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  The public gangplank was on the starboard side of the ship: It was broad and open and led to the grand staircase down to the foyer and the big top. Could they make it along the public gangplank? Perhaps, if they ran during the show—say after the lions did their act but before the show was over—because nobody would be there. Perhaps they should go in the dead of night—but with Maccomo sleeping in the lionchamber, Charlie didn’t like their chances. No, it seemed to Charlie that the time to run away was after the show, when there would be a lot of people to-ing and fro-ing and everyone would be excited about how well it had gone, and nobody—except Maccomo—would notice that the lions weren’t there. Perhaps he could persuade Maccomo to let him put the lions to bed after the show. Perhaps if someone were to invite Maccomo out after the show, then Charlie would be left in charge, and they would have some hours before they’d be missed. But whom would Maccomo want to go out with in Paris?

  Charlie thought and thought and thought and thought, and gradually his plan started to fall into shape—but he needed help.

  Then at Andresy, when Maccomo went out to the Moroccan restaurant, a mangy, travel-stained, bald-bottomed black cat came aboard the Circe, carrying a chewed and grubby bit of paper in his yellow teeth, and Charlie was knocked sideways with happiness.

  CHAPTER 13

  The mangy cat leaped onto the arm of the beautiful figurehead, stalked straight down the deck, not caring who saw him, twitching his nose and following the smell of the lions. When he reached the lionchamber he lay down in the shade and waited for Charlie.

  When Charlie saw the mangled piece of paper between his teeth, his heart skipped.

  The cat opened one eye, and then opened his mouth hugely. His breath was horrible. Charlie delicately took the piece of paper, unskewering it from a sharp little cat tooth. He stared at the cat, and then they quietly slipped behind the lionchamber.

  He unfolded the paper.

  He read it.

  His eyes filled with tears and his heart filled with joy. They were alive, they were okay, they were being fed, they had a clever cat looking out for them. They’d received his message. They’d understood his code, they knew he was looking for them, they didn’t think he should have done it, but they accepted it, they were going to keep in touch with him.

  Charlie stood up, his face almost breaking from the strength of his smile. His face was all twisted with joy, his eyes like diamonds stuck in. There behind the lionchamber he did a little dance, clenching his fists and jumping from foot to foot with joy, trying not to make any noise, bursting with happiness.

  The mangy black cat was gazing at him patiently.

  Charlie stopped jumping for a moment.

  “Thank you,” he said simply. “This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. You have done the kindest thing anybody has ever done for me.”

  “Good,” said the cat. “So do I get a refreshing beverage as a demonstration of yer appreciation then, or what?”

  “Oh—oh yes!” cried Charlie, and he tucked the letter into his pocket and raced to the galley to scrounge milk, fish, and a small piece of cake—on principle, because cake was a treat, though he didn’t know if the cat would like it.

  The cat wolfed down the cake, and a tin of anchovies, then looked up.

  “Do you—do you want some more?” asked Charlie.

  “Yeah,” said the cat. Charlie fetched him more.

  Then he said: “Can you wait? Can you take a reply? Can you find them in Paris?”

  “No,” said the cat.

  “Oh,” said Charlie, his face fallen. “Oh—I . . .” He couldn’t think what to say. It was like being shown a bicycle on Christmas Day and then being told, “Oh, no, it’s not for you.”

  The cat looked up.

  “Well, maybe I could,” he said. “I wasn’t planning it. But if it’s entirely necessary for your intellectual and emotional peace of mind, I suppose I could. Seeing as it’s you. And them.” The cat was, to be honest, thinking about all the restaurants in Paris, all the fish heads and half-eaten lobster shells and bags full of bits of deliciousness that would be waiting for him in the compost heaps behind those restaurants.

  “If you insist,” he said. “If you twist my forelimb. I don’t suppose I’ve much choice.” His mouth was watering already.

  “Fantastic,” said Charlie. “Fantastic. Because I’ll need to know where they are, and where they’re heading, and if you can take messages between us . . . then have you seen my mum and dad?”

  “No,” said the cat. “I got the message off some bliddy posh girl at Le Havre, and she got it off a marmalade.” Charlie smiled. That would be the one they mentioned. It seemed to bring his parents closer: This cat knew a cat who knew a cat who’d been with his parents.

  “But, yeah, I’m acquainted with the history of who they are, yeah, and you being their appendage. ’Course I am,” the cat was saying.

  Charlie jerked his head up. He was about to say “Who are they, then?” when he remembered how he had scared off the French canal-boat cat, who had become worried that he might not be himself. Take it easy, Charlie, he told himself.

  “I was wondering,” he said casually, “why they seem to be so famous here. Of course at home everybody knows them, but I didn’t realize cats in France would know them too . . .”

  “Because what they’ve done, they’ve done for all cats,” said the cat, dropping his slightly sneery, half-joking tone, and becoming suddenly quite serious. Charlie was genuinely surprised, because this cat was so mangy and bald-bottomed, and had so far shown no manners to speak of. “They’re not proud. They’re not saying this kind of cat’s better than that kind. Ever since the Allergenies started apparating, your parents have been on their side an’ all. What they’ve done, their work, has been the best thing any humans have ever done for us. Obviously they’ve not succeeded yet, but their professional enterprises—well, it could be the saving of us. All of us. We don’t want humans to hate us. Your parents are single-handedly—mono-digitally—saving the whole relationship between cats and humans. And between cats and Allergenies, if it goes right. Of course cats all over the world know about ’em. And honor ’em. Plus there’s you, of course.”

  Charlie was dumbstruck.

  Allergenies? Work to save the cat/human relationship? “You, of course”?

  This was the mystery, no doubt about it.

  How to find out more without giving away that he knew so little?

  “Ah, yes,” he said, trying to sound intelligent and well-informed.

  “There’s been very few humans capable and willing to talk Cat, and I’m very honored to meet you,” said the black cat in quite a humble way. “Very honored to be of service. Any cat would be. Even, um, the Allergenies. I know a lot of cats hate ’em, but it’s not their fault, is it?” He looked a little embarrassed. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of reaction from Charlie, and a little as if he wasn’t sure what that reaction would be, or indeed if he really wanted a reaction at all. In fact, he looked as if he now realized that of course it would be a bad reaction, so he was off down the pub and forget he ever asked. All this in about five seconds.

  “Er, no,” said Charlie, hoping this was the answer that the cat wanted. His mind was racing.

  “Allergenies are not all bad,” the cat continued. “I know some who’ve gone off to live wild in the country, so as not to do any harm. Some of ’em are miserable about what they’ve to do. And about what’s been done to them. Miserable.” He spoke with passion, but then he seemed to notice that Charlie was having trouble following. He sighed. “Anyway, look,” he said. “You better appraise your reply so I can get on my bicyclette.”

  Charlie liked the way he talked.

  “Give me a few minutes,” he said, and went into the ropelocker.

  He thought very hard about what to say to his parents. He had a lot of questions to ask, and he thought it better to ask his parents directly than to question the cat. But he couldn’t phrase it directl
y. He had to ask in their special code.

  “Darling Mummy and Daddy,” he started.

  “It was really good to get your letter. Everything’s going okay for me. Brother Jerome is going to take me to Paris, which is I think where you are going too . . .”

  He stopped to think. He didn’t want to say Paris, in case anyone read the letter and would learn that he was coming after them. How could he put it?

  He thought hard.

  Of course! There was a girl on their block named Paris. Her sister was named Rita. He started again.

  “Brother Jerome is taking me to visit Rita’s sister, and I know you are expected there too. If you get there first, try not to leave too soon, as I hope I can see you there . . .”

  How to ask about the Allergenies? He strongly felt that his mum and dad would know what they were. But who else knew? And how risky would it be to ask about them? And, come to think of it, how could his parents explain them in a reply, in code?

  Perhaps he should just ask the cat after all.

  Or—no! He thought of something.

  “I am doing a project on pet cats. I wish I could ask you about it. Please tell me all you can when you reply.” He couldn’t think of anything better. He hoped they’d get it.

  Was there anything else he needed to tell them? Could he risk saying something about the circus? In case they were able to escape and come to him?

  No. He didn’t want the baddies, whoever they were, seeing “circus” and mentioning it to Rafi, then Rafi putting it together with the roaring on the telephone . . . And he and the lions would be leaving anyway.

  He finished off: “I am being a very good little boy like you said. Hope to see you very soon. I will bring some friends—bigger kids—to Rita’s sister’s. Lots and lots of love from Charles.”

  He folded it tiny, returned to the back of the lionchamber, and tucked the note into the black cat’s collar.

  “Crike of a lot easier than carrying it in me gob,” said the black cat gratefully.

  “What’s your name?” asked Charlie.

  “Sergei,” said the cat.

  “Why?” asked Charlie. He didn’t mean to be rude; the name just didn’t seem quite—this cat looked like he should be called Bandit or Alias.

  “Me dad liked Rachmaninoff,” said Sergei. “I’ll be off now.”

  Charlie said: “Um, Sergei—who else—human—speaks Cat?”

  “Well, nobody at the moment, only you. Van Amburgh did—the lion trainer—and King Solomon, obviously, St. Francis, the patron saint of animals. And St. Jerome, who extricated the thorn out of some lion’s paw some centuries ago—no one understood how he could do it, and that’s one reason he got sainted. You could be a saint maybe, Charlie—ha ha! And, erm, Hugh Lofting, who wrote those books . . . you know . . . Dr. Doolittle . . . erm . . . Daniel, of course, in the Bible, in the lions’ den. Some others who just thought they were off their rockers. Not everybody knows what to do with it. You’re one of a rare and honored tradition, you know . . . There’s not a lot like you.”

  Charlie was touched by this mangy cat’s goodwill.

  “So when Maccomo used Cat words to the lions, he probably got them off Van Amburgh.”

  “More likely off Daniel or the gladiators,” said Sergei. “Ask those lions. Lions are big on history.”

  “Thanks, Sergei,” said Charlie. “Come back soon!” Sergei flicked his ear and was gone, off on the road to Paris, to ask all the Parisian cats where the famous English couple, the black man and the white woman, whose son was that boy, were being held prisoner.

  I don’t think Rafi knows where I am, Charlie thought on his way to lunch. If he did, he’d be here by now. He’s got a car!

  He didn’t imagine that even if Rafi didn’t yet know where he was, he might at any moment find out.

  Charlie ate his lunch with Julius and Hans.

  “Julius,” he said. “What’s an Allergeny?”

  “Don’t know,” said Julius—not a phrase he used very often. He looked a bit surprised. “What is it?”

  “I don’t know either,” said Charlie, and then, realizing that Julius would ask about where Charlie had heard the word, and so on, he decided to change the subject.

  “Tell me about the famous circus people in Paris,” he said. “Are there any?”

  “Are there any!” exclaimed Julius. “There are bucketloads. All the best circus people live in Paris. They’ve got the best halls, except for in the Empire homelands, of course: there’s the Cirque Fernando on Boulevard Rochechouart, and the Cirque d’Hiver on Boulevard des Filles du Calvaire—that’s really fine, with twelve sides and Corinthian columns at each corner, and equestrian statues by the entrance, and oil lamps, and a frieze of horses and a cupola on top with a winged figure . . .” It occurred to Charlie that if he had been planning to stay any longer on the Circe, he’d have had to get a dictionary for talking to Julius. (Sergei used long words as well—bicyclette! appendage!—but Charlie had the feeling he just used them for fun, whereas Julius was pretty serious.)

  He really wanted to talk to Julius about the lions’ escape. He just knew that Julius would be full of useful knowledge and good ideas. But he couldn’t tell him. It wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t fair to Julius, because just by knowing, Julius would have to betray either his new friend or his circus.

  So Charlie would just have to get Julius to answer his questions without arousing any suspicion about why he was asking them. This did make him a little uncomfortable, but he had no choice.

  “Wow,” said Charlie, sounding impressed (which was easy, because he was impressed). “And tell me about the people.” He was just keeping the conversation going while he worked out how to drop in the questions he needed answers to.

  “Well, there are some fabulous clowns—there’s Popov, Charlie Cairoli, Coco, the Fratellini Brothers, Scaramouche. Van Amburgh was there with his lions before he died, you know about him, of course, and John Cooper, and Jacob Dreisbach—he more or less invented the férocité acts. Van Amburgh was fantastic, but Dreisbach just thought it was all too gentle, the audience would like some more whip-cracking and fighty stuff. Maccomo hates Dreisbach—did you know?”

  “No, why?”

  “Because of Mabel Stark,” continued Julius.

  “Who?”

  “You must know Mabel Stark—everybody knows about her! You really don’t know anything, do you, Charlie? She’s this fantastic tiger trainer, she’s amazing, she does all the things the men do and more. She really loves her tigers—all the trainers say it’s about love, but here you can see it is. It’s like she’s the tiger’s mum or something—it licks her hair and hugs her. And she’s really beautiful and wears white leather costumes and everybody’s in love with her, including Dreisbach, and Maccomo—”

  “Maccomo’s in love with a lady!” squeaked Charlie, amazed. He couldn’t imagine it.

  “Yes!” cried Julius. “It is funny, isn’t it? And he was going to marry her, only then Dreisbach—he was her teacher—told her not to and she didn’t, and so Maccomo hates him.”

  “Why did Dreisbach tell her not to marry him?” said Charlie.

  Julius’s face changed and he looked suddenly embarrassed.

  “Um,” he said.

  “Why?” said Charlie.

  Julius frowned, gathered up his courage, and then said quickly: “Because he’s one of those stupid people who think black and white people shouldn’t marry each other.” He didn’t look at Charlie as he said it, so he didn’t see Charlie’s face begin to burn with a blush. Of course Charlie knew there were people like that, and of course he didn’t like to hear about it. But he also knew that Julius was upset at having to bring up the subject, and he appreciated him for being straightforward about it.

  “Stupid pig,” said Charlie, trying to sound cheerful, and Julius looked up gratefully and said, “Yeah, stupid pig. So we hate him.” Charlie smiled at Julius, and Hans, who had stood nervously on the sidelines of this bit of the conve
rsation, said quietly: “I hate him too.”

  There was a small pause, and then Charlie said, “So where’s Mabel now?”

  “Oh, she’s in Paris,” said Julius, glad to change the subject. “That’s why everyone’s so nervous about the show, because all the top Parisian circus people will come, or they won’t come, and they’ll like it, or they won’t like it, so everyone’s in a tizzy.”

  “Do you think Mabel will come?” asked Charlie.

  “Bound to! And she’ll bring Louis Roth—that’s her boyfriend. He’s a lion trainer, and he’s Hungarian and wears these boots almost up to his bottom.”

  Charlie was thinking furiously. A brilliant idea had dropped into his lap like a ripe fruit off a tree. Mabel must lose her boyfriend in boots and invite Maccomo out after the show, then he would be out of the way for the lions to escape.

  So how to get a woman he didn’t know to invite out a man she hadn’t seen since . . .

  “How long ago was the Mabel-Maccomo thing?” he asked Julius.

  “A year or two, I suppose,” said Julius. “Maccomo still looks thunderous if her name comes up.”

  “But he loves her, right?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “So why would he look thunderous? Wouldn’t he be pleased to see her?”

  “I dunno—I suppose he thinks she doesn’t like him anymore.”

  Charlie knew, from listening when his mum and her friends were discussing grown-ups’ love lives, that there was no logic when it came to grown-ups being in love. But he was pretty sure that if Maccomo were to get a message from Mabel saying “I miss you and I want to see you,” he would go along.

  But how to get her to send such a message?

  Charlie was halfway through his sticky toffee pudding when he had his most brilliant idea. Mabel didn’t have to send the message. As long as the message had Mabel’s name on it, it didn’t matter who actually sent it. And then—he almost laughed, he was so pleased with his brilliance—Mabel could receive a message from Maccomo too—only it wouldn’t be from Maccomo. And each of them would think the other had invited them! And each would be flattered, and curious, and go along, and it would be ages before they realized that they had been tricked! By which time, Charlie and the lions would be off rescuing Mum and Dad.