THE TRUE STORY OF THE FALSE CAT

 

The miller had three sons, and when he died he left them the little he owned. The mill went to Pedro, the eldest; the donkey went to Pablo, the second-born. The youngest, named Juan, inherited nothing but a cat. While the older brothers were satisfied with their shares, Juan wondered how he would make a living.

“This cat is good for nothing,” he reasoned aloud. “And on top of that, I’ll have to feed him too.”

“Don’t worry, master.” Juan’s surprise, when he heard the cat speak, was indescribable. “I have a plan to make us rich.”

“What can you do?” Juan asked. “You’re just a cat!”

“Give me a fine hat, a pair of boots, and a sack. I’ll take care of the rest.”

“Well, why not?” Juan said resignedly. “I’ve got nothing to lose.”

The cat received what he asked for and was pleased with his appearance. Leaving Juan lost in thought, he set off.

First he went to the stream, positioned himself, and with his quick claws caught a dozen fish. Then, sack full, he headed toward the castle.

“A cat who wants to speak to the king?” asked the bridge guard, dumbfounded.

“I bring a gift on behalf of the Marquis of Carabás,” said the cat. The guard, still stunned, let him pass, and the cat walked through the corridors as if he had known them all his life. Upon reaching the great hall, he bowed before King Dogofredo, Queen Zimebuta, and their daughter, Princess Cecilia.

“My master, the Marquis of Carabás, sends his greetings to Your Majesty and offers you these magnificent fish from his streams,” said the cat.

“Tell the marquis that I thank him for his generosity,” replied the king. Then, trying not to be seen by the cat, he leaned toward the queen and whispered, “Are there cats that speak like humans?”

“That doesn’t concern me,” replied the queen. “Who is the Marquis of Carabás?”

“I have no idea,” answered the king. “I’ve never heard of him. Strange: a talking cat and a marquis who doesn’t appear in the kingdom’s records.”

“This smells fishy,” said the queen.

“It must be the fish,” added Cecilia, wrinkling her little nose.

The king gestured to the captain of the guard, who drew his sword and beheaded the cat with a single blow. The king had many enemies, and it was no time to take risks. One cat more or less, talking or meowing, was hardly something that would make Dogofredo tremble.

The royal family could not suppress their revulsion at the blood spurting like a fountain from the cat’s severed neck. But the king was a wise man, and no fool. He summoned the royal physician and ordered him to perform an autopsy on the strange animal.

Hours later, the task completed, Doctor Opiseculo—former physician to the Count of Transylvania, expelled from court for having violated the tacit law forbidding dissections at noon—bowed before the king.

“Your Majesty,” he reported, “I must tell you that the cat is not a cat—or at least, it was not.”

“What are you talking about, you fool? Back to your old tricks again?”

“Please, Your Majesty! I swear by the Almighty that I have not deviated one inch from the laws of your realm.”

“Very well. Speak, then. What is this cat that is not a cat?”

“I do not know what it is, Majesty. I only know what it is not. And it is not a cat. The creature has unknown organs, fine filaments connecting the muscles to tiny boxes lodged in the bones, which seem to be made of steel…”

“You’re not going to tell me that what flowed from the wound wasn’t blood either?” The king was growing impatient. Opiseculo was clearly up to his old ways again.

“It was not blood, no, Majesty. It is a substance aaaaaaaa—”

“What are you doing, woman, you fool?” exclaimed Charles Perrault when he discovered that Marie had snatched the page from him and was staring at him with her sternest expression. “Marie Guichon! Spying on my writing again?”

“Charles Perrault,” she replied without softening her tone, “are you writing nonsense again?”

“What do you know about these matters? Go cook.”

“I’ll cook your cat’s fish if you don’t write something sensible. Do you think your publisher will pay for this story?”

“I see nothing wrong with it. My story is a fantasy.”

“Fantasy! People want reasonable fantasies. Make the cat trick the king, the queen, and the princess.”

“What a clever cat!” Charles mocked.

“Is that more unbelievable than a talking cat that isn’t even a cat?”

“Fine. And how would your cat’s story continue?”

“My cat? Your cat!” Marie paused, eyed her husband critically, and snorted. “Say that since no one at court knew who the Marquis of Carabás really was, they began to invent stories about him—that he was the richest man in the kingdom, and the most handsome. The cat proclaimed the marquis’s talents to the four winds and brought a pheasant to the queen and a young stag to the king.”

“And the king believed him?”

“He had no choice, since the cat, through a clever ruse, subdued an ogre and took his castle.”

“A ruse?”

“The cat induced the ogre to turn himself into a mouse and ate him in one bite.”

“That’s ridiculous! A powerful ogre, capable of magical feats, cannot fall for such a crude trap.”

“But your editor will fall for it, and we’ll fill the pot. Come on! End it by saying that Juan fell in love with Cecilia the moment he saw her, they married a few months later, and lived happily ever after.”

“The cat?” Charles said slyly.

“Of course the cat stayed with them. Hurry up—when you finish this one, you have to write another, about the stepdaughter of an evil queen who orders a huntsman to kill her… And no oddities this time, please. Think of your children. We have to eat, remember?”