Prosper undressed again and crawled underneath the blanket, next to Bo. But it took a while before he finally fell asleep.
10
The next morning Riccio went to Barbarossa to give him the Thief Lord’s answer, just like Scipio had told him.
“He accepts? Good, that will please my customer,” the redbeard said with a self-satisfied smile. “But you will have to be patient. It won’t be easy to get a message to him. He hasn’t even got a telephone.”
For the next two days Riccio returned to Barbarossa’s shop in vain, but on the third day the redbeard finally had the news they had been waiting for.
“My customer wants to meet you in the Basilica, the Basilica San Marco,” Barbarossa explained. He was standing in front of the mirror in his office, snipping away at his beard with a tiny pair of scissors. “The Conte likes to be mysterious, but there are never any problems business-wise. He’s already sold me some very nice pieces, and always at a fair price. Just don’t ask him any nosy questions, understood?” He swapped the scissors for a pair of tweezers.
“The Conte?” Riccio asked, impressed. “Does that mean he’s a real count or something?”
“Indeed it does. I just hope the Thief Lord behaves accordingly.” Barbarossa looked very self-important before plucking a hair from his nostril. “Once you meet the Conte in person you will see that there can be no doubt as to his distinguished ancestry. To this day he hasn’t told me his name but my guess is he’s a Valaresso. Some members of this venerable family have not been blessed by fate. There has even been talk of a curse. Anyway.” The redbeard moved a little closer to the mirror and tugged at a particularly stubborn hair. “Be that as it may, they are still one of the old families — well, you know, like the Correr, Vendramin, Contarini, Venier, Loredan, Barbarigo, and countless others. They’ve ruled this city for centuries without anyone of us ever really knowing what was going on. Isn’t that right?”
Riccio nodded respectfully. Of course he had heard all the names the redbeard had just so pompously strung out. He knew the palaces and museums that bore their names, but about the people themselves, he knew nothing.
Barbarossa took a step back and smugly inspected his reflection. “So, as I said, just address him as Conte and he’ll be pleased. The Thief Lord will probably get along fine with him. After all, your leader also likes to shroud himself in mystery. Probably quite a good idea in his line of work, right?”
Riccio nodded once more. He couldn’t wait for the fat man to get back to the point so that he could deliver the news to the others. He shifted impatiently from one foot to the other. “When? When are we supposed to meet him in the Basilica?” he asked as Barbarossa stepped up to the mirror again — this time to pluck his eyebrows.
“Tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock sharp. The Conte will wait for you in the first confessional on the left. And don’t be late. The man is always very punctual.”
“Fine,” Riccio mumbled. “Three o’clock. Confessional. First left. Three o’clock sharp.” He turned to leave.
“Hold on, hold on, Hedgehog!” Barbarossa waved Riccio back once more. “Tell the Thief Lord the Conte wants to meet him in person. He can bring any companions he likes. Apes, elephants, or even his little children. But he has to come in person. The Conte wants to judge for himself before he tells him anything more about the job. After all,” his face took on a rather hurt expression, “he hasn’t even told me anymore about it.”
That didn’t really surprise Riccio, but the Conte’s condition to meet Scipio made his heart beat faster. “That, that …” he stammered, “… Sci … the Thief Lord won’t like that at all.”
“Well,” Barbarossa shrugged his fat shoulders, “then he won’t get the job. Have a nice day, boy.”
“Same to you,” Riccio muttered, poking out his tongue at Barbarossa’s back before making his uneasy way home.
11
Victor sat in St. Mark’s Square, surrounded by hundreds of tables and thousands of chairs, and drank his third espresso. Black, with three cubes of sugar. Difficult to stir in the tiny cup, and so expensive that he’d rather not think about it. For more than an hour he had been sitting on the cold, hard chair, scrutinizing the faces of the people passing by his table. Victor was not wearing the mustache that he had worn when Prosper had stumbled into him. This time he had refrained from wearing any fake whiskers at all. On his nose sat a thick pair of glasses with plain lenses that made him look slightly dim-witted and completely harmless. He looked down at himself and felt very satisfied. Perfect, he thought, the perfect look: Victor the tourist. A baseball cap and a big camera hanging in front of his chest — this was one of his favorite disguises. As a tourist he could take as many pictures as he liked without anyone thinking anything of it. He could mingle with the big groups that stumbled off the boats and raced through town for a few hours, photographing everything that looked old with a bit of gold on its gable.
Now this is how I like my work, Victor thought as he blinked into the low sun, while he stirred his coffee with a spoon that was far too small for his fingers. A large crowd of people started to swarm into the square. He eyed them patiently, one by one. But the two faces he was looking for were not among them. Well, maybe I’m relying too heavily on chance, Victor thought. He blew his nose, which had begun to feel seriously cold, and ordered another coffee from the waiter rushing past him.
Victor sighed and looked at his watch. Just before three. About time I filled my stomach with something other than coffee, he thought, and blew his icy nose again. Suddenly he spotted six children on the far side of the square, by the tables of the café opposite. Victor noticed them because they were obviously in quite a hurry and because one of the boys, clearly their leader, wore a mask that made him look like a bird of prey. They were walking toward the Basilica. There was also a girl and a little boy, but he wasn’t blonde. Victor picked up his newspaper and watched the children from behind it. The scrawny one with the spiky hair, the one who walked right behind the leader — looked familiar. But before Victor could take a closer look, the six children disappeared, swallowed by a big group of Canadian tourists with bright red backpacks. You could have filled a whole vaporetto with these people. Out of the way, you backpackers, Victor grumbled to himself as he tried to crane his short neck. There. There they were again: four boys and a girl, not counting their masked leader. And there was the skinny fellow who had seemed so familiar. Darn, the hedgehog hairdo … of course! Victor got up. He had already paid for his four coffees. A detective always pays right away, in case he loses a suspect due to a busy waiter. Victor sauntered toward the Basilica and picked another table nearer the children, keeping a close eye on them all the time.
Yes, that’s him, Victor thought as he adjusted his fake glasses. That’s the boy who was with Prosper. And that one … “Turn around!” Victor muttered, keeping the lens of his camera on the dark-haired boy who had now fallen behind a little. How protective he was, his arm around the little boy’s shoulders. Yes, that just had to be Prosper. “Look over here!” Victor hissed. “Please, look here, Prosper!”
The lady at the table to his right turned around and eyed him suspiciously. Victor gave her a coy smile. Why couldn’t he stop talking to himself all the time?
There. Finally! The dark-haired boy looked around.
“Darn it, it’s him!” Victor drummed the table triumphantly. “Prosper, the Fortunate One. Well, my dear boy, your good fortune is about to desert you, and Victor is going to have it instead. You cut your hair? I am sorry, but Victor Getz is not fooled that easily. And what about the little one, the one with your brotherly arm around his shoulder? His hair is so black, he might have fallen into a barrel of ink.”
Ink. Of course.
Victor hummed to himself while he took one picture after another of the Basilica, the winged lion, and the two brothers.
Everyone in Venice comes to St. Mark’s Square at least once a day. You just have to be patient. Patience. Staying power. A
nd luck. A whole barrel full of luck. And of course a pair of very sharp eyes.
Not much longer and Victor would have started to purr like a satisfied tomcat.
12
“Move along, Bo!” Prosper urged. “It’s nearly three o’clock.”
But Bo was standing in front of the massive portal of the Basilica, looking up at the horses. Whenever he came to St. Mark’s Square, he stopped and tipped his head back to stare up at them. Four horses — massive golden horses — stood frozen there, stomping and neighing. Every time Bo wondered again why they hadn’t jumped down yet. They looked so alive.
“Bo!”
Impatiently, Prosper dragged him along through the throngs of people, waiting eagerly at the entrance to the huge church, to see the gilded walls and ceilings.
“They’re angry,” said Bo, looking back.
“Who are?”
“The golden horses.”
“Angry?” Prosper frowned as he dragged him along. “About what?”
“Because someone stole them and carried them off here,” Bo whispered. “Hornet told me.” He held on tight to Prosper’s hand so he wouldn’t lose his big brother in the crowd as they circled the Basilica. Back in the narrow alleys he wasn’t usually afraid, but it was different here on the wide-open square. Bo called it the Lion Square. He knew that it had a proper name really, but he called it that anyway. During the day every cobblestone here belonged to the pigeons and the tourists. But at night when the pigeons slept on the roofs and the people lay in their hotel beds, the square belonged to the horses and the winged lion that stood among the stars. Bo was certain about that.
“It is a thousand, or even a hundred years ago that they brought them here,” Bo said.
“Who?” Prosper pushed his brother past a bride and groom who were having their picture taken in front of the Basilica.
“The horses!” Bo turned around again but he couldn’t see them anymore.
Scipio and the others were already standing by the lion fountain at the side entrance of the Basilica, waiting for them. Scipio had taken off his mask and was fiddling with it anxiously.
“At last!” Scipio said when Bo sat down next to him on the edge of the fountain. “Were you looking at the horses again?”
Embarrassed, Bo stared at his feet. Hornet had bought him a new pair of shoes. They were quite big but they were really nice — and warm.
“Listen!” Scipio waved the others toward him and lowered his voice, as if he was afraid that one of the bystanders could overhear what he was about to say. “I don’t want to turn up at this meeting with my whole entourage, so this is how we are going to do it: Prosper and Mosca are coming inside with me. The others will wait here by the fountain.”
Bo and Riccio exchanged disappointed looks.
“But I don’t want to wait here!” Bo’s bottom lip began to tremble dangerously. Hornet stroked his hair comfortingly, but Bo pulled his head away.
“Bo’s right!” Riccio called out. “Why can’t we all go? Why only Prosper and Mosca?”
Hornet answered before Scipio could say anything, “Because we three are not good enough to be in the Thief Lord’s crew! Bo is too small, you look hardly any older than eight, and I’m a girl, which simply isn’t good enough! No, we three would make you look foolish, wouldn’t we, oh Thief Lord?”
Scipio pressed his lips together. Without another word he stalked off down the steps leading away from the fountain. “Come,” he said to Mosca and Prosper. The two boys, however, hesitated. Only when Hornet said, “Oh, go on,” did they follow him.
Riccio just stood there, trying to swallow tears of disappointment as he stared after the others. But Bo started sobbing so violently that Prosper came running back to him in spite of Scipio’s angry glare. “But you don’t even like the Basilica!” he whispered to Bo. “It’s scary in there so don’t be silly. You stay here at the fountain and look after Hornet. And don’t move.”
“But that’s boring,” Bo gulped, stroking the paw of one of the fountain’s lions.
“Come on now, Prosper!” Scipio called angrily from the side entrance.
“See you later,” Prosper said, and then he followed Mosca and the Thief Lord into the big church.
When Prosper first took him there, Bo had called the Basilica “The Golden Cave.” The gilded mosaics of angels, kings, and saints, which decorated the walls and ceilings, only shined at certain times when the sunlight fell through the church windows. Right now everything was dark.
The three boys moved hesitantly down the wide center aisle, their steps ringing out on the flagstone floor. The golden domes that arched above their heads kept their splendor hidden in the gloom, and in between the tall marble pillars that supported them the boys felt as small as insects. Instinctively, they moved closer together.
“Where are the confessionals?” Mosca whispered, looking uneasily around him. “I haven’t been in here very often. I don’t like churches. They’re creepy.”
“I know where they are,” Scipio replied. He pushed the mask back onto his face and led the way as purposefully as one of the Basilica’s tourist guides. The confessionals were tucked away in one of the side aisles. The first one on the left looked no different from the others. It was a tall box made from black wood, draped with dark red curtains and with a door in the middle, which the priest used for slipping into the tiny space behind. Inside, he would sit down on a narrow bench, put his ear to a small window, and listen to all who wanted to tell him their sins and clear their conscience.
Of course there was also a curtain on the side of the confessional to protect the sinners from curious eyes. Scipio now pushed this curtain aside, adjusting his mask one last time and clearing his throat nervously. The Thief Lord tried very hard to pretend that he was coolness itself, but Prosper and Mosca, as they followed him behind the curtain, sensed that his heart was beating just as fast as theirs.
Scipio hesitated as his eye fell on the low bench half hidden in the darkness, but then he kneeled down on it. The small window was now level with his eyes and he could be seen by whoever sat on the other side. Prosper and Mosca stood behind him like bodyguards. Scipio just knelt there, waiting.
“Perhaps he’s not here yet. Should we have a look?” Mosca whispered cautiously.
But just then someone pulled back the curtain of the small window. Two eyes, round and bright, seemingly with no pupils, gleamed through the darkness of the confessional. Prosper shuddered and only after another look did he realize that they were glasses, reflecting the sparse light.
“One shouldn’t wear a mask in a church, any more than a hat.” The uneven voice sounded like a very old man.
“One also shouldn’t talk about a theft in a confessional,” Scipio answered, “and that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it?”
Prosper thought he could hear a small laugh. “So you really are the Thief Lord,” the stranger said quietly. “Well, keep your mask on if you don’t want to show your face, but I can still see that you’re very young.”
Scipio knelt bolt upright. “Indeed. And you are very old, judging by your voice. Does age matter in this transaction?”
Prosper and Mosca exchanged a quick glance. Scipio might have had the body of a child, but he could express himself like an adult, with a confidence that they couldn’t help admiring.
“Not in the least,” the old man answered. “You must forgive my surprise at your age. I must admit that when Barbarossa told me about the Thief Lord I did not imagine a boy of, say, twelve or thirteen years of age. But I do agree, age is of no consequence in this case. I myself had to work like an adult from the age of eight, although I was small and weak. Nobody cared about that.”
“In my line of business a small body may be an advantage, Conte,” Scipio replied. “If that is how I should address you.”
“You may, yes.” The man in the confessional cleared his throat. “As Barbarossa has told you, I am looking for someone who can retrieve something for me, something I
have been trying to find for many years, and which I have now finally discovered. Sadly, the item is at the moment in the possession of a stranger.” The old man cleared his throat again. His glasses now moved so close to the window that Prosper thought he could just about see the outline of a face. “Since you call yourself Thief Lord I assume you have already entered some of the noble houses of this city without ever being caught. Am I right?”
“Of course.” Scipio surreptitiously rubbed his aching knees. “I have never been caught. And I have seen nearly every noble house from the inside. And without ever being invited.”
“Is that so?” Strong fingers covered with liver spots adjusted the glasses. “Sounds like we’re in business. The house you shall visit for me is on the Campo Santa Margherita — number eleven. It belongs to a Signora Ida Spavento. It is not a particularly magnificent house but it does have a small garden, which, as you well know, is a treasure in itself in this city. I will leave behind in this confessional an envelope containing all the information you need to carry out this job. You will find a floor plan of the Casa Spavento, and a few notes on the item you are supposed to steal, as well as a photograph of it.”
“Very well.” Scipio nodded. “That will save my assistants and me a lot of work. But let’s talk about the payment.”
And again Prosper could hear the old man laugh. “I can see that you are a businessman. Your reward will be five million lire, payable on delivery.”
Mosca squeezed Prosper’s arm so hard that it hurt. Scipio said nothing for a while and when he spoke again his voice sounded quite shaky. “Five million,” he repeated slowly, “sounds like a fair price.”
“I couldn’t pay more even if I wanted to,” the Conte answered. “You will see that what you are supposed to steal is of value only to me, since it is made of neither gold nor silver, but of wood. So, do we have a deal?”