And in this garden, perched on the capitals and balustrades, lying on the dry leaves of the flower-beds, climbing on the trunks of the trees or on the drainpipes, motionless on their four paws, their tails making a question-mark, seated to wash their faces, there were tiger cats, black cats, white cats, calico cats, tabbies, angoras, Persians, house cats and stray cats, perfumed cats and mangy cats. Marcovaldo realized he had finally reached the heart of the cats' realm, their secret island. And, in his emotion, he almost forgot his fish.
It had remained, that fish, hanging by the line from the branch of a tree, out of reach of the cats' leaps; it must have dropped from its kidnapper's mouth at some clumsy movement, perhaps as it was defended from the others, or perhaps displayed as an extraordinary prize. The line had got tangled, and Marcovaldo, tug as he would, couldn't manage to yank it loose. A furious battle had meanwhile been joined among the cats, to reach that unreachable fish, or rather, to win the right to try and reach it. Each wanted to prevent the others from leaping: they hurled themselves on one another, they tangled in mid-air, they rolled around clutching each other, and finally a general war broke out in a whirl of dry, crackling leaves.
After many futile yanks, Marcovaldo now felt the line was free, but he took care not to pull it: the trout would have fallen right in the midst of that infuriated scrimmage of felines.
It was at this moment that, from the top of the walls of the gardens, a strange rain began to falclass="underline" fish-bones, heads, tails, even bits of lung and lights. Immediately the cats' attention was distracted from the suspended trout and they flung themselves on the new delicacies. To Marcovaldo, this seemed the right moment to pull the line and regain his fish. But, before he had time to act, from a blind of the little villa, two yellow, skinny hands darted out: one was brandishing scissors; the other, a frying-pan. The hand with the scissors was raised above the trout, the hand with the frying-pan was thrust under it. The scissors cut the line, the trout fell into the pan; hands, scissors and pan withdrew, the blind closed: all in the space of a second. Marcovaldo was totally bewildered.
"Are you also a cat-lover?" A voice at his back made him turn round. He was surrounded by little old women, some of them ancient, wearing old-fashioned hats on their heads; others, younger, but with the look of spinsters; and all were carrying in their hands or their hags packages of leftover meat or fish, and some even had little pans of milk. "Will you help me throw this package over the fence, for those poor creatures?"
All the ladies, cat-lovers, gathered at this hour around the garden of dry leaves to take fund to their protégées.
"Can you tell me why they are all here, these cats?" Marcovaldo inquired.
"Where else could they go? This garden is all they have left! Cats come here from other neighborhoods, too, from miles and miles around…''
"And birds, as well," another lady added. "They're forced to live by the hundreds and hundreds on these few trees…"
"And the frogs, they're all in that pool, and at night they never stop croaking… You can hear them even on the eighth floor of the buildings around here."
"Who does this villa belong to anyway?" Marcovaldo asked. Now, outside the gate, there weren't just the cat-loving ladies but also other people: the man from the gas pump opposite, the apprentices from a mechanic's shop, the postman, the grocer, some passers-by. And none of them, men and women, had to be asked twice: all wanted to have their say, as always when a mysterious and controversial subject comes up.
"It belongs to a Marchesa. She lives there, but you never see her…"
"She's been offered millions and millions, by developers, for this little patch of land, but she won't sell…"
"What would she do with millions, an old woman all alone in the world? She wants to hold on to her house, even if it's falling to pieces, rather than be forced to move…"
"It's the only undeveloped bit of land in the downtown area… Its value goes up every year… They've made her offers-"
"Offers! That's not all. Threats, intimidation, persecution… You don't know the half of it! Those contractors!"
"But she holds out. She's held out for years…"
"She's a saint. Without her, where would those poor animals go?"
"A lot she cares about the animals, the old miser! Have you ever seen her give them anything to eat?"
"How can she feed the cats when she doesn't have food for herself? She's the last descendant of a ruined family!"
"She hates cats. I've seen her chasing them and hitting them with an umbrella!"
"Because they were tearing up her flowerbeds!"
"What flower-beds? I've never seen anything m this garden but a great crop of weeds!"
Marcovaldo realized that with regard to the old Marchesa opinions were sharply divided: some saw her as an angelic being, others as an egoist and a miser.
"It's the same with the birds; she never gives them a crumb!"
"She gives them hospitality. Isn't that plenty?"
"Like she gives the mosquitoes, you mean. They all come from here, from that pool. In the summertime the mosquitoes eat us alive, and it's all the fault of that Marchesa!"
"And the mice? This villa is a mine of mice. Under the dead leaves they have their burrows, and at night they come out…"
"As far as the mice go, the cats take care of them…"
"Oh, you and your cats! If we had to rely on them…"
"Why? Have you got something to say against cats?"
Here the discussion degenerated into a general quarrel. "The authorities should do something: confiscate the villa!" one man cried.
"What gives them the right?" another protested.
"In a modern neighborhood like ours, a mouse-nest like this… it should be forbidden…"
"Why, I picked my apartment precisely because it overlooked this little bit of green…"
"Green, hell! Think of the fine skyscraper they could build here!"
Marcovaldo would have liked to add something of his own, but he couldn't get a word in. Finally, all in one breath, he exclaimed: "The Marchesa stole a trout from me!"
The unexpected news supplied fresh ammunition to the old woman's enemies, but her defenders exploited it as proof of the indigence to which the unfortunate noblewoman was reduced. Both sides agreed that Marcovaldo should go and knock at her door to demand an explanation.
It wasn't clear whether the gate was locked or unlocked; in any case, it opened, after a push, with a mournful creak. Marcovaldo picked his way among the leaves and cats, climbed the steps to the porch, knocked hard at the entrance.
At a window (the very one where the frying-pan had appeared), the blind was raised slightly and in one comer a round, pale blue eye was seen, and a clump of hair dyed an undefinable color, and a dry skinny hand. A voice was heard, asking: "Who is it? Who's at the door?", the words accompanied by a cloud smelling of fried oil.
"It's me, Marchesa. The trout man," Marcovaldo explained. "I don't mean to trouble you. I only wanted to tell you, in case you didn't know, that the trout was stolen from me, by that cat, and I'm the one who caught it. In fact the line…"
"Those cats! It's always those cats…" the Marchesa said, from behind the shutter, with a shrill, somewhat nasal voice. "All my troubles come from the cats! Nobody knows what I go through! Prisoner night and day of those horrid beasts! And with all the refuse people throw over the walls, to spite me!"
"But my trout…"
"Your trout! What am I supposed to know about your trout!" The Marchesa's voice became almost a scream, as if she wanted to drown out the sizzle of the oil in the pan, which came through the window along with the aroma of fried fish. "How can I make sense of anything, with all the stuff that rains into my house?"