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1 In certain corners of my world the spirit of a cat broods. His name is Gian Carlo, and I first met him in a hill town in Italy. His sapphire eyes still haunt me. The story of his short life is fantastic enough, but the tale of our meeting is surely unique. The fourth summer after the end of World War Two, my family and I were touring in that part of Italy called Lucania. On a certain day in early May we found ourselves in a small village just north of Potenza, up in the hills. For some reason I had lagged behind the family to explore a dark narrow passage cut between two squalid tenements. A hoarse and highly querulous voice came to me in that stifled mid-noon; it sounded a long way off. What intrigued me was the strange familiarity of the call. I could have sworn to knowing it. Ducking through a low-beamed cellar and stumbling over barrels and hooping, I emerged into a cobbled court. Smack in the middle of this patio, parading his shiny haunches round and round in the sun, was a Siamese cat. He was perfectly alone and conversing with himself - or rather, with the cosmos. Without haste and without rancor, he was berating all and sundry for those insults with which the Siamese nature occasionally feels it has been overwhelmed but which it accepts as a challenge. Round and round, in the exact center of that courtyard he walked in the blazing sun, tail stiffly elevated, blue eyes raking the shadowy corners, his voice both complaining and bullying at the same time. What in the name of all that was holy would a Siamese cat be doing in this remote part of Italy! What was he doing in this village and in this courtyard inside the cooper's cellar! To whom did he belong? And what was the tenor of his song? I stood a long while contemplating this incongruity before emerging into the full light of the sun to approach him. The cat had a Renaissance swagger about him, the assurance of a condottiere with an army of Swiss at his back, the brass of a cardinal priest in his home church, and the hauteur of a blood-stained Sforza. "Whose cat is that, a chi quel gatto?" I asked an old man who appeared in a dark doorway opposite. The old man, who had no teeth at all, looked long at the cat and even squatted a few inches to peer more closely at him. "Non so, I do not know, signore." Then he added after a brief pause, "I have never seen this cat before - if he is a cat," he added dubiously. "Do you live here?" "Si, signore." "And you have never seen this animal before?" "That is right, signore." He continued to view the apparition. "Have you always lived here?" My informant pointed up at the window opposite and smiled a gentle, toothless smile. "I am seventy years always in that room. I am Niccolo Patti. The Patti have lived here since Hannibal, signore." A wonderful old man! "And you have never seen that cat before?" "I have told you the truth. Americans do not wish to believe things, signore." "Signor Patti, when was the last tourist in the village - can you tell me this?" "No, but it has been more than a year - this I know - a young English girl with a bicycle and three cameras." All this while the animal continued his stately parade, occasionally ceasing so that he might tread delicately with his hind foot on my shoe and deliver himself of a horrid roar. I had bred many Siamese cats but never had I seen such a vigorous and beautiful male as this creature. Where did he come from? To whom did he belong? One might as well expect to find an early Byzantine mosaic at the bottom of a copper mine in Africa as to come across such a rare and expensive animal unescorted in this place! For an hour and a half I plied the neighborhood trying to discover who owned him. Nobody had ever seen him before, and one heady female assured me that the cat was a "miracolo." This I could believe. In the end, after asking the old man's permission, I reentered the yard and, under the laws of salvage, made off with the animal. I reported back to my dumbfounded family with a thoroughbred Siamese cat in my arms.
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The animal needed a name, of course. Seeing that he might well have been a divine "plant", sent down by some archangel, we gave him the name of the village's local candidate for canonization. The priest in the village had several days previously told me a long tale of a young citadino of some ninety years past who had taken holy orders, had seen the Virgin twice, once within the crescent of the moon and once as the figure of a ragged demoiselle fleeing up the hill after a harvest of great abundance. This young man then had been suddenly called to his reward during a violent flood wherein, by extraordinary skill and commendable steadfastness, he had saved numerous lives. His name was Gian Carlo Severini da Ticchi. I could well believe that the cat was the reincarnation of this noble youth, and I accordingly gave him that selfsame name - though the fit was not exact, as you will see. Gian Carlo he thus became, and this book is about him.
3 I judged that Gian Carlo was about two years old and came of the finest Siamese stock, probably bred by an American fancier. He was a perfect seal-point. When preternaturally happy, he became extremely cross-eyed. He handled his tail as if it were Old Glory on the Fourth of July. He was slender, but his coat was exceptionally deep. His character was large; his voice was resonant and shifted rapidly from the normal petulant through the grandly grim to the very excesses of ecstasy. Most of his moods were play-acting - actually he was extremely competent and clever, but he delighted in good theatre. He loved to swash-buckle. If he could frighten some poor old lady by striding hugely up to her and bellowing at her like Stentor himself - this pleased him. There wasn't the slightest hint of inferiority or timidity about him. Whatever he did was done on a large scale. He began his career with us by creating numerous scenes, one of which took place in the U. S. Customs and Quarantine in New York. It was a very difficult thing to convince the officials that I had simply picked up this fine looking brute in the arid parts of highland Italy. It didn't make sense to them, even though I had had him registered in Naples. They insisted that I put the price at which I had bought him. So, while on the one hand I assured them that he was a waif and that I had found him, on the other hand I had to sign my name to an affidavit that I had paid the equivalent of fifty-five dollars for him. This impossibility satisfied officialdom, but it failed to satisfy Gian Carlo. He had been very happy as my daughter Candida carried him down the gangplank, and he was slightly cross-eyed. He had been taken from his box and he was relishing the adventure of a new homeland. But his inoculation certificates did not prevent him from being put to the hazard of being poked and peered at by a sharp young official. "A fine cat - Siamese?" "O indeed yes. One of the finest, I believe." "But from Italy, eh?" "Yes, possibly with some Carthaginian blood in him; the name Hannibal was mentioned." "Beautiful eyes." Gian Carlo was now glaring at him. "What strange sounds he makes - a whiskey baritone, eh?" and the man burst out into good-natured laughter. That was all Gian Carlo needed. With the wail of a banshee he leaped straight out of Candida's arms at the unfortunate man and landed sprawling and clawing on top of his head. Instantly the whole dock-side was in pandemonium. The official pranced about for a moment with Gian Carlo glued to the top of his head, his (Gian Carlo's) blue eyes almost black with the glorious excitement of it all. In this state the man resembled a cross between a gargoyle and Davy Crockett. It was certainly an unedifying spectacle and of course unworthy of our government. When we had separated the beast from the man, a long procedure had to be gone through rechecking his rabies certification, and I had to leave a ten dollar bill with the official, who in that unquiet interval had become ill-tempered. But Gian Carlo at last came into the country. In fact when it was all over, he seemed definitely proud of the grandiose manner of that entry. I decided at this point that his power and virility matched his beauty.
4 I'm afraid I have given the impression of Gian Carlo as a catamount, a ruffian. This he definitely was not. Let me illustrate. Through that immense lobby strode Gian Carlo Severini da Ticchi like old Pizzaro on his way to meet Atahuallpa. There was a real aura of greatness about him. He moved aside for no one. He placed his umber mittens with elegance upon the carpet. He carried his tail like a swordsman, a swordsman whose skill was so great that repose and alertness were one. The bellhops humbled themselves on the side-lines, and one little old lady held up her hands in silent ecstasy like a stone saint in adoration. You can imagine how we felt in the wake of such a dandy! By belonging to him we accrued immediate prestige. People pointed us out in whispers as the owners. We felt proud, but also a bit sheepish - for the whole procession smacked of the ritual pomp of a potentate with a horde of abject servitors milling about in his rear. In the hush which ensued, Gian Carlo, leading Candida, came up to the desk and without a pause in his stride sailed lightly up onto it and, turning his back upon the dumbfounded clerk, sat down on his haunches and stared merrily at the obsequious lobby, as if to say, "How happy I must make you all!" "Name here, please." "Yes, one double for myself and wife and one adjoining single for our daughter." Candida was playing with Gian Carlo's tail which was now slashing savagely over the register. "Daddy" she whispered, "Daddy, where's Punker going to sleep?" Punker was her name for Gian Carlo. "Sssssshhhhh!" "Here's a very nice pair of rooms on the tenth floor, sir." He paused and looked at Gian Carlo who continued to ignore his existence. "Our policy is NO PETS, sir." "0 now, you can't do that. This is a highly-bred animal. He is" - I made an airy gesture of the hand - "he is a nobleman from the old country." "I'm afraid we really can't allow this, sir. Even our old customers - " Candida had been staring at the clerk and now interrupted. "Isn't Punker going to sleep with us, Daddy?" "Why dear," I began, but before I was well into an explanation, she had her head down on the desk beside Gian Carlo and was sobbing unrestrainedly. Gian Carlo gazed casually at the vibrating curls beside him and then went back to his sparkling contemplation of the crowd that had now become exceedingly intent upon the unfolding drama. That cat was a king! His motto was "We are amused." Meanwhile the clerk, whom by now I really pitied, found himself faced with three overmastering facts; a curious and somewhat hostile crowd, a sobbing child, the rear end of a cat. The unusual conjunction of these three was mighty in its effect. I helped him out of his dilemma by drawing the register over and picking up pen again. "I'll just sign here. One double and one adjoining single. You will have no trouble, I assure you, and we will assume all liabilities." He smiled grotesquely and said nothing. Candida's tears stopped as if by magic. Gian Carlo was instantly in her arms, and escorted by bellhops, we marched away. The crowd murmured good-naturedly. In its confused mind justice had been done and a little girl had been made happy. What the crowd failed to sense was the vast and notable influence of the cat. He had not made a single false move, nor on the other hand had he reduced himself to the servility which some dogs would have been guilty of. He was a grand gentleman.
5 But all this is merely by way of introduction. In no sense does it exhaust the beast. Among other things he was a historian. History is my profession. In the rich solitude of my den, with the door locked and the air perfumed with mild pipe tobacco (flavored with rum and honey, toasted in the oven, andkept just right with thin slices of Northern Spy), the window open on a dozing landscape, my desk snow-white with papers and open books, and the typewriter ready at the side table for instant use - in these surroundings I had formerly imagined myself as lord and ruler. I had not counted on sharing my profession with an animal. About a month after our return, in through that open window sailed Gian Carlo in a sudden arc, and alighting on the sill surveyed the room owlishly. This was the one room of the house which had been debarred to him. Knowing that I frequently disappeared into it, he had decided to seek out the mystery. He displayed the interest of a Cellini within the walls of a hitherto unvisited convent. Softly he ambled about, sizing everything up. He stood on his hind legs to investigate my capacious waste-basket. He slithered under the desk and emerged with his whiskers all gummed up with cobwebs. He patted the typewriter.
I tried every expedient to convince him of his error. I locked him out, but he roared murder and arson until he had spread alarm throughout the household. If time elapsed and I still did not give him entrance, he trotted out into the rhododendrons and came hurtling in through the window. I tried shutting that, but with the warm autumn sun outside, it became stifling in the room; furthermore the presence of this menace crammed up against the window-pane, boring the back of my head with his blazing blue eyes, became unendurable. Short of selling the cat or giving him away - an act of treachery, seeing that we had assumed the obligation of his support - nothing could avail. Thenceforth, whenever the hour for my scholarly retreat came, Gian Carlo triumphantly led the way in and together we locked ourselves away from the world. I will not deny that it was difficult at times. I will even announce now to the academic world that some of the errors in emphasis in my publications are due to my umber compatriot. If I came upon a part on the origins of Mycenaean stonework, for instance, and Gian Carlo happened at the moment to be sprawled out over a mass of notes on Hittite fortification-walls, who was I to disturb his immortal slumber? Is not beauty worth as much as learning! Several times, at academic meetings, I have been attacked for certain passages of my work which, on consideration, contained just those hiatuses occasioned by Gian Carlo Carlo. Of course I defended myself as best I could, but I knew in my heart that I was taking the rap for the cat. At such times, I conceived of him as a dilettante historian, poorly trained and often radically wrong. But Gian Carlo the historian had his revenge! I had been reading proof sheets of a work on the Indo-European peoples and their relationships in the Middle Bronze Age. I had accepted the orthodox version of the coming of these peoples from somewhere out of the southern Russian steppe. Now Gian Carlo, unbeknown to me, one day in my absence kicked away those pages from the top of the typed pile which bore on this matter, tearing them and littering them on the floor. My wife, knowing my habits of composition, discarded the crumpled proof sheets on the floor and put them in the trash where they were destroyed. Without checking the page numbers of my proof sheets, I had then thrown the two halves hastily together and shipped them off to the publisher. The section which followed the lost sheets described the intermount basins of northern Anatolia, a relatively unknown area, and stated their probable importance in the breeding of new cultures. When I composed the passage, I certainly had not envisaged these purlieus as a possible home-land of the horse-breeding Aryans, but when the work appeared it read, with an awkward hiatus, as if it implied such a possibility. Some weeks later I realized that I had inadvertently given to the learned world an entirely new interpretation of the origin of the Hittites, the Trojans, and the Mycenaeans. I was overwhelmed by correspondence for and against this thesis. At the next meeting of my academic compeers I had to defend the thesis or appear a weathercock. In the defense of this unwanted thesis, it dawned on me that Gian Carlo might have touched upon something of importance. I consequently set myself first to investigate and then to elaborate the theory, and now I am convinced that it is essentially correct. It is presently one of the competing theories in its field. Since that time Gian Carlo Severini da Ticchi has offered to the world of historians no new propositions, but it seems to me that one such coup is sufficient for a cat. From that time on he slept and rolled over and tore my papers to his heart's content. What historian would eject Clio!
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I advertised in several papers in South Italy but the mystery remained as deep as it had been. To this day I have no explanation for this amazing rencontre.
We stayed for several days in a New York hotel before returning to Illinois. We had Gian Carlo on a leash. For some reason he loved the leash - I believe he thought it was a necklace with a very long pendant, like a train, which we had to carry for him. Candida took him successfully through the revolving doors of the hotel while my wife and I, laden with parcels and small hand-bags, came after.
But it was the papers which intrigued him. While I settled back in the swivel-chair to watch his progress, he paraded back and forth over them, pleased with the faint, rustling sound which they made. Then with a gargantuan bellow (which to the uninitiated sounds like unmitigated misery, but which - to a true lover of the Beast of Siam - is a halloo of great joy and poetic contentment) Gian Carlo stretched his beautiful length down on the papers and rolled over and over. With dismay I suddenly realized that he had taken possession of this little orbit of my universe. He had announced his indissoluble marriage to my work.