Tears of the Salamander Read Free Page A

the ovens for restarting their cycle,and had again been into the bakehouse after the family meal, shortly before he left, and everything had been normal. His parents had been upstairs in their room—he had heard voices there. (Bakers keep strange hours, and the early meal had interrupted their siesta.) Giorgio had gone out but he must have come back. …
    “A young man was seen running into the house soon after the fire started,” said the official. “Brave, but foolish, I’m afraid. I believe your father built his own ovens. He did not employ a professional? And he let you see to their firing, a child?”
    Alfredo shook his head. How could he explain to this man that his father had known more about fire than anyone, and that there was no chance in the world that he could have made a mistake or not noticed if Alfredo had done so? Let alone how could he persuade him that there had been something wrong with the fire itself, its madness, its wildness, that it had somehow burst out of the fire pits like a wild beast bursting through the iron bars of its cage and going raging through the streets? And that Alfredo, sitting peacefully in the corner of the vestry, had felt the same thing happen to the hidden fire in his own heart, the fire that should have become music?
    The choirmaster, sitting in on the interview, was not displeased. The boy, innocently admitting to the fact that he had been left alone to prepare the ovens, had provided the City with sufficient reason to declare the fire to have been the baker’s fault, which made it even less likely that the missing uncle would appear to take the penniless orphan under his wing. It was already, thanks to the father’s intransigence,a little late for the operation, but there had been certain scandals in the past, with expensive litigation to defend charges of kidnapping and mutilation. It was prudent, therefore that the consent of all interested parties—only the boy himself now, though an at least perfunctory attempt must be made to find the missing uncle—should be witnessed and registered in front of a notary.
    Thus a fortnight later Alfredo found himself standing in front of the Precentor’s desk. To the right of the desk, behind a folding table spread with documents, sat a fat little snuffling black-robed man whom Alfredo didn’t know, but by his dress he was not a priest. Beyond him sat Father Brava. The choirmaster and another strange layman were on the other side of the desk. They all looked very solemn.
    “Well, Alfredo,” said the choirmaster, “the time has come for you to make an important choice. It is your decision you must make for yourself. It concerns your beautiful voice. The blessed Lord in his mercy and wisdom has decreed that at a certain age, which you will soon be reaching, the nature of the male body changes…”
    And so on, for some while. Alfredo barely listened. He knew about the operation. He didn’t care. All he wanted to do was sing. Nothing else mattered. When the choirmaster asked him if he had understood, he nodded. The choirmaster then introduced the stranger at the left of the line, who turned out to be the surgeon who would perform the operation. He told Alfredo about it, using long medical words that Alfredo certainly didn’t understand, but when asked he again nodded impassively.
    “So,” said the choirmaster. “The choice is yours, Alfredo. Will you have the operation or not?”
    “If it is your wish,” said Alfredo listlessly. “Provided I can go on singing.”
    They looked at the fat little man behind the desk, who put the tips of his fingers together, pursed his lips and made a humming noise in the back of his throat to show he was thinking deeply.
    “I think we may take that as willing consent,” he said at last. “Yes, indeed, I think so.”
    He dipped a quill into his ink pot and started to write. The tension in the room relaxed.
    There was a scratching at the door.
    “Who is it?” said the Precentor