“That’s when Marco almost lost everything.”
8
M ARCO G OES C RAZY
“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 outlike 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
8
M ARCO G OES C RAZY
“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 outlike 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
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