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almost liked her. For a moment, Flaminio’s eyes narrowed with cowardice. Then, they widened again, and began to glow with a peculiar light.
    “What kind of man do you think I am?” he cried. “What good would it do me to be known as a great sinner? Why should I want that? Don’t you realize how serious I am, how I’d do anything on earth for a clear conscience, how desperately I hunger for spiritual peace?”
    “The only thing you hunger for is Vittoria’s ass!” I shouted.
    But I was the only one speaking. The others had fallen silent; and, as I followed their bug-eyed stares, I saw what had made them so quiet.
    Even with my razor-sharp wit, I can hardly describe or explain it. But after it was over, and we discussed it, the actors agreed that we’d all seen the same thing:
    The bright lights came on in Flaminio’s eyes, as if they were a theater. And there, on the stage inside those gleaming discs, we saw the Play of the Prodigal Son, with Flaminio Scala in the title role. We saw him squander his father’s money, break his mother’s heart. We saw him traveling, gambling, whoring, drinking, smoking opium. We saw the anguish which tortured him near the end, and the sweet smile of contentment which came over his face when at last his father pardoned him. And we heard the words of the Bible, “Forgive, that you may be forgiven.”
    To this day, I don’t know if Flaminio Scala bewitched us that night, or if it was actually another miracle in my long career of wonders. But those other dimwits weren’t so concerned with fine spiritual distinctions.
    By the time Flaminio went off to bed, he was their leader again. He’d reconquered them with the power of his vision. They were overjoyed, those idiots—delighted that everything was neat and tidy. Now, they’d never have to think for themselves. Even Andreini looked relieved.
    The subsequent trip to the convent was so cheerful, it almost made me vomit. And there, when those sentimental fools saw their own stupid tricks bring such happiness to the orphans, they were as pleased as if they’d gone straight to Paradise.
    But I was the only one who wasn’t fooled. All the while, I sulked and fretted, trying to figure out what was in the Captain’s mind.
    I am as sharp and crafty as a gadfly, ladies and gentlemen. Still, when I reach heaven, I pray that the Lord will not give me the job of judge at the pearly gates. For even I, Brighella, the only one of The Glorious Ones with firsthand knowledge of holy things—even I have never been sure if Flaminio’s repentance was sincere. If he was just pretending, if it was all a plot to regain the company’s favor, then how did he make us see that vision? And what possible reason could he have had for adopting that repulsive little dwarf, if not as a act of charity and devotion?
    Through the years, I’ve asked myself those questions many times. But I know there’s only one way I’ll ever discover the truth.
    When the Lord finally keeps his promise, and I’m admitted into heaven, I’ll look all around me for Flaminio’s soul. And, if he isn’t there, if I can’t find him in any of the golden dwellings and lush gardens, men I’ll know that Flaminio Scala, the leader of The Glorious Ones, was a far better actor than I thought.

III Pantalone
    “I F YOU REALLY WANT something done,” my mother used to say, “ask a woman who loves you to do it.” She was talking about herself, of course—but was she also making a prediction? Is that why I’ve never gotten anything done in my life, mother? Because I’ve never found a woman who loved me?
    “Don’t kill yourself with self-pity,” I can hear her saying. And she’s right. But sometimes I can’t help it—lately, it’s been pricking me like a big thorn in the seat of my pants. Even poor Flaminio, I think, even poor Flaminio wound up one step ahead of me. Armanda Ragusa’s no bargain, I’ll admit—but the devotion of that pitiful thing is better than anything