The dormitory into which Tacit had stepped looked anything but welcoming. After the opulence of the Vatican, lavished with gold and rich fabrics, the dormitory looked more like a prison rather than a home.
Grey. Monotonous. Correct.
Down its length were beds, grey covers masking white starched sheets beneath and small bedside tables alongside upon which were set bibles, black bound and silver edged. Each bed was spaced the same distance apart from its neighbour across the grey stone floor, grey walls behind, grey ceiling above, the only decoration being a large black stone cross, hanging on the far wall facing the door through which Tacit had been pushed. Two small windows in the roof of the room gave everything a thin and grainy appearance.
Stretched out on beds, or gathered in groups, some standing, others crouched on the floor playing jacks, were the twelve boys, laughing and chatting idly. At once they fell silent and looked up, gathering themselves slowly in front of Tacit, peering and murmuring between themselves. Tacit checked quickly over his shoulder and realised that Adansoni had not accompanied him inside the dormitory. He looked back and felt the cold burden of dread fall heavily upon him. He felt pressure in his bladder, a tightness in his throat. He trembled and fought against the urge to run.
He hesitated beneath the enquiring glares and made to speak when suddenly, one of the tallest of the boys stepped forward, his face brightening in welcome. “Hello!” the boy said cautiously, reaching out and attempting to take Tacit’s case from him. Tacit resisted, his fingers locked tight to the handle.
Another of the boys spoke. “You’re Poldek?” he asked gently. “I’m Georgi.”
Now there were only smiles and inquisitive glances pressed in his direction. Tacit swallowed and felt the weight inside of him shift, just a little. His fingers uncurled from the case and he watched the boy take it and place it on a bed nearby, his immediate thought that it was some sort of trick.
“How’s your Italian?” a toothy boy enquired in the same language, pushing forward and proffering a hand. Tacit hesitated in taking it but the boy forced his hand into his. “You’re Polish? That’s right, isn’t it?”
“It’s alright,” another called and Tacit speared him with a suspicious glare. “They’ve told us. Well, told us a little of what happened.”
“A few of us here were abandoned too,” another revealed. “You’re not alone.”
The edges of Tacit’s mouth trembled and he nodded. “Yes, I am Polish,” he said eventually, careful not to reveal too much of himself to these strangers. Not yet.
“I’m Ivan,” the tall boy announced, putting an arm outlandishly across his shoulders and making Tacit flinch. Ivan ignored him, or didn’t notice. “You’re most welcome!” He pushed him forward gently through the crowd of boys to his bed. Tacit could feel hands on his shoulders and back, slapping and thumping, as he supposed children must do when they greet others of their kind.
Another child called Antonio pushed forward and proffered a hand. Tacit surprised himself by reaching forward slowly and taking it. “We’ve been told what happened,” he said, looking hard at Tacit, his friends and then back at the new boy. “We’re sorry, all of us. But you’re safe now. The Church will look after you. We’ve all made a promise to look after you. We’re your family now.”