down again, curling his tail neatly about his feet. She shook her head a little wildly. “No, no, this is impossible—”

She stared into the cat’s unblinking eyes. “Oh? And so fine a job you have made of it!”

Did you ever starve? Was there always money to pay the rent?
the cat retorted.
Do you remember the sausages, the cheese, the fish that were left on the table that you thought were from your artist friends? The little purses Maria just “found” in the street when the rent came due? Maria would never have believed in any of the other things I could have done. I had to confine myself to what she would believe in.

Ninette bit her lip, her mind a whirl. She felt as if her entire existence had been turned upside down. Talking cats! Talking cats that claimed to have been taking care of them! And yet . . .

And yet there had been those mysterious gifts of food when they needed them the most. Maria was incredibly lucky when it came to finding windfalls on the street. Even the artists had remarked on it, saying that she must have a good fairy looking out for her.

A good fairy. . . .

Not exactly,
the cat said wryly.
But close enough. Ninette, will you trust me? Will you put yourself in my hands?

“Paws,” she corrected absently, still feeling her mind reeling. If this was madness then—so be it. She might as well be mad. What did she have to lose? If she was truly mad, then none of this was happening, and someone would find her wandering about and take her to an asylum where she would continue to live in her fancy. Or she would fall into the Seine and drown, and all her problems would be solved in that way.

All right then. You have to say it out loud. That’s the way these things work. It’s like a contract.
The end of the cat’s tail twitched, restlessly.

“I trust you. So go and do whatever you want. I won’t go to the
Folies
just yet, I will give you your chance—”

Stay right here,
the cat said, fiercely.
Pack a small bag with anything you do not want to leave behind. Change into your good gown. I will be right back.

Abruptly, he stood up and whisked out of the window so quickly he might have been enchanted. She was left staring at the spot on the table where he had been sitting.

Pack a bag. With anything she did not want to leave behind.

She bit her lip and stared out at the evening sky. What in the name of God could this all mean?

As sunset turned to
l’heure bleu
and became dusk, then dark, she waited. Through her open window she could hear the sounds of the street—artists arguing at the little café, someone with a guitar, children, released from whatever job they did during the day, finding a little energy to play. Through the window came cooking smells; cabbage, the eternal cabbage, the staple of the poor. Sausages frying. Her stomach growled, and she finally got up, lit a stub of a candle, and rummaged the last of her bread from beneath the bowl where she had put it to keep it safe from mice, chopped up the last of her cabbage and made a thin cabbage soup, and ate it, slowly, dipping the hard bread into the broth. There was nothing more in the flat. Which did not matter, because if she had been imagining the talking cat, she would be in the street tomorrow anyway, and if she hadn’t she would—

Where would she be? Why would a cat tell her to pack a bag?

The last of the soup a memory, the last crumb of bread gone, she finally got up from the table, and did pack that bag, an ancient carpetbag, worn to the weft. She put it on the bed and when she was done it was scarcely half full. There was not much to put in it. A few bits of clothing, Maman’s marriage license, a little jewelry not even the pawnshop would take. Everything they had ever had of value had long since been pawned, except for the furniture, and she could not, in any event, strap a bed to her back and carry it off. She packed her ballet shoes, her rehearsal costume. She put on her good dress, as instructed, tied her shawl about her waist, and sat down to wait. The candle slowly burned down to a small puddle of wax, until it was just a bit of wick sporting a tiny flame.

Finally, as she began to doze at the table, there was a
thump
at the window, and a second as the cat leapt from the floor to the top of the table.

He had a square piece of pasteboard in his mouth.

Take it,
he said insistently, and dumbfounded, she did.
I will be right back,
he said before she could ask any questions, and leapt away, and out the window, like the Spirit of the Rose in the ballet sketch.

She held it sideways to the light to see what it was. To her astonishment, it was a railway ticket, Paris to Calais, common carriage.

The boat-train. What on—

There was another
thump
and the cat returned, this time with a purse in his mouth, which he dropped at her feet.
Put that in your pocket,
he said.
Then get your bag. We haven’t much time to get to the train.
He wandered over to the old, worn carpetbag and swatted at it with a paw.
Ah good, there will be room in there for me. That will make things easier.

She picked up the purse. It was an ordinary little thing of leather, and she felt and heard coins in it. She opened the mouth and poured the money out into her hand. It held twenty-three francs, a 50-centime piece, four 20-centime pieces, seven 10-centime pieces, three fives, and nine single centimes, which was nineteen francs more than she had seen of late, and much more than her mother had ever had at one time. There was nothing to identify the owner.

She looked up to see the cat insinuating himself into the bag. “You stole this!” she said, aghast. “The purse, the ticket—”

“But why are we going to Calais?” she asked. There was no answer.

The cat’s tail disappeared into the bag. With a feeling that things had spun completely out of control, Ninette picked up the bag, now made heavier by the addition of the cat, and hesitated again.

She looked around, with the odd feeling that this would be the last time she ever saw this apartment. This was where she had mostly grown up; she had scarcely known any other home.

Yet when she left, no one would really miss her. The rest of the dancers had probably forgotten her already. As kind-hearted as the artists were, they were very much of the sort to put everything but their painting right out of their minds. If she had been sitting for any of them—if she vanished, whoever she was sitting for would have been angry of course. But as she wasn’t, well, she was just another forgettable little dancer and model who went away somewhere, and they would not trouble themselves too much over where that was, so long as none of them were called to identify a sad little corpse at the morgue.

The place was clean, but threadbare and rather dreary. Despite having so many artists in and out, the only pictures on the wall were those cut out from discarded magazines and framed with little bits of wood from old crates. Even those tended to go for kindling in the winter. The bed didn’t even have proper blankets, just rag-blankets made of skirts too stained, worn, or torn to ever be worn again by anyone. There was nothing in this room that had not been used and discarded by someone else.

The candle guttered out. She took that as a sign. She stole down the dark stairs and into the night, leaving nothing of herself behind.

The Metro was crowded, but not so overcrowded that she had to stand. She had to run to catch the boat-train however, and by that time the bread and cabbage had worn very thin. She was, in fact, desperate for some food. The bag was heavy, she was tired, and her mind was in a dazed state where all she could think about was her growling stomach and the ticket in her hands.

She took a seat, the bag at her feet, and as the train pulled out of the station, and the conductor began his journey through the car, collecting tickets, she had a moment of panic. What if he knew the ticket was stolen? What if it wasn’t a real ticket at all? What if—

But he looked at it, collected it, and moved on without a second glance. She sighed, and when a vendor came along the aisle selling sweets and cones of nuts, she fumbled in the stolen purse for coins and bought some. Then she tucked back into the shadows of her seat and ate, slowly, savoring each bite. She had not had sweets
or
nuts since one of the patrons had brought some for all the girls. And here she had a cone of nuts and a whole bar of chocolate to herself.

The cat in the bag at her feet was quiet, but warm; her shoes were so thin she could feel his warmth and the vibration of his purr. She had never been on a train in her life; the carriage seemed very grand, with its scarlet upholstery and its brass fittings. There were lovely lamps at intervals all along the car, fitted in between the windows. The windows were tightly closed, but there was a smell of soot in the air; some smoke from the engine escaped into the car.