His little brother just stuck his tongue out at him and skipped ahead. The two older children had to struggle to keep up with him as he nimbly wove his way through all the legs and bodies.
“Not so fast, Bo!” Prosper shouted after him.
Hornet just laughed. “Leave him!” she said. “We won’t lose him. See? He’s right there.”
Bo made a face. He tried to hop around an orange he’d seen on the ground, but he stumbled and crashed into a group of Japanese tourists. Startled, he scrambled up again, only to start smiling as soon as he saw that two of the women were pointing their cameras at him. But before they could take their pictures, Prosper was already dragging his brother away by the collar.
“How often do I have to tell you not to let yourself get photographed?” he hissed at him.
Bo pulled away from Prosper’s hand and skipped over an empty cigarette pack. “But they were Japanese! Aunt Esther won’t look at Japanese photographs, will she? And you said she was going to adopt another boy anyway.”
Prosper nodded and mumbled, “Yes.” But he couldn’t help looking around as if he expected his aunt to be lurking in the crowd, just waiting for her chance to grab Bo.
Hornet noticed the look on Prosper’s face. “You’re thinking about your aunt again, aren’t you?” she whispered, although Bo had wandered out of earshot again. “Forget her! She’s not looking for you anymore. And even if she is, then she wouldn’t be looking here, would she?”
Prosper shrugged. He cast an uncomfortable glance at a couple of women passing by. “Probably not,” he murmured.
But Hornet insisted, “Definitely not! So stop worrying!”
Prosper nodded, although he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. Every night, while Bo slept as soundly as a kitten, Prosper dreamed of Esther. Upright, nervous, hairspray-sticky Esther.
“Hey, Prop!” Bo suddenly stopped in front of them again. He held up a full wallet toward Prosper. “Look what I found!”
Prosper snatched the wallet from his brother’s hand and pulled him into a dark arcade away from the crowd.
“Where did you get that, Bo?”
Hornet had followed them behind a pile of old crates. A couple of pigeons were pecking at bits of squashed fruit on the ground.
Bo pushed out his lower lip defiantly, sulkily holding onto Hornet’s arm. “I found it! I told you! A big bald man dropped it out of his pocket. He didn’t even notice it. And then I found it!”
Prosper sighed.
Since they had begun to fend for themselves, Prosper had learned how to steal. Only food at first, but then money too. He hated it. He always got scared and his fingers started to tremble every time. Bo, however, thought it was an exciting game. Prosper had forbidden his brother to steal anything and he told him off very harshly every time he caught him. He certainly didn’t want to give Esther a chance to say that he had turned his little brother into a thief.
“Calm down, Prop,” Hornet said, giving Bo a cuddle. “He told you he didn’t steal it, and the man is long gone. At least have a look and see how much is in it.”
Reluctantly, Prosper opened the wallet.
The visitors who came to Venice to see the palaces and churches were always losing things. Mostly just bottles of water or the cheap carnival masks that you could buy on any street corner. But every now and then the strap of a camera would snap, or a handful of change would fall out of someone’s pocket — and sometimes even a wallet like this! Prosper leafed through the compartments but there were only a few one thousand lire notes tucked in between crumpled receipts, restaurant bills, and used vaporetto tickets.
“Well, it would have been nice.” Hornet couldn’t hide her disappointment as Prosper threw the wallet into an empty crate. “Our cashbox is nearly empty. Let’s hope the Thief Lord can fill it up again tonight.”
“Of course he will!” Bo looked at Hornet as if she had doubted that the earth was round. “And one day I’m going to help him! I’m going to be a big thief. Scipio will teach me!”
“Over my dead body,” Prosper grumbled, pushing Bo back into the alley.
“It’s OK,” Hornet whispered to Prosper. Bo was trotting ahead of them, looking deeply insulted. “You don’t really think Scipio is going take him along on a raid, do you?”
Prosper shook his head but he was still worried. Keeping an eye on Bo was difficult. Ever since they had run away from their grandfather’s house, Prosper had asked himself at least three times a day whether he had been right to take his little brother with him. On that night, eight weeks ago, Bo had trailed alongside him with sleepy eyes. He had held on to his big brother’s hand all the way to the station.
Getting to Venice had been easier than Prosper had expected. But it was already autumn when they arrived in the city, and the air had not been as warm and gentle as Prosper had imagined it to be. A damp wind had greeted them as they climbed down the steps from the station, blowing right through their thin clothes. All they had with them was a small bag and a backpack. Prosper’s allowance hadn’t lasted long, and after the second night Bo had already started coughing so badly that Prosper had taken him by the hand to go and find a policeman. He had been determined to use the few bits of Italian he had learned from his mother, and to say, “Scusi, we have run away from home, but my brother is sick. Could you call my aunt so she can come and pick him up?”
He had been desperate.
And then Hornet had appeared.
She had taken them to her hiding place, where they’d met Riccio and Mosca, and had given them dry clothes and something hot to eat. Then she had explained to Prosper that they could forget about stealing and being cold, as from now on Scipio, the Thief Lord, would look after them, just like he looked after Hornet and her friends.
“The others are probably waiting for us.” Hornet’s voice startled Prosper out of his thoughts and for a moment he didn’t know where he was. The smells of coffee and sweet pastries wafted at him from the houses.
Their home had smelled very different.
“I bet we’ll still have to clean up,” said Bo. “Scipio doesn’t like it when the hideout is messy.”
“You can talk,” Prosper mocked. “Who spilled the bucket full of canal water yesterday?”
“And he always leaves out some cheese for the mice.” Hornet giggled as Bo gave her a shove with his elbow. “Even though he knows the Thief Lord hates nothing more than mouse droppings. It’s too bad that the wonderful hideout he’s found for us is full of them — and that it’s so difficult to keep the place warm. Perhaps something less grand would have been more practical, but of course our Thief Lord won’t have it any other way.”
“The Star-Palace,” Bo corrected her. He ran after the other two as they turned into a less crowded alley. “Scipio says it’s called the Star-Palace!”
Hornet rolled her eyes. “Watch it,” she whispered to Prosper, “soon Bo won’t listen to you at all any more — only to what Scipio tells him.”
“And what can I do about it?” Prosper replied sulkily.
Prosper knew perfectly well that it was only thanks to Scipio that they didn’t have to sleep on the street anymore, especially now when in the evenings a cold mist hung over the alleys and canals. Scipio’s raids paid for their pasta and their fresh fruit. Scipio had brought the shoes that were keeping Bo’s feet warm, even though they were a bit big for him. Scipio made sure they could eat without having to always steal for it. Scipio had given them a home again — a home without Esther. But, still, Scipio was a thief.
The alleys they walked through became narrower. It was quiet between the houses and soon they entered the hidden heart of the city, where there were hardly any strangers. Cats darted away as their footsteps rang out on the paving stones. Pigeons cooed from the roofs. The ever-present water swayed beneath the bridges, splashing against boats and wooden posts, and reflecting back the old faces of the houses. The children wandered deeper and deeper into the maze of alleys. The houses seemed to be moving in on t
hem, watching them, as if they knew who they were.
Their hiding place was in a building that stood out from its neighbors like a child among grown-ups — low and flat between the taller houses. Boarded-up windows looked out into the alley. The walls were covered with old, yellowed film posters and the entrance was blocked off with rusty shutters. A big crooked sign hanging above the entrance read STELLA. The movie theater’s neon sign hadn’t been lit up for a long time. But that suited its current inhabitants just fine.
Hornet cast a careful glance up and down the alley while Prosper made sure no one was watching them from the surrounding windows. Then they vanished, one by one, into the narrow passageway that opened up a few steps down from the movie theater’s main entrance.
They were home.
3
A water rat scuttled away as the children felt their way along the narrow passage. It led to a canal, like so many of Venice’s alleys and passages. Hornet, Prosper, and Bo, however, only followed it as far as a metal door set in the windowless wall to their right. Someone had painted “VIETATO INGRESSO” in clumsy letters on it — No Entry. The door had once been one of the movie theater’s emergency exits. Now it was the entrance to a hiding place that only six children knew anything about.
Next to the door was a cord and Prosper gave it two strong tugs. He waited for a moment and then pulled it once more. This was their sign, but it still took quite a while before something happened. Bo hopped impatiently from one foot to the other. Finally, the door opened just a crack and a suspicious voice asked, “Password?”
“Come on, Riccio, you know we never remember the stupid password,” Prosper grumbled angrily.
Hornet stepped up to the door and hissed. “Do you see these bags in my hands, Hedgehog? I just dragged them all the way from the Rialto market. My arms are as long as a monkey’s, so open the door!”
Riccio opened the door, looking very worried. “OK, OK. But only if Prosper doesn’t tell Scipio again, like last time.”
Riccio was a scrawny boy and at least a head shorter than Prosper, although he wasn’t much younger than him. At least that’s what he claimed. His brown hair always stuck out from his head in every direction, earning him the nickname Riccio the hedgehog.
“No one can remember Scipio’s passwords!” Hornet muttered as she pushed past him. “And anyway, the special ring is enough.”
“Scipio doesn’t think so.” Riccio carefully pushed the bolt across the door.
“Well, then he should make up passwords we can remember. Can you remember the last one?”
Riccio scratched his spiky head. “Hold on … Catago … Diddledoo … East. Or something like that.”
Hornet rolled her eyes. Bo giggled.
Riccio walked ahead, shining the way with his flashlight. “We’ve already started cleaning up,” he said. “But we haven’t got far. Mosca just wants to fiddle with his radio all the time. And until an hour ago we were standing in front of the Palazzo Pisani. I really don’t know why Scipio had to pick such a palace of all places for his next raid. There’s something going on in there nearly every night: parties, receptions, dinners — all the wealthy families of Venice seem to be in and out all the time. Beats me how Scipio thinks he can get in there!”
Prosper shrugged. So far the Thief Lord hadn’t asked him and Bo to stake out one of his targets, although Bo kept begging him to. It was usually Riccio and Mosca who were sent to check out the houses Scipio planned to “visit” at night. Scipio had a name for the two of them: He called them “his eyes.” Hornet’s task was to make sure that the money from his raids was not spent too quickly. Prosper and Bo, as the Thief Lord’s most recent charges, had so far only been allowed to tag along when the loot was sold or, like today, to do some shopping. Prosper didn’t mind that at all. Bo, however, would have loved to sneak with Scipio into the city’s most elegant houses to steal all the amazing things the Thief Lord always brought back from his raids.
“Scipio can get into any house,” Bo said, skipping along next to Riccio. Two hops on his right leg, two on the left; Bo never just walked — he ran or he bounced. “He raided the Doge’s Palace and wasn’t caught. He is the Thief Lord.”
“Oh yes, the raid at the Doge’s Palace — how can we ever forget!” Hornet grinned at Prosper. “Even you must have heard that story a hundred times by now.”
Prosper had to smile back.
“Well, I could hear it a thousand times,” Riccio said, pushing aside a dark and musty curtain. Ahead of them lay the movie theater’s auditorium. It hadn’t been open to the public for some time. It was not very old, but it was in a much worse condition than some of the city’s houses that had stood for hundreds of years. Dusty wire cables stuck out from the ceiling where there had once been large chandeliers. The children had strung a few naked lightbulbs running on batteries throughout the large room, and even in their dim light you could see the plaster coming off the ceiling. Only the front three rows of seats remained and each of those was missing a few chairs. Mice had built their nests in the soft, red upholstery. The movie theater’s screen was hidden behind a thick curtain embroidered with golden stars. The curtain was moth-eaten but it had kept its old splendor. The golden thread on the pale blue fabric still shimmered full of promise, and Bo had to touch the golden stars at least once every day.
Sitting on the bare floor in front of the curtain was a boy. He was fiddling with an old radio and was so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice Bo creeping up on him. Bo jumped onto his back and the boy spun around.
“Darn it, Bo!” he shouted. “I nearly stabbed myself with the screwdriver.”
But Bo skipped away. Laughing, he climbed like a squirrel over the folding seats. “Just you wait, you little water rat!” Mosca roared, trying to catch Bo. “This time I’m going to tickle you until you burst!”
Bo screamed, “Prop, help me!” But Prosper just stood there, grinning. He didn’t lift a finger, not even when Mosca tucked his little brother under his arm like a parcel. Mosca was the biggest and strongest of them all, and however much Bo kicked and struggled, Mosca wouldn’t let go. Unimpressed by his wriggling, Mosca carried his prisoner over to the others.
“What do you think? Should I tickle him, or should I keep him prisoner here, forever, under my arm?”
Bo screamed, “Let me go, Mosca!”
Mosca’s skin was beautifully black. Riccio always claimed he could hide like a shadow in the dark alleyways of the city.
“All right. I will pardon you this time, dwarf!” Mosca said grandly while Bo tried more and more desperately to free himself. Then he asked, “So, did you bring the paint for my boat?”
“No. It’s too expensive. We’ll buy it when Scipio brings us the new loot,” Hornet answered. She dumped the bags on a chair. “We can’t afford it at the moment.”
“But we’ve got enough emergency cash!” Mosca put Bo back on his feet and crossed his arms angrily. “What are you going to do with all that money?”
“How often do I have to tell you? The money is for bad times.” Hornet pulled Bo to her side. “Do you think you can manage to put the things in the fridge?”
Bo nodded and dashed off, nearly falling flat on his face. He dragged the bags, one by one, to the double doors that used to open to let in the audience. Beyond the doors, in the entrance hall, was a large display cabinet that had once held drinks and ice cream. Although it didn’t work anymore, it was still useful for storing supplies.
While Bo carried away the heavy bags, Mosca kneeled down in front of his radio again. “Too expensive!” he grumbled. “My boat will rot away soon if I don’t paint it. But you guys don’t care, because you’re just a bunch of landlubbers! There’s always enough money for Hornet’s books.”
Hornet didn’t answer that. Silently, she began to collect paper and other trash from the floor while Prosper swept up the mouse droppings. Hornet really did have a lot of books. She had even bought some of them, but mostly they were cheap paperbacks th
at had been thrown away by tourists. Hornet fished them out of trash cans and wastepaper baskets, or she found them under the seats of vaporetto boats or at the train station. You could hardly see her mattress behind the stacks of books.
They all had their beds close together at the back of the movie theater. At night, after they had switched off the lights and blown out the last candle, the large, windowless auditorium would be flooded with such complete darkness, that it made them feel as tiny as ants — and very lost. But the sounds of one another’s breathing made them all feel a little safer.
Riccio’s mattress was covered with old comic books and his sleeping bag was stuffed with so many stuffed animals that there was hardly any space left for him. Mosca’s bed could easily be spotted by his toolbox and fishing rods, which he liked to sleep next to. Tucked under the pillow was Mosca’s greatest treasure, his lucky charm. This was a brass sea horse, exactly like the ones that adorned most gondolas in the city. Mosca swore that he hadn’t stolen it from a gondola but had instead fished it from the canal behind the movie theater. “A stolen lucky charm,” he always claimed, “brings only bad luck. Everybody knows that.”
Bo and Prosper huddled together every night on a single mattress. Bo’s collection of plastic fans was lined up neatly at the top end. There were six of them, all in pretty good shape, but Bo’s favorite was still the one Prosper had found at the station on the day they arrived.
The Thief Lord never slept with his followers in the Star-Palace. No one knew where Scipio spent the nights, and he never spoke about it, although every now and then he would drop a mysterious hint about an abandoned church. Riccio had tried to follow him once, but he had been spotted immediately by Scipio, who had gotten so angry that afterward none of them even dared to watch him when he left. Their leader came and went as he pleased, and they had gotten used to it. He sometimes turned up three days in a row and then they wouldn’t see him again for nearly a week.
But he did want to come that day — and when the Thief Lord announced a visit he always came. But you could never be sure exactly when Scipio would appear. As Riccio’s clock showed almost eleven and Bo was nearly asleep on Prosper’s lap, they crept under their blankets and Hornet began to read to them. She usually read to make them sleepy, to drive away their fear of the dreams that were waiting for them in the dark. That night, however, Hornet read to keep them awake until Scipio’s arrival. She selected the most thrilling story from her pile of books while the others lit the candles that stood in empty bottles and jars among the mattresses. Riccio placed five brand-new candles in their only real candlestick. They were long and slender and made from pale wax.