threatened to stamp a winged horse on him.
Old Niccolo was in the warm mildewy library beyond, consulting over a book on a stand with Aunt Francesca. She was Old Niccolo’s sister, and therefore really a great-aunt. She was a barrel of a lady, twice as fat as Aunt Anna and even more passionate than Aunt Gina. She was saying passionately, “But the spells of the Casa Montana always have a certain elegance. This is graceless! This is—”
Both round old faces turned towards Antonio and Paolo. Old Niccolo’s face, and his eyes in it, were round and wondering as the latest baby’s. Aunt Francesca’s face was too small for her huge body, and her eyes were small and shrewd. “I was just coming,” said Old Niccolo. “I thought it was Tonino in trouble, but you bring me Paolo.”
“Paolo’s not in trouble,” said Aunt Francesca.
Old Niccolo’s round eyes blinked at Paolo. “Paolo,” he said, “what your brother feels is not your fault.”
“No,” said Paolo. “I think it’s school really.”
“We thought that perhaps Elizabeth could explain to Tonino that he can’t avoid learning spells in this Casa,” Antonio suggested.
“But Tonino has ambition!” cried Aunt Francesca.
“I don’t think he does,” said Paolo.
“No, but he is unhappy,” said his grandfather. “And we must think how best to comfort him. I know.” His baby face beamed. “Benvenuto.”
Though Old Niccolo did not say this loudly, someone in the gallery immediately shouted, “Old Niccolo wants Benvenuto!” There was running and calling down in the yard. Somebody beat on a water butt with a stick. “Benvenuto! Where’s that cat got to? Benvenuto!”
Naturally, Benvenuto took his time coming. He was boss cat at the Casa Montana. It was five minutes before Paolo heard his firm pads trotting along the tiles of the gallery roof. This was followed by a heavy thump as Benvenuto made the difficult leap down, across the gallery railing on to the floor of the gallery. Shortly, he appeared on the library windowsill.
“So there you are,” said Old Niccolo. “I was just going to get impatient.”
Benvenuto at once shot forward a shaggy black hind leg and settled down to wash it, as if that was what he had come there to do.
“Ah no, please,” said Old Niccolo. “I need your help.”
Benvenuto’s wide yellow eyes turned to Old Niccolo. He was not a handsome cat. His head was unusually wide and blunt, with grey gnarled patches on it left over from many, many fights. Those fights had pulled his ears down over his eyes, so that Benvenuto always looked as if he were wearing a ragged brown cap. A hundred bites had left those ears notched like holly leaves. Just over his nose, giving his face a leering, lop-sided look, were three white patches. Those had nothing to do with Benvenuto’s position as boss cat in a spell-house. They were the result of his partiality for steak. He had got under Aunt Gina’s feet when she was cooking, and Aunt Gina had spilt hot fat on his head. For this reason, Benvenuto and Aunt Gina always pointedly ignored one another.
“Tonino is unhappy,” said Old Niccolo.
Benvenuto seemed to feel this worthy of his attention. He withdrew his projecting leg, dropped to the library floor and arrived on top of the bookstand, all in one movement, without seeming to flex a muscle. There he stood, politely waving the one beautiful thing about him – his bushy black tail. The rest of his coat had worn to a ragged brown. Apart from the tail, the only thing which showed Benvenuto had once been a magnificent black Persian was the fluffy fur on his hind legs. And, as every other cat in Caprona knew to its cost, those fluffy breeches concealed muscles like a bulldog’s.
Paolo stared at his grandfather talking face to face with Benvenuto. He had always treated Benvenuto with respect himself, of course. It was well known that Benvenuto would not sit on your knee, and scratched you if you tried to pick him up. He knew all cats helped spells on wonderfully. But he had not realised before that cats understood so much. And he was sure Benvenuto was answering Old Niccolo, from the listening sort of pauses his grandfather made. Paolo looked at his father to see if this was true. Antonio was very ill at ease. And Paolo understood from his father’s worried face, that it was very important to be able to understand what cats said, and that Antonio never could. I shall have to start learning to understand Benvenuto, Paolo thought, very troubled.
“Which of you would you suggest?” asked Old Niccolo. Benvenuto raised his right front paw and gave it a casual lick. Old Niccolo’s face curved into his beaming baby’s smile. “Look at that!” he said. “He’ll do it himself!”
Benvenuto flicked the tip of his tail sideways. Then he was gone, leaping back to the window so fluidly and quickly that he might have been a paintbrush painting a dark line in the air. He left Aunt Francesca and Old Niccolo beaming, and Antonio still looking unhappy. “Tonino is taken care of,” Old Niccolo announced. “We shall not worry again unless he worries us.”
Tonino was already feeling soothed by the bustle in the golden streets of Caprona. In the narrower streets, he walked down the crack of sunlight in the middle, with washing flapping overhead, playing that it was sudden death to tread on the shadows. In fact, he died a number of times before he got as far as the Corso. A crowd of tourists pushed him off the sun once. So did two carts and a carriage. And once, a long, gleaming car came slowly growling along, hooting hard to clear the way.
When he was near the Corso, Tonino heard a tourist say in English, “Oh look! Punch and Judy!” Very smug at being able to understand, Tonino dived and pushed and tunnelled until he was at the front of the crowd and able to watch Punch beat Judy to death at the top of his little painted sentry-box. He clapped and cheered, and when someone puffed and panted into the crowd too, and pushed him aside, Tonino was as indignant as the rest. He had quite forgotten he was miserable. “Don’t shove!” he shouted.
“Have a heart!” protested the man. “I must see Mr Punch cheat the Hangman.”
“Then be quiet!” roared everyone, Tonino included.
“I only said—” began the man. He was a large damp-faced person, with an odd excitable manner.
“Shut up!” shouted everyone.
The man panted and grinned and watched with his mouth open Punch attack the policeman. He might have been the smallest boy there. Tonino looked irritably sideways at him and decided the man was probably an amiable lunatic. He let out such bellows of laughter at the smallest jokes, and he was so oddly dressed. He was wearing a shiny red silk suit with flashing gold buttons and glittering medals. Instead of the usual tie, he had white cloth folded at his neck, held in place by a brooch which winked like a tear-drop. There were glistening buckles on his shoes, and golden rosettes at his knees. What with his sweaty face and his white shiny teeth showing as he laughed, the man glistened all over.
Mr Punch noticed him too. “Oh what a clever fellow!” he crowed, bouncing about on his little wooden shelf. “I see gold buttons. Can it be the Pope?”
“Oh no it isn’t!” bellowed Mr Glister, highly delighted.
“Can it be the Duke?” cawed Mr Punch.
“Oh no it isn’t!” roared Mr Glister, and everyone else.
“Oh yes it is,” crowed Mr Punch.
While everyone was howling “Oh no it isn’t!” two worried-looking men pushed their way through the people to Mr Glister.
“Your Grace,” said one, “the Bishop reached the Cathedral half an hour ago.”
“Oh bother!” said Mr Glister. “Why are you lot always bullying me? Can’t I just – until this ends?