Thomas Hudson remembered how on this Christmas morning, the first Christmas of the war, the proprietor of the bar had asked him, “Do you want some shrimps?” and brought a big plate piled with fresh cooked prawns and put it on the bar while he sliced a yellow lime and spread the slices on a saucer. The prawns were huge and pink and their antennae hung down over the edge of the bar for more than a foot and he had picked one up and spread the long whiskers to their full width and remarked that they were longer than those of a Japanese admiral.
Thomas Hudson broke the head off the Japanese admiral prawn and then split open the belly of the shell with his thumbs and shucked the prawn out and it was so fresh and silky feeling under his teeth, and had such a flavor, cooked in sea water with fresh lime juice and whole black peppercorns, that he thought he had never eaten a better one; not even in Málaga nor in Tarragona nor in Valencia. It was then that the kitten came over to him, scampering down the bar, to rub against his hand and beg a prawn.
“They’re too big for you, cotsie,” he said. But he snipped off a piece of one with his thumb and finger and gave it to the kitten who ran with it back to the tobacco counter to eat it quickly and savagely.
Thomas Hudson looked at the kitten, with his handsome black and white markings, his white chest and forelegs and the black, like a formal mask across his eyes and forehead, eating the prawn and growling, and asked the proprietor who he belonged to.
“You if you want him.”
“I have two at the house. Persians.”
“Two is nothing. Take this one. Give them a little Cojímar blood.”
“Papa, can’t we have him?” asked the one of his sons, that he did not think about any more, who had come up from the steps of the terrace where he had been watching the fishing boats come in, seeing the men unstep their masts, unload their coiled lines, and throw their fish ashore. “Please, papa, can’t we have him? He’s a beautiful cat.”
“Do you think he’d be happy away from the sea?”
“Certainly, papa. He’ll be miserable here in a little while. Haven’t you seen how miserable the cats are in the streets? And they were probably just like him once.”
“Take him,” the proprietor said. “He’ll be happy on a farm.”
“Listen, Tomás,” one of the fishermen who had been listening to the conversation from the table said. “If you want cats I can get an Angora, a genuine Angora, from Guanabacoa. A true Tiger Angora.”
“Male?”
“As much as you,” the fisherman said. At the table they all laughed.
Nearly all Spanish joking had that same base. “But with fur on them,” the fisherman tried for another laugh and got it.
“Papa, can we please have this cat?” the boy asked. “This cat is a male.”
“Are you sure?”
“I know, papa. I know.”
“That’s what you said about both the Persians.”
“Persians are different, papa. I was wrong on the Persians and I admit it. But I know now, papa. Now I really know.”
“Listen, Tomás. Do you want the Angora Tiger from Guanabacoa?” the fisherman asked.
“What is he? A witchcraft cat?”
“Witchcraft nothing. This cat never even heard of Saint Barbara. This cat is more of a Christian than you are.”
“Es muy posible,” another fisherman said and they all laughed.
“What does this famous beast cost?” Thomas Hudson asked.
“Nothing. He’s a gift. A genuine Angora Tiger. He’s a Christmas gift.”
“Come on up to the bar and have a drink and describe him to me.”
The fisherman came up to the bar. He wore hornrimmed glasses and a clean, faded, blue shirt that looked as though it would not stand another washing. It was lacy thin in back between the shoulders and the fabric was beginning to rip. He had on faded khaki trousers and was barefoot on Christmas. His face and hands were burned a dark wood color and he put his scarred hands on the bar and said to the proprietor, “Whisky with ginger ale.”