Scipio shrugged. “Do you want to have a go?” he asked with a smile that didn’t look at all like Dottor Massimo. Luckily, Barbarossa didn’t notice that either.
“Do you know how to start it?” the redbeard asked, already lumbering with some difficulty on to the platform.
“Oh, I have two young helpers with me,” Scipio replied. “They must be back there somewhere. Probably trying to dodge work again.” He waved Prosper and Renzo out from behind the merry-go-round. “Come on, you two. Signor Barbarossa wants to take a ride.”
When he saw Prosper, Barbarossa’s eyes immediately narrowed. “What’s he doing here?” he growled. He stared suspiciously at Prosper. “I know that boy. He works for — “
“I work for Dottor Massimo now,” Prosper interrupted him as he stood next to Scipio. Morosina ran to her brother and whispered something in his ear. Renzo went pale.
“He gave the dogs poisoned meat!” Renzo shouted. He leaped on to the platform, but Barbarossa just pushed him down again.
“So what? They’ll live,” he barked. “Was I supposed to let myself be chased by those hounds of hell?”
“Go and give them some ipecac,”* Renzo said to Morosina without taking his eyes off the redbeard. “There should still be some in the stables somewhere.”
Morosina ran off. Barbarossa watched her, looking very self-satisfied.
“Those monsters deserved it, believe me, Dottore,” he said to Scipio. “Do you know if it matters which animal one sits on?”
“Take the lion, redbeard!” Renzo stared with loathing at Barbarossa. “That’s probably the only one that will take your weight.”
Barbarossa looked at him with disdain, but he did waddle over to the lion. As he heaved his huge body onto the figure, the wood groaned as if the beast were coming alive.
“Excellent!” Barbarossa asserted. “I’m ready for a little testdrive.”
Scipio placed his hands on Prosper’s and Renzo’s shoulders. “You know what to do. Give Signor Barbarossa the ride he deserves.”
“But just one round, to start with!” Barbarossa shifted his massive body forward a bit further and grabbed the pole with his ringed fingers. “Who knows, if the stories are true … I mean, I wouldn’t like to turn into a little midget like that one there,” he said, pointing down at Renzo, “but a few years …” stroking his bald head and laughing “… who wouldn’t want to shed a few years, eh, Dottore?”
Scipio answered him with a thin smile.
“Renzo, Prosper, a good shove for Signor Barbarossa!” he ordered.
Prosper and Renzo stepped up to the merry-go-round. Renzo put his hand on the merman’s back; Prosper braced himself against the unicorn.
“Hold on, redbeard!” shouted Renzo. “This is going to be the ride of your life!”
The merry-go-round started with a big jolt. It looked as if the unicorn wanted to jump at the lion’s neck. Looking worried, Barbarossa clung to the pole. “Hey, not so hard!” he yelled, but the merry-go-round spun around faster and faster.
“Stop!” Barbarossa cried. “Stop! I’m going to be sick!”
But the figures kept spinning around in circles, round after round.
Barbarossa shouted, “Darned contraption!” and it sounded to Prosper as if his voice was already higher-pitched.
“Jump off, redbeard!” Renzo mocked. “Jump, if you dare.”
But Barbarossa didn’t jump. He screamed, he cried, he hit the pole, and he kicked the lion, as if that could slow down this mad ride.
And then, suddenly, it happened.
In his desperate attempt to find a foothold, Barbarossa pushed his feet against the lion’s wings. Scipio, Renzo, and Prosper all heard the old wood splinter. Then there was a terrible shattering sound, as if something alive was breaking apart.
“No!” Prosper heard Renzo scream. But there was nothing to be done.
The wing spun through the air, bounced off the merman, and landed with a loud thump on the platform. From there it slid down and hit Prosper’s arm so violently that he doubled up in pain.
The merry-go-round lurched through one final round, and finally the figures shuddered to a sickening halt.
“Madonna!” Prosper heard an unfamiliar voice moaning. “What kind of a nightmarish ride was that?”
A boy slid down with shaking legs from the lion’s back. Moaning, he tumbled toward the edge of the wooden platform. He stumbled over his pant legs — and then stared in disbelief at his fingers: short, little, fat fingers, dimpled with rosy fingernails.
*Traditional Brazilian plant used to induce vomiting in animals as well as humans.
45
“He’s broken it!” Renzo cried. He jumped onto the platform, pushed the mini Barbarossa aside so that he nearly fell over, and bent over the lion. Ida’s wing was still firmly in its place, but only a stump remained of the other one. Renzo looked in desperation at Prosper and Scipio. Then, as if suddenly remembering the real culprit, he leaped at Barbarossa, who was still staring in shock at his fingers.
“You absolute idiot!” Renzo screamed. He gave Barbarossa a push that made him tumble backward against the sea horse. “You creep onto my island, you poison my dogs, you threaten my sister, and now you’ve just destroyed what I’ve spent half my life working for!”
“It wouldn’t stop!” Barbarossa cried, holding his arms up protectively. Renzo kept flailing around blindly, until Prosper jumped on to the platform and held him back — with his one good hand. His other arm still hurt from its encounter with the wing. Renzo let his arms fall without resistance. Then he gazed at the mutilated lion.
Scipio was truly frightened. Slowly, as if he was afraid of what he might find, he walked toward the bush where the wing had landed. He pulled it from the branches.
“We’ll have another wing made, Renzo!” he said as he stroked the splintered wood.
Renzo stepped up to the lion and rested his head against the wooden mane. “No,” he said. “Why do you think I spent so much time looking for the second wing? I learned that after the thieves had lost the real wing the Conte Valaresso had more than thirty wings carved. But without the original, the merry-go-round is just that — a merry-go-round.”
“Nonsense, the other figures are still here!” Barbarossa called. “So why the long faces?” He was standing in his bare feet, his shoes and socks having flown off during his wild ride. The sleeves of his coat hung down to the ground. Barbarossa was now even smaller than Bo. When nobody answered him, Barbarossa shook the coat off his shoulders, climbed out of his huge pants, and stumbled toward the merman. But he couldn’t reach up to its back, and so he tried the sea horse. All the figures were suddenly so big, far too big for a small fat boy, who was clumsy even before his transformation!
“You can save yourself the trouble, Barbarossa,” Prosper said, sitting on the edge of the platform. “You heard what Renzo said. It won’t work anymore.”
But Barbarossa yelled, “It has to! Give it another shove! Dottor Massimo!” He ran back to the edge of the platform. “Please, Dottore. Put an end to this childishness. Look at me. I am a respected man. I am known all over the city. People from all over the world come to my shop. Do you think I could serve them like this?”
Scipio was still looking at the shattered wing. He didn’t even lift his head. “Oh, leave me alone, Barbarossa,” he said. “You don’t understand. What were you doing here anyway? Now you’ve destroyed everything.”
“But Dottore!” Barbarossa pleaded.
“I am not Dottor Massimo!” Scipio yelled at him. “I am the Thief Lord.” He wearily dropped the wing on the platform. “But I’m a grown-up forever now — you’ve ruined it for me. Darn it! I have to think.”
Barbarossa stared at Scipio as if he’d just been introduced to the devil himself.
“The Thief Lord?” he whispered. “The honorable Dottor Massimo is the Thief Lord? Well, if that’s not a surprise …” He lowered his voice threateningly, which from a five year old didn’t sound
frightening at all. “Start the merry-go-round!” he said, clenching his little fists. “Right away, or I’ll tell the police who you are.”
Now Scipio had to laugh.
“Oh yes, you do that!” he said. “Tell them that Dottor Massimo is the Thief Lord. What a pity you’re such a little squirt that nobody will believe you.”
Barbarossa was lost for words. He was paralyzed with anger, his tiny fists still bunched as he stared down at his bare toes.
“You despicable little blackmailer!” Renzo said behind him. “I’m going to go and check on the dogs. If you’ve done as much damage to them as you have to the merry-go-round, then you’ll wish you’d never stepped ashore on the Isola Segreta. Have I made myself clear?”
“You” — Barbarossa spun around — “you dare to threaten me, you little —?”
“I am the Conte, Barbarossa!” Renzo cut him short. “And you have no right to be on my island, so consider yourself my prisoner.”
He jumped off the merry-go-round and spoke to Prosper and Scipio. “Will you keep an eye on him? I have to check on Morosina and the dogs.”
Prosper nodded. He was still holding his aching arm.
“What’s the matter?” Scipio asked anxiously when he saw Prosper’s face was twisted with pain.
But Prosper just shook his head. “The wing hit me. I’ll be all right.”
“Morosina will have a look at your arm,” Renzo said. “Bring the little redhead to the house.” Then he vanished through the bushes.
Barbarossa watched him leave in utter confusion. “That impertinent little twerp!” he muttered. He put his stubby hands on his hips. “If he’s the Conte, so what? His island, bah! I’m going home, and when I get there I’m going to employ the best carpenter in town, and make this devilish merry-go-round work again.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Scipio snapped. He planted himself in front of the redheaded boy. Although Barbarossa was standing on the platform, Scipio was still a lot taller than him. “Are your parents still alive?”
Barbarossa shrugged. He was shivering. He sorely missed his coat. “No. Why the heck are you asking?”
Prosper and Scipio exchanged a quick glance.
“Well, then, we’d better ask someone to take you to the Merciful Sisters,” Prosper answered him.
“You what?” Barbarossa recoiled in panic. “You wouldn’t dare! You wouldn’t dare!”
Scipio jumped onto the merry-go-round and dragged the struggling little fellow from between the figures.
“The merry-go-round will never turn again, little redhead,” he said. “All thanks to you. Nor will you be going back into town, at least for the time being. Who knows what other catastrophes you would cause there. No. You heard what Renzo said: You are now his prisoner. And to be honest: I don’t envy you.”
Barbarossa kicked and struggled, but Scipio threw him over his shoulder like an old sack of potatoes and carried him all the way to the house.
They would never have found their way back through the labyrinth had Renzo’s footprints not shown them the way. Scipio didn’t say a word, although Barbarossa kept cursing and spitting and hitting his back. Scipio kept looking at the sky and the trees, as if they were new and strange to him through his grown-up eyes. He seemed not to hear Barbarossa’s screams. He just walked, as if deaf, his strides so long that Prosper struggled to keep up with him. Only when they had reached the house did Scipio turn to Prosper. He put the complaining Barbarossa back on his own feet and said, “Everything has shrunk, Prop. The whole world is suddenly so small. I feel like I don’t fit into it anymore.”
He bent down toward Barbarossa. “You probably see that quite differently, don’t you, little redhead?” he asked mockingly. “What’s it like down there?”
Barbarossa paid him no attention. He looked around miserably, like a trapped animal searching for a way to escape. He struggled fiercely as Prosper started to pull him toward the steps.
“Let me go!” he screamed, his face as red as his hair. “That boy … the Conte, he’s going to kill me! You have to let me go. We’re business partners, after all. I’ll give you all my money. My boat is anchored by the gate. You could say I escaped.”
“Oh, money? It’s OK — we still have a whole bag full of fake money,” Prosper answered. “Ring any bells?”
For a moment Barbarossa was lost for words again. “What fake money? I — I don’t know anything about any — any fake money!” he said feebly, avoiding Prosper’s and Scipio’s eyes.
“You know absolutely everything about it,” said Scipio as he started up the steps. Barbarossa followed him, frowning darkly. But he stopped immediately when Renzo appeared between the pillars.
“Just look how angry he is!” Barbarossa whispered, holding on tightly to Prosper’s arm. “You have to protect me from him.”
At that moment the mastiffs appeared behind Renzo. Their eyes were still dull, but they were back on their feet. Morosina stepped between them and glared down at Barbarossa with pursed lips.
“You were very lucky, you little poisoner!” Renzo called. He came slowly down the steps.
“Yes, they’re still alive,” he confirmed as he saw Barbarossa’s relieved expression, “but I think they could do with a bite to eat. Morosina’s just suggested a little race. You against them. With, say, your boat as the finish line.”
Barbarossa went pale.
Renzo stopped two steps above him,
“But I have another idea,” he said. “Naturally, you will have to pay for destroying the merry-go-round. But this time you won’t pay with your life, and you won’t pass off any more bad money.”
“What then?” Barbarossa looked up at him suspiciously.
“Thanks to you, Morosina and I cannot undo what we have begun,” said Renzo. “And neither can the Thief Lord, or you. But I will let you go, if you give me all the cash you have in your shop. Not just in the register, but in your safe as well.”
Barbarossa backed away in shock — and nearly fell down the steps. Prosper grabbed him by the scruff of the neck at the last moment, but as soon as he was back on his feet Barbarossa pushed his hand away.
“Are you crazy?” he squawked at Renzo. “And how will I live? I will hardly be able see over the shop counter now. Why is it all my fault that rotten wing broke off?”
“Yes, why indeed?” Scipio sat down with a sigh on the cold steps and looked straight into Barbarossa’s eyes. “I mean, it couldn’t possibly be your fault that you crept on to this island with a bag of poisoned meat — or that you dragged Morosina by the hair …”
Barbarossa opened his mouth, but Renzo cut him off.
“We will go in to town together,” he said, “and you’ll give me the money. In return, I won’t take revenge for the merry-go-round or the dogs. Believe me, we could. We could draw the Carabinieri’s attention to the little orphaned boy who believes he is Ernesto Barbarossa. Or we could ask Scipio and Prosper to take you to the home of the Merciful Sisters. It’s your choice, you can still buy yourself out of all this.”
Barbarossa stroked his chin and angrily dropped his hands when he realized it was bare and beardless.
“Blackmail,” he grumbled.
“Call it what you will,” Renzo replied. “Though I could find a few choice words to describe what you’ve done on this island today.”
Barbarossa looked at him so pathetically that Prosper had to laugh.
“I’d take him up on his offer, little redhead,” he said. “Otherwise Morosina will feed you to the dogs.”
Barbarossa clenched his chubby fists helplessly. “Fine, I accept,” he said, looking up at the dogs who had settled on the top step. “But it’s still blackmail.”
46
It was early afternoon when they all returned to Venice. But the sky was covered by such dark clouds that Prosper thought that dusk must have already fallen.
He had completely lost all sense of time. The night before — when he and Scipio had headed off for the Isola Segr
eta — seemed like months ago, and now he felt like a traveler, returning from a journey through strange and distant lands. It began to rain as Scipio steered his father’s boat onto the Grand Canal. The wind drove cold raindrops into their faces like hardened tears.
“How much longer do I have to be stuck in this hole?” Prosper heard Barbarossa moaning.
Scipio had locked Barbarossa in the cabin to make sure he didn’t try any new tricks. Renzo was following them in Barbarossa’s boat, a big barge in which the redbeard had probably intended to bring a few things back from the island. Barbarossa had of course denied this. Morosina had stayed on the island to look after the dogs. When Renzo had said good-bye to the mastiffs, they had wagged their tails so feebly that he looked quite worried as he boarded Barbarossa’s boat.
“How are you going to get back to the island?” Scipio asked him as they moored the boats by a jetty in a secluded canal.
“Oh, I think I’ll borrow Signor Barbarossa’s boat for a while,” Renzo answered. “It’s much handier than my sailing boat. And it will also stop him from paying me any surprise visits.”
Barbarossa muttered something unfriendly before grumpily trudging ahead. Scipio had given him the clothes that he’d worn as a boy, but even they were too big for Barbarossa. The shoes kept slipping off his feet at every other step, and the more he tried to put on a dignified face, the more people kept turning around to laugh.
Scipio’s grown-up figure also attracted a lot of curious attention. Renzo had given him his old cape as a present, making Scipio look as if he had just stepped out of an oil-painting. Prosper walked next to him, feeling very self-conscious. He missed Scipio’s familiar features, which even with the mask had never seemed as strange as this. Scipio kept smiling at him, trying to reassure him, but it didn’t help much.
The rain pelted down even harder on to the pavement, and when they finally reached Barbarossa’s shop, the alley was practically deserted.
With a very glum expression, Barbarossa unlocked the door and switched on the light. He let the “CLOSED” sign hang behind the glass, and locked the door as a precaution.