The Story of Kolorash
by Stas Holodnak
I met him in Coney Island at the ocean’s edge. I was riding that old, grand machine called the Wonder Wheel. The Wonder Wheel boasts pretty views, but this time I didn’t come for the vistas. My plan was to get up high above the ground, to imagine the enclosed metal carriage as an airplane moving through the air, diving and climbing.
Such is my way of learning. First, I practice in the imaginary environment, then in the real one. Weeks before stepping on a windsurfing board, I’d been swinging the imaginary rig at home and even in the streets. On the sidewalks of New York, imaginary windsurfers always enjoy the right of way.
It was in the Wonder Wheel carriage that I heard someone behind me ask:
“Would you mind taking passengers?”
I turned, startled. A bedraggled man sat on the back bench, wearing old jeans and slippers, hair unkempt, shirt wrinkled. For all his shabby appearance, it was his eyes that caught me—strange, piercing, full of derisive curiosity.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“My name is Kolorash,” he said warmly.
I knew I’d entered alone. Perhaps he hadn’t exited at the end of his ride. Maybe the attendant knew him and let him stay. Or maybe no one noticed him—neither did I.
“Curious way to practice flying,” Kolorash said. “Any other training grounds?”
“Yes. The Verrazzano Bridge. This wheel is good for dives and climbs, but the bridge is best for straight and level flight.”
Who hasn’t pretended to fly there? Drive the Brooklyn-bound lane, look right—there’s nothing but blue horizon where ocean meets sky. For a moment, you see yourself not at the wheel of a car, but at the controls of a plane.
Kolorash tilted his head, like he was weighing whether to say more. “Giovanni Verrazzano wasn’t the first Italian to sail these waters.”
“Who, then? Leif Erikson? Henry Hudson? Samuel Champlain?” I asked.
“None of the above. Alfonso de la Pergola—a disgraced priest—was here first. But I don’t want to distract you from training.”
“You already have. Please continue.”
“Alfonso was born to Tuscan farmers in 1471, one of many children. When he was nine, his father sent him to work in a butcher shop in Florence. Ten days later, his mother died in childbirth.
Florence was a whirlwind after the dull farm—vendors shouting, fishmongers arguing, the smell of fresh bread and rotting hides mingling in the air. Alfonso moved through it all like a boy in a trance. But when night fell and the city quieted, the grief for his mother returned, heavy as ever. That’s when he slipped into the Arno, letting the river carry his body and his sorrow together.
One solstice night, a priest—Father Sebastian de la Pergola—was tossed off Ponte Vecchio into the river. He’d run up gambling debts, drank too much, and made enemies. Alfonso saw the splash, swam to the man, and dragged him ashore.
In the morning, Alfonso brought bread and milk. The priest took half the loaf but waved off the milk. He’d been saved by a child—surely a divine sign. He adopted Alfonso, resigned from his priestly duties, and devoted his wealth to raising the boy.
Alfonso thrived under his care. A natural scholar, he studied art, music, and languages. But when he couldn’t settle on a path, his father advised, ‘If you excel in everything but don’t know where your heart is—give it to the Lord.’
So Alfonso entered the Church, where the best minds of the Renaissance gathered under its patronage—or its supervision. The Church was paradoxical: repressive, yet a patron of science and art. Galileo himself had cardinals for patrons.
Alfonso rose quickly. He became the Vatican’s agent for collecting art—especially forbidden art. He was the one who brought the Kama Sutra to the Gray Rooms, a hidden Vatican library of erotic works. Priests nicknamed him ‘the Gray Cardinal.’
But Alfonso believed in more than art. He believed in free love—free of vows, guilt, and restraint. He practiced what he preached. Husbands challenged him to duels; some were wounded, one died. Alfonso, a peace-loving man and a skilled fencer, accepted every duel as his righteous cross to bear.
His downfall came at a Medici wedding. The bride, forced to marry a paralyzed man, caught Alfonso’s eye. Drunk guests encouraged him to “educate” them on love. Alfonso complied, and what began as playful instruction turned into caresses, then kisses. The room went silent. The groom wheezed and fell dead from heartbreak.
In the chaos, Alfonso fled—hand in hand with the new widow.
Even his powerful friends couldn’t shield him now. He hid in Porto, Portugal, under the protection of a wealthy lover, and acquired a small caravel. Lacking a crew, he sent letters to his faithful lovers: Come to Porto. Join me on a journey of a lifetime.
Nine women came. None knew how to sail. Alfonso, once a mere passenger, had learned the art and now became their captain. Together they embarked on a transatlantic voyage—an all-female, inexperienced crew sailing into the unknown.
They sailed northwest, seeking a land free of the Vatican’s reach. The wind blew steady and mild, the sea calm. When they sighted Long Island, Alfonso wept for joy. The ocean had blessed them with fair passage—proof, he believed, that the Church didn’t hold a monopoly on truth.
But as they entered the Narrows Strait, a violent gale struck. No time to take down the sails. The caravel smashed against the rocks of South Brooklyn. The ship was lost. There were no survivors.
Except for the cats.
The Canarsee tribe stood on the beach, watching as black and gray cats scrambled from the wreckage and vanished into the woods. There were no human survivors—unless you count whiskers and tails.”
“You’re saying Alfonso and his lovers became cats?” I asked.
“People don’t turn into cats,” Kolorash snorted. “Sailors kept cats to hunt rodents. These cats survived—and settled here long before Verrazzano.”
“What happened to them?”
“They thrived. Generations of immigrants came and went. The cats stayed. You could tell them apart—gray tabby males, black females, walking proudly, stepping aside for no one.
One gray tabby led them. I called him Gray Cardinal.”
“Can I meet him?”
“Perhaps not. The last time I saw him, he was prowling Oliver Street. But when developers razed the old houses for condos, the clowder disappeared. The new eight-story building filled every square inch of space between the old structures. There wasn’t even room for light—the windows on the neighboring building had to be sealed forever. Too clever to vanish entirely, I suspect.”
“Back to bridges,” Kolorash said. “They gave Verrazzano the name, though he wasn’t first. Doesn’t matter. Some bureaucrat will rename it anyway. Call it the DiBlasio Bridge and move on.”
He shook his head.
“Triborough? Gone. Queensborough? Gone. Tappan Zee? Gone. The RFK connects what—Russia, France, and Kenya? You want to name something? Fine. Build it first.”
The Wonder Wheel stopped. The attendant opened the door. I stepped out, expecting Kolorash to follow. He didn’t.
The wheel turned. Kolorash rose into the sky, smiling.
Next time I see him, I won’t let him vanish so easily.
For now, I’ll keep an eye out for the Gray Cardinal and his descendants. Clever cats don’t simply wither.
Stas Holodnak is a Brooklyn-based writer whose work explores the intersections of history, folklore, and city life. He is the author of Wasserfrosch Goes Sailing, a children’s book that brings the joy of sailing to families.