Vinnie the Mouse and The End of the Cats’ World

Vinnie the Mouse is watching his wife, Ada, as she puts her babies to sleep. She is sobbing. She ran out of milk in her breasts and she's worried about their lives. They are twelve altogether and in a week's time they might be asking for cheese.
‘We’ll need loads of cheese to bring all these babies up,’ Ada said. ‘You’re their father, Vinnie! You have to do something about that.’

Vinnie cannot sleep anymore overnight. He spends long hours out in the garden hoping that the moon and the stars will talk to him and tell him what to do. The fridge in the house is always full of cheese, but he is too small and weak to open the heavy door and help himself. The only ones who can pull that door open are just little Honey Dee, or her mother, or Poolfra the Cat.

There was a time when Poolfra opened the fridge and helped herself with a bit of cheese every single day, a time when Vinnie could find enough crumbled cheese around the fridge to keep his hunger at bay. But now Poolfra hasn’t opened the fridge door for ages. Since Honey Dee is feeding her with cat food from the superstore, Poolfra doesn’t do anything but playing all day long with her son, Foolbrick. She almost forgot there was a fridge in the house. And Vinnie has a family now. The crumbs are not enough to bring them up. He needs blocks of cheese.

As he worked his mind out to find a way to provide for his children, Vinnie remembers about Honey Dee’s collection of miniature books. In a tiny library placed on a desk in her bedroom, there are over fifty little books neatly arranged on shelves. They are all written in small print, as small as the poppy seeds he finds sometimes in the garden.

Thinking about them, a bright idea takes shape. ‘Those books can get me out of trouble,’ he says to himself and scurries over to Honey Dee’s bedroom. He jumps on the small table where the miniature library is mounted, pulls a book out at random and returns to his nest with it under his arm.

‘What is that?’ Ada asked him.

‘A book!’

‘We need food, Vinnie, not books!’

‘I know, I know, but this book will bring us food.’

‘A book that brings us food? How’s that?’

‘One day it said on the radio that books are magical things. If you hold one in your hand long enough, it can do miracles.’

‘The kids don’t eat miracles, Vinnie! They eat cheese! Books might do miracles for humans, but not for mice who cannot read.’

The following day Vinnie comes out of his nest with the book in his hands and opens it, leaning against the skirting board. Nothing makes sense in those pages, but he wouldn’t care less. All he wants is to make Poolfra curious.  

Poolfra has just finished her meal and she sees Vinnie with the book in his hand. She cannot believe her eyes. She thought that only humans can read. She comes over, rubbing her eyes.

‘Is that a book in your hands, or I’m dreaming?’

‘A book, indeed,’ Vinnie says.

‘And how did you learn to read?’

‘It probably comes with age.’

‘And what is it talking about, your book?’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t want to know, Poolfra… It’s talking about you, guys. About the End of the Cats’ World.’

Poolfra gaped at him in terror. ‘No! You’re joking!’

‘Seriously!’

A long moment of silence followed. ‘Now don’t torture me, Vinnie! Tell me! I want to know everything.’

Vinnie slams the book shut and puts the heel of his hand on his forehead. ‘Sorry, Poolfra, but I cannot concentrate anymore. This reading takes a lot of energy and I haven’t eaten anything from yesterday.’

‘I can get you some cheese from the fridge, if you want.’

‘Would you do that for me? Oh, you’re a sweetie, darling.’

Poolfra goes in the kitchen, opens the fridge and grabs a block of cheese from the shelf. Her whole body is shaking. She drops the cheese on the floor, picks it up and drops it again. She’s thinking of her only son, Foolbrick. He means the world for her, and if the End of the Cats’ World is near, his life is obviously in danger. She doesn’t want him to die. She has to find a way to save him.

Vinnie takes the cheese from Poolfra and goes home to recover his strengths. As he pushes the cheese inside, he bumps into Ada and gives her a wink. ‘Told you it’s magic,’ he said.  

The following day, Vinnie is out again reading from his book, this time with a new plan in mind. One block of cheese is not enough. He has to secure his family’s supply of cheese, not for just one generation, but for many more to come. He turned the last page in front of Poolfra and closed the book with a worried look on his face.

‘How does it finish?’ Poolfra asked.

‘Very bad, Poolfra! All cats will end up in the street.’

‘In the street? After all these years of superstore food and expensive shampoos? When? How?’

‘It doesn’t say in this one, but I promise I carry on reading. There are still forty-nine left.’

‘Don’t tell me! This is ridiculous. Would you be able to read all of them in your lifetime?’

‘I have a son, Poolfra. If I cannot make it, he will.’

‘Oh, Vinnie, if you make sure he will do that, your family will always have some cheese at dinner!’

Vinnie is so proud about himself. His plan worked out. His family will never need to worry about food for long years to come.

Twenty three days later Poolfra and Vinnie die both in the same day, but not because it is the End of the Cats’ World. They just die like many other cats and mice – Poolfra, hit by a car, and Vinnie, caught in mousetrap.

In his will, Vinnie left a set of instructions for his son, Ginnie. After his father’s funeral, the young mouse reads the instructions and puts the plan in action. He takes a book in his hand, goes out of his nest and waits for Foolbrick to catch sight of him.

But Foolbrick is spending most of his days in the window staring for long hours at a beautiful kitten that just moved in the neighbourhood. She is white like milk, with a little pink ribbon tied on top of her head and eyes as blue as the morning sky.

After spending a couple of days totally ignored, Ginnie decides to make himself more visible. He climbs on the window sill where Foolbrick is set in stone and shuffles the pages noisily at his feet. Foolbrick gets aware of him, but he doesn’t move an inch. His eyes stay glued to the white beauty in the neighbour’s garden.

‘Is that a book, Ginnie?’ he finally asked.

‘A book indeed.’

‘And what is it talking about, your book?’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t want to know Foolbrick. It’s talking about you, guys. It’s a book about the End of the Cats’ World.’

‘Oh! So that’s the book mum was talking about! Then would you mind if I ask you to read it somewhere else, please? I don’t really want to know about it. If I die tomorrow, I still have today.’

Ginnie went back to his nest and spent the entire night reading his father’s instructions all over again. He followed them in detail but it didn’t work. He would die of hunger. He couldn’t survive anymore just from the bread crumbs Honey Dee was leaving behind at breakfast. That was the End of the Mice’s World.

But all of a sudden, a bright idea formed in his mind. He placed the old book back in the Honey Dee’s miniature library and picked up a new one. This time he chose one with shiny covers painted in red and went straight to where Foolbrick made his usual habit to gape at the white beauty in the neighbour’s garden.

‘Is that a new book?’

‘A new book indeed.’

‘And what is it talking about, your new book?’

‘This one is about how you, guys, fall love,’ Ginnie said. ‘It’s amazing! Especially when it says how lovely the white cats are but how difficult is to make them fall in love with you. ’

Ginnie’s words made Foolbrick turn his head slowly to him. Now that was something that really caught him. His astonishment looked nearly human.

‘No! You’re joking!’

‘Seriously.’

Ginnie remembers how his dad ended up in that rusty trap he had always managed to outwit. He died with his eyes open, just an inch away from a meagre piece of cheese bait. Ginnie doesn’t want to end up like his father.

‘Don’t worry, Foolbrick!’ Ginnie continued. ‘Most of the books in that library are about white cats and how you can make them fall in love with you. I’m here to help, my friend. I’m here to read for you day and night until you win your beauty’s heart.’

Foolbrick gets really excited. ‘Tell me something! Anything!’

Ginnie closes the book and shakes his head a couple of times. ‘Oh, gosh! I can’t concentrate anymore. This book reading takes a lot of energy and I didn’t eat anything from yesterday.’

‘I can get you some cheese from the fridge, if you want.’

‘Oh, you’re a real friend, Foolbrick. Would you do that for me?’

Foolbrick jumps from the sill and disappears in the kitchen. Ginnie sighs deeply. He wonders how long it might take until mice will have their own food section in the superstore. Cats have their own. Dogs have their own. Even fish have their own. Does he have to carry that book with him until the end of his life? But then he remembers what his father had told him since he was a kid: “A book is a magical thing. If you stay long enough with one in your hand it can do miracles.” Such a miracle was now right in front of him: a block of cheese enough to last for a full week. And if a book can bring this today, who knows what it might bring up tomorrow?

An Accident in Bucharest

Since I was a little boy
learning how to use my feet
I’ve been always taught by mum
to make sure and pay attention
when I have to cross the street.

“Never, ever, on the red light!
Never where the traffic’s denser.
If you see no traffic lights
Zebra crossing is the answer.”

Black and white strips, orange flashing.
That day I could feel no fear.
More than that, a nice little granny
smiled at me and said: “My dear,
 if you need some help, I’m here!”

Up and down the street, no sound.
No cloud on the morning sky
just two headlights in the distance.
Enough time to cross the street,
enough time to get home dry.

As soon as I stepped on zebra
I could hear a crow’s shrill cry.
I could see a pair of wings
casting shadows at my feet
flying low, but aiming high.

Suddenly my nape went cold
sending shivers down my spine.
I could say, without a doubt,
there was something in the air
like an omen, like a sign.

Then I heard a rumbling thunder,
and I felt a ruthless pain,
crushing bones and stripping flesh,
I was kicked up in the air
just to land on a different lane.

I could see an ambulance
flashing lights and distant voices.
I could smell the anaesthetics
and I heard the little granny
sobbing between other noises.

Should I tell you what came next,
when my parents hand in hand
were invited in my ward
and they saw me tied to bed?
Mum just cried out once and fainted.
What a pain, such grief I brought!
Doctors, nurses, exchanged glances.
They all seemed to know my fate.
They all knew my neck was broken
and I’d never walk again.

Hours later, whispers floating.
It was little granny’s voice:
“He was riding like a ghost!
Switching lanes, at lightning speed.
In his black and shiny jacket.
leather trousers, smoky helmet,
I can bet he was Sorin,
our mayor’s only child
riding his black motorbike
he just got it as a gift
from his rich godfather Mike.”

Few policemen now showed up.
They took notes, they talked to granny.
Dad was calm but soon got hot.
First he listened, now he’s shouting.
Rage and hatred shake the huddles.
Nurses offer everybody
cups on trays and water bottles.

The policemen shrug and mumble
arguing on evidence.
They can’t blame Sorin, they say,
when they have no plate, no number,
not even the make for bike.
All they have is just a helmet
and a crow and then the strike.

As I listen, I agree.
They can’t blame him.
They are right.
Not without a plate, or number,
or at least a make for bike!

Mum gave me to drink some water
with a fond look in her eyes.
Couldn’t spot the make of water.
Daddy’s shouting, mummy cries.

A Jobseeker's Story

I’m looking for a job these days and the start point is obviously my CV. In my early twenties, I had one CV like everybody. I graduated Journalism, had a couple of jobs in Media, everything went smooth. Moving into my thirties, a new CV surfaced. I got into the Hospitality industry, managed a couple of restaurants, moving around the world a bit. With two CVs I thought that the chances to get a job would double up but when I wanted to make a change they actually halved. Now I’m well into my forties and I have four CVs. I worked in Property, sold some houses, do some viewings in Lettings, tried to open an Estate agency. In parallel I attended some courses in Novel Writing, published two books, wrote a novel, got stuck into this writing mania. Now when I’m struggling to get a job I realize that my chances of employment have fallen even lower, probably to a quarter. As you can see we have a geometric progression here with the CVs multiplying at a common ratio of 2 at every ten years and the chances to get a job going down in retrogression. A mathematician might look at this with a raised brow and increased interest. She might even pick up the phone and call her HR friend and ask her whether this formula could have any chance to be taken forward and give the jobseekers and recruiters some important advice on how they should approach each other. So should I expect as I move through the fifties to have eight CVs and the chances to get a job fall even lower, down to probably ten percent? Sure I can. I just need to put my hobbies in descending order and stretch the first four of them to look more or less like a career.

No Worries

My pencil lost its tooth.

Just like that.

It must be terrible
to have just one tooth
and lose it
when you have so many things
to write about
and there is just one way
to stay in touch with your words,
which is your tooth.

Mom watched me close

while I was sharpening
my pencil,
and said:
„You should spread the books
on your toast
and eat them
the way you eat
your buttered toast.

Give your teeth

some hard work in this life
no matter how much money
you have to pay your dentist
to sort out your cavities.

And if you won’t be able

to make enough money
to care for your teeth,
no worries.

We are supposed to lose them,

anyway.

But never lost will be your bite

from books spread out
on buttered toast.”

People and spiders are just details

I continued my stroll along the corridor trying to recall the moment when that man seized me from the street and hauled me to the ambulance. I jogged my memory but that spot was blank. Not even a shadow or a flash of light. So I started to work on that blank spot and made up a story of my own, turning my saviour into a godly figure, godlier than Ceausescu and his Communist Kingdom, godlier than Iliescu and his Army of Miners. I imagined him carrying me away from danger wobbling on his feet and praying to God to keep me alive for one more minute. The man I just ignored earlier put his life in danger to save mine, a life of a total stranger. When had I ever done that for somebody? Never. And suddenly I remembered the day when I had stopped killing spiders. It was nothing compared to saving the life of a human being, but knowing how many spiders could have become my victims and they haven’t, made me feel that I was not totally lost.

The nurse was passing from one ward to the other turning her head often to make sure she hadn’t lost me. I was there, right behind her, thinking about spiders.

I had killed spiders since as far as I could get back in time. I had always seen them as intruders into my own space, a family of dangerous insects that populated the world just to give us a freaky feeling of threat. They were poisonous and creepy and I had killed them with pleasure. Until one day when I came across the father of all spiders. I saw it from the distance, a dominant presence within a hole in the fence working hard to finish up one of the most mysterious works of architecture I had ever witnessed with my naked eye: the birth of a cobweb. I watched the entire process for long minutes, and the more I did, the more I wanted to understand how that was possible. How come a tiny insect like that could be capable of creating such an awesome feat of engineering? The conclusion was simple: They were populating the world to inspire us. Their silent presence sent us a subtle message that each and every one of us can create something awesome. Each of us has a true talent that waits to be revealed, a talent that makes us special and unique in this world.

That day when I parted with the spider I felt useless, guilty and ashamed. Was there anything as clever, mysterious and accurate that I could create so I could compete with the skills of that insect? No. So how could I dare to crush it under my foot like you crash a cigarette butt and even get satisfaction out of that? It passed years since I watched that spider spinning its web and every time I come across one that lands on my hand or in my hair, I always do the same. I take it in my palm and let it drop in a safe place hoping that one day a child will see it at work and get as exhilarated as I was once by the mystery behind his work.

We probably save each other’s lives not because we know or love each other, but for a reason as simple as keeping this mystery alive. We are here to continue something that has no beginning and no end and we do that together, humans, insects and beasts, competing in an eternal present in which things are happening purely to reveal an amazing but terrifying potential, which is nothing else but our drive to show each other what a wonderful world we can create together. That day as I trotted lightly behind my nurse I decided that working at increasing our potential was central to the reason why we were all here. People, spiders, and all the rest were just details.

If the Earth goes Bang!

I stopped by the window and watched the people in the street. What floor was that? Fifth? Sixth? From where I was I could only see men in motion with their cars in motion and mums in motion with their prams in motion, all of them keeping the world in motion. Why everybody had to keep moving? What was so important in keeping all these things in motion? Hundreds of people were populating that street, each one of them a bundle of worries, false expectations and unachievable dreams, all of them in motion.

Streets like that were all over the world. Interconnected. A huge network of ceaseless action. What if one day the Earth would go Bang!? A sudden explosion and all of us would end up into a cloud of dust. Would anybody be left in this Universe to receive this news with a bit of regret or a tinge of compassion? Would it be anybody to say: “Oh shit, we lost the people on Earth! We lost that beautiful planet! Four billion years of activity, of motion, of hopes and expectations, and they are all gone, turned into dust.’ Would it be anybody to say that? I mean anybody to keep a picture of us, to write an article about us, to lower the flags to half mast in our memory?

I raised my eyes to the sky. ‘Hello! Is it anybody out there to give a damn about us?’ Nietzche said that in heaven all the interesting people are missing and I suddenly went sad. It meant that waiting for a decent answer to my question was just time lost. The sky was heavy with rain and through that thick curtain of clouds I didn’t expect anybody to see me, interesting or not. Down in the street the mums and dads and prams and cars continued to stay in motion against all odds.

I rolled back my sleeves and looked at my bruises. They were the shape of broken egg yolks but in a totally different colour, a sort of aubergine verging into green. I couldn’t believe that such a thing just happened to us in a country where just six month ago we all agreed to start everything anew. The hospital was full of people like me who were tied to beds and connected to drips, some of us walking with crutches, some others pushed in wheelchairs, hoping that one day we’d get back home as healthy as we left it. We were all recovering from a terrifying experience in which our historic miners who worked hard for a living and made good neighbours in their community, fathers with families and kids, turned into criminals. They ran amok the city and beat people to death, innocent people who went out in the streets to protest against false promises. They pillaged and ransacked the main offices of our new political parties determined to inhibit our taste for democracy. They did it for Miron Cosma, their leader, and Cosma did it for Iliescu, the Architect, who found in Cosma the perfect ally in the fight to consolidate his power. I was still standing there in the window asking myself: Were we all rising up to that level of merit to fully deserve being fondly remembered in case that the Earth went Bang!?