Immortal Read Free Page A

outside a silk
bottega
on nice days and set up for a few hours of play. After taking in the old man’s advice that day on the piazza, I grew to be a worthy opponent, cagey in strategy. I would play in slow moves followed by sudden bold turns that threw Massimo off and left him grumbling about his loss. Massimo, clever as he was, never quite caught on to the value of the unexpected. It was the same with Paolo’s penchant for wrestling. He would lock me into a tight hold, but I would shout,
“Ecco, ufficiale!”
His grip would loosen as he turned to see, and I would wriggle out and trip him. Then I’d run like a dog from a surly master with heavy boots. Like Massimo, Paolo wanted to win, but unlike Massimo, Paolo would rain blows on me when he didn’t.
    When winter came, the three of us shared food and rags and huddled together for warmth. When we grew especially hungry and, therefore, daring in our pursuit of food, we worked together to acquire it. I would engage some well-dressed old woman in conversation, inventing a story to keep her occupied, while Massimo, with his smooth, quick fingers, would empty her money purse of a few coins. Or Paolo would dart out under a carriage’s wheels and pretend to have been hit, and Massimo and I would threaten the driver, insisting that we would set up an outcry to attract ufficiali, priests, and spectators unless he gave us a few soldi. We had many such schemes for securing a meal, and time, like a swift-moving river, rolled on in these ingenuous pursuits until the day that caprice struck and the direction of my life was altered forever.
    On that decisive autumn day, I was more ravenous than usual. It was after a stormy week of stinging rain and lightning that shrieked through cold air. We had spent the week huddled under the Guelf coat of arms on the church of San Barnaba in the teeming San Giovanni quarter in the heart of Florence. I went alone to the Mercato Vecchio late in the day, when the ufficiali were usually holed up in the
tavernas
drinking wine. I didn’t even stop to covet the
mercato
’s wares; I had no head for dreaming that afternoon, just a belly that hadn’t been fed in four days. I circled the central butchers’ pavilion, throwing wary glances over my shoulder for any sign of the police, but I was made bold by the dizzying mingled scents of food, fruit, wines, and oils. A good olive oil gives off a piquant aroma with bitter nutty undertones, and dried figs smell like honeyed meat. I prowled through stalls, my eyes sweeping the muddy ground for anything that had been dropped. At the same time, I looked for an easy mark amid the bustle of patrons cloaked against the changeable autumn weather. I soon spied a jittery old woman and her young granddaughter, plainly but not poorly dressed, with no maidservant following them to carry their purchases. They would be absorbed in each other and in the wares, too busy shopping, squeezing vegetables, sniffing melons, and counting
dinari
to notice a hand slipping away with a
paniota.
    I followed them, keeping my distance, then stealing closer. The girl was about my age, nine years, though plumper and much more innocent. She had wavy chestnut hair tied back in a red ribbon and a face shaped in a long oval just like her grandmother. They even moved alike, with the same tilt of their heads and similar hand gestures. For a moment I envied them their obvious closeness. It was a longing of mine to have a family. The closest I had were Massimo and Paolo, who would beat my pickings from me in an instant if they caught me with something desirable. Then I saw the grandmother haggling for some pastries, and the sentiment abandoned me like a discarded husk. There’s nothing like hunger to focus the mind.
    I was trained entirely on them when someone bumped my shoulder. It was Massimo swiping past, and I groaned. He would want the old woman and girl. I wasn’t ready to relinquish them and turned to face my friend. He gave me a quizzical,