TO GIACOMO’S DISMAY, the beggar-cat kept returning every morning and asking for something to eat. It was just as he feared would happen. Nothing good ever came from giving your possessions away, he had read in the Ideals of the Gadget Economy; always sell, even if you have to make a small loss on the transaction. Giacomo never received a crown from the beggar-cat in return for all the loaves of fishbread he gave, only words of wisdom. That worried him. He seemed to be breaking one of the fundamental rules of Purronian society, Christoph Purron’s sixth Commandment of Commerce: Thou Shalt Not Perform Charitable Deeds. It also worried him that Jordi would find out. Every time Giacomo told the beggar-cat it was the last time he was going to give him food, he returned the very next morning asking for more. In the end, Giacomo just had to make sure he was up before Jordi came downstairs and caught him in the act of charity. That way he was sure to keep his job, which he was kind of beginning to like, even if he was a bit of a cat’s-paw.
Being an apprentice baker, he mused, was something he’d never considered at all during his kittenhood, a writer, a healer, a fire-cat maybe, but never a baker. One afternoon, whilst making another delivery of milktarts to a ‘special client’, he was pondering the strange events that had led him to Jordi’s shop when he saw someone he hadn’t seen for a while, someone he wanted to have a word with. In the distance, Gadget Garry was ambling across the mialla toward the amphitheatre. Giacomo called out to him. The cat in the long coat spun around, saw Giacomo, then darted off, blending into the crowd beneath the colonnades. Giacomo ran after him, but it was too late. He cursed his luck. At least, he consoled himself, the thief hadn’t left the city; there was still a chance he’d get his bell back.
There was nothing he could do about it now, however. He had a delivery to make on the other side of the river.
As he passed the statue of Christoph Purron, he was surprised to see the beggar-cat serving behind a variety stall. He seemed to be giving away slices of fishbread to passersby; and not only fishbread, mice and birds, gadget-cutlery, even a wooden goblet, and several other gadgets of unknown function. It was a mystery how he’d acquired all these things, for this morning, as with every other morning, the beggar-cat had been in possession of nothing save his Bell of Wisdom.
Curious, Giacomo went up to the stall and asked what he was doing. The beggar-cat told him that he was only playing his part in the Interconnectedness of Things, but if he was truly interested, to stand aside and simply observe. A fat ginger femme-cat soon arrived and asked if the beggar-cat had anything to help her with bunions on the pads of her paws. The beggar-cat informed her that, though he wasn’t schooled in the art of medicinal potions, he himself had had some success squeezing lemon juice on afflicted areas. He gave her a lemon and told her to come back in a week if it didn’t work. She left saying she’d only ever heard it helped for bee stings, but she’d try it anyway.
Giacomo was flabbergasted. The beggar-cat obviously hadn’t read the Ideals of the Gadget Economy. “You let her take the lemon without paying,” he said.
“On the contrary,” the beggar-cat said. “She told me something I previously didn’t know, that lemon juice can ease the pain of a bee sting. I deemed it a fair exchange.”
The next customer, a fat business-cat in a two-piece Alexander McCatt suit, wanted nothing other than a slice of fishbread to go. From him the beggar-cat asked five crowns. It was yet another thing that rankled Giacomo; the beggar-cat was profiting at his charity. The old cat begged to differ. He always repaid Giacomo for his fishbread with words of wisdom. Some cats had no wisdom, he explained, usually the ones with lots of money, so it was only natural that he took what they had plenty of.
Giacomo decided to let it be, and soon another cat arrived at the stall, parched and desperate for a drink. The beggar-cat didn’t have any milk or water, but he did have five crowns, so he gave it to the grateful cat and directed him to a tavern on the corner of the square (the same one, Giacomo noticed, that Gadget Garry had disappeared into the day he arrived in Purrona). The cat left without exchanging anything, leaving Giacomo to wonder how the beggar-cat could make a profit if all he did was give away every thing he had.
Soon thereafter the thirsty cat returned with two bottles of milk, one of which he gave to the beggar-cat before going on his way. The beggar-cat drank half and gave the rest to a little kattino passing by with his mother. “Children give me so much joy,” he said, watching the kitten lapping it up. “A little milk seems such a small price to pay.”
Giacomo recalled the joy of his kittenhood and wondered where it had gone of late. Then suddenly remembering the delivery he had to make, he rushed off, telling the beggar-cat that he’d see him tomorrow morning. It wasn’t until he was on the Golden Bridge halfway across the Katta Azzurro that he realized what he had said, that he had practically invited the beggar-cat to return to the bakery. He swished his tail and carried on.
Later, as he swept the shop, he thought about what he’d seen that day. The beggar-cat wasn’t rich by any gadget standard, yet he seemed a lot happier than most of the cats in the city, even the ones racing up and down the steps to the Stock Exchange, the fat cats with loads of money. He figured he’d have to go back and reread the Ideals of the Gadget Economy; he was obviously missing something.
Jordi hobbled into the shop from the back and told Giacomo he had an important business meeting on the other side of the mialla. He was dressed in a tweed jacket, something from Neville Meow Giacomo guessed, the finest clothes he’d ever seen him wear. Jordi was going to try and raise some finances for the second shop he wanted to open. The ‘special client’ was interested in investing in the business, but Jordi was looking rather glum. The share price had fallen over five percent on the stock market today. Apparently someone had spread the rumor that Jordi Milktooth Enterprises was giving away free loaves of fishbread, and the market was worried the company might not meet its projected earnings for the second quarter.
“Damn rumors!” he mumbled. “They could ruin me.”
He told Giacomo that his wife would call for her dinner in about fifteen minutes or so. Giacomo was to take her some fishbread and a couple of fur balls, and to remember to call her Mrs. Milktooth and wear the apron. She was an actress, had even performed on stage in front of the King and Queen of Kattalina, in fact. She also had a fragile disposition, he confided, and if she saw Giacomo naked, or he didn’t show her the proper respect, she might have one of her episodes, and Giacomo didn’t want to be around if that happened.
“And for goodness sake,” he said, “don’t tell Franny about the share price, either.”
Sure enough, like gadget-clockwork, fifteen minutes after Jordi departed to meet his ‘special client’, Francescat Milktooth began hollering for her meal from the upstairs bedroom. When he arrived with the dinner tray, she was occupying most of the bed in a purple satin nightgown and matching gloves, an extremely fat femme-cat with her fur rolled up in gadget-curlers and her cheeks powdered with rouge. He saw the mattress sinking beneath her weight and understood why he’d never seen her downstairs; she couldn’t fit through the doorway.
“You must be the new apprentice,” she said, appraising him up and down with her beady little eyes.
Giacomo nodded, still in shock at the size of her. She also stank. The room reeked of stale sweat, and on the bedside table was a crystal bowl filled with what looked like flakes of ice. Next to it was a wood-framed illustration of two fat kattinas in white, frilly dresses, presumably the twins he had also yet to meet, the precious daughters that Jordi complained were costing him a fortune at boarding school.
“Don’t just stand there, stupid!” she said. “Put the tray on the end of the bed.”
Giacomo obeyed, but as he stepped forward he trod on something sharp. He yelped and dropped the tray. Eyeing the sliver of glass in his paw, he hobbled to a bedside chair to remove it, but Francescat screamed at him to do something about the mess. She grabbed the crystal bowl and scattered more broken glass around the bed. “Stop dawdling you skinny fool!” she shouted. “I’m hungry! I can’t wait all night! Do you want me to starve to death?”
Giacomo cringed. She was more terrifying than the wolf in his dreams, a satin beast with curlers and rouge. Careful not to step on the glass, he gathered the tray and food, apologizing profusely, and harried downstairs to get some more. When he returned, Francescat was smiling as though nothing had happened. Hobbling, he placed the tray on the end of the bed and asked if madam wanted anything else. She did, the Evening Mews. Jordi, she complained, always hid it from her, and she wanted to know if Giacomo knew where it was. Giacomo shook his head.
“Then perhaps,” she inquired, “just out of curiosity, do you know the current share price for Jordi Milktooth Enterprises?” Again Giacomo shook his head, remembering what Jordi had told him. “I hope you’re not lying to me,” she said, placing her paw into the crystal bowl. The threat was obvious. “I’m an actress, you know. I can tell when someone is lying.”
Giacomo averted her gaze, staring at the shards of glass lying around his paws. It was no use. He knew she’d seen something in his eyes; it was better to tell the truth. “I think… uh… Mr. Milktooth might have mentioned something about it today,” he said. She flicked an ear, waiting for him to continue, her paw still resting in the crystal bowl. “I think he said the price was down a little.”
“WHAT!” she screamed, and Giacomo cringed again. “THAT LYING SON-OF-A-DOG TOLD ME IT WAS UP!”
Francescat began tugging at her fur and gadget-curlers, shaking her head from side to side, screaming and shouting. She scattered glass on the floor, throwing it everywhere until the whole bowl was empty. Then she threw the bowl at Giacomo. He ducked and it crashed into the wall, leaving a dent in the hardwood panels as big as his head. He rushed out of the bedroom, stepping on several shards of glass as he went, down to the alley at the front of the shop to catch his breath, her shrieks chasing him all the way.
He waited until she was quiet before going back inside. Jordi had been right; Francescat was rather fragile. He prayed for the share price to go up before he served her dinner again.