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Eventually the tears stopped, though the aching chasm in her stomach remained and Cleo still turned to look over her shoulder for her father. The morning after the tears stopped, Cleo woke up under a warm pile of soft fur and twitching pink paws. It was early and it was cold, Cleo could feel the bite of the air on her nose and cheeks, and the sky was that deep syrupy melon color that accompanies winter sunrises. She could smell warm, sweet bread somewhere on the street; maybe pão de Deus, and her stomach grumbled at the thought of the fluffy brioche and coconut. Since Ratcatcher’s death, Cleo had not eaten anything except a bag of chips when the hunger pangs became too great to bear, though the rats brought her food throughout the day rather than the usual trinkets and coins. They mostly stayed by her side, small and soft bodies her only comfort. The love emanating from them made her realize that they were her family now, and they would look out for each other when others would not.
Cleo stirred and the rats scattered, except for a few that had been sticking close, knowing they would get pets and food crumbs and what affection she had to share. She left the alley and emerged on the street, blinking sleepily in the dawn light. The town was stirring, but not much. Certain trades had people up in the dark before sunrise, others were just arriving at shops with keys held by chill numbed fingers scraping against locks before the proprietors rushed inside. There was a quiet, lonely busyness to it, people up and tired and preparing for the day ahead. Separate trains on tracks going similar directions, lives parallel like the shops lining the street. And Cleo, in the middle of it, a mad spinning top. She instinctively turned towards the panderia that Otis took her to on mornings like this, when their pockets were not weighed down but comfortably full of coins that the rats collected. She stopped in her tracks, feeling the absence like a dizziness and she found herself sitting on the sidewalk fighting away tears. A rat sat on her knee, her head cocked to the side like a curious puppy. The rat spread her tiny fingers across the skin showing through a hole in Cleo’s pants, seemingly trying to soothe her. It is alright, the rat seemed to say, he won’t be there, but he’s not going to be anywhere you go.
“Just memories.” Cleo wiped the tears from her face and picked the rat up gently, kissing her tiny, meek face. The rat settled in one of Cleo’s pockets, a few others trailing behind. Cleo gathered herself and with a small aching but a new purpose to her steps headed down the street in a familiar path, this time alone.
The bright buildings loomed tall, above head a few seagulls glided by going from roost to ocean as Cleo went from roost to – she smiled as the panderia appeared around the corner, a cornflower blue building like a beacon. Her father always loved the salame de chocolate, he would peel it open and dip the rich, crunchy chocolate filled with biscuit pieces in a cup of coffee. Otis delighted in sharp, strong tastes… and sharp, strong people.
Cleo pushed open the door and a ceramic bell above the door jingled lightly. The bell seemed much too delicate for such a task, already sporting a crack that ran from lip to crown; an injury Cleo assumed the story of, someone shoved the door open too forcefully. She was always careful with the door, cognizant of the small things around her, whether sentient or ceramic.
The smells of bread, eggs, powdered sugar and desiccated coconut floated around the shop, and it took all of Cleo’s self-control not to smudge the glass case by leaning on it and pressing her nose to it. She was this man’s first customer, and the case seemed to overflow with golden custard-filled pastries and sugar dusted loaves of brioche breads. Cleo smelled the exclamation point of espresso under it all and felt an ache yet again, knowing that the smell was her father’s favorite.
She had woken up thinking about it, so she bought a pão de Deus for herself and a few papo secos for the rats and one for her for dinner. The bread was warm and wrapped in parchment, tucked away in her pockets along with the rat whose rodent head had disappeared from view when Cleo whispered a few words to her. The baker was nice, charmed by her father’s force of nature personality and how much the duo seemed to spend whenever they stopped by; but Cleo doubted he would take kindly to a rat in his panderia, no matter how confused Cleo was by the way people reacted to the rats. Acting as if they were dirty, evil, disgusting. She never understood it, only ever knowing the rats to be quick and kind and smart. Most people, she decided, just did not see the world the same way. Her father had a special sort of magic about him.
Cleo cradled the pão de Deus in her hands, the warmth seeping from her fingertips and straight into her heart. She hadn’t fully realized how hungry she was, the great grumbling of grief in the pit of her stomach overshadowing all other discomfort until now. The sun was out completely now, the sky blue, and Cleo felt defrosted by the warmth. Only further warmed when she took a bite of the sweet bread, Cleo felt energized and stepped out on the street.
Her feet carried her forward as she devoured the pão de Deus, but she wasn’t quite sure where to go. She realized that usually she just wandered behind her father, running off when Ratcatcher was busy or she saw something interesting she wanted to pursue, steal or play with. As she walked through the streets, the tip-tapping of rat claws on cobblestones behind her, Cleo felt this strange sensation of a shift in the order of the world. Now she was the leader of a small family, no longer trailing behind. And yet, even with this shift, she didn’t feel that she was given instructions on how to be a leader. She wasn’t Ratcatcher, she was Cleo. She didn’t know where to go, only where she had been.
So as much as she wanted to avoid these places where her loss rang most loudly, Cleo found herself walking a familiar path. It was as if Ratcatcher’s presence in the world was so large that he had left physical footprints in the sidewalk, like the streets were made of mud instead of stone.
The street came to life, people and tourists and vendors appearing now that the sun was up. The early morning quiet was gone and the new morning energy filled Cleo with a vibration somewhere between sensation overload and a deep sort of excitement. There were sounds of yelling, far off sounds of construction, in a restaurant along the street someone dropped what sounded like a platter of glasses. Cleo felt her eyes pulled in multiple directions by brightly colored posters, one for a band playing later that evening and another for a movie that had stopped showing a week ago. So much was happening all the time. She was filled with a complex feeling then. Sorrow that her father was going to miss ALL OF THIS, all this movement that he both resented, because he felt barred from it, and loved for the same reasons Cleo did. There was grief and there was color in Porto, and Cleo was both apart from it and in the middle of it.
Cleo’s steps slowed as the church loomed above her, casting a cool shadow over worshippers, mourners, tourists and the curious below. The sight of Igreja dos Crérigos made her heart thump and she gazed up up up at the spires, her father’s voice echoing softly. She began to turn to go, but let the memory unspiral for a moment. And as it did she turned back, making sure the rat was tucked safely inside her pockets before she slipped inside and climbed the staircase, going quiet as a thief.
She felt cradled by the shadows, and had almost reached her destination when she heard a voice behind her.
“Can I help you, young lady?”
Cleo winced, considering how fast she could outrun a clergyman. Surely those robes must be cumbersome and prone to trip the wearers?
She turned to face him, all bristling nerves and curiosity. The kindness and similar curiosity on the young man’s face was enough to take the edge off, and she at least wasn’t poised to run anymore. “No help, sir. Just going to the roof…”
The man cocked an eyebrow. The good-humored look and tousled hair gave him an air of being very very young indeed. “Oh? Most people use the sanctuary, but I imagine it’s as good a place as any to pray. Better even, closer to God?”
Cleo chewed on her bottom lip. “Closer to memories.”
The man regarded her and understanding seemed to soften his face. Cleo would swear that she saw a similar sort of grief in him as well, he at least knew that she needed to be on the roof. Maybe even that she had been on the roof many times before. He nodded. “You and your friend be safe then.” His gaze dropped to her pocket where the rat was curiously peeking out, and back to her face. “If you need anything, just ask for Sebastian.”
He turned and made his way down the stairs, Cleo stood and listened to his steps until it was silent again, awash in his kindness. Her way to the roof was unhindered the rest of the climb.
The wind was stronger here, and Cleo dropped to sit with her back against a spire and looked over the city below. Sunlight glinted off of roofs, and bright houses looked like little flags on a pennant. The rat emerged from her pocket, curling up her lap. She pet the wiry back, and then the belly as the rat rolled over happily. Cleo realized that she and her father had never named any of the rats.
"Rats are the lowliest and most despised of all creatures, my love. If they have a purpose, so do we all."
Shouldn’t a purpose go with a name? Hadn’t that been why her father had adopted Ratcatcher in addition to his given name? In addition to the name “father”?
Cleo tilted her chin and looked up at the soft blue sky and was deep in thought for a moment. “I think,” she started slowly, talking to the rat or her father or the world at large. “I think that I will be… Ratcatcher 2.” She could never replace her father, but she could be like him. Cleo looked down at the rat in her lap. “And you…”
She picked the rat up so their faces were level. The rat twitched her posy-pink nose, eyes bright and shiny. The rat had a kind face and light brown fur, both features reminding Cleo of the man she had met on the stairs. “I think I’ll call YOU Sebastian. That’s a good rat name, isn’t it?”
The rat’s tongue darted out, licking her lips and Cleo thought that meant she liked the name. She brought the rat to her cheek, listening to the quick heartbeat. Cleo closed her eyes then and let herself feel the grief deeply, crying because she wished her father was sitting there with her.
But when she opened her eyes and looked out over Porto she could see possibility standing brightly next to the memories and the grieving places. Ratcatcher 2 stood and began the slow descent back down into the city.