“Listen,” whispered Boss, nudging Mark’s head with his wet nose and giving him a lick. “Are you really awake? If you are, I’ll tell you what Marco’s home coming was really like.”
“I’m awake,” the boy whispered, twisting away from the dog’s nose as he wiped his face.
Just then something moving on the floor caught Mark’s eye. The boy peered hard at the corner. There was a small gray figure rocking on its haunches.
“We’re awake too,” the figure said. “We’ll keep Boss straight. We were there too, you know.”
“Jeez!” Mark shuddered, snatching up the covers. “Rats!”
Now there were five pairs of glittering dot eyes.
Boss laughed. “I told you he’d show,” he said. “Rats can’t pass up a story any more than they can pass up frittata. That’s Count Leonardo and his clan.
“It’s true what Leo says,” Boss added. “His kind were around the night Marco came home.”
“We were around here a long time before that,” Leo boasted. “We came in on the first boats.”
Mark leaned up on an elbow.
“Do you bite people?” he whispered.
“Do you?” asked the rat.
7
MARCO’S HOMECOMING
Mark pulled the quilt up to his chin. He was uneasy about the rats being so close.
“Okay,” whispered Boss in his husky, rumbling voice. He kept it low so as not to awaken the doctor.
“When Marco left Venice with his father and uncle, they expected to be gone four or five years. They were gone more than twenty. People thought they were dead. In those days if no one heard from you or got word about you for a long time like that, your name got entered in a book and your property was given away.
“Put yourself in Marco’s place. Imagine leaving home today and not returning for twenty-four years! You’d look different. Everyone you saw would look different, and they’d only remember you the way you’d looked the last time they’d set eyes on you. What would you say? How would you identify yourself?”
“I don’t know,” Mark murmured. He felt the anxiety of it in the pit of his stomach. He realized he had no way of proving who he was. If you’re not recognized in a place, who are you? Where do you belong?
“What would you do?” the dog asked. “Nobody knows you. Nobody has reason to trust you. You’re at the mercy of others. Maybe they’re scared of you just because of the way you look. I know about that! You saw how it was—that clerk out there would have kicked me down the stairs if he could have.”
“Which you would have deserved, coming in here stinking and muddy, shaking your dog wet all over,” Count Leo scolded. “But as for looks scaring folks off, the boy beside you shivers just looking at us rats.”
“Silenzio!” Boss growled.
“What would you do?” he asked Mark again. “You’ve come home and nobody recognizes you. What’s so special about you that you could use to get people to remember who you are?”
“There’s nothing special about me,” Mark whispered, shaking his head. “I guess I’d ask if they remembered the boy who couldn’t breathe.”
“That’s it!” the dog exclaimed. “That’s exactly how Marco proved who he was.”
“What happened?”
“We’ll get there,” Boss said. “Right now it’s dark and silent at Ca Polo, just after midnight on a moonless foggy night. These three tough-looking guys show up with this big dog at the family palazzo: Marco, his uncle and father, and my great-great. Marco looked nothing like the boy he’d been. The Polos looked like greasy beggars, hair oiled and tied back under filthy turbans, skins stained an odd color from the grease and juices they’d rubbed on for disguise and protection against the desert sun. Their boots were wolf-skin galoshes with the hair inside.”
Boss’s ruff was up. “They looked like bandits or worse,” he said. “They’d been gone so long they’d forgotten Venetian manners. Even their speech was strange with Persian and Mongol thrown in. Like Mongols, they spat every time they finished speaking. They smelled.”
“Spat?” Mark interrupted. “They spat when they talked?”
“Listen,” Boss whispered, “that was the least of it. Their personal habits would have shamed a rat.”
“Maybe even a dog,” the count hissed.
Boss acted as if he hadn’t heard. “They crowded under the entry arch,” he continued, “three men, a gray donkey, and the great Tibetan dog—the biggest dog ever seen in Venice—my great-great generations back. He’s the hero here.”
Mark sat up. “I know that arch,” he whispered. “I saw it earlier today. I stood under it.”
Boss nodded. “It was a dangerous time. Venice was at war with Genoa. Spies lurked. The place was full of secrets and enemies. Every stranger looked suspicious. Were these guys thugs? The only baggage they had was what was on the back of Marco’s donkey. Their stuff from China was still on shipboard. They had no papers. Who were they? They had no keys. They were locked out.”
Hornaday erupted in a loud snore. Boss froze. The doctor shifted in the creaking chair, there was another rumble, then the rhythm of sleep again.
“The donkey was tired and hungry,” Boss whispered. “He twitched his huge ears and tossed his harness bells. He could smell the other animals and their food. He stomped and shifted as he waited for the door to open. His load was heavy; the straps chafed.
“His master pulled at the bell rope and called out, ‘I’m Marco Polo, let me in!’
“Nothing happened.
“My forebear cocked his head and looked at his master. He was used to seeing people jump and shout ‘Obbedisco!’—I obey—when Marco ordered. But no! More tugs on the bell cord, more yells. The door stayed barred.
“The donkey began to bray for help. A donkey’s cry is awful to hear, a whine as it winds up, then a hoarse scream like an engine breaking apart.
“This donkey’s cry was desperate. The animals inside heard and understood. The roosters squalled, house dogs barked, the goats, sheep, horses, and donkeys all joined in, kicking at their stalls. Neighbors opened their shutters and looked out. ‘Che cosa?’ they yelled. ‘What’s going on?’ The town watchmen came with their lanterns.
“My great-great was panting now, standing with his paws apart, teeth showing. His paws were huge,” Boss said, lifting up one of his.
“‘Who are you?’ the watchmen demanded, crowding forward with their lamps. ‘What are you doing here? Go away or we will jail you for disturbing the peace!’
“The dog rumbled. The watchmen edged back.
“The donkey brayed on, louder and louder, ‘I am fainting! I am dying! Help me!’
“Suddenly a curious stable boy pushed the side door open a crack to see what was going on.
“The donkey charged in, knocking the boy down. Marco and the others followed into the stable and warehouse that was the first floor of Casa Polo.
“By now the whole house was up. Torches flared as men and women in nightshirts stood yelling from the balcony, waving open blades and knobbed clubs. The Polos held up their hands to show they had no weapons.
“They had the dog, though, and, if I do say so myself, he was magnificent. He looked huge, his ruff up, teeth showing. Nobody came near as he stood beside his master.”
Boss’s ruff was up all the way now, his big tail switching like a heavy rope.
“‘Listen!’ cried Marco. ‘I am Marco Polo, one of your people. Where is my aunt? If she doesn’t recognize my father, she will know me by this scar,’ he said, pushing back his hair to show a dent in his left temple. ‘I fell down those stairs and slashed my head on the corner of that chest. Does no one remember? Where is my aunt?’
“‘She was a big, laughing, black-haired woman. She had a white line here on her lip, where it turned up from a fall she took—does no one remember? Where is she?’
“No one answered. They didn’t want to believe the wild-looking strangers below were the missing Polos.”
“
Why?” Mark interrupted. “Weren’t they glad to have their family back?”
“They thought it was a trick,” Boss explained. “The Polos had been gone so long they were as good as dead. Their property had been given away. If those strangers really were the Polo men, the folks standing on the balcony would have to give everything back—even the house they were living in—so they didn’t want to believe Marco and his father and uncle had actually returned.
“‘The Polos were merchants,’ growled the biggest man on the balcony. ‘They had money when they left. Have you got money?’
“‘No,’ said Marco. ‘But I have the pass of gold that allowed us to travel through the lands of silk and spices at no charge and without injury. Surely if all those we passed coming here trusted and protected us on the strength of it, you should give us a chance to prove who we are!’
“With that, he drew from his coat a flat stick of gold marked with strange characters. It looked like what you’d stir a can of paint with.
“‘This is the paiza the Great Khan gave us when we left his city, Khanbaliq, the capital of all China,’ Marco said. ‘It lets everyone know we are guests of the emperor. The falcon seal at the top means we are his most preferred people.
“‘Here!’ he said, tossing it up to the gravel-voiced man who seemed to be in charge.
“This man weighed it, bit it, then tossed it back.
“‘Fake!’ he said with a sneer.
“He motioned to the others on the balcony. ‘They’re thieves!’ he yelled. ‘Drive them out!’
“My forebear inched toward the stairs, crouched low, his jaws slobbering.
“He did the slobbering for effect,” Boss explained. “Our breed doesn’t slobber.”
The rats snickered.
“So why does the doctor have to wipe your face when you go into the signora’s café?” Leo teased.
Boss drew himself up. “That’s drooling, not slobbering. Never mind them,” he said, turning to Mark. “Are you still with me?”
“Yes,” Mark whispered.
“Good,” said the dog. “As the men started down the stairs, my great-great lunged at them, snarling and snapping, shredding the leader’s nightshirt with a swipe of his paw.
“There were screams and stumbling. The men retreated.
“Then silence.
“In that instant Marco remembered the identifying thing that you mentioned: Marco, too, once had trouble breathing.
“‘My nurse!’ he shouted. ‘She was famous in our family for saving my life when I gagged on gristle and turned blue. She was old and weak, but she shoved me to the floor and then hoisted me up feetfirst and pounded my back until I coughed out the piece that was choking me.
“‘The neighbors all heard the story. The priest told it in church as a miracle. Surely you remember me now!’ he cried. ‘I’m the boy who was choking and couldn’t breathe.’
“Slowly the oldest house servants began to nod. ‘Yes,’ said one, ‘that must be Marco, and that vecchio—that old one—his uncle, and that one, there, his father.’
“The deep-voiced man on the balcony—the guy in the ripped nightshirt who was going to clobber the intruders—puckered up his face. His eyes began to water.
“Slowly he lowered his club.
“‘Miracolo! Miracolo!—Miracle! Miracle!’ he whispered. ‘Welcome home!’
“He was Marco’s cousin, the one who had inherited the most and now would have to give it all up.
“‘A feast!’ he ordered.
“He and Marco had played together as children in the campo out front. They had rowed in the regatta together and teased the neighbor girls. He remembered now. He smiled through tears. The two men embraced.
“‘Food!’ the others called. ‘Wine!’
“‘My dog and my donkey!’ Marco said. ‘First I see to them.’
“With his own hand Marco fed his dog chunks of cold veal from the kitchen. The donkey got fresh green hay and grain with salt and honey. Marco hugged his animals for a long moment, then kissed them. ‘But for you two,’ he whispered, ‘we’d still be in the alley.’”
Boss sat up. He towered over Mark.
“So now you see how it was,” he whispered. “But for my great-great’s bravery that night, those people would have murdered Marco.
“When you think about it, they had every reason to. First this rough-looking guy busts into their fortress, then he claims to be its true owner. What would you do? The dog saved them.”
Boss went on: “If my forebear hadn’t helped Marco get inside that house and—risking his own neck—held off those people long enough for Marco to prove who he was, no one would ever have heard of Marco Polo or his travels, and there’d never have been that book.”
The dog paused and shook himself. It felt like an earthquake on the bed.
Boss looked over at the rats. Their tails were switching as one.
“Okay so far,” said Count Leo. “Hurry up! Go on!”
Boss took a deep breath and began again. “Only when the first birds called did the household go to sleep,” he said. “That’s when Marco almost lost everything.”
8
MARCO GOES CRAZY
“It was three in the morning,” said Boss, “maybe four, and all these Polos and Ca Polo people were drinking and eating and telling stories and interrupting each other and laughing and banging the table.
“At last the travelers staggered upstairs and fell into bed. The sun rose.
“And then it happened—but you know what happened,” the dog said, stopping suddenly and looking hard at Mark.
“No, I don’t. Tell me. Please,” Mark whispered.
“You don’t remember what happened when Marco woke up?” the dog asked, pushing his big face so close to Mark’s the boy could feel his hot breath. “You didn’t read it in Marco’s book?”
“I—I didn’t get that far,” Mark stammered. “Could you tell me the story? I see better when I’m listening.”
“So do we,” chorused the rats.
The dog rearranged himself carefully into his Sphinx-like storytelling posture: head up, front paws out straight, rears tucked under, big plume tail curled around.
“Venetians have always been proud of their clothing,” he said. “Marco’s traveling coat was worn and stinking, not worth saving, so a servant girl had been ordered to give it to a beggar who’d come to the door.
“When Marco woke up and reached for his coat, he panicked. He searched and yelled until he learned what the girl had done. He whispered to his father, then stuffed something inside his shirt and dashed out of the house.
“Dressed in what remained of his Tartar costume, he raced across the campo with my great-great galloping beside him. Folks jumped out of the way when they saw that pair coming! Together they crossed the humped bridge over the little canal that served as the family lane and hurried to the Rialto Bridge—the most important bridge in Venice.”
“I’ve seen it!” Mark exclaimed. “Mom took me there yesterday.”
“Good, so you’ve got the setting for the gambit.”
“Gambit?” Mark asked. “What’s a gambit?”
“Uh …” Boss hesitated.
“It’s from the Italian word for tripping someone,” the old rat yelled.
“Right,” said Boss. “I knew; I was just testing them.
“In Marco’s time,” he continued, “the Rialto Bridge was made of wood. It was a big white arch without steps so mules and horses could get over, and tall enough so the biggest galleys could pass underneath. The sides were open so folks could see out, and there was a flat space at the top where people could catch their breath and gossip. A walker looking down could see everything passing on the canal; a boatman looking up could see who was there.
“Marco searched the crowd as he rushed up the steps. When he got to the top, he reached into his shirt and took out a red and yellow pinwheel made of stiffened paper and marked with strange characters painted in black. My great-great st
ood panting at his side.”
Boss was panting now.
“People rushed past,” he said. “At first they ignored Marco, but then one old merchant slowed and stared, then another and another until a crowd stood blocking the bridge, watching, as this odd-looking, greasy-haired man with the giant dog wove and staggered, holding his pinwheel.
“Marco kept looking around, his eyes bugged out like he was scared to death, his mouth gaping, spit dripping out. Nobody got too close—he might be a madman, any moment jumping on someone, scratching and biting. It had happened. People gawked. ‘Who are you?’ they called. ‘What are you doing?’
“‘He will come if God pleases,’ Marco said in his odd half-Venetian, half-Mongol speech.
“He wouldn’t say more. Maybe he couldn’t. He stood there pitching like a moored boat in wind, aiming his pinwheel into the breeze. He struggled to keep his face smooth. ‘Serene like the Buddha,’ he told himself as he chanted what he’d heard the monks in China mumble before their huge temple figures.
“‘Serene like the Buddha,’ he reminded himself when his stomach lurched. ‘Serene like the Buddha,’ but his heart was pounding and his body shook. He had to get that coat back.
“He felt dizzy as he looked around. Venice had been his home once—the rich center of the world. Now it seemed small. It was small compared to the capital of China, where he’d just been.
“For years he’d dreamed about coming home, imagined and hoped for it more than anything. Now he wondered if he’d made a mistake. And to have lost his coat!
“For two days and nights Marco stood on top of the Rialto Bridge, fixed in place like one of those men you see in the squares posing like statues, only Marco wasn’t posing. He was cold and wet and pale, weaving like a man in a trance as he held his pinwheel in the wind.
“His father came with food. He begged his son to quit. There was a rumor that the doge and his council were talking about arresting Marco for being a nuisance on the Rialto.
“Marco pretended not to hear his father.
Looking for Marco Polo Page 5