Kaspar-Prince of cats

Kaspar

Mr Freddie clicked his fingers at me, and that was how moments later I found myself walking through the hotel lobby alongside the Countess, carrying her basket, with the cat yowling so loudly that soon everyone was staring at us.

This cat did not yowl like other cats, it was more like a wailing lament, almost human it its tremulous tunefulness. The Countess, with me at her side, swept up to the reception desk and announced herself in a heavy foreign accent - a Russian accent, as I was soon to find out.

"I am Countess Kandinsky", she said. "You have a suite of rooms for Kaspar and me, I think. There must be river outside my window, and I must have a piano. I sent you a telegram with all my requirements." The Countess spoke as if she was used to people listening, as if she was used to be obeyed. There were many such people who came in through the doors of the Savoy: the rich, the famous and the infamous, business magnets, lords and ladies, even Prime Ministers and Presidents.

I don't mind admitting that I never much cared for their haughtiness and their arrogance. But I learned very soon, that if I hid my feelings well enough behind my smile, if I played my cards right, some of them could give very big tips, particularly the Americans.

"Just smile and wag your tail." That's what Mr Freddie told me to do. He'd been working at the Savoy as a doorman for close twenty years, so he knew a thing or two. It was good advide. However the guests treated me, I learned to smile back and behave like a willing puppy dog.

That first time I met Countess Kandinsky I thought she was just another rich aristocrat. But there was something  I admired about her from the start. She didn't just walk to the lift, she sailed there, magnificently, her skirts rustling in her wake, the white ostrish feathers in her hat wafting out behind her, like pennants in a breeze. Everyone - including Skullface, I'm glad to say- was bobbing curtsies or bowing heads as we passed by, and all the time I found myself basking unashamedly in the Countess'aura, in her grace and grandeur. I felt suddenly centre stage and very important. As a fourteen-year-old bell-boy, abandonend as an infant on the steps of an orphanage in Islington, I had not had many opportunities to feel so important.

So by the time we all got into the lift, the Countess and myself and the cat still wailing in its basket, I was feeling cock-a-hoop. I suppose it must have showed.

"Why are you smiling like this?" The Countess frowned at me, ostrish feathers shaking as she spoke. I could hardly tell her the truth, so I had to think fast. "Because of your cat, Countess," I replied."She sounds funny." "Not she. He. And he is not my cat," she said. "Kaspar is no one's cat. He is the prince of cats. He is prince Kaspar Kandinsky, and a prince belongs to no one, not even a Countess." She smiled at me then. "I tell you something, I like it when you smile. English people do not smile so often as they should. They do not laugh, they do not cry. This is a great mistake. We Russians,  when we want to laugh, we laugh. When we want to cry, we cry. Prince Kaspar is a Russian cat. At this moment he is a very unhappy cat, so he cries. This is natural, I think. "Why's he so unhappy?" I found myself asking her.

To be continued when I have time tomorrow or during the week.