Act 2, Scene 3

Roxanne shivered. She was in Lady’s dressing room, curled in her small cat bed, thinking about what had transpired earlier. Spot had burst through the wall, trembling and babbling incoherently. From what the cats could decipher, Stripe had seen something ahead of her in the passageway, had charged after it, and then someone… or something… killed her. Spot had run away but hadn’t seen who’d committed the crime. He hadn’t smelled or heard signs of another cat, either.

It was a stroke of luck that the Opera Cats had dispersed before Spot returned. Only a few cats remained in the room when Spot told his story: Roxanne, Olga, Alfredo, Harry, and Norb. 

“Just what we need! A scandal concerning the Opera Cats! What will happen if news of this spreads? No one will attend our performances!” Norb had lamented.

“How sympathetic of you,” Alfredo had grumbled as he gently patted his tail on the sobbing Spot’s shoulder.

Norb glared at Alfredo.

“I can’t work in these conditions!” Olga had wailed, pacing so fast that she became a blur.

Roxanne thought the prima donna resembled an angry powder puff with piercing eyes. As Olga had paced, the lavender perfume she often wore overwhelmed Roxanne, making her gag. By the smell, Roxanne figured Olga had rolled in an entire bottle of the stuff.

 “How can I focus on my talent when a murderous monster is roaming these halls? What will the other cats do, Norb dear, when they find out about this mess?” Olga sneered when she said “dear,” making it sound as if she had a piece of food caught in her teeth which caused her a great deal of discomfort.

“We’ll keep this to ourselves. No one tell the other cats in the company,” Harry had insisted. He narrowed his eyes at Olga, who sniffed. “That’s the first step. We don’t want to incite panic. The second step is to contact Detective Clovis. He’ll be able to catch the murderer.”

Clovis’ human worked for the New York City Police Department, and Clovis had been called by the Opera Cats for minor incidents in the past, but not for anything half as drastic as a cat getting killed.

“If there is a murderer to be caught!” Norb had wailed. “It might have been the Ghost Cat!”

“Don’t tell me you believe that monkey shine,” Harry had grumbled, cocking his head to one side.

Norb didn’t say a word. 

It was decided that Detective Clovis would be contacted (of course, Harry would do the contacting) and that no cat present should breathe a word of the incident to anyone. Norb dismissed Spot for the rest of the week, which Roxanne thought unfair. Poor Spot needed more time to recover, but with the new operetta being rehearsed, Norb believed all cats were needed.

Now, in the safety of Lady’s dressing room, Roxanne turned in her basket. She suspected the news of Stripe’s death would spread despite the agreements they’d made earlier, especially since Olga had been present. The haughty feline possessed very loose lips. Besides, any incident believed to be the result of the Ghost Cat proved difficult to keep a secret, and Stripe’s death, surely, was the most gruesome incident of them all.

Roxanne’s thoughts turned to Lady. She wondered where her human could be. At the moment, the only thing Roxanne wanted was for Lady to sweep her in her arms and take her to their small apartment overlooking the water. Roxanne wanted to be as far away from the opera house as possible.

Roxanne’s teacher also crept into her mind. Had he been near the passage where the accident—or murder—had taken place? Was he safe? After the incident, she’d worried about him. Could a voice possibly be harmed? Roxanne shivered. She wouldn’t find answers to her questions unless her teacher spoke with her. Roxanne shook her head. Until he spoke, she told herself. 

“Roxanne.”

Roxanne pricked her ears forward. It had been as if her teacher had heard her worried thoughts. The sound of his voice relaxed her tense muscles. She lifted her head and waited for the voice to say her name again.

“Roxanne.”

Stepping out of her basket, Roxanne asked, “Did you hear what happened to one of our Opera Cats today?”

“I can’t say that I have,” the voice said with a hint of amusement.

“Stripe—she was an errand cat—died in one of the passageways. No one knows what happened.”

“Such a shame,” the voice said. Roxanne thought her teacher didn’t sound too sorry about the harrowing ordeal. “But we must press on with your practice. Music cannot wait for good things to happen or horrible things to pass, you understand. And our time is short. We must prepare you for the upcoming operetta.”

Roxanne tilted her head. “The Dream Cat? Olga is playing the lead, Malena. I’m only in the chorus.”

“You’ll have the lead, don’t worry,” the voice reassured her. “Fortunately for you, I am aware of the songs in the human operetta. I make it my business to know everything about the operas so I can instruct you to the best of my abilities. Besides, I’m sure your manager won’t want the lyrics changed much. He is quite lazy in translating them.”

Roxanne wondered how her teacher understood the human songs. She often reflected on how her teacher’s versions of the songs made more sense and felt more powerful than Norb’s, and then she’d ponder how Norb came to learn human speech in the first place. She supposed it didn’t matter, although she often wished she could share her teacher’s translations with Norb. But her teacher had sworn her to secrecy, threatening to cease instructing her if she told another cat about him.

Then again, Roxanne had never asked her teacher about sharing his translations with Norb. Perhaps it was an idea that had never occurred to him. Staring at the ceiling, Roxanne asked, “Could… could I share your versions of these songs with Norb? Your translations are far better than his.”

Silence. A grunt. The sound made Roxanne’s fur stand on end.

“While I agree with you that Norb’s versions are quite inferior to the originals,” the voice growled, “I must ask you not to tell another soul of my presence. You are not the expert on such matters as which version of a song sounds better. What does concern you, however, is that perhaps I won’t teach you.” The voice paused, letting the words sink in. “If every cat in this opera house knows of my generosity, then I will be plagued with cats who believe they can aspire to such talents as you naturally possess. I couldn’t fathom teaching that vulgar Olga, for instance.”

“No!” Roxanne stared at the ceiling, trying to pick out a pair of eyes or even a feline silhouette. How silly! There’d be no eyes to see, no silhouette to discern. Her teacher was a voice, not a mortal cat. “I couldn’t imagine losing you—losing your lessons.” Roxanne’s heart thudded in her chest. She feared her teacher had already left because of her suggestion.

But Roxanne’s teacher spoke again. “Then I suggest we begin your lessons. Listen to me as I sing ‘Making a Venus,’ and see if you can sing it as well as I.”  

Relief flooded through Roxanne, and she let out the pent-up breath she’d been holding. She settled back on her bed to listen to her teacher. Whenever the voice sang, Roxanne felt as if the whole world vanished, leaving just the two of them. Her teacher’s voice flowed smooth as silk, roared like thunder, and carried with it all manner of emotions, some Roxanne didn’t understand. She closed her eyes. If only she could listen to the voice forever! Not for the first time, she wished she could share the majesty of the voice with someone else—Maggie, perhaps, or even that Harry fellow. Sometimes she felt lonely being the only cat to know of her teacher’s magnificent voice. It seemed too beautiful a talent not to share with others. But she had promised her teacher she’d never tell anyone about him, and she intended to keep that promise, especially after what her teacher had threatened tonight. 

The voice stopped. Roxanne opened her eyes.

“Now, if you may try,” the voice said.

Roxanne cleared her throat. Sitting on the tips of her toes, she opened her mouth and prepared to sing when the dressing room door swung open.

Light flooded the room. “Roxanne!” Lady cried as she swept inside, worry painted on her face.

Roxanne meowed a greeting. Happiness always filled her at the sight of Lady, but she couldn’t help but think the timing was most inopportune. Roxanne leaped into Lady’s trembling arms. Roxanne sniffed Lady’s face and realized her poor human was crying, something Roxanne knew meant sorrow or fear, sometimes relief. The difficult part was figuring out what type of tears her human wept. Roxanne nuzzled Lady’s wet cheeks, wondering what could have caused such a reaction in her human.

Lady warbled, and Roxanne tried hard to listen. She recognized “home” and her name. So they were going home! Roxanne sighed. That was what she’d wanted earlier, but now she realized she wanted to stay at the opera house with her teacher. She’d explained about her human to her teacher before, but often her teacher brushed the topic aside or insisted Roxanne stay overnight to practice. On one occasion he'd told her that Lady possessed a fine voice, and Roxanne felt obligated to believe him. Lady was her human, and she had been screeching more as of late.

Lady grabbed her cloche hat and her mauve coat and whisked Roxanne out of the dressing room, out of the opera house, into the street, and toward home in the spring night.