the book must owe a lot to Marco’s desperately spinning the threads of his past to escape his present.”
“How did he get out?” Mark asked.
“Somebody finally paid his ransom,” Hornaday said. “But it took a year. Maybe the Genoese heard his nickname and held out for a big sum.
“The way I imagine it,” Hornaday continued, “Marco sent home for the notes he’d made for his reports to Kublai. He and Rustichello then used them to work up
The Travels.
”
“Does Marco say he took notes?” Mark asked.
“No,” said Hornaday, “but I think he must have as he traveled—notes for his reports to Kublai. The book is too detailed for him to have told it all from memory.
“As Rustichello wrote down Marco’s story, he added things he thought would please his readers. That’s why we don’t know if it’s all true. Like I said, everyone who’s ever heard Marco’s story has added to it, making it his own.
“It was before printing, so when Rustichello got out of prison, he sold handwritten copies of the book he called
Description of the World.
We know it today as
The Travels.
”
“Did Marco get a lot of money for it?” Mark wanted to know.
“Nothing beyond the pleasure of having his story go around,” the doctor said.
“Why didn’t he write the book himself?” Mark asked. “Why did he just give his story away?”
“Because he was a teller,” Hornaday explained, “not a writer. People who tell stories rarely write them. We don’t have a single sentence Marco wrote himself.”
Mark grinned. “Or any of his notes, right?”
“Nobody’s ever seen them,” Hornaday said with a laugh, “but maybe someday somebody like you prowling in an ancient room in Genoa will come upon a falling-apart bag of Venetian leather, and in it …”
Mark pictured himself in a dusty, gloomy room like the basement of his hotel, opening what looked like anold suitcase, and there were Marco’s notes, small shapes of intricately marked paper fluttering out like butterfly wings.
“Over the years,” Hornaday was saying, “people made their own copies of what Rustichello wrote. A lot got changed. More than a hundred different handwritten versions survive, so we don’t know what’s closest to the story Marco told.”
Mark nodded. “So did people start to believe Marco after his book came out?” he asked.
“No,” said the doctor. “He was always something of a joke in Venice. Now he has rooms in the museum, but then? No. I think Messer Milione died a joke.”
The signora pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Marco Milione, tell us another lie,” she said. “A person always carries his mask in the Christmas pantomime, and always someone calls to him, ‘Another lie, Marco! Give us another lie!’”
13
T O THE C OURT OF K UBLAI K HAN
“What did you hear about Dad?” Mark called out as his mother walked in.
“The herders are all changing their grazing routes to find water,” she said. “That’s why they can’t find him—because they can’t find the shepherds either. But they’re optimistic.”
Mark guessed this was good news, but his mouth was dry and he had to force himself to eat. He wanted Doc to get on with Marco’s story so he could stop thinking about his dad.
By the time they finished dinner the café was nearly empty. The signora was rigging a string of tiny white lights around the window with a loop circling the Madonna.
She brought over a plate of biscotti, a pitcher of orange juice, and a glass of red wine for the doctor.
“Be comfortable,” she said as she sat down with them.
“The doctor’s going to tell us how Marco goes to Kublai,” Mark said.
“Ah,” said the signora, nodding. “In school for the little ones at this season the children do the
mimica,
acting the story of Marco Polo without words. They put on costumes and masks and pretend to be the travelers and the beasts. The biggest boy, he is always Kublai; the next biggest, Marco. The girls are always the
“How did he get out?” Mark asked.
“Somebody finally paid his ransom,” Hornaday said. “But it took a year. Maybe the Genoese heard his nickname and held out for a big sum.
“The way I imagine it,” Hornaday continued, “Marco sent home for the notes he’d made for his reports to Kublai. He and Rustichello then used them to work up
The Travels.
”
“Does Marco say he took notes?” Mark asked.
“No,” said Hornaday, “but I think he must have as he traveled—notes for his reports to Kublai. The book is too detailed for him to have told it all from memory.
“As Rustichello wrote down Marco’s story, he added things he thought would please his readers. That’s why we don’t know if it’s all true. Like I said, everyone who’s ever heard Marco’s story has added to it, making it his own.
“It was before printing, so when Rustichello got out of prison, he sold handwritten copies of the book he called
Description of the World.
We know it today as
The Travels.
”
“Did Marco get a lot of money for it?” Mark wanted to know.
“Nothing beyond the pleasure of having his story go around,” the doctor said.
“Why didn’t he write the book himself?” Mark asked. “Why did he just give his story away?”
“Because he was a teller,” Hornaday explained, “not a writer. People who tell stories rarely write them. We don’t have a single sentence Marco wrote himself.”
Mark grinned. “Or any of his notes, right?”
“Nobody’s ever seen them,” Hornaday said with a laugh, “but maybe someday somebody like you prowling in an ancient room in Genoa will come upon a falling-apart bag of Venetian leather, and in it …”
Mark pictured himself in a dusty, gloomy room like the basement of his hotel, opening what looked like anold suitcase, and there were Marco’s notes, small shapes of intricately marked paper fluttering out like butterfly wings.
“Over the years,” Hornaday was saying, “people made their own copies of what Rustichello wrote. A lot got changed. More than a hundred different handwritten versions survive, so we don’t know what’s closest to the story Marco told.”
Mark nodded. “So did people start to believe Marco after his book came out?” he asked.
“No,” said the doctor. “He was always something of a joke in Venice. Now he has rooms in the museum, but then? No. I think Messer Milione died a joke.”
The signora pursed her lips and shook her head.
“Marco Milione, tell us another lie,” she said. “A person always carries his mask in the Christmas pantomime, and always someone calls to him, ‘Another lie, Marco! Give us another lie!’”
13
T O THE C OURT OF K UBLAI K HAN
“What did you hear about Dad?” Mark called out as his mother walked in.
“The herders are all changing their grazing routes to find water,” she said. “That’s why they can’t find him—because they can’t find the shepherds either. But they’re optimistic.”
Mark guessed this was good news, but his mouth was dry and he had to force himself to eat. He wanted Doc to get on with Marco’s story so he could stop thinking about his dad.
By the time they finished dinner the café was nearly empty. The signora was rigging a string of tiny white lights around the window with a loop circling the Madonna.
She brought over a plate of biscotti, a pitcher of orange juice, and a glass of red wine for the doctor.
“Be comfortable,” she said as she sat down with them.
“The doctor’s going to tell us how Marco goes to Kublai,” Mark said.
“Ah,” said the signora, nodding. “In school for the little ones at this season the children do the
mimica,
acting the story of Marco Polo without words. They put on costumes and masks and pretend to be the travelers and the beasts. The biggest boy, he is always Kublai; the next biggest, Marco. The girls are always the
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