He understood, though what he wanted to do was cry instead of nod. But Giovanni kept his tears inside, nodded, and pointed to his cap that his uncle still clutched in his hand. Uncle Antonio sighed and gave the cap back. Giovanni dared not put it on.
They walked the rest of the way in silence, but Giovanni defied his uncle's wishes.
I might not speak of it, Uncle, but you cannot make me not think of it.
****
July 4, Day of Departure . . .
"Domenico . . . where are you?"
Antonio had searched all day. First, he had gone to the high school and to the baseball field. But Domenico wasn't there. He went to the library. Nothing. He walked street after street, asking everyone he passed, if they had seen his nephew. Nobody. There was one bright moment of hope when an old man thought he had seen the boy heading east down that road right there (the man pointed), but no amount of searching that road or that direction proved successful. By the end of the day, Antonio's anger had been replaced with exhaustion and fear.
What if he had left town? What if he was out there, walking east like the old man said, and he's holed up in some discarded barn or burned out house? What if he was injured, hungry, afraid? All of these possibilities and more raced through Antonio's mind as he searched and searched and searched.
He paused for a drink. He was hungry and thirsty, but food could wait. His throat was so dry it felt like sand, and he could not breathe well with the constant scratchy, tickling sensation in his throat. He took a short pause and ordered a cool drink in a small up-time café. He sat in a booth next to a window. He took a sip, then another. Then he set the cup down, folded his hands together, and prayed.
He prayed for patience, strength, wisdom, and for the health and safety of his boy, Domenico. That, more than anything else, mattered the most.
Through the window and in the distance, a light flickered on. Antonio looked. It was no divine light from heaven, but it was strong and shining over Grantville's small skyline. A single beacon of light.
Antonio paid for his drink, left the caffé, and followed the light.
The light led him back to the high school and the baseball field.
Domenico was there, alone, moving back and forth across the infield, throwing up a ball and then catching it in a glove. His speech was animated, his moves boisterous but deliberate.
Coach Flannery stood on the sidelines, leaning against a chain-link fence, watching. Antonio joined him.
"Ah, Antonio," Coach Flannery said. "I'm glad you're here. I was going to call the hotel and tell you that Giovanni was—"
"How long has he been here?"
"I found him asleep in the bushes over yonder just a little while ago. I offered to take him back to the hotel, but he just pulled away and went to the field. I figured it wouldn't hurt to give him a little time to play. I gave him a ball and glove and bat, turned on the lights for him. We don't do many nighttime games anymore, but I figured it wouldn't hurt. I hope you don't mind."
Antonio shook his head. They turned back to the field and watched.
"He's got a good eye, your son. Watch how he moves to catch the ball. Now, most kids take a while to get the hang of how the wind will affect the drop. But not him. He seems to have an inherent understanding of wind speed and how it affects the ball. He hasn't missed one yet."
Antonio nodded, surprisingly proud of that statement. "Yes, that's his mother's influence." Antonio paused, then said, "I suppose he told you what happened?"
Coach Flannery shook his head. "Not in any words I could clearly understand, but when you find a boy fast asleep in the bushes and his father is nowhere to be found, three miles away from the hotel that they are staying in, you figure something went wrong. Would you like to talk about it?"
Antonio paused at first. It was neither proper nor necessary to explain himself to this up-timer, nor appropriate to bring him into the complex dynamics of the Cassini and Crovesi families. But he found himself telling the whole story, leaving out nothing, and in the end, he found it comforting to have shared it all. A mighty weight was lifted from his shoulders.
Coach Flannery listened intently to every word, then said, "May I ask you a question, Antonio?"
"Of course."
"Why is it so important that Giovanni become an astronomer, an engineer, or a mathematician?"
"Because that is what he is destined to become. Your up-time history proves it."
Coach Flannery nodded. "Yes, but the Ring of Fire has altered that history. Things will not necessarily unfold in the future here as they did in my timeline."
Antonio shook his head. "All the more reason for him to pursue his destiny."
"I don't understand."
Antonio sighed. "Your history books said that Domenico becomes the personal astronomer for a king. A French king, unfortunately, but a king nonetheless. Perhaps that kind of patronage is meaningless to you up-timers, but to us, to Domenico, it can be the difference between living comfortably and living in the street. We down-timers as you call us, do not have the fortune of living in a time where such rigid social divisions do not exist. If Domenico does not utilize the skills, the talent, he was born with, and therefore come to the attention of those who matter, he could wind up poor, or worse, wind up like me, like his father . . . notary publics. If that happens, then I will have failed him. I will have failed his mother, his father. Then others would come along and continue his work for him, and my nephew will be nothing more than a forgotten description in an up-time book."
"I see." Coach Flannery turned back to watch Domenico toss around the ball. "Well, if it doesn't work out as you desire, he could use his talents to become a professional baseball player."
Antonio scoffed at that. "Nonsense. It's nothing but a game."
"Today it is, and even tomorrow. But in five years? Ten? Baseball is catching on, Antonio, all over. By the time Giovanni becomes an adult, there may be professional teams everywhere, who pay their players big money to swing a bat."
"Right, and only to be remembered then at the end of your days on a thin piece of card."
Coach Flannery chuckled. "You saw some baseball cards, I take it? Let me tell you, Antonio, that every one of those men, those phantoms you saw, earned millions of dollars up-time. Tens of millions, some of them."
Lies! How could something as trivial as baseball make people richer than the wealthiest kings?
"Your son is just—"
"He's not my son," Antonio corrected. "He's my nephew."
Coach Flannery smiled. "I know a father when I see one." He dared place his hand on Antonio's shoulder. "Your son is just a boy. He'll change his mind a thousand times before he settles on what he wants to be. It's like my own John Dennis. When he was around Giovanni's age, he wanted to be a trashman."
"What's a trashman?"
"Don't ask. Then he wanted to be a baseball player, then a veterinarian, then a comedian. When he was a teenager, he saw a comedian on TV smash a watermelon with a sledgehammer and thought that was the funniest thing in the world." Coach Flannery laughed and shook his head. "He tried to smash a cantaloupe with a hammer; that didn't go over well with his mother. He finally settled on the military, became an EMT, and now he lives a pretty good life. He found his calling, his vocation."
Antonio pulled away from Coach Flannery's hand. He did not want to be rude, but he was in no mood for such logic. "No. It must be as I—as his parents—have decided. Domenico will be a scientist, and that's the end of it."
Coach Flannery nodded and turned back to watch the boy. "Very well. It is not my place to tell you how to raise your son . . . your nephew, if you prefer. I will say just one more thing. Look at him, Antonio. Look at his joy. I daresay, if I left the lights on all night, he'd still be here in the morning, on his knees in exhaustion, still throwing that ball up into the air and catching it like Willie Mays, Ty Cobb, or Shoeless Joe Jackson—three men who all had legendary careers as baseball players. He has a spark in his eye for
the game that you don't see too often in a child his age. He loves the game, Antonio. You can see it; you can feel it. He wants to play. So . . . let him play."
****
He imagined himself one of those men on the baseball cards. An outfielder, hearing the pop of the ball off the bat and waiting, waiting, until the ball came into view out of the hot light of the sun, and being there to catch it. And then, firing it all the way to home plate before the base runner hit the deck and slid. He, Giovanni Domenico Cassini, throwing a ball over one hundred feet to the catcher and hearing the umpire shout, "Out!"
And the crowd goes wild . . .
Uncle Antonio was on the field and walking towards him. Giovanni caught the ball and then stood upright, rigid, and waited. Waited for his much-deserved punishment.
Uncle Antonio stopped in front of him. "Hello . . . Giovanni. I've been looking for you all day."
Giovanni nodded, a lump in his throat. "I know, Uncle. I apologize for running away, and for my disrespect this morning at breakfast. I—"
Uncle Antonio waved him off. "No more than I apologize for my disrespect yesterday, after the game."
They stood there in silence. Giovanni took off his glove and set it on the ground. The ball rolled out. "We can go home now. I promise I won't run away again."
Uncle Antonio kicked at the grass, and scratched his neck. "I've been talking to Coach Flannery, and he says that the Mountaineers are looking for a new boy, for shortstop or for outfielder. They're going to have a tryout in a few days for the next season. If you're interested . . . "
"Me?" Giovanni couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Me? But, we're supposed to be going home."
Uncle Antonio shrugged. "Well, we can stay for a while longer."
"What about Mama and Papa?"
"You let me worry about them. I can handle your mother. But, before I agree in full with staying, you'll have to prove to me that you are worthy of it."
Giovanni nodded. "How do I do that?"
Uncle Antonio bent over and picked up the ball that had rolled out of the glove. His hand was pretty large, so it nestled comfortably in the center of his palm. "You have to hit my fastball."
Giovanni's mouth dropped open. "You have a fastball?"
Uncle Antonio snickered. "Boy, I was throwing rocks before you were born. You just get behind that plate and show me what you've got."
Giovanni scooped up the bat on the run. He reached the plate and tapped it thrice with the aluminum tip. He took a stance like the other boys he'd seen do at the plate, held the bat in proper position, and waited. "Put it over the plate, Uncle. If you can."
Uncle Antonio stepped onto the mound as he loosened his arm for the throw. He looked like a giant standing there, but Giovanni didn't mind. The fact that he was standing there at all was what mattered. It was the only thing that mattered to him at that moment.
Uncle Antonio raised his arm and threw the ball, and Giovanni Domenico Cassini swung his bat.
****
Palazzo Contarini dal Zaffo, Venice
Late Summer, 1634
Alvise Contarini stood at the open window as the welcome breeze stirred his sweat-damp hair, releasing some of the long day's tension and driving the heat away. Lost in his thoughts, he let a few moments slip by before he became aware of a rattle of knuckles on the door, followed shortly by a creak of hinges and a familiar pattern of footsteps.
"What news, dottore?" He asked the question without turning.
"It was arranged as you asked, signore," Cosimo van Castre replied.
"And Falier? Will he attend?”
"He was invited," Cosimo replied. "I am sure he will attend, if only out of curiosity."
Alvise chuckled. "No doubt wondering what your cousins want from him. Again."
"Pardon me, Signore, but why Falier? He sometimes has dealings with my cousins but—"
A euphemism for beggars can't be choosers, Alvise thought. Though considered an astute and successful merchant, Petro Falier was also legendary among the merchant community of Venice for his arrogant personality and pedantry. Dealing with him was an acquired art as the van Axels, Cosimo's cousins, had learned the hard way.
He turned and stared at Cosimo. "Missier Falier has a grudge against dottoressa Nichols and signora Stone. The feelings are mutual. We shall make use of that."
He saw Cosimo nodding in understanding. In a city full of gossipers, Falier's dismissal of the two women in a business deal was common knowledge. Doing so was a serious blunder, but it was anyone's guess whether he would be astute enough to come to regret it. Falier was a proud man.
"You judge that he would be amenable to our proposal? As a result of his conflicts with the women?"
Alvise smiled. "Oh, he will become interested. Especially if he can somehow get revenge on them. Pride and vanity, dottore, pride and vanity. Their combination had proved the downfall of many men. And would again. Remember what I've told you. Play on both his vices. And your cousins?" He changed the subject.
"They comprehend the opportunity. They will participate," Cosimo replied. "As long as they have your support."
Alvise nodded. "Bon. When is the meeting?"
"Tomorrow, at my cousins' palazzo."
"I don't need to tell you how important this is for our endeavor. I am expecting a favorable outcome, dottore." He realized that the tone of his voice was a bit harsh. If it was someone else, he wouldn't have minded. But Dottore van Castre—Cosimo—had already demonstrated his commitment to the work he had taken on. Respect was the way to get the best from such a subordinate. "Dottore . . ." he stopped. "Cosimo, I am—-"
"No!" He saw Cosimo raising his hand to stop him making a faux pas. "I do understand, Signore."
Alvise nodded. Yes, Cosimo understood. They had spent a lot of time discussing the plan for the Serenissima to build and operate their own radios. The Republic was on good terms with the up-timers. For now. But partnerships and alliances were fickle things, as Alvise's ancestors learned more than a century ago battling the League of Cambrai. Today's allies can easily be tomorrow's enemies. Whatever way the relationship went, radio communications were too important to be left in the hands of the up-timers only.
"Bon. Keep me informed of how it went."
"Of course, Signore," Cosimo bowed.
Alvise turned his gaze back to the view outside the window. Even the air, scented by the blooms in the garden below, was far more pleasant than his overstuffed office that smelled of old leather, weathered paper and burned candle wax. He heard the rustle of Cosimo's clothing as he exited the room. Things were already moving fast, and after tomorrow's meeting they would move even faster.
There's no way back now, Alvise.
With that sobering thought, the middle-aged patrician walked towards his desk, which was buried under piles of papers.
****
A palazzo off the Rio de San Zulian, Venice
The next day
Cosimo took a sip. The white wine served from Malvasia was excellent indeed. As well, the finely-crafted glass in his hand, a product of the dal Gallo of Murano, was a masterpiece. His cousins had outdone themselves.
He looked around. He had been in that particular room, on the second floor of the palazzo, only a couple of times since his return to Venice. The lavish furniture, the Tiziano hanging on the wall—that painting alone, and it wasn't one of the master's famous ones, was worth a few hundred ducats he estimated—even the elaborate fresco above the fireplace. They gave the impression of a prosperous merchant family, a sign that they had become more Venetian than Dutch over the course of the past twenty-odd years, since he left Venice.
It amused Cosimo greatly, because he knew their wealth was inherited, not earned. Stefano van Neste wanted a husband for his daughter Catarina. Adolfo van Axel was a compatriot, available and . . . willing. But not cheap. Catarina's dowry was six thousand ducats cash and a business partnership. Cosimo had heard of Catarina and her "interesting" personality. After meeting her in person
, he pitied Adolfo; he had truly made a pact with the devil.
He saw Francesco, Adolfo's brother, raising his hand slightly and the servants withdrawing from the room closing the door. Cosimo caught Francesco's eye and nodded in appreciation. Per his emphatic request, no servants or any other members of the family—except for Adolfo and Francesco—were present. Cosimo then turned and took a long look at the last person in the room.
"It's good to see you again, Petro," he began.
"It has been a long time, Cosimo," the other man acknowledged. "Ten? Fifteen years?" In fact, Cosimo hadn't seen Petro Falier for a few days short of twenty years. The man hadn't aged well. He was afflicted with a limp, his face scattered with smallpox scars and, Cosimo suspected, a case of psoriasis carefully concealed under a silk cap. Yet, he managed to project calm mastery. But then, he'd had those decades to practice the art and gray temples to show for it.
"Actually, twenty," Cosimo finally responded.
"That many? And yet after all this time, you return to Venice and in a couple of months you land a post as a secretary to Alvise Contarini."
Cosimo smiled. "It isn't common knowledge yet, but it is true. As always you are well informed." Not as well informed as you think. It was true enough that he reported through Alvise, but he was more than Alvise's aide. Cosimo served as a secretario extraordinario for the Senate and the Signoria. Then again, it wasn't important for Falier to know that. Yet.
He saw Petro throw out one arm in an extravagant gesture. "The currency in Venice, my friend Cosimo, is not money. It's information. A word, a whisper . . . You can make a fortune, if you are able and timely. As you should know by now. So . . ." His hand came down flat on his chair arm. "Why am I here?"
Grantville Gazette Volume 93 Page 6