Free The Good Mayor by Andrew Nicoll Page A

finished the bathroom.” And he backed away and closed the door. After a moment, there was the sound of another bottle opening, the chink of thick brown glass and laughter.

    “Bloedig stupid men,” said Agathe. She poured the kitten out on the bed. “You are the only man I like,” she said. “I don’t like Hektor because he’s bad. He might be pretty but he’s bad so we don’t like him, do we, little cat? And I don’t like Stopak because he doesn’t like me. So there! No, we don’t like Hektor at all.” Agathe looked at the bedroom door, safely closed, and let her fingers rest on the buttons of her blouse again, remembering that they had been open, wondering what Hektor might have seen. “Here,” she said suddenly, “it’s dinner time.” She opened the milk carton and dipped her fingers, offering them to the little cat who lapped away enthusiastically with a rough pink tongue that tugged against her skin. “Try some of this!” She tore off a strip of smoked salmon and the cat lunged at it like a tiger. Agathe laughed. “I’ll have to go to the circus for a whip and a chair, you bad cat. But don’t go building your hopes up. We don’t dine on smoked salmon every night in Schloss Stopak. This is just to welcome you. Tomorrow it’s cat scraps from the fishmonger for you.”

    She fed the cat for a little longer and then, because smoked salmon is salty and it made him thirsty, she gave him more milk drizzled from the tips of her fingers.

    A door banged in the kitchen and Hektor said something about “No more bloedig beer!” and then something about “The Three Crowns” and a chair scraped and the front door banged and the flat was quiet.

    Agathe picked the kitten up and lay back on the bed with it nestled on her breast. It purred with the clunky purr of a coffee grinder as she scratched round its ears. It purred, she scratched. She scratched, it purred. Slowly and quietly they fell asleep together and Agathe would have lain there until morning if she had not been roused by the sound of the kitten relieving himself daintily against her curtains and doing back-heeled kicks across the carpet.

    Agathe leapt up from the bed in a shower of greaseproof paper and salmon scraps. “No! Bad cat!” she yelled, and the kitten dived for cover under the bed. Agathe had no idea what to do about cat pee on the curtains. Granny would have known. She would have had some handy remedy—vinegar or turnip peelings and baking soda, something like that. But Agathe knew enough not to leave the stuff to dry in. She rushed to the kitchen and came back with a kettle of cold water which she poured on to the stain. “Let it soak,” she thought. “It can’t do any harm.” And then, glancing out the window, she saw that evening had come on. She looked at her watch. Almost half past nine. Mamma Cesare! She put on her shoes and ran.

    The street was empty and silent. The Oktars had shut up shop. There was nobody about and the sound of Agathe’s heels came clipping back at her from the locked doors and closed windows on the opposite side of the road. As she hurried to the corner of Aleksander Street, she heard the distant banshee screech of the approaching tram, the clang of its iron bell. She imagined meteor trails of sparks spurting from the wheels on the big bend that leads to the bridge and she hurried on but, by the time she reached the junction, the tram was already waddling away from the stop and over Green Bridge.

    Agathe walked slowly into the cast-iron shelter and sat down.The next tram was due in ten minutes. She sat on the bench and did her coat up properly, straightened her stockings, buttoned her gloves. She flipped open her compact and looked in the mirror, sighed angrily, unbuttoned one glove again and pulled it off with her teeth, moistened a finger with spit and rubbed a disobedient eyebrow into place. She checked the mirror again. That would do—a bit more respectable. She held the glove in one hand and