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morning, we pilfered a dry, shriveled salami from a Spaniard’s sausage cart and sat in a church doorway to enjoy our feast. Meat always put us in an optimistic mood. Marco said, “You know, Cabbage-Head, we could stay in Venice and claim that reward.”
    “The reward for the book?” I wiped greasy hands on my pants.
    “Why not?”
    “You turnip.” I gave him an elbow in the ribs. “We can’t even read.”
    “ Boh . We can keep our eyes and ears open better than anyone.” Marco leaned back in the doorway and crossed his ankles. “I could buy Rufina a new dress. Hey, I could buy her a house. It’s nice to think about, isn’t it?”
    We’d been hearing talk about that book on every street corner. We heard merchants chatting about it with customers, servants gossiping in doorways, and prostitutes whispering in the dark. Once, we saw a naked man being escorted out of a gaming house, holding his private parts and begging to have his pants back. The man dragging him by the arm said, “We’ll soon have all your pants—and your home, too.”
    “I’ll get your money,” the naked man whimpered.
    “Ha!” His tormentor regarded him with contempt. “You’d have to claim the reward for that book to pay what you owe.”
    The book’s legend had resurfaced when a Turkish seaman, in port only long enough to stir the pot, had bragged his way up and down the docks. We saw him one night outside a tavern, addressing a bunch of sailors and toughs. He was tall and swarthy, with a heavy mustache and wild black hair. His chest was bare, and he wore a wide leather belt to hold up his ballooning pants. “My ancestor brought it here,” said the Turk. “He was one of those who smuggled St. Mark’s bones into Venice from Alexandria.” He slapped his bare chest with a flat hand. ” My ancestor!” Then his voice turned wily. “The bones and the book were hidden in a shipment of pork. Pork, eh? The Muslims would never search that. The bones and the book came here together.”
    As proof of his story, the Turk pointed to the Lion of Venice, a gilded and winged creature holding an open book over the doors of St. Mark’s Basilica, where the saint’s bones were interred. The Turkish sailor asked, “Why is the lion reading a book?” His eyesbulged as he searched the crowd for an answer. He spread his arms wide and shouted, “It’s a clue, of course!”
    After the Turk went back to sea, talk of the book made its inevitable way from the sailors’ bars to the shops of the Rialto. From the shopkeepers, the rumor jumped sideways to the servant class and slipped into the homes of the gentry via service doors. It climbed up back stairways and entered the drawing rooms of the aristocracy. Eventually, it fell at the feet of the doge, who immediately ordered St. Mark’s bones disinterred and the grave site searched.
    No book was found, but given that no other city enjoyed more traffic with Byzantium than Venice, the doge and everyone else remained convinced that the legendary book must indeed be hidden somewhere in our Most Serene Republic. The doge offered a small fortune to anyone who brought it to him, and criers walked the streets ringing bells and announcing the lavish reward. Stories spread, and lusts grew.
    For us, the lowest of the low, the book and the reward were topics for idle chatter. We didn’t know how to read and wouldn’t have known the scriptures from a grocer’s list. The book was an unlikely quest for Marco and me, especially because we were already well occupied with staying alive from one day to the next. Still, we amused ourselves with gossip about the book and musings about the New World. One evening, after a dinner of orange peels and fish tails, we sat with our naked feet dangling in a quiet canal and shared fantasies of our future lives as men of wealth.
    Marco said, “After I get the reward money, I’ll buy a grand palazzo in the New World, and Rufina will be a respectable lady. My servants will dress