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Madam Grushenka and the Stray Cats Affair
Irina Grushenka had watched the seasons change from spring to summer to autumn. From her windows she had watched the leaves change from green to red to gold. Reaching brown; they were released from the trees as they drifted, then danced in swirling circles upon the pavement below. The opened windows brought the fragrance of their sweet decay into her rooms.
Months had passed without a visit from her young friend. Ilyusha just showed up like a stray cat whenever he was in Paris. His “job”; she knew; was rife with danger and at any time he could be called away to another country. She knew that even now; as she thought about him; worried about him; he could actually be in some dark and dank basement; a virtual dungeon or makeshift prison where only God knew what fate awaited him. He could be in a hospital ward in some foreign country; beaten, battered or…
She shook her head against those kind of thoughts; tried to bury them. They weren’t at ALL helpful.
During that time, a stray cat that she had on occasions taken into her home to feed, had been injured by another male. She had nursed him back to health. He was a scrappy boy; a fighter; a bit on the lean and small side; a cream colored tabby with light blue eyes. There was something about that cat that had reminded her of her young friend. Its lean but muscular body; its obvious intelligence and its very blue eyes all decided his name. She had at first named him Vanya, but as she had gotten to know him a little better…and of course with such blue eyes; she switched his name to Ilyusha. It wasn’t only the color of the cat’s eyes that reminded her of her friend, but the cat and Ilyusha shared the same passion for food; both enjoying voracious appetites. It also gave her some comfort to say his name out loud.
She never pictured herself as being the type of person to take in strays or that she could ever have developed such a fondness for any creature; man nor beast. She didn’t think that she had it in her anymore; not since the loss of her husband and son. There was “something”; though; about her two strays with the same name that somehow pulled at her heartstrings.
To keep him safe; as she could NOT do for her friend; Grushy had kept the cat indoors. At first, he had wanted to go outside constantly, but soon he acclimated himself to the comforts of Grushenka’s warm home; making himself comfortable upon her overstuffed furniture; her bed and in her life. They were a good match.
Though she loved the stray; his place in her home only served to remind her of the absence of her young friend. Many times during the days and nights; she and her feline friend would sit at her windows; looking down upon the cobbled street below; watching young men pass by; searching their faces; watching how this one walked and carried himself; how that one would stop below her flat and light up a smoke; then continue on his way. Right build. Right height. Wrong hair; both color and length. Although her young friend had on a few occasions lit up a hand-rolled cigarette; it was very rare; but this particular young man had on multiple occasions stopped below her flat and lit up. He never once looked up to the windows. He never acknowledged the building at all. She wondered if it could be he? Was he keeping an eye on her from a distance? Did he feel that his appearance at or near her home was somehow a danger to her? She nearly had herself convinced that it was he. So like her young friend; he would appear at different times of day; different days of the week. He would stay below her windows and smoke the entire cigarette; dropping the butt to the cobbled sidewalk and crushing it underfoot before walking away; never looking up. At times; she was convinced that there might just be a message written on the cigarette paper, so she would wait until he moved on to go downstairs to the spot where he had stood. There, she would pick up the butt end and unravel it in hopes of finding a note; having her hopes dashed when it turned out to be just a simple, hand rolled cigarette. On occasion; she would swear that in the young man’s wake, the scent of Ilyusha’s shampoo lingered in the breeze. If she knew when he’d be there; she would have awaited him. She could potentially wait for hours; days; weeks even. Too much time was passing. Too much time without even a hint of where he was.
Knowing the nature of his work; all sorts of scenarios presented themselves to her brain. None of them were of any comfort to her. Night after night she would sit at the window; Ilyusha perched on the sill beside her; his tail swishing back and forth; his purring and head butts the only way a cat could provide comfort. It was no comfort; but the cat meant well.
She had taken to sleeping in her young friend’s small bed; tucked under the eves in the third floor garret; the sheets on the bed still holding a tiny scent of him. Ilyusha the cat, would sleep cuddled up near her head upon the pillow, purring softly; easing her down to sleep. The view from that room looked off toward the Seine. In places it could be seen from the small, round window under the eaves.
As the weather became colder; too cold to keep the small window open; men would walk with their heads covered by hats or knit caps; their collars pulled up around their ears; heads down. At that time of year; she resigned herself to the fact that Illya’s bright, hair would be covered also. There was no way of knowing. Did that young man walk like Ilyusha? Could this other young man with a decided limp possibly be he? None of them gave her flat any notice; but wasn’t that just what Ilyusha would do? Not wanting to draw attention to his friend’s home; he would appear to not be interested in his surroundings.
One rainy night as she looked below from the dining room window; a young man wearing a darkish, colored trench coat and stylish dark hat; stood on her sidewalk below. She couldn’t get a good enough look at his face; as the rain had run down the glass in long streaks; so she opened the window just a bit to better see him. At the sound of the window opening; the young man looked up; made eye contact with her and removed his hat. Of course, it wasn’t Ilyusha. The complexion was just a bit too dark and he stood just a few inches taller than her young friend. The pointed, prominent chin and the mole on the side of his face wasn’t Ilyusha either; but it WAS a face that she recognized; all the same. The man with the “greasy” eyes. Ilyusha’s partner. What was his name? She closed the window and moved to the door.
The young man had taken the steps two at a time and was waiting to be allowed inside. She opened the door and although knowing who was on the other side; seeing him; Ilyusha’s partner; her face turned pale and her legs nearly gave out. Silently she berated herself for her own weakness. She thought that she was made of sterner stuff. His mouth was moving, but his voice was lost in the ringing of her ears. As she mentally steadied herself; he stood somewhat awkwardly; with his hat in his hands. Realizing that she hadn’t heard him; he repeated. “It isn’t as bad as all that. I’ll tell you about Illya while we have some hot tea.”
She put his bad manners down to him being American. Turning and making her way to the kitchen; she left Napoleon to close the door. Removing his coat; he draped it over the back of one of the dining chairs; placing his wet fedora upon the table where the cream colored cat that he had seen from the street sat warming itself under the Tiffany lamp. He reached over and scratched its head. The cat was sweet and purred, but as Napoleon went to move away; it reached out its paw to pull him back. It was then that he noticed the cat’s blue eyes; remarkably similar in color to his partner’s eyes. He scratched it once again between its ears and went to follow the cat’s owner into the kitchen.
He stood within the doorway; observing as Grushenka prepared a right, proper Russian tea for them both. She prepared it as though she were alone in her kitchen; pretty much ignoring his presence. When she placed everything needed on the heavy tray; he carried it all to the table.
They sat opposite each other as Grushenka served the tea. She served it in a nice, but plain teapot; not the antique teapot displayed on the wire baker’s rack in the kitchen. Neither did she use the samovar he’d seen in the dining room; a large one for an equally large family. He noticed the Russian tea glasses with their silver holders. They weren’t used either. Instead; his tea was served to him in a large mug with an artistic image of the Eiffel Tower rendered on its side. Such souvenirs could be purchased at nearly every shop that catered to tourists. She thought that Americans seemed to appreciate such gaudy things. Mary seemed to like it. It was she that actually bought it for Grushy. Her tea, she poured into a delicate, pale, blue, porcelain cup with hand-painted violets on each side. She pushed the sugar bowl at him and using the small tongs that hung from their place on the bowl; he selected two cubes and dropped them separately into the mug; using his spoon to stir them. The spoon clanking noisily against the inside of the mug, grated on Grushanka’s last nerve. As she sat with cold dark eyes waiting for him to finish his tea; no words passed between them. When he upended the cup to get the last swallow; he noticed the leaves at its bottom and idly wondered if Illya would have been able to read them. He had heard rumors that his partner had Gypsy blood. He shook his head; once again wondering where all of these “rumors” had come from. Most likely from Illya, himself. In reality, Illya had about as much Gypsy blood as Napoleon himself had; which was to say, none at all.
When he had delivered the message for his partner, he helped her clean up the table; transferring everything to the tray and carrying it all back to the kitchen.
The rain had increased while he was inside and upon leaving the protection of the porch; Napoleon pulled his collar up around his ears and adjusted his hat. In a moment; he had disappeared into the early evening rain.
Grushy took the tray to the sink and filled the sink with warm, soapy water. As she placed her teacup and saucer; the mug and spoons to soak; she thought about what Mr. Greasy Eyes had told her.
So…Ilyusha was alright, but had been temporarily “transferred” to some remote island where he was supposedly “teaching”. Teaching what; she wondered…and didn’t this island have a name or any way to send a telegram or place a phone call? Spies and their lies and secrets. She would believe anything that Ilyusha would tell her; but Mr. Greasy Eyes? No. Who ever heard of a spy school? Or of a spy teacher; for that matter. Well; she had thought that if ANYONE were talented enough within the spy game to actually INSTRUCT such things…it would be young Ilyusha. A spy school, indeed. What nonsense.
She decided to leave the items to soak and walked down the hall to the formal parlor where her piano sat in pride of place. Behind her, she heard Ilyusha drop from the table, where he had been grooming himself under the Tiffany lamp, to follow her.
To Ilyusha, it was a rare treat to be permitted into this room. She made her way straight to the fine, upright piano; Ilyusha passing by in a bright whoosh as he jumped to his favorite spot…the top of the piano. Fortunately for Ilyusha AND the piano; Grushy had always liked the artistic and somewhat Bohemian way of draping a colorful shawl over it. Ilyusha seemed to appreciate how his fur and the colors of the shaw complimented each other. Cats seemed to have some innate sense of self; she thought.
As Grushy sat; she allowed her hands to hover over the keys; waiting for them to choose the night’s theme. It seemed that it was going to be a Tchaikovsky night as her fingers struck the first notes of the maestro’s First Symphony. With the weather turning cold; “Winter Dreams”, was an appropriate choice. Ilyusha; upon feeling the vibrations of the piano underneath him; rolled over to his side; purring and grooming contentedly. Grushy smiled up at him and once again wondered just what it was that connected the cat to the great maestro himself; because he only reacted in that manner to Tchaikovsky…or was it the notes themselves and the physical vibrations of the felted hammers striking the strings that did it. It couldn’t possibly be the connection the cat had in common with the maestro’s name; could it? The same name held by her other stray cat, who was supposedly teaching spying on some unknown and unnamed island.
Teaching; indeed. She often times thought his extended absences had more to do with lying than spying as she imagined him lying for days, weeks or possibly months; entangled naked within the silken sheets of some tempting siren’s bed; reading to her from his latest physics journal; exercising his mind right along with his body. If she were only younger; Grushy thought; SHE’D teach HIM a thing or two about the delights of motion, position and energy.