Looking for Marco Polo

by Alan Armstrong

“An old friar took pity and brought him cups of wine and crusts of bread.”

  Mark was sitting up straight and staring. “Did Marco stand outside all night,” he whispered, “in the fog and cold and everything? And why was he holding the pinwheel?”

  “All night,” Boss said softly, “and all day the next day and all the following night. The pinwheel was to get attention—no one in Venice had ever seen one—to get people to come, as many as possible, so maybe he’d spot his coat in the crowd.”

  “Wow!” Mark murmured.

  Just then the doctor snorted again.

  They all jumped—Mark, Boss, and the rats—but the doctor slept on.

  “Quick!” the old rat whispered excitedly. “Get on with it!”

  “The passers-by all stared hard at Marco,” Boss said. “They would have poked him with a stick to get him to talk, but they kept their distance because of the dog. They were afraid of him. One child, though, was not afraid. She brought bread and milk and petted him. She wasn’t afraid. It’s only when people get older that they learn fear.

  “Word spread all over Venice. Street kids came in gangs to taunt Marco. ‘Il pazzo,’ they jeered—‘touched in the head.’

  “On the morning of the third day, Marco recognized his old coat on a man who’d come to see the fool with the giant dog and the pinwheel.

  “Marco pretended to be drunk. He staggered toward the stranger, making strange gurgling noises and waving the whirligig so hard it began to shred. He was acting so scary and peculiar even his dog hung back.

  “‘My friend! My friend!’ Marco yelped, em bracing the man. ‘I am freezing. Freezing! Sell me your coat. Look, I give you all my money,’ he said, turning out his pockets.

  “When Marco bought back his shabby coat for his last coins—a sum equal to what a dockworker earned in a week—the crowd figured he was a greater fool yet.

  “He put on the coat. Then he put his hands together and bowed deep in the Buddhist manner to the four winds.

  “When he returned to Ca Polo, he called for a blade and asked everyone to sit down as he took off the mess of rags he’d just paid so much for.

  “His people looked at him the way the crowds on the Rialto had.

  “Nodding and smiling as he muttered to himself, he slit seam after seam, pulling apart tufts of filthy wool stuffing to reveal a fortune in pearls, emeralds, sapphires, diamonds, coral, topazes, turquoise, and rubies. There was even a strange seashell in his treasure, a white cowrie shell that had served for money in India.

  “No one ever calculated how much treasure Marco came home with. Rumor made it huge—huger than it really was, judging from how plainly he lived later on.

  “His stories were what people talked about. He told of the measureless immensity of China—a land vaster and with greater ports and canals and everything bigger than anything any Venetian had ever seen or heard tell of, of spike-shaped jade green mountains split by swift rivers more than a mile across, and of huge armies that could make the sky dark at midday with stinking smokes, flashes of lightning and blasts of thunder to terrify their enemies—fireworks! He told of Kublai’s palaces and his twelve thousand ‘trusty ones’ on horseback, of his knights in golden robes trimmed in crimson, of his four wives, each with ten thousand attendants, of the palace dance troupe of thirty thousand, of the one hundred thousand white camels and horses Kublai got for his birthday, of his fortune: ‘Ducats in the millions!’ Marco told about where he’d been, what he’d seen—places and things richer than anything anyone had ever heard of or seen, everything huger and grander than the fabulously wealthy Venetian Republic. He told about a great Chinese spice port one hundred miles around with twelve thousand bridges and twelve gates, each manned by a thousand guards. It was all too much for his neighbors. A port vaster than Venice? An empire greater than the Venetian? Rich cities no one had ever heard of? No. ‘Impossibile!’ they whispered to one another.

  “Hearing Marco go on in his odd way of speaking, his listeners thought maybe he was mocking them. After all, the Venetians were the world’s great ones! Who were these rich Chinese he was babbling about? What kind of people kept pet crickets in ivory cages? What were goldfish?

  “Even his old friends thought him a bragging fool, or worse. His stories about everything being so much and so many embarrassed them. At one gathering he told in a loud voice about a place ‘where they dig black stones from the mountains, which burn and make flames like logs and keep up the fire and cook better than wood does. And these stones are so good that nothing else is burnt.’”

  “Coal,” Mark whispered.

  Boss nodded. “No one in Venice knew about coal then.

  “Marco’s stories made him famous,” the dog went on, “but not like you or I would like to be famous. He became a famous fool, a laughingstock. Some took to calling him Marco Milione, ‘Marco of the Millions.’ It started as a tease, and it stuck.

  “Marco’s nickname followed him all the rest of his life. Little children used to run after him calling, ‘Marco Milione, tell us another lie.’

  “Every morning he’d pass the place where he’d sat listening to Mustafa years before, half expecting to see his old Arab friend. It was empty now. Marco was an old man. Things were different. He was a figure of fun. Sure as anything, no kid would come sit to hear his story. Not that he could sit on a broken crate and spend the day taking in the sun and talking to children. That was for beggars.

  “Mustafa had been comfortable sitting on his box. He’d been poor, but he’d been easy in his heart, proud that a young boy had come to him begging stories. That had made him feel rich. It was different for Marco.”

  “Liar! Liar! Pants on fire,” Mark whispered.

  Boss nodded. “But it was all true. What Marco told them was true. As he lay dying, the priest came. ‘Clear your conscience, Marco,’ he urged. ‘Confess that you have lied.’

  “Marco shook his head, ‘I have not told the half of what I’ve seen,’ he said as he turned to the wall.

  “Those were his last words.”

  “Marco Milione,” Mark whispered after a pause. “Did the nickname hurt his feelings?” he asked.

  “Sure. Nicknames are meant to hurt,” the dog replied. “Don’t you have one?”

  “Yeah. A boy at school calls me Question Mark.”

  Boss nodded. “So you understand. For me it’s Cavallo—Horse—because of my size.”

  “Tell me about it,” said Leo sadly. “Our family name is a nickname—Ratto. You want to slur somebody around here, call him Ratto.”

  It was quiet in the room. The only sound was the doctor’s deep breathing, now and then broken with snores.

  “Good job, Boss,” whispered the count, rocking back and forth. “But you know that stuffing Marco pulled from his coat? The rats at Ca Polo saved it—good oily stuff with sheep grease and all the drips that had seeped in through a thousand meals—best bedding we’ve ever had, passed down from generation to generation. Sometimes when they’re bored or hungry, the children suck on a wad to get the juice of those ancient dinners. When I go visit, I take a chaw myself. Tasty! We even found that strange white seashell you mentioned. Must have been Marco’s good luck piece.

  “Got to go now,” said Leo. “Got to get to the signora’s. Her garbage is the best. Deal is, she sorts it for us, so we stay outta her kitchen. Sweet lady. She knows how tough it is to scratch a living out of this wet place.”

  There was a skittering of small clawed feet, then silence.

  Mark dozed off, only half hearing when Hornaday and Boss clomped down the sixty-eight stairs. Then silence. After a long time he heard the heavy front door clank shut.

  Dad,

  I got really sick and couldn’t breathe like at home when you get up and give me hot water with lemon juice and whiskey, but this was worse and the medicine I got was worse. Mom got your army friend Dr. Hornaday to come. You wouldn’t believe his dog. He’s a giant and he can do things I’ll have to tell you about when I see you bec
ause writing them you’d think I was crazy. Doc knows a lot about Marco Polo too—did you guys have to study him in the army? Doc says you’re brave to be doing what you’re doing. There’s a store near the big bridge here that sells nothing but chess sets. I got you a really small one for Christmas so we can play together on trips. It won’t add anything to your backpack. Mom says because there’s no light at night where you are, nobody reads or plays chess. They sit around and sing really long songs that tell their history and they all know all the words. Is this what you’re writing down? I hope you’re OK. I hope we hear about you soon.

  Your son, Mark

  9

  STEALING THE BONES

  Mark was awake and writing his dad when his mother tapped at the door. He stuffed the red notebook under his pillow.

  “How do you feel?” she asked, sticking her head in.

  “Better,” he answered.

  “Good! Are you well enough to go over to the signora’s for breakfast?”

  Mark nodded. He was better, but he felt odd. His head buzzed with voices—Mustafa’s, Boss’s, Count Leo’s. He wasn’t sure whether what he’d seen and heard was some kind of a fever dream or had really happened.

  Hornaday and Boss were waiting for them outside the café. The dog wagged and sang a high humm of welcome when he saw Mark.

  The boy smiled and gave his new friend a pat.

  They all went in together. There was a fresh rose on their table and music like yesterday, brisk and light.

  Boss laid his head on Mark’s foot. Surprised, the boy jerked his foot away. Boss found it again. His head was heavy and warm. Mark let it stay.

  His mother ate quickly. “I want to get over to the agency,” she said, “find out what I can, talk to those people, get some answers.” She paused and looked at Mark. “Not much fun for you, though.”

  “That’s okay,” said Mark. “I’ll go.”

  Hornaday leaned back in his chair. “If he likes, Mark can stay with me and Boss. If he’s up for it, we could go looking for Marco together.”

  He turned to the boy. “That interest you?”

  Mark nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Shouldn’t he lie low after last night?” Mark’s mother asked.

  “Not one of my preferred remedies,” Hornaday said as he reached into his case. “Boredom makes some things worse.”

  He turned to Mark. “Let’s listen to you.” He pressed the stethoscope against Mark’s chest.

  “Clearer,” he said as he put the instrument back. “Not a hundred percent, but a whole lot better. He can manage a tour.”

  “That’s nice of you, Doc,” Mark’s mother said.

  “I’m not doing it to be nice,” the doctor said. “Having Mark here gives me an excuse to poke around. I’ve read a lot about Marco Polo, but I’ve never gone looking for him.”

  Mark heard his father’s voice in his head: Sleuthing. Sleuthing beats sightseeing.

  “Okay, then!” his mom said brightly as she got up to leave.

  “Wait, Mom,” Mark said, pulling the red notebook from his pocket. He tore out some pages and folded them. “Give these to the agency guys for Dad, okay? He probably won’t get them, but …”

  “He’ll get them!” she said firmly. She kissed Mark and hurried off.

  Hornaday got out the red medicine.

  “Aw no, Doc!” Mark protested. “I’m better enough without it.”

  “I bet it doesn’t taste any worse than what Marco got when he was sick in the mountains,” the doctor said. “His probably had snake gizzard and lizard liver in it.”

  “Next time lizard liver,” Mark groaned.

  “If Marco had gotten sick in Venice,” Hornaday said as he shook the bottle, “he might have been given oil of red dog.”

  “What’s that?” Mark asked.

  Doc’s eyes shone. “Just what it sounds like. A whole red dog—hair and all—was boiled in oil with ten scorpions and a lot of pepper. After a couple of hours the juice was strained off and the lucky patient got to drink it.”

  Boss moaned like a deep siren winding down.

  “Ugh!” Mark exclaimed.

  “Right,” said Hornaday, “so here we go.”

  He aimed the spoon. His hand trembled.

  Mark made a face and swallowed. “How come your hands shake?” the boy asked as he wiped his mouth.

  “I’ve got a tic,” the doctor said.

  “A tick like a clock, back and forth?”

  “No, not like that,” said Hornaday. “It’s nerve damage. The muscles move on their own. When I was in Iraq with your dad, we were trying to rescue a young woman, an American teacher who’d been gassed in the war. I inhaled some of the poison.”

  “What do you mean, gassed? Like air pollution?” Mark wanted to know.

  “The enemy had dropped bombs that squirt a gas in the air that burns away soft tissue like lungs and destroys nerves,” the doctor said. “I got some.”

  “Who was the enemy?” Mark asked. “What happened to the teacher?”

  “Not now,” said Hornaday, his face stiffening.

  He waved to the signora. She nodded and came over. “So where do you look for Messer Milione today?” she asked Mark. “You have been to San Marco?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Ah, there you must go,” she said, putting out her arms as if she were handing him something. “It is our best church because of the law that every merchant had to bring back a beautiful for it. Your Marco went there on feast days.”

  “Does it still look like it did when Marco saw it?” he asked.

  “Sì, sì, sì,” the signora said. “The domes outside are the same, the apostles in gold inside—you look around, you see through Marco Polo eyes.

  “But if there is a Mass,” she cautioned, raising her hands, “wait. It is not long. It is not good for tourists to disturb.”

  “Let’s go,” the doctor said as he stood and wrapped his red scarf around his neck. “It’s not far, just a loop along the Grand Canal.”

  Boss was up and shaking out his coat, his great tail swinging back and forth.

  They set out, the doctor striding smooth and straight-backed. Eyeing him, Mark stood a little straighter and tried to match his stride. Boss limped along between them.

  “What religion was Marco?” Mark asked.

  “Catholic,” the doctor replied. “That was the official church in Europe then, but I think he was more interested in learning about the religions he met than in telling folks about his own.

  “He had the mind of a merchant, not a missionary, but the Buddhists he encountered in China—‘idolators’ he called them, but not in a sneering way—made a big impression. He mentions them often, and their temples.”

  “What religion are you?” Mark asked.

  Hornaday shrugged. “I’m a doctor. Medicine takes in all religions. Illness doesn’t choose among sects. Muslim, Catholic, Jew, Buddhist, Protestant, Hindu, pagan, atheist—the bodies are all the same.”

  “Okay,” said Mark, “but what about when you were a kid?”

  “A.M.E. African Methodist Episcopal.”

  “What church is that?”

  “A church for black Protestants. In slavery time blacks weren’t allowed in the white churches, so they organized their own.

  “What religion are you?” Hornaday asked.

  “Mom’s a Lutheran, Dad’s a Quaker,” Mark said. “We switch back and forth. With Quakers nobody’s in charge—people just wait around until somebody gets up to say something. With Lutherans there’s a program to show how close you are to the end of the service, so I like that better.”

  They stood aside for a struggling porter wheeling a handcart heavy with jugs of wine.

  “Just like a thousand years ago,” Hornaday said. “Everything you see has been floated in and moved by hand—all the paving stones, clothes, bricks, oil, food—all of it.”

  The vaporetto stop was a gently pitching barge tied up at an opening on the Grand Canal. Across
the water the sun had caught the front of a church with gold ornaments and a palace with a covered porch on the top. There was a square and docks, but no grass in sight anywhere.

  “Where do kids play?” Mark asked.

  “In the streets, the campos, but mostly on the water. The sea is their playground. Venetian kids grow up swimming, rowing, and sailing. They have boat races year-round—regattas.”

  The waterbus arrived with a lot of engine noise, splashing and slithering. Its wake sent the dock heaving as the captain worked the big tan boat up against the stop. It was crowded, big as a street bus, dirty and rusted.

  The dog hung back.

  Hornaday took him by the collar. “Okay, boy,” the doctor said as he led Boss up the heaving gangplank.

  “He had a bad experience with a boat once,” the doctor explained, “which is why we walk most everywhere.”

  Mark already knew.

  Striped poles banded blue and red and green and yellow announced intersections. In the channel there were speed signs just like on land: 5 MPH—but most of the boats were going faster than that. As they rode, Mark pointed to the sunstruck buildings. “Did Venice look like this when Marco was here?” he asked.

  “If he came back today, he’d recognize it,” the doctor said, “but it would look worn down, because there isn’t enough money to keep things fixed up.

  “In Marco’s time Venice was rich beyond imagining. The Piazza San Marco, where we’re headed, was home to the cathedral, but it was also the biggest and most famous marketplace in the Western world. All the goods of the East came through here because the port of Venice was closest to the heart of Europe. Everything was traded in the piazza—jewels, silk, slaves, spices, soap, perfumes, ivory, drugs. Every ship brought in the choicest goods from the caravans that had opened their bundles and bags where the Silk Road ended.

  “Remember the signora saying how every merchant had to bring back something for the church? Well, much of it was booty, stuff plundered from Egypt, Greece, and Persia. Venetians looted everywhere they landed. They were called ‘sea sharkers.’

  “Their biggest haul came when Marco’s father was a boy. The Venetians sacked Constantinople, then the richest Christian city in the world. The four great bronze horses you’ll see out front, the columns inside—no two alike—most of the sculptures, all the marble, the gold in the dome of the apostles—it was all stolen.”