“Hein? what did you say?”
“Va a mori ammazzato (Go and die killed)!” She slammed the door upon him.
A minute later she brought the urn into the den and put it carefully down on the table where I was writing. “That rascally boy of Sora Giulia’s brought this home.”
“You formerly were friendly with Sora Giulia.”
She wiped her eyes with a little red wrinkled hand that trembled; something troubled her seriously.
“What has happened? tell me frankly.”
She began to cry openly: “Miché (the cat) has been gone three days; he will never return. I shall not again see that dear animal!”
“Miché will come back; perhaps he has had a fight, as he did once before.”
“No, no, Signora! then he was only absent one night, after the manner of cats. No, era troppo bello, era troppo bello (he was too beautiful),” she wailed. I suppose I looked as puzzled as I felt, for she broke into impassioned explanations. “He was too beautiful, he was fat and tender as well; quelli maladetti Ebrei (those cursed Jews) have killed him to make one of their accursed feasts; they have doubtless already eaten him; povera bestia, era troppo bello!”
To console her I proposed that we get to work on the business before us. In a closet on the stairs, of which Nena has a duplicate key, Pompilia had locked up empty green wicker ricotta baskets, marmalade bottles, petroleum cans, a pair of discarded brooms, and other such rubbish.