Free Daughter of Venice by Donna Jo Napoli Page B

Francesco laughs when he talks about all the times he’s gotten lost. I must stay on this street—I must walk in a straight line, so I don’t get lost. As soon as I’m sure the beggar boy is gone, I’ll go home.
    What am I thinking? Here it is, my first venture into the world I’ve wanted so much to explore, and I’m about to run back home. What a fool. There is so much around me—so many marvels. I can’t let one vile boy ruin it all.
    I must find strength. Strength and pride. The kind I had when I used to play procession with Laura and Andriana. I remember the words of the woman on the balcony beside me as we looked down on the Piazza San Marco that one wonderful day. “Peace to you, Mark, my evangelist,” I say inside my head. And I’m marching, marching.
    Ahiii! I lift my right foot. A large splinter of wood has embedded itself in my sole, smack in the center of my birthmark. I lean against the wall for balance and try to pull it out. The end that protruded breaks off. Now the only way to get it out is to dig at it with a needle. And, Blessed Mary forgive me, but it burns like the fires of eternal damnation.
    I want to cry. Who’d think that a thing so insignificant as shoes could ruin an adventure? For want of shoes, I’ve been labeled a beggar and banished from the alley that leads to my home. For want of shoes, I’m now a cripple.
    I hobble along the street, my bottom lip trembling with self-pity. My path winds carefully around stray objects that might cause further injury to these poor feet of mine. Every step hurts.
    The bell of San Marcuola rings loudly. The church is off to the left somewhere beyond the next bridge. It couldn’t be that hard to find.
    The clothes for the poor mount high in a bin just inside the doors of the parish rectory. I could go to the rectory and ask for a pair of shoes. They’re sure to have wooden-bottomed
zoccoli
, at the very least. And I could beg a
bareta
, too.
    But I would recognize the priests. They’re always slavish around Father and Mother, and they mumble pious words to us girls as we leave the Mass. So there’s a chance, no matter how small, that they’d recognize me, even though they’ve only seen my face when they’ve lifted the veil to offer the Communion wafer and wine.
    And maybe there are other beggar boys watching me, too, not just that one boy. Maybe asking for shoes would count as begging to them.
    I can’t go to the rectory.
    My foot hurts worse with each step.
    I come to the bridge. A group of boys swim naked in the canal. I blushed at the sight of the naked fisherboy this morning—but now all I feel is envy. A fine reprieve on a hot day. I’d smile if my foot didn’t hurt so much. I look back toward the alley I think of as mine. So many people clutter the street that it takes several minutes before there’s enough of a clearing for me to see—alas, the beggar boy stands beside the opening of the alley talking to a man.
    I fight back tears and look ahead. On the other side of the bridge the pathway opens to the right into a wide street. I can see the opening to the first alley off of that. No one comes out of it. No one goes in. I’d be safe there, at least for a little while.
    A cart loaded with summer melons from somewhere far south of Venice rolls past noisily. The vendor and his two helpers bump it up the steps of the bridge, roll it across the center, then bump it down the steps on the other side. The bridge is narrower than the passage, so walkers cluster impatiently behind the cart as it crosses the bridge, then quickly fan out and pass around it on the far side. I wait. When the hubbub quiets down, I limp over the bridge. I stay right behind the melon cart as it turns into the next wide street. Then I turn again, into the quiet alley.
    I lean against a wall. It seems my whole body throbs now with the pain of the splinter.
    A man comes out of a house and walks past me without a glance. But I cannot take my eyes off him. He’s a Jew.