on the very day that Teo was taken ill. Take heed, Venetians! Lest your enemy torment the living hearts out of ye! Starting with the children. Are you all blind? Methinks the whole of Venice has fewer eyes than my esteemed rear end.
And now there he was! Teo had seen his picture in the papers: the stone figure was unmistakable. Teo walked across the Campo dei Mori and stood in front of Signor Rioba. For a long time she gazed at his glaring face and the great iron nose that protruded from it. Triangular in shape, it would have been formidable even if not made of iron, the kind of nose that would keep you at a distance, and cast a long shadow at lunchtime.
The stone man clearly had no very noble opinion of the world. His motionless body seemed to trap centuries of anger inside it, like a prehistoric fly caught forever in a drop of amber. Teo leant forward and daringly ran her finger down the sleeve of his short stone tunic. There was a musty smell to it. Then she put her hand on his chest.
Under her fingers she felt a distant thumping, like a stout heart beating far away. Then a drop of moisture, like a tear, trickled down his nose and onto Teo’s own cheek.
“Why, Signor Rioba!” She smiled courteously. “I am so pleased to meet you!”
And she was. His looks were tough, but something about that strapping heartbeat gave her a warm feeling towards him, as if he was an old friend.
As Teo turned to leave, the sky suddenly darkened and the air filled with an unbearable din. A dense flock of seagulls had come wheeling in from the lagoon, screaming and flapping their wings like windmills in a storm. In the clashing flurry of feathers and beaks, Teo thought she glimpsed something exceedingly strange happening in the Campo dei Mori. She could have sworn that she saw Signor Rioba shake his stone fist at the gulls. And that over their shrieks she had heard a voice of gravel and honey utter a hideous curse.
“Death and smothering upon ye, magòghe! May the devil tear ye sideways, ye vile ones, servants of a viler master!”
And then the swearing really poured out of his stone mouth. Teo had never heard the like. But instead of words, she saw squiggles and curves dancing in the air. Arabic? She guessed, “Moors are from Morocco and speak Arabic, and that is what this is? Or is he from Morea, as I’ve read? So is that ancient Greek?” Whatever the language, there was no mistaking the furious intent.
She called to Signor Rioba, “If I had a swearing tongue as nasty as yours I’d take a soothing syrup for it, sir!”
Signor Rioba’s mouth snapped shut. The next moment the seagulls had gone and the little square was once more quiet as a grave.
break of dawn, June 3, 1899
Teo had been walking for what seemed like hours. Her feet burned with blisters.
The spire of a vast brick church soared above narrow streets strung across with washing lines. High over Teo’s head, chemises and long-johns waved their empty sleeves and legs like a troupe of dancing ghosts in the ambiguous predawn light.
Even though it was so early, the side door to the church gaped open as Teo approached it. Sounds came from inside, of stone scraping, and, oddly, some most ungodly cursing.
Wearily, Teo walked up to the door. “I’ll just sit down in there awhile,” she told herself. “Maybe the workmen can tell me how to get back to the hotel.”
Whoever was working in the church was doing so without the aid of gas-lamps or candles. The dark air smelt of mold and drains. Stumbling over the threshold, Teo held her ears against the painfully loud screech of stone-cutting. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she made out a scene so bizarre that she supposed she must still be in the grip of a tisana-flavored dream. Instinctively, she flattened herself against the door, veiled by its shadow.
Stone gargoyles crouched in a circle around an ornate tomb like a temple embedded in the wall. Just below the pediment stood a black casket topped by a man’s
And now there he was! Teo had seen his picture in the papers: the stone figure was unmistakable. Teo walked across the Campo dei Mori and stood in front of Signor Rioba. For a long time she gazed at his glaring face and the great iron nose that protruded from it. Triangular in shape, it would have been formidable even if not made of iron, the kind of nose that would keep you at a distance, and cast a long shadow at lunchtime.
The stone man clearly had no very noble opinion of the world. His motionless body seemed to trap centuries of anger inside it, like a prehistoric fly caught forever in a drop of amber. Teo leant forward and daringly ran her finger down the sleeve of his short stone tunic. There was a musty smell to it. Then she put her hand on his chest.
Under her fingers she felt a distant thumping, like a stout heart beating far away. Then a drop of moisture, like a tear, trickled down his nose and onto Teo’s own cheek.
“Why, Signor Rioba!” She smiled courteously. “I am so pleased to meet you!”
And she was. His looks were tough, but something about that strapping heartbeat gave her a warm feeling towards him, as if he was an old friend.
As Teo turned to leave, the sky suddenly darkened and the air filled with an unbearable din. A dense flock of seagulls had come wheeling in from the lagoon, screaming and flapping their wings like windmills in a storm. In the clashing flurry of feathers and beaks, Teo thought she glimpsed something exceedingly strange happening in the Campo dei Mori. She could have sworn that she saw Signor Rioba shake his stone fist at the gulls. And that over their shrieks she had heard a voice of gravel and honey utter a hideous curse.
“Death and smothering upon ye, magòghe! May the devil tear ye sideways, ye vile ones, servants of a viler master!”
And then the swearing really poured out of his stone mouth. Teo had never heard the like. But instead of words, she saw squiggles and curves dancing in the air. Arabic? She guessed, “Moors are from Morocco and speak Arabic, and that is what this is? Or is he from Morea, as I’ve read? So is that ancient Greek?” Whatever the language, there was no mistaking the furious intent.
She called to Signor Rioba, “If I had a swearing tongue as nasty as yours I’d take a soothing syrup for it, sir!”
Signor Rioba’s mouth snapped shut. The next moment the seagulls had gone and the little square was once more quiet as a grave.
break of dawn, June 3, 1899
Teo had been walking for what seemed like hours. Her feet burned with blisters.
The spire of a vast brick church soared above narrow streets strung across with washing lines. High over Teo’s head, chemises and long-johns waved their empty sleeves and legs like a troupe of dancing ghosts in the ambiguous predawn light.
Even though it was so early, the side door to the church gaped open as Teo approached it. Sounds came from inside, of stone scraping, and, oddly, some most ungodly cursing.
Wearily, Teo walked up to the door. “I’ll just sit down in there awhile,” she told herself. “Maybe the workmen can tell me how to get back to the hotel.”
Whoever was working in the church was doing so without the aid of gas-lamps or candles. The dark air smelt of mold and drains. Stumbling over the threshold, Teo held her ears against the painfully loud screech of stone-cutting. When her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she made out a scene so bizarre that she supposed she must still be in the grip of a tisana-flavored dream. Instinctively, she flattened herself against the door, veiled by its shadow.
Stone gargoyles crouched in a circle around an ornate tomb like a temple embedded in the wall. Just below the pediment stood a black casket topped by a man’s
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