The Thief of Venice by Jane Langton

barely hear the hoarse whispering of the man kneeling outside. Perhaps it was the accent that obscured his words. Was he British perhaps? Or American? He was confessing an unspecified mortal sin, yet at the same time he seemed to expect automatic absolution. It was apparent that he did not understand the sacrament of confession at all.
    "My son, you must name your sin."
    "Name my sin! For Christ's sake, Father, just tell me my penance."
    Father Urbano looked up over the red curtain of the confessional to the golden dome of the Pentecost. All the apostles sat around it in a ring with tongues of fire descending on their heads. The mighty wind that rushed upon them from heaven had not rumpled a single robe nor tossed a single strand of apostolic whisker, but every one of them now possessed the gift of speaking in tongues.
    For a moment Father Urbano's own tongue was tied. Then he spoke in his usual way about the certainty of God's mercy and God's love, and cautioned that there could be no penance nor absolution until the sin was told. "My son," he said again, "you must name your sin."
    In reply there was a long silence. At last Father Urbano parted the curtain and looked out. The man was gone. But someone else had taken his place. A child was looking up at him expectantly.
    "My dear," said Father Urbano, "what do you want?"
    She said nothing, but she got down on her fat little knees, as if in imitation of the man who had just hurried away.
    "Little one," said Father Urbano, "you are very young. Have you been prepared for your first confession?"
    She shook her head. Then a woman appeared suddenly, snatched the child's hand, pulled her to her feet, and scolded her in English. "Ursula, what on earth do you think you're doing? " With a baleful glance at Father Urbano she rushed the little girl away.
    He was left standing in the aisle, feeling at a loss. He should have helped, he should have said something encouraging. The poor child, somehow he had failed her.
 
    *15*
    Mary got up early and prepared for another day of exploration. She stuck her folding umbrella in her bag along with her guidebook, her pocket dictionary, a sandwich, and a mirror and comb. Tucked into her billfold were her Venetian phone card, a slip entitling her to one more visit to the toilet near San Marco, and her abbonamento , the ticket that allowed her freedom of travel on the Grand Canal, anywhere, any time, by vaporetto.
    First stop, the Accademia, because Venice was a city of painters. Here Mary would find them all assembled—the three Bellinis, Carpaccio, Giorgione, Titian, Tintoretto, Tiepolo, Veronese, Lotto, Guardi, Canaletto! There was no end to the supply of great Venetian painters. They had set each other off, one skyrocket igniting another.
    But when she stepped down from the vaporetto, she was too early for the Accademia. It would not open for hours. Listlessly she bought a paper at the kiosk and sat down on a bench. Newspaper Italian was easy to guess at. There was a murder on the front page, but it meant nothing to Mary Kelly. Gloomily she tossed the paper in a trash basket, and looked mournfully at the palaces across the Grand Canal.
    Church bells were bonging. From somewhere came the piping bark of a dog. A gull floated in and out of the sunlight. She was homesick.
    Oh, it was so stupid. Here she was in this most ravishing of all cities, and yet she was languishing for her own kitchen back home, her own daily round, her own view of Fairhaven Bay, her own car, her own free life, her own cozy office in the Yard. She longed to find herself in the library in Concord, looking up at the familiar busts of Bronson Alcott and Ebenezer Rockwood Hoar. She hungered for the morning news on the radio. She was ashamed to admit even to herself that she missed watching her favorite television programs, propped up on pillows beside Homer in their comfortable bed.
    It was just a momentary silliness. Mary had been through it before. It was merely the heavy