Reserved for the Cat

But here? She had no assistants, no scenery, no music... and even if she somehow conjured these things up, like Cinderella’s fairy godmother, out of backstage mice, how could she survive the “booking circuit”? She had no agent, she knew no one and nothing, had no idea what the next city was, let alone how to get to it, find a place to stay, and begin all over again.

That cat only said, Wait and see. She counted the money left in her purse, and tried not to think too hard about the number of days it would last.

A barrage of thunder startled her awake, and she sat straight up in bed, her heart pounding. She stared at the window, clutching her blankets up to her throat, seeing the cat sitting there, silhouetted intermittently by the flashes of lightning.

It was a hideous storm. She could not recall ever having seen one this bad in Paris. A violent wind lashed the windowpanes with rain, and thunder grumbled in the distance or crashed near at hand. Perhaps it was that the sea was so near; certainly all the operas and ballets she had been a part of over the years linked dreadful storms with the sea.

This, said the cat, could not be better. Satisfaction permeated every word.

“Why?” she asked.

You’ll see. The cat could be absolutely maddening sometimes. But at the moment . . . silhouetted black against the lightning-filled sky, with that sure tone to his words . . . she felt her irritation slipping away, replaced by a kind of superstitious fear. What was he, anyway? This beast that spoke in her head, that controlled her like a puppeteer, that had taken her away to a strange land? What did he want from her? True, he had been kind so far but—he couldn’t want her body. Could he be after her soul? Les Contes d’Hoffman, in which she had danced the part of one of Guillietta’s attendants, immediately sprang to her mind. Could this cat, this creature, be a servant of the Devil?

Oh, don’t be silly, the cat said, calmly. Whatever would I do with your soul? I don’t want it.

“Then why are you doing all this?” she whispered.

Because I am interested in you. Because I take pleasure in clever tricks. But above all, it might just be only because I am a cat. She could almost hear him laughing. That alone is reason enough. Now go back to sleep. I will be waking you about dawn.

Well that was unlikely to bring her any sleep.

Wake up, Ninette.

The voice penetrated the soft, dreamless dark. She tried to bat it away, like an annoying fly, but it persisted.

Wake up. It is time.

It couldn’t possibly be time for anything important.

Four sharp needles pierced her big toe and her slumbers. With a gasp of outrage and pain, she sat straight up in bed, now quite well awake.

“You bit me!” she hissed indignantly at the dark shape at the foot of the bed.

I scarcely broke the skin, the cat replied. You weren’t moving, and we have very little time. Get up.

“Time for what?” she demanded, but the cat wasn’t answering.

Put on that cut-up dress over your best underthings, he told her. And your cloak over all. Don’t bother taking anything else. We’re going out.

In the darkness, she gaped at him. “But—”

When this has all settled you can send someone for your things or come for them yourself. But right now, all you need is that dress and your cloak.

“It’s still raining!” she protested. Outside, the storm had turned into a steady, slow rain without any thunder or lightning, but she had no doubt that it was terribly cold out there—and why was she going out in a gown slashed to ribbons?

I know. I told you I was waiting for something. This was it. The storm. Now come on!

Maybe if she hadn’t been half-muzzy with sleep, or if she wasn’t more than half convinced this was just a surreal dream, she might have protested more. Instead, she did as she was told, and stole down the stairs, letting herself out at the kitchen door, following the silent cat.

Of course, the face full of wind and cold rain that she got woke her up thoroughly, but by then it was too late. And the cat was pushing against her ankles, herding her down into the street.

“What is this all about?” she gasped.