The Story of a Seagull and the cat who taught her to fly

The Story of a Seagull and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ONE ・ THE NORTH SEA

 

“SCHOOL OF HERRING PORTSIDEI!” the lookout gull

announced, and the flock from the Red Sand

Lighthouse received the news with shrieks of relief.

They had been flying for six hours without a break,

and although the pilot gulls had found currents of

warm air that made for pleasant gliding above the

waves, they needed to renew their strength—and what

better for that than a good mess of herring?

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The Story of a Seagull

They were flying over the mouth of the Elbe River

where it flows into the North Sea. From high above

they saw ships lining up one after the other like

patient and disciplined whales waiting their turn to

swim out to open sea. Once there, the flock would get

their bearings and spread out toward all the ports of

the planet.

Kengah, a female gull with feathers the color of sil-

ver, especially liked to observe the ships’ flags, for she

knew that every one of them represented a way of

speaking, of naming, the same things with different

words.

“Humans really have hard work of it,” Kengah had

once commented to a fellow she-gull. “Not at all like us

gulls, who screech the same the world round.”

“You’re right. And most amazing, of all is that some-

times they manage to understand one another,” her

gull friend had squawked.

Beyond the shoreline, the landscape turned bright

green. Kengah could see an enormous pasture dotted

with flocks of sheep grazing under the protection of

the dikes and the lazy vanes of the windmills.

Following instructions from the pilot gulls, the flock

from Red Sand Lighthouse seized a current of cold air

and dived toward the shoal of herrings. One hundred

and twenty bodies sliced into the water like arrows,

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

and when they came to the surface each gull had a

herring, in its bill.

 

Tasty herring. Tasty and fat. Precisely what they

needed to renew their energy before continuing, their

flight toward Den Helder, where they were to join the

flock from the Frisian Islands.

 

According, to their flight plan, they would then fly

on to Calais, in the strait of Dover, and on through the

English Channel, where they would be met by flocks

from the Bay of the Seine and the Gulf of Saint-Malo.

Then they would fly together till they reached the skies

over the Bay of Biscay.

 

By then there would be a thousand gulls, a swiftly

moving, silver cloud that would be enlarged by the

addition of flocks from Belle-fle-en-Mer, the fle

dOléron, Cape Machichaco, Cape Ajo, and Cape Pefias.

When all the gulls authorized by the law of the sea and

the winds gathered over the Bay of Biscay, the Grand

Convention of the Baltic and North Seas and the

Atlantic Ocean could begin.

 

It would be a beautiful time, Kengah thought as

she gulped down her third herring. As they did every

year, they would listen to interesting, stories, especially

the ones told by the gulls from Cape Pefias, tireless voy-

agers who sometimes flew as far as the Canaries or

Cape Verde Islands.

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

Female gulls like her would devote themselves to

feasting on sardines and squid, while the males pre-

pared nests at the edge of a cliff. There the female

gulls would lay their eggs and hatch them, safe from

any threat, and then, after the chicks lost their down

and grew their first real feathers, would come the most

beautiful part of the journey: teaching the fledglings

to fly in the Bay of Biscay.

Kengah ducked her head to catch her fourth her-

ring, and as a result she didn't hear the squawk of

alarm that shattered the air: “Danger to port!

Emergency takeoff!”

When Kengah lifted her head from the water, she

found herself all alone in the immensity of the ocean.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Story of a Seagull

TWO ・ A BIG, FAT, BLACK CAT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I REALLY HATE TO LEAVE YOU BY YOURSELF,”

 

the boy said, stroking the big, fat, black cat’s back.

Then he returned to the task of putting, things in

his backpack. He chose a cassette of The Pur, one of his

favorites, put it in, thought about it again, and took it

out. He couldn't decide whether to put it in the pack or

leave it on the table. It was hard to know what to take

on vacation and what to leave at home.

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

The big, fat, black cat sitting in the recessed win-

dow, his favorite place, was watching, the boy closely.

“Did I put in my swim goggles? Zorba, have you

seen my goggles? No. You wouldn't know what they are

because you don’t like water. You don’t know what

you’re missing. Swimming, is one of the most fun

sports. Want a treat?” the boy offered, picking up the

box of Kitty Yum-Yums.

He shook out a more than generous portion, and

the big, fat, black cat began chewing, slowly, to prolong,

the pleasure. What delicious treats, so crunchy, and so

deliciously fishy!

He is a good kid, the cat thought, his mouth filled

with crumbs. What do I mean, a good kid? He’s the

best! he corrected himself as he swallowed.

Zorba, the big, fat, black cat, had good reason for his

opinion of this boy, who not only spent money from

his allowance on delicious treats for Zorba, but always

kept the litter box where Zorba relieved himself clean.

And he talked to him and taught him important things.

They spent many hours together on the balcony,

watching the bustling traffic in the port of Hamburg.

Right then, for example, the boy was saying, “You see

that ship, Zorba? You know where it’s from? It’s from

Liberia, a very interesting, African country founded by

people who once were slaves. When I grow up I'm

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The Story of a Seagull

going to be captain of a large sailing ship, and I will sail

to Liberia. And you will come with me, Zorba. You will

be a good oceangoing cat. I'm sure of it.”

Like all the boys around the port, this one too

dreamed of voyages to distant countries. The bia, fat,

black cat listened, purring. He could see himself on

board a sailing vessel, cutting through the waves.

Yes. Zorba had great affection for the boy and never

forgot that he owed his life to him.

Zorba’s debt dated from the day he abandoned the

basket that had been home for him and his seven

brothers and sisters.

His mother’s milk was warm and sweet, but he

wanted to try one of those fish heads that people in

the market gave to big cats. And he wasn't planning to

eat the whole thing. No. His idea was to drag it back to

the basket and tell his brothers and sisters, “Enough of

this nursing, from our poor mother! Don't you see how

thin she’s getting? Eat this fish, that’s what the port cats

all eat.”

A few days before he left the basket, Zorba’s moth-

er had been very serious as she told him, “You are

quick on your feet and alert. That's all to the good, but

you must be cautious about where you go. | don't want

you to get out of the basket. Tomorrow or the next day

humans will come and decide your fate, and your

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and the cat who taught her to fly

brothers’ and sisters’ as well. I’m sure they will give all

of you nice names and you will have all the food you

want. You are very lucky to have been born in a port,

because in ports humans love and protect cats. The

only thing they expect of us is to keep the rats away.

Oh, yes, my son. You are very lucky to be a port cat—

but you must be careful. There is one thing about you

that may mean trouble. Look at your brothers and sis-

ters, son. You see how all of them are gray? And how

their fur is striped, like the hide of a tiger? You, on the

other hand, were born entirely black, except for that

little white tuft under your chin. Some humans

believe that black cats bring, bad luck. That’s why, son,

I don't want you to leave the basket.”

But Zorba, who at that time was a little coal-black

ball of fur, did crawl out of the basket. He wanted to try

one of those fish heads. And he also wanted to see a lit-

tle of the world.

He didn't get very far. As he was trotting toward a

fish stall with his tail straight up and quivering, he

passed in front of a large bird dozing with its head tilt-

ed to one side. It was a very ugly bird with a huge

pouch beneath its beak. Suddenly, the little black kitten

could not feel the ground beneath his feet and, with-

out any idea of what was happening, he found himself

somersaulting through the air. Remembering one of

 

 

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The Story of a Seagull

his mother’s first teachings, he looked for a place

where he could land on all four paws. Instead, what he

saw beneath him was the bird, waiting with an open

beak. He fell right into its pouch, which was very dark

and smelled terrible.

“Let me out! Let me out!” the kitten bawled desperately.

“My... it can talk,” the bird squawked without open-

ing, its beak. “What kind of creature are you?”

“Let me out or I'll scratch,” the kitten yowled threat-

eningly.

“I suspect that you're a frog. Are you a frog?” the

bird asked, keeping, its long, bill clamped tightly shut.

“I'm drowning, in here, you stupid bird,” the little

cat cried.

“Yes. You are a frog. A black frog. Curious indeed.”

“I am a cat, and am! mad! Let me out or you'll be

sorry!” warned little Zorba, looking for somewhere in

that dark pouch to sink his claws.

“Do you think | can't tell the difference between a

cat and a frog? Cats are furry, quick, and they smell of

house slippers. You are a frog. | ate several frogs once,

and they weren't bad. But they were green. Say, you

wouldn't be a poisonous frog, would you?” the bird

croaked, a little worried.

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and the cat who taught her to fly

“Yes! Yes, I’m a poisonous frog, and besides, I bring

bad luck!”

“What a dilemma! Once | swallowed a poisonous

sea urchin and nothing happened to me. What a di-lem-ma! Shall I swallow you or spit you out?” the bird

pondered. Suddenly it stopped squawking, and started

jumping, up and down and flapping, its wings. Finally

it opened its beak.

Little Zorba, wet with slobber, stuck his head out and

jumped to the ground. Then he saw the boy, who had

the bird by the neck, shaking, it.

“You must be blind, you numbskull pelican! Come

on, kitten. You almost ended up in the belly of that

ugly old bird,” the boy said, and took Zorba up in his

arms.

And so had begun the friendship that had lasted

five years.

The boy's kiss on his head scattered the cat’s memories. He watched his friend settle the pack on his back,

walk to the door, and from there said good-bye one

more time.

“We won’t see each other for four weeks. I'll be

thinking of you every day, Zorba. | promise.”

“Bye, Zorba!” “Bye!” The boy’s two younger brothers

shouted and waved their good-byes.

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The Story of a Seagull

He listened as the two locks turned in the door, then

ran to the window that overlooked the street to watch

his adoptive family as they drove away.

The big, fat, black cat drew a deep, contented

breath. For four whole weeks he would be lord and

master of the apartment. A friend of the family would

come every day to open a can of cat food and clean

Zorba’s litter box. Four weeks to laze about in the arm-

chairs, on the beds—or to go out on the balcony, climb

to the tile roof, jump from there to the branches of the

old chestnut tree, and slide down the trunk to the inner

patio, where he liked to meet the other neighborhood

cats. He wouldn't be bored. No way.

At least that’s what Zorba, the big, fat, black cat,

thought, because he had no idea what was to come.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

WTHREE ・ HUMBURG IN VIEW

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

KENGAH UNFOLDED HER WINGS to take off, but

the approaching wave was too quick. Its force swept

her beneath the surface, and when she came back up,

the daylight had disappeared. She shook her head

again and again, realizing that she had surfaced

through the black wave of an oil slick that had nearly

blinded her.

 

Kengah, the gull with feathers once the color of

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

silver, kept dipping her head deep into the water until

a few sparks of light penetrated the thick oil covering,

her eyes. Sticky blobs the gulls called the black plague

glued her wings to her body. She began to kick her feet

with the hope that she could swim fast enough to

escape from the black tide.

 

Every muscle cramped with the effort, but at last

she came to the edge of the oil slick and paddled into

clean water. She blinked and dipped her head until she

was able to clear her eyes, but when she looked up at

the sky all she saw were a few clouds floating between

the sea and the enormous dome of the skies. Her

friends from the flock of the Red Sand Lighthouse

were already far away, very far away.

 

That was the rule. She herself had seen other seag-

ulls surprised by the deadly black tides, and though

everyone wanted to go back and offer help, they knew

that help would be impossible. There was nothing they

could do. And so her flock had flown on, respecting the

tule that forbids witnessing the death of one’s fellow

gulls.

 

With their wings immobilized, stuck fast to their

bodies, gulls are easy prey for large fish. Or they may

die more slowly, suffocated by the oil that sinks through

their feathers and clogs their pores.

 

That was the fate that awaited Kengah. She hoped

 

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The Story of a Seagull

it would be the jaws of a giant fish that would quickly

snap her up.

 

The black stain. As she awaited the end, Kengah

cursed all humans. “But not all of them. I should be

fair,” she squawked weakly.

 

Often from high above she had watched as large oil

tankers took advantage of foggy days along the coast to

steam away from land to wash out their tanks. They

spilled thousands of liters of a thick, stinking substance

into the sea, which then was carried along by the

waves. But she also saw how sometimes smaller vessels

kept close to the tankers and prevented them from

emptying, their tanks. Unfortunately, those boats,

draped in the colors of the rainbow, didn't always arrive

in time to prevent the poisoning of the seas.

 

Kengah spent the longest hours of her life resting,

on the waves, wondering, with terror whether she was

awaiting the most horrible of all deaths. Worse than

being, eaten by a fish, worse than suffering the torture

of suffocation, was dying, of hunger.

 

Desperate at the idea of a slow death, she shook

herself and with amazement found that the oil had

not glued her wings to her body. Her wings were coat-

ed with thick black sludge, but at least she could unfold

them.

 

“IT may still have a chance to get out of this, and

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

who knows, maybe if I can fly high, very high, the sun

will melt the oil,” Kengah croaked.

 

She was remembering, a story she had heard an old

gull from the Frisian Islands tell about a human named

Icarus, who, in order to accomplish his dream of flying,

had made himself wings of eagle feathers. He had in

fact flown ... high, almost up to the sun, so high that

the sun melted the wax he’d used to stick the feathers

together, and he fell back to Earth.

 

Kengah flapped her wings hard, tucked back her

feet, lifted about a foot above the waves, and plopped

right back down, face first. Before trying again, she

dived beneath the waves and moved her wings back

and forth. This time when she tried, she rose more than

three feet before she fell.

 

The accursed oil had stuck her tail feathers togeth-

er so tight that she wasn't able to steer on her ascent.

She dived again and pecked at the black gummy sub-

stance stuck to her tail. She bore the pain of the feath-

ers she accidentally ripped out until finally she was

satisfied that her steering gear was a little less fouled.

 

On the fifth attempt, Kengah succeeded: She was

flying,

 

She flapped her wings desperately, but the weight

of the layer of oil would not let her glide. The minute

she rested, she plunged downward. Fortunately, she was

 

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The Story of a Seagull

a young, seagull, and her muscles responded in fine

fashion.

 

She flew higher. Winging, winging, she looked down

and could barely make out the fine white line of the

coast. She also saw a few ships moving like tiny objects

on a blue cloth. She gained altitude, but the hoped-for

effect of the sun did not come. Maybe the heat of its

rays was too weak, or the layer of oil was too thick.

 

Kengah knew that her strength could not last

much longer, and so, seeking a place to land, she flew

inland, following the snaking green line of the Elbe.

 

The movement of her wings was becoming, more

leaden, and she was losing, strength. Now she was fly-

ing lower and lower.

 

In a desperate attempt to regain some altitude, she

closed her eyes and beat her wings with her last

ounce of strength. She didn't know how long she kept

her eyes closed, but when she opened them she was

flying above a tall tower crowned with a golden

weather vane.

 

“Saint Michael's!” she shrieked when she recognized

the tower of the Hamburg, church.

 

Her wings refused to stroke another beat.

 

 

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

FOUR - END OF A FLIGHT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BIG, FAT, BLACK CAT was taking the sun on his

balcony, purring and meditating on how good he felt

lying, there, belly up, luxuriating in the warm rays of

the sun, his four paws folded and his tail straight out.

At the precise moment that he lazily rolled over so

the sun could warm his back, he heard the hum of a

flying, object he couldn't identify, something, approach-

ing at great speed. Alert, he leapt up, crouching on all

 

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The Story of a Seagull

four feet and ready to jump aside to avoid being, hit by the seagull that dropped onto the balcony.

 

It was a very dirty bird. Its whole body was coated with some dark, stinking substance.

 

Zorba walked toward the gull as she tried to stand up, dragging her wings. “That was not a very elegant landing,” he said.

 

“I'm very sorry. I couldn't help it,” the gull admitted.

 

“Eeyow! You look awful. What is that all over you!

And you stink something, awful!” the cat hissed.

 

“I was caught in an oil slick. The curse of the seas.

I'm going to die,” the gull croaked plaintively.

 

“Die? Don't say that. You're tired and dirty. That's all.

Why don't you fly over to the zoo? It isn't too far from here, and there are veterinarians there who can help you,” Zorba said.

 

“I can't. That was my last flight,” the gull croaked in an almost inaudible voice, and closed her eyes.

 

“Don't die on me. Rest a little and you'll see, you'll feel better. Are you hungry? I'll bring you a little of my food, just don't die,” Zorba begged, approaching the swooning, gull.

 

Overcoming, his disgust, the cat licked the gull’s head. The black stuff that covered her tasted as bad as it smelled. As he passed his tongue along her throat, the cat noticed that the bird’s breathing was growing, weaker and weaker.

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

“Look, my little friend. I want to help you, but I don't

know how. Try to rest while I go find out what you do with a sick gull,” Zorba called back, ready to jump to the roof.

 

As he started off in the direction of the chestnut tree, he heard the gull calling him back.

 

“Do you want me to leave you a little of my food?”

Zorba asked, slightly relieved.

 

“I am going to lay an egg. With the last strength in my body, I am going to lay an egg. My good cat, any-one can see that you are a fine animal, one with noble sentiments. And for that reason, | am going to ask you to make me three promises. Will you do that for me?”

Kengah croaked, slowly paddling her feet in a futile

attempt to stand.

 

Zorba thought the poor gull was delirious, and

because she was in such a sorry state, he had no choice

but to be generous. “I promise I will do what you ask.

But for now, just rest,” he mewed with compassion.

 

“I don't have time to rest. Promise me you won't eat the egg,” Kengah croaked, opening, her eyes.

 

“I promise I will not eat the egg,” Zorba repeated.

 

“Promise me that you will look after it until the chick is born,” she squawked, holding her neck a little higher.

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

“I promise I will look after the egg until the chick

is born.”

 

“And promise me that you will teach it to fly,”

Kengah gasped, staring directly into the cat’s eyes.

 

Then Zorba knew that the poor gull was not just

delirious, she was totally mad.

 

“I promise to teach it to fly. And now you rest, I’m

going, to look for help,” Zorba told her, with one leap

reaching the tile roof.

 

Kengah looked toward the sky, thanking, all the good

winds that had carried her through life, and as she

breathed her last sigh, a little blue-speckled white egg

rolled free of her oil-soaked body.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

FIVE ・ IN SEARCH OF ADVICE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZORBA QUICKLY FIRE-POLED down the trunk of

the chestnut tree, raced across the interior patio to

avoid a few roving dogs, went outside, made sure there

was no car coming down the street, crossed, and ran

in the direction of Cuneo, an Italian restaurant in

the port.

 

Two alley cats sniffing around a garbage pail saw

him go hurrying, by.

 

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The Story of a Seagull

“Hey, pal! Do you see what I see? Get an eyeful of that good-looking, hunk,” one yowled.

 

“Right-o, pal. And so black. Remind you of a lard ball? Nah, more like a ball of tar Where you going,

there, tar ball?” the first asked.

 

Although he was very worried about the seagull, Zorba wasn't about to let the remarks of those two derelicts go by. So he stopped in his tracks and, as the hair rose stiff along his spine, he jumped up on top of the garbage pail.

 

Slowly he stuck out his front paw, shot out a claw as long and curved as an upholstery needle, and shoved it into the face of one of his would-be tormentors. “You like this? Well, I have nine more. How would

you like to have them rake your yellow spine?” he said in a conversational tone.

 

With that claw right in front of his eyes, the cat swallowed hard before he answered. “I wouldn't, boss.

Great day, isn't it? Don't you agree?” The alley cat’s eyes

never left the claw.

 

“And you? What do you have to say?” Zorba spit at the second cat.

 

“Hey, I think it’s a nice day too. Great day for a walk, but maybe a little cool.”

 

Having taken care of that matter, Zorba hurried on

to the restaurant, where the waiters were setting, the

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and the cat who taught her to fly

tables for the noontime customers. He stopped at the

door, meowed three times, and sat down to wait. Within

a couple of minutes Secretario, the resident skinny

Italian cat, came out. He was nearly whiskerless, with

only one long, hair on each side of his nose.

 

“Scusi, we ver’ sorry, but if you haven’ made a

reserve, we're not gonna be able serve you. We gotta

the full house,” Secretario said in his Roman accent. He

started to add something, more, but Zorba interrupted

him.

 

“I need to have a little chat with the Colonel. It’s

urgent.”

 

“Urgent! Its always someone with somma last-

minute ‘mergency. I'll see what can | do, but only

because itsa so urgent,” Secretario moaned, and went

back inside the restaurant.

 

The Colonel's age was a bit of a mystery. Some said

he was as old as the restaurant he called home: others

maintained that he was even older. But his age didn't

matter, because everyone remembered that as a

youth hed been known as the Nocturnal Colonel, and

that he possessed a strange talent for giving, advice to

cats who had problems. Although the Colonel never

actually solved any conflict, his counsel alone was com-

forting. Both for his age and for his talents, the Colonel

was the lead authority among, the port cats.

 

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The Story of a Seagull

Secretario came back at a trot.

 

“Follow me. Il Colonnello’s gonna see you. Notta the

norm...” he meowed.

 

Zorba followed him. Threading through table and

chair legs, they headed toward the door of the wine

cellar. They bounded down the steps of the narrow

stairway and at the bottom found the Colonel, tail like

a flagpole, checking the corks of some bottles of cham-

pagne. “Porca miseria! The rats have chewed the corks

of the best champagne in the house. Zorba! Caro

amico!” the Colonel greeted his dear friend. Just like

Secretario, the Colonel liked to show off a little in

Italian himself.

 

“Please forgive me for bothering you just when

you're busy at work, but I have a serious problem and

I need your advice,” Zorba apologized.

 

“I'm at your service, caro amico. Secretario! Serve

al mio amico here a little of that lasagna al forno

they gave us this morning,” ordered the Colonel.

 

“But itsa gone! I didn’t get so much as a sniff,”

Secretario complained.

 

Zorba thanked him, but said he wasn't hungry any-

way. Quickly he told the Colonel about the dramatic

arrival of the gull, her pitiful condition, and the prom-

ises he’d been obliged to make to her. The old cat lis-

tened in silence, then mulled over the matter as he

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The Story of a Seagull

 

swiped his long whiskers. Finally he yowled, “Porca

miseria! We must help that poor seagull get in shape

to fly again.”

 

“Yes,” Zorba said, nodding. “But how?”

 

“Why don’ we go see il professore, that Einstein.

He’sa know everything,” Secretario proposed.

 

“That is exactly what | was going to suggest. Why

did this cat take the very words out of my mouth?” the

Colonel protested.

 

“Yes. Good idea. | will go see Einstein,” Zorba agreed.

 

“We will all go. The problems of one cat of this port

are the problems of all the cats of this port,” the Colonel

declared solemnly.

 

The three cats left the cellar and, cutting through

the labyrinth of interior patios of the row of houses

facing, the port, hurried toward the temple of the cat

called Einstein.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

SIX ・　A STRANGE PLACE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

EINSTEIN LIVED in a place rather difficult to

describe, because at first view you might think it

was a cluttered shop of curious gizmos, a museum of

exotic whatchamacallits, a storehouse of mechanical

thingamajigs, the most chaotic library in the world, or

the laboratory of some brainy inventor of screwball

contraptions. But it was none of these things, or rather,

it was much more than all these things combined.

 

35

The Story of a Seagull

 

 

The place was called Harry's Port Bazaar, and its

owner, Harry, was an old sea dog who, during his fifty

years of roaming the seven seas, had devoted himself

to collecting every kind of object he could find in the

hundreds of ports he had visited.

 

When old age settled into his bones, Harry had

decided to trade his sailor’s life for that of a landlubber,

and he opened the bazaar that housed the jumble of

his collections. He had rented a three-story house on

one of the streets in the port, but soon it was too small

to exhibit the objects in his bizarre bazaar. Then he

rented the house next door; it had two stories and it,

too, wasn't big enough. After renting, a third house he

was able to exhibit the entire conglomeration—

arranged, it is true, with a very odd sense of order.

 

In the three houses, joined by narrow stairways,

there were nearly a million objects, among them, some

worthy of special note: 7,200 hats with floppy brims

that wouldn't be blown away by the wind; 160 wheels

from ships dizzy from sailing round and round the

world; 245 ship’s lights that penetrated the thickest pea

soup fogs; 12 engine-order telegraphs battered by the

ham hands of irate captains: 256 compasses that never

veered from North; 6 wooden life-size elephants; 2

stuffed giraffes posed as if surveying the savanna: 1

stuffed polar bear in whose belly lay the right hand of

 

36

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

a Norwegian explorer; 700 fans whose blades, when

they whirled, recalled the fresh breezes of dusk in the

tropics; 1,200 jute hammocks that guaranteed a per-

fect night's sleep; 1,300 marionettes from Sumatra

that had performed nothing, but love stories; 129 slide

projectors that showed landscapes in which you could

always be happy: 54,000 novels in 47 languages; 2

reproductions of the Eiffel Tower, the first constructed

from a half-million pins, the second from 300,000

toothpicks; 3 cannons from English corsairs; 17 anchors

from the bottom of the North Sea; 2,000 paintings of

sunsets: 17 typewriters that had belonged to famous

authors; 128 flannel long johns for men taller than 6

feet; 7 dinner jackets for dwarves: 500 pipes filled

with sea foam: I astrolabe that stubbornly pointed to

the Southern Cross; 7 huge seashells in which you

could hear the distant echoes of mythic shipwrecks; 12

kilometers of red silk; 2 submarine hatchways; and

other odds and ends too numerous to list.

 

To visit Harry's bazaar, you had to pay an entrance

fee, and once inside you needed a well-developed

sense of direction if you didn't want to get lost in the

labyrinth of windowless rooms, long, corridors, and nar-

row stairways.

 

Harry had two pets: Matthew, a chimpanzee who

acted as ticket taker and security guard for the old

 

 

37

 

The Story of a Seagull

seaman, played checkers with him—of course very

badly—drank his beer, and tried to shortchange his customers. The other mascot was Einstein, a small, slim,

gray cat that devoted most of his time to studying, the

thousands of books in Harry’s collection.

 

The Colonel, Secretario, and Zorba trotted into the bazaar with tails raised high. They were sorry not to see Harry behind the ticket desk because the old man always had affectionate words and a piece of sausage for them.

 

‘Just one minute, you fleabags! You're forgetting

you have to pay,” Matthew yowled.

 

“Since when does a gatto gotta pay?” Secretario protested.

 

“The sign over the door says, ‘Entry fee: two marks.

Nowhere does it say that cats get in gratis. Eight marks

or yer out of here,” the chimp screeched emphatically.

 

“Scusi, Signor Monkey, but | fear the numbers is not

your strong, point,” Secretario rejoined.

 

“That’s exactly what | was going, to say. Once again,

you had to rush in ahead of me!” the Colonel complained.

 

“Blah, blah, blah. Either pay up or get out,” Matthew

threatened.

 

Zorba sprang up on the ticket desk and stared into

the eyes of the chimp. He stared until Matthew blinked

 

36

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Story of a Seagull

 

and his eyes began to water. “All right then, let’s say six

marks. Any chimp can make a mistake,” he squeaked.

 

Zorba, still staring him down, shot out one claw in

his right front paw. “You like this, Matthew? Well I have

nine more. Can you imagine all ten dug, into that red

rump you always have stuck up in the air?” he threat-

ened tranquilly.

 

“Well, this time I'll look the other way,” the chimp

agreed, pretending, to be calm. “You can go in.”

 

The three cats, tails proudly aloft, disappeared into

the maze of corridors.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

40

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

SEVEN ・ A PROFESSORY CAT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“DRBADFUL! DREADFUL! “ Something, dreadful has

happened,” said Einstein, who, like his namesake, knew

about everything there is to know.

 

He was nervously pacing, back and forth before an

enormous book that lay open on the floor, from time

to time holding his head between his front paws. He

seemed truly devastated.

 

“Something, . .. it’s wrong?” asked Secretario.

 

41

The Story of a Seagull

“That is precisely what I was going to ask,” the Colonel said, and humphed.

 

“Come on. It can't be that bad,” Zorba suggested.

 

“Not that bad? It’s dreadful. Dreadful! Those accursed rats have chewed one entire page out of the atlas.

The map of Madagascar has disappeared. It’s dreadful,”

Einstein insisted, tugging, at his whiskers.

 

“Secretario, remind me that | must organize a foray against those devourers of Masacar ... Masgacar... well, you know what I mean,” the Colonel meowed.

 

“Madagascar,” Secretario pronounced precisely.

 

“We'll lend you a hand, Einstein, but right now we're here because we have a big, problem, and since you know everything, maybe you can help us,” Zorba explained, and immediately told the sad story of the gull to him.

 

Einstein listened attentively. He nodded as he took in the details, and every time the nervous twitches of his tail expressed too eloquently the emotions Zorba’s meows were awakening, he tried to tuck it beneath his hind legs.

 

“...and so I left her there, in bad shape, just a while ago... ,” Zorba concluded.

 

“Dreadful story! Dreadful! Hmmm, let me think...

seagull... gull... oil... oil... sick gull... that’s it! We

must consult the encyclopedia!” Einstein exclaimed

42

and the cat who taught her to fly

jubilantly.

 

“The whaaat?” all three cats meowed.

 

“The en-cy-clo-pe-dia. The book of knowledge. We

must look in volumes seven and fifteen, which corre-

spond to the letters G for ‘gull’ and O for ‘oil,” Einstein

stated decisively.

 

“So show us this enplyco ... enclididia ...the thing,”

the Colonel humphed.

 

“En-cy-clo-pe-dia,” Secretario slowly phrased.

 

“Which is just what I was going, to say!” the Colonel

fumed.

 

Einstein climbed up on an enormous piece of furniture where thick, imposing-looking, books sat in a row. When he found the letters G and O on the spines, he clawed those books off the shelf. He jumped down himself and, with a stubby claw worn down from pawing, through so many books, he flipped through the pages. The cats watched and kept a respectful silence as they listened to his nearly inaudible mewings.

 

“Yes, | believe we're on the right path. Very interesting. We're getting, close. Here's “guillotine.” Mercy, very interesting. Listen to this, my friends: ‘a device consisting of a heavy blade held aloft between upright guides and dropped to behead the victim below. Oh, my. Dreadful,” Einstein exclaimed with fascination.

43

The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

“We're notta interest in what you say about the guillotina. We here about a gull,” Secretario interrupted.

“Forgive me. It’s just that for me, the encyclopedia

is irresistible. Every time | look in its pages I learn

something new,” Einstein apologized, and leafed for-

ward. “Ah, Gulf Stream, Gulf War, gulfweed ... gull!”

 

But what the encyclopedia said about gulls was not very helpful. About the most they learned was that the gull concerning them belonged to the Argentatus species, so called because of the silver color of their feathers.

 

And what they found out about oil was similarly

useless in telling them how to help the gull. Worse, they

had to put up with a long lecture from Finstein, who

insisted on telling, them all about the Gulf War of the

1990s.

 

“Well this is a fine kettle of fish! We're right back

where we began,” Zorba exclaimed.

 

“It’s dreadful. Dreadful! For the first time ever the

encyclopedia has failed me,” a disconsolate Einstein

admitted.

 

“And in that enplicosee ... ecmipodelphia . . . well,

you know what | want to say, isn't there any practical

advice about how to take out oil stains?” the Colonel wanted to know.

 

“Inspired! Purely inspired! That's where we should

43

The Story of a Seagull

have begun. I'll get volume nineteen right this minute,

letter S for stain remover,” Einstein announced giddily

as he leaped back onto the bookshelves.

 

“You see? If you would just stop that odious habit of

taking the meows out of my mouth we would know

what to do by now,’ the Colonel scolded the silent Secretario.

 

On the page where he found the words “stain

remover,” besides instructions on how to remove stains

from marmalade, China ink, blood, and raspberry

syrup, they found the formula for removing, oil stains.

 

“Clean the affected area with a cloth moistened in

benzene’ We've got it!” yowled Einstein.

 

“We don't have anything,” Zorba hissed with obvious bad humor. “Where the devil are we going to get benzene?”

 

“Well if Im not mistaken, in our cellar we have a

large can filled with paintbrushes soaking in benzene.

Secretario, you know what you have to do,” the Colonel

yowled.

 

“Scusi, Signor, but I don't catch,” Secretario apolo-

sized,

 

“Very simple: It’s easy. You will dip your tail in ben-

zene, and then we will go take care of that poor gull,”

the Colonel clarified, gazing, off in a different direction.

 

“Ah, no! Notta that! Notta me!” Secretario protested.

46

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I recall that the menu this afternoon features a

double portion of liver and pan gravy,” mused the

Colonel.

 

“Dip my tail in benzina .... Mamma mia! Did you

say liver and pan gravy?”

 

Einstein decided to go with them, so all four cats

trotted toward the exit. As he watched them go by, the

chimpanzee, who had just polished off a beer, favored

them with a rumbling, belch.

 

47

 

The Story of a Seagull

 

EIGHT ・ZORBA BEGINS FULFILLING HIS PROMISES

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FOUR CATS jumped from the roof to the balcony, and

knew immediately that they were too late. The Colonel,

Einstein, and Zorba observed the lifeless body of the

gull with respect, while Secretario whipped his tail in

the wind to rid it of the smell of benzene.

 

“I believe we should fold her wings. That is what is

done in these cases,” the Colonel said sadly.

 

Overcoming, their distaste for the oil-soaked

 

48

and the cat who taught her to fly

feathers, they folded the gull’s wings close to her body,

and in the process they discovered the white egg with blue speckles.

 

“The egg! She did it! She laid her ega!” Zorba exclaimed.

 

“You've got yourself in a fine fix now, caro amico.

A fine fix!” the Colonel warned.

 

“What am I going to do with an egg?” Zorba asked, increasingly distressed.

 

“Bella, bella! So many things to do with the egg. An omelet, for example,” Secretario quickly recommended.

 

“Oh my, yes. One peep at the encyclopedia will tell us how to prepare a mouthwatering omelet. That subject will be in volume fifteen, letter O, the same as ‘oil”” Einstein assured them.

 

“Not one more word about an omelet! Zorba promised that poor gull that he would look after her egg, and her chick. He gave his word of honor, and the word of one cat of the port is the word of all the cats of the port, so no one touches the egg,” the Colonel pronounced solemnly.

 

“But I don't know how to care for an egg! I've never done this before,” Zorba yowled, desperate.

 

Six eyes turned toward Einstein. Perhaps in his famous en-cy-clo-pe-dia there would be something on that subject.

 

43

The Story of a Seagull

 

“I must consult volume five, letter FE. You may be

sure that there we will find everything we need to

know about the egg, but for the moment I advise

warmth, body warmth, a lot of body warmth.” Einstein's

tone was preachery and schoolteachery.

 

“Which means you lie there, but don't make

omelet,” Secretario advised.

 

“Precisely what | was going, to propose. Zorba, you

stay here beside the egg and we will accompany

Einstein to see what his enpilope .. . his nincompoopi

... gad, you know what I'm referring, to. We will be

back this evening with that information, and then we'll

all bury this poor seagull,” the Colonel arranged before

leaping to the roof.

 

Einstein and Secretario followed him. Zorba was left

on the balcony with the egg and the dead gull. Very

carefully he lay down and pawed the egg, close to his

belly. He felt ridiculous. He thought of the razzing, he

would get if the two ruffian cats hed faced down that

morning, could see him now.

 

But a promise is a promise, and so, warmed by the

sunshine, he fell asleep with the blue-speckled egg

next to his big, fat, black stomach.

 

 

 

 

50

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

NINE ・A　SAD　NIGHT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

BY THE LIGHT OF THE MOON, 　Secretario, Einstein,

the Colonel, and Zorba dug, a hole at the foot of the

chestnut tree. Shortly before, taking, great care not to

be seen by any human, they had dragged the dead gull

from the balcony to the interior patio. Quickly they

rolled her body into the hole and covered it with dirt.

Then the Colonel delivered in a solemn address:

“Brother cats, on this moonlit night we must bid

 

51

The Story of a Seagull

farewell to the remains of an unfortunate gull whose

name we never had a chance to find out. All that we

were able to learn about her, thanks to the knowledge

of brother Einstein, is that she belonged to the species

of Argentatus gulls, and that perhaps she came from

very far away, there where the river joins the sea. We

know very little about her, but the important thing is

that she was dying by the time she reached Zorba’s bal-

cony—he being one of our own, of course—and that

she placed all her faith in him. Zorba promised to care

for the egg she laid before she died, and for the chick

that will be born from it, and then—most difficult of

all, brothers—he promised to teach the chick to fly.”

 

“Fly. Volume six, letter F” they heard Einstein mum-

ble in his whiskers.

 

“Exactly what II Colonnello was gonna say. You took

the words right outta his mouth,” Secretario muttered

sarcastically.

 

“.. promises difficult to carry out,” the Colonel con-

tinued, ignoring, Secretario. “But we know that a cat of

the port always lives up to his words. And to help see

that that happens, | order brother Zorba to stay with

the egg, until the chick is born, and brother Einstein to

consult his enplicope ... envelocipede .. . well, those

books of his, to see what he can learn about the art of

flying. And now we bid farewell to this gull who was a

 

52

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Story of a Seagull

victim of a disaster caused by humans. Let us stretch

our necks toward the moon and caterwaul the song, of

farewell known to all the cats of the port.”

 

And there at the foot of the old chestnut tree, four

cats began to meow-ow-ow their sad litany, and to

their yowlings quickly were added those of other

neighborhood cats, and then those of the cats on the

other side of the river, and to the cats’ caterwaulings

were joined the howls of the dogs, the mournful peep-

ing of caged canaries and sparrows in their nests, the

sad croaking, of the frogs, and even the ear-grating

screeching, of the chimpanzee Matthew.

 

Lights came on in all the houses of Hamburg, and

that night all the town's inhabitants wondered to what

they owed the strange melancholy that had suddenly

taken hold of the animals.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

54

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

ONE ・ BROODY 　CAT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE BIG, FAT, BLACK CAT spent many days lying

beside the egg, protecting, it, rolling it back with gen-

tle, furry paws every time an involuntary movement

of his body pushed it an inch or two away. Those were

long, uncomfortable days that Zorba sometimes felt

were a complete waste, because it felt like he was car-

ing, for a lifeless object, a kind of fragile stone, even if

it was white with blue speckles.

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The Story of a Seagull

 

On one occasion, his body cramped from inactivi-

ty—since, in accord with the Colonel's orders, he left the

egg only to eat and to visit his litter box—he felt tempt-

ed to test whether a little gull chick was growing, inside

that calcium container. He placed one ear to the egg,

then another, but he didn’t hear anything. Neither did

he have any luck when he tried to see inside the egg

as he looked at it against the light. The white shell with

the blue speckles was thick and let absolutely no light

through.

 

The Colonel, Secretario, and Einstein visited Zorba

every night, and they always examined the egg to see

if what the Colonel called “expected progress” was

being, made, but as soon as they saw that the egg

looked exactly the same as it did the first day, they

changed the conversation.

 

Einstein never ceased to lament the fact that his

encyclopedia did not reveal the precise length of incu-

bation: the closest fact he was able to extract from his

thick books was that it could be between seventeen

and thirty days, according to the characteristics of the

species to which the mother gull belonged.

 

Sitting the egg had not been at all easy for the big,

fat, black cat. He couldn't forget the morning the friend

who came in to look after his needs thought the floor

 

 

58

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

needed to be swept and decided to run the vacuum

cleaner.

 

Every morning during the time the friend was

there, Zorba hid the egg among some flowerpots on

the balcony in order to devote a few minutes to the

nice person who changed the litter in his box and

opened his cans of food. He would meow in gratitude

and rub against the human's legs, and the human

would go away repeating what a nice cat Zorba was.

But that morning, after hed watched the vacuum

cleaner roar around the living room and bedrooms, he

heard the human say, “And now for the balcony. Dirt

seems to really pile up among those flowerpots.”

 

When the friend heard the explosion of a fruit

bowl shattering into a thousand pieces, he ran to the

kitchen and from the doorway shouted, “What's got

into you, Zorba? Look what you've done. Get out of here

right now, you crazy cat. That’s all we need, for you to

get a sliver of glass in your paw.”

 

What an undeserved insult! Zorba slunk from the

kitchen with his tail between his legs, pretending to be

terribly ashamed, then raced at full speed to the bal-

cony. It wasn't easy to roll the egg from the flowerpots

to one of the bedrooms, but he succeeded, and he wait-

ed there until the human finished cleaning up and left.

 

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

Zorba was drowsing, as night fell on day twenty, and

that is why he didn't notice that the egg was moving—

slowly, but moving, as if it were trying, to roll across the

floor.

 

A tickle on his belly woke him. He opened his eyes,

and he couldn't help flinching when he saw that a lit-

tle yellow tip was appearing and disappearing through

a crack in the egg.

 

He steadied the egg, between his hind legs and thus

was able to watch as the chick pecked and pecked until

a hole opened large enough to allow a tiny, damp,

white head to emerge.

 

“Mommy!” the gull chick squawked.

 

Zorba didn't know how to respond. He knew that his

fur was coal black, but he felt as if emotion and

embarrassment had turned him pink all over.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

60

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

TWO ・ IT ISN'T EASY BEING A MOMMY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“MOMMY! MOMMY!” the chick, now completely out

of the egg, squawked again. It was white as milk, and

half its body was covered with fine, scraggly, stubby

feathers. It tried to take a few steps and fell smack

against Zorba’ belly.

 

“Mommy! I’m hungry!” it squawked, pecking, at

Zorba’ fur.

 

What would he feed it? Einstein hadn't left any

 

61

The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

instructions about feeding. He knew that gulls fed on

fish, but where was he going to get a piece of fish?

Zorba ran to the kitchen and returned rolling an apple.

 

The chick rose up on its trembling legs and

attacked the fruit. The tiny yellow beak tap-tap-tapped

against the skin, doubled as if it were rubber and, with

the recoil, the chick catapulted backward and fell on its

back.

 

“I'm hungry!” it squawked in a rage. “Mommy! I'm

hungry!”

 

Zorba took the chick into the kitchen and tried to

get it to peck a potato, then some of his cat treats—

with the family gone he didn't have much to choose

from!—regretting that he had emptied his bowl before

the chick was hatched. All in vain. The little beak was

very soft and it bent as it struck the potato and the

treats. Then, at the point of desperation, he remem-

bered that the chick was a bird, and that birds eat insects.

 

So Zorba hurried out to the balcony and waited

patiently for a fly to land within range of his claws. It

didn't take long for him to catch one, and he fed it to

the hungry baby gull.

 

The chick pecked at the fly, got it inside its beak

and, closing its eyes, swallowed it. “Yummy, Mommy. I

want more!” it peeped happily.

 

63

The Story of a Seagull

Zorba went outside again and started jumping back and forth around the balcony. He had gathered five flies and one spider when, from the roof of the apartment across the patio, came the voices of the two derelict cats he had stared down days before.

 

“Lookit, pal. Fat boy is doing his rhythmic gymnastics. With a bod like that, no wonder he’s a dancer,” one yowled.

 

“Me, I think he’s practicing aerobics. And what a divine tub he is. So graceful. What style. Hey, lard ball, are they groomin you for a beauty contest?” yowled the other.

 

Both tough cats laughed, safe on the other side of

the patio.

 

Zorba would have been happy to give them the

benefit of his razor claws, but they were too far away,

so he went back to the hungry chick with his haul of

insects.

 

The chick devoured the five flies but refused to

try the spider. Satisfied, it burped and snuggled in

tight against Zorba’s belly. “I’m sleepy, Mommy,” it peeped.

 

“Listen, I'm sorry about this, but I’m not your

mommy,” Zorba meowed.

 

“Of course you're my mommy. And you're a very good mommy,” it replied, and closed its eyes.

When the Colonel, Secretario, and Einstein showed up, they found the chick sleeping next to Zorba.

 

64

and the cat who taught her to fly

“Congratulations. It’s a beautiful little chick. How much does it weigh?” Einstein asked.

“What kind of question is that? I’m not the mother of this chick!” Zorba protested.

 

“But that is what one always asks in such cases.

Don’t take it wrong. In fact, it is a very pretty chick,” said the Colonel.

 

“Dreadful! Dreadful!” Einstein exclaimed, pressing his front paws to his mouth.

 

“May we ask what is so dreadful?” the Colonel asked.

 

“This chick has nothing, to eat. It’s dreadful. Just dreadful!”

 

“You’re right about that,” Zorba agreed. “I had to give it someflies, and I think that before long it’s going to want to eat again.”

 

“Secretario, what are you waiting, for?” The Colonel thumped a paw impatiently.

 

“Scusi, Signor, but I don’ follow.”

 

“Run to the restaurant and bring back a sardine,” the Colonel commanded.

 

“And why me, eh? Why is il Secretario always the errand cat, eh? ‘Dip your tail in the benzina, Secretario. Run and get a sardina, Secretario’ Why always il Secretario?”

65

The Story of a Seagull

 

“Because tonight, good sir, we are going to dine on

squid Romana,” the Colonel replied. “Doesn't that seem

like a good reason?”

 

“My poor tail still stinks of the benzina ... Mamma

mia! Did you say squid Romana?” Secretario asked

before he hustled off.

 

“Mommy, what are those ... things?” the chick

squawked, pointing its beak at the cats.

 

“Mommy! It called you Mommy! How dreadfully

tender,” Finstein blurted out before the look on Zorba’s

face advised him to think better of it.

 

“Well, caro amico, you have fulfilled the first

promise, you are working, on the second, and now all

that's left is the third,” the Colonel declared.

 

“Right. The easiest. Teach it to fly,” Zorba said with

irony.

 

“We shall succeed in that venture. I am consulting

the encyclopedia, but research takes time,” Finstein

reassured him.

 

“Mommy! I’m hungry!” the chick interrupted.

 

 

 

66

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

THREE ・ DANGER AHEAD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE COMPLICATIONS BEGAN on the second day

after the chick hatched. Zorba had to take drastic meas-

ures to prevent the family friend from discovering, his

protégée. The minute he heard the door open, he

turned an empty flowerpot over the chick and sat on

it. Fortunately the human didn't come out on the bal-

cony, and couldn't hear the squawks of protest from the

kitchen.

 

67

The Story of a Seagull

The friend, as always, cleaned out Zorba’s litter box, opened his can of food and, before he left, looked out the balcony door.

 

“I hope you’re not sick, Zorba, This is the first time you haven't come running when I opened your food.

What are you doing, sitting on that flowerpot? Youd think you were hiding something. Well, you crazy cat, see you tomorrow.”

 

What if he’d looked under the pot? Just thinking about it turned Zorba’s stomach, and he had to run to his box.

 

There he was, tail high in the air, feeling greatly relieved and thinking about the human's words.

 

“Crazy cat.” That’s what he’d called him. “Crazy cat.”

 

Maybe he was right, because the most practical thing would have been to let him see the chick. The friend would have thought that Zorba intended to eat it and would have taken it away to raise until it was grown. But he’d hidden it under a flowerpot. Was he crazy after all?

 

No. He wasn't. Zorba was rigorously following the honor code of the cats of the port. He had promised the dying gull he would teach the chick to fly, and he would do it. He didn't know how, but he would do it.

 

Zorba was conscientiously pawing, his litter when

the alarmed squawking, of the chick made him hurry out to the balcony.

 

 

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The Story of a Seagull

What he saw there froze his blood.

 

The two derelict cats were lying in front of the chick, tails twitching with excitement, and one of them had a paw on the chick’s rear end, holding it down.

Fortunately the villains’ backs were turned and they didn't see Zorba. Every muscle in his body tensed.

 

“Who’d a-thought we'd find such a good breakfast, pal. This little chick here looks like the breakfast of kings,” one yowled.

 

“Mommy! Help!” the chick squawked.

 

“My favoritist part of a bird is the wings. These are pretty scrawny, but the thighs look nice and plump,” the other pointed out.

 

Zorba leapt. In the air he shot out the ten claws of his front paws and landed on the two ruffians, banging, their heads against the floor.

 

They tried to get up, but each time they did, a claw hooked through an ear.

 

“Mommy! They wanted to eat me!” the chick squawked.

 

“Eat your kid? No, ma’am. Not us,” one yowled, his head plastered to the balcony floor.

 

“We're vegetarians, ma’am. Strict vegetarians,” the other swore.

 

“Tam not a ‘madam, you morons,” Zorba hissed, jerking

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and the cat who taught her to fly

their heads up by the ears so they could see him.

 

When they recognized him, the two raiding cats felt their hair stand on end.

 

“Right, pal, that’s a good-looking kid you got there.

He’s gonna make a great cat,” the first assured Zorba.

 

“You can see that a mile away. Yep, a good-looking little cat, all right,” the second agreed.

 

“It’s not a cat, stupid. It’s a seagull chick,” Zorba corrected.

 

“Yeah, that’s what I always tell my buddy here:

Everyone should have a little gull,” the first exclaimed.

“Ain’t that right, buddy?”

 

Zorba decided to end the farce, but first those two cretins were going to take away a souvenir from his claws. He pulled away his front paws, and his claws split an ear on each of those two cowards. Yowling with pain, they beat a fast retreat.

 

“My mommy is very brave!” the chick shrieked.

 

Zorba realized that the balcony was not safe, but he couldn't take the chick inside because it would dirty the carpet and ultimately be discovered by the family friend.

 

“Come on, we're going to take a little walk,” Zorba

meowed as he delicately picked up the chick between

his teeth.

 

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FOUR ・ DANGER NEVER RESTS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

GATHERED IN HARRY’S BAZAAR, the cats decided

that the chick could not be left at Zorba’s apartment

any longer. There were too many risks, and even

greater than the threatening presence of the two

derelict cats was the human.

 

“Humans, unfortunately, are unpredictable. Often

it’s with the best intentions that they cause the great-

est damage,” the Colonel moralized.

 

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“You’re right. Just consider Harry, for example. He's

a good man, all heart, and he’s fond of the chimp and

he knows that Matthew is too fond of his beer. Even so,

blam! he hands that monkey a bottle every time he

gets thirsty,” said Einstein. “Now our poor Matthew is

an alcoholic. He’s beyond shame, and every time he

gets drunk he likes to sing off-color songs. Dreadful.”

 

“And when they understand what they do? Jus’

think of that nice gull. She died because they crazy,

pollutin’ the ocean with all their garbages,” Secretario

added.

 

After a brief conference, they agreed that Zorba

and the chick would live in the bazaar until it learned

to fly. Zorba would go back to the apartment every

morning, so the human didn't get worried, and then

would return to look after the chick.

 

“It’s notta be a bad idea to give the bambino a

name,” Secretario suggested.

 

“Exactly what I was going to propose. I do resent

your butting in!” the Colonel complained.

 

“I agree,” said Zorba. “It should have a name, but

first we have to know if it’s a boy or a girl.”

 

He hadn't got that thought out before Einstein had

trotted over to consult the volume with the letter S and

was flipping through its pages looking for the word

“sex.”

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and the cat who taught her to fly

Unfortunately, the encyclopedia said nothing, at all about how to distinguish the sex of a gull chick.

 

“You have to admit that your encyclopedia hasn't been much help to us,” Zorba complained.

 

“I refuse to accept any criticism of the efficacy of my encyclopedia. All knowledge is contained in these books,” Einstein returned, offended.

 

“What about Seven-aSeas! He’s an oceans cat. He's a gatto who can tell if our bambino is a boy gull or a girl gull,” Secretario assured them.

 

“Exactly what I...! 1 forbid you to ever ...!” the Colonel sputtered.

 

The cats were deep into their discussion, so the chick started wandering around among the dozens of stuffed birds. There were blackbirds, parrots, toucans, peacocks, eagles, and falcons, and it was looking at all of them with terror. Suddenly an animal with red eyes was standing in its way, something that obviously

wasn’t stuffed.

 

“Mommy! Help!” the chick shrieked with terror.

 

The first to reach it was Zorba, and just in time, because at just that instant the rat was stretching, its front paws toward the chick’s neck.

 

When it saw Zorba, the rat fled toward a crack in the wall.

“It wanted to eat me!” the little chick squawked,

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The Story of a Seagull

huddling, close to Zorba.

 

“We didn't think about this danger. I believe we're going to have to have a serious talk with the rats,” Zorba said.

 

“I agree. But don't make too many concessions to those rascals,” the Colonel counseled.

 

Zorba went over to the crack. It was very dark inside, but he could see the red eyes of the rat.

 

“I want to see your leader,” Zorba said decisively.

 

“I am the leader,” he heard from the darkness.

 

“If you're the leader, then you rats must be lower than cockroaches. Tell your leader I want to see him,” Zorba insisted.

 

Zorba heard the rat scrabble away, and heard it slide down a pipe, claws screeching. After a few minutes, Zorba again saw its red eyes in the shadows.

 

“Our leader will see you. In the cellar of the seashells, behind the pirate’s chest, there is a way in,” the rat squeaked.

 

Zorba went down to the seashell room. He looked behind the chest and found a hole in the wall big enough for him to get through. He pawed away the cobwebs and crawled into the world of the rats. It smelled of dankness and filth.

 

“Follow the drainpipes,” squeaked a rat he couldn't see.

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

He obeyed. The farther he crawled, the more dust and dirt clung to his fur.

 

He moved through the shadows until he reached a section of the sewer that was dimly lighted by a faint ray of daylight. Zorba guessed he must be under the street, and that the light he saw was sifting through a manhole cover. The place smelled terrible, but it was roomy enough to allow Zorba to stand on all fours. A channel of stinking water cut through the center of

the room. Then he saw the leader of the rats: The large, dark gray rodent, its body covered with scars, was running, a claw up and down the rings of its tail.

 

“My, my. Look who’s come for a visit. Old fatso,” squeaked the leader of the rats.

 

“Fatso! Fatso!” chorused a dozen rats whose red eyes were the only things Zorba could see.

 

“IT want you to leave the chick alone,” he hissed.

 

“So you cats have a little chick. I knew it. We hear all the dirt down here in these sewers. They say it’s a tasty little thing. Very tasty. Hee hee hee,” squeaked the rat leader.

 

“Very tasty! Hee hee hee,” chorused the others.

 

“That chick is under the protection of the cats,” Zorba said, not intimidated.

 

“So you can eat it when it grows up? Without

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and the cat who taught her to fly

inviting, us? Pretty selfish of you whisker-lickers,” the rat accused.

 

“Selfish! Selfish!” repeated the other rats.

 

“As you well know, I have liquidated more rats than I have hairs on my body. If anything happens to the chick, your hours are numbered.” Zorba’s tone was serene.

 

“Listen, you butterball, have you thought about how

youre going to get out of here? We can make mince-

cat out of you,” the rat threatened.

 

“Mincecat! Mincecat!” the other rats repeated.

 

Suddenly Zorba sprang toward the rat leader. He came down on its back, holding, its head down with his claws.

 

“You are this close to losing your eyes. Maybe your

gang can make mincecat of me, but you will never

see again. Now, will you leave the chick alone?”

 

“What shocking manners you have. All right,” the

rat accepted. “No mincecat, no chick. Everything, is

negotiable in the sewers.”

 

“Then we'll negotiate. What do you want in return

for respecting the chick's life?” Zorba asked.

 

“Free access to the patio. The Colonel ordered our

route to the market to be cut off. We want free access

to the patio,” the rat squeaked.

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The Story of a Seagull

 

 

“Agreed. You may go through the patio, but by

night, when the humans won't see you. We cats have to

protect our reputations.” Zorba let the rat go.

 

He backed his way out, never taking his eyes from

the leader of the rats or from the dozens of red eyes

glaring, at him with hatred.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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FIVE * BOY GULL OR GIAL GULL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IT WAS THREE DAYS before they could talk with

SevenSeas, who was their friend and an oceangoing,

cat, an authentic oceangoing, cat.

 

SevenSeas was the mascot of Hannes II, a powerful

barge responsible for keeping the mouth of the Elbe

free and clear of silt and refuse. The crew of the Hannes

II appreciated SevenSeas, a honey-colored cat with blue

eyes, whom they considered just another mate in the

 

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difficult work of dredging the channel of the river.

 

On stormy days, SevenSeas wore a yellow oilcloth

raincoat tailored to his measure, just like the slickers

the crew wore, and he prowled the deck with the

frown of sailors accustomed to defying bad weather.

 

The Hannes II had also dredged the harbors of

Rotterdam, Antwerp, and Copenhagen, and SevenSeas

would tell entertaining, stories about those voyages. Oh,

yes. He was an authentic oceangoing cat.

 

“Ahoy!” SevenSeas called out as he entered the bazaar.

 

The chimpanzee blinked quizzically as he watched

the cat approach, rocking, from side to side like a sailor

and ignoring the importance of Matthew's dignified

position as ticket seller for the establishment.

 

“If you don't know how to say good day, at least pay

your entry fee, fleabag,” Matthew grunted.

 

“Dummy to starboard! Did you call me a fleabag?

Chatterin’ barracuda choppers! Just so you'll know,

insects in every port of the world have chomped on

this hide. Someday I'll tell you the tale of a certain

leech that slapped its suckers into my back and drank

my blood till it was so heavy I couldn't carry it. And I'll

tell you the one about the fleas on Cacatua Island that

have to feed on seven men to get their fill at cocktail

hour. Up anchor, macaque, and don't cut across my

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

bow!” SevenSeas commanded, and kept walking, with-

out waiting, for the chimp’s response.

 

When he reached the room with the books, he paused at the door to greet the cats gathered there.

 

“Moin!” SevenSeas announced himself. He liked to say “good morning.” in the harsh but sweet dialect of Hamburg.

 

“Capitano! You're here at last. You don't know how

much we need you!” the Colonel greeted him.

 

Quickly, they told SevenSeas the story of the seagull

and of Zorba’s promises, promises that, they repeated,

all of them must keep.

 

SevenSeas listened with solemn nods of his head.

 

“Blindir’ squid’s ink! Terrible things happen at sea.

Sometimes | wonder whether humans have gone

completely mad, because they're turnin the ocean into

one big, garbage dump. I’ve just come from dredgin’

the mouth of the Elbe, and you can't imagine the filth

the tides have washed up there. By the shell of the sea

turtle! We pulled up barrels of insecticide, old tires,

and tons of those accursed plastic bottles humans

leave behind on the beaches,” SevenSeas reported, boil-

ing with anger.

 

“Dreadful! Dreadful! If things go on this way, it won't

be long before the word ‘pollution’ will take up all of

volume sixteen, letter P” Einstein sighed, scandalized.

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The Story of a Seagull

 

“Well, what can this old tar do for your poor bird?”

SevenSeas asked.

 

“You alone, who know the secrets of the sea, can tell us if the chick is a boy gull or a girl gull,” the Colonel replied.

 

They led him to where the chick was happily sleep-

ing, off a feast of squid provided by Secretario, who, fol-

lowing the Colonel's orders, had been put in charge of

the food detail.

 

SeavenSeas reached out a paw, examined the chick's

head, and then lifted the feathers beginning to sprout

on the chick’s rear. The chick looked at Zorba with

frightened eyes.

 

“Clackin’ crab’s claws!” the oceangoing cat proclaimed, amused. “This is a pretty little girl gull who someday is going to lay as many eggs as | have hairs on my tail!”

 

Zorba licked the little gull’s head. He regretted that

he hadn't asked the mother what her name was,

because if the daughter was destined to continue the

flight so tragically interrupted by human indifference,

it would be nice if she had her mother’s name.

 

“Considering, that the chick had the good fortune to

end up under our protection,” the Colonel said, “I pro-

pose that we call her Lucky.”

 

“Gappin grouper’s gills! Now there's a pretty name

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The Story of a Seagull

for you,” Seven Seas cheered. “I recall a beautiful yacht

I once saw in the Baltic. That was her name, too, and

she was white all over, just like this young gull.”

 

“IT know in this heart our bambina’s gonna do

something, great. Si, for sure her name’s gonna be in

that big book, numero twelve, letter L,” Secretario

added.

 

Everyone was in favor of the name proposed by

the Colonel. The five cats formed a circle around the

little gull, rose up on their hind legs and, joining their

front paws to make a canopy over the chick, they

meowed the baptismal ritual of the cats of the port.

 

“We salute you, Lucky, dear to all port cats.”

 

“Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!” Seven Seas yowled joyfully.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

SIX　・　LUCHY, TRULY FORTUNATE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

LUCKY GREW RAPIDLY, enveloped in the affection

of the cats. After a month of living in Harry's bazaar

she had grown into a svelte young, gull with silky silver

feathers.

 

When tourists visited the bazaar, Lucky followed the

Colonel's instructions and sat very still among the

stuffed birds, pretending to be one of them. But in the

late afternoon, when the bazaar closed and the old sea

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

dog, retired, she waddled with her swaying, seabird walk

through all the rooms, marveling, at the thousands of

objects they contained, while Einstein frantically pawed

through book after book, looking for the method by

which Zorba might teach the fledgling, to fly.

 

“Flying, consists of pushing air backward and down-

ward. Aha! Now we have something important,”

Einstein mused with his nose in a book.

 

“And why do | have to fly?” Lucky squawked, wings

tight against her body.

 

“Because you are a seagull, and seagulls fly,”

Einstein replied. “It seems dreadful to me, dreadful!

that you don't know that.”

 

“But I don't want to fly. And I don't want to be a

seagull, either,” Lucky argued. “I want to be a cat, and

cats don't fly.”

 

One afternoon she waddled to the entrance of the

bazaar, where she had an unpleasant encounter with

the chimpanzee.

 

“I don't want bird droppings around here, you pain-

in-the-behind bird!” Matthew screeched.

 

“Why do you call me that, Mister Monkey?” she

asked timidly.

 

“That's all birds do. Leave droppings everywhere.

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The Story of a Seagull

And you’re a bird,” the chimp repeated with authority.

 

“You're mistaken. 1 am a cat and very clean,” Lucky

protested, seeking, the simian’s sympathy. “I use the

same box Einstein uses.”

 

“That's a laugh! What’s happened is that that gang,

of fleabags has convinced you that you're one of them.

Look at your body: You have two feet, and cats have

four. You have feathers, and cats have fur. And your

tail? Eh? Where's your tail? You're as nuts as that cat

that spends its life reading and exclaiming, ‘Dreadful!

Dreadful!’ Idiot bird. And do you want to know why

your friends are so good to you? Because they're wait-

ing, for you to fatten up so they can make a good feast

of you. They'll eat you feathers and all!” screeched the

chimp.

 

That afternoon the cats were surprised that the

seagull did not show up to eat her favorite dish—the

squid that Secretario filched from the restaurant

kitchen.

 

Worried, they went to look for her, and it was Zorba

who found her sadly huddled among, the stuffed ani-

mals, “Aren't you hungry, Lucky? We have squid,” Zorba

told her.

 

The gull didn't open her bill.

 

“Do you feel bad?” Zorba insisted, worried. “Are you

sick?”

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

“Do you want me to eat so I'll get nice and plump?”

she asked without looking, up.

 

“No, so you will grow up healthy and strong,”

 

“And when I’m fat, will you invite the rats to eat me

up?” she squawked, her eyes filled with tears.

 

“Where did you get that nonsense?” Zorba yowled

angrily.

 

Tearfully, Lucky recounted everything Matthew

had screeched to her. Zorba licked away her tears and

soon he heard himself addressing, the young, seagull as

he never had before.

 

“You are a seagull. The chimpanzee is right about

that, but only about that. We all love you, Lucky. And we

love you because you are a seagull. A beautiful seagull.

I haven't contradicted you when I’ve heard you squawk

that you’re a cat, because it flatters us that you want

to be like us, but you're different and we're happy that

you’re different. We weren't able to help your mother,

but we can help you. We've protected you from the

moment you pecked your way out of your shell. We've

given you all our affection without ever thinking, of

making, a cat out of you. We love you as a gull. We feel

that you love us too, that we're your friends, your fam-

ily, and we want you to know that with you we've

learned something that makes us very proud: We've

learned to appreciate and respect and love someone

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The Story of a Seagull

who's different from us. It’s very easy to accept and

love those who are like us, but to love someone differ-

ent is very hard, and you have helped us do that. You

are a seagull, and you must follow your destiny as a

seagull. You must fly. When you do learn, Lucky, I prom-

ise you that you'll be happy, and then your feelings

toward us and ours for you will be even deeper and

more beautiful because it will be affection between

totally different creatures.”

 

“I'm afraid to fly,” Lucky squawked, standing up.

 

“When it happens, I will be with you,” Zorba

meowed, licking Lucky's head. “I promised your mother.”

 

The young, gull and the big, fat, black cat began

walking back—he licking her head tenderly, and she

extending one of her wings across his back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

SEVEN ・ LEARNING TO FLY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“BEFORE WE START, we need to review the techni-

cal aspects one last time,” Einstein began.

 

From the top of the bookshelves, the Colonel,

Secretario, Zorba, and Seven Seas were attentively

observing, what was going on below. Lucky was stand-

ing, at the end of a corridor that had been designated

the runway, and at the other end was Einstein, bent

over volume twelve, letter L of the encyclopedia. It lay

 

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open to one of the pages devoted to Leonardo da Vinci,

where there was an illustration of a strange contraption the great Italian master had called a “flying machine.”

 

“If you please,” directed Einstein. “First we must confirm the stability of points of support A and B.”

 

“Testing, points of support A and B,” Lucky repeated,

jumping first on her left foot and then on the right.

 

“Perfect. Now we will test the extension of points C and D,” instructed Einstein, who felt as important as an engineer for NASA.

 

“Testing, extension of points C and D,” obeyed Lucky,

extending, her wings.

 

“Perfect!” Einstein said approvingly. “Let us repeat

that once more.”

 

“Whistlin walrus whiskers!” yowled SeavenSeas. “Just

let the girl fly!”

 

“Let me remind you that I am the technician

responsible for this flight!” Einstein rejoined. “Every

aspect must be fully checked or else the consequences

could be dreadful for Lucky. Dreadful!”

 

“Naturalmente. He know what he do,” Secretario

seconded.

 

“That is exactly what I was going, to say,” steamed the Colonel.

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and the cat who taught her to fly

During, the last week two events had happened to

make the cats realize the gull truly wanted to fly, even

though she disguised her feelings very well.

 

The first had occurred one afternoon when Lucky

went with the cats to take the sun on the roof of

Harry’s bazaar. After enjoying the rays for an hour or

so, they saw three gulls flying high, high overhead.

 

They looked beautiful, majestic, outlined against

the blue of the sky. At times they seemed to be frozen

in space, simply floating on air with extended wings,

but then with one slight movement they thrust for-

ward with a grace and elegance that wakened envy

and made the watchers want to be up there with

them. Something made the cats turn from the sky to

look at Lucky. The young seagull was watching, the

flight of her fellow gulls, and without realizing she had

stretched out her wings.

 

“Look at that. She wants to fly,” the Colonel whispered.

 

“Yes, it’s time for her to learn,” Zorba agreed. “She's a

big, strong, gull.”

 

“Lucky! Volare! Try!” Secretario called out to her.

 

But when she heard the encouragements of her

friends, Lucky silently folded her wings and moved

closer to them. She lay down beside Zorba and began

to click her bill, pretending she was purring.

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

The second thing had happened the following, day as the cats were listening to one of Seven Seas’s stories.

 

“... and as I was telling you, the waves were so high, we couldn't sight the coast, and worst of all—great grinnin’ dolphins—our compass was busted. Five days and

five nights we were battered by the storm, not knowin’

whether we were sailing toward land or out to sea.

Then, just when we thought everything was lost, the

lookout saw a flock of gulls. We were one happy crew,

my friends. We changed course in the direction the

gulls were flyin’, and that was how we made land.

Chatterin’ barracuda choppers! Those gulls saved our

lives! If we hadn't seen them, old Seven Seas wouldn't be

here tellin’ this tale to you landlubbers.”

 

Lucky, who always followed the oceangoing cat’s stories with great attention, had listened to this one wide-eyed. “You mean seagulls fly during storms?” she asked.

 

“Why, gulls are the strongest birds in the universe,” Seven Seas assured her. “No bird knows more about flyin’ than a gull.”

 

The tales of the oceangoing cat struck deep in Lucky's heart. She thumped the floor with her feet, and her bill clicked nervously.

 

“So, then, Miss Lucky, you think you want to fly?”

Zorba asked.

 

Lucky looked at them, one by one, before she

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and the cat who taught her to fly

answered: “Yes! Please, teach me to fly!”

 

The cats yowled their joy and immediately put paws to the task. They had been waiting, a long time for this moment. With the patience characteristic of cats, they had waited for the young, gull herself to communicate her wish to fly, because ancestral wisdom had taught them that flying is a very personal decision. Happiest of all was Einstein, who by now had ferreted out the basics of flight in volume twelve, letter L of the encyclopedia, and for that reason had assumed responsibility for directing operations.

 

“Ready for takeoff!” Einstein announced.

 

“Ready for takeoff!” Lucky echoed.

 

“Begin your taxi down the runway by pushing, back with points of support A and B.”

 

Lucky began to move forward, but slowly, as if she were rolling, on rusty wheels.

 

“More speed,” Einstein urged.

The young, gull waddled a little faster.

“Now, extend points C and D.”

 

Lucky extended her wings as she moved forward.

 

“Now! Lift point F!” ordered Einstein.

Lucky elevated her tail feathers.

 

“And now! Move points C and D up and down to

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and the cat who taught her to fly

push air downward, and at the same time lift points A

and B!”

 

Lucky flapped her wings, picked up her feet, rose a

few inches, and immediately dropped like lead.

 

The cats leaped down from the bookshelves and ran

to her. They found her with tear-filled eyes.

 

“I'm a failure! I'm a failure!” she repeated, disconso-

late.

 

“No one ever flies on the first try, you will learn. |

promise you,” Zorba meowed, licking her head.

 

Einstein kept working at detecting the problem,

going over Leonardo’s flying machine again and again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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EIGHT ・ THE CATS DECIDE TO BREAR THE TABOO

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

SEVENTEEN TIMES Lucky attempted to fly, and sev-

enteen times she ended up on the floor after rising

only a few inches.

 

Einstein, thinner even than usual, had yanked out

his whiskers after the first twelve failures, and with a

trembling, voice tried to apologize.

 

“I do not understand. I have conscientiously

checked the theory of flight. I have compared

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

Leonardo's instructions with everything in the section

devoted to aerodynamics, volume one, letter A of the

encyclopedia, and | still can't find the problem. It's

dreadful. Dreadful!”

 

The cats accepted his explanations and were centering, all their attention on Lucky, who, with every failed attempt, became more sad and melancholy.

 

Following the most recent failure, the Colonel had

decided to suspend the experiments, for his experience told him that the gull was beginning to lose confidence in herself, and that could be very dangerous if she truly hoped to fly.

 

“Maybe she'sa not able,” Secretario suggested.

“Maybe she’sa lived too long with us and has lost the

how to fly.”

 

“If one follows the technical instructions and respects the laws of aerodynamics, it is possible to fly. Never forget that it is all here in the encyclopedia,” Einstein pointed out.

 

“Sufferin’ stingrays!” exclaimed Seven Seas. “She's a

seagull, and seagulls fly!”

 

“She has to fly. 1 promised her mother and | promised her. She has to fly,” Zorba repeated.

 

“And each of us is responsible for keeping that promise,” the Colonel reminded them.

 

“We have to admit that we don't know how to teach

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her to fly; we must look for help beyond the cat world,”

Zorba proposed.

 

“Youre a straight-talker, caro amico. Where do you

want to go?” the Colonel asked seriously.

 

“I seek your authorization to break the sacred taboo

for the first and last time in my life,” Zorba requested,

staring deep into his companions’ eyes.

 

“Break the taboo!” the cats yowled in unison, claws

exposed and hair bristling along their backs.

 

“To speak the language of humans is taboo” had

always been the code of the cat, and not because cats

hadn't been interested in communicating with

humans. The risk lay in how the humans would

respond. What would they do with a talking cat?

Almost surely they would cage it and put it through all

manner of stupid tests, because in general, humans

are incapable of accepting that a creature unlike them

could understand them and try to be understood. Cats

were aware, of course, of the sad fate of the dolphins,

who had displayed their intelligence to humans who

had in turn condemned the dolphins to acting like

clowns in aquatic spectacles. And they also knew about

the humiliations to which humans subject any animal

that shows itself to be intelligent and receptive to

them. Lions, for example, those big, cats forced to live

behind bars. They suffer the shame of letting some

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

idiot stick his head in their jaws. And parrots, they have

to live in cages, imitating humans’ stupid chatter over

and over. That was why meowing, in the tongue of the

humans presented a very grave risk for cats.

 

“You stay here with Lucky. We will retire to debate

your request,” the Colonel ordered.

 

The meeting, of the cats, conducted behind closed

doors, lasted a long time. Long hours during which

Zorba lay close beside the gull, who couldn't hide her

dejection at not being, able to fly.

 

It was night before they finished. Zorba padded

toward them to learn their decision.

 

“The cats of the port authorize you to break the

taboo—this one time only! You will speak with a single

human, but first we must decide which among, them

it will be,” the Colonel declared solemnly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

NINE ・ CHOOSING THE NUMAN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IT WASN’T EASY to decide which human Zorba

would consult. The cats made a list of all the humans

they knew, and started discarding them one by one.

“René, the chef at the restaurant, is undoubtedly a

fair and generous human. He always sets aside a por-

tion of his special dishes for us, and Secretario and I

devour them with pleasure. But the only things our

good René understands are spices and saucepans; he

 

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and the cat who taught her to fly

would not be much help in this case,” the Colonel

affirmed.

 

“Harry, too, is a good person. He's understanding and

friendly with everyone, even that Matthew, whom he

forgives for dreadful behavior, dreadful! Like drenching,

himself with patchouli, which smells dreadful.

Dreadful! But although Harry may know a lot about

the sea and about sailing, when it comes to flying, he

knows zero,” Einstein contributed.

 

“Carlo, the maitre d’ at il ristorante, says that I’ma

belong, to him, and | let him believe it ‘cause he’s good

fellow. I’m sad to tell, though, that he knows the soccer,

the basketball, the volleyball, the horse race, the box,

and many more, but never he say nothin’ bout the fly-

ing,” Secretario reported.

 

“My captain's a very good man, so soft-hearted that

in his last fight in a bar in Antwerp he took on twelve

guys who had insulted him and left only half of them

out of commission. But great clamorin’ clamshells, he

gets dizzy just climbir up on a chair. I don't see how he

can help us,” Seven Seas added decisively.

 

“The boy at my house would understand me,” Zorba

said. “But he’s on vacation, and, anyway, what could a

little boy know about flying?”

 

“Porca miseria! That’s the end of our list,” the

Colonel growled.

 

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“No. There is still one human who isn't on our list,”

Zorba countered. “The one who lives with Angelina.”

 

Angelina was a pretty black-and-white cat who

spent long hours taking her ease among the flower-

pots on a terrace. All the tomcats of the port paraded

slowly past her, showing off the suppleness of their

bodies, the gleam of their carefully groomed coats, the

length of their whiskers, the elegance of their high-

rigged tails, all to impress her, but Angelina was indif-

ferent to them all; she accepted affection only from

her human, who sat on the terrace hour after hour at

a typewriter.

 

He was a strange human, who sometimes laughed

after he read what hed just written and other times

folded up the sheets of paper without reading them.

His terrace was always softly flooded with soft and

melancholy music that made Angelina drowsy and

drew deep sighs from the tomcats passing, by.

 

“Angelina's human? Why him?” the Colonel asked.

 

“I don't know. But I feel I can trust that human,”

Zorba confessed. “I’ve heard him read what he’s writ-

ten. Beautiful words that make you happy or make you

sad, but they always please you and make you want to

hear more.”

 

“A poet! What that human does is called poetry.

Volume seventeen, letter P in the encyclopedia,”

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and the cat who taught her to fly

Einstein assured them.

 

“Why you think this Angelina’s human knows the

flying?” Secretario wanted to know.

 

“Maybe he doesn't know how to fly with bird's

wings, but when I've listened to him it’s always made

me feel he’s flying with his words,” Zorba replied.

 

“All who agree that Zorba should go to see Angelina's

human, please raise your right paw,” the Colonel pro-

claimed.

 

And that was how they authorized Zorba to consult

with the poet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

TEN・ A FEMALE CAT,A MALE CAT, AND A POET

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ZORBA SET OUT across the roof tiles toward the ter-

tace of the chosen human. When he saw Angelina

reclining, among, the flowerpots, he stared and sighed

before he meowed. “Angelina, don't be alarmed. I'm up

here.”

 

“What do you want? Who are you?” the beauty

asked, startled.

 

“Don't leave, please. My name is Zorba, and | live near here. | need your help. May I come down?”

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

Angelina nodded. Zorba leapt down to the terrace and sat on his haunches. Angelina came over to sniff him.

 

“You smell of books, of damp, of old clothes, of a bird, and of dust, but your coat is clean,” Angelina approved.

 

“Those are the smells of Harry's bazaar. Don't be surprised if I smell of chimpanzee as well,” he warned her.

 

Soft music wafted out onto the terrace.

“What pretty music.”

‘Vivaldi. The Four Seasons. What do you want of me?” Angelina queried.

 

“I want you to invite me inside and introduce me to your human,” Zorba answered.

 

“Impossible. He's working, and no one, not even me, is supposed to bother him,” the cat replied.

 

“Please, this is a very urgent matter. I ask you in the name of all the cats of the port,” Zorba pleaded.

 

“Why do you want to see him?” Angelina asked, slightly suspicious.

“I need to speak with him,” Zorba insisted.

“That’s taboo!” Angelina yowled as the hair stood up on her back. “Go away!”

 

“No. And if you won't invite me in... well, have him come out here! Do you like rock music, beautiful?”

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

Indoors, the human was typing. He was feeling

happy because he was on the verge of finishing a

poem and the lines were flowing with amazing ease.

Suddenly from the terrace he heard the yowling of a

cat that wasn't Angelina. The caterwauling was badly

out of tune, but it did seem to have a certain beat. Half

annoyed, half intrigued, he went out on the terrace

and had to rub his eyes to believe what he was seeing.

 

Angelina had her front paws over her ears; in front

of her was a big, fat, black cat sitting on the base of his

spine and leaning, back against a flowerpot. He was

holding, his tail with a front paw as if it were a bass fid-

dle, and with the other paw he was pretending to pluck

its strings, all the time yowling, nerve-curdling meows.

 

Once over his surprise, the human couldnt help

but laugh, and when he doubled over, holding, his stom-

ach from laughing, so hard, Zorba took advantage of the

moment to slip inside the house.

 

When the human, still weak with laughter, went

back inside, he found the big, fat, black cat sitting ina

chair.

 

“That was some concert! You're a very original Don

Juan, but I’m afraid that Angelina doesn't like your

music. It was a godawful concert!” the human said.

 

“I know I’m a terrible singer. No one’s perfect,” Zorba

replied in the language of the humans.

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The Story of a Seagull

The human opened his mouth, clapped one hand to his head, and fell back against the wall.

“You’re... you're ... talking,” the human exclaimed.

“You're talking too, and I’m not surprised. Please, becalm,” said Zorba.

 

“A... a c-c-cat ... that talks!” Now the human collapsed onto the sofa.

 

“I don't talk, 1 meow, but in your language. I know how to meow in many languages,” Zorba said.

 

The human covered his eyes with his hands and repeated, “I'm just tired, I’m just tired.” When he took his hands away, the big, fat, black cat was still on the chair.

 

‘I'm hallucinating. You're just an_ hallucination, right?” the human asked.

 

“No, I'm a real cat sitting here talking with you,” Zorba assured him. “The cats of the port have chosen you, among, many humans, to confide a great problem to. We're hoping, you will help us. You're not crazy. I'm real.”

 

“You say you speak in many languages?” the human asked, still doubting.

 

“I suppose you want proof. Well, go ahead, try me.”

“Buon giorno,” the human said.

 

“It’s late in the day for that. Buona sera would be better,” Zorba corrected.

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The Story of a Seagull

“Kalimera,” the human insisted in Greek.

“Kalispera, I told you that it’s late,” Zorba corrected a second time.

“Dobroye utro!” the human shouted in Russian.

“Dobry den. Do you believe me now?” Zorba asked.

 

“Yes, And even if this is a dream, so what? | like it and I want to keep dreaming, it,” the human replied.

“Good, then let's get down to it,” Zorba proposed.

The human nodded, but he asked Zorba to respect the ritual of humans’ conversations. He served Zorba a plate of milk, and he sat down on the sofa with a glass of cognac in his hand.

 

“Speak on, cat,” said the human, and so Zorba told him the story of the dying gull, the egg, little Lucky, and the fruitless efforts of the cats to teach her to fly.

“Can you help us?” Zorba asked when he had finished his cat tale.

 

“LT think I can. And this very night,” the human responded.

 

“This very night? Are you sure?”

 

“Look out the window, cat. Look at the sky. What do you see?” asked the human.

 

“Clouds. Black clouds. A storm’s on the way, and it

will rain very soon,” Zorba observed.

 

“Well, that’s why tonight,” said the human.

 

“T don't understand. I’m sorry, but I don’t understand.”

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and the cat who taught her to fly

The human went to his desk, took out a book, and

searched through the pages. “Listen, cat. I’m going to

tread you something by a poet named Bernardo

Atxaga. A few lines from a poem entitled ‘Gulls.”

 

‘But their small hearts

 

— the hearts of all aerialists —

 

long, for nothing

 

as much as for the wild rain

 

that almost always brings wind,

 

that almost always brings sun.

 

“I get it now. I knew youd be able to help us,” said

Zorba, leaping, from the chair.

 

They agreed to meet at midnight outside the door

of the bazaar, and the big, fat, black cat loped off to

inform his companions.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

ELEVEN・ FLIGHT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A HEAVY RAIN was falling over Hamburg, and the

smell of wet earth was rising from the gardens. The

asphalt streets were gleaming, and the neon signs

were reflected, distorted, on wet sidewalks. A man ina

raincoat was walking, down a deserted street toward

Harry’s Port Bazaar.

 

“No way!” screeched the chimpanzee. “I don't care if

you sink fifty claws in my rear end, 1 will not open the door for you!”

 

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The Story of a Seagull

“But no one wants to hurt you. We're asking, a favor, that’s all,” Zorba pleaded.

 

“The hours we're open are from nine in the morning to six in the evening. That's the rule, and it has to be respected,” shrieked Matthew.

 

“Gelatinous jellyfish! Can't you be a decent fellow

just once in your life, macaque?” yowled SevenSeas.

 

“Please, Mister Monkey,” Lucky squawked pleadingly.

 

“Im-possible! The rules forbid me from reaching, out

a paw to unlock the lock that you fleabags, having, no

fingers, cannot open,” Matthew screeched scornfully.

 

“You are a dreadful primate! Dreadful,” muttered Einstein.

 

“There’s a human out there lookin’ at his watch,” cried Secretario, who was peeking through a window.

 

“It’s the poet! There is no time to lose!” said Zorba,

charging, full speed toward the window.

 

As the bells in the church of Saint Michael's began

to peal midnight, the human was startled to hear the

sound of breaking glass. The big, fat, black cat dropped

to the street in the midst of a shower of splinters, but

he kept his feet, ignoring the cuts on his head, and jumped back up to the window he’d just blasted through.

 

The human got there at the precise moment that

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and the cat who taught her to fly

several cats were lifting a gull up toward the windowsill. Behind the cats, a chimp’s hands were fluttering, across his face, trying, to cover his eyes, his ears, and his mouth all at the same time.

 

“Take her. Don't let her get cut by the glass,” Zorba warned.

 

“Come here, both of you,” said the human, taking

cat and gull in his arms.

 

The human hurried away from the bazaar window.

Beneath his raincoat he carried a big, fat, black cat and

a gull with silver feathers.

 

“Lowlifes! Bandits! You'll pay for this!” screeched the

chimpanzee.

 

“It's your deserves! And you know what Harry’s gonna think tomorrow? That you smashed his window,” said Secretario.

 

“Bully for you,” sputtered the Colonel. “For once you

hit the mark when you beat me to the punch.”

 

“Fleet flying fish! To the rooftop, mates. We are

going, to see our Lucky fly,” meowed SevenSeas.

 

The big, fat, black cat and the gull were very com-

fortable beneath the coat, bathed in the warmth of the

human striding, along with firm, quick steps. They

could feel their three hearts beating at different

rhythms, but with the same intensity.

 

“Did you hurt yourself, cat?” the human asked

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The Story of a Seagull

when he saw the bloodstains on the lapels of his raincoat.

 

“It isnt important. Where are we going?” asked Zorba.

 

“Do you understand the human?” Lucky squawked.

 

“Yes. He is a good person who is going to help you fly,” Zorba assured her.

 

“Do you understand the gull?” the human asked.

 

“Tell me where we are going,” Zorba persisted.

 

“We're not going, we're there,” the human replied.

 

Zorba stuck out his head. They had stopped before a tall building. He looked up and recognized the tower of Saint Michael’, illuminated by several spotlights.

The beams were focused on the slim structure covered

with sheets of copper on which time, rain, and wind

had left a green patina.

 

“The doors look closed,” wailed Zorba.

“Not all of them,” said the human. “I often come here on stormy nights to smoke and think in solitude. I know a way in.”

 

They walked around a corner and went through a small side door that the human opened with the help of a knife blade. He took a flashlight from one pocket and, guided by its faint beam, they began to climb a spiral staircase that seemed never to end.

 

“I'm afraid,” Lucky squawked.

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and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Story of a Seagull

“But you want to fly, don't you?” meowed Zorba.

From the bell tower of Saint Michael's they could see the whole city. Rain enveloped the television tower, and in the port the cranes looked like animals at rest.

 

Zorba pointed toward a lighted building. “Look, there’s Harry’s bazaar. That’s where our friends are,” said Zorba.

 

“I'm afraid, Mommy!” squawked Lucky.

 

Zorba leaped up on the railing that encircled the

bell tower. Below, automobiles were crawling, along like

insects with glittering eyes. The human took the gull in

his hands.

 

“No! I’m afraid! Zorba! Zorba!” Lucky cried, pecking

at the human's hands.

 

“Wait! Set her down on the railing,” Zorba said to the

human.

 

“IT wasn't planning to drop her,” said the human.

 

“You are going to fly, Lucky. Take a breath. Feel the

rain. That’s water. In your lifetime you will have many

reasons to be happy. One of them is called water,

another is called wind, another sun, and it always

comes as a teward after the rain. Feel the rain. Open

your wings,” Zorba said patiently.

 

The gull stretched her wings. The spotlights bathed

her with light, and the rain spattered her feathers with

l22

and the cat who taught her to fly

pearls. The human and the cat watched her lift her head, with her eyes closed.

 

“Rain. Water. I like them,” she said.

“You are going to fly,” Zorba said again.

 

“T love you, Zorba. You are the best cat in the world,”

Lucky said, moving toward the edge of the banister

railing.

 

“You are going to fly. The whole sky will be yours.”

 

“I will never forget you. Or the other cats.” Lucky

was teetering with half her feet off the railing,

because, as Atxaga’s poem said, she had the heart of an

aerialist.

 

“Fly!” Zorba cried, reaching out with one paw and

giving, her the lightest of taps.

 

Lucky disappeared from view, and the human and

the cat feared the worst. She had fallen like a stone.

Holding their breath, they leaned over the railing, and

then they saw her, beating her wings, flying over the

parking, lot, and then they followed her flight upward,

up higher than the golden weather vane that crowned

the singular beauty of Saint Michael's.

 

Lucky was flying alone in the night over Hamburg.

She flew away, rapidly beating her wings, until she

rose above the cranes in the port and above the masts

of the ships, and then she returned, gliding, circling,

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The Story of a Seagull

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and the cat who taught her to fly

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Story of a Seagull

again and again around the bell tower of the church.

 

“I'm flying! Zorba! I can fly!” she squawked ecstati-

cally from the vastness of the gray skies.

 

The human stroked the cat’s back. “Well, cat, we did

it,” he said, sighing.

 

Zorba seemed to reflect for a moment. “Yes. At the

edge of the void she understood the most important

thing of all,” Zorba said.

 

“Oh, yes? And what was that?” the human asked.

 

“That only those who dare may fly.”

 

“I suppose I’m just in the way now. I'll wait below,”

the human said, and left.

 

Zorba sat there watching the gull until he didn't

know whether it was raindrops or tears that were fill-

ing the yellow eyes of a big, fat, black cat ... a good

cat, a noble cat, a cat of the port.

 

Laufenburg, The Black Forest, 1996

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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