Catopolis

I left the closet and hugged the wall, following it until a great room opened up before me, bathed in the soft glow of security lights. Suits of armor were spaced here and there between glass cases holding weapons and pieces of jewelry. A glittering crown sat on a pillow that I thought might be comfortable. A scepter lay next to it. The object of my quest was nowhere to be seen… but my keen eyes lit on something that would help me find it. I padded toward a placard touting the rotating displays.

Not all cats can read, but I found it a necessary skill to acquire in the boss’s employ, and so I had let Guido teach me two summers past. The placard read:

Special Exhibit

The Life, Times, and Works of

Il Prete Rosso, the Red Priest

Second Floor, Main Hall

I passed by the elevator and took the winding staircase, careful not to slip on its newly polished marble steps. Rap music drifted down from above-the cleaning crew had obviously preceded me.

One man was wielding a big floor buffer, moving it from side to side in time with the godawful beat. Two were dusting the wainscoting that ran around the room and down the hallways that led away to the north and the south. The third man was in the bathroom; I heard the toilet flush.

Occupied, they didn’t notice me. I drifted from one display case to the next, slinking as much as possible. I looked through the glass of a low shelf, squinting in the dim light to see decorative red and white and green satin ribbons, and to make out the words on a card in front of a battered violin:

IL PRETE ROSSO, THE RED PRIEST: A VENETIAN PRIEST AND BAROQUE MUSIC COMPOSER, ALSO A VIRTUOSO VIOLINIST. THIS VIOLIN WAS THE LAST INSTRUMENT HE PLAYED BEFORE HIS DEATH.

A card in the next case read:

BORN MARCH 4, 1678, IN VENICE, THE DAY AN EARTHQUAKE SHOOK THE CITY. HE DIED JULY 27 OR 28, 1741. HIS FATHER, GIOVANI BATTISTA, WAS A PROFESSIONAL VIOLINIST AND FOUNDER OF A TRADE UNION FOR MUSICIANS, WHO TAUGHT HIM TO PLAY. HE BEGAN STUDYING FOR THE PRIESTHOOD AT AGE FIFTEEN, AND HE WAS ORDAINED TEN YEARS LATER. IT IS BELIEVED THAT HE WAS CALLED

IL PRETE ROSSO BECAUSE OF HIS RED HAIR.

The next case, where a small painting was displayed:

IN 1704 HE WAS GIVEN A SPECIAL DISPENSATION FROM CELEBRATING MASS BECAUSE HE WAS ILL. RECORDS SHOW HE SUFFERED FROM SOMETHING SIMILAR TO ASTHMA. TWO YEARS LATER, HE LEFT THE PRIESTHOOD AND CONCENTRATED ON COMPOSING MUSIC.

Music! That’s what I was looking for. And not that damnable rap crap. One of the men had turned it up louder. I couldn’t understand the words, and it was hurting my delicate ears.

I continued searching the room.

Another card, this in the largest case; I had to stand up on my back paws to read it:

LE QUATTRO STAGIONI, THE FOUR SEASONS, IS HIS BEST KNOWN WORK. THE SET OF FOUR VIOLIN CONCERTI BY

IL PRETE ROSSO, ANTONIO VIVALDI, WERE ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN 1725, EACH IN THREE MOVEMENTS. ON DISPLAY HERE IS ONE OF THE ORIGINAL WORKS, BELIEVED TO BE PENNED BY VIVALDI HIMSELF, TRANSCRIBED FOR PIANO.

Concerto No. 3 in F major,

L’autu

That’s it! I practically shouted out loud.

Tony’s Fall.

The boss had sent me here to this ugly museum after

Tony’s Fall, and there it was in all of its tattered parchment movements-allegro, adagio molto, and allegro again, on the top shelf of the display… where I couldn’t reach it.

The card went on to explain that the matching piano music for the other seasons-spring, summer, and winter-had been lost through the ages. But they weren’t lost. They were safely kept in a chest in Don Luigi’s apartment above the Italian restaurant that must be serving something absolutely delicious at this very moment.

My stomach rumbled, and the floor buffer sounded louder. The machine was sweeping closer.

“A kitty cat!” called the man gripping the handles of the infernal machine.

“A dark cat. A big one.” This came from the one just emerging from the bathroom. “Don’t let it cross your path. That’d be six years of bad luck.”

“Seven,” corrected one of the men dusting the wainscoting. “Seven years of bad luck, just like if you broke a mirror.”

I summoned my strength and bolted toward the floor polisher, the pads of my feet slipping and sliding and threatening to send me sprawling. One leap and I was riding on the base of the thing, shushing back and forth as the man wielding it cursed in a language I could not fathom.

I reared up and hissed at him, digging my rear claws into a strip of rubber. I hissed and snarled, laid my ears back and appeared menacing. I well knew how to act menacing-after all, I am the boss’s chief enforcer.

“It’s crazy!” one of them shouted. I couldn’t tell which one hollered. I was holding on for my proverbial dear life, as the buffer-wielder rammed the machine first one way and then another trying to dislodge me.

I hissed again, but it was a panicked hiss, not a mean one. Doubtless he could not tell the difference, though, as he jerked the machine forward and back, faster now, and then out of control, nearly causing me to lose what I’d eaten for lunch. One more jerk and the buffer-wielder slipped on a newly waxed patch of tile. The machine shot forward, humming and jostling and then colliding into the largest of the display cases in the hall. An alarm went off as the glass broke, a harsh claxon that drowned out the damnable crap-rap music and was punctuated by the sounds of thick glass shards hitting the buffer and the floor.

I winced when a shard lanced my back, and I yowled shrilly in pain, adding to the cacophony.

The cleaning men were shouting, all in the harsh language I couldn’t understand, and the buffer continued to whir, though now it was going nowhere. And faintly, from below, came the staccato barks of what I guessed were museum guards.

Despite the pain in my ears and my back, I was well aware of my buona fortuna. I pushed off the whirring contraption and landed inside the now-open display case, climbed up to the second shelf, and then the third, where my prize awaited. Gently using my teeth and front claws, I rolled up Tony’s Fall and tied it with a piece of ribbon that had been a decorative touch in the case.

All the while the noises continued, the alarm accompanied by a second one that had started somewhere on the floor below. Feet pounded up the stairs, and my mind whirled with thoughts of escape. I hadn’t given any thought to that notion as I’d waited in the janitor’s closet. I’d been thinking too much about di

Tony’s Fall secured, and my teeth securely fastened to the ribbon around the parchment, I jumped from the shelf and onto the back of one of the wainscot dusters. I dug my claws in, finding flesh beneath the shirt, and discovering that the man could shout louder than the rapper who’d begun to sing about jacking fancy cars.

He called to his fellows in the foreign tongue and gestured wildly. In that moment, two guards reached the top of the stairs. Also in that moment, I leaped away and headed toward the bathroom. The door to it had been propped open, and I took full advantage.

I figured there would be a window in here, one that I could use my bulk to barrel through and find freedom. But there was no window, only mirrors and toilets and sinks and a floor that thankfully had not yet been polished. There was also a vent, and this I vaulted to by propelling myself off the register and onto a sink, then up to a pipe. It had been some time since I’d been involved in this much activity, and my sides heaved. But my prize was worth the effort.

Tony’s Fall, the last piece to the boss’s magnificent puzzle, would soon be his, and a wondrous culinary reward and more promises of a trip to Italy would be mine.

My front paws wrestled with the latch on the vent. They were a sable blur that clawed and tugged and finally met with success.