i am akhmatova's cat. treat me well

7/29/2019 'I am Akhmatova's Cat. Treat me well.'

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'I am Akhmatova's Cat. Treat me well.'

By Dr. Jeffrey Lant

Author's program note. It came by courier about two months ago. I was at home, feeling poorly. I signed

for the package, but confess I didn't open it right away; I felt so terribly. I shall always wonder if it wouldhave made any difference in the end. Of course, I shall never know now.

When I opened the package, I saw it contained several pieces of memorabilia; but whoever had sent

these riches wanted to make sure he controlled my excavation. "Open this first!" It was a command that

could not be denied.

Inside was a letter addressed to me and what appeared to be a bill of lading listing the complete

contents in what I soon learned was priority order. I began, as instructed, with the letter. The envelope

was hand addressed, the stationery engraved with the arms of one of Boston's oldest and proudest

families.

"Dear Doctor Lant." And here the tale began...

The letter was beautifully written, the hand copperplate... as expected. As these great families dwindled

and died, they insisted on the niceties... and still got them, even when they contemplated scandal which

this grandee was about.

"Honored sir," he said. "You, historian and revered commentator that you are, you know to your

fingertips the saga of my family, high aristocrats in Europe, descendants of kings, the earliest of Pilgrims

to a land we made our own. There have been black sheep ere now on the family tree; now about to

harbor another, though not in Boston, for my kinsmen, with such rectitude and sanctity, deserve

better... and shall at least in this get it."

He then told me in the minute detail favored by punctilious antiquarians how he lost control of his

acquisitive habits and could not regain it. In my mind's eye, I saw the millions required for his

astonishing acquisitions seeping from his bleeding resources but what he acquired was breathtaking: the

autograph letter from Abraham Lincoln to the man who called himself President of the Confederate

States of America, Jefferson Davis. In it Lincoln offered to cut any deal to save the Union. It had to be

worth $20,000,000, if not more.

And what of the Abdication of King-Emperor Edward VIII? Each brother had been given a copy signed by

all of them, the King, York, Gloucester, and Kent. It was doubtless worth a king's ransom, but how had

he got it? It seemed clear, these were accompanying him on his travels... and he gave no clue of where

those might go.

And so I read through the stages of the night, until the dawn -- and the paper boy -- broke on my

incomplete researches. As usual he announced his presence with as much noise as possible. There was

the usual front page murder, this time decapitated, head gone missing. Really, this might be Mexico

City...


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So I spread out the complete contents on the floor of the Red Drawing Room, its chandeliers bringing a

room of artifacts to brilliant light. There, right at the top, was a cashier's check made payable to me for

$25,000 "for services." My correspondent now had a claim on me... whilst I wondered who knew what

about all this, always a factor in such matters.

The file was marked in bold pencil "A. Akhmatova, Russian Poet (1889-1966)." There were threeportrait-style photographs, each carefully marked. These were autographed wedding portraits of

Akhmatova's three husbands; Nikolay Gumilev (divorced, later executed); Vladimir Shilejko (divorced,

later died of tuberculosis); finally, Nikolai Punin (divorced, later died of starvation and exposure at state

labor camp).

There was also a photograph, again signed, of her only son, Lev. Akhmatova's standard Wikipedia entry

indicates he, too, had been consistently harassed by the Cheka, precursor of the KGB. To save him, she

had cut a deal with the regime to write propaganda... lalentable understandable. Parents, what would

you have done?

There were autographed first editions of two of her volumes of poetry, a 1958 program autographed by

Akhmatova and Van Cliburn and several more highly collectible pieces, but nothing in the stratospheric

range to entice my correspondent. But there was still more in the box...

"I am Akhmatova's Cat. Treat me well."

It was carefully packed in tissue paper and as I unwrapped it, it caught the light and glittered as good

silver does. It was no doubt the extravagant gift of some wealthy admirer indulging Akhmatova's lifelong

love of cats, always a potent symbol to her of home and hearth. She -- and the favored pet -- had been

lucky in her admirer; it was lovely work, engraved, de luxe indeed. There was a photo of Cat, black and

white, grainy, artfully shot in shadow; Cat proud, condescending, exactly poised to look at any king.

At the bottom of the box. Dynamite.

I sorted the papers into what seemed logical order. With what had already been removed from the box

they covered the plush carpets. There was a batch in Cyrillic. The second batch was in English and was a

clear translation of the first. I was punchy now... my illness still hung heavy on me; I had been up for

over 24 hours; I had no choice but to call it a day. But before quitting I did something unusual. I took

sheets and covered everything while carefully checking to ensure the door was locked. Why did I do

this? Perhaps because the English version clearly said TOP SECRET. FOR EYES ONLY. I fell into a fitful

sleep, no rest, just unanswered questions and nameless anxiety.

I resume.

I failed to show up at my online job the next day, saw no one, took no calls. I needed clarity, no

interruptions and so I found myself with pure, unadulterated destruction. It was a report commissioned

by President Putin. He had requested detailed financial and personal data on the top 100 ex-Soviet

Communists who had, through deft manipulation of their official positions, become the richest and most

extensive property owners under Putin, most all billionaires.


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The report concentrated particularly on the Members of the Ozero Dacha Condominium, their yachts,

palaces, homes, cars and, of course, their mind-blowing sexual deviances, including two slaves

enchained on a gilded galley, available at any hour for the fortunate, whatever their desires and

proclivities.

It was all there, enough ammo to polish off the entire gilded elite of the "new" Russia and its gimcrack"democracy". With it, Putin could control his following and grind them with his inexorable power. And

when they lost their usefulness the state controlled press could expose and dispose, thereby helping to

achieve Putin's only heartfelt objective: to maintain his malign control of Russia.

But as he must have known, this information untimely used could also destroy -- him. And that is why

the documents I had were starkly marked, ONE OF ONE EXCLUSIVE. Why then were these documents,

with their possibility for felling Putin and bringing about acute strategic change, in my drawing room...

and what did that mean to me?

Brainstorming.

These were the key elements: Akhmatova, Cat, Putin, my correspondent, and now me. It was now time

for me, with a Harvard Ph.D. in Modern European History, once recruited by the C.I.A. to research

emerging European leaders, to solve this conundrum. But what I would do then was the greatest puzzle

of all.

I went back and reviewed each item, every artifact over and over again. New, more careful review

meant more detail. And so I discovered that Cat in its picture wore the silver collar. Thus Akhmatova

owned it at least until her death (1966). Thus it might well have been purchased by some well heeled

fan, a person, for instance, like my correspondent. How it came to Putin is easier still.

For all his untrammeled greed, vicious, pernicious and soul-destroying politics, Vladimir Putin, like

Akhmatova, loved cats, especially those with antique Russian collars, whose value had skyrocketed.

What's more, he admired her poetry, partly because of its lyric depictions of the Mother Russia he

extolled but violated with impunity. And he admired the woman, for her grit, her fortitude and her

"abiding patriotism." His hypocrisy was breathtaking.

Thus was a playful tabby kitten resplendent in sterling insinuated into the president's office by the

simple expedient of a gift, like the ancient Greeks at Troy. No security check needed, its comfortable bed

unobtrusively placed, transmitting information of the highest value 24/7/365. And so my correspondent

became one of the most powerful people on earth...

The body identified.

Todays Boston Globe" identified the headless murder victim as my correspondent. I own to feeling

fear, like a goose had walked across my grave. The game suddenly grew more serious.

What should I do now? Put it all away and hope everyone forgets? Find a suitable middleman to shake

down Putin for a billion or two? What is Holy Russia worth after all? And who could I trust? Give it to the


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C.I.A. and destroy my life by preserving it in the Witness Protection Program? Give the documents to the

Russian Opposition and hope they use it with unwonted lethal precision?

For solace.

I have taken to reading Akhmatova in the evening, hoping for tranquility and succor, especially in poems

like "So many stones are thrown at me"; "Now no one will listen to my songs", and "Oh, I've not locked

the door", and particularly when she writes about cats as in "I've learned to live in wise simplicity"

where she says "the downy cat will lick/my palm, purr sweetly".

Then against my weakened will, I think of my now dead and mutilated correspondent, his body violated,

his house and possessions, a lifetime of careful work and study, vandalized in hot pursuit of what is...

here? These vandals y had left one precious document after another, now their murderous search has

moved on. An empire hangs in the balance and my own neck.

Envoi.

I have put everything I received in a bank vault in Harvard Square. This report is to be released if there is

any suggestion of foul play in my demise. I wonder if I shall ever know peace again and where a knock at

the door is nothing more than a knock, not the precursor to premature eternity. God help me.

Musical accompaniment.

"The Cat" composed by Lalo Schifrin for the 1964 film "Joy House" (Les Felins) was recorded by the great

jazz organist, Jimmy Smith, for his Verve album of the same name, arranged and conducted by Lalo

Schifrin. The album reached number 12 on the Billboard Pop Albums chart and is available on CD on

Polygram Records. It is at once chic, smooth and entirely self-congratulating and casually supercilious, as

all true cats most assuredly are. You'll find it in any search engine. Do not listen to it with only a cat ascompanion. At such moments their perfected hubris may get out of hand with considerable breakage

the result. They will not care.

About the Author

Harvard-educated Dr. Jeffrey Lant is CEO of Worldprofit, Inc., providing a wide range of online services

for small and-home based businesses. Services include home business training, affiliate marketing

training, earn-at-home programs, and traffic tools, advertising, webcasting, hosting, design, WordPress

Blogs and more. Find out why Worldprofit is considered the # 1 online Home Business Training program

by getting a free Associate Membership today. Republished with author's permission by Pierre Placide

Owner of"Extra Money Express Internet Marketing. Check outDotCom Secrets
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i am akhmatova's cat. treat me well

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