Charlie was dumbstruck.
Allergenies? Work to save the cat/human relationship? “You, of course”?
This was the mystery, no doubt about it.
How to find out more without giving away that he knew so little?
“Ah, yes,” he said, trying to sound intelligent and well-informed.
“There’s been very few humans capable and willing to talk Cat, and I’m very honored to meet you,” said the black cat in quite a humble way. “Very honored to be of service. Any cat would be. Even, um, the Allergenies. I know a lot of cats hate ’em, but it’s not their fault, is it?” He looked a little embarrassed. He seemed to be waiting for some kind of reaction from Charlie, and a little as if he wasn’t sure what that reaction would be, or indeed if he really wanted a reaction at all. In fact, he looked as if he now realized that of course it would be a bad reaction, so he was off down the pub and forget he ever asked. All this in about five seconds.
“Er, no,” said Charlie, hoping this was the answer that the cat wanted. His mind was racing.
“Allergenies are not all bad,” the cat continued. “I know some who’ve gone off to live wild in the country, so as not to do any harm. Some of ’em are miserable about what they’ve to do. And about what’s been done to them. Miserable.” He spoke with passion, but then he seemed to notice that Charlie was having trouble following. He sighed. “Anyway, look,” he said. “You better appraise your reply so I can get on my
bicyclette
.”
Charlie liked the way he talked.
“Give me a few minutes,” he said, and went into the ropelocker.
He thought very hard about what to say to his parents. He had a lot of questions to ask, and he thought it better to ask his parents directly than to question the cat. But he couldn’t phrase it
directly.
He had to ask in their special code.
“Darling Mummy and Daddy,” he started.
“It was really good to get your letter. Everything’s going okay for me. Brother Jerome is going to take me to Paris, which is I think where you are going too . . .”
He stopped to think. He didn’t want to say Paris, in case anyone read the letter and would learn that he was coming after them. How could he put it?
He thought hard.
Of course! There was a girl on their block named Paris. Her sister was named Rita. He started again.
“Brother Jerome is taking me to visit Rita’s sister, and I know you are expected there too. If you get there first, try not to leave too soon, as I hope I can see you there . . .”
How to ask about the Allergenies? He strongly felt that his mum and dad would know what they were. But who else knew? And how risky would it be to ask about them? And, come to think of it, how could his parents explain them in a reply, in code?
Perhaps he should just ask the cat after all.
Or—no! He thought of something.
“I am doing a project on pet cats. I wish I could ask you about it. Please tell me all you can when you reply.” He couldn’t think of anything better. He hoped they’d get it.
Was there anything else he needed to tell them? Could he risk saying something about the circus? In case they were able to escape and come to him?
No. He didn’t want the baddies, whoever they were, seeing “circus” and mentioning it to Rafi, then Rafi putting it together with the roaring on the telephone . . . And he and the lions would be leaving anyway.
He finished off: “I am being a very good little boy like you said. Hope to see you very soon. I will bring some friends—bigger kids—to Rita’s sister’s. Lots and lots of love from Charles.”
He folded it tiny, returned to the back of the lionchamber, and tucked the note into the black cat’s collar.
“Crike of a lot easier than carrying it in me gob,” said the black cat gratefully.
“What’s your name?” asked Charlie.
“Sergei,” said the cat.
“Why?” asked Charlie. He didn’t mean to be rude; the name just didn’t seem quite—this cat looked like he should be called Bandit or Alias.
“Me dad liked Rachmaninoff,” said Sergei. “I’ll be off now.”
Charlie said: “Um, Sergei—who else—human—speaks Cat?”
“Well, nobody at the moment, only you. Van Amburgh did—the lion trainer—and King Solomon, obviously, St. Francis, the patron saint of animals. And St. Jerome, who extricated the thorn out of some lion’s paw some centuries ago—no one understood how he could do it, and that’s one reason he got sainted. You could be a saint maybe, Charlie—ha ha! And, erm, Hugh Lofting, who wrote those books . . . you know . . . Dr. Doolittle . . . erm . . . Daniel, of course, in the Bible, in the lions’ den. Some others who just thought they were off their rockers. Not everybody knows what to do with it. You’re one of a rare and honored tradition, you know . . . There’s not a lot like you.”
Charlie was touched by this mangy cat’s goodwill.
“So when Maccomo used Cat words to the lions, he probably got them off Van Amburgh.”
“More likely off Daniel or the gladiators,” said Sergei. “Ask those lions. Lions are big on history.”
“Thanks, Sergei,” said Charlie. “Come back soon!” Sergei flicked his ear and was gone, off on the road to Paris, to ask all the Parisian cats where the famous English couple, the black man and the white woman, whose son was
that
boy, were being held prisoner.
I don’t think Rafi knows where I am, Charlie thought on his way to lunch. If he did, he’d be here by now. He’s got a car!
He didn’t imagine that even if Rafi didn’t yet know where he was, he might at any moment find out.
Charlie ate his lunch with Julius and Hans.
“Julius,” he said. “What’s an Allergeny?”
“Don’t know,” said Julius—not a phrase he used very often. He looked a bit surprised. “What is it?”
“I don’t know either,” said Charlie, and then, realizing that Julius would ask about where Charlie had heard the word, and so on, he decided to change the subject.
“Tell me about the famous circus people in Paris,” he said. “Are there any?”
“Are there any!” exclaimed Julius. “There are bucketloads. All the best circus people live in Paris. They’ve got the best halls, except for in the Empire homelands, of course: there’s the Cirque Fernando on Boulevard Rochechouart, and the Cirque d’Hiver on Boulevard des Filles du Calvaire—that’s really fine, with twelve sides and Corinthian columns at each corner, and equestrian statues by the entrance, and oil lamps, and a frieze of horses and a cupola on top with a winged figure . . .” It occurred to Charlie that if he had been planning to stay any longer on the
Circe,
he’d have had to get a dictionary for talking to Julius. (Sergei used long words as well—
bicyclette!
appendage!—but Charlie had the feeling he just used them for fun, whereas Julius was pretty serious.)
He really wanted to talk to Julius about the lions’ escape. He just knew that Julius would be full of useful knowledge and good ideas. But he couldn’t tell him. It wasn’t safe, and it wasn’t fair to Julius, because just by knowing, Julius would have to betray either his new friend or his circus.
So Charlie would just have to get Julius to answer his questions without arousing any suspicion about why he was asking them. This did make him a little uncomfortable, but he had no choice.
“Wow,” said Charlie, sounding impressed (which was easy, because he
was
impressed). “And tell me about the people.” He was just keeping the conversation going while he worked out how to drop in the questions he needed answers to.
“Well, there are some fabulous clowns—there’s Popov, Charlie Cairoli, Coco, the Fratellini Brothers, Scaramouche. Van Amburgh was there with his lions before he died, you know about him, of course, and John Cooper, and Jacob Dreisbach—he more or less invented the
férocité
acts. Van Amburgh was fantastic, but Dreisbach just thought it was all too gentle, the audience would like some more whip-cracking and fighty stuff. Maccomo hates Dreisbach—did you know?”
“No, why?”
“Because of Mabel Stark,” continued Julius.
“Who?”
“You
must
know Mabel Stark—everybody knows about her! You really don’t know anything, do you, Charlie? She’s this fantastic tiger trainer, she’s amazing, she does all the things the men do and more. She really loves her tigers—
all
the trainers say it’s about love, but here you can see it is. It’s like she’s the tiger’s mum or something—it licks her hair and hugs her. And she’s really beautiful and wears white leather costumes and everybody’s in love with her, including Dreisbach, and Maccomo—”
“Maccomo’s in love with a lady!” squeaked Charlie, amazed. He couldn’t imagine it.
“Yes!” cried Julius. “It is funny, isn’t it? And he was going to marry her, only then Dreisbach—he was her teacher—told her not to and she didn’t, and so Maccomo hates him.”
“Why did Dreisbach tell her not to marry him?” said Charlie.
Julius’s face changed and he looked suddenly embarrassed.
“Um,” he said.
“Why?” said Charlie.
Julius frowned, gathered up his courage, and then said quickly: “Because he’s one of those stupid people who think black and white people shouldn’t marry each other.” He didn’t look at Charlie as he said it, so he didn’t see Charlie’s face begin to burn with a blush. Of course Charlie knew there were people like that, and of course he didn’t like to hear about it. But he also knew that Julius was upset at having to bring up the subject, and he appreciated him for being straightforward about it.
“Stupid pig,” said Charlie, trying to sound cheerful, and Julius looked up gratefully and said, “Yeah, stupid pig. So we hate him.” Charlie smiled at Julius, and Hans, who had stood nervously on the sidelines of this bit of the conversation, said quietly: “I hate him too.”
There was a small pause, and then Charlie said, “So where’s Mabel now?”
“Oh, she’s in Paris,” said Julius, glad to change the subject. “That’s why everyone’s so nervous about the show, because all the top Parisian circus people will come, or they won’t come, and they’ll like it, or they won’t like it, so everyone’s in a tizzy.”
“Do you think Mabel will come?” asked Charlie.
“Bound to! And she’ll bring Louis Roth—that’s her boyfriend. He’s a lion trainer, and he’s Hungarian and wears these boots almost up to his bottom.”
Charlie was thinking furiously. A brilliant idea had dropped into his lap like a ripe fruit off a tree. Mabel must lose her boyfriend in boots and invite Maccomo out after the show, then he would be out of the way for the lions to escape.
So how to get a woman he didn’t know to invite out a man she hadn’t seen since . . .
“How long ago was the Mabel-Maccomo thing?” he asked Julius.
“A year or two, I suppose,” said Julius. “Maccomo still looks thunderous if her name comes up.”
“But he loves her, right?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“So why would he look thunderous? Wouldn’t he be pleased to see her?”
“I dunno—I suppose he thinks she doesn’t like him anymore.”
Charlie knew, from listening when his mum and her friends were discussing grown-ups’ love lives, that there was no logic when it came to grown-ups being in love. But he was pretty sure that if Maccomo were to get a message from Mabel saying “I miss you and I want to see you,” he would go along.
But how to get her to send such a message?
Charlie was halfway through his sticky toffee pudding when he had his most brilliant idea. Mabel didn’t have to send the message. As long as the message had Mabel’s name on it, it didn’t matter who actually sent it. And then—he almost laughed, he was so pleased with his brilliance—Mabel could receive a message from Maccomo too—only it wouldn’t be from Maccomo. And each of them would think the other had invited them! And each would be flattered, and curious, and go along, and it would be ages before they realized that they had been tricked! By which time, Charlie and the lions would be off rescuing Mum and Dad.
Charlie actually did start giggling.
“What is it?” said Hans, with a bit of sticky toffee sauce trickling down his chin.
“Oh, I’m just happy,” said Charlie.
“Really?” said Julius. “But what about your parents?”
“Can’t be sad all the time,” said Charlie. “You get tired of it.”
Julius looked at him consideringly, and Charlie wondered if he suspected something. But how could he?
“What’s the swankiest restaurant in Paris?” Charlie asked.
“Oh, it’s full of swanky restaurants. One of Dad’s favorites is Chez Billy in the Marais, but he can’t afford to go there—it’s very expensive and you always have to book . . .”
Thinking about it, Charlie realized he was going to have to work fast. Get their phone numbers and text-message them, then there’d be no problems with either of them saying “But that’s not his/her handwriting.” Then he’d have to call the restaurant and book a table. What time does the show end? How long would it take them to get there from the ship? It would be good if it wasn’t too close, because that would give him and the lions more time. Charlie felt like a criminal, making sure all the details were right, and that he would not be suspected.
“Is the Marais near where we dock?” Charlie asked innocently.
“Why?” demanded Hans, and Charlie realized he’d better start asking his questions to different people, if he didn’t want to have questions asked of
him.
So—phone numbers. He could start that night.
First he had to run the plan by the lions. It was easy because Maccomo was snoozing—the medicine must have been working. As the trainer snored on the floor in his crimson cloak, Charlie started to tell the young lion and Elsina what he planned. But before he could do so, the young lion hissed at him: “About time! Venice!”
“What do you mean, Venice?” said Charlie.
“A nasty-looking black cat turned up and said he was sorry he couldn’t stay—‘wasn’t able to delay his perusal of your business’ was his exact phrase—and to tell you Venice!”