Although the town was located a bit away from the capital, it wasn’t a backwater. We had a decent library, a volunteer singing society quite harmoniously tuned up, a small theatre, as well as barbecue competition, fairs and sports events, a bit of everything after everyone’s taste.
Here and there, some of our citizens had troubles with paying the bills, but no one was homeless nor a spendthrift. Quite the contrary, you could say we had it going well for us. Products from our organic farms were sought after in the capital, we had a winery, a lumber mill, and cement works. Our furriers, leatherworkers, woodworkers, and tailors possessed superb skill and delicate taste which customers from the big city valued. Even my own miniature startup was the sign that our little town is ready for the new century.
What we didn’t have were - girls ready for marriage!
It seems that modern times are not kind to small, almost rural towns like ours were. The youth were leaving for the big city to get an education, but not everyone returned. While boys preferred to stay on the land of their ancestors, inheriting successful workshops, continuing their fathers’ trade, girls were attracted forever by the lights of the big city.
***
This state of affairs weighed heavily on the unofficial syndicate of aunts, matrons, grannies, and other matchmakers. I recall the encounter with Mrs. Boring one afternoon when I was returning from the walk along the riverbank. She was seated in “Under the Tilia tree” sipping tea. Dressed in lavender costume, with a matching hat, she resembled the English queen, down to the similar hair, short and gray. She was upset, as I’ve noticed her hurried waves to me:
If I didn’t know that Magda was a luscious young lady, I would have thought that one of the reverend aunts moved to the Big Hairdresser in the sky. As soon as I approached her, she offered me a seat and started:
I hid the smile, though I did share her disappointment. Even if my job was to work with modern technology, I was still partial to a good old fashioned letter from an envelope.
But, Magda was already at the end of her studies, you could expect that chances of her return were slim…
No, I did not expect anything of the sort! - the lavender lady whipped me with a withering glare - I certainly did not expect that, because my Damian always visited her in the city, returning with a firm promise that they will get married, move to the estate, and you know…
Oh, I thought Magda was dating Nikolai? - I furrowed my brow
Pah, nonsense, where did you get that from?
Mrs. B as it befits a retired teacher didn’t understand the concept of being wrong. Therefore, she gently took my wrist, spelling out word after word, while my confused wrist moved up and down in the rhythm of her scolding:
I signed and braced to be educated about the gravity of the situation.
Silent, I was browsing through my thoughts. The town wasn’t big, true, but I had a hard time believing that all the women have fled. So, I just shrugged.
What about Martika? - I asked.
Gone. Three months ago.
Ana-Maria?
In Paris. I don’t think she will be coming back.
How about Sarah? She’s still here, in the town.
Ah, Sarah… She waits for her Dutchman suitor, then she will be off to Holland with him…
Natalia?
Amalia just scoffed.
I nodded and raised my hand. I know gossip is the main entertainment in small towns, but it was always uncomfortable to listen to whatever follows the ‘however’.
Lavender matron nodded sagely, sighing and nervously cracking her fingers.
Though I didn’t believe it at that moment, a few months later that’s exactly what happened.
***
She stayed at the hotel. Walked down the main street. Noticed at the market. Requested to see the houses for sale. Bought an estate bit out of town. Didn’t leave the hotel until the renovation crew fulfilled every one of her demands, and there were plenty.
Men agreed. She not only seems like a classy lady of the high society, but she also looks like a hot kitten. Women scolded their husbands, aunts and matrons tried to find a fault in the newcomer. Catalin, however, had only one but fatal flaw. She was almost perfect.
Kind and lovely, Catalin didn’t try to steal husbands, nor she showed much interest in local shirtless guys. She never allowed herself to be alone in the presence of a man, and she managed to win over all the aunts and matrons of the town with classy tea parties to which everyone was welcomed.
That was a sign for local bachelors to start courting her.
***
The first blood was Burly Builderman, owner of the cement works. A particularly gnarly task fried my mind, so I left my desk to stretch and make some sense of the twisted logic that wrangled my brain. That’s when I saw Burly, not a small man with a big heart, blushing, his necktie loosened, walking foot by foot down my street. He was probably returning from the main street, dressed for a big date. Propping my elbows at the bay window I wished him a good day and got vague gestures in response. Just when I thought he would just pass me by, he turned around and shrugged.
Before I managed to reply, he carried on as if he didn’t care who’s listening in.
I simply don’t get it… I asked her out, she said yes, bada bum bada bing, I thought she likes me, so I bam bam went in straight, cards on the table, she says there was a misunderstanding, what the hell, I have everything I will pick the stars from the sky, no, no it’s not that, bada bum bada bing, I was shocked, is it me? No no, are you one of those ‘modern’ girls, no it’s not that… do you even want to get married, yes, but not for me…
I haven’t met Catalin yet by that moment, but I did sympathize with her in a sense. Our Burly was a good man, but too eager to get married to the point where he couldn’t recognize any longer mere politeness from a romantic interest.
***
For the case of Johnathan Johnny Handsomberg, the second of the fallen heroes, we found out only after he packed his backs and fled the city. Aunties, apparently, gave him too high chances for success. He was, after all, the most desirable of all the city’s bachelors. Gene billiard didn’t only grace him with above-average height, wavy blue hair, and handsome build, but also several shops in the city and always full coffee shop. As a diligent and hard-working entrepreneur, he managed to build upon his inherited wealth to spread his fingers all the way to the capital city where the rumor had it, he opened a bureau and some sort of small manufacture.
Everyone seemed to have their own version of his charge at Catalin, mostly because Johnny in his wisdom decided to keep his activities low profile, away from the prying gaze of grannies and aunties. Some claimed that he came in too fast for the taste of a sophisticated lady which Catalin proved herself to be. Others said that he flaunted his riches too much as if Catalin was some poor peasant girl and not the woman who just purchased and furbished the entire mansion.
All agreed, though, that his hasty retreat could imply some sort of embarrassment. His, of course. Even though their favorite bachelor has just been torpedoed, all the ladies from the corps of matchmakers fiercely defended Catalin, finding this or that flaw in the runaway groom.
***
Not long after this event, silver-haired and very much respected city mayor, Mr. Bottoms started bragging that he will show everyone that, even in his advanced age, he is the one that possesses all the qualities that a lady might need.
He didn’t mind all the rumor mill commentaries and chuckling behind his back, claiming that ‘He’s old enough to be her father!’ Darron Bottoms took it as a compliment, no less. If it wasn’t the power or riches or handsome guy Catalin was after, maybe she has been waiting for someone mature, reputable, and respected, she repeated, again and again, probably to muster his courage.
Although he didn’t flee the city nor he made a fool of himself in public, like Mr. Burly, it was soon quite clear how did Mr. Bottoms fare.
It was announced in the message that Catalin disseminated through the network of the unofficial syndicate of interested mothers and matrons. Declaration stunned the city with its boldness, as much as with the unusual condition it set. Many fellows drew the conclusion that this was the sign that Catalin couldn’t care less which one of them will take her to the altar, while others warned that the mission is way harder than it seemed.
Catalin, namely, announced the following statement. She will no longer accept any invitations for dinner, coffee, walk along the river nor any other form of courtship. She will marry the one who unlocks the door to her house. The key was to be found around the neck of her cat, a shabby thing with gray coat fur that we’ve been spotting often on the roofs of our city.
As you can imagine, the hunt for the kitty-cat had begun.
***
In the week after Catalin’s announcement, there wasn’t a bachelor in town who didn’t arm himself with a net, catchpole, laser pointer, catnip, ham, bacon, dry fish, jingle bells, or cat feather toys, though there were those crafty gits who strategically placed bowls throughout the city, I dare not imagine what was the milk laced with.
Cat hunters managed to herd a small regiment of yellow, gray, black, white, and calico cats. They even managed to find the runaway and long forlorn ginger of aunt Leilah. Oh, they caught a few stray dogs, dozens of rats, three ferrets, and a half-blind fox, but they didn’t get Catalin’s pussy.
Roderic Rod Wrigley got it the worst when he bumped into a few overly zealous hunters while he was riding his old Triumph back from the farm. The elderly motorbike, along with his rider, ended up in a ditch, cursing at the youngsters, their elusive lady, and the entire feline species.
The second week opened with a sharp divide among the hardiest of hunters.
The more cunning of the bunch switched to finer kinds of baits, ground meat and poultry soup, fresh tuna and anchovies, and luxury cat food out of the gilded cans. Those more brutal cast their nets, set their traps, and released the coonhounds against the poor critter.
The kitty, it seems, took after her owner when it comes to tastes. She seemed utterly uninterested in any of the lures, no matter how appetizing. What would drive even the pickiest puss crazy wasn’t worthy of even a sniff from this tabby.
When it comes to agility, a shabby kitten made every hunter go livid with her ability to avoid traps, dodge ambushes, waylay dogs, and hide her tracks. She would disappear for a while and then as if to mock her hunters, kitty would be spotted again prancing atop of a roof with her tail swishing upright.
***
I wake up, sitting upright in my bed. Still drowsy, I glance around. I don’t know what wakes me up, but I am not bothered by the slightest. I am a light sleeper, and often get by with barely six hours in bed. So, I left my bed and almost stumbled across… a cat!
Momentarily I am wide awake. Not far from my bed. Just a few steps away. There is Catalin’s fluffy cat. With that key around her neck. Does it cross my mind to reach for that piece of brass? Yes. I don’t know why, though. Maybe I felt the pang thinking, hey I’m not a bad catch. Catalin surely wouldn’t regret it if I were the one to unlock her door. I guess I’d love to see the expression on the faces of all those urban hunters who piss me off endlessly with their crazy chase and causing all the raucous, but above all with their eagerness and readiness to escalate the cruelty of the hunt.
Then I spot the curled paw and blood-matted fur. Carefully I approach and move her leg slightly to inspect the injury. Seems it’s not that grave, but it does need attention. Luckily, I google everything, so I quickly learn that neither alcohol nor peroxide is recommended. I return from the bathroom with some lukewarm water and a piece of cloth. Gently I take the wounded limb and start cleaning the gash. Cat doesn’t attempt to wiggle away, nor she scratches and bites, as I’d expect. I only get a silent, mouthed meaow. I do admit. I am excited, maybe a little apprehensive, so I started talking to the animal.
Who is that beast who maimed you like this? See, your lovely coat is ruined here. And it’s a really nice silky fur you have. Was it a mutt? I guess it was a mongrel. Look, here. I ain’t no doc, but I’d say you got hit, the wound isn’t deep. Glass? Nah, I saw your kitty parkour. I guess it was a pellet gun or something…
Cat is, of course, silent. She does, however, stop wiggling her ears and lifts her head.
Ah, yes. You must be thirsty. Wait a sec. - I return from the kitchen with an improvised cardboard water bowl. - Here you go your kittyness, I’m freshly out of gilded watering bowls, but this is the proof that a pair of scissors is the handiest object you could have in your kitchen. They surely haven’t let me down now. Here is your water.
I move away. She makes a few painful steps. Drinks thirstily. Then curls next to the cardboard bowl.
I find a piece of gauze. Wrapping the wound, I tie it with a cute bow.
Cat yawns lazily blink a few times and rolls on her side. I don’t really understand her kind. I’m more of a dog person myself. But I can tell she’s exhausted. Which is the perfect moment to…
...oh no… boy, oh boy! I don’t even think about grabbing that key. To be honest, I probably enjoyed the visit from this highly sought after guest. Or any guest for that matter. What happens is that I spot the perfect moment to cuddle her tummy as I would do with a pupper. Yea, I get a warning questioning glare. Okay, under the chin it is, then. She purrs, no surprise there.
Look at you. Such a gorgeous kitten, even when you are so shabbily fluffy. I am surprised, though. I would expect better grooming from your lady, or even some accessory if it’s just a nicer collar.
Cat stops purring. Then she starts licking her paws.
I arrange a quick meal, fried eggs with a piece of graham bread. I do take a few slices of turkey ham with me. Expecting from cat to snort at my paltry offering I am surprised to see her lick her lips and devour the meat. I go back to my breakfast.
Okay, kitty. That’s about it. I have work to do now. You sleep or idle or whatever, just watch out. The flat is tiny and I am not used to sharing it with feline guests. So, be mindful or I might step on your tail.
Well, my own crudeness stings me. I promise to myself that I will be the one who is mindful and remind myself not to wheel around the flat on my office chair.
I don’t know when the kitty left. When I start working I usually don’t stop till lunchtime.
***
Although I did my grocery shopping once in two weeks, I would drop by the farmer’s market on Thursdays to check the fresh goods; aunt Millie’s creamiest of cream cheese, uncle Boris’ bell peppers, big and red, so perfect for stuffing, granny Bertha’s zucchini, the size of a small torpedo, grandpa Sean’s onions, always milky and rather hot.
Farmer’s market was rarely crowded, but today it was full of Catalin’s suitors. They disgusted me. Not only because by flocking around Catalin many of the market’s aunts and aunties were crudely pushed out of the way, not only because they eagerly tripped each other whenever it seemed like Catalin could use their assistance, but because I knew that any of them could be the same cold-hearted hunter who injured that poor cat.
Catalin wore a black wide-brimmed hat, short cream-colored jacket, pencil skirt of matching color, and long opera gloves that reached almost up to her elbow. Those gloves made her whole appearance movie glamour. What genre was the movie, though, tragic, comic, or parody, it wasn’t really clear to me. I tried to stay out of their way and mind my own business. My gaze did often slip to Catalin, however. It was clear to me that she is a special kind of lady, but to wear such gloves in this weather? They were more suited for a ballroom than for grocery shopping. The thought that she was simply odd or eccentric crossed my mind, but then I almost tagged her crazy when she suddenly turned and headed straight at me.
Somewhat confused, as to why would she approach me at all, I assumed that she saw a friend or someone else behind me. I changed my direction and went for the exit when she addressed me.
Excuse me!
Oh, good morning…
Good morning - she said as if it was me who surprised her, so she paused for an eyeblink.
You must be Catalin, we’ve never been officially introduced - I offered her my name and my hand.
She grasped my hand, as a shadow of slight discomfort flashed across her face. I didn’t say anything.
How could she possibly know that?
When my cat didn’t show up at her usual time, I went looking for her everywhere. I spotted her on your balcony… - she took a step forward, close enough for the delicate fragrance of jasmine to reach me - I saw what you did for her. I’m grateful.
She didn’t speak another word, simply gazing into my confused expression. Then she stepped away.
Hey, well. You’re welcome - was the only thing I could mutter, my brain exhausted from whirring trying to soak in the whole, almost surreal, encounter.
Catalin was gone, and so were the drooling dogs trailing after her. I returned home.
