Tears of the Salamander (4 page)

And the neighbors had been right about Father’s singing so badly. He’d been doing it on purpose.

“So we must make things up between us, as best we can,” Uncle Giorgio went on. “It is proper that you should have loved your father, and I will not hold that against you. But now you have me in his place, and henceforth you will bear your true name, which is Alfredo di Sala. Are you content with that?”

Not knowing what to say, Alfredo nodded and waited to be told more, but Uncle Giorgio was massaging his throat in the way that he had in the coach, so Alfredo guessed it must be hurting because he had talked too much. Before
long Uncle Giorgio went down to the cabin to rest, leaving Alfredo to sing softly, under his breath, hour after hour, while he watched the unchanging sea.

Next day they docked in a small harbor. Uncle Giorgio was evidently expected at the only inn, where another valise was waiting for him, and there was a mule in the stable ready to carry it and the rest of the baggage. They set out almost at once, up a steep track, but when they were well clear of the town Uncle Giorgio led the way to one side, halted as soon as they were hidden, opened the second valise and took out fresh clothes for the pair of them—a peasant’s jacket and breeches for himself and a plain country smock for Alfredo, with wide-brimmed straw hats for both of them. They plodded on for the rest of afternoon along narrow tracks, rising and falling, supped and slept in a deserted hut far up a hillside and journeyed on next day, coming late that afternoon to a final crest above a different harbor town. They neared its walls a little before sunset, but before they reached it, turned aside once more. In a tumbledown shack Uncle Giorgio changed back into his merchant’s dress.

“Wait here,” he croaked. “Bell rings before gates close. Go through when others go. Harbor. Largest boat at quay—
Bonaventura
—go below. Cabin. Wait for me.”

He took the mule’s bridle and strode on toward the town.

Alfredo was not worried to be left alone. By now he understood what was happening. His uncle had pretended to
be a rich gentleman in order to impress the priests, and then had effectively bought Alfredo from them with what seemed to be a generous donation to the choir, though no doubt they planned to keep most of it for themselves. Without that they might have argued, made difficulties until the Prince-Cardinal returned. If
he
wished to keep Alfredo in the choir, it barely mattered what the law said. But the donation was of course worthless, the letter of introduction probably a blank sheet of paper. The Prince-Cardinal would be outraged, and if Uncle Giorgio was caught he would face a horrible death. So he was covering their tracks, pretending to be still at the hostelry of St. Barnabas when he had already left the city, changing their clothes, taking this roundabout but already prepared route home and now, at this new harbor, concealing Alfredo’s existence in the hope of smuggling him out to sea unnoticed.

Alfredo did as he was told, slipping in through the gates in the dusk among a group of latecomers and then finding his way to the harbor. There was no mistaking the
Bonaventura
. A sailor, leaning on the farther rail, glanced round as the gangplank creaked beneath Alfredo’s weight, raised a hand and returned to his contemplation of the harbor. Alfredo climbed down the companionway. In the pitch darkness of the well, lines of light gleamed around a door. He opened it and found that the light came from a lantern slung from a cabin ceiling. Uncle Giorgio’s valises were on the floor. He took off his boots, lay down in one of the two hammocks and once again waited.

He was asleep when Uncle Giorgio arrived, bringing a wicker basket with an excellent cold meal for Alfredo: fish
salad, oil, good coarse bread, apricots and rough red wine. He himself ate nothing, but sipped slowly from a pot of what smelled like chicken broth, and drank a little wine, swallowing with obvious difficulty.

“Aren’t you going to have any?” said Alfredo. “It’s very good.”

Uncle Giorgio shook his head and simply pointed at his throat. He took his flask out of his pocket, weighed it in his hand and put it back. He reached down and from a pocket in his valise took out three similar flasks, which he unstoppered and stood on the table. He poured a dribble of wine into each, swilled it round and sipped it slowly.

“It was kind of you to get it for me,” said Alfredo. “Thank you very much.”

Uncle Giorgio nodded, unsmiling. Yes, it had been kind of him. It was proper that Alfredo should recognize the fact. Alfredo still didn’t know what to make of his uncle. There was so much that reminded him of Father: his erect stance and long, stiff stride; the way he drummed the fingers of his right hand on his left wrist as he thought; the way he preferred to sit sideways on at the table while he ate, and would then rise sidelong from his chair—small things, but so like in both men. With Uncle Giorgio barely able to speak it was harder to tell about the big things, but in spite of his apparent kindness—from the huge risk he was taking for Alfredo’s sake to his consideration in bringing a pleasant meal to the cabin, though he himself couldn’t eat any of it—there was one big difference. Father had
loved
—loved his family, loved his baking, loved other people, loved life. Even
in his angers there had been love. Even if his throat had been hurting, the way Uncle Giorgio’s was …No, that wasn’t fair. And in any case, Alfredo wouldn’t have wanted Uncle Giorgio, well or ill, to be just like Father, would he?

“Is your throat very sore?” he asked.

Uncle Giorgio nodded, expressionless.

“Would you like me to sing for you?”

Uncle Giorgio shook his head, pointed toward the quay and cupped a hand behind his ear.
No, not now. People might hear you. We are trying to hide you.

Alfredo nodded to show he’d understood, but was inwardly puzzled. What about the sailor who’d seen him board? How much could Uncle Giorgio have paid to buy the silence of the whole crew? Perhaps this wasn’t the
Bonaventura
’s home port. …

The puzzle deepened as the days went by. They had sailed at dawn on that first morning, heading almost due into the rising sun. Uncle Giorgio spent all day on deck, breathing the sea air to ease his throat. When Alfredo had asked if he should come up too he had just nodded. Two sailors rigged a hammock for him, and Alfredo sat on a coil of rope beside him. Uncle Giorgio produced an old book from a pocket, opened it and pointed at a page before passing it to Alfredo. It was a psalter, in Latin of course, with a plainsong notation for each psalm. The book was open at Psalm 137,
Super flumina Babylonis.

“This chant, Uncle Giorgio?” asked Alfredo, showing the book.

Raised eyebrows—
What else do you suggest?

“There’s one of the cathedral ones. Most of them…”

The nod—
Yes
—interrupted him. He’d been going to explain that he knew several settings—the psalm was popular with composers—but only one that was suitable for a single treble voice, a prolonged descant continuing through the whole setting above the intertwining voices of the choir, but beautiful in its own right. As a junior until this year he had never got to sing it, in fact had heard it only twice, but both times had silently sung it through in his mind for hours after the service had ended. One day, he had promised himself, he would sing it aloud for the Prince-Cardinal. Instead he was singing it for a sick man, and perhaps a few sailors if they cared to listen, on the deck of a small boat out on the open sea. But he sang it with his whole heart, as he would have in the cathedral. It was music. It was all he had left, still.

“By the waters of Babylon I sat down and wept, when I remembered thee, O Sion…”

The sailors did indeed listen. Three of the four stopped their work to do so—the fourth was the helmsman. There were calls of
“Bravo!” “Bravissimo!”
when he finished. Uncle Giorgio merely nodded approval. Alfredo leafed back a few pages to another favorite.
“I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills,”
he sang, though the setting was not quite so good for a single voice. He was about to look for another one when Uncle Giorgio stopped him with a gesture, looked up at the sun, then at his watch, rose, but staggered as the boat heaved to the swell and would have fallen if a sailor hadn’t caught his elbow and helped him aft.

Alfredo watched the confrontation with the helmsman. It began calmly enough. From Uncle Giorgio’s gestures he
wanted the boat to head farther south. The helmsman shook his head and spoke briefly. Uncle Giorgio became more vehement. The helmsman held his course. Uncle Giorgio seized his arm. The helmsman shoved him away, handed the helm to one of the other men and yelled at Uncle Giorgio that he was the captain of this #!?#!! boat and no #!?#!! passenger was going to tell him how to mind his ship, no matter how much #!?#!! money he’d paid to smuggle his fancy boy off the island, and if Uncle Giorgio didn’t like it he’d turn the boat right round and take him back where he’d come from and the hell with the money. Voice like that, there’d be somebody who’d pay as much to get the boy back.

To show he meant what he said he dug into his breeches pocket, pulled out a small canvas bag and flung it on the deck at Uncle Giorgio’s feet.

Uncle Giorgio stared at him, his face set and pale as bone. Alfredo could actually feel his fury, its need to burst out, engulf, destroy, in the same kind of way that he had been able to feel a surge in one of the oven fire pits when a sudden shift of wind increased the draft in the flue, feel it and close the dampers long before the extra heat could seep through into the oven, or the bakehouse. So now. Alfredo watched and felt Uncle Giorgio grimly applying his own inward dampers as he turned away. The sailor helped him back to the hammock. The ship sailed on, due east.

That afternoon Uncle Giorgio managed to doze for a while. One of the sailors was splicing a cable, whistling as he worked, a tune Alfredo didn’t know. When he went to listen the sailor looked up, and stopped whistling.

“What’s with the old boy, then?” he asked. “Skipper’s got a short fuse, but the rule is, never speak to the man at the wheel, leave alone grab hold of him. Even a landsman should’ve known that.”

“He’s sick,” explained Alfredo. “His throat’s very bad, and he’s running out of his medicine. He’s got much worse since we left. …He hasn’t told me, but if he doesn’t get more medicine soon I think he might die. That’s why he’s desperate to get, er, home.”

He had hesitated because he still had no idea where they were going. If it was “home,” it would still be strange to him. The sailor appeared not to notice, but unconsciously answered the question for him.

“Well then,” he said, pointing to the right of their course, just as Uncle Giorgio had done. “Sicily’s that way, five days in the right wind, which this isn’t. Lot of tacking, it’d mean. So skipper’s heading for the mainland, and then he’ll turn along the coast and we’ll have the shore breezes all the way to the Straits, and a lot less tacking. Get there quicker in the end. You tell the old boy that.”

“How long will it take this way?”

“Seven, eight days. Or we could pull in at Ostia, say, and get him some medicine there. Laudanum would be better than nothing, I’d have said—stop it hurting so bad.”

“How long would that take?”

“Putting in for the stuff and then getting back on course? Better part of a morning, maybe. You ask him about that, and I’ll have a word with the skipper, tell him what the hurry is. He’ll do his best. He’s not the type to hold a grudge.”

Before he could return to his splicing Alfredo asked him about the tune he’d been whistling. It was a popular drinking song, which he sang for Alfredo in a wheezy tenor, and Alfredo then sang it back to him, ornamenting the chorus as he went. They laughed together when he’d finished and Alfredo went back to Uncle Giorgio and told him what the sailor had said. After that he read to him from a Latin book called
Arcana Ignea,
which seemed to be about using fire to turn things into other things, but was full of strange words Alfredo didn’t understand.

Uncle Giorgio lay and listened with closed eyes until the skipper came over and rather stiffly told Uncle Giorgio that he was now making the best speed he could, and offered to put in at Ostia for laudanum. Uncle Giorgio took out his watch, tapped it with his forefinger and firmly shook his head.

No. I cannot spare the time.