The Thief of Venice(28)

"What a horrible name," said Mary. "Where does it come from?"

"I don't have the faintest idea." Henchard lifted his glass. "To the assassins!"

She touched her glass against his. "To their victims!"





They made other journeys around the city, exploring the Naval Museum and the Arsenal and a couple of palaces where famous people had died, Ca' Rezzonico (Browning) and Vendramin-Calergi (Verdi). Next week, promised Henchard, they would go by vaporetto to the island of Murano to see the blowing of glass.

It was all perfectly innocent. It hardly seemed worthwhile to say anything to Homer about it, and Mary didn't.

For the days when Richard was too busy to join her, Mary set herself a new project, making friends with Sam Bell's daughter, Ursula. The poor child seemed so bereft. Her closed little face was sadder than ever. "Tell you what," said Mary, "let's go find those pretty pieces of fabric. I discovered a shop near Piazza San Marco. Would you like that?"

The little girl's face brightened. "Can we feed the pigeons?"

Mary hated the pigeons in Piazza San Marco. "Why, of course. We'll buy them some popcorn."

The vast square teemed with people. It was a lovely day. Tour guides conducted their flocks around the square. There were travelers from Munich—Siehe den lowen mit flugel? Es ist der lowe des Heiligen Mark—and a group of senior citizens from Paris—La Basilique Saint Marc est la plus celebre eglise d'Europe. Admirez les quatre chevaux!—and schoolchildren from Verona—Questa chiesa e la Basilica di San Marco, costruita net nono secolo per ospitare il corpo del santo. OK, ragazzi, avanti!

Mary poured popcorn into Ursula's hands and she held them out for the pigeons.

They came at once, with a loud flapping of wings, landing on her hands, her arms and shoulders, pecking each other, snatching her popcorn. The little girl was ecstatic. Her laughing face was rosy and chubby.

Mary tried to restrain her dislike for the pigeons, but they were so ugly, so greedy, so spoiled, so fat with the offerings of thousands of tourists. "Ready, Ursula? Shall we go into the church?"

But Ursula hung back, remembering the priest who had said she was too young to kneel and whisper through the curtain. " No, grazie."

They moved away, followed by clouds of pigeons, and escaped into the crowded shopping lane called the Mercerie, looking for a place to buy gelato.

"You've got a pretty feather in your hair," said Mary, plucking it off. Ursula took the feather, smiling, and put it back on the top of her head.

A blessing from above, thought Mary sentimentally, remembering the sign that had fallen from the sky like a sign of divine favor on the future emperor, the child Claudius. Why wasn't a pigeon feather a lucky omen? Ursula needed all the help she could get.

Next day after school Ursula stopped again at her favorite shop, because Mrs. Kelly had given her money to pay for pretty ribbons and flower-patterned calico and pink velveteen, and then she wouldn't take back the leftover coins.

"Which is it to be today, little one?" said the man behind the counter.

Ursula considered. She had so many of them now. Only the less attractive ones were left. "Well, that one's okay, I guess," she said at last. "Grazie."





*24*


Sam had learned another damning fact about the fragments of wood from the Treasury of San Marco. After consulting a couple of sources in the library of the university—a silly book in English, The Trees Jesus Loved, and an exhaustive German treatise, Den Baumen des Biblischen Landes—he had come to the only possible conclusion. None of the little pieces came from trees that grew within a thousand miles of Jerusalem in the first century of the Christian era.

There was no necessity for carbon dating. And there was no need to say anything yet to Father Urbano about the results of his examination, not until all the other relics had been looked at. Among them there might be one or two that were at least plausible.

So these could go back to the Treasury, and he could ask for more. Sam called the number he had been given by Father Urbano. The phone buzzed and paused and buzzed. Somewhere in the depths of San Marco it was ringing and ringing. Sam had a vision of the telephone shrilling right there under the Ascension dome, setting up a clamor throughout all the glittering volumes of golden air. Answer that! one of the mosaic angels would shout, opening its tessellated mouth, and another would cry, It's your turn, and then Saint Mark would have to rear up out of his sarcophagus and say, Pronto?

"Pronto?" said the telephone, but it was only Father Urbano.

Sam explained that he was finished with the first relics and would like to exchange them for more.

"Tell me," said Father Urbano eagerly, "what did you find out?" His voice trembled a little, and Sam guessed how much it mattered.