Other walls

Basically, there's not much to tell. Because who cares about a story about a cat who doesn't want anyone to know its history? Why would it? Let it mind its own business, let it care for itself and its corner of the world.

The cat exists, the girl exists, and that's the Cat and the girl's business alone. It's undeniable that a whole host of curious creatures would devour every scrap of even the smallest story from the Cat's or the Girl's life—or their shared fate—with savage delight. It's important to know that for some time now, the Cat's paths have crossed with

the Girl's usual paths. There's no doubt that this happened by chance, and only the most experienced hunter, skilled at reading tracks and trails, would find the delicate paw prints in this instance. Which doesn't change the fact that a coincidence, even if not entirely a coincidence, is still a coincidence. After all, the Cat might

not have sat down in the tree under which the Girl always passed, right?

In any case, so as not to stray too far from the topic, it must be said that all the fairies, forest spirits, pooks,

dryads, nymphs, and all the rest of the fae riffraff would have given up an invitation to afternoon tea with Titania herself to get even a snippet of the Tale. Because what usually happened to these two, the smallest and most ordinary things, the everyday affairs, the gray everyday—that was what constituted the great world! A fifteen-minute slice of these two's lives would have been enough for an ordinary elf,

not to exaggerate, to last two decent lifetimes. But nothing happened. It was incredibly difficult to track down the Girl.

Sometimes you could see the Cat in the tree, lying forlornly on a sagging branch, its tail hanging in the air.

He probably didn't know what the Girl was doing or what she was thinking about.

Sometimes the Cat disappeared. The branch of the old mulberry tree was unnaturally empty without the ginger tomcat. He sat there, sat there for days, staring into space, as if waiting for something. Aside from the fact that it arrived and then didn't look back—it was a constant in the world. Something like the sky, the rocks, and the sea. Or the sun. Or any other constant you could imagine at any moment. Apparently, the Cat invented itself, this place, and the entire world. There's no denying that it might be true, why not? As long as you let your imagination run wild and refrain from making silly remarks like, "Cats can't invent things" or, "It's stupid that a Cat should invent me!" It's not that you can't think of them. You can. Or say them. But a certain fat, nasty tomcat might not like what anyone thinks of him.

Right? And so it had become a habit in the Wallyard that everyone ignored the Cat, praying in their most sincere and fervent evening prayers for the Cat to ignore them. Someone was answering these prayers, and everything was fine. The Cat lay on the branch of an old mulberry tree, which bent slightly under his weight. He stared into the distance, only occasionally climbing down from the tree to look for food. In truth, he did this on average every two hours. He would go to the garbage cans that stood by the Wall. And the garbage cans? No one knew where the garbage cans had come from under the Wall itself, but they looked just like real ones, from the Other Side of the Wall. And if you opened their lids, you could find the very real refuse of people from the Other Side. But when the Cat looked into them, something strange happened. If anything strange could happen in the Wallyard, of course. It's a rather strange district, if you know what I mean. Azatoth-Nuclear-Chaos may not be the most frequent visitor to this area, but the horned demons from the Inner Abyss sometimes drop in for a beer and a game of canasta. They say this place will become incredibly popular within two, three years at most. Real estate agents are already investing in tiny, charming cottages on the edge of the forest—just to turn them into cash cows, hotels that bring in a fortune. But that's not the point. In any case, when Cat reaches into the garbage can with his paw, he always, absolutely always pulls out a huge portion of pene rigate with ham and cream sauce. No, not lasagna.

He'd climb down, go get the damned pasta and sauce, eat it under a tree, at a small table, with a knife and fork,

completely uncatlike. And then he'd climb up his tree, collapse on a branch, and lie there until the next descent. And that was the whole Cat, who supposedly invented the world and himself. Sometimes he disappeared, and then things happened differently, completely tasteless, as if veiled in a gauze veil, sterile and aseptic. Time and space ceased to matter, becoming empty and imperfect. The Cat was gone; time marched on and on. You could never tell how long the Cat had been away from his branch and the garbage cans. But whenever you looked into the can, you'd find nothing there but old banana peels, shreds of rotten newspaper, burned-out light bulbs, and broken

radios. Everything remained suspended, not waiting for the Cat to return, but by some strange coincidence, it was then that it was suspended. And then, out of sheer stupidity, he'd walk over to the can, pull out a plate of damned pasta, and go to the table. He would take a knife and a fork, tie a large, checked napkin around his neck (by the way, I don't advise you

Never, ever think how ridiculous a cat looks with a checkered napkin around its neck. Unless you truly hate, for example, your ears. Or your hands. Or other relatively protruding body parts, easily separated by razor-sharp claws) and started eating. At a tiny table, sitting on one of two small wicker chairs.

Once he simply jumped from a branch. If anyone had been watching, they would probably have fallen dead on the spot, seeing the Cat so excited and tense. But the inhabitants of the Underwall had grown accustomed to ignoring the Cat, and no one noticed either his jump, his speed—or his terror.

The wall cracked.

A crack.

Two meters high.

It turned at a 90-degree angle.

It ran horizontally, for about a meter.

And then it descended.

A finger's width.

It creaked. And a section of the Wall opened like a door.

Inch by inch, the door slid open. A cool breeze, a bit like cellar air, caressed the cat's whiskers.

The scent of tanned leather, morocco, wax, polish, persian carpets, cherry pie, and aged whiskey mingled with hints of stale carrots, rotten potatoes, and medicine. It smelled like an old, beautiful house belonging to beautiful, old people. And the dark wood of the hallway was illuminated by the soft glow of candles, falling from behind the honey-colored glass of the wall chandeliers. A rich, burgundy carpet, woven as if for Persian maharajas, perfectly muffled

the Girl and Rabbit's footsteps.

Rabbit emerged, looked around, glanced at his watch, and yelled,

"I'm late for tea with the Queen! She's going to have me beheaded again!

" And before you could say "jumping carrot!" he fell into the hole, which, who knows how or where, ended up right under his paws. And then he disappeared, but that's Rabbit's specialty; he always carries his hole with him. The Girl stood and looked at the Cat. And the Cat stood and looked at her. There was something strange in that moment; the air held the taste of what might happen, what would happen for sure. And only they saw each other, for the entire world of Podmurze, out of habit, paid no attention to the Cat's affairs.

It was undeniable that everything had changed since the Girl had appeared. She ran everywhere, jumping joyfully and spreading rays of sunshine. Her smile brought relief, and her gaze pierced everyone. And you couldn't lie when she looked at you. And for one word from her, you'd drop everything and go to the ends of the earth to bring her a star from heaven. When she came to the bazaar, the traders abandoned their stalls and offered her treats.

The finest delicacies. The jealous wives of Persian carpet sellers watched from behind the curtains of their keffiyehs and hijabs, munching on dried almonds, while their husbands invited the little girl to rest, even if only for a moment, on the colorful carpets. Portly men from the West and the North, clad in steel armor, presented her with the most beautiful daggers made of blue steel. Fat jewelry merchants with ringed fingers showed her their most beautiful medallions and bracelets, and little, chubby flower sellers threw rose petals at her feet. The entire fair was filled with joy whenever she visited. And the merchants' sales increased if she so much as graced them with her radiant smile.

I can't say Kotu liked this. The little girl loved to wander around—and whenever she was in town, she was immediately surrounded by crowds of acquaintances, friends, and admirers. After a few days in Podmurze, she was the most famous person.

What could she do? So she visited her Podmurze family, went on long walks with them, and spent time at tea parties, balls, and parties. And sometimes she went on solitary hikes, searching for large, sun-warmed berries or exploring caves hidden somewhere in the forests surrounding Podmurze. She lounged in clearings, climbed

trees, and stole apples from the orchards. Strangely enough, a beautiful, warm autumn still lingered near the Wall. The days stretched on and on, hot and long. And when evening came, it was always cool and slightly damp. And at night, the air smelled of the promise of winter. Picnics were the best time for midday. Afternoons were reserved for outdoor parties.

In the evenings, a barbecue was held in every garden. And the nights were perfect for sitting by the fireplace or basking in a warm bed. It was definitely nice to live in a neighborhood like this. No spiders, snakes, or mosquitoes—and the hawkers only appeared sporadically, just when you felt like pushing someone down the stairs. You get what

you deserve, nothing more, nothing less.