Then, from the midnight bell until dawn, Claudia’s old acting troupe had the run of the place. That meant less ceiling-thumping—but a lot of shouting. (“Elena deary, do you think you might pay less attention to Kristo’s legs and a little more to your lines? All right children, one more time, from the top . . .”)
Marco had learned to sleep through it all, though noise generally made him nervous. It was friendly shouting, for all the mock-hysterics.
Being directly below the studio was one reason why this place, technically a three-room apartment—a room and two closets, more like—was cheap enough for two kids to afford. Now Marco hurried to pull on his pants and shirt in the black of his cubbyhole bedroom, wanting to be out of it before the other reason evidenced itself. Because the other reason was due to start up any minute now—
Right on time, a hideous clanking and banging shook the far wall. Marco pulled open his door and crossed the “living room,” the worn boards soft and warm under his bare feet. He stood blinking for a moment in the light from their lamp; after pitchy dark it was painfully bright even turned down to almost nothing. He reached and turned the wick key, and the odor of cheap last-press olive oil assaulted his nose until it flared up. Then he unlocked the outer door and slipped down the hall to the big ewers and garderobe shared by most of the apartments on this level. That incredible ruckus was the Rio San Marcoula boatyard. It started about dawn, and kept it up till the late afternoon, and sometimes later. There was another apartment between them and the repair shop, but it didn’t provide much in the way of sound-baffling. Fortunately for him, the tenant of that place was deaf.
Benito still hadn’t turned out by the time Marco got back, so he pulled open the door to the other “bedroom” (just big enough for a wall-hung bunk and a couple of hooks for clothes, identical to Marco’s) and hauled him out by the foot. There was a brief, laughing tussle, which Marco won by virtue of his age and size, and Benito betook himself off to get clean.
There weren’t any windows in their home, so there was always the oil lamp burning up on the wall. The lamp was a curious blend of cast-off and makeshift; the brass container had once been good, and still could be polished to a soft golden gleam. The multiple round wicks were scrounged. The lamp came with the place. So did the cast-iron grate in the fireplace. The fireplace smoked, but provided some heat in winter—when they could find fuel—and something to cook on. The “main” room was small, but it was still bigger than both the “bedrooms” put together. All of it was bare wooden-floored and sooty-walled, but warm and without drafts; and it was too many floors beneath the roof to get leaks when it rained. On the wall opposite the oil lamp and next to the stove was a tiny fired-clay basin and an ewer of safe water from the rainwater cisterns. Everything else was theirs, and compared to the little Marco had owned in the swamp or what Benito had had in the attic he’d been hiding in, it was paradisiacal.
They now boasted a couple of cushions to sit on, a vermin-proof cupboard for food—and even a second cupboard for storage, which currently held two tin plates, two mugs, two spoons, a skillet and a battered saucepan, and assorted odds and ends. They also owned their bedding and three changes of clothing each, as well as a precious box of half a dozen or so battered, dirty, and mostly coverless books. The last were Marco’s property. Some he had bought at secondhand stores, like the precious anatomy book, much in demand with medical students. Some were gifts from Claudia, a few from Benito. He knew the ones that Benito gave him had been stolen, and he suspected the same of Claudia’s. But a book was a book, and he wasn’t going to argue about its source.
All that hadn’t come out of nowhere. Word had gone quietly upriver with a Ventuccio barge that Marco and Benito still lived—and a special verbal message had gone to Duke Dell’este from Marco as to why they weren’t coming home again. Back down again, just as quietly, had come a bit of real coin—not so much as to call attention to the recipient, but enough to set them up comfortably.