The Marshal tells of a cat

“This,” said Kenren, one afternoon, idly shifting it with his foot. “What is this?” The General was sitting in Tenpou’s study, with one leg draped over the arm of a deep chair.

The Marshal looked up from the book he was holding. He couldn’t recall why he had put a neck-tie between pages 146 and 147. Was it to mark the page, or was it just that he happened to put his tie down and then closed the book later? Page 146 didn’t appear to be particularly significant. Perhaps there was something on page 147? But Kenren was speaking –

“Mnnh?”

“This object. Explain.” Kenren gave it another kick and it fell over, one arm waving rhythmically, as though in surrender.

“Oh, you don’t need to kick it.” Tenpou smiled happily. “There is a mechanism inside which moves the arm automatically.” He put his fingers under the base, twisted them and there came a long succession of faint clicks. Then he put the cat upright on the floor and facing Kenren, so that the waving was overtly at him.

Kenren’s face twisted into a half-amused, half-appalled grimace. His amusement was at Tenpou’s affection for the bizarre, but he was appalled at the appearance of the fat china cat with its smug, smooth simper and its blue collar and gaudy spattering of red flowers. “It’s from Down Below, I suppose?”

The Marshal lowered himself onto a mat of books already spilled in front of the General’s chair and placed a friendly arm on the cat’s head. “This one’s from a country called China, but I believe the legend originated in a land called Japan, which comprises islands grouped round a large central land mass shaped rather like an aubergine -”

“Yeah, yeah.” Kenren waved his hand. “About the cat.”

“The orthodox model, such as the one in front of you, represents a cat which made its master’s business successful – according to the legend, that is.”

“Caught rats for a restaurant, did it?” scoffed Kenren, picking his teeth with the sharp end of a pin. A sliver of his mind was still enjoying his lunch.

“No, nothing as simple as that.” Tenpou settled his legs in a more comfortable position and began to stroke the fur-less surface of the cat absent-mindedly. Kenren frowned; the feline smirk seemed to have increased its degree of self-satisfaction from annoying to repellent.

Tenpou continued. “There was once a young man in a city in Japan, who set up in business as a tailor. The city was prosperous and full of rich merchants, and the young man made beautiful clothes which commanded a high price so, at the end of his first year of trading, he had made a handsome profit.”

“The cat,” said Kenren, emphatically.

“The cat,” replied Tenpou firmly, “is coming.” He refused to be hurried. “At the end of his first year of trading, he had made a handsome profit. The tailor looked at his pile of gold coins and bought a large bed -,”

There was an appreciative snigger from Kenren, which Tenpou ignored.

“ – and a handsome white cat with a blue velvet collar, and then he bought the biggest bottle of sake in the wine shop. The tailor’s clothes continued to be popular and his designs and combinations of colours were considered fashionable throughout the whole region. However, the sake came to be a reward now, not just for a coat completed, but for a lining, a sleeve, a pocket – and eventually – for every button.”

“I can see where this is going,” yawned Kenren, thinking that a cup of Tenpou’s fine apricot sake wouldn’t go amiss right now.

“The tailor loved his little white cat, but he loved the sake more, and more often, so, over the months, the business began to grow less and less efficient as the tailor’s eyes blurred and his stitching became uneven and his bed seemed more and more attractive. The customers complained at having to wait so long for their orders and even returned some items, where the stitching was so ragged and so badly finished that it looked as though it had been sewn using chopsticks instead of a needle.

Eventually, money became short and orders few and the tailor cut back on all his expenditure, except for the sake.

The cat was hungry. “Dear Master, we can’t go on like this, you know. Can’t you at least finish the big order for the Wongs’ wedding? The design is so very beautiful that it is a shame not to see it completed yet.”

The tailor was lying on the bed and didn’t even open his eyes. “Sweet – cat,” he burbled indistinctly. “Swee’ li’le kitty-cat, come here and sleep on the bed with me. I’m sorry you’re hungry. I’m hun’ry too but sleepin’ makes it all better, I promise you.” And the tailor rolled over and began to snore.

The cat padded over to the order-book and looked for the day of the Wongs’ wedding. The 27th May. That was the day after tomorrow!

Anxiously, the cat sorted the heaps of silk which were the four coats and the two waist-coats and the four sets of trousers and the four hats. They were all cut out, true enough, but the tailor stood no chance of getting the stitching done in time for the wedding, not from his bed and under the blankets. So the cat picked up a needle and set to work, stitching all day and stitching all night and stitching all the next day.

When the Wongs came to collect the clothes, they were finished and ready, save for one button on a sleeve. The cat apologized and looked for the button; but there were no more gold buttons – the order was one button short.

Mr Wong demanded to see the tailor. “He’s very ill,” stammered the poor cat and shook his head in consternation – and the movement rang the gold bell on his collar. Quick as a flash, the resourceful cat pulled off the golden bell and added it to the long line of gold buttons on the left sleeve of one of the coats where the button was missing; it was almost a perfect match. Stitch, stitch, snip – the button was on and the job was done.

“That’ll be two thousand silver taels, please,” said the cat. The Wongs stopped in strutting their exhibition of cavorting finery in front of the mirror and began to empty their pockets. Soon the two thousand taels were on the table – and there was no need of a bell to make up the quantity.”

At this point, Kenren swung his leg down off the arm of the chair and stifled another yawn. He liked to listen to Tenpou’s voice very much, but the afternoon was warm, the chair comfortable and the cat’s fat, waving arm extremely hypnotic. He could feel sleep seeping up from the cushions, even as he curled a little deeper and the Marshal continued.

“The cat put the money on the table beside the tailor and said, “Dear Master, please try to attend to the shop; there is another order to be completed by Saturday but there is little cloth left and time is getting short.” The tailor opened an eye and stroked the cat gently. “Sweet little cat, I know I’ve been a very bad master and I will try to do better. Tomorrow, I’ll work harder than you’ve ever seen – just you wait!”

Tomorrow came and the cat waited. At last, the tailor got up and sat at the bench and drank sake and went to sleep with his head on the pattern. The cat sighed. He was hungry again, and there was no food, but the order needed completing by Saturday and it was now Wednesday afternoon. The cat looked in the materials cupboard: there was almost no cloth left and the trimmings which remained were a random selection of strange colours and odder lengths.

The cat looked at the pattern and made some quick calculations. He bought enough fabric (and lace and buttons and lining and facing and stiffening and braid) to finish the order and then went to the butcher’s shop and the vegetable market for the ingredients to make a nice dinner.

The tailor smelt the good cooking and rose up from his bed. “You’re such a good cat to me,” he said, with his mouth full of dry fried beef and noodles. “I know I’ve been a very bad master and I will try to do better. Tomorrow, I’ll work harder than you’ve ever seen – just you wait!”

Tomorrow came and the cat waited, but the tailor was still comfortable in his bed with his beef and noodles, warm and soft, inside him and he did not stir. The cat sighed and laid the cloth on the cutting table. He measured, he cut, he pinned and he stitched until the daylight had gone and until all the candles were finished. As the dawn lightened the sky, the cat fell asleep.

A little later in the morning, the tailor looked in the cupboard for food and, finding none, took the money and went out. The cat had bought dinner for him. So would he buy a fine dinner for the cat. Except the cat hadn’t stopped at the sake shop.

When the cat awoke, it was already past noon and the house was empty. The cat was hungry but today was Friday and the order had to be finished by tomorrow. The cat picked up the needle and began work on the lining and the lace and the facing and the braid trim. The cat worked and still the tailor did not come home.

Saturday dawned and the order was finished. The cat was almost too sleepy to remember to ask the customer to pay the bill, but, already half-way out of the shop, the delighted merchant put his hand into his pocket and threw a purse of gold coins at the exhausted cat.

So, the tailor returned to find the cat asleep and a new supply of gold coins on the table, which was just as well because he had drunk most of the last payment, and the money which was left after drinking had been won from him by a splendid set of fellows at a card game.

In the weeks that followed, the tailor always promised to do better tomorrow (but that tomorrow was never the same day as today) and the cat became more and more anxious as the money ran out.

The cat sold the table and chair, the mirror and carpet, and the materials cupboard and the tall sewing stool. This gave enough money for the cat to cook dinner every two days and to rouse the tailor from his drunken sleep with the smell of food. And the tailor always turned back to his bed saying, “Sweet little cat, I know I’ve been a very bad master and I will try to do better. Tomorrow, I’ll work harder than you’ve ever seen – just you wait!”

The day arrived when there was nothing left to sell, when the food was gone and when the sake was finished. The tailor had a headache and a foul temper and kicked the cat before shouting that, when he found his cutting shears, he would stick them into his own neck and make an end of it all. He then fell on the bed and began to cry.

The cat was very sorry for his master and not a little frightened by his suicidal state of mind. For an hour, the cat sat on the window sill and stared out at the street and worried about what to do. Then the light faded and the cat saw his own reflection brighten in the window. He looked at the clean white fur facing him and the strong muscular shape staring back at him. Then he quietly let himself out of the house.

In the morning, the tailor was roused by a loud knocking on the door. Through eyes only half-open, the tailor saw the butcher’s boy holding out a parcel with a note on top.

 “Wha’ s ‘at?” asked the tailor.

“Please, sir, it’s for you, if you be so kind and beggin’ yer pardon.” The boy pushed the bundle into the tailor’s hands and trotted off. He had many other deliveries to be made before lunchtime.

The tailor went back inside and shut the door. He sat on the bed and unwrapped the parcel. Out fell a purse of gold coins and a blue velvet collar.

The tailor stared.

Forcing his eyes to focus, he unfolded the cheap note-paper, on which was written, in poorly drawn characters: “Dear Master, this is the last thing that I can do for you. My four legs have carried me to the butcher’s and I have sold myself to him as meat and as a fine pelt. I have asked him to send you the money, to buy food to give you the strength to take up your needle and to buy cloth to make your beautiful designs into fine clothes again. I wish you every success in the future of your business.” The bottom of the paper carried a small pawprint.

And the tailor mumbled, “Sweet little cat, I know I’ve been a very bad master and I will try to do better. Tomorrow, I’ll work harder than you’ve ever seen – just you wait!”

And when tomorrow came, the tailor rose up early and went to the market to buy cloth and to ask for custom, and he sat on his bed and he worked all day long and for hours into the night, harder than the cat would ever have seen him work.

Little by little, the tailor’s business began to thrive but, this time, he did not celebrate with alcohol. Instead he had a model of the cat made in white porcelain, with an arm which waved to summon good luck, and he put the blue velvet collar round it and sat it on the window-sill. The tailor’s business soon became so very successful that he needed to employ many other workers and to move his workshop to larger premises.

And the cat moved too, smiling in the larger window to welcome the customers, old and new, and to beckon more money into the shop.

So, that, my dear Kenren, is the quaint legend of the “call money cat”. The tailor was incredibly lucky to have such a big-hearted and faithful friend as the cat, don’t you think?”

There was silence, cushioned by the sound of regular breathing.

The Marshal pushed his spectacles higher onto the bridge of his nose and looked up. Kenren’s eyes were closed and his head had relaxed sidewards against the wing of the chair; he had fallen asleep a long time ago.

Tenpou’s expression softened into something far too complicated
to be described, and he remarked conversationally to the cat,
“And the Marshal is incredibly lucky to have such a big-hearted
and faithful friend as the General, don’t you think?”

And the cat continued to grin and to invite success and fortune in.