His feet were chilled as he padded along the damp wooden walkways. He couldn't get used to shoes again after two years without them in the marshes, so he generally went as bare of foot as a bargee. The temperature was dropping; fog was coming off the water. The lines of the railings near him blurred; farther on, they were reduced to silhouettes. Farther than that, across the canal, there was nothing to see but vague, hulking shapes. Without the clatter of boot soles or clogs, he moved as silently in the fog as a spirit--silent out of habit. If the marsh-gangs didn't hear you, they couldn't harass you. Breathing the fog was like breathing wet, smoky wool; it was tainted with any number of strange smells. It held them all: fishy smell of canal, smell of rotting wood, woodsmoke, stink of nameless somethings poured into the dark, cold waters below him. He hardly noticed. His thoughts were elsewhere--back with the inspiration for his poem.
Oh, Angelina . . .
He wondered if he'd see her tonight at Giaccomo's. Half-hoping; half-dreading. She tended to show up at Giaccomo's pretty frequently. Marco was under no illusions as to why. Caesare Aldanto, of course--the most handsome and glamorous man there. Hell, Caesare even had Claudia and Valentina exchanging jokes and comments about him. Marco wondered hopelessly if he'd ever have--whatever it was that Caesare had. Probably not.
* * *
His feet had taken him all unaware down the cobbled walkways and the long, black sotoportego through to his own alleyway, to his very own door, almost before he realized it. He started to use his key, but Benito had beaten him home, and must have heard the rattle in the lock.
'About time!' he caroled in Marco's face, pulling the door open while Marco stood there stupidly, key still held out. 'You fall in the canal?'
'They kept us late,' Marco said, trying not to feel irritated that his daydream had been cut short. 'There any supper? It was your turn.'
'There will be. Got eggs, and a bit of pancetta. Frittata do?' He returned to the fireside, and the long-handled blackened, battered pan. He began frying garlic, a chopped onion, a handful of parsley--stolen, no doubt, from someone's rooftop garden--and the cubes of pancetta. Marco sniffed appreciatively. Benito was a fairly appalling cook, but always got the best of ingredients. And, as long as he didn't burn it, there wasn't much he could do wrong with frittata.
Benito tossed the fried mixture into the beaten egg in the cracked copper bowl. Then, after giving it a swirl, and putting in a lump of lard, he tossed the whole mixture back in the pan and back on the heat. 'They gave me tomorrow off too, like you--something about a merchant ship all the way from the Black Sea. You got anything you want to do? After chores, I mean.'
'Not really,' Marco replied absently, going straight over to the wall and trying to get a good look at himself in the little bit of cracked mirror that hung there. Benito noticed, cocking a quizzical eye at him as he brought over an elderly wooden platter holding Marco's half of the omelet and a slice of bread.
'Something doing?'
'I just don't see any reason to show up at Giaccomo's looking like a drowned rat,' Marco replied waspishly, accepting the plate and beginning to eat.
'Huh.' Benito took the hint and combed his hair with his fingers, then inhaled his own dinner.
'Hey, big brother--y'know somethin' funny?' Benito actually sounded thoughtful, and Marco swiveled to look at him with surprise. 'Since you started eating regular, you're getting to look a lot like Mama. And that ain't bad--she may'a been crazy, but she was a looker.'
Marco was touched by the implied compliment. 'Not so funny,' he returned, 'I gotta look like somebody. You know, the older you get, the more you look like Carlo Sforza. In the right light, nobody'd ever have to guess who your daddy was.'
Benito started preening at that--he was just old enough to remember that the great condottiere had been a fair match for Caesare Aldanto at attracting the ladies.
Then Marco grinned wickedly and deflated him. 'It's just too bad you inherited Mama's lunatic tendencies also.'
'Hey!'
'Now don't start something you can't finish--' Marco warned, as his brother dropped his empty plate, seized a pillow and advanced on him.
Benito gave a disgusted snort, remembering how things had turned out only that morning, and threw the pillow, back into its corner. 'No fair.'
'Life's like that,' Marco replied. 'So let's get going, huh?'
* * *
