It was on a bench in the park one spring day, perhaps six weeks or so later, that Kaspar first showed me any real affection. He was sitting up on the park bench beside me, basking in the sunshine, when without even thinking about it, I found myself stroking his head. He looked up at me to let me know it was fine by him, and then he smiled. I promise you he smiled. I felt his head pushing into my hand, felt the purr coming over him. His tail was trembling with pleasure. I know it sounds silly, but at that moment I felt so happy that I was almost purring myself. I looked into his eyes, and for the first time I could tell that he liked me, that at last he thought of me as his friend. I felt honored.
The next morning I met the Countess hurrying through the lobby.
“Ah, Johnny Trott,” she said as I opened the front door for her. “I am late for rehearsal. All my life I am late. You will walk with me. I have an important thing I must say to you.”
It was raining, so I held the umbrella for her as we crossed the Strand and walked up into Covent Garden, past the barrel organ with the monkey that turned the handle and the blind soldier playing his accordion by the fruit stalls. She stopped to pat the coal man’s horse, standing between the shafts of its cart, hanging its head in the rain, and looking thoroughly miserable and soaked through. The Countess berated the coal man soundly when he came out of the pub; she told him in no uncertain terms that he should put a blanket on the horse in such weather, that in Russia they treated horses properly. The coal man was speechless, too stunned and shamefaced to argue. We walked on.
“I have much to thank you for, Johnny Trott. Prince Kaspar is a very happy cat, happy to be in London. And when Kaspar is happy, I am happy. I sing better when I know Kaspar is happy. This is true. You know how I know he is happy? He smiled at me this morning. And this he does not do very often, so I know you must look after him very well.”
I was about to tell her all about Kaspar’s smiling at me the day before, but she was in full flow and I didn’t dare to interrupt her.
“Because you make us both so happy, Johnny Trott, I wish to invite you to The Magic Flute, to the opera at Covent Garden. Tomorrow evening. It is the first night. You will come?”
I was so taken aback, I did not even think to thank her. “Me?” I said.
“Why not? You will sit in the best seat. Dress circle. You are a guest of the Queen of the Night.”
“I’d really like to, Countess, honest I would,” I told her, “but I can’t. I’ll be working. I don’t finish till ten o’clock.”
“Don’t worry, I fixed this already with the manager at the hotel,” she said, with an imperious wave of her hand. “I told him you do not work tomorrow, you have the whole day off.”
“But you’ve got to be smart to go to the opera, Countess.” I said. “I’ve seen all the grand gentlemen and the ladies. I haven’t got the right clothes.”
“I’ll fix this too, Johnny Trott. You’ll see. I’ll fix everything.”
And so she did. She rented me a suit to wear—the first proper suit I ever put on. I could hardly believe it when I found myself, the next day, standing in front of her in her sitting room, all washed and brushed up, while she adjusted my tie and collar. I remember that I was looking up into her face, and all I wanted to do was call her Mother, to hug her tight and never let go.
She frowned. “Why do you look at me like this, Johnny Trott?” she said. “I think maybe you have tears in your eyes. I like this. You are a boy with feeling, so you will be a man with big heart. Mozart had a big heart, and he was the greatest man who ever lived. A little mad maybe, but I think you have to be a little mad to be great. I love this man. I tell you something, Johnny Trott. I have no son, no husband. I have only Prince Kaspar and my music. But if I had a husband, he would be Mozart, and I say something else: If I have a son, I want him to be like you. This is the truth. Now, Johnny Trott, I take your arm, and you will walk me to Covent Garden. Be proud, Johnny Trott. Walk like Kaspar. Walk tall, like you are a prince, like you are my son.”
This time when Mr. Freddie saw me coming and raised his top hat, there was no mockery in the gesture whatsoever, only openmouthed astonishment. The Savoy lobby fell silent in utter disbelief as we strode through. I felt about ten feet tall, and that’s how I continued to feel as we made our way up through Covent Garden market to the Royal Opera House.
I should like to be able to say that I remember every moment, every note of my evening at the opera, but I do not. It passed in a blur of wonderment. I do, however, have a very clear memory of Countess Kandinsky as she made her first entrance as Queen of the Night, the rapturous applause after every aria she sang, and the standing ovation for her at the final curtain. In fact I was so proud of her, so carried away by it all, that I stuck my fingers in my mouth and gave her the loudest, longest whistle I could, ignoring the disapproving looks all around me. I knew full well it was not the thing to do, but I just didn’t care. I whistled again and again. I stood and clapped until my hands hurt, till the curtain closed for the last time.
As we walked back to the hotel together later that night, I was so laden down with all the flowers she had been given that I could scarcely see in front of me. Kaspar was waiting for us when we got back, yowling around us until I gave him some milk. The Countess went straight to the piano, her hat still on, and began to play softly.
“This I play every night after the opera, before I go to bed. It is a lullaby by Mozart. It is beautiful, no? Prince Kaspar, he likes this very much.”
And as if to prove it, Kaspar leaped up onto the piano to listen. “Johnny Trott,” she went on, still playing, “do you think they liked how I sang tonight? You must tell me the truth.”
“Of course,” I told her. “Didn’t you hear them?”
“And you, Johnny Trott, do you like how I sing?”
“I never heard anything so wonderful,” I said, and I meant it.
She stopped playing and beckoned me over to the piano. She reached up and brushed the hair from my forehead. “You go now, Johnny Trott. It is very late.”
The next day Mr. Freddie and all the others on the servants’ corridor teased me mercilessly. “Who’s a la-di-da lad then?” they called after me. “La-di-da!” Whatever they said, I didn’t mind. I was on cloud nine. During our walk in the park that morning, I told Kaspar all about my night at the opera, how everyone there had taken the Countess to their hearts, how she would be the talk of London, that he should be very proud of her. When no one was around, I even whistled him a snatch of a tune I remembered, but this did not seem to impress him at all.
When we came back through the front door half an hour later, I was expecting more of the same banter, more ribbing. I was even looking forward to it. But as I came through the lobby, I noticed everyone was behaving very strangely, that they were averting their eyes, obviously not wanting to talk to me. I thought at first they must be angry with me. Mr. Freddie came over to me then and took me gently to one side, to offer me some advice, I thought, something he often did when I’d done something wrong.
“Best get this over with, Johnny,” he began. “It’s the Countess. She was knocked down an hour or so ago, just outside in the street. An omnibus it was. They say she walked straight out in front of it. Couldn’t have seen it coming. We was all very fond of her, you most of all. Almost like a mother she was to you, wasn’t she? I’m sorry, Johnny. She was a good lady, a fine lady, and a kind one too.”
* * *
A Ghost in the Mirror
I cried myself to sleep that night. Mr. Freddie was right. The Countess had been like a mother to me—not that I knew what a real mother was like, but she was certainly the mother I had always hoped to find. I had found her, and now she was gone. I had lost as well the first real friend I had ever had, the first person who had ever told me she liked me. I cannot tell you how grateful I have always been to her for that. In all my life I have never known anyone whose light shone so brightly, so brilliantly, and so briefly. The shock of her death stunned eve
ryone. For days afterward the whole hotel was plunged into a deep sadness.
I hate to have to admit it, but to begin with, I was too wrapped up in my own grief to notice Kaspar or to think very much about him and what would happen to him, now that the Countess was gone. It took Mr. Freddie to jolt me out of my self-pity.
“I’ve been watching you, Johnny lad,” he said to me one evening. “You’ve been moping about the place all day. You’ve got to buck yourself up, you have. It won’t hardly bring her back, will it? And I’m sure it’s not what she would have wanted. You know what she’d have wanted. She’d like for you to go on looking after that cat of hers as well as you can, for as long as you can. And if you’re feeling bad, think what that cat must be feeling. So you go up there, Johnny, and see to him. The Countess’s rooms are bought and paid for another month at least, so I’ve been told. I reckon it’s your job to look after that Kaspar till someone from the family comes and fetches him away.”
So that’s what I did, and that’s when I began to notice how sad Kaspar had become. That’s when I noticed something else too: Every time I went in to be with Kaspar, it was as if the Countess were there in the room with me. Sometimes I thought I even smelled her perfume. Sometimes I was sure I heard her humming and singing. More than once, late in the evening, I heard that lullaby playing on the piano. And time and again I thought I caught sight of her in the mirror, but when I turned around, she wasn’t there. I knew she had been, though. I was certain of it. I wasn’t frightened, not exactly. But it troubled me and made me feel uncomfortable every time I went into her room.
It was obvious to me that Kaspar sensed her presence too. He was not himself at all. He was nervous, restless, anxious. He didn’t purr anymore. He’d stopped washing himself, and so far as I could see, he hardly slept. He’d spend hours searching the rooms for the Countess, yowling piteously. He wouldn’t eat; he wouldn’t drink. He was clearly pining for her. I decided that maybe if I took him out more often, for walks in the park, it might help him. He drank from the puddles then, which was something.
I tried to reassure him all I could. I told him over and over that everything would be all right. Sitting there on our bench one day, I promised him faithfully that I’d look after him. But I could see he wasn’t listening. More and more he just didn’t seem to care. More and more he just didn’t seem to want to go on living. I tried feeding him by hand, but he would only sniff at the food and turn away. I tried calf’s liver from the kitchen. I tried the best beef, finely chopped. Nothing worked. Kaspar was losing weight all the time, losing his sleekness. His coat was beginning to look lusterless. He was already the ghost of his former self. There seemed to be nothing I could do to halt his decline. I knew if he went on like this, it could end only one way. Now I would lie awake at night, not grieving for the Countess anymore but trying desperately to think of some way of saving Kaspar’s life.
It was during one of these long and sleepless nights that I had an idea. It occurred to me that it was only in the Countess’s rooms that I had felt her presence, that I’d caught my fleeting glimpses of her. Maybe it was the same for Kaspar. Maybe that was what was troubling him. If I got him out of those rooms somehow and away from her, then he might possibly be able to forget her.
I had it in my head that the only thing to do was to bring Kaspar up to my little attic room and look after him there. That way I could also be with him more often. But I knew from the start there would be problems. Sooner or later, as Mr. Freddie had said, the Countess’s relations would be coming to collect her belongings, and no one knew when that would be. One thing was for sure: They’d be coming for Kaspar too, and they’d expect to find him in her rooms. And if he wasn’t there, they’d be bound to ask me where he was. Just about everyone who worked in the hotel knew by now that I had been looking after Kaspar. I couldn’t say I was keeping him in my room because we were absolutely forbidden to keep pets in our rooms. The house rules were very strict. No birds in cages, no goldfish, no cats, no dogs, no mice. In fact no friends of any kind, animal or human, were allowed up in the servants’ rooms. Breaking any of the house rules would lead to instant dismissal. Skullface never showed any mercy. I told Mr. Freddie my plans because I knew he’d understand. He said it was far too dangerous to take Kaspar up there, that I’d be out of a job and on the streets just like that if Skullface ever found out about it.
“You don’t want to risk everything for a cat, Johnny,” he said. “Not even for Kaspar.”
It was good advice. I thought about it long and hard, but in the end I knew I had no choice. I could think of no other way of saving Kaspar. I told everyone on the servants’ corridor what I was doing; there was no way I could keep a cat up there in my room and keep it a secret from them. One thing was certain: None of them would snitch on me to Skullface; we all hated her far too much. Besides, they all realized by now just how ill Kaspar was, and they all wanted to help. He’d become quite a favorite.
Late one evening we all crowded into my room, where Mary O’Connell, one of the scullery maids, made us all join hands and make a secret pact not to tell a living soul. Mary was an Irish girl from county Galway. She was a powerful character and had a persuasive way with words. She was very religious minded, and she made us all swear on her Bible never to say a word. Luke Tandy, a waiter in the Riverside Restaurant, said he wouldn’t swear on the Bible because he didn’t believe in all that “religious malarkey.”
“Well you’d better believe something else then, Luke,” Mary told him, wagging her finger at him. “You say a word to a soul, and I’ll beat the living daylights out of you, so I will.”
All I had to worry about now was Skullface herself. She hardly ever made an appearance on our corridor, but we all knew she could come up there anytime. We had to keep an eye out for her, but most of all, we had to get lucky.
That same night I crept downstairs, let myself into the Countess’s room, and carried Kaspar up into his new home in my little attic room. As soon as I got him there, I sat him on the bed beside me and gave him a good talking to. “None of your yowling, Kaspar. If Skullface finds you up here, we’re done for, me and you both. And you’ve got to eat. You’ve got to get better, you hear me?” He didn’t yowl, but he didn’t eat either. He just lay there curled up on my bed sleeping, and hardly moved. When I left him to go on duty downstairs in the lobby, he took very little notice of me. And he took very little notice of me when I came back either. Mary O’Connell tried to feed him, tried to talk him into eating, but he wasn’t interested. Almost everyone on the corridor had a go. We tried chicken, salmon, even caviar once—anything Mary could filch from the kitchens without being noticed. All of it went uneaten. He wouldn’t touch anything, not even his milk.
Just in case the Countess’s relatives turned up, I’d put it about everywhere—we all had—that Kaspar had escaped from the Countess’s rooms and could not be found. I made a great song and dance about organizing a search of the whole hotel, pretended to be beside myself with worry, and I asked everyone to keep an eye out for him. Mr. Freddie knew what I was up to, of course, but besides Mary and Luke and all the gang on our corridor, no one else did. So now I could only take Kaspar for his walk at nighttime, when hardly anyone would be about. I’d hurry out the back way, through the tradesmen’s entrance, with Kaspar hidden under my coat. While we were out there in the park, he seemed to perk up for a while, but it never lasted. Back in my room he would curl up again and close his eyes. Often I would hear him sighing deeply, almost as if he wished every breath to be his last. It broke my heart to see him like this. I felt so utterly helpless.
Meanwhile the Countess’s brother and sister came to take away all her things. They asked after Kaspar, and I told them, as I’d told everyone else, that he’d disappeared. In the Countess’s sitting room they stood by the piano for a while and cried on each other’s shoulders. I found myself looking again into the mirror, where I had so often caught a ghostly glimpse of the Countess. I did not see her this time
, but I felt her presence. I made her a silent promise then and there that I wouldn’t let Kaspar die.
As it turned out, Kaspar didn’t die. He was saved. But I have to say that it had nothing whatsoever to do with me. In the end Kaspar was saved by happenchance, by pure happy circumstance.
I had seen the Stanton family about in the hotel but to begin with had paid them little enough attention. They seemed a lot like other rich families that came to stay for a month or two in the hotel. They were American: father, mother, and a little girl.
Both the parents seemed rather stiff and prim and proper, even a bit standoffish, which in my experience was not at all like most of the American guests I’d met in the hotel. The little girl was different, though. She was about seven or eight, I guessed, and was always in trouble, always being scolded by her mother. She was forever wandering off on her own and getting herself lost. As I was soon to learn, getting lost didn’t upset her one bit, but it did upset her parents, particularly her mother, whom I’d often see hurrying through the lobby in search of her. It was from her mother, one breakfast time, that I first learned the little girl’s name.
“Elizabeth. I’m looking for Elizabeth,” she said, rushing up the stairs into the lobby from the Riverside Restaurant. All her usual composure was gone. There was a wild and anxious look about her. “She’s run off again. Have you seen her? Have you seen her?”