The Sèvres Cat

The ceramic collector felt his heart was going to jump out of his chest. Upon passing by the small antique store---actually a trinket store as he had already labeled it in his head when he first glanced at it---he observed a scrawny and dirty cat drinking milk slowly in an authentic Sèvres plate that was placed in the entrance of the store.

The collector went up to the corner and then turned back, trying to appear annoyed and indifferent. Reluctantly, he stopped in front of the store window and looked from above his shoulder to see all the junk being displayed there: old violins, chairs and tables with missing legs, porcelain figurines, faded oil paintings, pieces of supposed Mayan or Incan pots, and the infinite amount of trinkets that usually pile up in stores of this type. From the corner of his eye, the collector glanced once more at the plate the cat was sipping its milk from. There was no doubt about it: a legitimate Sèvres, possibly from the second third the 18th century. "These animals---thought the expert referring to the owners rather than the cat---don't know what they have in their hands . . ."

Overcoming his repulsion towards cats, he bent over and pet the cat. While he was at it, he examined the ceramic piece more closely. The collector gave himself a pat on the back; he was not mistaken. Without a doubt, a Sèvres, 1750.

“Kitty, kitty,” called the collector when he saw that the owner of the store approached him.

“Good morning, can I help you with something?”

“No, thanks, I was just petting this nice kitty.”

“Oh! My loyal Mustapha . . . ! He's a little dirty, but he's a purebred: a Persian and Angora mix with Manx features. Look at his very short tail. That's what distinguishes him.”

The cat did in fact have half a tail, not because of his lineage, but rather because he had lost the other half in a street fight.

“You can tell, you can tell,” said the collector, rubbing the cat's back with his gloves on. “Kitty, kitty, meow! I'd love to take him home to be the partner of a little yellowish female cat that I got as a gift. Would you sell it to me?”

“No, sir! Mustapha is a great mouse hunter and I cannot do without him in the store.”

“What a pity!” said the collector, standing up. “I would have liked to have it. Anyway, I hope you have a good day," the collector motioned that he was about to leave.

“One moment!” the owner called him. “How much would you give for the cat?”

“How much do you want?” replied the collector, a master in the art of bartering.

“50 pesos.”

“Are you kidding me? I'll give you thirty and not a cent more.”

“I tell you what, 40 pesos and this wonderful feline is yours.”

The collector sighed in a very fake fashion, took out his wallet, counted his money and gave it to the owner of the store. The owner, in turn, counted it and put it in his pocket. The collector, still pretending to be indifferent, pointed at the plate with the tip of his cane: “I suppose that this little creature must be used to drinking his milk from that old plate, right? Please wrap it up for me.”

“As you wish,” replied the antique dealer, “Let me just warn you, though, that the plate costs ten thousand pesos.”

“Ten thousand!” cried the collector.

“Yes, sir. Not only is it an authentic Sèvres, 1759, but it has also helped me to sell three hundred twenty-five cats since I opened my modest shop . . ." [!]

Author: Marco A. Almazán (1922-1991, Mexican writer and diplomat)

[Translated into English by the author of this blog on February 4, 2010]