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The whole thing was the cat's fault, of course, and never any of his own. The problem began with having a cat in the first place. As far as he was concerned it was never really a case of the human owning the cat but always, always the other way round. He'd find the thing in the oddest places, look into its green eyes and wonder where it had been, where it had gone, where it had strayed to, how it got back. When one finds himself alone in London, the last thing he wants or needs is a pet but really, when he thought about it, he never really remembered seeking the cat out in the first place. It was simply as if it had always been there. That sense of dissociation wasn't new to him; he'd known it on occasion from the time he was a child. But the cat, it seemed, cemented the feeling for him, as if he ever could have escaped it in the first place.
All the trouble started the day he decided to follow the as-yet-unnamed cat from a discreet distance. There was certainly nothing extraordinary about the tiger-striped tabby; nobody including the man who "owned" it had ever taken much time for its care. The cat stopped at a puddle to examine the odors, rubbed the side of its neck against an exposed pipe, sprayed the post of a street-lamp. It wound its way among the ignorant legs of human passers-by but not idly: it moved with great determination and seemed to be following a familiar route. Down the street, through the muck and filth, it pranced in a perfectly devil-may-care way past everything until it came to the square where an indigent old woman, bundled in rag after rag after rag, perched on a bench feeding the pigeons from a filthy threadbare sack. When she saw the cat she broke into a hearty if mostly toothless grin. "Aw, 'ere, Puss! Come on over. Old Mary 'as somethin' for you today. 'Andsome kitty, and always so good, never chases our pigeons away." It was true. He watched in astonishment as the cat -- always an excellent hunter round the house although it never killed the mice and rats, only played with them -- trod proudly to the woman, tail raised high, not once looking as if it even noticed the veritable feast of birds pecking at grains in the stone. It sat by her feet and waited, and now it actually seemed polite (if cats can be polite) as it licked a paw patiently, although its eyes followed the woman's grimy hands into her skirt pocket and back out again, where she produced a small and sad-looking dead fish.
Oddly enough -- or perhaps it was only too common an occurrence -- none of the passers-by seemed to as much as notice the old woman. How sad it must be to live like that, to be a virtual nobody. But the cat took great notice of her as well as the fish.
"'Ere you go, Puss! You're a good boy." With filthy fish-smelling fingers she ruffled the cat's head with great fondness. Then her eyes turned to its human. For a long moment -- the beating of a heart once, twice, three times -- she simply stared at him and he stared back. She tilted her head to the left and to the right before motioning him forward with the crook of a finger. "You sees me," she said simply. "That makes you one of us."
One of... "I beg your pardon, Mother, but I hardly think you and I are related." Standing before her now, he realized just what sad shape she was in; a wave of sympathy washed over him. Because he could and really, only because she seemed so fond of his rough-and-tumble old cat, he reached into his pocket for twopence. "Here, take this so you can buy yourself some more bird seed." Or perhaps a place to sleep for the night or a bonnet to keep warm.
"Oh, you doesn't 'ave to do that, sir." Looking down at the cat, she smiled amiably enough. "Is 'e your cat, then?"
"He is." Only a little importantly, he tugged at the hem of his waistcoat. "I've been curious to see where he goes."
"Well, dear, that's a prince of a cat you've got and if 'e's a prince, that makes you nobility as well. Let's see, what are you? Not an Earl. I put you at Marquis."
His laugh, amused, rang out over the square to the distant tune of "Mama, who is that man laughing at?" "Ignore him, child, he's mad." The old woman had done something few others had lately: put a smile on his face. "Not even a Duke? I'll have to settle for Marquis." The title merited a second and a third coin; he pressed them into her palm. "Now you can buy yourself some supper, Mother."
"If I was your mother I'd advise you not to be so condescending. But we'll leave that to 'er, dear. Do us the kindness, though, of taking something in exchange for your generosity." Again, she reached into the folds and creases of her worn woolen skirt, emerging with a fist-sized and quite ornate box with detailed silver inlay. "'Ere, Marquis. You'll be needing this."
Surprised, he took a step back and waved off the attempt. "Dear lady, I couldn't take that from you. I've no need of such a thing." Far be it from him to deprive her of what could well be her only possession of such value.
"Not yet," she cackled. "But you will. Take it, and remember: nothing below comes without a price. I'll be exacting my fee before you know it."
"Your fee? For a trinket I don't want and don't need that's of no value to me?" Oh, he understood then: she was holding his pocket hostage for more coins. "Mother, if you want more money just say so. I've not a lot more to give, but you have fed my prince of a cat."
"I'll take 'im." One knobbly finger pointed down at the cat. "More money isn't something I have use for: I want Puss. In exchange for me box."
The cat? But... Shrewd dark eyes moved from the ratty old tabby cat to the box in his palm. Certainly the silver was worth more than some flea-ridden stray. And what did it matter to him if the cat decided to move in with a new owner? They were heartless, cats, and the least loyal of any pet and really, he didn't need to be responsible for it any longer. It would be a relief to have it gone, now that she mentioned it. As his fingers closed around the trinket, he smiled and nodded feeling that he'd got the better part of the whole deal entirely. "Done." Now he'd be free from the scratching at his window at night, at the very least.
"Smart man." The toothless smile showed again; she reached down and picked up the cat who didn't seem to mind her in the least. Leaning over, she whispered something into its ear; the cat smiled -- it actually smiled at her -- and jumped down. "Now you follow 'im. One last stroll, master to servant."
"All right." He'd humor her on this one, although the disconcerting notion flitted by that he wasn't really sure which of them was the master any longer. Why had he never seen this side of his cat before? The creature was obviously filled with unspoken intelligence: how could he have agreed to give it up? But a deal was a deal and even he knew that much, and once an agreement was reached he didn't like to go back on his word. It was just a cat.
Just Puss, she called it. And now Puss belonged to her and as he looked back, he noticed again with only a small bit of sadness that nobody else paid her the least bit of attention. Poor thing must be so lonely, he thought, and he was so engaged in following Puss he didn't even notice that no one else on the streets seemed to take note of him. The cat walked proudly, tail raised with just the tiniest hint of question mark at the end, and belatedly the newly-titled Marquis (that still made him chuckle) realized the silver box was still held loosely in his palm. That he tucked away safely into the pocket of his frockcoat: perhaps he did look the part of nobility, and so be it. It's a game he would gladly play, if only to appease the old woman. Tugging at the trailing sleeves, his grin dangerous, he watched as the cat caught sight of a rat. Rather than chasing or attacking it, though, Puss stopped and seemingly acknowledged it. Now the cat followed the rat and he followed the cat, and it was a bit like the nursery rhyme: the cat takes a rat, the cat takes a rat, hi-ho the derry-o, the cat takes a rat. If they kept up the march they might attract the full complement from the rhyme but it was not to be; the rat and cat had teamed up to lead him to the end of an alley.
"All right, cat, you've had your fun. You can go on back to the old woman now; our turn is over. You belong to her." One final pat was bound to be all right and as he reached down to give the cat a scratch behind the ears, it simply followed the rat through the wall and disappeared. How could that be? Hands on brick, he felt every groove and every piece of mortar looking for an opening but there was none. He stood back then, arms folded over his chest: had he imagined the whole thing? Very well, then, the familiar feeling of dissociation made him wonder if this wasn't all some waking dream.
Especially when a cat's paw came back through the wall, tracing the outline of a door on the brick for him.
Well? What are you waiting for, de Carabas? The voice -- the cat's voice? -- was clear as day, but only in his mind. Still, he pushed at the scratched-in door and when it opened with the slightest of creaks, he stepped through. Into what besides darkness he wasn't sure, but it felt like home.