Free The Golden Egg by Donna Leon Page B

wife’s and mine, that is – that you let him stay here out of what I suppose I can only call the goodness of your hearts.’ He smiled his approval of their action. ‘I think that was very generous of you. No, it was more than that.’
    â€˜He was just a poor creature,’ Renata said, then looked at her employer as if to ask belated permission for her comment. At the other woman’s nod, she went on. ‘It was Maria Pia’s idea to let him help.’ The other woman made a gesture, as if to dismiss the remark, but Renata went on. ‘It wasn’t easy,’ she continued, then turned to Maria Pia and asked, ‘Was it?’
    â€˜No, I suppose it wasn’t. But he needed something to do.’ She glanced quickly at Brunetti, at the other woman, then back at Brunetti. Keeping her eyes on his, she asked, ‘It wasn’t against the law, was it, letting him stay here?’
    Believing there probably was a law that made it illegal to allow someone to pretend to work in your place of business, Brunetti said, ‘Of course not, Signora.’ He smiled at the absurdity of the idea, waved it away negligently. ‘It was a kind thing for you to do.’ To establish his position as a sympathetic supporter of her behaviour and to dispel any question of legal peril, he added, ‘Any decent person would approve. Any decent person would have done the same thing.’
    She smiled in evident relief: if a commissario of police said it was not illegal, then it could not be, could it?
    â€˜How did he . . .’ Brunetti began, wondering how to phrase it. ‘How did he begin here?’
    Maria Pia smiled. ‘He used to come in with his mother sometimes. And stand there and watch the things going around in the machines,’ she said, pointing to the round glass window of the cleaning machine that had been in motion every time Brunetti came here.
    â€˜And then Pupo saw him,’ Renata said. The women exchanged a smile that conveyed nothing but sadness.
    â€˜Pupo?’ Brunetti inquired.
    â€˜The cat,’ Maria Pia said. ‘Didn’t you ever see him here?’
    Brunetti shook his head.
    She pulled out a
telefonino
and switched it on, pressed buttons, summoning up memories and the images that captured them. Finding what she wanted, she came around the counter and stood beside him. ‘Here,’ she said, flicking photos across the screen as though she had done this all her life. He looked at the small rectangle and saw a photo of her holding an enormous cat in her arms, the largest cat he had ever seen. Its ears made it look like a lynx.
    â€˜What’s that?’
    â€˜They’re called Maine Coon Cats,’ Maria Pia said, pronouncing the name in Italian, smoothing her hand across the surface of the phone and showing him more photos of the same enormous animal. He stood on the counter, slept on the ironing board, stood with his paws on either side of the window of the machine, intent on the spinning clothing. Then he appeared in the arms of Davide Cavanella.
    â€˜Pupo,’ Brunetti said.
    â€˜Davide was the only person he really liked. Other than us,’ she said.
    â€˜Not our husbands and not our children,’ Renata added. ‘Only Davide.’
    â€˜It was one of the reasons we let him stay here,’ Maria Pia said, abandoning the pretence that he’d worked there.
    â€˜What happened?’ Brunetti asked.
    â€˜Pupo was already ten when Davide came. Then last year he got sick with an ugly disease. Davide was his doctor: Pupo let him give him the shots.’ Brunetti raised his eyebrows and Maria Pia went on: ‘We showed him how to do it, and Pupo didn’t seem to mind when he did it.’
    â€˜And then?’
    â€˜And then we had to take him to the vet and have him . . .’ Unable to name the disease that killed Pupo, neither could she name what they had had to do.
    Looking at the photo of