Talina in the Tower

by Michelle Lovric

  The kitchen was clean and deserted. The next floor, chiefly devoted to a bathroom, was also shining clean.

  They were not even up to the third floor when Talina heard the familiar bark of the ferocious Razin from the street. A second bark made it clear that the dog, instead of going away, was coming closer.

  ‘The Guardian must have forgotten something!’ groaned Talina. ‘A manuscript to post to his publisher or something.’

  ‘But how to get away from here?’ Ambrogio despaired. ‘If we run away now, we’re bound to run straight into your great uncle.’

  Talina looked out of the window at the dozens of clothes lines nodding with old lady underwear.

  ‘I know how. The grannies! We just have to get to Nonna Meghin, and we’ll be fine.’

  Talina pointed down to a pretty cottage twenty paces from the drawbridge.

  ‘That won’t get us very far,’ said Ambrogio doubtfully.

  ‘Oh yes it will. Run!’

  At Nonna Meghin’s, Talina was seized in a hug. ‘They said you were taken away by the Pastry-Bandits, my little mushroom!’ sobbed the granny. ‘But here you are, safe and sound and pretty as a wren … though that’s a nasty pasty pallor on your cheeks, child. That poor great uncle of yours must be—’

  ‘He mustn’t know I’ve been here! I’ve got to hide from him! I can’t explain yet, but will you trust me, Nonna? We need to get off Quintavalle without being seen. Can you help us? This is Ambrogio, by the way. He’s my friend. Can you help us?’

  ‘Nothing simpler, darling,’ chuckled the old lady. ‘Quick! Let’s go out to my back garden.’

  At the end of Nonna Meghin’s triangular garden, the granny put her fingers in her mouth and gave a sharp ungrandmotherly wolf-whistle. Nonna Nazzarina’s whiskery face appeared at her back fence.

  ‘These children need to get off the island without being seen,’ said Nonna Meghin importantly. ‘The old elopement routine, understand?’

  ‘Si si si si si!’ laughed Nonna Nazzarina. ‘Time to get out of the stable, sister – let’s show this town we’re not too old to horse around!’

  She bent down to kiss the children. ‘Ciao, Talina, mia piccolina! And your oh-so-handsome friend! Have you done the Fascinating Stoat for him, carissima? There’s not a boy who’ll withstand it.’

  ‘No,’ said Talina firmly. ‘Well, not intentionally.’

  If she had, she’d have understood better why Ambrogio gave her all those long looks, which might well be described as ‘confuzzled’. She hoped he would not understand Nonna Nazzarina’s little joke. But unfortunately he was staring at the ground, blushing like a sunset.

  Nonna Nazzarina gave Ambrogio’s burning cheek a little pinch. ‘Over you come, my little sugar-dumplings. So sweeeeeet!’

  Talina and Ambrogio clambered over the wall, and Nonna Nazzarina hurried them through her dark house to the front door, where she popped out, rapped on the next-door house, exchanged a few words with Nonna Stella, and then positioned herself at the spy mirror. ‘Your great uncle is just about to pass by. When I say “Go!” run next door,’ she told Ambrogio and Talina, enveloping first one, then the other in a talcum-powdery embrace.

  At ‘Go!’ the children found themselves in Nonna Stella’s hall, where the atmosphere was heavy with the smell of caraway seeds and boiled pillowcases. They ran down the narrow wall to her back garden and over her fence to Nonna Massoleta’s pocket-handkerchief of green, and through her house to the next street, where Nonna Grigianella passed them on to Nonna Spinina and so on until they were ejected from the house of Nonna Angelina right into the square in front of the church of San Pietro. They were breathless from all the hugs, blinking from the constant changes from bright gardens to dark halls, and coated from head to foot in a fine film of talcum powder.

  Talina heard a faint clinking in her pinafore pocket. One of the grannies – she couldn’t remember which one – had slipped two small bottles of Manitoba Gargling Oil inside it, whispering, ‘For your Great Escape! In case you need to stop any hinges from creaking.’

  Back at Professor Marìn’s crooked kitchen, Talina and Ambrogio hung their heads, mumbling the story of their failure. Mademoiselle Chouette, the professor and Tassini fell silent. Then Tassini declared, ‘Well, we’ll just have to go up the outside of the tower.’

  ‘It’s eleven storeys high, isn’t it, Talina? We’d need a magic carpet for that,’ Ambrogio sighed.

  Professor Marìn’s face brightened. ‘Why, I’ve been working on just such a thing. But it is not very strong – could not support the body of a fully grown adult. Remember that tea towel of mine?’

  ‘A tea towel?’ chorused Talina and Ambrogio dubiously.

  ‘This isn’t just any tea towel, however. It’s a Thaumaturgic Tea Towel that I’ve been hoping to use to send out for cups of that delicious hot chocolate they do at Caffè Florian.’

  He whipped it off the range rack and shook it out in front of them, dispersing fragranced steam.

  ‘Isn’t that the same tea towel that was hanging over the range when Talina was being turned back into a girl?’ asked Ambrogio. ‘That we wrapped her in?’

  ‘It is. But now it’s been infusing magic steam for several days and can possibly fly one small person up to the top of a tall tower.’

  He busied himself lighting lanterns. ‘We can talk as we walk.’

  ‘One small person?’ asked Talina.

  ‘Yes, just one small person, standing on one leg.’

  at the northern reaches of Castello, after dusk,

  May 6th, 1867, Saint Flavio’s Day

  ‘SO … YOU JUST ride the thermal currents from the lagoon up to the required height,’ Professor Marìn concluded. ‘Nothing could be simpler.’

  ‘Umm,’ huffed Ambrogio. His face was glum in the lantern-light as they hurried back to Quintavalle. ‘I suppose there’s no possibility that it might be me who gets to fly the tea towel?’

  Professor Marìn explained happily, ‘Well, in fact I have two prototypes of my Thaumaturgic Tea Towel. So, two children, each standing on one leg.’

  Ambrogio’s glumness was replaced by incredulity. And then worry.

  ‘Hey! Talina poked Ambrogio in the ribs. ‘Remember my one-legged egret dance?’

  ‘How could anyone forget? It was in the Gazzetta. And the fake egret blood coming out of your neighbour’s hat! What was that?’

  ‘Red ink and squashed cherries. So, this is what you have to do. Pretend that your legs are as long and black and light as liquorice shoelaces. Imagine your feet are star-shaped and yellow. Then act as if you’re standing on a pole in the lagoon, and tuck one of your legs into your breast feathers. Just close your eyes and concentrate. I promise that it works.’

  ‘I don’t have star-shaped feet and I don’t have feathers.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, the egret dance is easy! Or the Fascinating Stoat would work nearly as well. They’re quite similar, actually. Almost there!’

  Dusk had fallen, and the grannies of Quintavalle were tucked away by their fires with their cats. Not a soul stirred on the island; even the birds were unusually quiet. Professor Marìn led the way to the ruins of Our Lady of the Sparrows. There, he carefully laid one of the Thaumaturgic Tea Towels on the ground. Talina kicked off her shoes, stepped on it, raised her lantern aloft and assumed the one-legged egret (and Fascinating Stoat) position.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘So, um, is there a password for getting it into the air?’ she demanded. Professor Marìn’s face was strangely contorted. With a hot flush of embarrassment, Talina suspected an attempt to smother laughter. But she held her head high and tried to control her temper. She didn’t want to turn into a red-haired professor.

  He spluttered, ‘Try … Volate!’

  On uttering the Venetian word for ‘fly!’, Talina immediately whirled into the air and over the water. The lantern flew out of her hands, plummeting into the waves. She teetered wildly on the tea towel, clinging to the edges of the fabric w
ith the curled toes of her right foot. The other tea towel whisked out of Professor Marìn’s pocket and fluttered about after her.

  ‘Oh,’ thought Talina. ‘Of course I said “fly!” in the plural.’

  To balance, she extended both arms, patting down the air and twisting her body this way and that as if she were swimming waves of water instead of currents of night air. In a few seconds, she was enjoying herself. She flew halfway up the tower wall, and was greeted with alarm by the roosting sparrows. They curved their wings over the eggs in their nests.

  ‘I’d never hurt you! It’s me, Talina!’ she told them. They settled down quickly, though their bright eyes never left her.

  ‘I wonder what’s made them so nervous?’ she thought.

  A glance below showed her four anxious faces staring out of the darkness, their lanterns raised above their heads.

  ‘Calate!’ she ordered. And the two tea towels immediately dropped downwards.

  ‘Piano!’ she shouted. ‘Gently as we go!’

  Talina returned to earth with dignity and style, stepping lightly off the tea towel to do a self-congratulatory twirl.

  ‘You fly like you dance,’ breathed Ambrogio. ‘It’s so …’

  ‘Come on!’ Talina urged Ambrogio. ‘Stop staring at me. The view’s amazing. Could I have another lantern, please?’

  Ambrogio’s Thaumaturgic Tea Towel whisked him into the air before he had assumed the one-legged egret position. Or even the stoat. In fact, he found it better to balance on two legs tightly pressed together, steering the fabric with small motions of his feet. Soon he was swooping around the tower in circles, laughing. Talina chased him, crying ‘Tag!’

  ‘Excuse me,’ the professor smiled. ‘You make a fine pair of fireflies, but we have a job to do here.’

  ‘Sshh,’ hissed Mademoiselle Chouette, exactly as if they were in a class. Then she winked. ‘Have you a pencil and paper, mes enfants?’

  ‘Mais oui!’ With serious faces, Talina and Ambrogio rode their towels upwards, holding their lanterns away from the windows and shading the flames with their hands. As they passed the best parlour, Ambrogio shuddered.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I call it “The Child-Mauling Thingy”,’ said Talina. ‘Don’t worry. It’s dead and stuffed.’

  They flew to the eleventh floor. Through the glass, they could see the Guardian’s study, every surface heaped with close-written piles of paper. Great Uncle Uberto himself bent over a desk with his back to them. Talina’s shoulders erupted with pins and needles at the sight of the back of his head silhouetted by his gas-lamp.

  ‘Don’t even breathe,’ she urged Ambrogio.

  But the dog Razin was at the window in a second, barking ferociously. The children edged around ninety degrees to a bricked-up window facing south.

  ‘What is it?’ fussed the Guardian’s voice. ‘Seen a sparrow, have you, dog, or a firefly? And look! You’ve gone and knocked over the Manitoba Gargling Oil! What a mess! How shall I clean my pen nibs now?’

  There was the sound of boot leather meeting dog flesh, and Razin whimpered so piteously that Talina almost felt sorry for him, which was better, she thought briefly, than being angry with him – and starting to look like him.

  ‘I can’t see any inscription,’ whispered Ambrogio.

  ‘It must be on the other side, facing towards the sea.’

  ‘But that’s the way his desk faces. He’ll see us.’

  ‘We need to create a distraction.’

  Ambrogio whipped down a couple of storeys and called to Professor Marìn, ‘Ring the doorbell!’

  A few moments later, the sound of chimes flew from the window near the wall where Talina hovered, followed by the voice of the Guardian, mumbling, ‘Dratted nuisance – this time of night!’ and the sound of footsteps descending, paw thumps and growls.

  ‘Quick! It’ll only take him a few minutes to get back up here.’

  Talina and Ambrogio hovered around to the wall that faced northeast into the lagoon. They traced the bricks with their lanterns and fingers.

  ‘There it is!’ breathed Ambrogio, lifting his lamp to illuminate a lozenge of marble embedded in the brick. The words were speckled with birdlime, and several letters were missing where the marble plaque had crumbled. With difficulty, Ambrogio read aloud:

  DEED OF SALE

  LET IT BE KNOWN THAT

  ON MARCH 25th, OF OUR LORD 421,’

  ‘The historical founding date of Venice!’ whispered Talina.

  WE, THE RAVAGEURS,

  HEREBY CEDE OUR RIGHT TO OUR ANCESTRAL LANDS

  NOW KNOWN AS LUPRIO,

  AND ALL SURROUNDING ISLANDS,

  AS FAR AS THE EYE CAN SEE,

  IN EXCHANGE FOR FIVE SHEEP, SIX BRASS BUTTONS,

  A DOZEN FANCY PASTRIES, A MINK JELLY AND

  TEN FIRE-BUCKETS OF HUMAN WINE

  Human wine? There was something about that phrase that worried Talina. But Ambrogio was pointing at the final words, much smaller than the rest:

  SIGNED AND WITNESSED

  UBERTO FLANGINI FOR THE VENETIANS

  VERPILLION GRIGNANNE OF LUPRIO FOR THE

  RAVAGEURS

  ‘That must be your great uncle’s ancestor, Talina. And that must be why the inscription’s on his tower.’

  ‘So Venice doesn’t belong to the Ravageurs at all! They sold their stupid old Luprio to the humans!’ cried Talina jubilantly. ‘We can tell Grignan just what to do with his outrageous claims … and …’

  Then, looking at Ambrogio’s miserable face staring at the inscription, she fell silent.

  When she eventually spoke again, it was to say, ‘Oh. I see what you mean. That puts a different light on things, completely.’

  Our Lady of the Sparrows, a few dismal moments later

  IN BLEAK SILENCE, Ambrogio had handed Talina his lamp so she could sketch and then make a second copy of the inscription.

  As he rolled up the paper and thrust it in his pocket, the Guardian’s ascending footsteps had echoed through the tower’s windows. They had fled on their tea towels, spiralling around the tower to the ground, carefully avoiding the windows.

  Down in Our Lady of the Sparrows, Ambrogio placed one copy each in the hands of Giuseppe Tassini and Professor Marìn. Their faces at first lit up, and then fell. They exchanged agonized looks. Tassini folded his arms. The professor handed his sheet to Mademoiselle Chouette, his fingers lingering on hers for a second.

  ‘Look at what ze humans paid!’ she exclaimed. ‘Such a paltry sum for all these islands! All zis land!’

  ‘As far as the eye can see,’ said Professor Marìn in a voice almost devoid of expression.

  ‘But you don’t really own something,’ said Ambrogio, ‘if you’ve tricked a naïve creature into giving it away to you for practically nothing. That’s not buying. That’s a kind of stealing. Old Flangini was a scoundrel.’

  Tassini sighed, ‘And it’s worse than that. For the Ravageurs must have been here hundreds of years – the Deed of Sale says that these were their ancestral lands. They gave up their history for a bit of food, some buttons and some sheep! I am ashamed. If this is the foundation of our great city …’

  Talina shouted, ‘So what if the Venetians took advantage of the Ravageurs! It was the Ravageurs’ fault for being so unintelligent and so greedy. Mink jelly – ugh! – and pastries! I’m going to take this straight to Grignan. Let’s see what he thinks about it.’

  ‘Stop, Talina,’ cried Ambrogio. ‘It’ll only make him furious. He’ll just destroy the evidence. He’ll tear it up and then tear you limb from limb.’

  ‘I’ll tell him you’ve got another copy. So there’ll be no point in murdering me. Anyway, as the rat said, anyone may see the inscription, if they care to look.’

  ‘But remember your hair, Talina,’ urged Professor Marìn. ‘Grignan’s got a piece of your hair. It’s too risky. With that hair—’

  ‘What can he possibly do with a bit of my hair? I’ve got plenty more!’<
br />
  ‘It only takes one strand to perform any number of unpleasant spells.’

  ‘He won’t have time to do any spells! I’ll have the element of surprise.’

  ‘Mais certainement,’ said Mademoiselle Chouette. ‘It’ll be extrêmement surprising for a start, if you can find your way back to an unknown, uncharted island in the middle of the lagoon, ma petite.’

  Tassini added, ‘One that’s hidden in a ring of enchanted fog and doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘You’ve forgotten about Altopone, the rat,’ said Talina. ‘I’m going to find the spazzino Ettore, and he’ll get Altopone and the old gentleman rats to come for me at midnight tomorrow night. We’ll row through the night. By the morning I’ll be at the island.’

  ‘Can I—’

  ‘No, Ambrogio, your parents aren’t missing. And you’d be missed if you disappeared for a day. Your family would be worried sick. Appreciate it and all, really I do. But this is something I have to do alone. Uberto Flangini is my great uncle and his shame is my family’s shame too.’

  ‘I’m good for more than free lends of books,’ muttered Ambrogio.

  ‘Don’t you think I can do it on my own?’

  Talina glared at the troubled faces of her friends.

  ‘No one,’ said Professor Marìn, ‘doubts you can get to the Ravageurs’ island, Talina.’

  ‘We’re just verr’ worried about whether you’ll come back,’ said Mademoiselle Chouette.

  On the island of the Ravageurs, the morning of

  May 8th, 1867, Saint Vittore’s Day

  TALINA AND GRIGNAN were alone together in the Sala del Sangue. This was not, apparently, a conversation that Grignan wanted his subjects to overhear. Anyway, the other Ravageurs were frantically occupied with mysterious preparations on the shore. None of them had noticed Altopone rowing the gondola into a clump of bulrushes. Talina had crept past a bobbing fleet of black boats and witnessed the inexplicable sight of six Ravageurs shouldering a grand piano onto a peàta barge. Now she stood in the space at the centre of the U-shaped table in the deserted Sala del Sangue, trying as hard as she possibly could not to lose her temper.