by Mary Hoffman
Matt felt drowsiness creeping over him. He wound the leather straps round the book and tied them but before he could put it down sleep overcame him and he felt himself falling into a swirling vortex of words and ideas.
When Matt woke up, he had no idea where he was. It was a large but musty-smelling room as big as his school assembly hall and full of machines of some sort. At first he thought he was the only person in the room, but gradually, as his eyes adjusted to the dancing motes of dust in the weak rays of sunshine coming from the high windows, he saw some men working on the machines furthest away from him, near the big wooden doors at the far end of the room.
They seemed to be talking to each other and gesturing with their hands but he couldn’t tell what they were saying for the noise of the machines, which was a sort of loud creaking, like wood on an old-fashioned sailing ship.
What a peculiar dream, thought Matt. He was used to dreams where you think you have woken up and then discover that’s just another part of the dream.
The machine nearest to him was silent, as if waiting for someone to come and operate it. Beside it Matt saw a shallow box on a stand, with divisions inside it containing bits of metal, neatly arranged. He picked one up and examined it. It was small but heavy – a bit of lead, he thought. There was a raised letter ‘b’ on it or maybe a ‘d’. Matt had a lot of trouble with letters that looked the same but turned into other letters if you reversed them.
He must have spoken out loud in his dream, because a voice said over his shoulder ‘It’s a “d”.’ Matt jumped and saw that a man had come up silently behind him. He was middle-aged with a neat grey beard. But what was odd about him was his clothes – they were old-fashioned, made of velvet and lace, like in a Shakespeare play or an old oil painting. And he wore a flowing scholar’s gown on top.
‘Do you know what it is?’ said the man, taking the metal letter out of Matt’s hand. ‘It’s a bit of movable type. The letter looks like a “b” because it’s back to front – like an image in a mirror. When it’s inked and pressed on to paper, it will give you a “d” though.’ He spoke with an accent Matt couldn’t quite place.
He put the letter back in the box. ‘I’m Professor Constantin,’ the man said. ‘What’s your name?’
Matt realised he’d never had a dream in which anyone asked him his name before, even as he said, ‘Matt Wood.’
‘Matteo Bosco,’ said the man, rolling the syllables round his mouth. ‘That is a good name for you in Padavia.’
Matt had no idea what he might mean. ‘Where is this?’ he asked.
‘It is the Scriptorium,’ said Constantin. ‘My Scriptorium, you might say. It used to belong to a monastery, where monks copied manuscripts. But now we have movable type and the books are printed. You could call it a “Stamparium” I suppose.’
He patted the nearest machine affectionately, as if it were a favourite dog.
‘But you must come into my studio,’ he said suddenly. ‘I have clothes waiting for you.’
He took off his scholar’s robe and threw it round Matt’s shoulders. Matt looked down at himself, incongruous in his pyjama bottoms, his chest and feet bare under the heavy black gown. This was a very realistic dream.
It wasn’t until then that he noticed he was holding the little leather-bound book in his hand.
But the Professor was leading him off towards a side door, beckoning him to be quick. Matt got the impression that Constantin didn’t want the men at the far end of the Scriptorium to see him. He followed obediently, though he had no idea what was going on.
Constantin’s ‘studio’ was nothing like what that word conjured up in Matt’s brain and he was amazed that his sleeping mind could come up with such a scene. The only furniture was a large wooden desk, a wooden armchair and a couple of stools. But every surface was covered with books, parchments, rolls of paper and printed pictures.
There were no bookshelves, which would have been the obvious solution to the clutter. Matt wondered how the Professor could find anything he wanted. There was no electric light or desk lamp but there were candle-holders on the walls and a big candlestick on the desk, which had dripped fantastic patterns of wax on to both wood and papers. And there was an unpleasant smell like old cooking fat. On one wall there was a religious picture that Matt somehow knew was called an icon. On the opposite one there was a cupboard built into an alcove. There was one window with a deep wooden window seat. Through it Matt could see a jumble of old buildings and narrow streets.
The view and the candles, together with Constantin’s clothes, made Matt realise that he was dreaming of a distant past. The Professor was saying something, gathering up some clothes from a pile on a stool.
‘Put these on,’ he was saying. ‘Of course, if anyone sees you haven’t a shadow, your secret will be revealed. But at least you will be less conspicuous in these.’
He looked at Matt critically. ‘Apart from your hair, of course. Why do you young men in the twenty-first century wear it so short? We’ll have to find you a hat. I don’t suppose you’d accept a wig.’
As he was rattling on, Matt looked down at the tiled floor of the studio. The light from the setting sun was streaming through the window on to him but as he twisted round to look, he saw that what Constantin said was true: he cast no shadow.
‘What an odd detail for a dream,’ he thought.
But the Professor was urging him into the clothes. Matt shrugged and put them on. It was not a bad idea to go along with things in dreams, he found. But the clothes were weird – sort of velvet trousers and a ruffled shirt. There were black leather shoes too with big silver buckles. What on earth must he look like? Constantin rummaged in the cupboard in the wall and triumphantly pulled out a dusty black velvet hat. He held it out to Matt.
‘There!’ he said. ‘Now you can pass for a Talian.’
*
Barbara was petrified. It took away almost all the pleasure she felt in wearing the glorious turquoise silk dress and matching mask. Her hair was elaborately dressed, with turquoise ribbon threaded through it, and ornamented with butterfly pins of diamond and sapphire.
She was sitting between the Duchessa’s father, the Regent Rodolfo Rossi, and his new wife, Silvia, at a banqueting table in the Ducal palace. Senator Rossi was making a speech but Barbara was too nervous to concentrate on what he was saying or on eating any of the fine food on her plate.
‘Her Grace, my daughter, is unfortunately unable to address you all today,’ said Rodolfo. ‘Regrettably she is indisposed by a sore throat and has lost her voice . . .’
Barbara coughed elegantly into a little lace handkerchief. How on earth had milady ever thought they would both get away with this deception?
‘. . . but she has asked me to thank you for your presence here to celebrate her birthday – and indeed your presents, which you in your generosity have showered upon her.’
He cast his eyes towards an oak table laden with boxes and jars tied with satin ribbons of every colour, while the guests laughed at his little jest.
Barbara thought longingly of what the contents might be – the jewels and lace collars, the writing-cases and scented bath oils. If only they were really for her! But she knew that the real Duchessa did not care about belongings – perhaps because she was so wealthy she could afford anything she wanted. The only gifts that meant anything to her were the ones from her parents and her fiancé. Barbara had seen how delighted she was when she opened Luciano’s present of earrings. She wondered if they were having a happy time together now; it must surely be better than what she was going through.
*
‘And now,’ said Constantin. ‘You must have questions you want to ask me.’
‘Not really,’ said Matt. ‘I mean, this is a dream, right?’
‘Is that your first question?’ said the Professor. ‘Good. We have started with an easy one. No, it is not a dream. You are in Talia, in the city called Padavia, famous for its University. It’s the second oldest in Talia, afte
r the one in Bellona. And I am a professor at this University.’
‘OK,’ said Matt, playing along. ‘And are we in the University now? I mean I thought we were in the Scriptorium or the Stamparium or whatever.’
‘The Scriptorium is part of the University now,’ said Constantin. ‘It is all that remains of an old monastery next to the main university building. And it was suitable in size for my enterprise of a printing press. I like to think, too, that it has always been a place where books were produced. And on your visits here we shall say that you are one of my apprentices.’
Matt couldn’t help pulling a face.
‘You don’t like books?’ said Constantin. ‘I see you have one in your hand.’
Matt looked again at the leather-bound book he had bought at Mortimer Goldsmith’s antiques shop. It was strange how solid and real it felt in his hand, just the way it did when he was awake.
‘I like this one,’ he admitted. ‘I don’t know why though.’
‘Because it spoke to you,’ said Constantin. ‘It is your talisman and it found you. I have been waiting for it to do so for some time.’
The strangest feeling was growing in Matt that this wasn’t an ordinary dream. The leather-bound book could well have come from a time and place like this. That was it, he thought: he had made up this whole dream-world to explain to himself where the book belonged. It couldn’t hurt to tell this imaginary man the truth.
‘I’m not good with books,’ he said. ‘I . . . I have problems with reading.’
He felt a bit stupid, sitting in a scholar’s room, overflowing with books, in a university, even if it was only a dream one, confessing that he wasn’t good at reading. But the Professor wasn’t fazed. He picked up a volume from his desk and held it out to Matt.
‘Have a try,’ he said. ‘Things are often different in Talia.’
Matt took the book reluctantly. His heart sank as he opened it. Lines of fuzzy black type filled the pages; it was just the sort of thing he wouldn’t be able to read.
And then something miraculous happened. The words somehow formed in his mind and he found he was reading, quite easily, a rather dull book about weapons. He stopped and looked up at the Professor, who was smiling encouragingly at him.
‘You see,’ said Constantin. ‘In Talia you can read.’
Chapter 3
First Impressions
The alarm on his mobile phone screeched at Matt at the usual time, followed five minutes later by the even shriller sound of his alarm clock. Both phone and clock were on his desk across the room from his bed, the only arrangement that worked to get him up in the morning. He groaned under the duvet then flung it aside, staggered over to the source of the noise and pressed buttons till it stopped. He looked longingly at his bed, still warm and enticing. It seemed only minutes since he had fallen into that deep sleep.
And there was the book; just seeing it brought the whole dream back. Constantin had told him he was a Stravagante – a traveller between worlds – but what was even more amazing, he had said that Matt wasn’t the only one to find his way to Talia from Barnsbury Comp. That wasn’t so extraordinary for a dream – after all, Matt had seen Georgia and Nick only yesterday – but Constantin had also mentioned Sky, the boy with dreadlocks, and another boy, who had died and lived again in Talia.
Matt shook the last shreds of sleep out of his head. Maybe he was wrong to think he wasn’t good at Arts subjects? If he put this dream down on paper, it would make a great story for Creative Writing. The Professor had told him he could get back to his own world any time he wanted, just by falling asleep with the book in his hand while thinking of home. His ‘talisman’ was what Constantin called the book.
‘Every Stravagante has one,’ he had said. ‘It is his or her most valued possession and must be guarded with their life. There are enemies in Talia who want to find out the secrets of stravagation.’
Matt picked up a book from his desk. It was a Maths textbook with little writing in it so he couldn’t tell if his reading was any better. He turned instead to his childhood books on the shelf. He had always kept copies of the books his mother read to him as a kid, even if he struggled to read novels himself. Now he took out Tom’s Midnight Garden, an old favourite, hoping to read it as fluently as he had the book in Talia.
But it was no different from before. The words still got themselves all snarled up like tangled fishing-line. That glorious feeling of extracting meaning from them without trying, like swimming underwater or flying, had disappeared.
But how could I have imagined something I’ve never experienced, thought Matt. I didn’t think you could do that in dreams.
‘Time to get up!’ yelled his mum up the stairs and Matt hurried to get to the bathroom before Harry; understanding the dream would have to wait.
Alfredo bustled about the house organising a dinner that he thought worthy of the Duchessa and roping Marco in to help cook and serve it. But Luciano and Arianna would hardly have noticed if he had provided bread and cheese and a glass of ale.
They had gone out to walk about the city, Arianna with her fisherman’s cap back on, and it felt like the day when they had first met.
‘You have to be my guide now, Luciano,’ she said. ‘I have never been to Padavia.’
‘I don’t know it that well myself,’ said Luciano, who had to stop himself from holding her hand. ‘I’ve only been here two weeks. It’s not the same as when you explained Bellezza to me.’
‘Not so different,’ said Arianna. ‘Although I loved the city, I didn’t know it as well then as I do now. I lived on Torrone, remember. Bellezza was for high days and holidays.’
‘And now?’
She fetched a deep sigh.
‘Much the same. It seems as if a duchessa’s days are all special in some way. There are state occasions, or sitting in Senate or Council, or meeting ambassadors or listening to citizens’ grievances. There’s never time for just . . . being. Well, you know how it is. You’ve seen me wearing five sets of clothes a day. How do you think you will bear it when we are married?’
‘I’ll just have to enjoy watching you undress five times a day,’ said Luciano and she punched his arm just as if she had been a real male friend.
‘You know what I mean,’ she said. ‘How much time will we have together on our own to talk like this? And do you think we’d ever be able to roam the streets the way we did when you were my father’s apprentice and I was an island girl visiting her aunt?’
‘Is that why you have come to Padavia?’ asked Luciano.
‘I wanted to have one last birthday when I could just be me,’ said Arianna pensively. ‘It’s really hard to be Duchessa all the time.’
‘Come on then,’ said Luciano. ‘Let’s make the most of it. I can show you the basilica. It’s not quite as grand as the Maddalena in Bellezza, but it’s pretty impressive.’
He led her into the many-domed cathedral and neither of them noticed that they were being watched by a rather bedraggled-looking figure, dressed in what had once been a handsome blue velvet suit.
*
Silvia was watching the Duchessa no less intently. There was something not quite right; Arianna would not meet her eyes. What was she up to? The banquet had been a muted affair because of the Duchessa’s indisposition but now that the guests were gathered on the colonnaded balcony overlooking the sea, there was the usual excitement about Rodolfo’s fireworks.
They were launched from a raft in the lagoon while the company watched and for a while the Duchessa seemed like her normal animated self, clapping each firework and set piece. The customary winged rams flew across the sky in a shower of silver and purple stars, peacocks opened and closed their magnificent tails, two giant spotted cats leapt above the lagoon. At the same moment a groom brought the Duchessa’s own two African cats up on to the balcony.
‘There is definitely something not right,’ said Silvia to herself. The Duchessa seemed nervous of the cats, patting them distractedly; she would normally
have flung her arms round their necks and kissed their furry faces, even when dressed in her most formal clothes. Everyone knew how the young Duchessa loved her cats, although they had been given to her by her greatest enemy.
Silvia was supposed to be Rodolfo’s second wife; just a handful of people knew that she was his only wife and the previous Duchessa, Arianna’s mother. So in public she couldn’t behave towards Arianna with anything more than the concern appropriate for a new stepmother. But she itched to get her on her own and put her to the test.
Rodolfo made his way back to the Ducal Palace, pleased with his display but worried about his daughter; perhaps it was just her illness but she really hadn’t seemed herself this evening. He said as much to his wife, as soon as the guests had dispersed and Arianna had gone to bed.
‘That’s because she wasn’t,’ said Silvia tartly.
‘Wasn’t?’
‘Herself. I had been suspicious ever since her maid told us about the sore throat yesterday, but when she was nervous of the great cats then I knew something was amiss. I made her look at me when she said goodnight.’
‘And?’
‘And what looked back at me were the brown eyes of the maid, not the violet ones of our daughter.’
‘So,’ said Rodolfo. ‘She used a double. Did you not say anything?’
‘What good would it have been to chastise the maid, who is probably terrified? Do you suppose the deception was her idea? No, we shall wait till Arianna returns.’
‘And where do you think she will return from?’
‘It does not take a magician to divine that, surely?’ said Silvia, suddenly weary.
Rodolfo took her hand. ‘She is with Luciano.’ He felt as rejected as Silvia did. He had been reunited with his undreamt-of daughter for only two years and in all that time he had never been the most important man in her life. It still pained him to think of how he had missed her entire childhood, when she might have turned first to him for protection and love.