Tiger Cat
By DAVID H. KELLER
[Transcriber Note: This etext was produced from Weird Tales October1937. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S.copyright on this publication was renewed.]
The man tried his best to sell me the house. He was confident that Iwould like it. Repeatedly he called my attention to the view.
There was something in what he said about the view. The villa on the topof a mountain commanded a vision of the valley, vine-clad andcottage-studded. It was an irregular bowl of green, dotted with stonehouses which were whitewashed to almost painful brilliancy.
The valley was three and a third miles at its greatest width. Standingat the front door of the house, an expert marksman with telescopic sightcould have placed a rifle bullet in each of the white marks of cottages.They nestled like little pearls amid a sea of green grape-vines.
"A wonderful view, Signor," the real-estate agent repeated. "Thatscene, at any time of the year, is worth twice what I am asking for thevilla."
"But I can see all this without buying," I argued.
"Not without trespassing."
"But the place is old. It has no running water."
"Wrong!" and he smiled expansively, showing a row of gold-filled teeth."Listen."
We were silent.
There came to us the sound of bubbling water. Turning, I traced thesound. I found a marble Cupid spurting water in a most peculiar way intoa wall basin. I smiled and commented.
"There is one like that in Brussels and another in Madrid. But this isvery fine. However, I referred to running water in a modern bathroom."
"But why bathe when you can sit here and enjoy the view?"
He was impossible. So, I wrote a check, took his bill of sale and becamethe owner of a mountain, topped by a stone house that seemed to be halfruin. But he did not know, and I did not tell him that I considered thefountain alone worth the price that I had paid. In fact, I had come toItaly to buy that fountain if I could; buy it and take it back toAmerica with me. I knew all about that curious piece of marble. GeorgeSeabrook had written to me about it. Just one letter, and then he hadgone on, goodness knows where. George was like that, always on the move.Now I owned the fountain and was already planning where I should placeit in my New York home. Certainly not in the rose garden.
I sat down on a marble bench and looked down on the valley. Thereal-estate man was right. It was a delicate, delicious piece ofscenery. The surrounding mountains were high enough to throw a constantshadow on some part of the valley except at high noon. There was no signof life, but I was sure that the vineyards were alive with husband-menand their families. An eagle floated serenely on the upper air currents,automatically adjusting himself to their constant changing.
Stretching myself, I gave one look at my car and then walked into thehouse.
In the kitchen two peasants sat, an old man and an old woman. They roseas I entered.
"Who are you?" I asked in English.
They simply smiled and waved their hands. I repeated my question inItalian.
"We serve," the man replied.
"Serve whom?"
"Whoever is the master."
"Have you been here long?"
"We have always been here. It is our home."
His statement amused me, and I commented, "The masters come and go, butyou remain?"
"It seems so."
"Many masters?"