Talina in the Tower

  She leant against the wooden screen, panting. A pair of soft paws closed around her face. Another pair came out from behind and held her around her waist, and a third pair covered her mouth and held her throat. But it was all done so gently, like the tickle of a kitten. And a beautiful perfume of rose petals clung to the fur on the paws that held her, the nails of which were enamelled in iridescent colours.

  ‘Who are you, leettle sticky one?’ asked a feminine voice with a gentle French accent. ‘Are you een trouble?’

  ‘Show us,’ said another voice, ‘that you do not mean to scream, by tapping your back paw. We cannot breeng attention down here. We need to know zat you can whisperrr.’

  Talina hastily tapped her foot. The paw was lifted from her mouth.

  ‘Please help me,’ she whispered. ‘I have escaped from the court of the Ravageur Lord.’

  A sharp intake of breath echoed through the dark tunnel.

  ‘No one escapes!’ said a childish voice. ‘Eet is not done.’

  A womanly voice suggested with authority, ‘Poor one. She is trembling. Let us release ’er,’ and all the paws flew off Talina’s body. She stood still, uncertain of what to do next.

  A young voice asked, ‘Does ze leetle sticky one ’ave any milk jelly?’

  ‘Sssh!’

  The older voice continued with its gentle instructions: ‘Now turn around and let us see your front. What do zey call you? I am Bidet, the Mother of the Harem.’

  Talina slowly turned. She peered in through the screen and suddenly drew breath. Her eyes, adjusting to the gloom, made out the massed ranks of hundreds of small, almost delicate Ravageurs, crowded into a dark cave with a low ceiling and just a single lantern near the door. It illuminated a feeding trough, from the back of which cruel spikes pointed upwards. Anyone who escaped over the trough would be immediately impaled there.

  ‘I am Talina,’ she said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Oh but zis one is ugly! And how she steeeenk!’

  ‘That’s not me,’ said Talina hotly. ‘That’s the Manitoba Gargling Oil.’

  ‘Ssssh, Bique! Do not be rude. She ’as nice whiskers at least.’

  ‘She is not a cat, eef you look close, you see that she is a human, but also a leetle bit like us. Is a half-monster! I am afraid!’

  ‘Me too! Moi aussi! J’ai peur!’

  The eyes of the Ravageur females closed to slits. Their ears flattened and turned to the side. Their mouths curved to nervous grins. Their heads lowered and their fur sleeked down. Every single tail was tucked under the body of its owner. They howled softly under their breath.

  Bidet urged, ‘Hush, Bique, Bourrique, Bassinoire! Quiet, Ripopette! Tais-toi, Caboche! And the rest of you, too. Let ze little monster speak.’

  Talina smiled in as friendly a manner as she could manage. ‘Not a monster. I am a human girl. I had an accident with a spell and now I am a bit cat and sometimes a bit Ravageur – a bit everything, really. Depends who I’m with and how angry I am.’

  ‘Is angry? With us!’ the females backed hastily away from the screen.

  Talina smiled, ‘Not at all. You are the female Ravageurs?’

  ‘Mais oui! And the baby girl Ravageurs and the leetle girl Ravageurs.’

  ‘They really do keep you in the dark down here!’ Talina could not keep the shock out of her voice, ‘Do you never see the sun or the sea or the Great Hall … ?’

  ‘They say we are ugly and stupid and useful only to look after the cubs.’

  ‘And you believe them?’

  ‘No one ’as ever told us anything different,’ replied, Caboche hanging her head.

  ‘I can tell you,’ Talina bristled, ‘that you are living creatures, with every right to walk free. And you are fairly polite, and civilized,’ she muttered, ‘which is more than I can say for your husbands, brothers and fathers. Unlike them, your fur is glossy – you don’t have the mange, do you? You are as lovely in your way as … as … these flowers!’ She pointed to a few pots of anaemic violets straining towards the light just inside their cell. Now she noticed that the poor creatures had tried to prettify or at least alleviate the brutal gloom of their prison: the floor was neatly swept, and hundreds of empty jam pots from Golosi’s had been arranged in patterns on shelves.

  ‘You are a kind girl to say so, but ’ow can we believe what you say? Unlike our husbands, we ’ave no jewels, or fancy capes and hats.’

  ‘That’s not what makes someone beautiful!’

  ‘We ’ave no right even to be beautiful, we are told. So we may not step abroad. We must stay ’ere, where zey can keep an eye on us, and discipline us if we misbehave. But, in exchange, we ’ave our food, and we are kept safe. And we ’ave the honour of being ze wives and mothers of ze Ravageurs. Why sometimes – though not often enough – they even bring us sweets!’

  ‘Chantillia Baskets!’ sighed one of the pups. ‘Milk Jellies, Jewel Liqueur Drops and ratafia biscuits, soft and crunchy at the same time …’

  ‘Maraschino Ice!’ whimpered a small girl Ravageur. ‘So cool, so elegant!’

  ‘Neapolitan wafers …’

  ‘Golosi’s Mostarda!’

  ‘Ah! Ah!’ the lady Ravageurs almost blew Talina over with a hot collective sigh. ‘Zat is the best of all.’

  ‘I love those things too. But I wouldn’t give up my freedom for them. You don’t have any kind of life,’ said Talina. ‘You poor things. You don’t even have fresh air. And look at the horrible names they gave you – “Caboche” means “blockhead”; “Ripopette” means “worthless” and “Bique” means “silly goat”! And a “bidet” is a thing that humans use to wash their … well, never mind. You are all insulted by your very own names!’

  ‘Is it not so for all female creatures ze world over?’ asked the largest of the lady Ravageurs. ‘To be treated so, and to bear ze shame of stupidity?’

  ‘Oui, oui, Bourrique,’ said Bidet. ‘So we are always told.’

  Talina sat cross-legged on the floor. She began, ‘Now let me tell you a few things you ought to know.’

  ‘… So,’ concluded Talina, fully a girl again, ‘you would consider the idea of not being so utterly submissive to your husbands and fathers and uncles? And of being kind to the poor humans who make the delicious sweets, who will then help you escape to a life of freedom? You’ll help me find my parents? Good. We are agreed.’

  ‘Mais oui,’ said Bidet.

  ‘Milles bombes!’ cheered the young female cubs.

  ‘Don’t forget ze list, chérie,’ urged Ripopette.

  Talina read from the scrap of paper she’d just covered with words:

  Meteors in Candy

  Poppy Drops

  Chantillia Baskets

  Jewel Liqueur Drops

  Catechu Drops

  Syrup of Pinks

  Quince Compote

  Angelica Comfits

  Neapolitan Wafers

  Gimblettes

  Golosi’s Mostarda (lots)

  ‘But they are all sweet things!’ Talina chided. ‘That’s not good for you. How about a few nourishing vegetables, some risi e bisi, rice and peas? Some fresh tomatoes? Don’t you want to stay healthy and strong, with clear heads … ?’

  ‘We don’t know how to cook,’ confessed Bidet. ‘We are used to being fed.’

  ‘But cooking is wonderful fun! When this is over, I’m going to teach you all how to bake and broil and roast,’ Talina promised enthusiastically. ‘And perhaps some lessons in table manners too – you probably shouldn’t eat in front of people, without some rehearsals, first.’

  Bique called, ‘And don’t forget ze Orange Flower Ice and ze Maraschino Cherries.’

  Talina was about to give a smart retort to this, but she could hear the unmistakeable sound of male Ravageurs – not far enough away – waking up from their state of unfocused dancing rapture. From the thudding of paws, it seemed some were still dancing, and others were groaning drowsily, ‘Ooh my head! What’s going on?’

  Rouquin yel
led, ‘Frimousse, mon ami, get off zose back legs! Stop swaying lak dat! You look lak—’

  And Frimousse retorted, ‘Where is zat damnable not-quite-cat? Zis is ’er doing, n’est-ce pas?’

  Over all their mutterings, Grignan shouted, ‘You curs, there isn’t time to catch her now. She can’t escape us, in the end. Where would she go? There are more important things afoot, and we have wasted precious hours! We cannot be late for ‘The Sad Event’! Fetch the piano! Fetch the Dark Snow Dome! The gramophone! Launch the barges!’

  Ravageurs thundered from the Sala, through the Great Hall, towards the outside world and the shore.

  ‘Sad Event? Dark Snow Dome?’ squeaked Talina. ‘What can he mean?’

  ‘We know nossing, as usual,’ sighed Bidet.

  ‘Well,’ muttered Talina, ‘let’s hope it’s not another horrible thing to deal with before I can find Mamma and Papà.’

  ‘So sorry,’ murmured Bidet. ‘How the leetle one suffers. Malheur.’

  There was a glint of dark blue at the far end of the corridor. Dusk must have arrived, Talina realized, while she explained ‘proper respect due’ and ‘equality’ and ‘freedom’ to the amazed females of the Ravageur harem.

  Talina bade them a hasty farewell, ran to the open window, climbed out and rushed down to the shore. As she’d hoped, Altopone still sat in his gondola, hidden in the bulrushes, glowering and cleaning his whiskers.

  ‘You missed the big launch. Never seen such a thing. So many boats! I suppose you wants taking back to Venice?’ he sighed.

  ‘No, at least not yet! I want to go to Maggot Island, fast as you please.’

  Altopone shook his head. ‘“I want”, does it? Wants doesn’t always get, missy. I’ve heard tell of that place. But it’s not on any map. We might row about the lagoon for twenty years without finding it. You’ll have to go home and find out more. Bookish, aren’t you? Must be in an old book or on an antique map somewhere. So – Venice?’

  ‘Venice then,’ Talina accepted wearily.

  ‘We’ll need to go slow, to give the Ravageurs a good head-start.’ Altopone pointed to a dim cluster of boats just approaching the ring of fog.

  Talina had plenty of time to tell the rat of her discoveries inside the Ravageur palace while he manoeuvred through the fog, making maddeningly slow progress through the lagoon. The weak sun set. Altopone made frequent stops to pick up elderly rats stranded on rocks where the Ravageurs had left them to starve, being no more use as rowers. This reminded Talina painfully of her parents.

  ‘It’s been nearly three months since they were kidnapped,’ she told Altopone. ‘How long can they survive on a pound of seed cake and an egg?’ she mourned. ‘Surely there’s something else growing on the island. Maybe … maybe, if things got really difficult, they could try to … eat the worms?’

  ‘Even we rats draws the line at that,’ muttered Altopone.

  Talina’s face was still tight with disgust as she fell asleep. She woke to see that the sun had already risen again and to hear the clocks of Venice striking ten. She sat up, rubbing her eyes as the rower-rats pulled into the mouth of the Grand Canal.

  Then her jaw dropped. Suddenly, she understood what the Ravageur fleet of black boats was for, and exactly what Grignan had meant by ‘The Sad Event’.

  ‘Close that mouth or the flies’ll get in, missy. Surprised, are you? You want to keep up with current affairs, my girl,’ reproved the rat.

  He handed her a newspaper. ‘Picked up an early edition yesterday on my way to get you.’

  The obituary page of the Gazzetta was taken over by a single sombre advertisement illustrated by a skull and crossbones superimposed over a crude drawing of the city, blurred as if seen through tears.

  The death is announced of the city briefly known

  as Venice,

  a city no one will miss.

  The funeral will be held at 10a.m. on May 9th.

  All loyal Luprians welcome to the festivities.

  ‘What’s the date today?’ Talina asked Altopone. ‘Is it … ?’

  ‘Yes, May 9th,’ he answered. ‘Of course. And I seen more funerals than you’ve et chocolate éclairs, missy,’ said Altopone, ‘but I aint never seen one like this.’

  He stared straight ahead, his tail trembling.

  Venice, May 9th, 1867, Saint Isaia’s Day

  IN VENICE, MAY 9th had dawned grey and vague. On the orchard islands, the vines sagged against the poles, their tendrils tightly curled as if in private grief. Each Venetian seemed to walk around within his or her own little envelope of mist, fists thrust into coat pockets, heads down. Even the older children wanted to hold their mother’s hand as they walked through town.

  On his way to school, Ambrogio tapped at the door of Professor Marìn’s house But there was no news of Talina: just drawn faces and clenched hands. Instead, Tassini silently showed him the newspaper announcement of the funeral and Mademoiselle Chouette held out a letter from the headmaster that read ‘All pupils are excused class today so that they may attend a funeral.’

  ‘This is history being made,’ said Tassini heavily. ‘Come, boy. We must all bear witness, young and old.’

  So it was that, fortified with Mademoiselle Chouette’s hot chocolate and hand-rolled croissants, Ambrogio came to be perched with the professor, the historian and the French mistress at the best vantage point on the Rialto Bridge at ten o’clock that morning, watching a procession of black boats making its way along the Grand Canal.

  First came a peàta barge painted a black so deep that it seemed like a floating hole. Even its floorboards were black as boots. On top of the peàta was a grand piano with a keyboard of exclusively black keys. This was visible to the adults; only Ambrogio and the other children could see the Ravageur dressed in a top-hat and a black tail-coat seated on an ebony stool to play the instrument. But everyone in Venice could hear the appalling sounds he made: crashing discordant runs and clashing chords. Behind the pianist stood another Ravageur in evening dress. The tails of his coat floated behind him like the forked tongue of a serpent. He drew a shrieking bow across an ebony violin with black strings. In front of them lay a black coffin, draped with black furs and crowned with a wreath of black roses. In white were chalked the word Venezia, March 25th, 421 – May 19th, 1867.

  Children in the crowds pointed at the Ravageurs and screamed. But their parents could see only the coffin and the keys of the piano pressed down by invisible claws.

  Ambrogio, peering from the Rialto Bridge with a telescope, saw that in the centre of the wreath sat a snow dome the size of a bucket. Inside it glittered a glass model of the entire city of Venice. But instead of silver or white powder, bat-like flakes whirled around the miniature bell-towers and palaces.

  He handed the telescope to Tassini, who noted. ‘Black snow, like ashes.’

  ‘Yes! And there’s a jar of Golosi’s Mostarda right next to it. And a smoking cigar. How strange!’

  ‘You’d rather not see what is smoking that cigar,’ Ambrogio assured them.

  ‘But who’s rowing the barge?’ Mademoiselle Chouette asked. ‘And ’ow does it move so smoothly?’

  Tassini trained the telescope on the water. ‘Ratpower,’ he answered. The boat was surrounded by water-rats who strained to propel it through the water with their shoulders, while valiantly paddling with their free arms and legs.

  As the funeral barge passed by, Ambrogio suddenly saw what it had blocked from view. Behind it, the Grand Canal was almost black with boats.

  Every kind of Venetian boat was represented: the light, leaf-shaped sandolo a la ciosòta, the sandolo buranèlo, the sàndolo sampieròto and their cousins, the mascaréta and the pupparìn, the prawn-tailed batèla a còa de gàmbaro, the oriental-looking caorlìna, the mallet-headed barchèta a massòche.

  All these boats were painted so solidly black that it looked as if they had been dipped in primaeval mud. All were apparently empty, apart from massive bouquets of funeral flowers in white, yellow and pink, and
ranks of silent cormorants, each holding a black rose in its beak. Above them roamed a restless flock of vultures, who occasionally swooped to hook a wriggling squid in their beaks.

  Next came a flock of black gondolas, each topped by a cabin with a curved roof. The cabins were heavily curtained in black velvet, but the children of Venice caught glimpses of shaggy muzzles, flashes of teeth.

  Behind the gondolas swam at least three hundred water-rats, in an arrow formation.

  A flag fluttered from the last boat. Painted on it were the words:

  To symbolize all the fishermen,

  gondoliers,

  fruit-sellers,

  who shall no longer be here.

  Rest in peace, Venetians.

  You’d be better off dead

  than staying here now.

  ‘Ambrogio!’ It was Talina’s voice coming from below. He craned his neck. There she was, perched in a rat-rowed gondola that had joined the other boats sculling under the bridge. Ambrogio waved frantically.

  Mademoiselle Chouette mimed horror. Talina lip-read: ‘Mais Talina, what ’ave you done to the clothes I made for you?’

  ‘I’m sure Manitoba Gargling Oil doesn’t wash out,’ Talina sighed.

  ‘Stop, please, let me out,’ she urged Altopone. ‘Those are my friends over there.’

  ‘And you’re looking just like ’em again,’ grinned the rat.

  ‘I guess it’s a long time since I was angry with you,’ Talina said, smiling. ‘I’m grateful, truly, Altopone. So will my friends be. And we’re going to save Venice, you’ll see. The Ravageurs will not have it all their own way.’

  ‘It’ll take more ’n’ bigger friends than that,’ observed Altopone, ‘to save you and your kind and your city now.’

  life after death in Venice, May 9th, and the following days

  AFTER THE FUNERAL, a sudden fog fell on the city. On the mainland, it coated the fruit trees and wheat stalks with a hard cladding of frost that strangled and rotted at the same time. The next four nights, brutal hail fell without mercy, killing ducks in the rivers and pulping the delicate shoots of the year’s crops. A bitterly cold rain flooded the dismal fields, drowning the bean and grape vines. If the sun didn’t come out soon, the newspapers warned, Venice would starve to death. Or freeze. No one dared light the fires in their homes because every morning all the fireplaces were mysteriously full of gunpowder, as if it had poured down with the heavy fog.