Free The Laughter of Carthage by Michael Moorcock

low-ceilinged room. By the time they left, Esmé was in bed, enjoying the luxury of freshly laundered linen and I had gone downstairs to breakfast with the couple who addressed me in friendly, eager voices and made no sense to me at all. In the end we merely smiled and made various signs of goodwill. I returned to the room where Esmé now slept peacefully, her sweet face as pure as an angel’s, and drew the curtains. I undressed, got into bed, took my girl into my arms and did not wake up until afternoon.
     
    To me Otranto seemed a haven of tranquillity. I could have stayed much longer and even today have an urge to return. Then, however, I was anxious to get to a large city, where we should be unnoticed in the cosmopolitan throng. Esmé was still sleeping. I washed in cold water, dressed and went to seek the landlord and his wife. I found them on a bench together at the back of the inn. They were plucking chickens. When they saw me they called out. I could still understand nothing of their Italian but enquired again about a doctor, explaining with gestures and a few Latin words that my sister was sick. The skinny wife was the first to understand. She babbled at her husband who carefully set aside his chicken and rose to leave. The heads of the dead birds stared at me in ghastly amusement as if they saw something about me which others did not. To the wife I asked the distance to Venice. She shrugged and said ‘Treno?’ which I took to mean ‘train’. I nodded. I did not mind how I got there. Kazakian had said it would take half an hour, but I did not trust him. The woman uttered another string of sentences in which the names Roma, Napoli, Brindisi, Foggia and half a dozen more were mentioned. It was then it began to come clear to me we might be much further from Venice than even I supposed. Captain Kazakian had been so anxious to get us off his boat that I suppose we were lucky to be in Italy at all. It seemed it would cost at least the three sovereigns he had given me back just to get to Venice. I wished that it were possible for me to lay a curse on his engine. As it was, I closed my eyes and tried to visualise the machinery. There was certainly no harm in trying.
     
    When the gangling doctor arrived, seeming far too young for the fringe of beard around his face, I was relieved to discover he spoke French. Dr Castaggagli informed me Esmé had nothing more worrying than neurotic tension which would almost certainly disappear with rest. ‘Have you been travelling for long?’ He was aquiline and prematurely bald. He reminded me of a Jesuit eagle. I told him she had never left home before. Our trip had been rather tiring. He nodded. ‘She needs to be somewhere peaceful,’ he said. If possible I should engage a professional nurse. He frowned to himself, adding, ‘But not here.’
     
    I was delighted she had nothing seriously wrong. I offered Castaggagli one of my remaining sovereigns. He refused the coin with some amusement. He was a country doctor, not used to large fees. If I had no small sums, he would take payment in kind. So, since he was about the same across the shoulders as me, I gave him one of my overcoats. It had a good fur trim and was rather too warm for the climate, moreover it would have to be lengthened in the arms, but he was delighted. He offered to let me have a hat and scarf as ‘change’. I said that I would rather have a timetable of the trains from Otranto. He smiled. He would do what he could. It would probably be best if I went to the station myself. He asked where I would go. I told him.
     
    He shook his head at this. He thought Venice might be an unhealthy place for a sick child, even though there was nothing seriously wrong. It was smelly in Venice and extremely noisy at this time of year. However, he would make some enquiries about the best connections. Probably it would mean a change in Foggia, at least.
     
    To forestall his curiosity (and possibly his reporting us to the local