Looking for Marco Polo (7 page)

“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.”

“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 stood 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.

“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.