SALVE ROMA! A Felidae Novel - By Akif Pirincci Page 0,13

view, partially due to nosiness, partially because their discomposure sort of paralyzed them. The rest of them disappeared between the rudiments, moping and without a word. By this cruel mess, the ancient place let its legend live up once more. And this legend has it that Julius Caesar was killed by his enemies right at Largo Argentina in 44 BC.

The fellow I was looking at directly also seemed to be stricken with the awful sight but stuck to his stoic mien. He was of butch built, a real chunk whose scars and hairless spots in his fur gave him the looks of a reckless pirate. His face, which was scarred by stigmata and badly healed inflammations, was a frightening monstrosity. Only his cupreous eyes in the size of big glass marbles beamed so flawlessly as if they had just been delivered ex works. No doubt, I was up against an old warrior who had reached this age because his toughness had always beaten his foes. Whereas foes also refers to untreated illness and the hard life on the street. Ill weeds grow apace! One might want to yell at him and pet his shoulder, wouldn’t his frightening sight in dirty gray forbid such a gesture without saying. His Scusi-Signore-ado seemed like a friendly visor only.

»You surprise me, Signore«, he said gallantly. »Other foreigners would have passed out at this sight immediately. This gentlefolk don’t know the local customs and much less the merciless rules of the streets. Lucky ones!«

»Believe my, my friend, evil isn’t a Roman invention«, I replied and brushed away some last tears with my paw. »And as for murder, there’s definitely no Roman patent.«

»Murder ...?«

For a moment his face threatened to crumple. He seemed bewildered. Until the visor of politeness folded down again.

»Ah si. Si, si, assassinio. Murder is a daily occurrence in this città misera. And do you know why, Signore? Because molta semplicione think that they can live without protection. Although it is so easy to get protection.«

With his head he performed a conspirational gesture and made sure that nobody was watching us. Then he leaned towards me and talked quietly out of one corner of his mouth as if he was sharing the most well kept secret.

»Trust me, Signore, I can easily arrange protection for you. That is to say, I belong to the organization. Of course you would have to share one half of the food you find with us. Well, concreto you would have to share it with me.«

I had an idea of what he was getting at but thought he was kidding.

»What kind of organization?«

He gave me that pitiful look. He had explained the difference between male and female to a child, and it still didn’t get it.

»Well, the organization, Signore, the Mafia, the Cosa Nostra, the Black Hand. Never heard of that?«

»Am I right in assuming, Signore, that you are going to make me an offer I can’t refuse?« I replied.

»Exactly!« it burst out of him. »You may have heard that in Italy we keep to some old tradition – well, apparently this poor sister didn’t ...«

»And as you also may have heard, the nuthouses in Italy were scrapped in the mid-seventies. Ever since the former patients are allowed to roam freely among the workers and enjoy insanity without having to fear electroshocks.«

At first, the one who spoke stayed out of sight.

The pirate cringed as if Don Corleone himself had pissed on his parade. Within seconds his corny Mafia-ado deflated like a half-baked cake outside the oven. All of a sudden he wasn’t the frightening chunk anymore but a frustrated actor whose mask had been ripped off. Who had done this to him?

I looked around, expecting an even more frightening braggart. Meanwhile, even the most persistent gazers had left the scene. The pirate, the exsanguinated body with the giant whole in the head and I were an island in the middle of the ancient rubble. Then he stepped out of the darkness. He must have been among the crowd of gazers and had waited until those had cleared out.

»Giovanni, you Lord of the morons«, he said. »How often did you put on this show for tourists? And how often were you successful? Never or never ever?«

An elegant stripling approached us. As beautiful and clean as an early morning. The Oriental Shorthair with shiny onyx fur resembled an only slightly modified hound. His head was a narrow wedge, with giant funnel-like ears and glowing turquoise eyes, which had the brightness of