Who is this, then? the man asked, pointing at Sally. Yer wife?
Sister, Leonard said, just as Sally said, Wife.
’Tis Abraham and Sarah, ’tis it? the man said, laughing at his own inexplicable wit. Not to worry, this is no uncivilized land where a man must call his wife sister to save himself from murder. No one is opportuned or misabused in my hostellery! Though I fully admit yer caution, I do, and there are other hostelleries — all of them, in fact — where’d ye’d be not so keenly looked after. Have we decided, then? Shall we go up? What has happened to yer staffs, by the bye, were they stolen along with yer scrips and yer baldrics?
Leonard did not know how to answer that.
A cat’s blink
Their voyage hadn’t been what you’d expect. There was no whirring “time tumbler” or kaleidoscopic sinkhole. There was just a circle, a mixing of letters in Sally’s head, a silent singing by Leonard of the clapping song, some general hopping and dancing, according to a well-established pattern, and a mysterious extra ingredient offered by Isaac, which Sally and Leonard could neither see nor hear.
It was over in a flash of light, yet it took an entire lifetime. As Leonard hurtled, motionless, through a still yet throbbing conglomeration of space and time, he became reacquainted with his most important moments. Banging a lollisucker on his babycage as a tall be-afroed man approached and said, Let’s see those little teeth, Lenny, they’re bothering you again, ain’t they?
His father? He might have cried to remember this, had he either eyes or time. His grandfather was there, younger than Leonard remembered, and dancing — yes, dancing — in the candlelight. Oy, he was singing, Oy, oy, oy! Yet he looked happy — because there, dancing with him, holding his hands and lifting her knees, was a redheaded woman who looked rather like Carol, only happy. Leonard’s mother? His mother? Leonard’s age, as he was now, dancing in joy. Little Lenny toddling over, breaking into the circle so he might dance as well.
His grandfather’s face, older now, bearing the news that would make Lenny hide amid his grandfather’s books, staining the leather with his orphan’s tears. And Carol, barely eighteen, saying, How can I take care of an old man and a little boy? Crying to Joseph, her boyfriend, when they couldn’t hear — Joseph, who was there, and then not, his oboe and music stand suddenly gone, Carol’s clarinet thrown now into the compost-masher — no time for that, she said, her face puffy, her expression hard. Leonard had forgotten about the boyfriend, he’d forgotten about the clarinet.
There was more: old book smell and helping his grandfather to the toilet, the angry feeling in his chest when he called the old man stupid, his stories and books and herring jokes stupid, his grandfather’s eyes slipping from blue to palest green, his grandfather calling him boychik and reminding him to tell his stories only to his grandsons. Awaking in a place as empty as the Desert of Lop when his grandfather died, then the birth two years later of Felix, like a second chance. All these memories and images swirled simultaneously and instantaneously, in less time than it would take for a cat to blink: and when Leonard opened his eyes, they were there.
Feet like oranges
Ye’ll be wanting pottage and ale, I expect, the man continued, leading them up an exterior staircase to the second floor of his hostellery.
Leonard didn’t know what pottage was but couldn’t imagine anything less appealing than dining at this establishment, unless it was the building itself, which smelled of damp, barnyard animals, and human effluence.
Yes, please, he said.
My Froga is standing o’er the blandreth now, a’stirrin’ and a’mixin’. But mebbe they don’t eat such where ye come from? Yer dressed so strange, whence is it ye hail? My pilgrims come from every part of this flat earth but I’ve never seen footing quite so, well, ye don’t mind me saying, quite so strange as yers.
He was referring to Leonard’s sailing shoes, with their whisper-quiet ground-suckers.
We are from Cathay, Leonard said, surprising himself. I assure you that in that land our clothes are of the highest fashion. Only the richest merchants and princes of the highest rank wear clothing such as ours.
Ah, the man said. Well, then. And what exactly do ye merchant, if I may ask?
Cathay noodles, Leonard said, then wished he hadn’t.
Not a product that has made its mark hereabouts, the hosteller observed.
Not yet, Leonard said grandly. Now I’ll thank you to forget I ever mentioned it.
I haven’t much of a memory for things I ain’t seen. So where be yer Cathay?
Well beyond the Levant, Leonard essayed, and full of wonders. You’ll be reading about it soon enough. We have all manner of custom unbeknownst to you. Our ladies’ feet are bound when young till they are the size and shape of oranges — we find it most becoming. We drink elegant infusions of sticks and grass. Plus, we have a wall that extends hundreds of versts around our land.
This lady’s feet seem well larger than an orange, the man mused.
I told you already, Leonard said. She is the wife of a rich merchant. She doesn’t need feet like oranges.
I take yer point, then, the man said, but none the less, ye must know the lady’s outfit is, well, scandalizing. Pilgrim or no, merchant or no, she will be mobbed and defrocked, such will be the people’s outrage. I say this because ’tis my Christian duty to prevent violence and rapine. Yer Christians, I suspect? Ye’d have no cause to pilgrim were ye not.
In a manner of speaking, Leonard said, not quite ready to enter into theological debate.
Whatever heresy ye partake of, ye’ll need some pilgrim gear, if yer to travel about as romei.
Romei?
Pilgrims who come to Rome.
So they were in Rome, Leonard thought.
Have ye ought to trade for yer lodgings, perhaps in the lady’s scrip?
He was ogling Sally’s clutchbag. He apparently hadn’t noticed the inflatable pocket under Leonard’s tunic.
I note it was not taken from ye with yer other belongings on that dangerous route to Rome. I also note it is of uncommon size.
I assure you …, Leonard said.
Or perhaps that rare bit about yer wrist?
He was referring to Leonard’s navigator watch.
Sally spoke for the first time: We’ll exchange that rare piece of jewelry for thirty days’ stay in your fine hostellery. And porridge and ale for all that time …
We do have other victuals! the man protested.
And other victuals, Sally agreed, and clean clothing appropriate for romei.
Sally! Leonard protested. Carol gave me this watch!
And she’ll give you another when we bring Felix home, she whispered.
It is motioned by angels, Leonard said. Look! and he removed the watch so the innkeeper could see the second-counter pulsing.
Motioned by angels, the man murmured. Ye shall have yer exchange, and then some, for I am an honest man. Whom ye might call Bobolo, for such is my name. Bobolo Savelli, no relation.
With that puzzling aside, Bobolo showed them to their room.
Amazing!
You were amazing out there, Sally said.
I was? Leonard said.
Cathay? Infusion of sticks? Who knew you had such an imagination!
Rather than credit Milione, Leonard said, No, you were amazing! Trading the navigator watch like that!