“Away from here... if you were to leave here,” Massimiliano says hastily, changing his tone, “to a nice apartment, I mean... You can afford it.”
Quirino drops the pen on the notebook. He sets his eyeglasses on the table. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, and unto God the things that are God’s,” he says, pronouncing the words one by one. Massimiliano frowns, not understanding. “And I,” Quirino continues, “we... are not God, who can create the world in seven days. We have to take our time... without biting off more than we can chew... in our own way... in our own house,” he adds.
Massimiliano shoves his chair back abruptly. “Then go on... go on letting these good-for-nothings take you for a ride.”
He sneers as he heads for the door, followed by Quirino’s voice: “The notebook, don’t forget!” Quirino then puts everything back in the drawer, turns the key in the lock, slips it carefully into his pocket. He gets up. He goes over to Cesarino’s little white cage. He watches for a while. He removes a golden feather stuck between the bars, blows it away. “Beauty is important, Cesarì,” he says, as if to justify himself. “Money and beauty... and some manners, as well...” He lets the bird peck his finger. “With good manners, everything is possible.” He smiles faintly.
“Killed!”
Signora Iolanda spreads her arms wide as she wanders desperately around the small courtyard that opens up beyond the entrance to the building. “They’ve killed them...” she whispers, turning her eyes toward her husband, who watches helplessly as she bends down, her breasts hanging like swollen pouches on her belly, brings her fingers to her mouth, then places them on the small bodies lying on the ground. “They’ve killed them,” she repeats, racing around like a madwoman in the courtyard’s faint light. She turns suddenly, frightened, when she hears a key fumbling in the door. She clings to her husband, who presses her head to his chest.
“It’s probably one of the tenants coming home,” he stammers, also turning toward the entrance in a rigid, unnatural movement.
Sor Quirino closes the door behind him. He leans the umbrella against the wall. He straightens his light overcoat that has been pulled to one side. “Some spring,” he mutters. “Who can figure out this crazy weather anymore...” Then he falls silent. He squints in an attempt to bring into focus the two shadows framed in the space beside the open glass door leading to the courtyard. He picks up the umbrella and takes a few steps. “Who’s there?” he calls out to bolster his courage, then breathes a sigh of relief. “Signora Iolanda...” he says, as the woman comes toward him, unspeaking, gesturing for him to follow.
He walks the few meters that separate him from the courtyard and turns a questioning glance toward Sor Antonio, the greengrocer, who mutters, “An atrocity,” pointing mechanically at the ground.
Quirino apprehensively lowers his eyes. “Poor things...” he whispers. He gets down on his knees with some difficulty, reaches a hand out toward the bloodied neck of a tiny kitten, curled up in the doorway, then spots another ragged heap behind the cistern, then another, and another... He turns his head, incredulous. He gives a start when he sees the red drip, drip, drip slowly staining the ground behind the cleaning bucket, where the body of the mother cat hangs, upside down and gutted. “Poor thing...”
“And there were two more,” Signora Iolanda whispers, “that... I can’t find anywhere.” She starts searching again, desperate.
Quirino pulls himself back up, holding onto the handle of his umbrella. “Who was it?” he asks, just to say something.
Sor Antonio widens his arms. “Who could it have been? Someone—”
“The person who... who also stoned Signora Lavinia’s cat, who scalded Sor Giacomo’s dog with hot water in the middle of the street the other morning,” Signora Iolanda breaks in, still wandering around the courtyard. “That poor dog, he was just going around doing his business, not bothering anybody. Who would Sor Giacomo’s dog bother, right, Sor Quirino? Who could he bother...? The drunks who live it up until the early-morning hours? Who? Who were these kittens bothering? So clean, their mother licked them every morning... and how they meowed in their tiny voices when I came down to give them their food. And someone... someone... without a heart... Who knows where the other two have ended up... They must have eaten the other two... I’ll bet you anything, they ate them... those Chinese people!” Signora Iolanda finally bursts out. “Those... those...” She covers her face with her hands.
“What do you mean, Signora Iolanda?” Quirino exclaims, looking for some sign of agreement on the stony face of Sor Antonio, who, lowering his eyes, mutters, “They must have eaten them.”
“What do you mean, eaten them?” Quirino asks, pointing to the mangled bodies of the cats in the courtyard. “What about these? Did someone eat these?” His hand moves to his neck, he opens the top button of his shirt, takes a deep breath. “Those sons of bitches,” he cries out suddenly, starting up the stairs, climbing faster and faster as a thought begins gnawing at his brain; he stumbles, and his hand trembles as he fumbles with the lock, and “Cesarì!” comes out in a stifled scream that dies in his throat when he sees the little bird curled up quietly on his perch, his head tucked under the beautiful feathers that slowly rise, swelling in rhythm with his breath.
There is a dazed silence in the lobby. “Like during the war, when we were all quiet, mute, so we wouldn’t get bombed,” Sor Giacomo whispers, wringing his hands.
“Under siege,” Signora Iolanda echoes him, following Quirino’s restless steps, as he paces up and down in silence, waiting for everyone to sit down on the chairs, which have been arranged in a circle.
Signora Iolanda looks up at the ceiling, stares at the naked bulb of the lamp hanging overhead. She shudders. She twists in her seat. “Who could have told Tito, poor thing, that it would end like this?” Sor Pietro looks at her, beside himself. “In his sleep,” he adds. “In his own house... in our house...” His head sags, he cleans his glasses and places them on his sweaty nose. “A good dog, a decent soul... big... I taught him everything... hanged by the neck from the television cable, with his teeth out... such a decent dog.” His eyes hidden behind the glasses turn toward Quirino, who continues to pace, trying to come up with an idea, something appropriate to say, fingering the drawer key in his pocket as if it were an amulet. He clutches it in his fingers. He hears an agitated whispering in the corner. “Let’s begin the meeting,” he says uncertainly, but giving his voice an authoritative pitch. All the residents start, as if those were the first words of God on earth. They instinctively turn their heads toward the front door, to make sure that it is firmly shut.
Quirino watches the two Zorzi brothers, who are huddled together. “Do you have something to say?” he asks, trying to maintain his tone.
The two exchange a few nervous glances. Then: “Yes,” says Sor Paolo, raising his hand to ask for the floor. “I do.” But he is silent when he sees all those eyes turn toward him expectantly.
“The fact is,” Sor Geno intervenes, with a nod of agreement toward his brother, “the fact is that we two... we don’t have animals at home and... who are they going to take it out on, those people, if they get it into their heads to break a window, a door, whatever... in our house...”
“We’re the only ones they can take it out on,” Sor Paolo concludes, his bald cranium sinking between his shoulders, while Sor Antonio says, “Because the point is, Sor Quirino, that now they’re even entering our homes, you see? Entering our homes...”